The Urbane Urbanite

Words By Perry B. With every Mark Zuckerberg and Sean Carter, there comes an equal yet opposite jackass who spent the past year devouring attention and contributing nothing to society. In honor of the douche bag debauchery, I have put together a small team of degenerate gentlemen to form the ultimate guild: The League of Un-Extraordinary Gentlemen. Usually, upon hearing the words “extraordinary” and “league” you may immediately comprise an urbane super-group with Tom Ford, George Clooney, Pharrell (of the Neptunes) and Idris Elba, ravishingly prepared to save the world, one swoon at a time. Or maybe that’s just me. In any case, a group of regal and rightfully deserving personas should come to mind. This is not that group. This is the other group: those who use so much time and energy soaking up all the free resources (both, sunlight and oxygen) that they’ve forgotten the true purpose of their presence. This is a league of gentlemen I doubt anyone would willingly want to be a part...

I don't offend easily. With close to ten years of rejection under my belt auditioning and working as an actor, I've grown quite the thick skin. But I'm still an artist and very sensitive about my shit! About a month ago, a friend and loyal reader of this blog made a comment about the post: My Upstairs Neighbor's Bed . He went on about how good he thought the post was and how much he enjoyed reading it. And then - like a rusty dagger to my heart - he asked: You made that up, right? Listen. Del don't make up blog posts. EVER! No disrespect to the bloggers out there on that James Frey flow; the ones who concoct misadventures and stretch the truths of their lives to entertain their readers. If that's your thing, fine! But it ain't mine. Everything you read over here on my little slice of the interwebs is 100% true. Period. Besides, I'm a writer. If I wanted to hit you with a piece of fiction, not only would I do it, but I'd say point blank: C...

Ahhh. It's summertime and the living is easy: Balmy nights out on the balcony sipping ice cold lemonade, ice cream trucks rounding the corner to the sound of their own tunes - and the dreaded all-white party invitation in my damn mailbox. *Sigh* Like clockwork, every summer, everybody and their mama (it seems) throws an all-white affair. Especially Black folks. We really love us some white parties don't we? But why?! I've never understood this phenomenon. I blame Puff Daddy , Puffy , Puff , P.Diddy , Diddy,   Swag , Sean Combs for this deadening trend. He's been throwing his famous all-white party in The Hamptons for several years now. And somehow, has convinced ordinary people with less than an eight of his party budget that wearing the most popular of the achromatic colors is an easy way to make a mundane party a fabulous affair.

I've been having the same nightmare once a week for several months straight. The nocturnal reverie always stars a teenage me in the tail end of my senior year in high school. The dream typically begins with me strolling the school halls with textbooks in my hands, chatting up my fellow classmates. And usually ends with me groveling at the feet of a teacher whose class I've cut the entire school year, begging her not to fail me. And then, just like that, I wake up sweaty, out of breath and clutching my neck where I imagine pearls to be. I hate this dream. Hate it. Mostly because it feels so real and always leaves me in bed trying to remember if I actually graduated high school or not. Yep, the dream feels that real. For the longest, I've been trying to figure out the reasoning behind this recurring dream. Is someone trying to tell me something? Should I retake the Praxis test I failed two years ago and succumb to my urges to become a teacher? And then last week, ou...

In my head, this is what my neighbor's bed looks like! Allow me to introduce you to my neighbors: There's the dummy who made us all get certified letters from the city fire marshall because he was using a grill on his balcony without proper ventilation. Then there's the old, creepy couple next door who goes MIA for months at a time. And when the old man surfaces, he walks around the building putting folded pieces of cardboard in all of the doorways to keep the doors open. O____o There's the single father who lives across the hall who manages to constantly get dragged out of his apartment into the hallway by his two cute (and loud) kids with only his boxer briefs on. Oh and I can't forget the new kids on the block. A young couple and their new born baby moved in across from me a few months ago and loves to leave their trash outside of their door. Um. But they live 12 inches away from garbage room. Literally. See exhibit A: And I'm sure there are...

Tucked away in a top secret location, handwritten using my favorite writing utensil (a Pilot Pen Precise V7 roller ball ink pen) on a titleless sheet of paper torn from a legal size notepad is a list of everyone I've ever had sex with. Yep. I keep a list - and yes, it's numbered.

*Throws self on carry-on bag* Why Lawd WHY? *Sigh* Yesterday, I came home from a fantastical extended weekend getaway in northern California. (Review coming soon.) I had a ball. That jaunt was just what the doctor ordered. The cat's meow. The bee's knees. The yin to my yang. The - well, you get the point. But I swear, as soon as my flight landed at JFK and I walked down the jetway into the airport, my shoulders started to tighten, jaws suddenly clenched and all of my day-to-day anxieties came flooding back to me at once. Granted, I was extremely jet-lagged, had been awake since 3:00AM Pacific Standard Time, didn't sleep on the plane, had indigestion from dinner from the night before, barely ate anything at all and sat in traffic for 3 hours before I got home, but still, there was something more going on here. Because I'm a hypochondriac, I hopped on my phone (as I sat in traffic) and Googled my symptoms. Turns out, I'm suffering from Post Vacation Depres...

*Sigh* I hate to admit this, but no, I do not know how to swim. It troubles me terribly because the moment I tell someone that, I instantly feel like a stereotype - and rightfully so.

Less than a week into February, I stumbled upon a tweet from, Chris, one of my college friends on Twitter: "'Now everybody wanna focus on Black History. Y’all are so 'seasonal' .... SMH" We discuss (and often complain) about the fact that we celebrate Black History during the shortest month of the year, but has anyone ever taken the time to find out why? Dr. Carter G. Woodson, the founder of Black History month and the second African-American to receive a degree from Harvard University, believed in preserving one’s heritage. He wanted it to be in February to honor the birth of two men whose actions drastically altered the future of Black Americans, Abraham Lincoln and Frederick Douglass. What started as just a week, eventually turned into a month. I attend an HBCU (Historically Black College/University), which happens to be the first university owned and operated by African-Americans. It was originally called Wilberforce College, and today is known as Centr...

I've been working as a freelance writer for two years.  The more I do it, the more I love it.  Not the freelance part, but the writing part. To those outside of the business, freelancing sounds glamorous: working in your pajamas from the comfort of your own home; being your own boss; making your own schedule.  Sure, it's great.  But don't forget to add to that: stalking chasing down folks to pay you your money; not having a steady guaranteed pay check or health insurance; having to constantly hustle, pitch and network to get that next assignment.  It takes a lot of work and everybody ain't cut out for it. I'm fortunate enough to have a steady 9to5, which means that I do the majority of my freelance work on the side.  I'm ready to change that. I'd like to have a steady 9to5 writing job.  It doesn't necessarily have to be with a magazine, but could also be with XYZ organization as long as it's a writing position of some sort...

A while back, I let you all into my horrendous walk-in closet. In case you missed it, you can check out the post here . But after months of procrastinating (and not being able to find things), I finally rolled up my sleeves and got my beloved wardrobe room into tip top shape. So. Without further ado, sit back, relax and enjoy The Big Reveal!

James Franco I met James Franco, 32, two years ago at a Screen Actors Guild nominating screening of Milk .  After the screening, he did a Q&A where he talked about what attracted him to Milk and what it was like to work with (and kiss) Sean Penn.  He's a great guy who's smart, talented - and really comes off as stoned when he talks. Flash-forward to the long holiday weekend where I'm curled up with the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly (my favorite entertainment and pop culture glossy) and inside was an interview with Franco. He's receiving a lot of press these days for his astounding performance in 127 Hours .  But he also is: an author ( Palo Alto , his collection of short stories was published in October 2010) an Ivy-league graduate currently enrolled in graduate programs in film, English and digital media hosting the Oscars this year directing his ninth film And currently filming another Franco is doing all of that and I can barely write th...

Ask anybody who really knows me and they'll tell you that I am my own worst enemy.  My biggest critic. No one is as harder on me than I am on myself.  I am not one to rest on my laurels or bask in the afterglow of victory.  If anything, I need to learn how to cement myself in the present and pat myself on the back from time to time when a job is well done instead of constantly worrying about the future. So. As the dust settles on 2010 and the dawn of a new year begins to peak over the horizon, I thought I'd take this time to reflect on the small victories that made my year a memorable one. Instead of beating up on yourself by comprising a lengthy list of unmet goals and things you need to do better in 2011, let's raise a toast to all the noteworthy things you did get accomplished in 2010. Here are ten of mine (in no particular order).

I have a confession to make: from time to time, I find myself on the computer and an old friend I grew up with will run across my mind and I'll Google them. Such was the case over the weekend. [Name Redacted] ran across my mind. He was my very first best friend. We went to school together from kindergarten all the way to the eighth grade. He would pick me up every morning like clockwork and we would walk to and from school together. Looking back, I often wonder what drew the two of us together. Aside from us both being in the gifted and talented program in school, we were two very different people. I was an artsy, smart-mouthed, sassy class clown. And [Name Redacted] was a popular, laid-back jock. Around the way, he was known as "Little Mac" because, despite being short and skinny, he would knock you down flat on your ass in a game of football. But once we graduated from junior high school, I went on to one high school and he went on to another and we lost contac...

My Black Friday was a complete bust. All I bought were some jeans (that weren't on sale), a hoodie and some curtains for my office. Lame. I'm just not a camp-outside-of-Best-Buy-and-Target-to-get-deep-discounted-stuff type of guy.  I almost had to check a few chins up in Kohl's when folks called themselves knocking me over to get to $9.00 griddles and 60% of comforter sets.   I was ready to go home as soon as I got there. But my experience was nothing like this mess: My disdain for Black Friday aside, I do enjoy shopping and have a pretty specific Christmas wish list.  There are plenty of things that I need  want. And I'm not against buying them myself - and I probably will. But just in case Santa and his elves and 'em are taking a lunch break up in the workshop and happen to stumble across my lil' old blog, here are five things I'd like to see up under my tree on Christmas morning:

I'm a blessed man. I've got my health. My sanity (sometimes). A job. Bills that get paid on time. Goals. Talents that I nurture. A loving family. And loyal friends. But wanna know what trumps all of that?

C is for cookie and cookie is for me! *Falls down on knees in prayer pose* Lawd! What is I gone do?! Y'all, the bakery manager at Whole Foods done told me my favorite cookie in the whole wide world hasn't been on shelves in weeks because it's seasonal. She said it won't be back until the spring! *Faints* Anyone who reads my blog, follows me on Twitter, FourSquare or Facebook knows I've got a soft spot for decadent baked goods. Chewy cookies.  *licks lips* Moist cakes.      *bites bottom lip* Tangy cobblers.  *drools* Warm brownies. *rubs belly* They make my heart sing. But my boo. My ride or die cookie: is the lemon coconut white chocolate chip joint sold at Whole Foods. *sigh* Whenever I'm having a bad day, need a pick-me-up or I'm just being plain greedy, I rush over to Whole Foods for this chewy piece of heaven. The hint of lemon, the light trace of coconut and smattering of white chocolate chunks soothes my soul li...

Everyone was quiet during the sleepy train ride to work yesterday morning with the exception of one riled up mother. She was yapping away on her cell phone to her "no good" baby father. I closed my eyes, turned up my iPod and tried to tune her out. But phrases like "You ain't shit" "you good for nothing" and "I wish I never fucked with you," overpowered the Adele that was now blaring from my earphones. I didn't get too upset. I knew it was only a matter of time before she was forced to pipe down and hang up the phone when she lost her signal in the tunnel. I was right. Once the train hit the tunnel, her call dropped and all was right in the world until she started directing her baby daddy grievances toward someone else on the train instead. I finally had to turn around to see who this woman was and who had become her unlucky sounding board. My jaw dropped.

Nestled on a quiet, tree-lined dead end street in Gwynn Oak, Maryland, 15 minutes west of downtown Baltimore is my grandfather's quaint Cape Cod style home. The modest, three bedroom/two bathroom house was the place he called home for 35 years. The house he bought with a mere $500 down payment back in 1974. The house he died in on Good Friday last year while sleeping in his favorite recliner, two months shy of his 69th birthday. He loved his house. It was his pride and joy - and rightfully so. He owned it free and clear for 10 years before he passed away. Since his death, Mom and I have made frequent trips down to Maryland to handle legal business and begin the inevitable clean up: clear out Poppa's closets and give his clothes away to Goodwill, sell his beloved Ford Mustang that still sits in the driveway, etc. While helping Mom clean up, I found all kinds of things...

Well. There it is. My arthritic left knee. In all it's down-to-the-bone glory. The orthopedic surgeon tried pointing out exactly where the arthritis appears in the X-ray. I just nodded and pretended to see what he was talking about. I didn't care where the arthritis was. I just wanted to know a) how/why I got it and b) when the heck it was going to go away.