A Love Letter to Articulate Men

Anyone who knows me knows how much I swoon for a man who is able to express himself; but I don't think I spend enough time on this blog singing the praises of these men. So this is a special love letter to the Sam Sharpes, the Seattle Washingtons, the Slim Jacksons, the Dr Jay Jacks, the Mad Scientists, the SBM's, the Streetztalks, the CHeeKZs, TheMostInterestingManintheWorlds, and the Peysos and the RCLS's, of the world who make me soil my panties daily with the awesomeness that ensues when they put finger to keyboard in their blog posts or their comments.  I adore you all.

Dear eloquent dudes,

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways (gotta drop some poetry since you guys are all deep and shit). I love thee to the depth and breadth and height the internets can reach. I love thee for displacing "You're sexy bad" as the hottest thing I've ever heard a man say. I love thee so much that if my laptop grew a penis, I'd give up on three-dimensional men altogether.

Although your existence has made me considerably less productive in my professional life and caused me to burst out in loud laughter in my silent office way too many times, I love you. Although you have lessened the appeal of the "differently still" types who might could have gotten it from me, I adore you. And although you have occasionally hurt my feelings with the hard truth about women's illogical ways, I stan for you all.

Before I got to know, my life I say was mediocre (gotta drop some Nas since you guys are all heads and shit). Now you brighten my life and broaden my vocabulary on a daily basis with your special turns of phrases like jawn, dirty-sock hoes, whiskey d*ck, and whoppington o’suckles . You've taught me over and over why I need to swallow, the Power of Five, how to tell if I might be a hoe, and the motion offense. Because of your pearls of wisdom, regular dudes now bore the shit out of me I am better prepared to succeed in the battle of the sexes.

So thank you, articulate dudes, for everything you do for me and all my friends who are contemplating moving to the US to stalk your asses love you. While I have my suspicions that some of you are not real people (no one can be this incisive on a daily basis), I heart you for giving me hope that it's possible to find a man who loves hip hop and reads books. Since you're all smart and shit, can you put your heads together and find a way to clone yourselves so there can be more of you in the world? Thanks!

Love,

max

p.s. Even though you internet Adonises are my true love, I would be remiss if I didn't also show a little appreciation for the men who have caused me to spontaneously orgasm by dropping a "whom" or a "conundrum", a "ne'er do well" or a "concupiscence", a "whilst", "betwixt", or "undulate" in casual conversation. I adore you guys too.

Remembering Jay

I'm taking a break today from my usual stuff to write about something a little more personal. Fret not, I'll be back to talking about the dirty stuff next week.

Ten years ago today childhood ended. A bit of a strange way to describe an event that happened in my mid-twenties, but true nonetheless. Ten years ago today my good friend Jay Edmonds, along with three other friends of mine, was killed in a car crash.

I've had a bit of a charmed life, so it's hard for me to imagine anything else that would knock me into the disillusionment of adulthood as abruptly as this. It was a big party weekend for us in London, and all our talk was about parties and bullshit, as it should be when you're 24 and looking forward to spending a weekend with friends. But an early-morning phone call turned our fun weekend into a week-long vigil as we gathered together not to drink and get high but to cry and console one another.

Jay's death set off a disturbing string of deaths of friends which culminated in the death of Snickers two years ago. Jay and Snickers were like brothers, and the two of them and me and my sister were a foursome; spending countless hours at their place or ours, talking shit and listening to Jeru and Gangstarr until all hours of the morning. That our foursome is now two is one of the saddest facts of my life.

Jay was an athlete and an actor. A brother, uncle, son, and boyfriend. He was a joker and a spaz. He was a superstar. And he is missed.

When Jay was alive I never told him I loved him or how amazing I thought he was. With all the arrogance of youth I assumed he just knew. But I learned from Jay's death is that assumptions can quickly turn into ass-kickers. And that if you love someone, you should tell them. So in honour of Jay, tell someone you love them today.