*slang noun in relation to physical beauty in place of a "perfect ten"
20. Tigers & Lions
By Howard Westmoreland
I went to a small Liberal Arts college in Atlanta. That’s a true statement, but not an honest one, exactly.
If you have never heard of Morehouse College, then I will give you a few broad strokes. It’s all dudes, and it’s 99% African American. I would estimate that about 75% of the (alum and) enrolled are type A personalities. In fact, if there were a letter in the alphabet that preceded “A”, then you would be closer, in description, to the level of intensity that runs through the campus. Sigh. Actually, I would say, comfortably, that about 50% of the total students and alum are fairly close to megalomaniacal – except only for the fact that our grandeur tends to be consistent and predictable, rather than delusional.
20. Tigers & Lions
By Howard Westmoreland
I went to a small Liberal Arts college in Atlanta. That’s a true statement, but not an honest one, exactly.
If you have never heard of Morehouse College, then I will give you a few broad strokes. It’s all dudes, and it’s 99% African American. I would estimate that about 75% of the (alum and) enrolled are type A personalities. In fact, if there were a letter in the alphabet that preceded “A”, then you would be closer, in description, to the level of intensity that runs through the campus. Sigh. Actually, I would say, comfortably, that about 50% of the total students and alum are fairly close to megalomaniacal – except only for the fact that our grandeur tends to be consistent and predictable, rather than delusional.
Oh, and our mascot is the Maroon Tiger.
I’m not reminded, often of my pedigree. I work in an environment where background is way less important than productivity. I overachieve in a technology marketplace where competitors hail from way over in Asia. Tigers are pretty common in India, but not the type of Tiger that I represent.
But what the hell does any of this have to do with dating, Dub? I ran into a classmate of mine, two Saturdays, ago. I was in Posh (again) with my (sexy) attorney, because we were celebrating my American Express’ return to responsible safekeeping. We were at the bar surveying suburbanites when I recognized T.
He was alone. Consistent with tigers, we hunt by ourselves. We greeted each other with the one-arm-hug-one-hand-shake and immediately bemoan the lack of interesting women in the nightclub.
“This is boring”, T tells me. I asked him what was new with him. “I’m in Miami, man, working for Oxxxx.” I tell him I am working for I##. The companies compete. I told him I was recently in Miami. Now let me say this, T could not seem to look in my attorney’s direction without squinting his eyes. It was as if she were a shining a bright lamp onto our conversation.
“Man, Miami is crazy.” I told him that I had some idea of its craziness. At least how crazy it could get. But I also told him that I was tired of hanging out, and that I would not be partying that much in Miami, anyway. I had had a few drinks at dinner and I had half of one in my hand. Meaning that I guess I forgot who I was talking to when I told T that I was ready to just get married to a good woman, have me some babies, and take it easy.
He looked at me like I was wearing plaid bell-bottoms and an airplane collar before he almost collapsed laughing at me. I like a good laugh myself, but never at my own expense. He was not laughing with me.
“What? Get married? Black man?!?!” Then squinted over at my attorney and asked me “What’s up with her?” Perhaps she was a spy…
Anyway, rejoin me next week as T patiently points out the many flaws in my marriage hypothesis.
I’m not reminded, often of my pedigree. I work in an environment where background is way less important than productivity. I overachieve in a technology marketplace where competitors hail from way over in Asia. Tigers are pretty common in India, but not the type of Tiger that I represent.
But what the hell does any of this have to do with dating, Dub? I ran into a classmate of mine, two Saturdays, ago. I was in Posh (again) with my (sexy) attorney, because we were celebrating my American Express’ return to responsible safekeeping. We were at the bar surveying suburbanites when I recognized T.
He was alone. Consistent with tigers, we hunt by ourselves. We greeted each other with the one-arm-hug-one-hand-shake and immediately bemoan the lack of interesting women in the nightclub.
“This is boring”, T tells me. I asked him what was new with him. “I’m in Miami, man, working for Oxxxx.” I tell him I am working for I##. The companies compete. I told him I was recently in Miami. Now let me say this, T could not seem to look in my attorney’s direction without squinting his eyes. It was as if she were a shining a bright lamp onto our conversation.
“Man, Miami is crazy.” I told him that I had some idea of its craziness. At least how crazy it could get. But I also told him that I was tired of hanging out, and that I would not be partying that much in Miami, anyway. I had had a few drinks at dinner and I had half of one in my hand. Meaning that I guess I forgot who I was talking to when I told T that I was ready to just get married to a good woman, have me some babies, and take it easy.
He looked at me like I was wearing plaid bell-bottoms and an airplane collar before he almost collapsed laughing at me. I like a good laugh myself, but never at my own expense. He was not laughing with me.
“What? Get married? Black man?!?!” Then squinted over at my attorney and asked me “What’s up with her?” Perhaps she was a spy…
Anyway, rejoin me next week as T patiently points out the many flaws in my marriage hypothesis.
1 comment:
When I think about the Morehouse men I have known (quite a few in the Biblical sense), the phrase SMOKE and MIRRORS comes to mind. And larceny....
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