The Whole Pizza Pie

In a recent conversation with a friend about relationships and love and shit like that, Tyler Perry’s Why Did I Get Married came up. After about a fifteen minute tangential conversation about why I wouldn’t put Tyler Perry on my list of favorite actors, playwrights, or directors, we got back to the topic at hand: the 80/20 rule.

In the movie, Malik Yoba’s character tells his ‘boys’, that in relationships, you get about 80% of your needs met. And while it may be tempting to seek that other 20% somewhere else, a person should value the 80% that they already have. Apparently, belief in this edict is supposed to discourage infidelity and infuse the overly-selective mind like mine with a dose of reality.

Well, I think that is some balderdash, bullshit, nonsense, Tom Foolery, or as my uncle would say, “that’s some monkey business.”

Firstly, the original 80/20 principle is entirely different than what has been widely adopted as sound relationship advice. The initial concept comes from an early twentieth century Italian economist who observed that 80 percent of the land in Italy was owned by 20 percent of the population. The general idea is that a very large number of outputs or outcomes are usually generated by a small number of inputs.

We all know that a small portion of the population controls an overwhelming majority of the world’s resources. This idea applies to other walks of life as well. Compare the number of famous and/or commercially successful actors, writers, and directors like the aforementioned Mr. Perry to the vast number of “us” who are dancing, singing, or writing our hearts out with no paparazzi following us at all.

As far as the relationship thing goes, 80% is far too low. I tried to use the following analogy with my friend but was told that it sucked:

Imagine ordering a pizza pie from your local pizzeria. The large pizza pie comes with 10 slices, so you prepare yourself to enjoy ten mouth-watering and cheesy slices of pizza. You make it to the pizzeria and pay for your pie. You get home, pour a tall glass of Moscato and sit down to open your hot cheesy and Wham! You notice that two of your slices are gone!

Well, that analogy may need a little work, but the point is that 20 percent of anything is a huge chunk. I don’t know; maybe you’re okay with only 80 percent of your paycheck or 80 percent of a haircut. Maybe that was the thinking behind the Mohawk.

When I was a kid in school, getting an 80 on anything would feel like failure. You mean I got a fifth of the answers wrong? Did I get dumb all of a sudden?

Personally, I believe that applying this rule to relationships is hazardous. Why settle for something that you feel is incomplete? By right, you deserve everything. I am a whole person, therefore, I want to laugh with, talk to, interact with, kiss, and love a whole person. If I was to put a percentage on it, it would have to be about 95. That’s less than sales tax; I can deal with that.

So, theoretically, I would have to decide if the four-fifths of a person that I do like is good enough to make me deal with the one-fifth that I don’t? HELL NAW!

Relationships of all kind should be fun. I have friends that I’ve known for a long time that a rarely talk to anymore because I don’t enjoy talking to them. It’s not fun. I’m not going to put up with it because of the fun we had when we were eleven or I can depend on him to help me move. There has to be more than that. I can hire movers.

And I can do without being with someone that I don’t immensely enjoy. Yeah, I get it. Nobody’s perfect. But in your specific situation, even the imperfections should be perfect. And yeah, I know they say that anything worth having takes work. Well, I go to work every day. Who wants to come home and have to work some more? That should be your solace, your sanctuary. You can’t have chaos in your sanctuary, even if it is only 20 percent of the time.

See, instead of worrying about what percentage of this person you like or can tolerate, turn the mirror to you. What percentage of yourself do you love? And how much of do actually dislike? If there is 20 percent of you that you don’t like, then finding a 99/1 ratio in someone else ain’t gonna work. Until you wholly love yourself, truly loving anyone else is impossible. You have to work on you.

The original model of the rule speaks of inputs and outputs. My theory is that we spend a majority of our time on the things that only contribute marginally to our total happiness, and not enough time on those things that ultimately bring more fulfillment.

If we spent more time on ourselves: learning who we are and who we aren’t, enjoying life, and connecting to the things around us, and less time thinking about, trying to mold, and trying to quantify others, then we would be a much happier society.

Oh. And read a book…and not just 80 percent of it.

Next week’s topic: FACEBOOK: The Bane of Productivity!

MJ Tribute

I've been working on this for a while. It just came out of the oven.


Something for Mike

This is a tribute
To he who sang the soundtrack to my youth, my life.
From waking up in the morning to watch your cartoon,
To watching Thriller and being scared to sleep at night.
This is for you, Mike.
For those terrific moments, specific moments.
Like Miami Arena ’85, Victory Tour, all the way live.
And dropping the moonwalk at Motown 25.
This if for that little boy who sang Ben,
For countless hours trying to add more revolutions to my spin.
This is for the Lady in your life and all the P.Y.T.s
And for all of the people just like me
Who were awakened by parents from some blissful dream
To do some groggy-eyed performance to Billie Jean.
But once that beat dropped and before you uttered that very first line,
The sleep ran away like you in Remember the Time.
This is for the kids who used to rock the hot red leather zipper jackets to school.
This is for the only man who could make high-water pants and penny loafers cool.
This is for jheri curls and bejeweled gloves.
For being nine years old and singing like you knew the joys and pains of being in and out of love.
This is for the music, the moves, the mind, the man.
This is for the things about EVERYONE that NO ONE will ever understand.
This is my tribute to MJ in the form of a poem.
Maybe now they will just leave you alone.

Copyright © 2010 Darius D.

Three Kings, Huh?

I feel that it is my duty and my right, as a native South Floridian, to comment on “The Decision”, as it has been dubbed. And by “The Decision”, I mean LeBron James’ selfless choice to join Dwyane Wade, Chris Bosh, and whatever other mishmash of rag-tag players Pat Riley can put together on the Miami Heat.

Non-Sports Follower Guide: LeBron James is a 25-year old basketball uber-beast who has been heralded as the next great everything before he even began shaving, which was probably around eleven or twelve years old. He’s a native of Akron, Ohio and joined his “hometown” Cleveland Cavaliers right out of high school, signed a $100 million shoe contract and has since been an enormous superstar.

But I am glad that all of the suspense is over. The sports world has been talking about this for way too long. And the wait was ended in what I’m sure Clevelanders and undoubtedly Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert would see as Draconian fashion. James announced that he was “taking his talents to South Beach” in a one hour televised special. Yes, he was a free agent and technically no team could claim him as their own at the moment. But when he said those six words, all of Ohio felt like the guy who proposed to his girlfriend at a baseball game and scheduled it to be shown on the Jumbotron, and the entire stadium watched on as she said “no”.

Some have compared it to a star high school player holding a press conference to announce what university he is going to. The difference: the Cavs had paid him millions of dollars and he didn't let them know until minutes before the television special. Yeah, apparently all the proceeds went to the Boys and Girls Club. That is a wonderful and noble deed. But couldn't he just have donated the money himself? He did sign a new $110 million contract. The Clevelanders weren't feeling it, no matter how much the kids benefited.

They cried and burnt his jersey. He’s been vilified and labeled a Benedict Arnold. The Cavs owner called his choice an act of cowardly betrayal. He better keep all of his eyes open when he's anywhere in the Midwest. I understand the owner being pissed; millions of dollars just walked out his door. But to the rest of the world: GET A LIFE!

The reverberation of LeBron’s choice has many more layers than simply what occurs on the basketball court. However, I do have a few questions there, too.

a. Who else will be on the team? After signing the three biggest free agents, there isn’t a lot of money for the Heat to flesh out the rest of their roster. They’ll likely have to sign a bunch of journeymen and older players with less talent who want to ride some coattails in a quest for a ring. If they need an under-sized shooting guard with a bad knee, I’ll play for the minimum.
b. Who takes the last shot? This is an enviable position to be in, having multiple superstars who can win the game for you, but who will it be? I know from neighborhood pick-up games the value of hitting a game winning shot. Not only the game, but the amount of groupie action after the game will be weighed in the balance.
c. Will LeBron be willing to channel Magic? If LeBron takes on a more Magic Johnson-type role with this team, then the sky is a limit. He needs to realize that he has other people on his team who can drop 30 or 40 in any given night. He just needs to set the table for them and let them eat. Oh, a post up every now and then wouldn’t hurt LeBron’s game, either.

The most interesting thing to me is the Mardi Gras party that took place when he and Chris Bosh arrived in Miami. It looked like Michael Jackson came back and did a duet with Prince at the Grammys. For a second, I thought I was watching a World Cup celebration. Since when is there this amount of fanfare for fans and players before an actual game has even been played.

Imagine for a moment...

A group of guys are hanging out one night at a bar. We’ll call them Jay, Ray, and Everton. So, they all see this gorgeous woman at the bar.

“Damn, she’s bad!” Everton exclaims while twisting his face into the “I just saw a fine ass woman” look that can be mistaken for the “I just ate an entire bag of lemons” look or the “what is that putrid smell?” look.

Ray nods his head in agreement, and Jay clears his throat.

“You suckas just wait her; I’m gonna go get her,” Jay says while popping an Altoid in his mouth.

As he strides confidently over to the woman sitting in the third chair from the left edge of the bar he smiles; she smiles back.

“Hi, I’m Jay. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure, I’m having a -”

But before she can fix her lips to say Sour Apple Martini, he throws his hands up in exaltation, grabs the empty glass in front of the woman and spikes it to the ground as if he’d just scored the winning touchdown at the Super Bowl. He then runs around the bar yelling “I did it, I did it!” and “I’m the got damn man!” He makes it over to his friends and starts high-fiving and cabbage-patching in their faces.

Crazy, right?

Well, that is exactly what occurred with the Heat. You have to at least engage in some in-depth conversation first. LeBron simply let the Heat buy him an extremely expensive drink. This kind of celebration should only come after some heavy petting, i.e., at least an NBA Finals appearance.

I wonder how President Barack Obama feels. Not only were his hometown team the Chicago Bulls spurned by Mr. James, but they P. Diddied him and sampled his phrase. That’s right. The marquee flashed it, fans held signs with it printed on them, and Miami maniacs shouted it.

YES WE DID!

The same phrase that was used to commemorate the election of the United States’ first Black president was being used to celebrate some basketball players simply SIGNING with a team. No, not hyperbolic at all. No pressure there.

Alas, I’m a Heat fan. I will definitely be at some of the home games. Something of this magnitude, you just have to be a part of it. While I’m sure I’ll be watching from a point in the arena where I couldn’t decipher LeBron from Wade, or Lil’ Wayne, for that matter. Thank God for the Jumbotron. I hope I’m not in American Airlines to witness the Heat being eliminated from the playoffs.

It would be like that moment in a movie when the super villain has almost completed his plan of destroying the moon or turning all of the Earth's water into milk, but he arrogantly decides to rail off a long monologue about his plan and how he is better than the hero and there is nothing that can be done stop him. At this point, the hero frees himself and defeats the villain, the planet is saved, and the world cheers HOORAY!!!

Only this time the world, especially Cleveland, will be screaming, “Oh, no you didn’t!”

Sparks and Sparklers!

Everyone loves the Fourth of July, right? Hot dogs and hamburgers. Family and friends. And the joy of endangering lives by lighting potentially fatal explosives for the enjoyment of all the little children in the neighborhood; what could be better than that? I remember when I was about six or seven years old, this kid in my neighborhood had to be taken to the hospital after being struck in the eye by an errant bottle rocket. Needless to say, he never saw the 4th of July the same after that.


Tangent Alert:
The Fourth of July commemorates the adoption of the Declaration of Independence. With this document, America’s original thirteen colonies were now independent states, free from British rule. The Declaration is sprinkled with majestic phrases that painted the picture of what life should and would be like without the “tyranny” imposed by Great Britain’s King George III.
“…all men are created equal”, “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” For me, the most interesting thing about the Declaration of Independence is that many of those who signed this document were slave owners. Hmm…ironic, to say the least.



John Adams predicted that the signing of the Declaration of Independence would forever be celebrated with parades and shows and fireworks all across the continent. Thus we have the fabulous spectacles and displays we are accustomed to seeing today.

The Fourth of July and its fireworks remind me of relationships. The anticipation always seems to trump the actual event. As a kid, I couldn’t wait for the Sun to go down on the Fourth. That’s when my mom or my uncles would gather up whatever fireworks we had and head outside with the lighter and unlimited books of matches. There were things that popped, things that sparkled, things that popped and sparkled, and things that shot up in the air, popped, and then sparkled. There were the snake/worm things that you set on fire and they just grew. I never really got the point of those. Then, there were the things that emitted a colorful array of sparks accompanied by smoke and whistles. In my mind, the bigger the contraption was, the better it was going to be. But almost inevitably, my poor little pre-teen heart was always disappointed.


The sparklers were just lame. The bottle rockets rarely launched. And you can only watch green and red sparks fly out of a cardboard tube so many times. Ultimately, after thirty or so minutes, the party was over. Then, I would be in the middle of the street putting ashen Independence Day scraps into a plastic bag. I would inevitably hang on to a few firecrackers or spark-shooting army tanks, but those would be used up in couple of days. I always had this “is that it?” feeling after the Fourth.


Relationships are pretty much the same. You get all excited in the beginning, maybe even a little scared. You’re anticipating some amazing things to occur. And why wouldn’t you? Everything that’s shown on the package suggests that this will be the time of your life. But inevitably the sparks only spark for so long. Then, everything will fizzle out, and you’re in the middle of the street putting ashen pieces of your heart and dignity into a plastic bag, left with nothing but disappointment.


Recently, I went to a function that I have affectionately termed a “Gender Jam”. There were a bunch of twenty and thirty-somethings in a house with food, music, “hot topics”, and games. The wonderful host of the “hot topics” portion of the evening stated that the purpose was for “men and women to get to know what the other is thinking.” One of the recurring ideas coming from the young ladies was their disappointment in the outcome of some of their relationships. I thought about that 11 year-old me, who was looking to be eternally dazzled and only got about thirty minutes of a snap, crackle, and a pop. And maybe that’s the problem. We often embark upon relationships with these Macy’s Fourth of July fireworks display set of expectations. Then, if the other half has more than just a few of the qualities you are looking for, those expectations increase exponentially.


If I went into every Fourth of July free of expectations, I doubt I would have felt the disappointment I did. I wouldn’t have been comparing my fireworks to those of the kids up the street whose parents could afford the “good stuff”. I would have simply had fun with the pieces that I liked, laughed at the lameness of the sparklers, and smiled with an overall positive feeling as I picked up the pieces from the street.


If we treated relationships like this, there would be a lot less disappointment. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that we should just settle for anything in our romantic endeavors. What I am saying is this: if we come to the table without expectations, good or bad, we will undoubtedly be able to see the people we date for who they really are. We won't try to make every person we meet THE ONE. Have fun with the pieces you like, laugh at the lames, and smile when the sparks fly!