There were three brothers -- each was intelligent in his own right, active in the community, a general all-around okay guy. They all came to a point in their life where they decided they didn't want to be alone anymore, and set about (either actively or subconsciously) finding themselves someone to love.

The first brother was called the dreamer. He let the fire of his astrology guide him far more often than the wisdom of his elders, and was consumed by an ego that strained against newfound barriers against its supremacy. He spent his days planning massive campaigns to conquer the world, but rarely finished the treatise on each political manifesto before being distracted by some random cartoon or shapely sable form.

The second brother, the fixer also had fire in his belly, but kept it carefully guarded lest the world take it from him. He maintained his own counsel, and reveled in the sounds of his native land. He quietly amassed a warehouse of skill and capability, secretly coming into his own as a man with solutions. Yet he clung to the ways of immaturity, and in all his success, refused to grasp his own possibility.

The final brother was the operative. He'd been so angry for so long he scarcely knew how to see any other possibilities. He'd conquered every area of his life -- becoming an accomplished assassin and martial artist, national recognition in journalism, extensive skills in web design and visual communications, and so forth -- yet lacked a companion to share his victories. So, with a concrete plan based on empirical data as his guide he set forth the central theme of our story today, fellow children.

"A change will do you good."

The dreamer couldn't grasp this. Leaning on the broken down Chevy Cavalier that he swore no one would accept as a trade, he wore self fulfilling prophecies of failure like a fresh outfit from Fubu. Though he claimed he was ready for committment, he still chased the stretch pants of the same long haired video escapees that he had been aiming for since he was a college freshman. He felt he was the total package, though he spent more time getting in touch with his Playstation than who he was as a Black man. He could envision his perfect woman, but he was a far cry from the man she needed. Alone, he slept under the light of his Qui-Gon Jinn lightsaber, wanting it all, but not badly enough to sacrifice his habits on the altar of common ground.

A complex and involved chain of events led the fixer into the arms of a woman he never liked, and a fairly simple chain of events led from there to his baby daughter being born into that tumultuous relationship. You see, he had all the ability to be a great catch but none of the desire -- the polar opposite of the dreamer. He accepted fatherhood and committment reluctantly, still looking for every opportunity to get out to the club, sad that all his clubbing friends were likewise settling into the cycles of children and marriage. His gaze followed anything nice, brown and round that passed his way, knowing that bringing them home would entail complicated explanations of cribs and alien hair care products. From underneath the covers of the bed he made, he longed for starlight and freedom from a captivity he felt came for him too soon.

The operative watched his brothers languish in their own limitations. He heard ancient wisdom tell him, "If you continue to do what you have always done, you will continue to get what you have always gotten." Now, he was very set in his ways, stubborn and country and mad as hell. Yet the empty expanse of his futon yearned to be filled, and he heard another less likely voice. Marcellus Wallace. "That's pride talkin' ..."

So he didn't change anything about himself, only the order and intensity in which it was presented to the world. He showcased his intellect, his wit, his ability to communicate, and downplayed the fact that he had the Star Wars trilogy memorized, his passionate joy in the suffering and hardship of the weak and stupid, and his ability to disassemble and reassemble most Warsaw Pact small arms in the dark. Armed with his new marketing spin on the person he was so happy to be, he found he had both the ability and the desire to commit, and went out into the night ....

Directly into the arms of a gyroscopic goddess, balancing on a thread of hope between disappointment and promise. They playacted the scenes of early courtship as well as the cast of The Best Man, ignoring Eurocentric ad libs for a script carved on papyrus. She came to discover the horrible truths about him -- his inability to go anywhere Monday night due to editing the commercials from Ally McBeal, his unending passion for the destruction of white supremacy worldwide, the floor length Jedi cloak hanging on the back of his bathroom door. By then she had come to appreciate the good things about him -- how he laughed with her parents, the way he laughed when he got excited, the way he shadowed her when she walked, always her protector. Caught up in the good stuff, she came to a business decision and realized the wacky bits are just that. Bits. The whole is greater than the sum, and together they marched towards matrimony.

The moral of our little story, fellow children, has a few core points:

• You should never change who you are if you are sincerely happy with it.
• You should always put forth the best image to people, but never back it with lies.
• Once someone is in love with you, it's okay to let that fart go.
• If you fail to learn how to speak to your soul mate before you meet, she won't understand what you're saying and will walk on by like Sybil, Isaac, and Dionne.

Basically, we here at Damage Control just wants everyone to change for the better, and maybe, just maybe, a change would do you good. Think about it.