I am not Joe the plumber. I grew up poor. We never got a plumber. If the toilet broke we fixed it. If the sink got clogged up, we went to the public library and checked out a book on how to fix it. If the problem needed more expertise, in the ghetto we found somebody that we could pay under the table to fix it. Plumbers are expensive. I am not Joe the Plummer, Leroy the mechanic, or Pookie the dentist. Those people usually try to screw you in the end like Denise the contractor. They make it seem like the problem is worse than it is to just charge you more.
I am not Joe the plumber. I am Michael the unemployed writer former male secretary. I am Michael the student loan victim trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to pay all that money back. I am Michael with two cousins who lost their homes in foreclosure. I am Michael who needs his medical insurance and don’t want to hassle with insurance providers across the states. I thought the main reason for getting a job was because of company health insurance. I loathe big business. I live in the reality of constantly being hit with over limit fees from the bank, credit cards and just for cashing my check. I live paycheck to paycheck, so I am not Joe the plumber. Joe the plumber is not even Joe the plumber. He’s not even licensed. He doesn’t make more than forty thousand dollars a year. He wants to own a company in the future but hasn’t even taken the time to make himself a real plumber. He’s somebody’s cousin. He’s a registered republican. His name is not even Joe.
My vote is for Tim the weed dealer. Can’t we legalize marijuana already!!!!!!
Friday, October 24, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Vote or I will kill you bitch.
I remember back in 2004 celebrities got out of control with the voting thing. Paris Hilton wore a t-shirt that said, “Vote or Die.” It turned out the dizzy socialite wasn’t registered and didn’t keep up her promise. She didn’t die. Instead she got herself arrested for drunk driving a couple years later.
I admit, I’ve never voted. I meant to vote back in 2000 but I figured Bush was going to win since I lived in a red state. It really didn’t matter if I voted anyway. I lived in Texas, a historical red state. They say every vote counts, but it doesn’t. If you are a democrat and live in a red state, you might as well stay home unless you feel as if you can get enough blue people to go out and vote and change the color of the state.
After the Al Gore vs. Bush crap, I vowed to never vote. I knew that every vote didn’t count. It wasn’t a popular election but some crazy crap. It was recounts and people with too much power stealing the election. I hated the 2000 election. It stressed me the fuck out and I didn’t even vote that year.
I’ve lied. I told people I voted so they would leave me the hell alone. I told people I cared because they would think I was a decent person. I’m not. I told people I voted like I tell the people when I’m selected for Jury Duty I’m mentally insane and can’t possible be of good judgment. The mental insane excuse never worked for me. They usually want papers or a Doctor’s note. I don’t like being patriotic. I didn’t like back in elementary and middle school when you were forced to stand in front of the American flag and salute it. I don’t know the pledge of allegiance. I don’t know all the words to “God bless America” or the national Anthem. I guess in Sarah Palin’s eyes that would make me anti-American. I thought the point of being American was that I didn’t need to know that crap, it’s not like we live in Nazi, Germany. It’s not like Sadam Hussein is going to shot me in the head if I don’t tap dance the national anthem on cue. It’s ridiculous. I thought being American gave me the right to not give a fuck. I thought it was in the constitution that I could not give a fuck unless I’m drafted for the army. Americans are rude when they go abroad. Americans don’t care about anybody else but Americans. We don’t care about anyone else’s religions, history, unless it’s American. But I guess 911 changed everything. It was the first time I realized I could die just simply for being American. I grew up with the notion that America was the greatest country on the planet or in the Universe. I was completely blissfully ignorant of how the rest of the world hated us.
On 911 I woke up with the worse hangover. I was living in Chicago. I went out that Monday night to a bar called Biology were drag queens performed and they served cheap drinks. I had way too many cheap drinks that night. I woke up that morning about an hour late to work. I desperately tried to come up with an excuse to call in. Before I could pick up the phone my roommate ran into the room and demanded I turn on the television. He said it was important. It was when the first plane crashed into the towers. And then thirty minutes later the second plane crashed into the towers. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing with my own eyes. I thought it was fake. It looked fake. I couldn’t process it. I didn’t call into work that day. I just sat in front of the television and just watched. I wanted answers. I wanted to know what was happening. It seemed as if the world was coming to an end.
I never thought just living in America people would want to kill me. I thought I was safe. I thought the world loved American and worshiped our flag. As a black man I only figured I had to fear crooked cops and racist states like Alabama, Mississippi, Georgia, Louisiana and Texas. I figured if I stayed out of those states and not drove through them during the night I be safe. I knew America had racist issues, and my life could be in jeopardy because I was black, gay, if I traveled down the wrong road in America. But all that changed on 911. The terrorist I’d known my entire life, the at home terrorists, the ones that march in their KKK outfits during Martin Luther King Day, they were suddenly my terrorists. I knew those terrorists. I felt safe with those terrorists. The new terrorists, I didn’t know. The new terrorists crossed the ocean to come kill me. I didn’t know why. I thought damn as a black gay person, that’s all I needed was more people wanting to kill me. So I became American. It was pounded in my heart. It was pounded in my heart like being black and gay was pounded in my heart. It was how I was born.
I started to care about America. I guess I wanted to be safe again. It was my only home. I didn’t want to move. I had new fascination with the American flag. I always thought people who paraded the American flag were a bunch of hillbillies. I always looked at the American flag liked I looked at the Confederate flag. It had too much blood on it. It had too much of my blood on it. It had too much of my ancestors blood on it. And that’s how I look at the red states. A place drowning in my ancestors blood.
But things have changed. I look at Obama running for President and it’s nothing I ever thought could happen. I never thought he would make it passed the primaries. I always feared a black president because I knew he would be assassinated. I told my grandmother when I was five years old that I wanted to be the president of the United States when I grew up and she cried. She said they would only kill me.
I’m going to vote this year, and I mean it. I guess I’m voting because I now live in a blue state. I hate to think what the lines are going to be like on Election Day. I once waited fourteen hours to see the Star Wars movie. I don’t even like Star Wars. I guess I can stand in line to elect Obama.
I just want the election to be over with. In the meantime. I decided to stop watching television and just focus on babies, kittens, and puppies. I want to focus on things that make me happy. I just want to laugh. I also want to feel American.
Just in case you forgot.
The Star-Spangled Banner
—Francis Scott Key, 1814
O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming?Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the perilous fight,O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there.O say, does that star-spangled banner yet waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On the shore dimly seen thro' the mists of the deep,Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream:'Tis the star-spangled banner: O, long may it waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
And where is that band who so vauntingly sworeThat the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,A home and a country should leave us no more?Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollution.No refuge could save the hireling and slaveFrom the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave:And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
O thus be it ever when free-men shall standBetween their lov'd home and the war's desolation;Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued landPraise the Pow'r that hath made and preserv'd us a nation!Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,And this be our motto: “In God is our trust!”And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
The Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag reads as follows:
"I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands: one Nation under God, indivisible, With Liberty and Justice for all."
Lastly, the negro anthem:
Lift every voice and sing,
'Til earth and heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of Liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise
High as the listening skies,
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,
Let us march on 'til victory is won.
Stony the road we trod,
Bitter the chast'ning rod,
Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
Yet with a steady beat,
Have not our weary feet
Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?
We have come over a way that with tears has been watered,
We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,
Out from the gloomy past,
'Til now we stand at last
Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.
God of our weary years,
God of our silent tears,
Thou who has brought us thus far on the way;
Thou who has by Thy might
Led us into the light,
Keep us forever in the path, we pray.
Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee,
Lest, our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee;
Shadowed beneath Thy hand,
May we forever stand,
True to our God,
True to our native land.
I admit, I’ve never voted. I meant to vote back in 2000 but I figured Bush was going to win since I lived in a red state. It really didn’t matter if I voted anyway. I lived in Texas, a historical red state. They say every vote counts, but it doesn’t. If you are a democrat and live in a red state, you might as well stay home unless you feel as if you can get enough blue people to go out and vote and change the color of the state.
After the Al Gore vs. Bush crap, I vowed to never vote. I knew that every vote didn’t count. It wasn’t a popular election but some crazy crap. It was recounts and people with too much power stealing the election. I hated the 2000 election. It stressed me the fuck out and I didn’t even vote that year.
I’ve lied. I told people I voted so they would leave me the hell alone. I told people I cared because they would think I was a decent person. I’m not. I told people I voted like I tell the people when I’m selected for Jury Duty I’m mentally insane and can’t possible be of good judgment. The mental insane excuse never worked for me. They usually want papers or a Doctor’s note. I don’t like being patriotic. I didn’t like back in elementary and middle school when you were forced to stand in front of the American flag and salute it. I don’t know the pledge of allegiance. I don’t know all the words to “God bless America” or the national Anthem. I guess in Sarah Palin’s eyes that would make me anti-American. I thought the point of being American was that I didn’t need to know that crap, it’s not like we live in Nazi, Germany. It’s not like Sadam Hussein is going to shot me in the head if I don’t tap dance the national anthem on cue. It’s ridiculous. I thought being American gave me the right to not give a fuck. I thought it was in the constitution that I could not give a fuck unless I’m drafted for the army. Americans are rude when they go abroad. Americans don’t care about anybody else but Americans. We don’t care about anyone else’s religions, history, unless it’s American. But I guess 911 changed everything. It was the first time I realized I could die just simply for being American. I grew up with the notion that America was the greatest country on the planet or in the Universe. I was completely blissfully ignorant of how the rest of the world hated us.
On 911 I woke up with the worse hangover. I was living in Chicago. I went out that Monday night to a bar called Biology were drag queens performed and they served cheap drinks. I had way too many cheap drinks that night. I woke up that morning about an hour late to work. I desperately tried to come up with an excuse to call in. Before I could pick up the phone my roommate ran into the room and demanded I turn on the television. He said it was important. It was when the first plane crashed into the towers. And then thirty minutes later the second plane crashed into the towers. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing with my own eyes. I thought it was fake. It looked fake. I couldn’t process it. I didn’t call into work that day. I just sat in front of the television and just watched. I wanted answers. I wanted to know what was happening. It seemed as if the world was coming to an end.
I never thought just living in America people would want to kill me. I thought I was safe. I thought the world loved American and worshiped our flag. As a black man I only figured I had to fear crooked cops and racist states like Alabama, Mississippi, Georgia, Louisiana and Texas. I figured if I stayed out of those states and not drove through them during the night I be safe. I knew America had racist issues, and my life could be in jeopardy because I was black, gay, if I traveled down the wrong road in America. But all that changed on 911. The terrorist I’d known my entire life, the at home terrorists, the ones that march in their KKK outfits during Martin Luther King Day, they were suddenly my terrorists. I knew those terrorists. I felt safe with those terrorists. The new terrorists, I didn’t know. The new terrorists crossed the ocean to come kill me. I didn’t know why. I thought damn as a black gay person, that’s all I needed was more people wanting to kill me. So I became American. It was pounded in my heart. It was pounded in my heart like being black and gay was pounded in my heart. It was how I was born.
I started to care about America. I guess I wanted to be safe again. It was my only home. I didn’t want to move. I had new fascination with the American flag. I always thought people who paraded the American flag were a bunch of hillbillies. I always looked at the American flag liked I looked at the Confederate flag. It had too much blood on it. It had too much of my blood on it. It had too much of my ancestors blood on it. And that’s how I look at the red states. A place drowning in my ancestors blood.
But things have changed. I look at Obama running for President and it’s nothing I ever thought could happen. I never thought he would make it passed the primaries. I always feared a black president because I knew he would be assassinated. I told my grandmother when I was five years old that I wanted to be the president of the United States when I grew up and she cried. She said they would only kill me.
I’m going to vote this year, and I mean it. I guess I’m voting because I now live in a blue state. I hate to think what the lines are going to be like on Election Day. I once waited fourteen hours to see the Star Wars movie. I don’t even like Star Wars. I guess I can stand in line to elect Obama.
I just want the election to be over with. In the meantime. I decided to stop watching television and just focus on babies, kittens, and puppies. I want to focus on things that make me happy. I just want to laugh. I also want to feel American.
Just in case you forgot.
The Star-Spangled Banner
—Francis Scott Key, 1814
O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming?Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the perilous fight,O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there.O say, does that star-spangled banner yet waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On the shore dimly seen thro' the mists of the deep,Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream:'Tis the star-spangled banner: O, long may it waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
And where is that band who so vauntingly sworeThat the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,A home and a country should leave us no more?Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollution.No refuge could save the hireling and slaveFrom the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave:And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
O thus be it ever when free-men shall standBetween their lov'd home and the war's desolation;Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued landPraise the Pow'r that hath made and preserv'd us a nation!Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,And this be our motto: “In God is our trust!”And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
The Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag reads as follows:
"I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands: one Nation under God, indivisible, With Liberty and Justice for all."
Lastly, the negro anthem:
Lift every voice and sing,
'Til earth and heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of Liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise
High as the listening skies,
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,
Let us march on 'til victory is won.
Stony the road we trod,
Bitter the chast'ning rod,
Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
Yet with a steady beat,
Have not our weary feet
Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?
We have come over a way that with tears has been watered,
We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,
Out from the gloomy past,
'Til now we stand at last
Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.
God of our weary years,
God of our silent tears,
Thou who has brought us thus far on the way;
Thou who has by Thy might
Led us into the light,
Keep us forever in the path, we pray.
Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee,
Lest, our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee;
Shadowed beneath Thy hand,
May we forever stand,
True to our God,
True to our native land.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Please click on link below to see the funniest shit you ever would see.
http://www.worldstarhiphop.com/videos/video.php?v=wshh020E532HFvevla5y
http://www.worldstarhiphop.com/videos/video.php?v=wshh020E532HFvevla5y
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
I’m too poor to be happy.
Every time I go into the Kentucky friend chicken on U Street in DC I don’t know if I’m going to get my crispy friend chicken or shot. I guess that’s most fast food restaurants in the hood. I don’t live in the hood. Actually my neighborhood is going through a gentrification: the buying and renovation of houses and stores in deteriorated urban neighborhoods by upper- or middle-income families or individuals, thus improving property values but often displacing low-income families and small businesses.
When I first moved to DC six years ago from Texas, I lived in an okay neighborhood. I felt safe and the rent was cheap. I knew I didn’t want to live in SE DC because everyday somebody is getting shot or killed. I never ever wanted to drive through SE DC because I got enough gangsta points growing up in the wards of Houston, Texas and projects in San Antonio. I thought the entire point was getting out of the ghetto but I guess the yuppies understood a different story. Most of the buildings and houses in the ghetto aren’t owned. If they are owned, the estimates are really cheap. It’s actually a lot more expensive to live in the ghetto. Shit to have car insurance in the ghetto is like three times as higher to have insurance in 90210. But freedom in America for the poor, especially black poor has never been cheap.
My neighborhood has rapidly changed in the last six years. First, my rent has gone up a hundred dollars. When I first moved into the neighborhood the Convention Center was still in construction. Now it’s up and running and hosting events like “American Idol.” When I first moved into the neighborhood you couldn’t throw a rock down the street in any direction without hitting a crackhead or a pre-op tranny. The alcoholics hung outside the liquor store begging for change. I felt my neighbor hood was full of character. It wasn’t violent or anything. I never got robbed but I often dress like a homeless person so I knew I was safe. Besides, the rent was cheap. I knew if I wanted to score some weed at three in the morning it was like shouting for my cousin “Ray Ray” outside my window. I liked where I lived. Then the white people started showing up. It was the first sign. Six years ago when I first moved to the neighborhood I would walk through my neighborhood and not see one white person. It was strange to get off the metro and have five or six white people follow me home. I would clinch my bookbag close to me. I would wonder what the hell they wanted. Growing up in the hood the only white people were the ones with black babies or the ones who came to the ghetto to score drugs.
Yet, part of me welcomed the white people because I knew when they arrived meant business would follow. In six years, the neighborhood has gotten a grand movie theater, five new banks, three CVS stores, and six condos have risen from unpiloted grounds. Then my rent went up a hundred dollars.
In the past weeks my neighborhood has witnessed a new grocery store. It’s fucking gigantic. It has a dry cleaner, Starbucks, poet café, restaurant and cooking lessons on Tuesdays. At first I laughed when it finally opened it doors. My first thought what were they going to do with all the prostitutes who solicited just a block away. I thought what was going to happened to the homeless alcoholics pissing on themselves outside the AA building that has a liquor store right next door. It’s like having a Krespy Kreme donut shop in a gym.
When I first visited the grand grocery store, I knew the prices were going to be higher. I was used to my old grocery store. It was only a few blocks from me but it always had some type of sale. Yes, most of the cashiers are some ghetto bitches that no matter who they cursed out still kept their jobs. AT the new “promiseland” grocery story, when I walked through the doors everybody had a smile on their face. They welcomed me. I walked through the new grocery store and they had people with free sample platters. I knew at my old grocery store four blocks away that could never happen because the homeless people would think they were at home. I didn’t want any free samples. Actually I was freaked out how happy everybody was, smiling like they were happy to be at their minimum wage job. I chuckled because I knew it wouldn’t last for long.
Three weeks later, I walked to my old grocery store and I started noticing all these suspicious flyers on the telephone polls. The flyers boasted in red letters on white cardboard paper, “The selling of drugs or sexual solicitation is illegal. No selling of drugs and solicitation during the hours of 9 am to 5 am”
I laughed at the thought if buying crack in the ghetto was ever legal. I laughed at the thought of the set aside hours of illegal business. I wonder did the drug dealers and prostitute waited until 5am to start their day. Shit, the best drugs I got were usually early in the morning. Chris Rock said, anyone at an ATM at 3 in the morning taking out more than two hundred dollars wasn’t up to any good.
I also noticed in my neighborhood, the cops patrolled the streets twenty four seven. I remember growing up you never say a damn cop when the real shit was going down. A black person only saw a cop when they were getting arrested. IT felt sort of sad that a once cheap rent neighborhood never got its due. That those who lived through its worse now were outpriced and just transferred to another ghetto. It’s like ghettos are never recreated or destroyed, just transferred. If my rent goes up again this year, I am moving back to the ghetto. In this economy, I am willing to risk a bullet for cheaper rent.
When I first moved to DC six years ago from Texas, I lived in an okay neighborhood. I felt safe and the rent was cheap. I knew I didn’t want to live in SE DC because everyday somebody is getting shot or killed. I never ever wanted to drive through SE DC because I got enough gangsta points growing up in the wards of Houston, Texas and projects in San Antonio. I thought the entire point was getting out of the ghetto but I guess the yuppies understood a different story. Most of the buildings and houses in the ghetto aren’t owned. If they are owned, the estimates are really cheap. It’s actually a lot more expensive to live in the ghetto. Shit to have car insurance in the ghetto is like three times as higher to have insurance in 90210. But freedom in America for the poor, especially black poor has never been cheap.
My neighborhood has rapidly changed in the last six years. First, my rent has gone up a hundred dollars. When I first moved into the neighborhood the Convention Center was still in construction. Now it’s up and running and hosting events like “American Idol.” When I first moved into the neighborhood you couldn’t throw a rock down the street in any direction without hitting a crackhead or a pre-op tranny. The alcoholics hung outside the liquor store begging for change. I felt my neighbor hood was full of character. It wasn’t violent or anything. I never got robbed but I often dress like a homeless person so I knew I was safe. Besides, the rent was cheap. I knew if I wanted to score some weed at three in the morning it was like shouting for my cousin “Ray Ray” outside my window. I liked where I lived. Then the white people started showing up. It was the first sign. Six years ago when I first moved to the neighborhood I would walk through my neighborhood and not see one white person. It was strange to get off the metro and have five or six white people follow me home. I would clinch my bookbag close to me. I would wonder what the hell they wanted. Growing up in the hood the only white people were the ones with black babies or the ones who came to the ghetto to score drugs.
Yet, part of me welcomed the white people because I knew when they arrived meant business would follow. In six years, the neighborhood has gotten a grand movie theater, five new banks, three CVS stores, and six condos have risen from unpiloted grounds. Then my rent went up a hundred dollars.
In the past weeks my neighborhood has witnessed a new grocery store. It’s fucking gigantic. It has a dry cleaner, Starbucks, poet café, restaurant and cooking lessons on Tuesdays. At first I laughed when it finally opened it doors. My first thought what were they going to do with all the prostitutes who solicited just a block away. I thought what was going to happened to the homeless alcoholics pissing on themselves outside the AA building that has a liquor store right next door. It’s like having a Krespy Kreme donut shop in a gym.
When I first visited the grand grocery store, I knew the prices were going to be higher. I was used to my old grocery store. It was only a few blocks from me but it always had some type of sale. Yes, most of the cashiers are some ghetto bitches that no matter who they cursed out still kept their jobs. AT the new “promiseland” grocery story, when I walked through the doors everybody had a smile on their face. They welcomed me. I walked through the new grocery store and they had people with free sample platters. I knew at my old grocery store four blocks away that could never happen because the homeless people would think they were at home. I didn’t want any free samples. Actually I was freaked out how happy everybody was, smiling like they were happy to be at their minimum wage job. I chuckled because I knew it wouldn’t last for long.
Three weeks later, I walked to my old grocery store and I started noticing all these suspicious flyers on the telephone polls. The flyers boasted in red letters on white cardboard paper, “The selling of drugs or sexual solicitation is illegal. No selling of drugs and solicitation during the hours of 9 am to 5 am”
I laughed at the thought if buying crack in the ghetto was ever legal. I laughed at the thought of the set aside hours of illegal business. I wonder did the drug dealers and prostitute waited until 5am to start their day. Shit, the best drugs I got were usually early in the morning. Chris Rock said, anyone at an ATM at 3 in the morning taking out more than two hundred dollars wasn’t up to any good.
I also noticed in my neighborhood, the cops patrolled the streets twenty four seven. I remember growing up you never say a damn cop when the real shit was going down. A black person only saw a cop when they were getting arrested. IT felt sort of sad that a once cheap rent neighborhood never got its due. That those who lived through its worse now were outpriced and just transferred to another ghetto. It’s like ghettos are never recreated or destroyed, just transferred. If my rent goes up again this year, I am moving back to the ghetto. In this economy, I am willing to risk a bullet for cheaper rent.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Happy birthday to me
Happy Birthday is so generic. My dentist sends me a card but I know he doesn’t give a damn if I have a happy birthday. Happy Birthday is like saying good morning or not making eye contact with people on the metro train. It’s distant and insincere but we live in a Hallmark culture so people do it half-ass just to keep the peace. We need to buy cards for every damn holiday, sign our name and proclaim look motherfucker I care, sorta. I care enough to buy you a card. When I used to work, every other week somebody was sending around a card for me to sign. I hardly knew any of those people. I would just give my autograph.
Every birthday since I was born my grandmother gives me the amount I am in dollars. It’s sweet. I look forward to it like getting my tax refund. When I was a kid I used the money to boy candy or something. Now I use the money to buy weed. I got a picture taken of me to remember I was fat ass baby.
Every birthday since I was eight years old I do the same routine. I wake up and look in the mirror. I thoroughly examine my body. I look for specific changes. I check to see if my dick got bigger. It still hasn’t. I check to see if my arms are strong by doing the number of push-ups of my age. It was easier when I was twenty but now that I’m thirty something and often hung-over, not so easy. I might just throw up doing my sit-ups. I take a picture of myself.
Every birthday since I was thirteen years old I try to masturbate my age in twenty four hours. Honestly, I stopped that insanity that birthday. I couldn’t piss for two days. I thought my dick was going to fall off it hurt so bad. I take a picture of myself.
Every birthday since I was sixteen I get myself a new outfit. I get new shoes, socks, underwear, pants and shirt. I guess I wanted to feel new again. Or I was still trying to scrub that gooey pussy juice off my body from my mama. I take a picture of myself.
Every birthday since I was twenty one years old I’d get prissy drunk. I mean fall down on your ass --piss on yourself drunk. I mean I hope I make it home drunk. I’m talking angrily eating a sloppy burger like David Hasselfoff on the living room floor drunk. I take a picture of myself.
Every birthday since I was twenty two years old I find myself in AA.
Every birthday since I was twenty five years I find myself unemployed. When I light the candle on my birthday cake, I usually wish for a job.
A lot of things changed when I turned twenty seven years old. I guess I forgot the beauty of a birthday. Birthdays seemed to be arsenal for motherfuckers who weren’t doing enough for me. Those who forgot. Grandma never forgets because I still get that money. I’ve had lovers who didn’t remember until a week or even a month later. My friends because we all live in different cities now after college usually call just so that I can call them on their birthday. It’s like an unspoken agreement. My friend Sha once forgot to call me on my birthday and I never called her on her birthday again. It’s been like five years.
Birthdays for me seemed to become spiteful. I always know somehow or someway somebody is going to fuck it up for me. I know I’m going to get one of those stupid cards that I’m over the hill. I know I’m supposed to laugh but I usually feel like spitting in their face. I can still give one hell of a tantrum that could rival any two-year old or a coked up Naomi Campbell. I stopped getting laid on my birthday. I got into a committed relationship. He doesn’t like it when I drink. I don’t like it when he complains about my drinking. The night usually ends with an argument or maybe the cops.
When I turned thirty years old my sister had a baby. It was a girl. My sister changed overnight. I would’ve once petitioned for that crazy crackhead to never have kids. But when she found out she was pregnant it really changed her life. She got sober. She stayed sober. It was like she found what she had been looking for her entire life and that was to be a mother. I held my niece “Blessing” in my arms. I first thought my sister naming her child some arbitrary name was too ghetto Hollywood. I guess it was better than naming her Mercedes or Lexus like some ghetto mothers do like they are putting together a Christmas list. Or naming your child Denim. For my sister naming her child “Blessing” is what she was feeling at the moment. The child’s middle name is Natalie. I decided I would call her “big head.”
Holding blessing in my arms on the day of her birthday, I couldn’t help but understand what I meant by Happy birthday. It was a blessing. I sung her Happy Birthday, the black Steven Wonders version. I knew I meant that I was welcoming her to the world. I knew I meant I was happy she was now part of it. I knew what I told her happy birthday for the rest of her life I’d remember the day she was born and it was such a happy day. I couldn’t promise her life was going to be easy. But I did promise her that I would send her the number of dollars of her birthdays. She would probably think of me as lame or cheap. I didn’t care.
Today is my 33rd birthday. I got my money from my grandmother. The only people who wished me happy birthday were all the adult porn sites I belong too. It was precious.
Every birthday since I was born my grandmother gives me the amount I am in dollars. It’s sweet. I look forward to it like getting my tax refund. When I was a kid I used the money to boy candy or something. Now I use the money to buy weed. I got a picture taken of me to remember I was fat ass baby.
Every birthday since I was eight years old I do the same routine. I wake up and look in the mirror. I thoroughly examine my body. I look for specific changes. I check to see if my dick got bigger. It still hasn’t. I check to see if my arms are strong by doing the number of push-ups of my age. It was easier when I was twenty but now that I’m thirty something and often hung-over, not so easy. I might just throw up doing my sit-ups. I take a picture of myself.
Every birthday since I was thirteen years old I try to masturbate my age in twenty four hours. Honestly, I stopped that insanity that birthday. I couldn’t piss for two days. I thought my dick was going to fall off it hurt so bad. I take a picture of myself.
Every birthday since I was sixteen I get myself a new outfit. I get new shoes, socks, underwear, pants and shirt. I guess I wanted to feel new again. Or I was still trying to scrub that gooey pussy juice off my body from my mama. I take a picture of myself.
Every birthday since I was twenty one years old I’d get prissy drunk. I mean fall down on your ass --piss on yourself drunk. I mean I hope I make it home drunk. I’m talking angrily eating a sloppy burger like David Hasselfoff on the living room floor drunk. I take a picture of myself.
Every birthday since I was twenty two years old I find myself in AA.
Every birthday since I was twenty five years I find myself unemployed. When I light the candle on my birthday cake, I usually wish for a job.
A lot of things changed when I turned twenty seven years old. I guess I forgot the beauty of a birthday. Birthdays seemed to be arsenal for motherfuckers who weren’t doing enough for me. Those who forgot. Grandma never forgets because I still get that money. I’ve had lovers who didn’t remember until a week or even a month later. My friends because we all live in different cities now after college usually call just so that I can call them on their birthday. It’s like an unspoken agreement. My friend Sha once forgot to call me on my birthday and I never called her on her birthday again. It’s been like five years.
Birthdays for me seemed to become spiteful. I always know somehow or someway somebody is going to fuck it up for me. I know I’m going to get one of those stupid cards that I’m over the hill. I know I’m supposed to laugh but I usually feel like spitting in their face. I can still give one hell of a tantrum that could rival any two-year old or a coked up Naomi Campbell. I stopped getting laid on my birthday. I got into a committed relationship. He doesn’t like it when I drink. I don’t like it when he complains about my drinking. The night usually ends with an argument or maybe the cops.
When I turned thirty years old my sister had a baby. It was a girl. My sister changed overnight. I would’ve once petitioned for that crazy crackhead to never have kids. But when she found out she was pregnant it really changed her life. She got sober. She stayed sober. It was like she found what she had been looking for her entire life and that was to be a mother. I held my niece “Blessing” in my arms. I first thought my sister naming her child some arbitrary name was too ghetto Hollywood. I guess it was better than naming her Mercedes or Lexus like some ghetto mothers do like they are putting together a Christmas list. Or naming your child Denim. For my sister naming her child “Blessing” is what she was feeling at the moment. The child’s middle name is Natalie. I decided I would call her “big head.”
Holding blessing in my arms on the day of her birthday, I couldn’t help but understand what I meant by Happy birthday. It was a blessing. I sung her Happy Birthday, the black Steven Wonders version. I knew I meant that I was welcoming her to the world. I knew I meant I was happy she was now part of it. I knew what I told her happy birthday for the rest of her life I’d remember the day she was born and it was such a happy day. I couldn’t promise her life was going to be easy. But I did promise her that I would send her the number of dollars of her birthdays. She would probably think of me as lame or cheap. I didn’t care.
Today is my 33rd birthday. I got my money from my grandmother. The only people who wished me happy birthday were all the adult porn sites I belong too. It was precious.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
It looked like Mama had got into the crack again. She was warned not to mix street drugs with her antidepressants. She got all crazy chasing kids and pissing on people’s porches. I guess she thought it was Halloween. But what was more amazing was how put together was her cow outfit. I wondered if she made it herself. I wondered if she watched a Martha Stewart episode and sewed it together. I blame Martha Stewart. I always blame Martha Stewart. I wonder if the cow suit was a rental. I mean it was suspiciously well put together. I’m sure at the nearest mental ward she would’ve won the costume contest. I also wondered if it was a rental and if she could get back her deposit.
I try to think what the hell must’ve been going through her mind. Did she check to see if the cow tits were in the right place? Did she pose in the mirror smiling at her milky exposure? Did she just decide that day she wanted to lose her mind.? I’ve had those days. But it didn’t seem like something that was spontaneous. It seemed planned for weeks. The bitch wanted to make the papers. She wanted me to write this blog about her. She wanted me to worship her for the rest of my life. I don’t know too many crazy people that would go to so much detail to prove they are damn crazy.
Mama next time calls me. You can wear your cow outfit and I will wear my purple rain assless chaps and we will party like it’s 1999.
I was here.
I find having a blog is like writing my number on a public toilet bathroom wall and hoping somebody calls me. What if nobody ever calls? Does anybody ever call those numbers? And what kind of freaky bastard will call?
Having a blog is like checking my messages to see if someone called me about a job. I questioned if someone believed my resume of lies. Will they give me money? And for how long?
Having a blog is like checking my comment page at five in the morning drunk to see if anyone likes me. It’s like Valentine’s day back in elementary. Usuallly the comments I get are like “you need to be institutionalized” or “please take you meds” or “this is Bank of America and we’re contacting you about a debt, please call us.” Those damn debt collectors are relentless. Don’t they get it by now, I’m never paying them.
So I was thinking as I posted comments on people pages I didn’t know, why people write on gas station bathroom walls in middle of Nowhere, Texas with a ballpoint pen, “I was here.” Did the person forget? And who carries the specific permanent marker for such graffiti: maybe a John Doe that’s afraid no one will miss him if he’s abducted by aliens. I think it’s because people just like to see themselves. Sometimes I comment on certain blogs just to see if that person will post it. They usually don’t.
The need to say “I was here” is as old as slavery. I was trapped on a toilet in the middle of Nowhere, Texas. I had some bad tuna and it desperately wanted out. On the toilet, I was in vertical birthing position so that my booty hole could aim correctly. And in that awkward Yoga move between explosive convulsions, my eyes wondered especially focus on the cracks of the bathroom stale hoping nobody came in like a relative or ex-lover or current lover or the newspaper or news team with cameras. As I cautiously watch the bathroom door, I couldn’t help but read the messages. Somebody was looking for a dick sucking around 5 in the evening on Sunday and left their phone number. Somebody didn’t like a certain gang. Somebody wanted to get fucked with an umbrella. And then it’s that ubiquitous, “I was here, 6-17-1997.” You suddenly feel not so alone that somebody was there in the same position. I just wanted the diarrhea to be over and try to get away with it
As I tiptoed out of the men’s bathroom hoping no one will follow me because it would dangerous. The stench I left behind like an aborted baby was strong enough that I was afraid it might be a misdemeanor. They got all kind of crazy laws in Texas.
A man walked in the bathroom right after me. He yelled at me “Man you need to get some fucking help!” I smiled coyly and said that wasn't. I ran for the nearest exit hoping to never see that bastard again.
Having a blog is like checking my messages to see if someone called me about a job. I questioned if someone believed my resume of lies. Will they give me money? And for how long?
Having a blog is like checking my comment page at five in the morning drunk to see if anyone likes me. It’s like Valentine’s day back in elementary. Usuallly the comments I get are like “you need to be institutionalized” or “please take you meds” or “this is Bank of America and we’re contacting you about a debt, please call us.” Those damn debt collectors are relentless. Don’t they get it by now, I’m never paying them.
So I was thinking as I posted comments on people pages I didn’t know, why people write on gas station bathroom walls in middle of Nowhere, Texas with a ballpoint pen, “I was here.” Did the person forget? And who carries the specific permanent marker for such graffiti: maybe a John Doe that’s afraid no one will miss him if he’s abducted by aliens. I think it’s because people just like to see themselves. Sometimes I comment on certain blogs just to see if that person will post it. They usually don’t.
The need to say “I was here” is as old as slavery. I was trapped on a toilet in the middle of Nowhere, Texas. I had some bad tuna and it desperately wanted out. On the toilet, I was in vertical birthing position so that my booty hole could aim correctly. And in that awkward Yoga move between explosive convulsions, my eyes wondered especially focus on the cracks of the bathroom stale hoping nobody came in like a relative or ex-lover or current lover or the newspaper or news team with cameras. As I cautiously watch the bathroom door, I couldn’t help but read the messages. Somebody was looking for a dick sucking around 5 in the evening on Sunday and left their phone number. Somebody didn’t like a certain gang. Somebody wanted to get fucked with an umbrella. And then it’s that ubiquitous, “I was here, 6-17-1997.” You suddenly feel not so alone that somebody was there in the same position. I just wanted the diarrhea to be over and try to get away with it
As I tiptoed out of the men’s bathroom hoping no one will follow me because it would dangerous. The stench I left behind like an aborted baby was strong enough that I was afraid it might be a misdemeanor. They got all kind of crazy laws in Texas.
A man walked in the bathroom right after me. He yelled at me “Man you need to get some fucking help!” I smiled coyly and said that wasn't. I ran for the nearest exit hoping to never see that bastard again.
The comeback kid
Usually I know it’s time to go back to the gym when older heterosexual women start looking at me like the witch in Hazel and Gretel. The girl at Popeye’s gives me an extra piece of chicken and biscuit as to fatten me up. The girl at the grocery store seems to hold my hand when she hands me my change because she likes the fullness in my face. I guess a fat man means safety. They assume I won’t stray. Or that I’m too fat to run without having to sit down. Why in sitcoms those really attractive women are married to really fat unattractive men? It’s a lie. It’s said the first sign that he is cheating is when he starts working out again or caring how he looks again.
It’s true. I got a Buddha booty. It’s when the stomach sticks out further than the booty. I hate starting over. And the gym never changes. I still feel like I’m in middle school. Those damn desk attendants and trainers feel like belligerent coaches judging my physical weakness. I throw like a girl. I can’t lift more than ten pounds. I don’t want one of those prison bodies. I want a Tarzan of the Jungle body like I’ve been swinging from trees. Yet, I have my father’s hips and my mama’s thighs.
Every time I go back to the gym I have to buy a new combination lock. I can’t never seem to remember the numbers, or if I should turn the knob to the right or left. So too many times because I don’t want to pay the fifty dollars it costs to have them break the damn thing, I place my ear firmly again the lock and try to see if I can break the code. I’m usually successful. I’m like some fat cat burglar.
At the gym I never feel l know what I’m doing. Everybody seems so serious about it. I’m afraid that I look like one of those chubby losers sweating like they just overdose on sugar donuts running on the treadmill. I afraid they others look at me like I should just give it up and that I’m ever going to be skinny. I chew on a king size snickers bar because it tastes better than those sports bar. I try to suck in my stomach but it makes my back hurt. Damnit I just want to be skinny. I just want to look good in a jock strap.
How do those white girls in Hollywood do it? I think I am bulimic. The problem is I can binge on the food but never throw it back up. I’m scared that like if I ate a large pizza and threw it back up I just might stick my head in the toilet bowl and try to recover that piece of pepperoni. It’s like a dog eating its own vomit. I do drink that much. I wasting food. Kids in Africa are starving.
It’s true. I got a Buddha booty. It’s when the stomach sticks out further than the booty. I hate starting over. And the gym never changes. I still feel like I’m in middle school. Those damn desk attendants and trainers feel like belligerent coaches judging my physical weakness. I throw like a girl. I can’t lift more than ten pounds. I don’t want one of those prison bodies. I want a Tarzan of the Jungle body like I’ve been swinging from trees. Yet, I have my father’s hips and my mama’s thighs.
Every time I go back to the gym I have to buy a new combination lock. I can’t never seem to remember the numbers, or if I should turn the knob to the right or left. So too many times because I don’t want to pay the fifty dollars it costs to have them break the damn thing, I place my ear firmly again the lock and try to see if I can break the code. I’m usually successful. I’m like some fat cat burglar.
At the gym I never feel l know what I’m doing. Everybody seems so serious about it. I’m afraid that I look like one of those chubby losers sweating like they just overdose on sugar donuts running on the treadmill. I afraid they others look at me like I should just give it up and that I’m ever going to be skinny. I chew on a king size snickers bar because it tastes better than those sports bar. I try to suck in my stomach but it makes my back hurt. Damnit I just want to be skinny. I just want to look good in a jock strap.
How do those white girls in Hollywood do it? I think I am bulimic. The problem is I can binge on the food but never throw it back up. I’m scared that like if I ate a large pizza and threw it back up I just might stick my head in the toilet bowl and try to recover that piece of pepperoni. It’s like a dog eating its own vomit. I do drink that much. I wasting food. Kids in Africa are starving.
“Don’t you know they shoot alcoholics down there?”
I was up one late night eating powder donuts and drinking tequila watching the movie “Mama Dearest” My first memory is that of wire hangers. My mama beat me with one because I took off my diaper and got shit everywhere. I was destined to be a Diva. In the movie Joan Crawford husband tells her, “When you were young and getting liquor up it was sexy. Now that you are old, you are just a drunk.” His words cut me like a knife. I just knew he was talking about me. It was mama beating me with the wire hanger all over again because I’d gotten shit all over my life. Babies and puppies are only cute when they are clean and not pissy or shitting over everything. Drunks are only cute when they are slutty easy college girls.
One of my good friends is obsessed with the A&E show “Intervention” It’s like how criminals are obsessed with the show Cops. It’s because some people are train wrecks that just need to be watched. I think he watches either to get tips of becoming a better addict or not to get caught. I just think Interventions are just rude.
Am I an alcoholic? I guess every addict asks that question. It’s like how my sister talks about girls who are more overweight than her like “she know she shouldn’t be wearing that.” In fact my sister once tried to pull off a cabwoman’s suit at size 22. She asked me if she looked fat. I replied do I drink too much. She said I didn’t. I told her she wasn’t fat. We were both happy for the time being. It’s like my life is fucked up but at least the children in Africa are still starving. Somebody is always worse. But when do you know that you’re at the end of pudding cup.
I think I watch that show Intervention because it’s like I’m not that damn gone. It’s like watching the show Cops and thinking you’re smarter than those idiots. I know not to run or hide in a dog house in the back yard when the cops are chasing me. I know I can’t outrun a police chase in a 1988 Ford Escort. Then again, I’ve never been in that situation. I’m sure it would cross my mind. \
And addicts are vain people. It’s like a sex tape. Nobody looks as good naked as those people in porn. It’s all in the lighting. It’s all faking. It’s all in the editing. It’s like why did David Hasselfhoff allow himself to be taped eating a hamburger. Did he think he was doing a Wendy’s commercial? I guess that’s why I’m an angry drunk. If I see a camera I’m breaking it like it’s the paparazzi and I’m Kanye West. I don’t want no damn evidence getting out. And I’m sure nobody wants to see my sex tapes. I’m terrible in bed.
On that show intervention, addicts, they love documenting their self destruction. It’s like a competition but nobody dies. I stopped going to AA meetings because I felt like a lightweight considering the hardcore drunks testimonies. There was one AA meeting where a man was pissing on himself in a corner. I guess the ghetto AA meeting are a little more hardcore. The gay AA meetings are more coherent have better bathrooms. It’s like the same drunks you see in a club but there’s no disco music. I never had the DT. I wasn’t hospitalized for “wet brain.” I had no desire to drink Listerine just because it had some alcohol. Some even drank shoe polish or rubbing alcohol. There was this one older man about eight five years old in a wheel chair and oxygen tank. He said he drank seventy years of his life. He said he’d been hospitalized so many times he stopped counting. I felt some comfort because I figured I had at least a good sixty years of drinking before the shit hits the fan.
Black people don’t go to rehab; they go to jail and then find Jesus. DMX is not in rehab. Tupac didn’t go to Rehab. Rick James went to jail.
One of my good friends is obsessed with the A&E show “Intervention” It’s like how criminals are obsessed with the show Cops. It’s because some people are train wrecks that just need to be watched. I think he watches either to get tips of becoming a better addict or not to get caught. I just think Interventions are just rude.
Am I an alcoholic? I guess every addict asks that question. It’s like how my sister talks about girls who are more overweight than her like “she know she shouldn’t be wearing that.” In fact my sister once tried to pull off a cabwoman’s suit at size 22. She asked me if she looked fat. I replied do I drink too much. She said I didn’t. I told her she wasn’t fat. We were both happy for the time being. It’s like my life is fucked up but at least the children in Africa are still starving. Somebody is always worse. But when do you know that you’re at the end of pudding cup.
I think I watch that show Intervention because it’s like I’m not that damn gone. It’s like watching the show Cops and thinking you’re smarter than those idiots. I know not to run or hide in a dog house in the back yard when the cops are chasing me. I know I can’t outrun a police chase in a 1988 Ford Escort. Then again, I’ve never been in that situation. I’m sure it would cross my mind. \
And addicts are vain people. It’s like a sex tape. Nobody looks as good naked as those people in porn. It’s all in the lighting. It’s all faking. It’s all in the editing. It’s like why did David Hasselfhoff allow himself to be taped eating a hamburger. Did he think he was doing a Wendy’s commercial? I guess that’s why I’m an angry drunk. If I see a camera I’m breaking it like it’s the paparazzi and I’m Kanye West. I don’t want no damn evidence getting out. And I’m sure nobody wants to see my sex tapes. I’m terrible in bed.
On that show intervention, addicts, they love documenting their self destruction. It’s like a competition but nobody dies. I stopped going to AA meetings because I felt like a lightweight considering the hardcore drunks testimonies. There was one AA meeting where a man was pissing on himself in a corner. I guess the ghetto AA meeting are a little more hardcore. The gay AA meetings are more coherent have better bathrooms. It’s like the same drunks you see in a club but there’s no disco music. I never had the DT. I wasn’t hospitalized for “wet brain.” I had no desire to drink Listerine just because it had some alcohol. Some even drank shoe polish or rubbing alcohol. There was this one older man about eight five years old in a wheel chair and oxygen tank. He said he drank seventy years of his life. He said he’d been hospitalized so many times he stopped counting. I felt some comfort because I figured I had at least a good sixty years of drinking before the shit hits the fan.
Black people don’t go to rehab; they go to jail and then find Jesus. DMX is not in rehab. Tupac didn’t go to Rehab. Rick James went to jail.
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