Lazy Cheap Fat Bastard

where do you buy a playboy

2011-12-09T11:58:00.001-08:00

I am gay. so gay! but lindsay naked, makes me want to change my mind.

Normal

2011-11-28T11:16:00.000-08:00

Mama used to say, if you aint got nothing nice to say, pay your dope dealer. I should’ve kept her dubious words to heart when I knew it had begun. The temperature dropped in the capital city. The leaves were turning an arduous orange and falling to the ground like dead weight. I was ignoring it. I had no desire to rake the change of season abortions into piles and stuff into black large bags. I knew soon it would be my birthday—which I would also ignore. Next would come Halloween. But the real scary shit was that creepy nails on the chalkboard feeling also known as the Holiday Season.

Joy to the world! ‘Tis the season to be jolly! Festive music fills the air; holiday cheer abounds. Everyone is happy at holiday time — right? Wrong.

Justin Beiber. Not a name that often comes out of my mouth. I try my best to ignore that he exists but secretly on many heavenly intoxicated nights I shamelessly admit that I fucking love to YouTube that song “Baby.” It’s so damn catchy like letting Everybody loves Raymond’s mom, Doris Roberts, suck your dick without her teeth. It can be weirdly comforting but a dangerous gateway drug into some real kinky fucked up shit.

Justin Beiber had been on my television all morning. It was the day before Thanksgiving. I wasn’t working so I was back to watching morning TV. The young lesbian was promoting a holiday album. He sounded like the chipmunks. It didn’t matter-- I knew he would sell millions of his farts. I covered my ears because I feared I might like one of the songs and feared the repercussions. Three hours later, he was still on the television, but on the “View.” I figured I watch the interview because I couldn’t find the remote. I suddenly had an interest in what Barbara Walters might ask him. It was the typical questions: “How did it feel to be a teenage rapist?” “What drug will he eventually overdose on?” “And what did he think about the Super Congress Committee failure to come up with a budget?” Ye know, the good stuff. Yet, the question that really bothered me was, “How do you stay so normal.” I found my remote. It was in my hand the entire time. I turned up the volume. The Beiber responded that it was surrounding himself with people he loved like his mother and close family members. It was a Hollywood answer, very rehearsed and smug.

It pissed me off. I just remembered I hated my family. And what was normal? Who the fuck is normal? And why would Barber Walters ask that question during the Holiday season? It is a shitty fact, nobody is “normal” especially during the Holiday Season. Matter of fact, it’s when we all realize at the how abnormal we really are, and might just have a bit of drinking problem.

I never been much of a Holiday person, mostly due to the fact I can’t stand my family. My father died during a Christmas robbery. He got shot robbing some old man. My mother abandoned her kids for drugs and never returned. I ran away at age 15 from the system aka my grandmother’s house. The best decision of my life. And they didn’t have the pamphlet in my guidance counselor office on how to deal with the holidays when you’re a runaway. I’m not normal.

It’s not like I had any great holidays in my childhood. I just remember a lot of bullying from belligerent family members. And I was gay. It was like a countdown to that awkward Uncle Fred brining his “roommate” to Christmas dinner.
Being a runaway, I learned to keep a lot of secrets.

The holiday for the last 19 years of my life had been kryptonite. I told myself this year would be different. I had been on the planet for thirty four years, I deserved a good season. I didn’t want to drink too much and Drunk dial family members I hadn’t spoken to in decades. Google holiday songs and sing them like a bag of cats being drowned in a kitchen sink at five in the morning. I didn’t want to fall asleep crying into a mirror. I didn’t want to lie.

I like many runaways, orphans and foster care kid have always felt the holidays were our childhood bullies. I didn’t want to be pitied. I didn’t want to go to other people houses and feel the pain of childhood neglect all over again. I didn’t want the resentment. I just didn’t want to lie about it anymore. I wanted love. Honest love. And to finally be grateful. Maybe this holiday season I will make a new friend and then lose him or her by the New Year.

Famous last words from the boy who kept crying suicide.

2011-06-15T13:07:00.000-07:00

How to make friends in LA: Episode 1

The dark passenger was back. Sat and lingered. The type of haunting that they say don’t exist and is over medicated. It scared me. I knew I wasn’t that strong to fight it again.

Most people New year’s resolution begins January 1st. Mine began on April’s fools day. Quit that job the voice in my head said. It was perfect. I figured everyone would think I was joking. I was in grad school ready to finish a MBA in accounting. Still failing the first step of AA, holding myself accountable.

I had decided that I wanted to be a comedian. The last time I was that drunk, I wanted to be stripper. I laughed so fucking loud at the bus stop, the homeless guy in whom I was sharing a cheap bottle of corner store liquor thought I was the crazy one. I told him, I changed my mind. I wasn’t going to kill myself. And I was going to stop paying those willing prostitutes two hundred dollars a night to yell at them how much I hated my mother.

But it was clear the dark passenger was back. Sat and lingered. The last time I ended up in the hospital from a futile attempt of slashing my arms. I just liked the healing process. And I learned, the funny thing about suicide, afterwards, anything is possible. Yet, I know with suicide there is so many times you can threatened with it before no one believes you. I say don’t fail. I say bullet to the head. No notes. Just fucking do it. Make it permanent. Because I knew if I failed again, it was not going to be as easy again to say I didn’t mean it. Nobody really wants to die. I mean really die. They just want to be able to start over.

So I decided to commit a social suicide. Walk away from everything I knew. I was happy there anymore.

So I awoke on April’s fool’s day and booked a flight to Los Angeles. I figured it was better than spending another month of my life in a psych ward until they felt I was better again. It started to feel like that I was always getting better but never cured.

I called into work that April’s fool morning, told them I wasn’t coming in, that I had booked a plane to LA to become a comedian. I told them go fuck themselves. I figured they laugh. It was a joke. I called my sister, left the same message. I packed a bag, left a check for the rent for my roommate and went to the airport.

The plan, there was no plan. I figure it out.

“But you are Blanche, you are in that wheelchair.”

2011-04-10T07:40:00.000-07:00

They say it’s your life, the first alarm. Then it goes off | like a ghetto pissed off girlfriend when I turned twenty seven years old. Disappointmen a wet Foxy Brown weave dancing |in a dry texas wenesday—neck jerking and shouting at the top of her lungs, waving her index finger in my face ending with a threatening palm against my forehead--telling me I aint shit!

Famous words to losers:

“Shit or get off the pot!”

“Move bitch, or get out the way.”

“Don’t be passive aggressive.”

“Just pull the damn trigger and shoot him in the head!”

“I am not trying to micro-mange you!

I always wondered how obese people let themselves get to looking like whales who staggered on the beach too sleep off their hangover from Vegas. I wondered if they avoided mirrors. I mean once a person gets over a hundred pound over weight an alarm must go off. But they keep eating. They eat until they are trapped in their lives. Always putting it off until tomorrow. Or maybe it was just an evil genius plans like in Comic Books. I hated superhero cartoons as a kid. I couldn’t understand why the villain could never win. They would spend the entire show plotting, get the superhero in the palm of their hands and start a monologue. My sadistic nine year old self would yell at the TV to just shoot Superman in the head. End it. Just walk up to him on a sunny day when he was dressed like Clark Kent and just shoot him in the head with a kryptonite bullet. Simple. No Sequels.
It was passive aggressiveness I understood why the villain could never win. It was passive aggressiveness why obese and addicts let their lives get so out of control. They never grabbed the bull by the horns. Or bullshit quotes like that. Passive–aggressive behavior, a personality trait, is passive, sometimes obstructionist resistance to following through with expectations in interpersonal or occupational situations. It is a personality trait marked by a pervasive pattern of negative attitudes and passive, usually disavowed resistance in interpersonal or occupational situations.
It can manifest itself as learned helplessness, procrastination, stubbornness, resentment, sullenness, or deliberate/repeated failure to accomplish requested tasks for which one is (often explicitly) responsible.

I was 34 years old, my real age. I had been thinking about making an exit from my insufferable job for over a year, but I keep telling myself after the convention or annual conference meeting or when they eventually fire me for being constantly, side-eye, deliberately late. I wanted them to do the dirty work. They never did. It was like working for the government. I didn’t want to be the bad guy. Yet, I knew my life was no longer making sense. Yet, I didn’t want to complain. The world was in a recession and I was thinking about quitting my job. I had nice things and cool gadgets and was still thinking about quitting my job. I knew I was ungrateful asshole.

I was waiting and finally my Boss gave me the ammunition I needed. The task was simple. I was to mail 353 letters. It was a project in which we had several unnecessary meetings to discuss. It was one letter; just stick it in the envelope and seal. A cockroach could’ve done it. Two days later, my boss rushes towards my desk and ask me if I had mailed the letters. I smiled confidently and told I accomplished the retarded task. Her eyes bulged. She said that I didn’t show her the envelopes; she needed to see if I put the letter in correctly. I rolled my eyes. I had been working there for almost two years, have mailed thousands of letters, and couldn’t understand her psycho spasm. She then looked me in the eyes, sorta apologizing with, and “I don’t want to micromanage you.”

My immediate thought, but you are bitch, you are micromanaging. I quit that job on my lunch break. No monologue. No explanation. I just shot her in the head. No two week notice. No passive aggressiveness.

But was I ready for real life and what real decisions bring? Was that obese person ready for that first walk around the block and not eating a whole cheesecake? Was the alcoholic ready for twenty eight days of sobriety? Was I ready to get a real life?

The Second Alarm

2011-03-25T06:11:00.001-07:00

It is important that I don’t die a fuck-up. I will redeem this empty life.—Who is Sean?

The second alarm

They say it’s your life, the first alarm. Then it goes off | like a ghetto pissed off girlfriend when I turned twenty seven years old. Disappointmen a wet Foxy Brown weave dancing |in a dry texas wenesday—neck spasming and shouting at the top of her lungs, waving her index finger in my face ending with a threatening palm against my forehead--telling me I aint shit!
Something I already knew with the overwhelming statistics. And I just hit the snooze button like blinking a thunderstorms or a child’s tantrum until nonexisgenc. Make unaccepatbale noise comaose with more liquor and weed. Figured I wake up eventually.

And For the next six years the snooze button kept going off. I just didn’t want to awake. Maybe I was lazy. Maybe I was a no good nigga drunk. My I was just an arrogant self-righteous bastard. Maybe the world needed to break me. Humble me. Then I would see. Then I would learn. My grandma would always say a hard head always made a soft ass. But the many beatings I got as a child never made me any weaker, just the opposite. I think I jus go craving for the violence. Until I woke up homeless and without a job.

Not every black male is dumb. I am just tha nigga.

Seven o’clock in the morning. I heard my sister’s voice on the answering machine. She was wishing me a happy 30th birthday. I hated her voice. I thought we weren’t speaking since I told her inssuferable existence to go to hell. She sounded like she’d been eating chedder cheese grits for days. The coarse judgement gave me a headache. She made a joke that I was probably passed out somewhere. I’d picked up the nearest thing, which was my first alarm clock and threw it at the second alarm clock. I missed. But she was wrong. They were all wrong about me. I was wrong about me. My luck was changing. It turned out I wasn’t a mental patient. I could be good. I could be just like them. I was no Linda Blair, I had learned to hold down my resistant vomit.

Getting dressed for the first day of my new life, I remember they changed the ending of The Last Laugh, a 1924 German silent film in which the doorman for a famous hotel loses his job because he’s considered too old and infirm. To avoid humiliation and rejection, he tried to conceal the fact from his friends and family, but to his shame, he was discovered. In the end, the doorman inherited a fortune and was able to dine happily at the same hotel he used to work for. The screenwriter was forced into this happy ending in order to help the film appeal to a mass audience. The intended ending, because of the cruel rejection of family and friends, the doorman hung himself after he won his fortune, leaving the family to fight like dogs over the money.

Brushing my teeth, I knew I had been once cursed with chronic unemployment, so I spent many nights watching old black and white movies. I liked the melo-drama. The night before, it was Helen Keller. I had never seen it. I found it odd like the fact I’d never seen Gone with the Wind or Casablanca. I took it as a sign. It was like I was finally catching up to the rest of the world.

I loved that movie. It was like watching my life story ignoring the fact I could see and hear, but metaphorically, given my frustration struggling to communicate or be understood. It turned out that I wasn’t a wild animal, just like Heller Keller, I was just misdiagnosed. I just needed a good consistent slapping around until my knees buckled. I just needed some stubborn teacher who wouldn’t give up on me until I communicated to the world that I understood my interpretation of water. I’d personally, would have given up on that horrible child or beaten her into a bloody pulp. But that’s life, just like Helen Keller, I just needed one person to believe in me enough to prevent my inevitable suicide. Maybe I just needed to believe the world wasn’t such a bad place of me bumpy around in its darkness and everyone around just concluding I was hopeless. I wasn’t an animal. I had hope. I could still have a happy ending.

I had been known to make a lot of mistakes, to curse out and rebel without a cause. As I washed my face, I remembered that a year ago I stared into the same mirror acting out the same scene of a young man getting ready for his interview. I wasn’t so compliant more disturbed. I remember that my first mistake that morning was having a rum and coke for breakfast. I figured it better my mood for the interview. I hated mornings. I hated interviews. It was like begging for something I didn’t want in the first place. It was my fault. A year ago, I’d waited until my back was against the wall and then I got rudely pushed off like a lynching. I was two months behind on rent and out of friends to loan me money. I’d robbed Peter so many times to pay Paul that he finally called the cops.

A year ago, I was two minutes late to the interview. I knew I wasn’t going to get the job when she commented that serious people about work usually arrived early. I wanted to give her the finger. A year ago, it seemed pointless to be polite anymore. It was obvious she was an intrasigent watchdog and I wasn’t going to win her over. Her type hated my type. I crossed my legs and the interviewer saw that I was wearing gym tube socks with penny loafers. I heard that women looked at the shoes and made judgments about men. My shoes said that I had dirty dishes in my sink, bad credit and probably a STD. I crossed my legs and immediately she wrote something down in her notes trying to look professional and not like she was wasting her time. I felt defeated. My grandmother used to call me a “Free Spirit.” I didn’t think it was a compliment. I knew she really meant that I was lazy and unemployable. She probably thought I starve and prayed I didn’t have any kids. I had no mendacity. The interviewer was obviously the OCD--Type A personality. Men look at a woman’s hair and fingernails to determine the maintenance. Her hair was designer cut from the latest magazine TV star. Her fingernails were French manicured sharp like a knife with clear polishing. It was obvious she was no fun and probably had too many rules about what she wouldn’t do in bed. The interview was short. She kept her hand over her nose the entire time like I stank of the men’s bus station bathroom. It didn’t matter that at heart I was a good guy, the type who would probably push her out the way of a bus. She only saw me as a burden, not romantic. It made me nervous and I found myself trying to discreetly sniff the air around me and remember if I put on deodorant. A year ago, I knew I wasn’t going to get the job. My luck was so bad. I’d stopped pretending like I cared but I was desperate. I was all wrong. I knew I could’ve worn a suit. I had dress socks. But I needed to rebel. I had broken all the rules of interview first impressions. The interviewer asked me why I left my old job. I told her the truth. I had originally practiced the creative differences speech, but truth was I thought I could do better. I was wrong. When the interviewer asked me if she could call my former employees for a reference, I laughed. I told her it wouldn’t be a good idea. Every job I had, I not only burned the bridge, shit I nuked the ingrates like Hiroshima where life or a kind word wouldn’t grow for at least another hundred years. I left my interview feeling like a failure. My life wasn’t a sitcom. There was no audience amused by my shenanigans. The interviewer wasn’t some paid actress. It was my pathetic life. After the interview, I was scared. I felt the bored watchdog was what wrong with the western world and probably was a Republican who voted for Bush, believed in right wing family values and watch the 700 club with Pat Roberson. She probably believed Teletubies were turning children gay. I hated her rehearsed demeanor, her thick plastic black eyeglasses to make her seem more intelligent or sophisticated, how she stressed every syllable and her frizzy bond hair. I just hated her. People like her got to rule the world. I was just a resistant slave. I wondered whom did she sell her soul. I didn’t care about impressions, materialism or making my family proud. I was comfortable with my failure. I wanted to cry after the interview but decided to get drunk instead. I knew time was running out. I was going to have to grow up fast. I worried it was too late. Sitting at the nearest bar at ten o’clock in the morning, I tried to comfort my low self-esteem by telling myself that I was going to do something special with my life one day and finally get the last laugh. I had no idea what my special thing was going to be, but the doubters like that watchdog were going to find out about it. It was going to be something big. I even expected to get my own religion and holiday.

I got the job. It was an interview with a temp agency, so I don’t know why I was so concerned because they will hire anybody.

I sat on my Ikea king size bed with the Martha Stewart comforter and polished my Banana Republic black leather lace-ups. I knew I paid a ridiculous amount of money for the shoes but I liked how women looked at me when I walked down the street like I was Michael Jackson in that Billie Jean music video. I thought about all the friends who stopped speaking to me and laughed if only they could see me now. I didn’t grow up fast enough for them. I kept borrowing money. I kept getting into trouble. I was exciting when were young and in college, but after we graduated, I suddenly became a liability. It seemed unfair. Maybe I took my role too serious. I was the “Mike, would do it. Mike would do anything.” Maybe I was too fearless, too free. I was the one for laughs. I was the one who made the memories, but I didn’t see they were just laughing at me. I thought I was the life of the party and when I was young it was sexy and suddenly after twenty five years old, I was just another drunk. I thought we be friends forever. They had other plans. Maybe I stayed at the party too long, the last to leave and got left behind. But that was a year ago, I put my on my expensive shoes and laughed if only they could see me now.

A year ago, I hated every job. I seemed to have the worse luck. I found myself a receptionist for the Minority Initiative of the Department of Education. My job was to basically answer the telephone and greet guests. The big problem was that the phone never rung and there were no guests. I was basically a seat-filler with enough silence for me to figure out how much I was wasting my life. Going to prison and being stripped naked and put in solitary confinement would’ve been better than that job because at least I would’ve known why I was being punished. I wasn’t making that much money. I calculated that I made .33 cents a second because that’s what it felt like, that I was getting paid by the second, not the hour. I thought I was going to go crazy. It felt like a waste of time, a joke. I was located at the back of a very dark hall. It was like the twilight zone.

A year ago, I kept getting fired or quitting. No surprise, I got fired from that seat-filler job. It was a slow death. At first I started coming in thirty minutes to an hour late. I started working half days. I started calling in at the last minute. I came up with every excuse in the book. In two months my apartment building supposedly burned down. My grandma died. My roommate died. I got mugged. My beloved pet dog died. I got arrested for mistaken identity. I started to look like I had the worse luck. It wasn’t until I really needed to call in that I got fired. A publisher wanted to see the first 100 pages of my book. I stayed up all night re-editing. I had to call in that day because I was just too tired. The agency wasn’t happy to hear my voice. I was stopped before I could complete my lie. I was told I had too many last minute emergencies and my help wasn’t needed anymore. I couldn’t help but laugh at the word “help” like I actually did anything helpful in the “real” world. A dead turtle could’ve done my job. I was a seat-filler. It was corporate welfare. I wasn’t surprise that I got fired. I kind of saw it coming and wondered why it took so long. I told myself I would get the last laugh when my book about a son and a father bask fishing was published and won the Nobel peace prize for saving the world and inspired the cure for cancer and AIDS. It was going to be that brilliant. Two weeks later, the publisher sent me a rejection letter. They said my words didn’t have imagination or magic. I told myself I would get the last laugh when another publisher picked up my book and it sold a trillion copies in a million countries. I was scared. I didn’t know what it was I was supposed to do with my life. All the good doors seemed closed to me. It was as if God hated me.

As I straighten my Thomas Pink tie in the mirror and then removed my gold hoop earrings, I remembered Helen Keller. I remembered the frustration of trying to fit into society. I felt cheated. It was as if I was waiting for something, something that I was promised like a FedEx package with my life in it but it’d gone missing. I wanted to be somebody, somebody cool, like be one of those people who woke up in the morning and liked their lives and not plotted suicide before lunch. I wanted to be one of those people on morning talk shows who seemed to have it all. I wanted to be a fucking Rock Star but I had no real talent. I wanted to win the lottery yet I kept forgetting to buy my ticket every week. I didn’t want to sell my soul. A year ago, I was lost.

As I gently sprayed on my Burberry cologne, I remembered that a year ago my luck was changing and I didn’t know it. I was working as a cashier at the local pharmacy because once again I had been desperate for a job I didn’t want when that watchdog from the temp agency found herself in my checkout line. Apparently she was refilling her prescription for Herpes wart crème and the pharmacist forgot to stamp the price. It was only my job to get on the intercom system and announce her full name. And when she handed me her credit card, it was my job to ask for two forms of identification and then pretend that the machine wasn’t working and that we didn’t accept checks. I made her walk to the nearest ATM machine and when she returned all sweaty and pissed, it was only my job to pretend that it was my break and she would have to find another cashier. I thought she would call the store the next day and try to have me fired. I thought she would remember me. I worked at her temp agency for almost six months. I saw in her face I was just another stranger to her in the world. She didn’t care. I was that unimportant. She didn’t even remember me.

I still got fired the next day. They were considering pressing charges. Apparently, one of the store employees squealed that I was stealing prescriptions. There was no real proof, and of course I denied it and threaten to sue them for defamation of character but when asked to take a drug test, I declined. I had to explain to my supervisor it wasn’t for the reason she thought. I had enough weed and crystal-meth in my system to set off a drug dog if we crossed paths. On the walk home after being fired from another job I never wanted in the first place, I swallowed a potpourri of anti-depressants. I told myself that when I finally checked myself into a rehab clinic and got sober and told my story of triumph on the Oprah show they would be sorry. I was going to be somebody’s hero.

I was to get the last laugh in elementary when I didn’t get the lead solo in choir because Mrs. Snowflake told me I sounded like god murdering a basket full of kittens with a toothpick. I told myself I was going to grow up and be rich and famous and she’d regret her words. I was supposed to get the last laugh when my high school sweetheart left me for my best friend. I secretly knew that he was addicted to steroids and hoped he’d get violent and beat her. I told myself I would get the last laugh when NYU rejected my college application. I told myself I would get the last laugh when my family didn’t bail me out of jail that time for my third public intoxication arrest.

A year ago, I had decided that maybe they were all right. I was a loser. I saw my future, me begging on the streets, and that watchdog from the temp agency shoving a couple of nickels in my dirty hands and me chunking them back at her because I was still waiting to get the last laugh. I was still waiting to prove the world wrong. But then a calm ease came over me when I was at McDonalds spending my last five dollars on a double quarter and fries. A homeless man walked in, took out his shame and started pissing on the floor. It was the greatest moment of my life because he just didn’t give a damn. And seeing the horrified faces of the customers, and the manager rushing from the back with a broom screaming bloody Mary, the homeless guy just laughed and then started cursing at the manger as he was forced out the door and thrown to the ground. The homeless guy just as nothing happened, pulled up his pants up, cursed some more, and walked away. I stood there jamming fries in my mouth, watching other people react to the madness and the employees fighting with each other who was going to clean up the piss.

The nonchalance made me think of my mother, how she left me in the hotel when I was eight years old to score her high. She never came back. I told myself that she would regret it. Drugs eventually took her life. It took her mind and body. It took her heart. She never got to regret her decision. I was never going to get my last laugh. I waited for the day she would come crawling back. I prayed for it. I figured she asked for my forgiveness and the world would be right again. My luck would be good again. I had been waiting for over twenty years. It turned out I wasn’t hopeless. I was a romantic. But like the homeless man who pissed on the floor, I was going to have to forgive her insanity and just clean it up. That was the real world. My mother wasn’t coming back to make the world right again. She didn’t even care and that’s what hurt me the most. My life wasn’t some Lifetime television show. Some people in the world never do the right thing. Watching that homeless man piss on the floor with no care in the world, I realized I was going to have to find my own happy ending or spend the rest of my life being misunderstood. I was Helen Keller. I finally understood water. It meant the beatings could stop. The teacher of life had taught me the lesson no matter how brutal.

A year ago, I knew my luck had finally changed when I got home and on the answer machine was the Temp agency. It was that same lady who I interviewed and fired me. I thought it was a joke. I returned the phone call. She didn’t even remember me. I set up another interview.

I wore my best suit. I bought expensive dress shoes. I brushed my teeth and cut my hair. I shaved my skin baby smooth. I got to the interview 15 minutes early. She seemed happy to see me. In the interview, we talked about college and Shakespeare. She didn’t even ask about my last employments. She flirted. She took off her rigid glasses and played with her frizzy blond hair. She promised to call me with a job. During the interview I wanted to tell her we’ve met before. I wanted to laugh in her face that she was so easy to please. I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to spit in her face like she had mine once before, but I didn’t. I laughed at her jokes. I flirted. I smiled pearly white teeth. I took the job she offered with much gratitude. It was that fucking easy. I finally had words which meant I could play the game.

As I sat in the interview, I knew sometimes we think we’re mad at the world and it’s really just one person. I knew that in the art house version of my life, I would’ve kept rebelling and stumbled into a deeper and darker depression of dugs and alcohol. I would’ve gotten myself killed or committed suicide. It would’ve been sad and pointless like adolescent Goth poetry. Secretly, I had always wanted the Walt Disney happy ending. I wanted the ending where I lived happily ever after, got married, moved to the suburbs, had kids, got really fat and coached a little league team. I was thirty years old, the same age as my mother the day she abandoned me in that hotel. She wasn’t coming back. It was time for me to grow up as much as it hurt. I never felt like I had a childhood. I was wrong. I had a thirty year childhood.

I remembered a year ago, after the interview with the watchdog, Lucy that was her name. I remember that she didn’t tell me her name the first time. She walked me to the elevator. She told me that we should do lunch. I told her it would be my treat. She laughed like little girls who were still happy to see their fathers or after they kissed their first boyfriend. I couldn’t believe how ruthlessly she flirted. I had become her type. And then she farted. It wasn’t a silent fart, more like a bomb had gone off in a swamp. It sounded moist and sticky. She wasn’t finished. She did it again. Her face reddened. I could feel her clutching her butt checks together holding on for dear life. I tried to pretend like I didn’t hear or smell it. I continue the conversation until the elevator doors opened. I shook her hand and told her I would call. I never called. When the elevator doors closed it was my chance to laugh, but I didn’t. It seemed childish to laugh.

Why I could never be famous.

2011-03-04T14:05:00.001-08:00

Eight grade. I played Martin Luther King at Martin Luther King middle school at our annual black history month play. With my squeaking voice, I yelled the “I have a dream speech” with gansta vigor. I got a stand ovation. It felt good. Everyone told me how good I was. Somehow the local news station wanted to do a piece on me. I hadn’t gotten that much attention since I burned down my grandmother’s house when I was seven years old. It was an accident. I was playing with matches and the curtain caught on fire. I agreed to the interview. That night, I got to see myself on television. I wasn’t impressed, neither was any member of my family. My family consisted of a bunch of criminals, so any attention brought to my last name usually brought cops with it.
The next day at school, Suddenly I was on everyone’s radar. I would walk down the hall and people who tell me how great I was. Two weeks later, it started to get on my nerves. It was just a damn speech.
I never liked attention until I started drinking. I always considered myself quiet, reserved, standoffish. I don’t usually make friends unless I have some type of agenda. I feel the need to control everything in my life. It makes me feel safe.
Fame today is not like it used to be. It’s not an easy turn on and turn off button. Fame today should be called stalking. It’s like a vampire looking for new blood. You don’t have to want it to get it anymore. You just have to do something stupid like get caught getting arrested for pissing in somebody’s front yard one drunken night. And suddenly you are on YouTube and some idiot’s blog. And people will write comments. Maybe you get a call from a has-been late night show.
I told my ex that I wanted to be a comedian. He laughed. That wasn’t a joke. He said I could never be around people in a large setting. He said the second someone didn’t laugh at my jokes I would probably throw my mic at the idiot.
I can never be famous. But I have a short temper. I am constantly putting my foot in my mouth. I have way too many naked pics of myself. I am not political. I don’t care.
Fame is like a parole office. You’re in prison and if you ever want to get out, you must play the game.
I loved it when Britney and Whitney Houston went crazy. When the pressure of being fed off by fame finally revealed its ugly head and we finally saw the starved souls. And once they were naked, people wanted more. They lights got brighter. It wasn’t until they realized they were in prison that they understood the game. A fifteen year old Louisiana girl once just wanted to be a pop star. She had no idea why she would wish for something so evil. Vampires are always seductively attractive. Fame, it’s just want more blood.
But some people want it so bad, but it never wants them. Funny how fame doesn’t want desperate or obvious. It wants virgin, the unsuspecting like it needs ignorance to remain young.
I tried to be an actor when I was nineteen years old. I did a few commercials but I quit. I couldn’t stop pissing myself. I would stand in front of the camera, the director would yell “Action” I would start squirting miniscule drops of piss. It wasn’t noticeable because I sometimes wear three pair of underwear. I never understood. I was never a bed wetter. It was the fame. Me looking directly in front of the camera was like looking into the soul of a monster. It made me piss myself.
So I started drinking. Problem solved. And then I realized why lots of artists become addicts. And then it suddenly hit me. I could never be famous. Yet, I could become one hell of an alcoholic.

Don’t be yourself.

2011-01-28T12:09:00.000-08:00

Sitting on the toilet flipping through some asinine magazine I paused at the headline “Are you the type of person who lights up the room when you enter or leave? “ I chuckled. I didn’t know. I never really thought about it. I wondered if I cared. I mean, people smiled at me politely when I entered most rooms or conversations. I had no fear of being avoided. I mean, did I really care. Fuck, I flushed what was a regretful lunch. I thought, I was most likely the latter. I was an asshole before I was an asshole, then I started drinking.

Most people say be you. I say fuck that. I say be somebody else. Be somebody cool. Be a politician. Don’t drink too much in public. Agree with everything. Be a follower. Cowards live longer. We wear clothes for a reason. Die a fucking mystery.
The day before I went off to college my eldest sister decided to give me some advice she thought would help me navigate my social life a lot smoother. It was one of those “this is what’s wrong with you” conversations that are often unsolicited and never appreciated. We were sitting on her bedroom floor, sipping banana daiquiris wine-coolers, painting our toe nails whorish red and giggling like Asian school girls when she suddenly paused and got serious. Or maybe her buzz finally kicked in. She looked me directly in my eyes and boldly demanded “don’t be you.”I laughed. I questioned if she had finally reached the limits of my non-conformed masculinity as I blew the paint on my toenails dry. She said when I got to college I should be quiet for the first couple of months. I asked her why. I hadn’t really been known to be egregious. I speak if I have something to say. She said I should try to get along as if I walk through the streets bitch slapping people. That only happened once. I felt my skin go cold. She said I was awkward and made others feel awkward. I asked her was that the reason she hit me in the head with a brick when I was seven years old.

To not be myself. To not be. Maybe that had been the problem my entire life. I wondered who I could be. I like the idea of fakeness. I did want to be one of those people who everyone invited to their parties. The life of the party, not the one who gets drunk and starts insulting people. I wanted to be the person who lit up the room and put smiles on other people faces. I wanted to be that person serial killers instantly wanted to eat their flesh.

Needless to mention, I don’t have many friends. It’s a conscious decision. I get tired of losing them every year. It’s like when I meet someone, it’s just a countdown to how long I can remain sane. Most people irk the shit out of me. I usually hold it in. I don’t tell anyone the truth. I try to avoid an actual opinion on any subject. I don’t care. I can’t be myself. I’ve learned if I am happy, everyone around me is miserable.

I walked back to my desk. I suddenly wanted to test the dim switch how I walked into rooms.

I figured the new receptionist could be my experiment. After all, she was a temp and after a couple of days, I knew I wouldn’t see that bitch again.
As I approached her, I felt like I was in some horrible 80s romantic film. I wasn’t trying to fuck her or anything. I wondered how I would break the ice.

“You have that curse. “ I smiled. I repeated, “You have that curse or maybe it’s a disease.” I thought she would get the joke. Was it a joke? I mean, a curse can sometimes be a disease or monster. She looked confused, mostly annoyed. I smiled. I questioned my motive but I waited until she decided to pursue my argument. She nodded her head. I followed with “I mean, it’s not a bad thing. I guess. I don’t have it. I personally wouldn’t want it.” I created more confusion. Her face soured into a “What the fuck are you talking about you crazy bastard!”

I get that look a lot. More than often. That, “are you okay” look. The last time I was myself, my dentist tried to put me on antipsychotics.

“Don’t be mad.” I wanted to stop the sentence or backspace and delete. I felt my light go brutally black like somebody punched it with their bare fist and the blood ran to the surface and froze to die with oxygen. I told her she had that face that was welcoming. I told her that I just read some fascinating article about people who light up rooms or some bullshit like that. I told her people not only liked to greet her but tell her all their business. Like a bartender but with no drinks. I figured it was a curse. I mean she couldn’t be happy with looking so welcoming. I didn’t want a face like hers. I didn’t want complete strangers telling me about their STDs or infidelities. I thought she laugh. She didn’t. She looked around her personal space for a security guard or pepper spray. I knew she was lingering on the word “curse.” She said she was just being herself.

I felt he light dim as I walked away. Or did it get brighter.

2010-10-10T09:48:00.000-07:00

“I fucking hate everybody…”

My first awakening thought that dreadful morning. There was nothing abnormal about me refusing to open my eyes. I fantasized about sleeping myself to death-- suddenly jealous of those people who got to be comatose. I decided that I was not going to move from my bed. I was doing nothing. It was my birthday. The 34th anniversary of my bullshit existence. Life sucked. I had been just fired from a crappy temp job, my landlord abruptly informed me my lease would end at the end of the month with no chance in hell of being renewed, and I was negative broke and single.

I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to be reminded that they were heading towards death. I wasn’t a child. I knew there would be no mother trying to impress kids of mothers I never see in my adult life. I knew there would be no balloons, a cake with candles, and the forced “happy birthday” song. After, the anniversary of my birth was never really about me. It was always about everybody else but me. It was toasting to the fact I wasn’t aborted. It was about trying to impress teenagers when I was sixteen. When I was twenty one it was about alcohol poisoning. I wondered what I really celebrated everything year in October. I was no Jesus Christ. I didn’t come to save the world, probably the opposite.

My neighbor, the apartment below me hates me. She really hates me. She thinks my existence is some cruel joke to annoy her. I can’t breath without her getting upset. She thinks when I drop the remote control I do it on purpose. She thinks when I move furniture it always awakes her mid-afternoon naps. She thinks I am an alcoholic who sings really loud at inappropriate hours of the day. I give her the latter.

Funny how birthdays are not accepted by everyone. Only a certain few celebrate Hitler’s birthday but everybody gets off work on Martin Luther King’s birthday. We lie to almost every child that they are special, that their birthday is special, that is until that child grows up and proves he or she isn’t worth the placenta their casted after their birth. Life is cruel to the poor.

I didn’t realize what time it was. I had made what I thought was the adult decision not to go out. My last couple of birthdays somehow involved the cops. I thought it was safer for me to just stay home. I had had such a hard week. I’d gotten fired for no legit reason. I knew my lease was not going to be renewed. I was worried about homelessness or even worse, moving back to Texas. I just wanted to grab a bottle of rum and drink myself to sleep. I figure I pass out around midnight. I should’ve known better.

No one should drink alone. No one should drink after breakups or stock market crashes. No one should drink without bail money. It’s like asking for trouble. Life birthdays, no one gives a fuck if you got problems. All they care about is how those problems affect their own bullshit existence.

I heard talking. I heard someone yell my name followed by a knock on my door. I took my headphones off my ears. I couldn’t imagine who in the hell was calling my name. I went to the door. It was the cops. The bitch downstairs had called the cops.

“Do you know what time it is?” the police officer demanded like I was some horny teenager calling his daughter at booty call hours.
“I think it’s midnight.”
“It’s five o’clock in the morning.” I quickly looked at my hallway clock. It was five o’clock in the morning.
“Have you been drinking?” He seemed to laugh at his own question. I had been drink apparently for six hours. Time and worry had gotten away from me.
“Can I have your identification?”

I couldn’t believe that bitch from downstairs called the cops. I wondered why she didn’t come and knock on my door. She did that often. She did it when she needed a mattress carried or help with five pound bags of cat food.

“I see it’s your birthday in two days.”
“I think it is.”
“I’m not going to take you in. Just keep it down.”\
“Thank you.” I took my identification back. I suddenly felt weak in the knees. I wondered what would’ve happened if it wasn't a two days closer to my death. Going to jail on a Saturday meant horror. I wouldn’t had probably gotten out until that Tuesday. I would’ve been in jail because I existed too loud !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mr. Nice Guy

2010-09-25T19:17:00.000-07:00

Uneventful smooth jazz Sunday, I woke mid-afternoon, dick hard and STD free, surprisely sober. The sun was annoying-- creeping into my lonely apartment reminding me I had no love, lover or money. I figured I needed to get drunk. It was a no special Sunday, really a rerun like everything on television. I wanted to venture out. I needed humans around. I needed to flirt and lie about my life or maybe get lucky and get laid. I got on my laptop and started searching for drink specials. I didn’t care about the bar. I just wanted to drink as cheap as possible. I got on Google, typed in cheap drinks, dc and Sunday. I got excited when I saw one particular bar drinks were only $2 from 5-9 p.m. It was almost six. I quickly got dressed. I knew the bar was a fucking “hole in the wall.”

"I gave you a ten dollar bill and you only gave me back five dollars!"

The bartender looked at me strategically as I held the five dollars in my hand like a piss off mother who was given the wrong baby. My face quickly contorted and looked disturbed because I felt as if I gave birth to a black baby, saw it come out my pussy and was handed some white blonde child. Something ain’t right Michael Jackson!

My first instinct was to be as nice as possible as a ghetto kid can be when someone owes him money. I figured he just made a silly mistake. I smiled to say I am nice guy. And then he replied that he had given me the right change. I didn’t understand. Was he smoking crystal meth? Queue the argument.

I looked at my watch. It was only 8:05 p.m. I knew I still had an hour. I remember I ran into the same mistake with one of the bartenders upstairs. I thought he was just dumb. I corrected him and he gave me my change back, no problem. But for some reason, the downstairs bartender decided he needed an attitude.

Back story, its DC, 2010. The bar had been around for over seventy years. It used to be segregated. The blacks always went upstairs and the whites stayed downstairs. Current day, the blacks still went upstairs because the dj played urban music and downstairs was mostly pop, country and rock. The music had separated the people. Time changed a lot of sociological issues but people still acted the same like integrated high school students who sat at table with their own kind. With any type of segregations begets prejudices. The bartenders upstairs were usually black or negophiles and the bartenders downstairs were always white or Latino. Living in DC, I thought Martin Luther King’s dream look pretty in advertisements but hearts and lust hadn’t really changed that much. Most of got along but we weren’t fucking. Maybe that’s was MLK dream, to get everyone to take off their clothes and fuck each other. The bartender upstairs who I corrected was black, no problem, the bartender downstairs was white. I was young and black. He was young and white. I’d slept with enough white men to have perfect credit. I had no subconscious issues.

I figure I correct the problem. I told the bartender the paper said rail drinks were $2 until 9 p.m. He said the paper made a mistake. I told him that wasn’t my problem. He said he could give me my money back but I could no longer order anymore drinks from him. I felt that was a little harsh. It wasn’t like I was making shit up. It wasn’t like I was trying to get over the bartending system. I was right. I was fucking right. I told the asshole, I could do him one better. I wanted all my money back. He grabbed my drink violently. Angrily poured it out like rancid piss that sat in the sun for a week. He then slithered over to his cash register, yanked out a ten dollar bill and slammed it on the bar. He said I would have to leave. I replied, “No shit, Mr. Obvious.” What was I an idiot? When I asked for my money back, I wasn’t going to order another drink like putting the quarters back in a slot machine. Obviously I had been misinformed. And if it wasn’t a Sunday and I had bail money, the conversation would've turned physcial. I gently took my money off the bar. I smiled and put it back in my pocker and gave him the middle finger. I grabbed my dick and raised deuces to the air.

I still had money to spend and there was another bar across the street. I hoped the kept their promise.

As a kid, anything someone would ask me, I’d do it. If they asked me to remove my designer sport shoes and give them to them, I would do it. Of course I was probably being robbed, but I still did it. If some stranger about to get arrested on a public bus asked me to hold on to their drugs and deliver them to such and such address, I’d do it. Of course, my aunt would find out, yell at me, tell me to give it to her, and then smoke it. I still did it. I was what my cousin growing up called a “flunkey.” I was a doormat. A natural pacifist but in the ghetto aka “punk bitch.” I never liked to fight. I often cried at a drop of a fist. It bothered me. Until one day I said “no.” I turned fifteen years old, a month away from running away from home for good. My grandmother asked me to go to the store and pick up her weekly stash of beer, cigarettes and KY jelly. She went through a lot of KY jelly. I didn’t ask questions. And I said, “No.” She slapped the shit out of me, pointed a gun towards my head, and I still said “no.” I wasn’t going to do it. The public school system told me smoking was bad and I wasn’t going to support her habit any longer. I wasn’t going to buy her beer anymore. I wasn’t going to pick up tampons for my aunt anymore. I wasn’t going to do shit. The gun pressed against my head, I just walked away. I felt the nice guy in me that day took the bullet. I watched him die. I laughed because in the end nobody ever remembers all the years he slaved to be nice and one time, it only took one time before they turned on him. And that was life.

I had gone to that bar seven years, no complaints. Always tipped. Always smiled. Followed the rules. And then some asshole came and changed the rules. I could’ve ignored it, but I said “no.”

Twenty minutes later at the bar across the street, no problem. They had the same drink special but vodka rail only. The crowd was old refugee AA runaways, but I didn’t care. The bartender wasn’t an asshole. I was walking to the bathroom when I found a wallet on the ground. I immediately picked it up. I looked through it. I And suddenly I became aware that I was black. I could’ve gone over to the bar and handed them the wallet. That would be what a nice guy would do. But I knew he probably thought I’d pick-pocketed it or something worse. I’ve been accused of that once also. I could’ve found the guy and gave it back. It would’ve meant nothing to him. He would’ve said thank you or and forgot about it. Or I knew I could just keep it. Or throw it in the trash.

I gave him the wallet back. I told him I found it on the bathroom floor. I took twenty dollars as my finder’s fee like any insurance. I watched him look in his wallet, count the money first instead of caring about his credit cards, metro pass and i.d. I smiled. I wanted him to say something like there’s twenty dollars of the 240 dollars missing. Instead, he said thank you and walked away. I snuck back in the bar across the street. Went upstairs with the unofficial segregated black area, because the white guy who just lost his entire identity was buying my next three drinks. I was still a nice guy. Everything was once again right with the world.

The art of looking busy.

2010-09-13T12:30:00.001-07:00

Keep opening and closing a filing cabinet. Take files and walk around. Don’t do it more than four times in the morning and three times in the evening. Somebody might ask you if you’re lost. Don’t file your pencils but keep rearranging your desk. Every once in awhile click on your keyboard. Out of the blue, ask someone if they have seen your favorite pen. Make an excuse to go to the supply closet. Just keep getting out of your sit albeit bathroom or smoking breaks. Stare intensely at you computer for at least half an hour. Open blank computer document and type “I am bored” as fast as you can until you reach the end of the page and start it over again. Then type “I fucking hate my life!” The sound of a keyboard clicking makes the Boss think you are a go-getter. Make sure to always be ready to press “ctrl A” and delete, quickly, if anyone walks by.

Like most mornings, the alarm clock reminds me of a life gone terribly wrong.
Not criminal, just annoying. Some wake up and life is productive. I have no kids. I have no real responsibility. I mostly pretend to be busy or important or somebody. I am on corporate welfare. And there is always the fear they eventually going to figure out I do nothing and stop my checks.

There is an art to looking busy. It’s clever and merticoulsy crafted, mostly personality and ass kissing. It’s rehearsed politiness and hollow compliments. Bullshit can get you really far in corporate America. I wake up and I tell myself to always remember to smile. Always remember to say good morning or afternoon or evening. I tell myself to always have a rehearsed joke at my disposal that I practiced in front of a mirror. I remember co-workers birthdays. I pretend to be excited about their anniversaries and children graduations. Anything to throw them off the scent. I always remember to smile. I always remember to giggle at jokes that aren’t funny. I play my part.

The week before I stood in the food stamp line. I wore my worse tennis shoes, raggedy jeans and a suspiciously stained t-shirt. I didn’t brush my teeth, comb my hair or take a bath. I wanted to look and smell the part as much as possible. I wanted to look as if I was starving. I wanted pity. It was welfare after all. I couldn’t wear a Brooks Brother suit. It isn’t just the “need” but often the illusion of “need.” That’s why there are hardly any homeless Asians. The “fat” homeless probably get lesser donations that the homeless who look like their starving. Its human nature I guess to either be conned or discriminate. Always smile. Always say god will bless you. Always make your hand tremble when you’re begging. It’s Hollywood. We all want to feel six degrees from being somebody or better than somebody else. We always want to feel as if we are the only ones that will get into heaven.

I got to the food stamp office as early as possible. I wanted to get in and out. I stood in line for thirty minutes just to get a number to be called. I was 112 and there were only on 27. I knew it would take an entire workday with no lunch breaks. I took my sit and tried to blank my brain. I couldn’t deny I was out of money and desperately needed some sign of hope for ever eating again.

I was a receptionist once. My job was basically to say good morning and good night, 532 times each a day. It almost drove me crazy like a leaking water facet. I realized it was the silence that probably drove people crazy. It’s not that no one was around, we never connected. My job was to greet them. My job was to make them feel as if they were something special. My job basically was a distraction. They probably hated their job but if someone was paid to care, to tell them good morning or a stupid store bought joke, for a second that college was worth it. The daily annoying irony. I also attended college. It just took me a very long time to kiss ass aka “network.”

The first couple of hours at the food-stamp office weren’t so bad. I was able to surrender to a good meditation until Maria arrived with her four kids under the age of five. The oldest had to be at least seven years old. I guess she was supposed to supervise the younger siblings, a boy around age 4 and his sister around age 3. Maria nursed her infant as her kids ran wild. I was pissed and a little judgmental. I was also jealous. It was obvious she was a shoe-in for food stamps. I made a joke to the girl sitting next to me. I told her that Maria should forget about her kids going to college but instead save up bail and abortion money. The girl next to me laughed. I didn’t. Maria kids were wild. They ran up to people unattended. The fought with each other like a cat and dog. And Maria the entire time sat there and did nothing. They were already getting a reputation. But why was I being judgmental in the food stamp office. I knew I was once those kids. No real boundaries. Always in somebody’s system. I call them “system” kids be it foster care, food stamps, juvenile centers, SSI and Social Security. It seemed my entire life I somehow have been begging. Of course I would grow up to beg.

I got fired from my receptionist job. I apparently didn’t smile enough. I apparently didn’t look busy enough. One of the employees didn’t like for whatever the reason so he made sure I wouldn’t stick around. I figured, apparently I couldn’t be a good clapping monkey. It sort of hurt my feelings.

As I walked home from a job I really didn’t want in the first place, I remembered those kids. Was I just unaware how others were judging me? Was I at thirty two years old running wild with no supervision?

Interview questions and lies

2010-06-23T00:00:00.000-07:00

I remember when interviews were about finding the best candidate, now it seems it’s about eliminating the weakest link. Any mistake in the 2010 recession is an automatic dismissal. It seems very confrontational now. I was reading something sent to me via Spam mail about the 7 worse things an interviewer can do in an interview. I thought it was mostly bullshit and needed to respond.

1. Smells: Too Much of a Good Smell Can Be Bad
Pat Riley, author of Secrets of Breaking into Pharmaceutical Sales, has a pet peeve story to relate: "Preparing for an interview is not like preparing for a date. I had one interview with a woman who doused herself with perfume (the same perfume my ex-girlfriend used to wear) right before stepping into the small interview booth. The perfume was overpowering and brought back bad memories."

The truth: any smell of his ex-girlfriend might have turned the bastard off. Maybe that’s why she dumped his trifling ass. I mean, what pervert goes around smelling women in an interview. I don’t like ppl who bath in their ailment, but smelling fresh is a good thing. And interviews are like dates. It’s an audition. You want to get that person in bed for the next year. So that advice was clearly bullshit.

2. Communication: Too Little Leaves Interviewers Exasperated
"My No. 1 interviewing pet peeve is an applicant who won't talk,” says Steve Jones, a manager of client services at a software company in Dallas. “I try to ask open-ended questions and prod them for longer answers, but no luck. I've even mentioned to a few that I need more information so I can get an idea of where they're coming from -- still no luck. I always end the interview saying, ‘Now it's your turn to ask questions,' and still no luck. They don't have any. Oh well -- next!"”
Jones advises job seekers to come prepared to answer questions and talk about you.

That is such bullshit. What they want is for you to kiss their ass. They want for you to play up a minority status in most cases. If you are a woman, a sentence less than three is talking to less cuz women like to talk. If you were black, direct answers seem militant. If you were Latino, they want to not really understand you but like your go-getter attitude.

3. Communication: Too Much Can Be Too Much
"Candidates who ramble are the ones who get to me," says Dotti Bousquet of Resource Group Staffing in West Hartford, Connecticut. “I was interviewing a candidate and asked her one question. The candidate talked and talked and talked for 45 minutes straight. I was unable to stop her. I had to say, ‘Let's wrap this up,' and I stood up while she continued to talk. I walked to the door of the office and opened it. She left, but continued to talk while walking out the door."

The lesson? “Candidates should stay focused, and answer the question asked -- in less than two to three minutes," advises Bousquet.

Funny, go back to question 2, and see how this article could confuse any monkey. In interviews, scripted answers are seen as cold or too rehearsed. It’s such a contradiction. There is no good way or wrong way to answer a question. The person either likes you or not. Too much power and personal bullshit is given to interviewers.

4. Lack of Focus: Results in Losing the Interviewer
"Typically, candidates are simply too intimidated by the process," says Mark Fulop, project director for a large nonprofit agency. "Relating the answer given to one question back with another -- and asking clarifying or follow-up questions -- shows me that the candidate is confident and thinking about the whole picture instead of enduring an interrogation.

Some interviewers are just fucking boring. I mean, it’s like talking to an ant stuck on the wall and doesn’t know it’s about to die. You want to keep it alive, but you think to yourself, what’s the point. It turns to desperation when you realize the interviewer doesn’t like you. It’s evident in the first handshake and eye roll. You can't be their baby daddy.

5. Averting Your Eyes: One Way to Avert an Offer
Incorrect nonverbal communication is a turnoff for many interviewers. People who do not make any eye contact during the entire interview irritate Gwen Sobiech, an agency recruiter in West Hartford, Connecticut. “I realize some people are shy, but to never look at me once -- they look down, around, everywhere -- but not at me for the entire interview," she says. "I find that extremely annoying. I also tend to distrust someone who will not look at me when I've asked a question."
If you are uncomfortable looking into someone's eyes, look at his third eye, just above and between the person's two eyes.

I admit, I hate looking at people. I hate looking at them cuz I’m taking them apart. I can’t focus. I am focusing on that crusted snot in their nose. Or that crust at the corner of their mouths.

6. Slang and Street Speak: Leave Them on the Street. "Poor communications skills really get to me," says Robert Fodge of Power Brokers in Dover, Delaware. "What I mean by this is not merely their language fluency, but more about the use of language. Slang words and street speak just don't have a place in most business environments. Also, candidates who say 'um,' 'like' and 'uh' between every other word lose my attention very quickly."

That just means, don’t act black. Don’t act black. Don’t act black. Don’t act black.

7. Deception: Little Lies Leave a Big Impression
One major complaint among recruiters is when a candidate is not completely truthful; small lies are all too common in the world of recruitment. This includes not being completely forthcoming with relevant information, embellishing accomplishments, hiding jobs or leading the process on with no intention of ever following through. Building trust during the interview is key to getting an offer.

I say, know your lies and know them well. Your interview should be about a short story of the lies you are about to tell. You must know that character like accepting an Oscar.

Kitten Wearing A Tiny Hat OMG Cat

2010-06-21T10:51:00.000-07:00

Audition

2010-06-01T19:03:00.000-07:00

Audition

“I am going to be somebody. I am going to make it!” the lost soul screams at the camera after the harsh judges tell them they have no real talent. They curse. They disagree, vehemently. I sit at home sipping on my rum and coke laughing. I am watching American Idol season whatever and it’s so fucking entertaining to see people get their dreams crushed. I don’t know why. We all think we are special but we aren’t. It’s like none of us ever attended public schooling.

They say don’t think about it. But who is they? They say be yourself. I say bullshit. On that naked stage with the sun in a strobe light pulsating your face --you say to yourself it’s your turn. “You!” that’s the audition. You are only selling “you?” But who the fuck are you? You are standing in the sun and there is no way of hiding your flaws. God made you, now the creation must be judged.

The only person that ever discovered me was my mama when she took that pregnancy test. And there I was, piss on a stick staring back at a mortified 17 year old.
It wasn’t magic. I couldn’t sing, act or do anything but scare the shit out of her.

It seems in life we are always auditioning. Dating. Interviewing. Applying for an apartment. Trying to belong. Some call it love. Others call it peer pressure. The church people call it getting into heaven.

But what if it doesn’t want you?

I was trying to get laid. I came in tow with all my best lines. I brushed my teeth and flirted my ass off. I even bought the bitch a drink. I really wanted that piece of ass. Yet, there was nothing I could do to convince that person to come home with me. I smiled. I told cute jokes. Nothing. It wasn’t like the person was just an asshole or felt I was ugly or not good enough. I wasn’t the one.

I wasn’t the one. I wasn’t what he or she decided he or she deserved. I was just some asshole who couldn’t deal with rejection. But I did get some really great advice. The person told me, when someone likes you, you can shit on yourself and they would forgive it.

Yet, I have never been the type to take rejection well. I rather be delusional.

Flash adjacently to Steven King’s “Misery”, three o’clock in the morning after finishing a liter of Bacardi clear rum and sniffing Xanax. The world can change if it wants me or not. So Flash back to the beginning of this particular rant, “I am going to be somebody” even if I have to skin Simon Cowell and wear him as a belt.

I don’t audition. I hold hostage.

Have you seen the green frog?

2010-05-24T10:40:00.000-07:00

“Are you okay?” I get that question more than normal. I never really understood what it meant. It is like “am I on fire motherfucker.” I guess I some days I have that look like a sexual transmitted disease. That something just ain’t right about that boy and it needs to be checked out by a certified doctor, priest and some scientists

It was a very hot July. I was working some dumb temp job for the summer. Everybody in that room were fucking losers. Some girl was getting evicted from her apartment and complained about it every day. Another barely eighteen year old high school dropout was pregnant again with her third child and couldn’t figure out how to tell her boyfriend who was about to be sentenced for aggravated assault and robbery. I told her to tell him at the trail when they have his violent ass in handcuffs. A white guy was there, no story, just liquor in his coffee cups. An older Asian lady who didn’t speak English but somehow understand the joke I made about her being a crack head. She was the most suspicious, my only evidence and argument about her hourly bathroom breaks where she went shaking but came back suddenly refresh and too much damn energy. And the second to last was the church lady. Her only concern was raising money for some new preacher she found on the internet. I consciously ignored her most cuz I didn’t want to buy her crappy cupcakes, homemade jewelry or tickets to a gospel revival. And then there was me. The good news, I was working. I had big plans for my life to turn it all around, again. I figured god gives an idiot as many chances as it takes. I was fucking retarded. We all got the job through a temp agency. It didn’t pay hooker money but enough to keep the lights on in my apartment.

Lunch break. I decided to make friends with people I knew I’d never see again after I decided I didn’t want the paycheck anymore. We decided to eat out side and that’s when I saw her. Why my life was the way it was suddenly came rushing to the forefront when I saw her. It was more like I felt her. When you have as many secrets as I do, you can feel the truth stalking you. It had to be almost 100 degrees in no shade and she was dancing. She was dancing like voodoo princesses around raging fire. She somehow managed to remove all her clothes except so very dirty pink panties and she was dancing. Her middle aged bloated body jiggled like can biscuits left out in the sun- melted and suspiciously sticky. I knew her. I had lived with her. She was a friend. I hoped like hell she didn’t notice me. I hoped like her we didn’t make eye contact and she’d charge my direction, grabbing me into her arms and making me dance with her. Crazy had found again.

Six months earlier, I had turned thirty and just got out of a mental institution. I wasn’t crazy, just desperate. My life had come apart. I was getting evicted from my apartment. It was something about running a prostitution ring from the Landry room. Sorta true, but that’s another rant. I was 2000 miles away from the nearest relative. I had no money--. Checking account was overdrawn and all my credit cards were in collections. I was fucked.

So I took a knife and carved “Help” in the middle of my chest.

I did have health insurance.

I figured I go to the hospital and let them figure my life out.

I got to the hospital after finishing half of liter of rum. I packed an overnight bag. I don’t know why I thought going to a hospital would make me feel safe. I sure as hell was going to show up at the police station. I wonder was it how homelessness started. I had failed. I was thirty years old and I couldn’t make it as an adult. The nurse when I showed her the wound bleeding from underneath a white t-shirt was horrified. I thought she saw Jesus in my blooded stain cuz she keep yelling at the shirt like she knew it. Like my blood soaked wounds had a name and she was performing an exorcism. I wanted to create drama but not have some old woman drop to her knees and beg some guy named “Holy Spirit” to save my alcoholic life. I knew I was in the right place. I had finally found someone to pity me.

It took way over 14 hours laying in the emergency room before they checked me in. I guess they wanted to see what they could do with my insurance. I didn’t know they were checking me into the Psych ward until after the fact. I figured they would give me a referral to a social worker. They said I couldn’t leave. Something called a 72 hours suicide watch which didn’t make any sense. A big security guard grabbed me. Some lady stuck a needle in my arm. When I awoke, I was handcuffed to a bed. The nurse asked me if “I had seen the green frog.” I asked what the fuck that meant.

For three days I tried to escape. I would awake not knowing the time or day and make a futile mistake for the “exit” door. It was always locked. That big security guard was never far away and the lady with the big needle. I would be out again, and every time I awaken was that same stupid question, “Have you seen the green frog?” After three days in basically a coma, I realized I wasn’t going anywhere. I had to prove to them I wasn’t crazy, just a little eccentric. They said I was depressed and a danger to myself. I had every fucking reason to be depressed. I was broke, unemployed, getting evicted, stubborn, arguably some problems with Bacardi rum but everybody was a danger to themselves, that’s why we come into the world as babies.

But for another 12 days, I would have to figure out what is crazy and to see that damn green frog so I could get out of the ghetto version of a “One who flew over the hoodrat nest.” I thought I knew crazy. I thought the homeless man pissing on himself and laughing at the rain was crazy. I have seen so many version of crackhead crazy. I seen crackhead prostitutes try to sell the button off their ragged blouse for more drugs. There is funny crazy like Tracy Morgan.

Inside that place, I realized mental illness was a fucking real deal. I mean there were people who were faking so they didn’t have to work or have a place to sleep for a couple of days. And then there were the real crazy people. There weren’t funny, drunk or depressed. They were fucking crazy. They weren’t dangerous if unprovoked but convinced of a world nobody could see or understand.

There was the scavenger; he had been looking for a key he lost since 1950. I asked him what the key unlocked, he said Keebler house. He had been looking for those cookies for decades. I told him they sold them at the grocery store. He said he wanted the elves.
He would check all the trashcans everyday.

There was Las Vegas girl I called her. She was convinced in another lifetime she was a topless dancer. Every morning meeting with the crazies where we talked about how less crazy we were that day, the same issue came up with Las Vegas to have her keep her top on. She was that crazy bitch I saw outside new job. I wondered how she got out. She predicted my future. She said I had to lose everything in order to gain a sense of balance again. She said I was meant to be a writer and I wasn’t going to get evicted from my apartment but my lover would leave me. She was right. I wrote a book that year and I didn’t get evicted from my apartment. My lover broke up with me for good.

My favorite crazy was the Doctor. He was convinced the real therapists and nurses were the patients. He would wear his white lab coat everyday and go check on the nurses and with every question they asked him, he turned it around. He was brilliant.

So, have you seen the green frog?

Who told you about this green frog?

It’s our way, to measure if your mind subconsciously remembers some form of reality.”
Reality?

I asked you the question

And why does the frog have to be green?

It’s an easier color for your mind to see when you go to sleep.

So the green frog puts you to sleep?

I will ask the questions.

Again who told you about a green frog? Are you seeing green frogs?

No.

So how do you know you’re not crazy if you ask that same stupid question every morning and night?

Funny, I never did see that damn green frog, but one morning I decided to just agree. I was freed that afternoon.

It's over!!!!!

2010-05-22T12:17:00.000-07:00

I once got fired from a job because I kept showing up late. I’m not talking about thirty minutes or an hour late more like five or six hours late. My hours were from 9-5, and I’d show up at 2 and then go to lunch. I got away with it for like a month.

I once got fired from a job because I left a bottle of Rum on my desk. My boss asked me if I had been drinking and I offered her a sip from my coffee cup. I thought she was cool.
She wasn’t.

I once got fired from a job because I forgot to book my Boss’s flight back from London. It was a weekend trip. He called me in to his office Monday morning. He complained that he had to sleep on the airport floor for two days and it cost him almost ten thousand dollars to get back. I replied” You’re back, so what’s the problem.” Security escorted me out that afternoon.

Being fired is like saying “You’re dead to me.” How horrible. An aunt once said that to me when she caught me in bed with her boyfriend. I questioned for a second if I should call the police because she may had plans to kill me or put a hit on me. What does it mean for somebody to say, you’re dead to me when in fact I know I’m still alive and breathing. If I’m dead to them, does that make me a ghost and does that give me the right to haunt them?

I’ve also been disowned or renounced for various reason depending on how drunk I got that day. I think I got disowned for being a homosexual and renounced for practicing it. I think disownment is more emotional and renounced is the legal term as in getting kicked out of the family will. Is it truly possibly to disown anyone. I mean daddy can’t go back to that night when he got liquored up and seduced my mother. My mother can’t take back the nine months of pregnancy and 14 hours of labor. IS there paper work involved when you disown someone? I mean after a person turn eighteen years old, the law automically disowns them from their parents. If I’m disowned should I give back my birth certificate and have my next of kin removed. Is disownment like the parent/child messing divorce. Should I hire a lawyer. I mean I was use to a certain lifestyle before the disownment, daddy can take back the last name but I want the vacation house and my childhood allowance until the day I die. Let’s not forget, the faithful, “don’t ever speak to me again.” It’s been used on me often. My sister yelled it into the phone the night I called her a three in the morning blasting Michael Jackson “you wanna be starting something.” I thought she’d be amused. She called me a immature drunk. I called her a fat frigid bitch and I thought those people were supposed to be jolly. She told me to never speak to her again. I wondered if that mean if I saw a grizzly bear charging at her in the grocery store did the rule still apply?

Every time I get fired from a job or disowned, I wonder did the people still think of me? How long did it take for them to think of me as dead? How long did it take from them to wipe away my memory of me trying to bitch slap, break the windows out of their cars, yelling at the top of my lungs in the middle of the street with no clothes on?

“Happy Abandonment Day!”

2010-05-09T16:54:00.000-07:00

“Take this nigga cuz I don’t want him no more.” The words of my mother, spoken like death and birth. I’m sure they don’t put that on any Hallmark cards. So every mother’s day I tell myself, why should I be ashamed that my mother decided not to stick around. Humanity is complicated. And if happiness in life is finally learning to love yourself, how you get to it is nobody fucking business.

I often have to be brutally honest with my memory. My mother was never a mother. In my fantasy, I want to repaint her innocent and a victim. Yet, I know I have so little to work with since I barely knew her. I don’t remember her being a mean mother. I do remember some disturbing physical attacks mostly provoked by me. I wasn’t a child that should ever be left alone. I have actually burned down people houses. I was a well known fire starter in the neighborhood. I think I made the papers.

The month of May is the national Foster Care month. It is also the month of Mother’s Day. I decided to make it my own personal “Happy Abandonment Day” to be celebrated with a warm bath, liquor, freaky masterbation and Chinese food.

I guess I was one of those kids that wished I didn’t belong to my family or some rich white people would come and adopt me. I guess it was my nappy headed ghetto kid dream.

I was never in foster care. My mother gave me to my father’s mother. I wish I had gone to foster care. I wished I would’ve gotten the option to be adopted. Yet, I had a very extensive large family. I just didn’t want them. I believe growing up in my grandmother’s house was worse than foster care. It was like being thrown to a pack of ghetto vicious wolves. I grew up with thirty five first cousins all male. It was like a juvenile detention center and me being somewhat effeminate, I had to fight to not constantly get rapped. They always worry about the girls, but effeminate boys are the real prey.

Abandonment is abandonment. It feels no different if you were giving to an orphanage or alcoholic grandmother. Over 500,000 children in the U.S. currently reside in some form of foster care. Black children make up approximately two thirds of the foster care population and remain in care longer. I remember growing up and my grandmother would always yell at us kids who she now had to take care of cuz the parents either got themselves incarcerated, were on drugs or dead that when we turn 18 we were no longer her problem. I feel as if that’s all foster care and orphans dilemma. Yet, I ran away from my grandmother’s house at age 15. I beat her to the punch.

I think the worse part of being a foster care kid is the emancipation. It’s when the kid turns 18 and in the eyes of the law an adult. It’s when that kid graduates high school and no longer has a support system. I always wondered how my grandmother was going to handle my 18th birthday. I wonder if she would wake me with a shotgun and have me pack all my shit and get the fuck out. It would be like, “Happy Homeless Day black ass nigga.”

You are emancipated to the big crazy scary world. The world I still remember when my mother abandon me when I was eight years old. I didn’t think she was for real. I remember being in that hotel and thinking to myself that she had to come back. She had to come back. And a day later she still hadn’t come back. Funny, twenty years later at some therapist's office, I was asked when I knew she wasn’t coming back. It hadn’t settled after all that time that she was never coming back. I never saw her again. I never wanted to. I never loved her. It makes me feel evil. I didn’t. I barely knew her. My father died when I was five years old and I feel as if I knew him better than my own mother.. Yet her abandonment was an extremely harsh blow to my ego. I didn’t realize I was so co-dependent on a woman I barely saw. It was like, how dare you bitch, I should have left you. Probably a reason why I usually break up with people before I give them a chance to walk out on me.

At 33 years after surviving the mental institution, somehow never been incarcerated, still healthy, and not dead, I no longer give a fuck about the mandatory greeting card bullshit. I celebrate me. Yes, I may have a functional alcohol problem, chronic unemployment, trust issues and an inability to be faithful, but I am still here. So mama, happy fucking abandonment day. I am still here.

Baby's Disturbing Floor Shuffle

2010-05-08T11:31:00.000-07:00

My dick is like Tiger Woods.

2010-05-04T02:49:00.000-07:00

“I figured if I lived to be 50 years old, I would’ve jacked off twenty five thousand times. I am 33 years old now and married. You do the math.”

Morning shower. Rushing. Ten minutes to get dress and get to work. Partner decided to stay in cuz he supposedly had a headache. I was pissed cuz it messed up my schedule. We had a thirty minute break from each other in the morning. He left at 8 and me at 8:30 a.m. I used that time to jack off to the porn I had downloaded that past Sunday for the week. It was my routine. Ten years in a relationship with him, we really only had sex on birthdays or a binge drinking weekend.

Shower jacking can be difficult keeping the mind focused and not accidently rubbing the skin off your dick. I usually have to break open the vault of memories: the kinkiest shit or let my imagination molest celebrities. Anything that would work and get me there in five minutes. Tiger Woods came to mind. Not him, cuz I don’t find him attractive at all, but I started thinking about the fairytale “Cinderella.” I was amazed how it was too damn similar to the “Bachelor” and “Flava of love.” A bunch of skunk hoes from the neighborhood show up at a mansion to fight for the rich guy’s wallet. I mean, does anyone believe that Prince Charming didn’t fuck at least twenty of those wannabe “clit” girls and a threesome with the evil step sisters. But, it’s a fairytale, so he had to marry the so called innocent blond. I can’t imagine how many rules Cinderella had. I don’t think many men jack off to Cinderella.

I got there. Very quick. Very dirty. I let the warm water wash away the sins. I was back to reality. I got ready for work in five minutes. I kissed my lover on the forehead and headed out the door. I had once less nutt to worry about that day.
Cuz. That’s what it’s about. That’s what it was all about. It was about how to keep its attention. It was about making it behave. It was about not thinking about sex for at least eight hours.

I love my dick. I love my dick more than I will ever love anyone in my life. My dick will never get married.

Once upon a time, three five year olds were taking an innocent bath. We had been doing it for years especially when my grandmother babysat. We were the same age, cousins, with parents that like the bar on weekends. One innocent Friday night, we were in the tub together, splashing each other with water, throwing around the floating toys. The phone rung and my grandmother ran to go get it. Suddenly, we were alone. It wasn’t like we hadn’t been alone before, but that night everything would change. My cousin Ray grabbed my cousin Denise in between her legs. He wanted to know where here pee-pee disappeared too. So I join in, Denise a wiling participate, eager to know if he had gone inside of her. So we started sticking our fingers down there, feeling for a string to pull to realize her penis. Or something. My grandmother walked back into the bathroom. Her face was almost as we were committing a murder. It was the yell that we immediately knew we had done something so wrong. But she wasn’t mad at the boys. She grabbed Denise and slapped her across the face. She then drag poor Denise in a room and beat her between her legs. We never took baths again together. Innocence was over. We had become aware of murder, pregnancy, marriage and divorce. We had become aware of a difference that would haunt us until the day we died. The dick. So I jack it off to tame it’s insanity.

DMX, arrested again.

2010-05-04T02:48:00.000-07:00

“Damn, why you got to be like that?”

We stared each other down like prison gangs ready to mark our territory. She, the grocer cashier, and I, the frustrated customer with so little time before my favorite show started in twenty minutes. I firmly gripped the package of turkey meat like a brick. The argument: the sign said the meat was 2.99 not 5.99. I just wanted to correct the mistake or get some clarification. Normally, the cashier would call in a price check, but she was in a transsexual Queen Kong mood. She just needed to prove me wrong. I didn’t care, the fight was on. I wouldn’t hit a girl, but I surely would press charges. We both walk to the back like a race. I showed here where I picked up the meat. It was obvious, there were 2.99 signs everywhere. The meat I had in my hand was stacked up to the ceiling. The only meat in a five foot radius. Yet, I was wrong. Somebody had stocked the wrong meat. She looked at me with so much attitude and practically screamed, so are you going to get that or not. I pushed back with even more bravado, “where’s the fucking meat that’s 2.99.”

I hate my grocery store. In the beginning, I must admit I was a little suspicious when the new Safeway opened down the street from my apartment. It was too damn friendly. But I was excited since I had already ruined my reputation at my old grocery store. I stumbled in there one very drunk Halloween night dressed like a black cat. I got into their buffet and left trails of chicken wings bones as I frantically searched for milk. They made me pay for chicken wings and took my picture and hung it on their wall of shame. I figured with the new grocery store I could start over.

I got an invitation in the mail to the “new” Safeway grand opening. I like when things are new like babies. They have so much potential but will most likely grow up to be assholes like everybody else. My neighborhood was in the middle of gentrification. I figured in a couple of years with the newer condos springing up everywhere, it’ll probably be as white as the CW television station. My black ass would be replaced with some generic blonde.

The store was huge. It smelled like circus balloons and teeth whitener. I walked into the doors and was pretty much greeted with a blowjob and napkins. They were way too accommodating. It made me nervous. It was as if they were trying too hard for the new whites who were buying condos in the neighborhood. I told myself not to get used to it. It wasn’t going to last. Funny, I woke up that afternoon and DMX had gotten arrested again. I found it odd watching him on TV. Standing in front another judge like a one night stand, he looked so safe in his expensive suit, washed face and puppy dog eyes. I could have never imagined he get high on cocaine again and try to steal cars at an airport. Was it just an act, I told myself as I looked around the “new” Safeway at all the urban faces who just gotten their neighborhood taken over by yuppie whites. They all looked non-threatening. But the hood can’t hide hood for too long. It’s the “you can take the girl out of the ghetto but you can’t take the ghetto out of the girl.” It’s my struggle to not use the “n” word in 2010 and I’d been saying it my entire life.

I have a flashback to my freshman year in college. I went from a predominate black “inner city” neighborhood to an all white private university. In the beginning, I wasn’t too happy with it. However, I was prepared thanks to UPN for all the stupid white questions I was going to have to swallow like: why does you skin get ashy, why do you use that type of brush, or you an athlete, or if I was affirmative action. And I was like, look bitches, this ain’t Mississippi burning, I would kick your ass so back the fuck off. At that time, every word that came out of my mouth was a threat or motherfucker. Ironically, growing up in “inner-city” I was told I acted to white, but when I got to college I was too black. It was so Halle Berry, confusing. Yet, I quickly learned to adjust—human survival instinct. I would call it the non-threatening black persona. I lowered my voice. I bought a belt and pulled up my pants. I made sure to smile and laugh a lot. I stopped grabbing motherfuckers by their throats. I started to wear khakis and button up shirts. I think I even bought a bow tie. I figured it was too hide the fact I had attended at least three family members and six friends funerals under the age of 18. I figured it was too hide that my father died when I was five years old and my mother was a crack addict. I wanted to hide a life of fried cheese bologna sandwiches, government peanut butter, hope meals (eat and hope you get full), and ghetto poverty. I wanted to hide everything I knew to be true.

I suddenly felt sorry for the girl that I really wanted to pull out her weave. I had no idea what was going on behind all that damn attitude. She worked in an upscale neighborhood and probably took two buses back to her reality. I knew we were more alike than different but she hadn’t learned the game. Or maybe she was just a bitch. I decided to get her fired. I may have appeared non-threatening, but I was still a nigga. And niggas hate other niggas.

Rehab

2010-04-17T15:40:00.000-07:00

“Nigga, you just pissed yourself” she said looking at me. I looked down at my pants in panic but they were dry. I turned around and noticed the man in the wheel chair. I wondered how I didn’t notice him before. I guess I got caught up deciding which gallon of poison I wanted for the weekend from Crazy Chicken liquor store. The guy in the wheel chair, I thought he was just retarded but turned out he was very drunk. Ironically next door were they the AA meetings. I wonder if he had wondered off. I looked down at his crotch, indeed he had pissed himself but that wasn’t his major concern. His mission was more liquor. He was tattered like an overdue heating bill that fell on a muddy ground and decides it doesn’t need to be paid. He looked like there was no recovery for his suffering. I laughed. It was so sad watching him struggling to count the change in his hand and gather the strength to place it on the counter. He was in a damn wheel chair. At least it was electronic. I couldn’t figure how he even managed to get himself into the store or how he will manage to get himself wherever-- if he succeeded getting more liquor. So I laughed. I watched in awe for ten minutes. I was actually rooting for him. I also wanted to see if the liquor store clerk would take his money. Then I got bored. He passed out in his chair. I decided I would drink rum that weekend. It was an oldie but goodie.
I finally reached home from another day “it pays the bills” work to find two pieces of philosophically related mail in the mailbox. I had been looking for a refund check for weeks, instead I found a jury duty notice and a large envelope with the big letters “ADDICTION.” I immediately started thinking of ways of how to get out of my social responsibility. I figured I’d keep postponing it until they arrest me or dismiss me. The envelope titled “ADDICTION” intrigued me. I looked at the other mailboxes and it wasn’t just me. Everybody got the mysterious “ADDICTION” envelope. I suspected from the strange smell that my downstairs neighbor liked the green boogey man. From the trash, I knew the guy next door really liked wine but I never saw him drunk, just dozen of bottles when he recycled. Drunks don’t recycle. I took the mail and quickly got into my apartment. My neighbors’ schedules are annoying close to mine and I do everything in my power to avoid them. I hate the friendly chatter. I rather pretend they didn’t exist.

Inside my apartment, I first make myself a cocktail. I sip it quickly, feeling as if I deserved it since it was Friday and I made it through another week without getting fired. I start removing the uniform (blazer, tie, dress shirt and pants and dress shoes.). I feel better just in my underwear and I turn on the TV to the cartoon channel and begin reading my mail. I wanted to know who was calling me an addict.
Thanks to Oprah we all now live in a rehab culture. Everybody is an addict. If you cheat on your wife you are a sex addict. If you were a child star you are an addict. If you drink too much and piss on yourself that one time at Mardi Gras you are an addict. If you have a couple of beers after work some talk show host will say you’re an addict. If you cheat on your wife, you’re an addict. Too many damn addicts and fat people in America.

I started reading the letter and it was about if I knew someone or myself that might have a problem with a bad habit. I knew plenty of people but I was no snitch. I didn’t want them straightened out. It’s like the jolly fat friend who gets skinny and suddenly becomes a mega bitch. I detest the reborn.

I attended an AA meeting for six days when my landlord and some dramatic tenants got together and scheduled a spontaneous intervention. I was told I needed document proof of “getting help” or he would have to end my lease. I felt insulted. I was never late on my rent, so what if I took it a little far some weekends. The ring leader was some old pothead lesbian. She caught me pissing in her welcoming plant in front of her door. I’d done it so many times I can’t remember but that night she caught me. Another neighbor said she was tired of my cat howling at 4 in the morning. She didn’t understand that if I was still drinking at 3 in the morning I became an alley cat. It wasn’t irrational. So to prove them wrong, I stopped drinking and went to AA.
AA was like the church of my childhood, mostly fake and a bunch of people who just like to hear themselves talk. I would listen to the stories of angry drunks who beat their wives, those who blacked out or ended up in the hospital or jail or sometimes the mental institution. They seem so far right of the spectrum. I just got caught pissing in my neighbors plants. I felt it could be worse. Feeling inadequate, I started to lie. I’d make up stories about getting so drunk and kidnapping homeless men and keeping them in my basement. I say I once drank a gallon in three hours. I just wanted to hear myself talk.

Being sober, I just needed the attention more. I guess I was addicted to irrationality.

They say people who go to jail are never rehabilitated but just learn to be better criminals and not get caught. In AA I learned how to become a better drunk. I learned we live in a rehab culture where any sign of disturbing the peace demands “get so help.” Which means, I need for you to shut the fuck up, or I need for you to stop ruining my silence. I am just trying to get out of this life

Nickel Bags

2010-04-17T15:04:00.000-07:00

This is how it went down. Lunch break. I checked my yahoo account. Filenes Basement sent me a 20% off coupon. I figured I needed new underwear and socks cuz I only buy under garment if it’s on sale. Most of the time I wear my drawers until the bootyhole burns a hole in the cotton for fresh air. I printed out the coupon. I planned to take a long lunch cuz my boss was at an offsite meeting. It was a nice day. The sun was on fire rocking sunshades like those raisin commercials. I was in a good mood which meant I was on my third day of sobriety. I took my time. I got to the store and walked around looking at stuff I knew I couldn’t buy. I’ve never been much of a shopper. I see my clothes more as inventory and things that need to be replaced. Menswear is stagnant. You just need something to cover the ass, pair of jeans, slacks, shoes and shirt and just keep replacing that combination in same color scheme.

Ten minutes in the store I got bored and decided to check out. It turned out I wasn’t the only one who had gotten that coupon right before lunch. It was an epidemic. The line was slow. I could hear the impatient breaths but I was cool. I knew I had plenty of time.

Living in the “protest” city, most days I cleverly ignore people behind my dark sunshades. Yet, in lines I can’t help but focus what is around me just in case someone pulls out a gun and start shooting motherfuckers. I want to know who I should grab to shield me.

Funny, a line taking more than five minutes invite stranger’s banal chatter. Their existence suddenly needs affirmation that they are frustrated or late for work. I don’t care. But for some reason I focused on the cashier. I didn’t like her hair. It wasn’t just the kitchen showing but also the clogged up toilet. I wanted to offer her some lye.

As a black person from the front section of the ghetto, I still get nervous about using my credit card. I guess it’s the fear of public rejection. It’s societal. It’s a machine screaming at you, YOU SHALL NOT PASS. I like watching people whose credit cards get rejected. They suddenly have to explain. Sometimes it’s extensive stories about a runaway slave or sex change. Sometimes they become irate and want to argue their broke bank accounts. It’s never pretty. But when it happens to you when you’re black, it’s representative of the entire 12 percent. It’s like the only black kid at an all white school going up to the chalkboard to solve the calculus equation and getting it wrong. Not all blacks are dumb, just that nigga.
So I am standing in line and I’m watching the nappy headed cashier for my own personal reasons. I want to see who she is going to ask for I.D. using a credit card. I remember something stupid nickel bags.

DC has some stupid law that all grocery store bags cost a nickel. I was in a self checkout line and I needed a couple of bags and the machine prompts you for the quantity but you still have to go to some bag handler to get them. The act like they are dealing crack cocaine with their holier than thou attitudes. It’s stupid. So I told the girl I needed two bags and she had the nerve questioned me for ten cents. I had to show her my receipt. It pissed me off cuz I live in a mostly white gentrified neighborhood and I saw her give bags to at least five other whites without a problem. She didn’t interrogate them. And she was a black girl. And I was black. And it was like damn, I can’t even escape being black to other blacks. I was like do I look poor? I am.

Back to reality. So now I’m pissed rehashing memories of discrimination like the annoyance of being followed in a department store. I watch the black guy who is two people in front of me. He looks working class like UPS. He seems harmless and he is buying underwear like me. I watched the three white people in front of him hand the nappy headed girl their credit cards, she wipes and no problem. She doesn’t ask for I.D. The black guy, in his twenties, average looking, it’s his turn. She notices that he is about to use a credit card and she immediately asks him for I.D. He hands it to her and she thoroughly checks it. I watch in disgust. The next white person, again she doesn’t ask for I.D. WTF.

It’s my turn. Before she rings me up I show her my I.D. and work badge. I tell her I forgot to bring my social security card and birth certificate cuz you know we blacks must always have our papers. She looks at me annoyed. I tell her I hope that’s enough for me to pay cash. She rolls her eyes. I give her the cash, demands that she checks the twenty to see if it’s counterfeit because you can’t be too careful with us blacks. I could feel the white guy behind me uneasiness making his testicles retract. She asked me if I am done. I say, those damn grocery store bags that cost a nickel, I’m sure every black person can afford it. Also, you are a racist bitch.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

2010-04-16T09:06:00.001-07:00

IT was odd. I had been renting an usual amount of porn, for no reason other than boredom. The sex clerk confronted me on a Tuesday afternoon. He said I left an empty bottle two weeks ago in his store. He went behind his desk and retrieved the bottle and handed it to me. He then proceeded to lecture. He asked stupid questions like, is this your bottle. It was two weeks ago but I did have a bad habit of predictability. I always mixed my "to go" drinks in a Gatorade bottle. I figured nobody would every question exercise.

I immediately thought and then accidently said out loud, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” It seemed weird that he was collecting evidence of my bad habits. I didn’t like the feeling.

I took the bottle from the rude clerk and threw it in the trash. He then grabbed my new Gatorade bottle and wanted to know what was in it. I told him it was none of his fucking business. Yet, I suddenly felt somewhat offended. I mean, why did he keep that bottle for two weeks? I became pissed off like a drunk girl who passed out a frat party and then discovered she was raped the next morning when she sat on the toilet and shitted cum. Getting fucked in the ass is one thing, but not being able to enjoy it is another.

“Are you stalking me?” I had to ask because there could be no other explanation. I had made the mistake of trying to be friendly with him once. I told him I wanted to take him to the Wendy Williams show. I was lying. I was just drunk that day. Maybe that’s where I went wrong. But that was no excuse for him to keep the bottle. And then he tried to lecture me and I wasn’t going to have it.

I wasn’t going to get a lecture from a clerk at a sex shop that overpriced their porn. We started to argue. I really wanted to know why he kept the bottle. He explained the store had a strict no alcohol rule. I explained it was a closed container. I mean, had the sex shop turned into the airport. Was I to be stripped searched every time I wanted to rent “big black guys and small blond midgets.” I wanted my membership money back. He quickly noticed I wasn’t pleased and ran to his phone to call his manager. I mean, the membership fee was only ten dollars but I wanted it back. I felt harassed. It wasn’t like I was a fall down drunk or something that didn’t happen until four in the morning. My neighbors should have voiced more complaints. On the phone with his manager, he explained that a couple of weeks ago I left a bottle that smelled like liquor was it. He then said he wasn’t for sure cuz he didn’t drink. I guess he scored one for the forty-year-old drop out. He said he called in a friend and had him smell it. I was disturbed. It seemed like a lot of work, like sex shop CSI. I wondered what type of investigating they did in those backrooms. I wondered if unsuspected government workers got cornered for leaving cum stains on the benches? I felt as if I pissed in their bathroom did they keep samples to confront me the next time cuz I missed the toilet. It was insane. It was a sex shop that sold porn where old women took it up the ass from donkeys.

Where was the line?

As I stood there waiting for my money, I heard him say to his manager that I might be “psychotic and unemployed.” The bitch had just called me homeless. I was a little psychotic but unemployed could be argued. I did have a part time job with a temp agency just to make ends meet, but I wasn’t homeless. It was like a midget screaming in a large crowd you have a small dick.

I was dumbfounded. A clerk in a very seedy sex shop had decided he was better than me. I didn’t get my money back. I kept the overdue porn I was to return and canceled my credit card linked to that store. I had to find a new hobby.

Nappy Boogers

2010-04-16T07:54:00.001-07:00

Overnight the temperature dropped from a crisp 70 to a bitchy 40 degrees and I was hung-over and not pleased that I didn’t wear a jacket. I wasn’t in the best of moods. Eight o’clock in the morning I rushed to keep my head together and eyes awake. I took a sleeping pill that night to sleep but that morning I felt more like a placid blow up doll, enough to get a desperate bastard off-- but the body knows the plastic pussy wasn’t real. Sleep is supposed to be resetting not cheated. I couldn’t awake. I was still horny.

Arms folded and the requisite Dark sunshades on, I stood in line at the Starbucks with my eyes closed letting the line push me forward. It was my turn. I didn’t remove my sunshades. The cashier smiled at me. It made me feel uneasy. I never really liked strangers smiling at me. I ordered my coffee. I handed her my debit card. She took it seductively. I felt the pull of interest as she swiped my card. Was she flirting or was I still sleep.
The thing about flirting with me is that I am awkward. I find flirting invading my personal space or silly like office banter. I mean, is the morning ever good?
Back to my dick rising, she placed the card in the palm of my hand. Most clerks put some distance between the exchanges of transactions. Some clerks throw the card back at you. Some clerk hand it over like a dirty diaper, only with the tips of their fingers. But she placed it in my palm. I couldn’t understand her problem. She was an okay girl, but it was eight in the morning and I hated the world. Was she flirting? I suddenly got nervous. I have never been a flirt. I am more confrontational. I am more direct. I start thinking of off the wall stuff. I mean, doesn’t flirting lead to sex. It does in the movies.

I can also never tell if someone likes me. I always found it somewhat of an impossibility. It wasn’t that I was ugly, I just never considered myself on the radar. I felt as if each and every time I even considered my attractiveness I had to pause and wait for the joke. Like that time I got on the city bus and noticed everyone was staring at me. The two old ladies in the front seat were just smiling. It wasn’t until the bus driver asked me curiously, “Are you going to put that away.” I didn’t know what he meant. He then you said, “Your dick is out.” I looked down at my pants. I noticed my pants unzipped and somehow my dick managed to slither through the slit of my boxers. And there it was, naked without a care in the world. I guess it felt like flirting. I couldn’t get off that bus fast enough before I was arrested. That was me.

I touched my zipper to make sure it was intact. Those zippers are sneaky. I was now awake at Starbucks. Somebody appeared to like me and I questioned if I should flirt back. I wondered where it would lead. I didn’t have much time. The morning coffee rush was brutal. Am I supposed to tell her my name? Am I supposed to say something trite like “Would you like to meet for coffee” to the girl who works in a coffee shop. I wanted to know her criminal history. I wanted to know if her grandmother had diabetes. I wanted to know her credit score. But I kept silent, best, the second I opened my mouth it was over.

And then it happened. The joke. I heard “nappy boogers.” Somebody was calling me “nappy boogers.” I felt my anus contract. I turned around and it was some woman cutting the line rushing towards me. She looked familiar. My third grade teacher would call me “nappy boogers.” I hated that bitch. I told myself that it couldn’t be her. I was two thousand miles away from childhood. I immediately touched my nose. It was my OCD. My nose leaked constantly as a child. My third grade teacher used to say I was going to die with a head of naps and nose of full of captain crunch boggers.
“It’s me, Ms. Arkansas.” It had to be some type of joke. She hugged me. She grabbed for my nose and swiped her index figure in it like a white glove. I retracted. It was Ms. Arkansas. What the fuck? I turned to the cashier who now looked at me as if I vomited an afro of crusted mucus all over her counter. I turned away. The flirting was over. I told Ms. Arkansas she had the wrong person. Nappy boogers don’t live here anymore.

Cows vs. Ants

2010-04-15T13:01:00.000-07:00

“Did this motherfucker just fart on my pinky finger” I wanted to say out loud but the scream cowered in my head. No one flinched, but the oxygen stopped as the smell of the obvious vibration of foul heat arrested the air. You couldn’t ignore a grown man with lactose problems. But no one spoke a word. They just guarded their borrowed place in the overly crowded metro, turned the music up on their headphones and refused to make eye contact. The red line was having problems again. The last problem killed some people. I figured I let the fart go.

Living in the “protest” city or DC, it seems that mornings are the worse. Everybody is always in such a rush or confused. The busiest metro stop in DC has to be the red line, Gallery of fools place or Gallery Place. It’s where all the major metro lines exchange its people. Spit out and spat on, they move like fireflies slamming against a lonely nightlight just because. Getting off trains, getting on trains, waiting for a train, to go only god knows where. Nobody cares. It seems everybody got to be somewhere important or not. I remember when I didn’t have a job-- and I would be coming from some club or one night stand probably smelling of liquor and bathless weeks -- and I would greet the morning ants and cows with dark sunshades and wonder if they pitied a mid twenty something year old man with no place to go but bed at 8 in the morning. Now, I am an ant. I don’t notice anything but strange farts and my metro stop.

The metro traffic of blah blah humanity is like cows and ants. The slow moving or the mass of electricity. Lights on or lights off. Everybody always seem to be rushing, get out of my way rushing or just in the way. I used to love being in the way.

The cows. The slow moving cows, confused. They graze. They seem to always be in the way of the rushing ants. The cows, often tourists or someone directionless. Cows in general seem to be on a never ending vacation or drunk. Probably why they are so easy to tip over or kill and make great burgers. The meat seems lazy. In the rush of life, cows just get pushed out the way. The stampede pushes them where it wants. And then they just start running, scared shitless from the barking of someone who thinks he or she is more important.

I like the part when the metro door opens and everyone rushes to the escalator. And then there is the swipe of the metro card for exit. No one likes the person who messes up the flow. The directionless. It’s always the cow who gets to the swipe and sometimes just looks at the machine, confused. The world suddenly stops. Traffic jam. The stampede becomes aware of itself and we are no longer-- but I who is a hour late for work-- and I who is getting a divorce-- and I who farted on that train.

I don’t mind the jam, it gives me time to think. I can finally slow down. Work can wait another second.

And then there are the ants. As a kid, I liked watching ants cuz they are also seem as if they’re rushing towards something life threatening. I’ve never witness an ant just chilling. I’ve never seen an ant on vacation. They seem to know direction. Get food and protect the queen. It was so simple.

I feel as if I am an ant. Alarm clock goes off and I wake up, rush, get dressed, watch the clock, out the house, make it to the metro, get on train, stand, get off train, work, clock out, back on train, and suddenly I am home until the alarm clock goes off again. In the morning with my uniform on: blazer, shirt, tie and dress pants, I feel as if I look like I do something important. I don’t. I pretend and hope no one finds out. I am on corporate welfare.

I feel as if all those who look like me, in the same uniform look as if we are rushing towards something. Just like ants. It’s simple. Work. Get food. Feed the Queen. Hide bad habits. But who the fuck is the Queen. And what has she done for me lately.

I barely see the world in my rush of instinctual importance until I stumbled into the cows. I was once a cow. Reincarnation is a prankster.

The cows, they just sit there, like they do when cars pass them on highways in the country. They don’t notice the rushing. Cows don’t even say raise their head to say hello. The cows, tourists, directionless. The alarm clocks goes off again. I rush. I am an ant now, dreaming about cows. I need a vacation or a burger.

How not to beg for money!!!

2010-03-22T11:36:00.001-07:00

I saw him watching me. I quickly glanced his way but thought nothing of it until he started moving towards me. I didn’t think too much of it. His walk quickened. I questioned quickly if he was trouble. I mean, I do have an uncanny magnetism for crazy people. He rushed towards me. I felt my nerves flinch but I kept my body calmed and and squeezed my face to a confrontational frown. All I heard was “wallet.” I knew I couldn’t have been getting robbed because I was at a busy train station in broad daylight with like a five hundred witnesses. I thought nobody would be that stupid but it was D.C.. I replied” excuse me.” Which I hoped came out, “Are you fucking serious, nigga.” I had gone from non-threatening black male with his college educated eye glasses, button up shirts and corporate slacks back to that hood snotty nosed kid. I’ve always have been amazed that even the most refined black person can easily lose it all if properly pissed off. So I immediately clinched my fist, an upbringing of dealing with stupid niggas reflex. He approached again, more apologetic but yet somewhat scary. I heard of whites describing any black male as some big black male and they were usually wrong. Yet, this guy was a big black guy. He was 6’2, but thin. It was the colors. He had on all black. It was like some scene out of a SpongeBob cartoon. So I paused. He repeated, “I lost my wallet, and I need to get home.” I laughed. I guess to calm my nerves because my leg started shaking like it was about to testify in church. I told him I couldn’t help him. He pleaded again. I stopped and stared him in his face to let him know I was not pleased. I scolded him that’s not how you beg for money. You can’t just run up to people yelling at them about some damn wallet. All I heard was wallet and some angry looking motherfucker in my face. I didn’t know if he wanted my wallet or he lost a wallet. I wanted to run. Shit, I really wanted to run. The dude was huge. And he looked angry. And I wanted to run. Yet, the joke was on him. I was broke. He allowed himself to look at my discounted corporate uniform as a sign of success when I was just a broke or more broke than him. I should’ve robbed he ass for scary me.

why beating your kids works

2009-10-21T19:14:00.000-07:00

I was at home watching television, I think the Ellen DeGeneres show and on my second afternoon Mojito before my afternoon nap. It’s not that I’m not looking for a job in this recession; it’s that some weeks I get tired of lying to people how much I want to work again when the government said it might give me another six months of unemployment. Yet, not the best idea to be unemployed for a long time because it’s hard to explain. Well, again I said I was tired of lying.

Ellen and her old white woman dancing were interrupted because of a breaking news story. A boy was trapped in a Jiffy popcorn bag. Well I really didn’t hear the whole story, I just heard breaking news and saw what looked like a jiffy popcorn bag floating in the air and changed the channel. I was afraid Obama was about to give another eloquent speech about bubble gum or something. It’s nothing against Obama since he is the only thing I’ve voted for my entire life if you don’t count American Idol or Dancing with the starts.

When I tried to turn the channel, it was futile. The jiffy pop boy was on all channels. I immediately refilled my Mojito, no reason. I didn’t feel drunk enough for almost three in the afternoon. At first I thought who let their six year old boy make popcorn by himself. And then I thought, damn Costco is selling items larger than usual.

After I turned up the volume, I realized a kid might be trapped in that balloon. I immediately thought bullshit. I know a little thing about blowing up sex dolls and seeing if they will fly. Anyways, I thought a kid would anchor any helium. I mean hot air balloons have to keep pushing air into the balloon or it would collapse. But somehow all the news anchors forgot their basic science classes about gravity.
I, being bored, was still intrigued. I wanted to understand how long it would take them to figure it out. So I called my bookie in LA to bet on how long it would take them to figure out they were fooled. He said eight hours according to the news anchor. I said it would take three hours. We went back and forth if they were going to shoot it for being an UFO.

Anyways, two hours later and no surprise. The boy wasn't in the balloon. At least when that girl fell down the well we heard her crying. That was good television. Grandma never let me play by the wishing well again. She said demons stole child in that wishing well.

I was suddenly reminded of each and every predictable Scooby Doo episode
” And they would’ve gotten away with it if the parents would had learned to beat their kids.”

The kid ratted out the parents. Children can be so innocent without fear. Growing up I knew to never say anything about all the illegal activity going on in my house. I was really afraid. Grandma used to say if the police question you, act like you are retarded. It worked. Until this day, I will never say what I say not even to my therapist.

I admit, at one moment in that bogus story, I thought the kid may have been in that balloon. I felt confident that he would be saved. I also knew he was in for one ass beating when he was found. I remember my cousin getting hit by a car when he was ten years old. My grandmother would visit him every day in the hospital with homemade southern food, but every time she left, she whispered in his ear, “As soon as you get betta, I’m gonna beat that ass.”

I guess that was Tough love. PeeWee never got hit by a car again. I never told that some of my family members were illegal street pharmacists. And most of them got away with it until prison.

It's my birthday joke to me

2009-10-05T11:14:00.000-07:00

A rentboy no older than spoiled milk was beginning to worry about trick daddy and if he had next rent paid. Rentboy had been putting Daddy intentions on cold, the non-existent sex life just laughs and coy eye contact. So feeling guilty, one afternoon the rentboy decided to ask his former pimp for some advice to keep the affair afloat. Brown Sugar, the pimp, told him he should get his booty daddy to do some nasty for him. So that night in bed as rentboy chewed on a twister, he whispered to Daddy that he should get his birthday suit off for some exploring. Daddy got excited.

The next day, on his sixtieth birthday, he did his sit-ups, did a shot of tequila of with wheatgrass. He took his Viagra pill and ready to plow the monthly tease and balance the deficit.

When rentboy came home, he opened the door and that was daddy looking like grandpa.

He smiled. He cooed that he was in his birthday suit, and couldn’t not think he could be resisted. Lusting or wild passionate sex.

Rentboy replied “what on earth are you doing?”

Daddy rebutted “it’s my birthday suit, don’t you like it?”

Rentboy responded “I see the hanger, but couldn’t you’d ironed it first”

He Wolf

2009-09-23T12:28:00.001-07:00

I think this is hilarious

I hate my mother (Mother's Day)

2009-05-10T09:58:00.000-07:00

I wish there was a card i could send my mother, to tell how much I hate her.

So I woke up sorta pissed and didn’t know why. Then I thought I would go to church because lately I like pretending I believe in some white men resting on a chair in heaven. I know, living my life like its’ B.C.

Anyways, so I woke up early this morning, or the liquor still lingering in my body woke me up. I decided to dress up, and go hear the word. I figure the choir singing would dilute my raging bitterness stirring in my head.

I go to church. I was dressed so Esquire. I wore my Burberry shirt over my Burberry red shirt with my Burberry red tie. It was the ultimate power outfit. Besides. I look really good in red. I should’ve worn white

When I got to church after a brief argument with my soon to be ex, I felt elated. I was sticking to my word about attending church for ninety days. I know how it sounds. I do everything in ninety days just to see if I would like it or if I’m just faking it. I’m a foster kid, orphan, had 17 addresses at 17 years old. I’ve knowm so many people and I knew quickly how to fake with so many people. Therefore, as an adult, I’m have to be realistic if I’m faking or if I’m being real. It’s very difficult. I’ve lied so much, I still believe most of my lies.

Now, I got to church, dressed like a corporate executive who is a part-time model. I sat down. And then I realized the choir was made of mostly women. I felt confused. I knew some queens were pissed about not making the spotlight. I sat down and I was like, what the hell is going on. And then the pimp of the church aka the reverend, preacher, asked everybody to start praying. He said we needed to recognize the women who brought us to this earth. I immediately recognized, a male preacher was talking about a woman’s choice with an all female choir. Something was wrong with the picture like can you guess were Matt Laur is in the world.

I sat peacefully, thinking to myself; maybe I could handle the bullshit. I wanted peace, after a night of drinking and arguing with my soon to be ex; I thought to myself I could stand it. But somebody had to pour salt on the wound. Some woman got up and started singing that annoying Celine Dion song, “u lifted me up.”

I got pissed. I remember how much I hated my mother. She was a selfish bitch. She had always been a selfish bitch. I remember how she beat me when I stole ten dollars from her purse to buy me some shoes at six years old. I didn’t give her the money back. She was never responsible. And it got me thinking about mother’s day, how it’s such a joke to most people. How it’s such a male holiday. Let me give my wife a gift for getting her knocked up. Let me make her pussy wet so I can fuck her like on valetine’s day. I hate how women in this society have to be bullied to believe they have more responsibility for biological mistakes than men. Not all women are made to be mothers. The holiday shouldn’t be celebrated, because nobody gives a fuck about father’s day.

Now, let me be clear. I hate my mother. I wish she was dead because it would be easier to explain her existence. I never liked her. I don’t mind saying it. I don’t mind stupid bitches should say things like she gave me life. She gave me life and made it more difficult. I truly believe some people should not have kids. I am a hardcore fan of abortion. It’s because I know the system and it’s worse than religious fanatics blowing up clinics to save an unborn life. They don’t give a fuck about you after you are born. The worse irony.

I hate my mother. She was a crackhead and a cheap prostitute. She only cared about her next high. If I say my mother today, she would only ask me for money. She started asking me for money when I was born. She is the worse person I ever met.

I hate my mother. I would never celebrate her. I pray for the day when she would finally rot in hell. I said it. Now I feel better.

I immediately walked out of church. I was going to sit there and pretend bullshit. I’ve never celebrated a mother’s day in my life. She was never sober.

FREAK OF THE WEEK - PART I

2009-04-19T17:36:00.001-07:00

FREAK OF THE WEEK - PART I

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It's So Cold in the D

2009-04-03T07:12:00.001-07:00

wtf

Lie to me.

2009-03-24T02:44:00.000-07:00

When I graduated college I joyously decided to become nobody. I figured I’d just piss my life away. I thought it would be romantic. I had no desire to be rich, have good credit, respectable or loved. I decided life was one big ass joke. I was already bored of living at twenty two years old.

I know how it sounds: sad, apathetic, lethargic, and unceremonious. Just a verbiage of words now stuck in my head with no real use because of the S.A.T. I hate to appear intelligent. I hate other people faking intelligence. I thought it was just a hustle to be smart. You pretend that you really care about art, the environment and all the boring shit like charity and people think you are a good person.

I thought I would be dead by twenty seven years old. I liked to party, drive fast cars, wanted it to all end in a blaze of young tragedy like a gone too soon moment. I was really morbid.

I figured if I died really young people would say things at my funeral like I had so much potential, that I could’ve been anything, that I had my entire life in front of me. Funny about life, it’s either in front of you like being stuck in traffic or it’s behind you like a horrific dream you can’t remember when you awake screaming but scared you shitless.

The truth, I never really had that much potential. I peaked in kindergarten with my intelligence. I told my first lie. Most don’t remember their first lie. It could be as simple like lying that you didn’t steal the cookie for the jar. My first lie was big. The first day of kindergarten the teacher made each student tell something about their parents. It made me nervous. I was already instructed to lie that I was six years old in fact I was only five years old. It’s a stupid public school rule that a child must be six when the school system begins in the Fall, therefore, if your birthday is late September-December, you are made to wait a year. In other words, if I had waited a year, I would’ve turned seven in kindergarten. It’s stupid. I was being held back before I even began, so I was instructed by my clever soberly-challenged mother to just lie.

The first day of school I was asked about my father. I lied. I didn’t tell anyone my father was dead. Instead I made up a lie about him being a big shot Doctor for the military. It was such a simple lie but it created something brilliantly deceptive. I remember the look on my teacher’s face like I was somebody. I couldn’t tell her my father was a small time drug dealer who got himself shot during a routine robbery. He was robbing the guy. Instead, I lied. It made me feel powerful. I also lied about my mother. I said she was a nurse. Actually my mother was a chronically unemployed crack addict. So I created a different family for myself the first day of kindergarten. I created the possibility that a nappy head snot nosed kid could grow up and be anything in the world. Of course the statistics were against me. 90 percent of those born in poverty stay in poverty their entire life. I had no real role models. With that lie, it seemed as if the entire world opened its arms to me.

I remember that first evil smirk the first day of kindergarten. It was like; shit life was going to be easy. All I had to do was lie.

The problem with the first lie is that it created an alternate reality in my mind that to this day I’m still trying to correct. As a kid, I couldn’t accept the world in which I inherited from my parents. I decided to check out of reality. I started to see the world as I wanted to see it and not for its brutal truth. Once a transitional lie is born, one can sometimes spend an entire life protecting it. I became very loyal to my lies. Every lie I told I was committed to its existence was like social and psychological telekinesis.

I’m lying to you right now. Change the physics of reality, now open your arms before you find out the truth.

“Tamika beat a bitch ass in K-Mart 1977”

2009-03-08T19:34:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the “The bad girl club”

I have to admit l liked all three seasons. I guess I like just seeing a butch of stupid bitches act crazy. What does the bad girls club say about the state of American youth? Watching the bad girls club taught me a lot of things about myself. I learned never to drink and be angry. Never talk back to bartenders. Never start fights that you can’t win. Never fight drunk because it’s looks stupid.

The season finale of this bad boys clubs I knew was about to explode. I mean you can’t go to a foreign country and start fighting. It’s not America. It’s freaking Mexico. I don’t want to be in jail in Mexico. I saw the horror documentaries.

Typically the most angry girl in the house is always black. She has the worse attitude, can’t tell her nothing. She is usually always the bully of the house. Things go wrong when they cast two black girls because both bitches like bulldogs will be fighting for power. The white girl somehow always seem to try to get along, the black girls are never having it. It’s so damn stereotypical.
I hate watching black women on reality television because the truth is frightening. Why are so many black women so damn mad?

I feel sorry for the girls because they are young, get plastered with liquor and made to be clowns. They feed on each others insecurities and are willing to give their power away for 15 secs of fame.

I was young once. I had such a bad attitude. Some days I still have a bad attitude but I learned it was me who caused all the drama. They say the bravest thing to do is to walk away. War is all about somebody winning at any cost. Peace is about trying to find common ground to work in co-harmony. I guess that’s why nations have treaties.

Yet, sometimes you really just want to slap a bitch. Some people just push the wrong buttons. It’s usually misplaced anger. I find I really don’t like those who try to make me feel inadequate or dumb. I know I don’t have the best speech, grammar or etiquette but it really pisses me off when others point in out in a shady bitchy manner. I find myself wanting to rip their throat out. Yet, I don’t. I don’t even joke with bitches anymore. I walk away. It's called B.A.C.K. away (breath, become aware, cheese a fake smile and Keep in control)

Yes, rejection hurts. Yes, if I feel life is all about proving my bad ass attitude and when I’m challenge, there is anger. But there is also something behind that anger. It’s hurt. It’s pain. It’s a chance for me to learn to heal. I really feel it is unnecessary to fight unless I feel my life or love one’s life is in real danger. All the yelling and name calling that’s kid’s play. I don’t have bail money. I barely have rent money. Jail is a booming business for crazy black people like myself so I'm saving my money. When it all comes down to to, it' all about money. REally, think about it.

I don’t think on anyone’s tombstone there is an inscription that states “Tamika beat a bitch ass in K-Mart 1977.”

Slap a bitch up

2009-02-20T06:33:00.000-08:00

disclaimer *** ( i orginally wrote this as making fun of domestice abuse, but now that i've seen the Rihanna pics that remind me of Emmit Till, I am just saddened. I still think it's a great post, but trust me, I am very senssitive to the situation. I apologize in advance if i pissed anyone off. )

The house was filled with sexy friends sipping cocktails and telling stories of past lovers, tension rising erect, music bumping, he looked at her, she crooning her song like a cat in heat on a hot August Louisiana tin roof, he felt her eyes wanting his attention. He looked around the crowd, it was his house, so he firmly whispered for everybody to leave him with his cat in heat, alone, so he could teach the pussy a lesson.
He called her to him, she purred that she just wanted to help him. The desperation in her words caused a stir in his lower belly, he felt his dick rise in his tight pants. Swiftly, he grabbed her close to his pulsating rage. She coyly resisted, thinking that he was just playing, purred some more, tried to push past him gently but he grabbed her wrist and bought it to that storming brewing in his lower belly. He looked in her eyes, hoping to calm the storm, make her trust him. He repeated the word “help” back to her, looked for a response to her eyes before he grabbed for her small waistline.
He pulled her closer, she fought in his arms for a second like an annoyed house cat, maybe she was just a tease, what did she really mean by help, what did he really mean by help, she tried to push forward, he struggled for her lips, found them, pressed firmly with his lips, kissed hard contradicting the trust he demanded.
He grabbed her by the neck, reached between her legs, tore her panties from her moist dripping wet center, held her closer, unzipped his pants never letting go her neck, released his fully erect angry dick, needed to teach the pussy a lesson. Like a burglar he pried open her legs, slammed down on her like a brick thrown threw a window. She screamed, tears flowed down her face as he fucked her to point of unconsciousness, slamming, raping, teaching. “Help, Ike don’t need your help!”
In the movie “What love got to do with it” that was one hot scene. I guess rape is not supposed to be sexy, but it’s an act of sex. They were married. So married women get to say no to their husbands? My grandmother claims that how she got her first three kids. I guess love is not supposed to be violence, but it’s often an act of violence. I purposely wrote the opening of the piece like a romance novel because without knowing all the details, a particular scene, a glimpse, no one would know the truth about domestic abuse.
Some say it’s a crime behind closed bedroom doors but I beg to differ. I say it’s a crime that happens in plain daylight but no really cares. People usually don’t have respect for a woman who stays in a relationship with an abusive man.
I had this neighbor back in Chicago, really pretty girl. She lived with her boyfriend and child in the apartment above me. The first time I heard her screaming I went running up stairs, banged on her door, she opened it and told me to leave her the fuck alone. I replied, at least you can get your ass beat quietly, I got to go to work in the morning. The second time I heard her screaming, I called the cops. The boyfriend came banging on my door, I opened it, he asked if it was me messing with his life, I told him she was screaming loud enough I’m sure the police heard her the streets. I slammed the door in his face. And then it kept happening. It was driving me crazy. I called women shelters. I left pamphlets on her door step, some for her, some for him, they both needed to get help. I would find the pamphlets back at my door. I would see them in the hallway, and I didn’t understand it. She clung to him like she was so damn happy, but the next day, I found her in the stairwells bleeding. He had pushed her head into the wall, knocked a big dent. The landlord came knocking on my door a week later and wanted me to explained the dried blood in the hallway and the hole in the wall. The couple upstairs were white, so of course I being the only black in the building I had to had gotten into some gang/drug fight or something. I told him to go fuck off and he should speak to the couple upstairs. He looked like he was surprised. He must’ve forgotten that night I called him, held the phone to their door and made he witnessed what I had been enduring for months. I eventually moved. I don’t know what happened to that girl. Maybe he finally killed her. I used to think she deserved it.
They is something about women that allow themselves to get beat makes the rest of the world wants to kill them. Yes, in the beginning there is sympathy. Yes, in the beginning a friend might confront the situation, but if she stays, every back away. They shut their eyes and ears. They get use to it. Domestic abuser/abusee are not the only ones in the relationship. They abused never report it. They never cooperate with the police. They make everyone around them feel helpless event their children. I would ask myself, why should I feel sorry for her. She stayed. I tried to help. She refused. She stayed.
Domestic abuse is like watching someone assisted suicide. I’ve known it since I was born. My father didn’t beat my mother, thank god. It’s one good thing he didn’t do. I saw my uncle beat down his wife one Christmas. He dragged her through the house, tore her blouse off, and I still remember her twisted looking nipples. It was strange. My grandmother stopped the fight by holding a gun to her own son head and made him leave. The wife went back to him two days later.
Domestic abuse is like watching someone murder another human-being slowly. It’s so gradual you stop paying attention until there’s death. If leaves those around who witness to feel helpless. I say it’s no different than drug abuse, alcohol abuse or watching someone eat themselves to death. What I know for sure, in order for domestic abuse to be successful, it has to be the perfect chemistry and partnership. It is a partnership, strange relationship that works for the two in question. It has to be deep wounds of fear, low self esteem, deep rooted anger and stupidity. That she can love him enough, make him trust her enough so that one day his fists would turn into warm kisses on sunset beaches. It’s about power like rape. The abuser gets drunk off the blood. The more he or she can get away with, the more blood they want. The first hit is the warning. For some it should be like an atom bomb went off. There is not going back after the first hit. It’s over. At least that’s what we are told to think.
Growing up when I got my ass beat I was always told it was for my own good. Growing up I was always told it hurt the person beating me than it hurt me. I would’ve argued the contrary if there wasn’t the fear of being beaten worse. Domestic abuse is not just between a husband and wife, boyfriend and girlfriend, but often between parents and their children, grandparents and their children, grown people beating up on children, and then it lingers for life. Growing up, parents could just beat on their children in the middle of grocery store and others were just supposed to look the other way. It was their child. It was how it was always done. People would say, my Mama beat me when I was kid and I turned out okay. Yea, you went on to beat up others in classrooms, maybe your wife, but you turn out okay.
If he hits me, would I leave is what every female probably has to ask themselves. How would one know to leave an abusive relationship if abuse has been a silent misconception of that person entire life? I still speak to my Mama, I never stop kissing Grandma. Yes, I still want to kill my Uncle Fred but that’s a different story.
I never liked getting beat when I was a child. I thought it was a crime. I knew sometimes it was abuse. Yet, because I did get beat as a child, I thought putting my hands on others in order to teach a lesson was okay. I fought in school. My first relationship was very violent. We were both really young, head strong and hadn’t learned to communicate our hurt feelings instead we grabbed, pushed, sometimes got into fist fights. We were both gay, so most didn’t really see it as a problem. Later in life he would tell me that I was abusive. I disagreed. He said I was verbal abusive. I agreed, he was an idiot. I told him he started it. He always started it from what I can remember. But in the end, I wished we would’ve never started off so rocky. It’s hard to come back to peace when the relationships because a competition of who can hurt the most. In the beginning I used to take his snide comments, his rough grabs as him being passionate. And then it started to annoy me, so I grabbed back rougher and made more hurtful comments. Yet, we thought we loved each other. I don’t know what young love is. It’s trying to find yourself pushing against another person who is trying to find themselves. We made a lot of mistakes. We both had big egos.
If he hits me, would I leave? Yes, the correct answer would be, Hell Yea. I hear Tamika screaming if he put his hands on me, it’s over. But is it really? I mean, what is hit? What about some soft joking? What about a firm grabbing of the wrist when he refuses to be rejected? What about that scene in the movie where he rips the girl shirt opened? What about jackhammer fucking, pounding the coochie like an enraged horny rabbit. When is violence actually violence, when it’s done with a smile and soft words or when it’s the argument after you found out the bitch gave you Herpes.
"Words cannot begin to express how sorry and saddened I am over what transpired.”
I think Tatem Onell used those same words when she got busted for trying to buy cocaine. Michael Steele said that when the bong picture came out. I said those words when my lover came home three hours early to my afternoon sex party. I promised to seek counseling if he didn’t put me out on the streets. Apologies just buy time to the next fuck up.
As far as my past lover, I’m not sorry what transpired. I’m sorry that I stayed in the relationship for so damn long thinking we could work it out. I’m sorry I stayed the first time he insulted me on purpose and then tried to laugh it off. I’m sorry that I stayed when he grabbed me forcefully and I pushed his head into the car window. I’m sorry it came to blows. I’m sorry for wanting to push him down the stairs after the night we came back from the club and he gave that bitch a ride and I told him not too. Looking back, at that screaming, pushing, hitting wasn’t passion. It was two young idiots in love with big egos and didn’t know how to get alone.
But the difference between me and Ike, I never got pleasure from abusing or being abused. I never understood why anyone would stay in a relationship when they can’t stand the person. Whoopings as a child was about discipline in the hopes to raise self functioning adult. Sometimes in the black community it goes too far. I don’t understand why a grown person needs to discipline another grown person. It never works. I’ve tried it. When you eighteen nobody can change you. Not the church. Not even slapping a bitch up.
Yet by no means is this a defense by the current guy accused of being a little too rough with his girlfriend. The only difference is that you don’t choke a person on the plain street to the point of unconsciousness and then flee the scene. That’s just tacky. If you’re going to slap a bitch up, get them home, turn up the music really loud and give them a good whooping with a belt. He or she may like it.
I guess looking back at young love, I don’t think we tell our youth the truth how some of us started off all wrong. There are things you want to do, but you don’t do it. It’s always cute to date a bad boy until he starts acting bad for real. It’s always cool to date a sexy cool until she is too sexy. I say learn to masturbate until you are about thirty years old and save yourself some jail time.

Lazy cheap fat drunken BASTARD

Mama, don’t let your kids grow up and become a writer.

2009-02-19T17:16:00.000-08:00

Did you really think it was going to be that easy?”

“For a second there, I really did. “

“Silly rabbit, tricks are for kids.”

Today I am pissed. One of my friends just got his book published. I would like to be happy for him but secretly I want to bash his head in. I guess I will go to his book signing, smile, buy the damn book, sneakily ask for his agent or publisher phone number. That’s what other writers do, we prey on each other. What’s so fucking special about being published anyway. I know I am running out of time with this pipe dream of being a writer. My party boy days are defiantly over. I can’t even do a tequila shot without taking antacids. I decided to finish my MBA.

I think my family took it harder when I told them on my thirtieth birthday that I want to be a writer, maybe a comedian, more than when I told them I was gay back in elementary school. I guess then they thought it was just a phase, the gay thing. Grandpa said if I prayed hard enough Jesus would take it away. I asked him did that work for him. He didn’t speak to me for a year.
At least with being gay I could pray it away. Being a writer, that shit is for life. It’s like a psychological disease, the need to type these words. My psychologist told me I suffered from a Narcissistic Personality Disorder. I told him I didn’t ask for his opinion, he was getting paid to listen and not critique. Besides, who needs another critics.

In the hood, ghetto, hard knocks, there is a saying, “So you want to be a gangster.” Originally recorded by the grammatically incorrect niggardly gangster rapper “Too Short” and it glamorized the dangerous life of pimps and hoes, drive-bys, beat downs, drug dealing, driving nice cars and partying in big houses, I guess living the true artist life. It’s kind of like becoming a serious writer. It’s the glamour of irresponsibility, sexy dingy hotels, lingering addictions that lead to being on Oprah and then shunned for lying about how much of a drug addict you were, creative differences I guess. Aren’t all memoirs just a bunch of bullshit? If one is going to recount their life wouldn’t it just be a bunch of lies. The truth is boring. I try to recount what I ate last week and conveniently forget the three o’clock in the morning David Hasselhoff drunk burger incident.

When I said I wanted to be a writer what I meant was I wanted to get paid. I figured I starved enough as a child growing up in Santa Rosa projects, I had no desire to do it as an adult. I was too black to be a starving artist. I wanted to be a hustler. I wanted to sell my books on the street corners like a hooker circling her block in four inch heels, booty shorts and push up bra in six degree Chicago weather. A bitch got to make her money. And it ain’t easy for hoes these days. I think that song won an Oscar.

When I said I wanted to be a serious writer I meant I wanted to be known to more than just some college professors who smiled and gave me a “B” because my check hadn’t cashed. I wanted to be more than my current lover telling me he loves my writing but never read my book instead I keep him up late at night reading whatever I suddenly thought was brilliant as he fall asleep like I did in art history class. I can’t be that boring. I, of course throw my book at him, he apologizes, tells me he had a hard day with his real job and needs to get up in three hours to work to pay for my hobby. Yes, my dream is a fucking hobby. Nobody cares. They smile at you and tell you that you are great but when you ask for money they say get a real job. They smile at you and tell you are brilliant but secretly wait until you give the insanity up. I wanted to be more than a writer to just my friends. I wanted to be more than a writer to just the liquor store guy who I try to convince is the reason I’m the first at his store at ten in the morning. He never turns my money away. He shakes his head like yea nigga right.

When I got laid off work, I said I would take my unemployment checks and finish that damn novel I’ve been working on for the last ten years. Yes, ten fucking years. I wrote it to completion but it sucked. Funny, you spend so much time on a book and when you’re done, it’s like what the fuck, I wouldn’t even read that crap.

Now, I say I want to be a serious writer, it means I want to get published. I guess liked. I actually want to be worshiped. I want the suave life of an accomplished writer: book signings, lectures, tricking people into thinking that I might be smart. I want to get my cherry popped. I want some lusting agent to tell me I’m the next big thing as he or she slides my literary panties off and fuck me until I owe them money.

Yes, my name is Michael and I am a writer. I know it sounds stupid. I even laugh at myself when I say it out loud like saying hi my name is Michael and I am a werewolf. People don’t believe it until the mood turns full, I change and they start screaming like bitches. I told you so.

Lazy Cheap FAt Drunken Bastard

Christian Bale vs. Bill O'Reilly

2009-02-04T10:44:00.001-08:00

Part of my WTF fiiles

Workout in Jail

2009-01-28T07:39:00.001-08:00

Part of my WTF files.

WTF

2009-01-27T10:41:00.001-08:00

Part of my what the fuck file.

You don't have to go home, but please get the hell out of the city.

2009-01-21T00:19:00.001-08:00

Friday was the coldest day in DC. It was like 8 degrees but felt like it was minus 8 degrees with the wind. Of all days, around seven in the evening the power in my apartment went out. I called Pepco and was informed that power wouldn’t be restored until 3 in the morning the next day. All the people rushing to the city overloaded the power grids. I was pissed. I had to leave my apartment and go to a friend’s house for warmth.

Saturday I was at a club party and the power went out again. Somebody took that as a signed to hit some guy over the head with a beer bottle. The lights came back on and the poor guy lied on the floor with blood rushing out of his head. Needless to say, the party was over when the cops came and shut it down.

Sunday I slept.

Monday I got drunk.

Tuesday I woke up, still a little hung-over and contemplated to brave the 14 degree weather and go be amongst the millions. I looked up how I was to get there, I knew I needed to walk, but when I was watching the news the guy said that 99 percent of the people wouldn’t even see the president but will have to watch the big screen television placed all over the city. I figured I had a nice 32 inch television in my warm apartment, I could watch TV at home. So I decided to just stay home.

After the swearing in, I watched as the crowd quickly exited away from the Capitol. I figured the weather had gotten better so I could go get a little feeling of the excitement and hopefully get close to the parade.

First, my entire block was blocked off by like 400 police officers. I live like a thirty minute walk to the White House. I was going to have to walk nine blocks away from my apartment and like 10 blocks back towards Pennsylvania Ave. That took about an hour and half. It would’ve normally taken me like twenty minutes. The crowd was still massive. It was more like an out of control Obama flea market. I mean people were selling all kind of crap. I saw the dolls, t-shirts, toilet paper, books, children singing, DVDs, Cds, jeans, sweatshirts, furniture, it was crazy. I got close to the parade but because it took so long getting a good spot, I missed it. I only got to see all the crazy people. I walked home pissed. DC metro closed the stop I usually get off to go home. I had to walk like two hours to get home. I had to show ID to let the officers know I lived on my street. I was happy to finally be home.

I must admit, being in DC was amazing. It was also annoying. The millions of people in the streets so damn happy was heart warming. There was no sign of upheavals. It was very peaceful. I was like all those black people and no drama was phenomenal. I felt kindred toward my neighbors. I smiled at strangers which in DC I never do. It truly was a day of peace. And then I was over it. I was ready for all the people to go home. I was ready for the police to get off my street scaring away my weed dealer. I was ready to begin a new day with a new President. I think to myself, it’s amazing that the President of the United States is black. I mean, it’s mind blowing. I thought of my nieces and nephews who will grow up that a black in the highest office in the world is normal. It makes me want to be better. I hope the world will be better. I’m sure things will turn around. I would consider myself an extremely cautious and pessimistic person, but I truly have Hope in this country right now.

Latrika and Jamal

2009-01-13T02:04:00.000-08:00

I honestly never wanted two indian kids I didn't know to get together as bad as I did in this movie. The movie is simply awesome. I mean filmmaking and storytelling at its best. I don't normally endorse anything but Grey Goose and Barcard and my local weed dealer, but I swear Slumdog Millionaire makes you think anything is possible in the world. Well, at least if it's written.

Daily Dirty Joke

2009-01-07T03:10:00.001-08:00

As an airplane is about to crash, a female passenger jumps up frantically and announces, "If I'm going to die, I want to die feeling like a woman."
She removes all her clothing and asks, "Is there someone on this plane who is man enough to make me feel like a woman?"
A man stands up, removes his shirt and says, "Here, iron this!".

http://www.lotsofjokes.com/dirty_jokes_1.asp

2009 Contract

2009-01-01T17:49:00.000-08:00

My Wish for You in 2009

May peace break into your house and may thieves come to steal your debts. May the pockets of your jeans become a magnet for $100 bills. May love stick to your face like Vaseline and may laughter assault your lips! May your clothes smell of success like smoking tires and may happiness slap you across the face and may your tears be that of joy. May the problems you had forget your home address! In simple words . . . May 2009 be the best year of your life!!!

Love and kindness are the things we can share with all of mankind and bring a smile to the faces of all.

By annoymous

Ten New Year Resolutions you can keep

2009-01-01T13:42:00.000-08:00

Do you want to hear a dirty joke? “A man and his wife go to their honeymoon hotel for their 25th anniversary. As the couple reflected on that magical evening 25 years ago, the wife asked the husband, "When you first saw my naked body in front of you, what was going through your mind?"

The husband replied, "All I wanted to do was to fuck your brains out, and suck your tits dry."
Then, as the wife undressed, she asked, "What are you thinking now?"

He replied, "It looks as if I did a pretty good job."

That joke reminds me that every year I'm getting older. A new year. In one year, and out the other. I broke my first New Year resolution before the year even begun. I said I wasn’t going to go out. I said I was going to stay in and have a cozy evening at home. I figured I’d be a grown up at the beginning of the New Year and not stumble the streets drunk at midnight and kiss some stranger I just met before the clock banged midnight. Around nine in the evening I decided to have one cocktail. I told myself it would make my “True blood” marathon more interesting. Around eleven in the evening I told myself I would just head to the local bar and have a drink. I didn’t want to be alone. Around midnight I was tongue kissing some guy I just met before the clock banged a new year. I told myself maybe he was the one. Around two in the morning, I found the next “one” in the men’s bathroom. Around five in the morning, I was stumbling home drunk hoping I wouldn’t pass out in the snow.

So it begins. The New Year. I’m going to change this year I tell myself. I am going to finally lose those ten pounds I gained back in the 90s. I was going to give up smoking, drink less and maybe make it to church. I wasn’t going to cruise the sex websites anymore, get a faithful relationship, get out of debt and then I laughed. The fat kid always wants to give up cake. The crack head always want to charge more for a dick sucking. The aging stripper is still going to get that college degree to start her a new life. Maybe if we accept who and what we are, we can really begin a new year. I decided this year, to say fuck it. Let it suck my dick. Get off and never call 2009 back.

These are ten New Year resolutions I know anyone can keep:

10. Gain more weight. Put on at least 30 pounds. Eat like you’re Oprah Winfrey on a binger.

9. Read less and watch more television. Don’t learn nothing.

8. Curse somebody out for the hell of it, maybe that asshole neighbor who keeps letting his dog shit in your yard.

7. Procrastinate more.

6. Go into more debt. Buy that expensive television you can’t afford on credit and don’t pay the bill.

5. Drink. Drink some more. Have a black out.

4. Don’t give shit to charity. Turn the channel when those poor looking kids start begging for money. Give every homeless person you see on the streets the finger.

3. Tell more lies. Get creative like you’re Beyonce cousin and she owes you money.

2. Cheat on your lover but remember to bring home flowers for the guilt.

and last but not least...

1. Take up a new habit: maybe kleptomania!

please stop falling down drunk

2008-12-16T07:48:00.001-08:00

one day i got too damn drunk.

Bush Shoe Incident - 2 shoes thrown at President Bush during press conference in Iraq

2008-12-14T16:25:00.001-08:00

Too damn funny.

Embracing the fat

2008-12-09T09:12:00.000-08:00

Dear Oprah:

It was no secret you fell off the skinny wagon. I myself having attended too many AA meetings to mention, quit and decided never to go to rehab understand the struggle and comfort addiction can bring. We’re just human.

For the record, I was a really fat kid. I mean humpty dumpty fat. I mean I could’ve joined the Fat Boys rap group at age 9. My nickname was “Mikey will eat it!’ And I would eat it. Shit, I would eat three to four servings. My favorite thing as a child was a good buffet. I used to love buffets. Back in the day, it was 3.99 all you can eat. My sister and I would get dressed and stay there for like a day.

I admit weight starting falling off of me around middle school. I guess because my grandmother had the audacity to make me play a sport. I hated playing sports. I hated football, basketball, running or just having to sit on the bench. Yet, being on the team and being forced to practice did dramatically change my body. I learned that I was a great swimmer. I learned that I liked soccer more than I liked football or basketball. I also fell in love with tennis. Yet, I was never a good athlete. I never started. I often quit and made to go back. I never cared about wining first place. I guess that’s has been my calling in life. Quit when it gets too rough.

I believe some of us are good at some things. Some people love to be on a damn treadmill for hours. Some people love eating vegetables. I rather grab a bag of cookies and talk bad about those people. I used to think having a couple of shots of vodka and going to the gym was fun. I usually ended up passed out on the bicycle machine.

In college, I learned drugs and alcohol kept me thin. I’m not recommending crack, but it did work for Whitney. I mean, she hasn’t gained a pound since “Where did the crack go” back in the 1990s. Yet, I know if your business, you can’t show up high or drunk talking to child molesters like Michael Jackson or Suze Orman. What is she on?

I say embrace your fat. After my last sobering stunt, I gained twenty pounds. I forgot how good it felt to eat. It scared the shit out of me. I can’t eat. I’m gay. If I eat I will start to have to pay for sex. Fat people get no love in the gay fast love lifestyle.

Yet, I have decided to embrace my fat. I’ve embraced my round belly. It’s better than running from a drug house buck naked at seven in the morning chased by a deranged crack head. I’m not saying that has happened to me, but trust me I rather have the bag of potato chips.

I say embrace the fat. You’re fucking rich. Why starve when you can buy your own grocery store. You’re old. I thought getting old was all about letting yourself go. I hate those celebrities still trying to keep their teenage waistline at a hundred years old. I don’t need to have sex after forty. I had enough of it for several lifetimes in my twenties. There’s nothing new about it for me. All I need is porn and a good dildo. You have Gayle. She doesn’t seem to mind munching on your puffy VaJaJA.

I say since you will be leaving the Oprah show in two years, start a drinking habit. A good cocktail is a good replacement for a meal. I say start smoking cigarettes. A bad habit is always replaced with another bad habit. I say go out there and find what you want to replace food with. So many bad habits, so little time. Or just be fat. Fuck it. It's working for Tyra Banks.

My dear sir, I challenge you to a duel.

2008-12-08T12:14:00.000-08:00

I would pick the place. Rent one YMCA boxing ring, $100 dollars. I would pick the time. A month from now. I can even buy the gloves and face mask. $100 dollars. I would set him up with a trainer. I would get him a 30 day membership at the gym. I’d hire a referee. All he has to do is show his punk ass up at the place in thirty days. Total budgeted cost of the duel: $500. The pleasure of kicking his ass in front of his friends and family, priceless.

As practiced from the 11th to 20th centuries in Western societies, a duel is an engagement in combat between two individuals, with matched weapons in accordance with their combat doctrines. The Romanticism depiction of medieval duels was based on either a pretext of defense of honor, usually accompanied by a trusted representative (who might themselves fight), often in contravention of the dueling conventions, or as a matter of challenge of the champion which developed out of the desire of one party (the challenger) to redress a perceived insult to his or her sovereign's honor. The goal of the honorable duel was often not so much to kill the opponent as to gain "satisfaction", that is, to restore one's honor by demonstrating a willingness to risk one's life for it.

I think in this modern age of violence, the act of dueling should be brought back. Nobody fights fair anymore. Kids show up to school with guns and then just start shooting innocents because some girl didn’t go out on a date with him. Terrorism has taken the place of a fight with honor. It’s just murder now. I don’t think there is nothing wrong with two individuals going at it without the cheap deadly tricks. I mean an old-fashion after school beatdown. No gang fights. Let them work it in a boxing ring with witnesses and rules.

Some punk ass bitch been talking smack about me. I hate that high school cheerleader shit that goes on in the gay clubs sometimes. When I moved to DC in the beginning I was just another new face. I didn’t say much to anybody. I didn’t care about belonging to any groups. I had enough of the gay cattiness in New York, Texas and Chicago. I wasn’t about to move again.
When I first got to DC, the so call second city, or second chance city I was out of luck and broke and looking for free drinks. Somehow I got a reputation I didn’t intend. I guess because I was young, flirty, and somewhat suspicious that some people thought I was a drug dealer, prostitute or two bit hustler. They figured me trouble because I looked the part of a young black male with a cocky smile on his face. I got kicked out of a lot of clubs for that smile. A black man with too much confidence too many find a threat. Yet, at first I played the role. I liked being the bad boy. It was sexy.

I’m not a fighter. I fought too much growing up. I have 36 male cousins around my age. Everyday was a fight. I have nothing to prove. Yet, I don’t like others thinking they can just say shit about me and I not have a response.

I saw the asshole in question at the bar last Thursday. I was too drunk. The worse thing in the world is drunk fighting. I can’t win a fight if I am drunk. First, the person is unprepared. Their balance is off and emotions are running high. They can’t even use their adrenaline to steady their swings. The last time I got into a drunken bar fight, it was not good in my favor. I accidently picked a fight with a group of bastards who decided to jump me. I knew immediately there was no way I could win. When I was just kicking the one guy’s ass, I had it down but the other three fuckers decided they needed to jump in. I never believed in jumping in my friends’ fight. I feel as if that takes away their honor. I also feel it’s criminal. If my friend is getting his ass kicked, let him get his ass kicked. I once got in trouble when I was a little kid because one of my cousins decided to jump this guy who they didn’t like. The rule in my family was that if one of us got into a fight, then all of us got into that fight. I guess it worked in our favor considering there were a lot of us. It was like being attacked by a pack of wolves. I didn’t jump in that fight that day. The poor innocent guy was just being beaten to death. I was going to worsen his suffering. I wanted to stop it. I had to stop it. I guess that’s me at my heart. I don’t believe in fighting but I do believe in defending my honor.

I live in the city and people are so damn shady. They fear so damn much they are willing to do about anything to hide the fact they are cowards. They will talk about you behind your back but when confronted--they freeze up. Coward. If I say something about someone, trust me, I can say it to their face. If I stank that day, I would tell the person they need to take a bath and not giggle about it like I’m a high school cheerleader. And if I am confronted, I would probably apologize immediately because I probably been drinking and didn’t really mean it.

This guy has taken it too far. I confronted him and he would even acknowledge my existence, like I was diseased or something worse. Normally, I don’t care what other people think about me. I really don’t. What bothers me is if you said something about me, be a man and admit it. Or I will be a nigga and make a fucking scene. Yet, since turning thirty years old, I’ve consciously decided to curb my nigga moments. I’m intelligent. I am a writer. I have three college degrees. I give to charity. I give to the homeless. I don’t have the time to punch a bitch in a bar, get arrested, get a misdemeanor, have to pay bail money, have to get a lawyer and hope that’s the end of it. It usually cost around $1000-$2000 dollars. I don’t have time to end up in jail and not make it to work the next day. I hate community service. I lose money in so many directions. I think two grown men fighting in a bar is so unlady like.

So that’s why I recommend the duel. It’s more civilized. Nobody is drunk. It’s in a nice ring with proper protection. And we just beat the shit out of each other like real men. A good fight allows a person to forgive, winner or loser. A good fight says it means something. Shit I might just get my ass kicked but at least I get to defend my honor. I take back my name.

Yet, I am reminded when one of my cousins wanted to fight my best friend in high school. I feared for him. The clever best friend turned the script on my thuggish cousin. He challenged his intellect. He demanded he would only fight him if my cousin could write a thousand word paper on why they should fight. I remember the dumbfounded look on my cousin’s face. He realized he wasn't just some primitive animal and had the capability of real thought. I decided to write this blog in the same sense of my need to kick this guy’s ass. My argument is as follow:

I never liked him. I would see him out all the time but we never spoke. I just considered him part of the bar furniture. He’s one of those people you hate immediately. He has a snobbish entitled demeanor like he’s curing cancer. I don’t care. I don’t care if he has the highest IQ; I had reserved myself to no just speaking to him. But it’s hard to just ignore somebody you see every damn week. I have sometimes tried to be the bigger man and speak or smile. He usually just rolls his eyes. I try to think if I had every done anything to him. I used to drink a lot and god knows how many people I have pissed off. I didn’t want him to like me; I just wanted to know why he didn’t like me.

I heard what he said about me accidently. Funny, the irony was that I was talking smack about this other guy. This guy really did smell like pussy on fire. I couldn’t understand the smell. It wasn’t the first time he smelled that way and it was offensive. I thought it was more than him being unclean but something diseased. It’s when my bar friend turned to me and said some people have said the same thing about me. I paused. I wanted to know who would say such a thing. He pointed to the asshole in question. I decided not to care. Yet, I cared.
I was more ashamed to be honest. I immediately thought of my grandmother who would be furious I would go weeks without bathing. And then again, those were the drug years. When you are constantly high on something and drunk, time goes by so fast. I was living in a blur. I would have to be reminded by friends to bath and eat. I would go a week without eating. It was no secret to me that I often reeked of sex, weed, alcohol, and uncleanliness. I remember when I used to get on the train people immediately moved away from me. I didn’t care. I was usually high so I didn’t care about nothing.

And then I thought to myself, why I am so angry at that guy for just telling the truth. I was angrier at myself. I needed to challenge myself to a duel. I needed to kick my own ass. I was such a mess two years ago. I hate being reminded of it. I hate that my neighbors still try to get me evicted even if I haven’t done anything criminal in the last two years.

When someone pisses me off to the point I want to cause them bodily harm, I first have to pause. I have to challenge what emotion or fear in my personality was triggered. I have to deal head on with my ego and masculinity. I could kick his ass. I could really hurt the bastard. But the fight isn’t with him. The funny thing, it doesn’t matter if you get your life right, somebody is always going to remind you when you were a fuck up. It’s like people feel the need to be superior. I’m done with apologizing. I have made no amends. I was who I was because I was, that’s it.

Yet, I’m still angry. All he has to do is show up. I dare the bastard. All he has to do is say one more thing about me I don’t like. My anger may be a little misdirected, but so is he accusations. He is still a punk ass bitch.

OJ Simpson sentenced to 15 years

2008-12-05T22:17:00.001-08:00

Life of a Male Secretary

2008-11-19T08:51:00.000-08:00

A story from my book..."Who is SEan"

Life of a Male Secretary by MDW

How the hell did I get here? Maybe today will be the day I quit.

I hate my life. I hate my job. I considered briefly throwing my alarm clock out the window because it began to depress me. The sight of it sitting in a corner like a rabies-infected dog ready to devour me if I got too close threw off the Feng Shui in my apartment. It was never a welcoming sound, like police sirens when you had more than the drinking driving limit. The rude bitch was loud and uncouth. It agitated heartbeat. It made reality real. Every morning, just when the bed got comfortable, the blanket just right and I was having that dream where I’m a filthy rich Super-friend, the alarm would sound. Every morning I would try to ignore and refuse my eyes to open. I’d ball myself into the fetal position and rock back and forth begging for five more minutes. Finally, I would have to get up and journey barefoot across the cold wooden floor. I pressed the snooze, which meant in ten minutes I’d have to get up and press it again, and again, and so forth until I’m late for work. I never understood the alarm clock. Was it there just to annoy me? With alarm clocks, it’s always Monday, again, like some fucking cruel joke.

I am a male secretary and everyone looks at me like it’s my fault.

My day begins with a cold and raining Chicago February. Outside, the sky is a miserable sick looking gray and I hide behind dark sunglasses because it’s the perfect excuse to not make eye contact with strangers on the crowded Chicago "L". I hate public transportation. It just feels unnatural that so many people are awake and rushing towards jobs they would quit in a heartbeat if something slightly better came alone. To make things worse, on the "L," this baby starts screaming lucid shameless shrieks that claw at eardrums, refusing to be ignored. That damn baby, flings himself to the floor, tears at his clothes, bangs his head, spits and kicks everything in sight, including people. I tell myself if he kicks me, I’m going to kick it back. His disheveled mother, panicking, can’t help but feel the inches of anger directed at her. It’s eight o’clock on miserable Chicago Monday morning and nobody wants to deal with the demon child or hear his cries. Shit, we’re all crying on the inside. But the baby, doesn’t care or know silence, just raw emotion. I feel jealous. I, like the other sheep, pretend to be polite and understanding when I want to tear my Brooks Brothers uniform from my body and fling myself on the floor and scream. I want to be naked. I don’t want to go to work. I don’t want my life, but I’m too lazy and a coward to change anything. I envy the baby because I know I will never scream in public again.

I turn up the music on my MP3 player because I know I shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts. I feel nauseous, it’s the hangover, but like a good boy who eats his vegetables, I swallow the feeling of the chunky vile resentment rising to my throat. Maybe today will be the day I quit. I get to my job and it’s still there, mocking me and pretending to be indestructible. A naughty fantasy about dynamite and wrecking balls gets my dick hard, but when I push through the revolving door and walk towards the elevator, the thrill goes flaccid. I step on the elevator with the crowd and press the button for my floor. I close my eyes to savor those last few seconds of freedom before the metal doors to my hell open and I become a slave again. I don't even have to open my eyes to know that it’s my floor. I turn off my music and remove dark sunglasses. I pry my eyes open and just like a veteran Broadway star, I know the show must go on. I wait for the metal curtains to pull themselves back. Suddenly, I'm nervous and my mind goes blank. I panic in silence trying to remember my lines. I breathe in hard and out quickly. I violently pull my facial muscles to something that closely resembles a smile. I try to convince myself that if I'd just relax, don't fight it; it'll all be over with quickly. I can feel the resentment rise again and acid turn in my stomach. I put a mint in my mouth and try to awake that sparkle in my eyes. The metal doors open and I step off the cliff. I become somebody else. Everybody pretends.

I say "good morning" to the first person I see, which is the receptionist. We both don’t like our jobs, but we’re polite about it.

All the female secretaries, they don't trust me. They look at me like I walked into their immaculate, aromatic, ladies only bathroom naked and drunk, and started pissing on the floor. I'm the only male out of fifteen secretaries. They hardly make eye contact with me. They only speak with a head nod or awkward smile. It's like I make them nervous. They just can't seem to figure me out. Most of them are older and well medicated. They are grandmothers or mothers with children in high school. On their desks and computer monitors are pictures of graduations, weddings and births. They don’t seem to have a life. They are always trying to feed me sugary donuts or some bullshit they baked the night before. They’re conversation is redundant, something about a daughter in love with the wrong man or a flawless and prodigious grandson who’s coming to town. I listen with blank eyes and a rehearsed smile. The other secretaries are the silicon blondes. They wear designer short skirts and speak like sharp edges. Their fake breasts laugh at every Executive’s joke. The look in their eyes is always hungry. They want to be the wife, not the secretary. They frighten me. They remind me of National Geographic deadly predators who appear regal and refined but in a fraction of second their angry claws could rip through your flesh with intense pleasure.

My place of torment is a corporate Law firm with about 400 employees and only five of us are black: three black lawyers, one black male secretary and a part time black receptionist. It’s an observation that only minorities recognize. The day I interviewed I knew I wouldn’t get the job. I am a black male who doesn’t smile which is often mistaken as militancy. I don’t have a nurturing bone in my body and believe wholeheartily in color people’s time. I get there when I get there. I’m a rebel with no fucking cause. I was sure they would see through me. Everyone at the interview reeked of Mozart and Chopin while I was desperately trying to hide my love for gangster rap. The first thing they told me was that they were looking for someone polished. I was recovery from a two-day hangover. I couldn’t possibly believe that I would fit in. I pondered how I was going to hide my addiction for surfing for porn on the web or nightly binge drinking and strip clubs. Somehow among the frigid silicon blondes and mothering grandma’s, I fooled them. Thank god for altoids, Listerine, Visine and affirmative action.

At the office, there is always somebody’s birthday, anniversary, promotion or new pictures of somebody’s baby. The older secretaries go wild over such celebration. They reserve the conference room and order ice-cream. I hate the mandatory celebrations. We gather in the conference room and for thirty minutes I suffer through dry conversations about kids, hemorrhoids and mortgages. The agony teases me like a rusty knife and threatens to kill but instead it just annoys. Every other week, someone is passing around the picture of somebody’s toddler or selling their fucking kids cookies or some bullshit. Nobody believes in birth control anymore. I wonder how they would react if I passed around the results of my latest STD results.

My boss, I'm his first male secretary and I know he's not too comfortable with it. I try to smile and appear perky like the other grandma and blond silicon secretaries but it’s very difficult considering I’m a black male who doesn’t smile. I grew up in the ghetto with cockroaches and bullets and smiling would’ve got you bullet in the head. It just feels blasphemous.

My boss has this picture of himself on his desk in one of those silver family frames mostly used for graduations or weddings. Instead of the cliché, it is a picture of him holding a dead baby deer in a headlock while his right foot stomped down on the mother's head. There are no captions or subtitles with the picture, but I get the sickest feeling that he killed Bambi. My boss, he would never ask me to get his coffee. He rather ask one of the other female secretaries and it pisses me off. I feel jealous because I want to get that fat bastard his coffee. It’s my job. My boss is so fat he could sell shade. He also has crossed eyes. My boss sweats like a keg of beer and breathes like a diesel engine.

My boss is always asking me inappropriate questions like if I caught that basketball or football game last night. I don't know how to tell him that I don't watch sports, so I find myself studying the sports section before work or buying copies of Sports Illustrated to casually place on my desk just to keep the lie alive. My boss calls me names like "buddy" or "bud" with every sentence as if I'm his friend. I'm beginning to think that he thinks that's my name. My boss, Dan, is from Georgia where it's pronounced "jaw her!" My boss, when he calls out my name, I'm not a grown man anymore with my own apartment and drinking problem but a small child or adoring pet, all bright eyed and wagging my tail as I anxiously wait for my Master to give me a command so that I can get a treat. When I hear my name, I jump from my seat and race to his office knocking down anyone who gets in my way. I find myself giddy with nervous anticipation and I don't know why. My boss, when he's talks to me he doesn't look me in the eyes. It makes me feel as if he is embarrassed for me because I'm a man supposedly doing a woman's job. My boss tries to comfort my masculinity by hitting me in the arm or going into long rants about sports and cars or grabbing his nuts when he talks about the "hot" receptionist with the big knockers. I just nod helplessly. I'm always nodding helplessly. My boss and I, we always get to a point of complete uncomfortable silence. He’s nervous around me. I don’t know if it’s because I’m black, or a man. Maybe it’s both.

I hate my job. I hear the alarm clock going off. It’s Monday again. Everybody pretends.

The premise: “Can you survive?” --Man vs. The ghetto

2008-11-13T11:08:00.001-08:00

Survivor: a person who continues to function or prosper in spite of opposition, hardship, or setbacks. A person whose will to live out shadows insurmountable or often impossible life quicksand. The nakedness of man dealing with the absurd. Existentialism.

Beyonce wrote a song about it. In the video, she and the one surviving Destiny child member and some new chick ran around in somebody’s backyard in torn seductive dress that tugged at their titties and hips like a dirty old man. They looked lost like Beyonce lost one of her good wigs and Kelly and Michelle were desperately helping her look for it before she decided to shave their heads and make her a new weave. In the song Beyonce screams that “thought I couldn’t breathe without you, I’m inhaling. Thought I couldn’t see without you, I got perfect vision.” I guess it was a slap against the other three females who came and went like “bitch I got your man or bitch I got your career.”

ABC has a show called Survivor were 12 people subject themselves to destitute places or broke budget beach resorts and have to compete and survive against one another for like six months . The winner gets one million dollars. It’s a stupid show. It’s not even entertaining. I say take away the cameras, put them in the middle of the jungle and after six months, see who survived. I say don’t vote each other off but kill each other off. That’s real survival.

I remember the book I read in elementary, Lord of the flies; an allegorical novel by Nobel Prize-winning author William Golding. It discussed how culture created by man fails, using as an example a group of British school-boys stuck on a deserted island who try to govern themselves with disastrous results I remember being emotionally destroyed when the character Piggy got killed. They beat him in the head with a rock. I never looked at my friends the same again. I identified with Piggy, mostly because I was a fat kid and sensible, effeminate and artistic. It’s a fat kid’s nightmare to be trapped with the same assholes that taunted you in civilization, now have no parental guidance. I decided that life was a jungle, polite prison and I needed to learn how to fight.

I don’t believe survival is voluntary. It’s live or die. It’s a fist to the stomach that knocks the wind out of you like that silly game boys played in middle school. It’s being knocked to your feet, unable to breathe, gasping for air, and the will to breathe again so you can kick your cousin ass for breaking the rules s and catching you off guard. When I think of failed survivors, I think of Amelia Earhart whose plane disappeared somewhere Pacific Ocean. She didn’t survive. I think of that guy from “Into the Wild” who decided after reading Thoreau he wanted to go live in the forest with the trees. He was found dead like a year later. Was he an idiot? Did he volunteer for his own death for no fucking reason other than idealism? Pretty words aren’t going to feed you when you run out of food. You can’t talk a bear down with quotes from your favorite author. I think of that guy who went to go live with the Bears. Grizzly Man is a 2005 documentary film by German director Werner Herzog. It chronicles the life and death of bear enthusiast Timothy Treadwell. The film consists of Treadwell's own footage of his interactions with grizzly bears before he and his girlfriend were killed and partially ingested by a bear in 2003. Why would anyone want to go live with wild Bears? He wasn’t surviving. He was an idiot.
I don’t believe true survival is voluntary but reactionary. Lately I’ve become obsessed with a show called “Man vs. Wild.” The premise: “Can you survive?”

Imagine you took a dream cruise. I guess in my case one of those overtop gay cruises filled with drag queens in Rupaul high heels, butch Rosie O’Donnell dykes, old rich men, hot young drug addict whores and lots of liquor. I don’t think you are allowed to eat on a gay cruise. It’s not one of those family cruises where people go away for a week and gain like twenty pounds. A gay cruise, hitting the gym is mandatory. Now imagine suddenly the “Chlamydia and Gonherrea”cruise ship crashed against a big rock. I guess a gay titanic. During a morning hangover the ship is sinking fast and it’s up to you to stay alive. I would first have to ask myself why the hell I am on a gay cruise. I hate boats. I get sea sick something horrible. Yet, unlike most black folks I can swim but I don’t want to test my skills in the middle of somebody’s ocean.

Now imagine after you spent a horrible couple of months on somebody’s island with drag queens without their make-up, you are rescued. On the way back to what you hope is a liquor store, your helicopter crashes on a jungle island. I know that’s fucked up. First I would have to ask myself why am I in a helicopter flying over a jungle. The question is could I survive. No. I would be dead in the first ten minutes. I can barely wash my own clothes. Everything I cook burns. If there isn’t a takeout menu, I will starve to death.

The last scenario. Imagine you are in Antarctica climbing some mountain. You slip and fall and there is a snow storm. You have to survive the brutal cold. First, I would have to ask myself why the hell am I in Antarctica climbing a mountain. Did I think weed was going to be at the top?

The unimaginable or absolutely insane is the premise of the show “Man vs. Wild.” Some guy named Bear Grylls consistently tests his limits on where or what he can survived just in case. I think Bear Grylls sounds like a porn name. I find the show entertaining like watching a car crash. I keep watching to see if or when he will get himself killed. At 23 years old, Bear, climbed Mount Everest. He is obviously a thrill seeker. I can’t imagine me ever being stuck in the Sahara Dessert. I can’t imagine myself cruising a swap just for the hell of it. Bear is willing to eat anything from mosquitoes, worms and even Camel hearts. Before I eat a worm off a tree I would have to be really really hungry. I don’t even like sloppy joes. I don’t like food that doesn’t match my dishes.

I guess my frustration is that I’ve defined his adventures as useless information. I don’t ever see myself in a Jungle running away from a lion. I can’t outrun a lion. I haven’t been to the gyms in years. I watch him getting himself stuck in quicksand and I think to myself, why? There are no quicksand traps in the hood. It’s not like I’m going to be in a rush to work and suddenly fall in quicksand.

So I decided I should get my own show, Man vs. the Ghetto. I was born in the Texas projects. Every day was the question “Will I survive?” In middle school it was can I make it to ninth grade without joining a gang. Of course I watched the movie “Colors” and decided I might like getting initiated. It was a male tradition in my family. I joined the East Terrance Gangsters or “ETG.” I figured since my older cousin was one of the leaders I wouldn’t have to get my ass beat. I was wrong. Joining a gang wasn’t like my family could just buy a wing at some university. I hated being in a gang. I didn’t like the wardrobe. I just didn’t see myself wearing dickies, a wife beater and house shoes. It was a ridiculous outfit. Also, there were no medical benefits in being in a gang. If you got shot and killed, there was no burial funeral money. Somebody would poor out their beer when they get high and think of you, but who gives a fuck. I also asked about their scholarship program. There was none. There was also no democracy. We didn’t get to vote our leaders into their positions. I put in my resignation the summer I decided to go off to math camp. I broke the “don’t ask, don’t tell rule.” I said I was gay. I was quickly honorably discharged but I still had to braid Ray Ray hair for the next four years.

In the ghetto I needed to learn how to survive if I accidently stepped on some angry drug dealer white sneakers. That’s a real test. I say pretend like you are retarded. Stop speaking in tongue and glorifying God. I think it’s a rule that a gansta can’t kick your ass if you start singing a gospel song at the top of your lungs. If you step on an angry drug dealer white sneakers, don’t become confrontation. Immediately back down. Tell a joke. I once saw this kid get his ass beat for stepping on the wrong angry black male tennis shoes while they were playing basketball. Instead of the kid apologizing and pretending he was retarded he worsened the situation by being confrontational. I guess he needed his niggard moment. He got a niggard ass whipping. I don’t need to win any fights. I just need to live. Also another reason how to get out of a fight is to stump the gangster’s intelligence. It’s like giving a robot unsolvable problem that contradicts its programming. My best friend once got out of a fight with my gangster cousin by demanding him to write him a five page argument on why he wanted to fight him. Of course my cousin feeling conflicted originally set out to write the paper but not getting past more than five sentences. It was genius.

In the ghetto, the number one rule was not to stay at any house party after 1am. Because usually that’s when everybody starts getting real drunk and high and then the fights start. Especially get out before 2am because that’s usually when the drive by happens.

My life in the projects had always been about survival. I needed to not make eye contact with the wrong people. I needed not to show people into my home. My grandmother every time she bought something usually covered it in a blanket and snuck it into her house.

I think to myself, how long would so called born survivor, survive the ghetto? His gay porn name alone would get his ass kicked.

I drank the Obama Kool-aid

2008-11-09T10:10:00.000-08:00

Growing up in the hot filthy Louisiana sun, I thought it was a good day when my grandma let me make the “kulayed” or correctly “Kool Aid.” I would run into the kitchen, grab the big glass container, and make the agonizing decision of grape or red. If it was fried chicken it was always red. If we were eating ribs or pigs feet, it was usually grape. Sometimes I mixed them together to make a dirty purple surprise. My kulayed recipe was usually 3 liters of water and 8 cups of sugar. It was like drinking diabetes. The kids loved it; the adults usually diluted it with bathtub rum or something. I guess that’s how MD 20/20 was born. I liked how the red or grape color "lipstick" the lips. After a few cups of red my lips were the shade of classy hookers in the red-light districts of New Orleans or deep black liked I smoked crack. Those were the days.

I have this friend from college. He can be somewhat of an asshole sometimes. He always mentions a person race for no reason. He calls his black friend, the black friends as if for some reason he needs to mention the disclaimer before telling the story i.e. (I’m going to Chicago to visit my black friend. You know he’s black). I often wonder does he mention me that way. I’m like if you visiting a Chicago friend, why not just say that. Why tell me he is black? I don’t give a fuck. I asked him when he is online with me does he tell everybody I’m his black Yahoo messenger buddy like I wake up in the morning say to myself what a great day to be black again. I don’t tell anybody he is Mexican. Maybe it’s because I like the element of surprise like guess who is coming to dinner. Does it even matter?

This friend in casual conversation asks me if I liked Kool Aid. I told him that I was black, of course I liked Kool Aid. I also like greens, fried chicken, and watermelon and pigs feet. I’m southern. I asked him did he like Tequila, cheap beer, fry all his food and wrap it in tortillas with beans and cheese. I asked him did he like driving in a car with twenty of his closet relatives stuffed like sweating sardines. I asked him if he was in America legally. He didn’t find my rebuttal too humorous.

A person culture can have double meaning. Fried chicken became a negative staple in black life. Fried chicken has a longer history for blacks more so than KFC or Popeye’s. It was the meat that was the cheapest and lasted the longest without being refrigerator. Its roots are deep in slavery. The slave-owners at the time didn’t feed their slaves caviar and good champagne instead slaves often had to eat what others would not eat like the insides of the pig, it’s feet, make cornbread that would last a couple of weeks. It was “eat or starve.” I can’t pick cotton on an empty stomach. It’s called soul food for a reason. If you don’t feed me right, the sole of my foot might get stuck up your ass.

A person culture can also be used against him. I liked in the book “Invisible Man” when the main character has to make peace with liking sweet potato pie. What was once a childhood delight suddenly as an adult became a racial footnote? I know the feeling. When I was a kid one 4th of July I was sitting on the porch eating my cold piece of watermelon. Sometimes in Louisiana the white tourists like to browse through the ghetto for some fucking reason. Anyways, the white couple wanted to take a picture of me eating my piece of watermelon. I like attention so of course I had no problem. It wasn’t until my grandmother came running out of the house, swinging a frying pan, snatching the camera and slamming it to the floor. I didn’t understand why she was so upset. She called them every name but a child of god. She grabbed me by the arm and made me sit in my room for the rest of the evening. I didn’t understand. I thought all the nice white couple wanted was a picture of a black kid with nappy wool hair, no shoes or shirt chewing at his watermelon like the sun melts ice. What was the harm? I understand now.

During the President election so many Fox news pundits kept referring to Obama effect as the Obama Kool-Aid. Even on the view, Elizabeth Hasselbeck would refer to the other three women as drinking the Obama Kool-aid. I felt since the term was originally phrased by Bill O’Reiley the suggestion was double negative. It was not just pointing out the fact in patronizing humor that Obama was black without saying I guess you bitches are drinking the Obama malt liquor. It was underhanded. Also, it tried to link those who supported Obama as being brainless followers. It was trying to sneakily say that voting for Obama would lead America off a cliff. They kept saying he wasn’t ready as if he still needed to reformed, one of the favorite Republican words.

The history of “Don't Drink The Kool-Aid” goes back to November of 1978 when the world was shocked by the suicide deaths of 913 members of the People's Temple cult. Jim Jones, the leader of the group, convinced his followers to move to Jonestown, Guyana, a remote community that Jones carved out of the South American jungle and named after himself. The mass suicide occurred after U.S. Rep. Leo Ryan of California and a team of reporters visited the compound to investigate reports of abuse. After some members tried to leave with the congressman’s group, Jim Jones had Ryan and his entourage ambushed at the nearby airstrip. He then ordered his flock to commit suicide by drinking grape-flavored Kool-Aid laced with potassium cyanide. Jonestown tragedy is the saying, “Don’t drink the Kool-Aid.” This has come to mean, "Don’t trust any group you find to be a little on the kooky side."
I find most Republicans a little on the kooky side. The past election was so corrupt and mean spirited. They called Obama every word but the child of god. At first he was a Muslim, terrorists, socialists and then communist. It was as if they were Jim Jones afraid of losing power so they tried to convince their entire base to drink their Kool-Aid.

It’s fear that leads us to the dark. I’m so happy America didn’t fall for the same ole tricks. Tricks or for kids. Voting consciously is for adults. Obama was right. Don’t boo the opponent, just vote.
Yet, for my own humor, I started thinking if Obama was a Kool-Aid what flavor would he be? I really don’t see Obama drinking Kool-aid. I see him more as a tea drinker or coffee. He is a health freak.

But if Obama was a Kool-aid these are my suggestions for General Mills:

Ashy knees Negro flavor – a mixture of grape and red, a good dirty purple.
Hawaiian Punch funkdafied – Black cherry red mixed with pineapple for his Hawaiian roots and a James Brown split of banana.
Ghetto booty mullato – Lemon flavored spiked with cherry grape.
Obama Tropicana elected – mix all the flavors together and see what color happens.

If I was a Kool Aid what flavor would I be? These are my suggestions.

Drunk – half rum, some sugar and lemon
Bacardi grape sublime – Grape Kool-Aid with bathhouse rum
Liquor – Fuck the Kool-Aid, just give me a shot.
Hare on the dog orange – Orange Kool-Aid and orange vodka.

In other words, now that I’m a grown man, I like my Kool-aid with as much liquor in it as possible vs. sugar and served with a nice fat blunt.

Afro-existentialism

2008-11-03T04:08:00.000-08:00

Sundays are my bad television days. I mostly watch reality television (if there’s such a thing anymore). I watch everything I tivo-ed from Project Runway, Charm School, I love New York, Flava Flav and now it’s the real Desperate Housewives of Atlanta. I tried watching that Paris Hilton show “BFF” but that dizzy blonde just makes me angry like “no sex in the champagne room.” I hate when people try to become respectable.

I was watching the Desperate Housewives of Atlanta and considering the economy I felt a little jealous. They went on about spending seven thousand dollars on five pair of shoes. The first episode one of the wives bought an Escalade, all cash. It was all I’m so damn fabulous and rich. One of the ladies even donated $15,000 to her church. She said she gave every week. When I was going to church back in the day, they were lucky to even get the lent out of my pocket. My grandmother used to give us money to put in the basket but I usually put it in my pocket. I figured god would understand. Yet, with all their money and stunting, they were all still some unhappy bitches. They fought over the most ridiculous things like a name being forgotten for a party. It meant war to them. I changed the channel. I knew there were real people in the world at real war and could care less if they didn’t get into black Barbie’s party. So I started to think, what was really important to me?

Do you know what is important? It’s such a selfish delusion. When I was five years old, my light blue blanket with the yellow stars was the most important thing to me. I went everywhere with that blanket, no matter how smelly, dirty or unattractive it got. One day it came up missing. I found out years later my mother burned it. When I was thirteen years old getting an ear ring was the most important thing to me. I let a cousin stick a dirty needle through my ear and it got infected. My grandmother still beat my ass before she took me to the hospital. I remember looking in the mirror at my ear, swollen to the size of a lemon, and thinking to myself that I looked cute. When I was fifteen years old, losing my virginity became the most important thing to me. I didn’t want to die a virgin. I didn’t want aliens to come to the earth or a meteor without me ever had gotten my dick sucked or at least felt up. When I finally had the experience with Tanika it was horrible. I felt she was too aggressive. I felt I didn’t like it. I felt she was missing something like a dick. When I was seventeen years old moving away from home was important. My grandfather made me get a job my senior year in high school at the Mega Grocery store. When I graduated high school they offered me the manager position. I was already the janitor, cashier, busboy, buttboy or whatever menial job they threw at me, so I wasn’t surprised they wanted to ruin my life forever. I told my grandfather they offered me the job and he suggested that I didn’t go off to college. He said happiness in life was marrying a good Christian girl, a good job and to go to church every Sunday. I wanted to bitch slap him. I wanted to runaway to New York. I wanted to explore the world. I wanted to get as far away as possible from San Antonio, TX. I did get out of San Antonio. In the big city life was too fast. Too cold. I got caught up in too many things. Sometimes I wish I would’ve taken that Mega Grocery Manager job. I would probably own the damn store by now. Instead, I’m hiding out from my drug dealer because I owe him money.

Importance is what makes us feel safe. The war in Iraq should be important to me, but it isn’t because I don’t feel directly threatened. I should care about a lot of things that’s happening in the world. My sister calls me every other day to complain about the price of gas. I have to explain to her that I live in a metropolitan city with great public transportation. I like walking. It keeps me skinny. I would be as fat as her if I still lived in Texas. She drives to her mailbox. It’s only at the end of the driveway.

So what’s really important, make me feel safe when I lay my head down at night? I would like to say my family, but I can’t stand 99 percent of those bastards. I would like to say my friends, but they are mostly aging alcoholic drag queens that I only see at the bar, or dug addicts, or sex addicts, or born again Christians. I would like to say my job, but I’ve been chronically unemployed since the late 90s. I would like to say love but I can’t seem to make that work in my favor yet. Youth was once important to me but it betrayed me. I got old. As I approached thirty, I had to ask myself what really is important to me because I didn’t feel safe anymore in my life. I asked one of my born again Christian friend what was important to him, and he said having a close relationship with god. I laughed for a week. I remember a couple of years back, the only thing important to him was scoring a bag of Crystal Meth and fucking all weekend. Now he prays to Jesus. I try not to judge. I guess change is important to me. The opportunity to change. When I watch reality television I ask myself will those people every change. It’s sad that the most horrible representation of them is forever embedded in American culture. Can Omarosa stop being a bitch? Can New York ever just be Tiffany? Can Flava Flav stop procreating?

I think we have to allow ourselves to change. Vote Barack Obama, 2008.

Sand castle discos and wet dreams.

2008-11-02T01:58:00.000-07:00

Last night I started packing my suitcase. I dug out the globe from the back of the closet and spun it wildly like spin the bottle, trying to see where it would land and where I should move just in case Obama loses. I feel as if I am a participate on American next top model. If I don’t win this shit, I’m fucking hitting it. I’m not going to be crying into the camera talking about maybe next time. If McCain wins I am on the first flight back to Africa. I’m sure I got relatives there.

Last night I got drunk and started looking at airplane tickets. Actually the prices weren’t that bad. I could fly to Kenya for under a thousand dollars. I can go to Cape Town for $1200 and that was round trip.

Maybe I would pack a bag and head to Japan. I like the Japanese. I could get a job teaching Ebonics.

I had a horrible dream the other day. The election is driving me crazy. Some nights I wake up screaming please Sarah Palin don’t shoot me; I’m not a fucking moose. Some days I wake up thinking John McCain touched me in my private place. Some nights I wake up thinking Joe Biden is a republican under cover. Sarah Palin may say something stupid shit but she doesn’t threatening the voters if they vote for her old man the world may come to an end. Biden is such an idiot.

And then there’s suspicious voting booths. If you press Obama it logs in McCain. I don’t want to go to jail on election day for having taken my computer monitor and thrown it through a window. And then there’s that email that tells all black people to vote on November 5th. And then there’s the Bradley effect. The Bradley effect, less commonly called the Wilder effect,[1][2] is a proposed explanation for observed discrepancies between voter opinion polls and election outcomes in some US government elections where a white candidate and a non-white candidate run against each other.[3][4][5] The effect refers to a supposed tendency on the part of some voters to tell pollsters that they are undecided or likely to vote for a black candidate, and yet, on election day, vote for his or her white opponent. It was named for Tom Bradley, an African-American who lost the 1982 California governor's race despite being ahead in voter polls going into the elections.[6]

I was thinking maybe I should just vote for McCain. Every year the person I vote for on American Idol never wins. Every year my choice for Project Runway never wins. It’s like I suck at predicting reality television. So how in the hell am I supposed to pick the right presidential candidate. It’s like I’m bad mojo. I think I will enact the niggard effect. I will tell everybody I’m voting for John McCain and change my mind once I ‘m inside the voting booths. If all the Joe Plumbers think I’m voting for McCain, maybe they will vote for Obama. It’s genius.

I am not Joe the plumber.

2008-10-24T05:12:00.000-07:00

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!!!!!!

Vote or I will kill you bitch.

2008-10-23T02:06:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-10-17T03:56:00.000-07:00

Please click on link below to see the funniest shit you ever would see.

http://www.worldstarhiphop.com/videos/video.php?v=wshh020E532HFvevla5y

I’m too poor to be happy.

2008-10-14T23:49:00.000-07:00

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.

Happy birthday to me

2008-10-05T19:48:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-10-01T23:20:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-10-01T23:01:00.000-07:00

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.

The comeback kid

2008-10-01T22:47:00.000-07:00

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.

“Don’t you know they shoot alcoholics down there?”

2008-10-01T22:45:00.000-07:00

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.

The hardest fucking job

2008-09-29T20:43:00.000-07:00

Minimum wage is a joke. They ain’t lying when they say its minimum “How do you tell this Mexican to sweep the floor. What is sweep in Spanish?” Cursed the guy making the sandwiches at Wendys. I tried to remember my college Spanish and then remembered I failed that class. The only word I remember is “maricon” which is Spanish for homosexual. My teacher pointed to me in class one day and told me I should remember that word.

The line at Wendys was frustrating because some fat bastard was holding it up. He wanted his sandwich rewrapped. The Wendys guy looked like he was about to pass out from heat exhaustion. He was dripping sweat everywhere. I felt sorry for him. He tried to give the sandwich for free to the fat bastard but the guy refused. He said just because he was fat didn’t mean he wanted to eat two double bacon cheeseburgers. The Wendys guy said he would just throw it in the trash. The fat bastard screamed that he should give it to somebody that needed it. He looked at me; he demanded the guy give me the sandwich. I was like what the fuck. I then remember my tennis shoes that I had ducktaped because they were falling apart. My psychiatrist made fun of them. She said I should care more about my presentation. I was in therapy so the last thing I was trying to do was impress that bitch. Anyways, I told the fat bastard and Wendys guy I didn’t want the sandwich. I actually did want the sandwich. The Wendys guy threw the sandwich in the trash.

As I counted the change in my pocket, I knew I had enough for two 99 cent cheeseburgers. Damn I should’ve taken the sandwich. I thought back when I was in high school I worked at Wendys in downtown San Antonio. It was the hardest job I ever had in my life. I was sure picking cotton would’ve been easier. I only lasted three hours. It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t enough that those people don’t get paid that much but they have to put up with so much attitude. It’s like there’s some sick fascination in America to kick people when they are down.

It was my turn to order from the Wendys guy. He looked a mess. He wrapped my burger as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. I tried to ignore it. For real, I don’t care if they spit in my food as long as I don’t see it or it isn’t crunchy.

You won’t understand when you get older.

2008-09-27T16:39:00.001-07:00

I was seventeen years old. I just got off work. It was a twelve hour shift at AMC Movie Theater. I was walking to catch the last bus so I could get home and get some sleep. At the bus stop this kid walked up to me. He was about ten years old. He asked me if I had some change so he could get home. I questioned why he was out on the streets so late at night begging for change. Where were his parents? I felt sorry for him. I wanted to make sure he got home safely. I went into my pocket and pull out a dollar. He saw that I had more and demanded two dollars. I didn’t like his tone. He then said that if I didn’t give him ten dollars he was going to run to the cops and tell them I touched him. I felt my blood go cold. I looked around and saw the cop car that I hadn’t even noticed just a couple seconds before. At first I was a little impress with his con game. I wonder why I didn’t think of that when I was ten years old. I wasn’t pretty sure he had freaked out a lot of adults. I grabbed my dollar from that kid’s hand. I no longer gave a damn how he got home. I told him he shouldn’t be on the streets late at night harassing people. I walked away from that kid as fast as I could.

I don’t like kids. They don’t drink or smoke and often tell lies. Growing up, my grandmother never believed me when I said I didn’t do it. She used to tell me I went to bed to wake up to tell more lie, whatever the hell that meant. But we live in an overly protected world. Students beat up teachers. I saw this one news story where this old woman was attacked by a group of girls because she told them their outfits were smutty.
They beat the shit out of her.

Present tense, I was at a Laundromat. I was sitting down trying to read my book when this little girl came up to me. I looked around to make sure she belonged to somebody. They tell kids not to talk to strangers. I believe I shouldn’t talk to strange kids. And I just saw an episode on Oprah about child predators. I felt a grown man talking to some strange little girl couldn’t be a good thing, but her mother washing clothes seem to care less. The little girl and I started talking and she started asking me all kind of crazy questions. She wanted to know if I had a wife. She wanted to know if I had kids. She wanted to know if I believed in Jesus Christ. She wanted to know if I had a Mama. She wanted to know if I had a daddy. The questions startled me because I knew the correct answers were unsuited for some gregarious little girl. I also didn’t want to lie. I don’t like lying to children. I told her I didn’t have a wife. She asked me if I lived alone. I told her I had a roommate. She asked me if he was married. I told her no. She asked me if we stayed in the same room. I said sometimes. I really wanted to say when I get drunk. She asked me if I had a child. I told her I did. That he lived in Texas with his mother. She asked why I wasn’t married to her. I wanted to tell her that she was a lesbian who paid me ten years ago for my sperm. But I couldn’t. She asked me about my mother. I told her she was alive. I wanted to tell her I haven’t seen my mother in over ten years. She asked about my father. I told her he was dead. She asked me how. I wanted to tell her he got killed trying to rob a bank he already robbed three times before. But I didn’t. I just told her she would understand when she got older. But that was lie. It’s like telling a child that Santa Claus is real. Shit, I was older and I still didn’t understand.

Life is very complicated. Heroes aren’t often heroes. But for children the instinctual need to keep like simple and magical is more for us than them. Because birth is a miracle. It doesn’t matter if the mother is on Maury Polvich with five possible men that could be the baby’s father. It’s still a miracle. But like that first kid who tried to con me, innocent doesn’t last for long. I miss innocence. Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell that little girl the truth. She would understand when she got older.

Why I hate David Blaine?

2008-09-26T19:14:00.000-07:00

With his latest failure to “shock” the world, David Blaine may be performing at children birthday parties as a magician. I can imagine the horror. He’d probably want to shove 500 cupcakes up his ass with the candles lit for no fucking reason. I only need to ask, WHY David Blaine, WHY!!!!

I don’t get him. What’s the difference between David Blaine and Amy Winehouse? He is supposed to be an Endurance artist which is an artistic expression through acts of physical pain, trauma, survival or deprivation. Roots can be found in religious asceticism which links physical torture to a way of spiritual transformation.[1]
Shit, I should consider myself an endurance artist. In college I once won a bet that I could drink 13 tequila shots and not die. I didn’t die but ended up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. My friends called me “pussy willow” for a year. I guess I failed my magic trick and they didn’t get to watch me die. Isn’t what the fascination of David Blaine about? We are just waiting for him to die. Every time I see Amy Winehouse, I astound by her crackhead endurance. It’s like every picture of her gets worse and worse. Nobody can understand why she is still alive considering her abuse of body and drugs. Yet people still buy her concert tickets just to see if she will pass out on stage or overdose. It’s sick. I don’t get it. But at least with Amy Winehouse, she has some talent. David Blaine is a con man.

It started with David Blaine burying himself alive. Then he put himself in a block of ice. And then he decided to stand on a thirty foot pole for 44 days. He stayed under water for like 17 hours and lastly he decided to hang upside down in central park for 60 hours. WHY David Blaine. WHY!!!!

What ever happened to the magician that cut women in half? What happened to pulling rabbits out of hats?

I don’t get today’s magicians, they are some freaky bastards. I hope David Blaine next trick is to disappear off the face of the planet, maybe land somewhere in the sun. I really hate that bastard.

The fat bastard strikes again

2008-09-26T16:10:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I feel as if I’m a bag of Cheetos from becoming obese. My grocery store was having a sell on Cheetos for 99 cent for the big bag. The maximum amount was 12 bags. I got 12 bags. I mean, Cheetos are hardly ever on sale. I couldn’t refuse. The cashier of course looked at me like I was crazy. She asked me if I was going to a party. I normally don’t like making conversations with the cashiers. It was none of her damn business what I had planned to do. I told her I had planned to get a gallon of rum and sit in my recliner and eat all 12 bags and have a Doctor Who marathon. I didn’t know if I could eat all 12 bags in one night, but damnit I was going to try.

Gluttony in America is a tradition. Shit we have all you can eat buffets, Sam’s club and Costco. I mean, who really needs a tub of butter. I would buy it just to see if I could give myself a heart attack in a week. There was a time I wouldn’t eat anything I couldn’t deep fry.

Yet, the great thing about being a gluttonous pig is that I don’t gain that much weight. I mean after 12 bags of Cheetos, I might get really sick and shit orange diarrhea for like a week, but the weight would come off. I think my steady diet of cheap rum keeps me a normal size, even if Webmd tells me I need to lose twelve pounds. But I’m getting older. A family meal of Popeyes used to only stick to my body for a couple of days. Now it takes two weeks before my body rids itself of the excess.

That’s when I realize I’m only a bag of Cheetos from becoming Jaba the Hut. People look at really fat people and wonder how they got so out of control. It really just starts with five cheeseburgers thinking your body will shit it all off but instead it just somehow stays in your stomach. I guess I will stop eating so damn much as soon as I win the all you can eat hotdog contest. It's a childhood dream of mine.

I ain’t old.

2008-09-26T11:22:00.000-07:00

Is it karma? My sister when I moved in with her my junior year in high school dated the worse loser. He never paid his rent. He often refused to work. My sister refused to kick him out. I had to tell her that he tried to suck my dick as I got out of the shower. He didn’t do that, she didn’t believe me, but in good faith she kicked him out. She never forgave me. I thought I did her a favor. That guy was a loser. We constantly got into fights. I was so arrogant, President of Student council and say no to drugs with a broom stuck up my ass. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t work. I couldn’t understand how a grown man only wanted to get high and drunk. I told myself I was never going to grow up and be nothing like that loser.

Over ten years later, I woke up in the middle of the afternoon on my bedroom floor. I immediately felt something wet. I hoped it was it was that my water bottle fell in the bed and not that I pissed on myself. Thank god it was water. I decided that I was hungry. I gathered enough strength to walk the three blocks to Wendy’s.

My birthday is coming up again in a week. I don’t really care for counting days until I die. I like to look at my life in eras. There was my arrival era, had to get the world ready for my existence. There was the bratty kid era. I got a beating everyday during those years. There was the rebel without a cause years that lasted from being a runaway until I graduated college. There was my holy than thou era when I was a reborn Christian. There was the corporate America era when I quickly realized I had no desire to climb the ladder. And next came the unemployment era which I’m still testing out.

I was walking down the street when I ran into a group of teenagers. I don’t like teenagers in groups because they just look like they are up to no good. They were singing real loud a Lil Wayne song. When they approached me they stopped. One of them smoking a cigarette immediately threw it to the ground. They looked petrified. One of the young boys said, Sorry sir, we didn’t mean to be disrespectful.” I was like, who the hell are you calling sir bitch, I’m only 31 years old.

I felt old. Real old. I couldn’t understand why they would assume I was an adult. I hadn’t agreed to that insanity. I immediately thought of my sister’s old boyfriend. I wonder if I had judged him too harshly. I grew up to be a grown man who just wanted to drink and not work. But to those kids, I looked like an adult. I was old enough to be one of their fathers if I had them in middle school. I wanted to run after them and tell them it was all a lie. That growing up is all a lie. I wanted to show them my ipod and I had Lil Wayne on my playlist. I wanted to buy some weed from one of them.

But I didn’t run after those crazy kids. They would’ve just thought of me as some old crazy drunk and called the cops.

2008-09-22T21:15:00.000-07:00

Comedians I like

david chapelle
Kathy Griffith
Margeret cho
Ellen degeneres
Whoopis Goldberg
Dave Attell
Richard Pryor
Chris Rock
Some-more
Jim Gaffegan
wanda sykes
Carrot top

On becoming a comedian. Day 1, 9/20/2008 1:32 PM

2008-09-20T11:05:00.000-07:00

I decided to become a comedian. Actually I decided it a year ago, but just remembered since I’m currently unemployed. In high school, my best friend and I said when we went off to college we were going to do stand up. That never happened. Actually my friend Ontario was the comedian. He had natural timing and instant charisma. All I wanted to do was be his comedy writer. I thought we would be a good team. He eventually got his high school girlfriend pregnant, they’re married and now he’s an elementary school teacher. I talked to him some years back, but I was prissy drunk and high, not making any sense dribbling idiotic. I wasn’t helping to dispel my high school reunion rumor that I had become a crack head.

I don’t consider myself a comedian. I consider myself a writer. I don’t even think I am funny. I am awkward. I don’t like people. I have anxiety problems.

I started making phone calls. I called my favorite Aunt and told her I was going to become a comedian. She asked me if I had had a HIV test. I was like what the fuck does that have to do with me becoming a comedian. It’s not like I was going into the army. She said she was watching the news and HIV rates up north scared her. She said I can’t be funny if I was dead. I told her if I died by slipping on a banana peel like in the cartons and busted my head, that would be funny.

I told my roommate that I was going to become a comedian. He said rent was due on the first, no fucking excuses.

I called my older sister and told her I wanted to become a comedian. She said I wasn’t funny, more annoying. She said I was actually sad and pitiful. I called a fat bitch and hung up the phone. Fat black women are the meanest people in the world. I was always afraid of her growing up. She always looked like she was hungry. I once ate her cheetos and she hit me in the head with a brick.

I told the cashier at my grocery store I wanted to be a comedian. She laughed. I was like finally, somebody got the joke

Obama for President

2008-09-16T20:32:00.000-07:00

I had a horrible realization. If Obama does become President of the United States, the first black president, does that mean I have to suffer years of whites claiming they are not racists because they voted for Obama, like random white men at the disco club proving to me they can dance or jump or they watch BET.

It makes you go hmmm.

What would Jesus do?

2008-09-06T04:51:00.001-07:00

When I was six years old, my mother promised me an Easter Basket. Mama was a crackhead. When Easter came, she told me she hid my Easter Basket in the backyard. I didn’t think too much about it why she would hide my Easter Basket and not just give it to me. So I went in the backyard looking for it. I looked everywhere. I looked in the tree. I looked in the shed. I looked in the trashcans. But no Easter Basket.

I went to my mother and demanded my Easter Basket. She told me that somebody probably stole it and I should keep looking. So I kept looking for a week. It didn’t dawn on me that maybe she never got me a Easter Basket. I just had the picture in my head of a yellow basket with a huge Easter Bunny.

Where’s my fucking Easter basket, MAMA! Did you smoke it?

I fart you

2008-09-06T04:45:00.000-07:00

They say when you are with someone a long time that you begin to look like them. It got me to start thinking about farts. When you are with someone five or ten years basically you eat the same food. You have the same routine so that must mean you have the same digestive process.

You farted the other night. I didn’t hear it. I just smelled it. At first I had to decide if it was me. I usually recognize strangers’ farts. I don’t know what they eat. But when you farted it took five minutes to figure it out it wasn’t me. I didn’t even cover my nose. I just let the fact we were becoming the same person linger in the air. And then you farted again, that time it wasn’t so silent. And it didn’t smell the same. I knew you had been eating ice cream. I smiled. I got up and got the febreze and sprayed you down as you slept like a farting baby. I remember how my farts weren’t always pleasant. I loved you more. I fart you.

Does she swallow or spit

2008-09-06T04:42:00.000-07:00

Dear Star Jones:

I understand that this is a hard time for you at the moment. I mean with all the weight lost, getting fired from the View, your television show ending on Court TV and now divorce. Life can get shitty real fast, trust me I know. I do mean to add to your problems or just cause another distraction with my issues of your divorce. I think it was misrepresenting for you to hustle the television watchers with your wedding. You made it seemed like it was the event of 2004. You talked about getting married on the view for years and it when it finally happened you vomited everywhere about it. And then you solicited for gifts. You set up a gift registry for your small fans to send you things that the big celebrities wouldn’t waste their time. Now three years later and you’re getting a divorce, I’ll like my punch bowl back. I’m not for sure if you even used it. I feel cheated. This letter is the first of many to collect a debt from Star Jones.

Why I could never become a crackhead

2008-09-06T04:33:00.000-07:00

I smoked crack a couple of times back in the day. I was with a friend and we started out just drinking vodka and then we upgraded to weed but it was only half of a joint. He mentioned he had some crack like it was gum. He deviouslyt smiled and asked if I was down. I was already going to hell or rehab. I was thrown-back and not wanting to look un-cool shook my head to agree I wouldn’t mind. He lit up the pipe, it was a small tube with the end blocked off burnt black. I tried to pretend to know what I was doing and of course I lit of the wrong end and all the crack fell out on the floor. My friend didn’t get angry, he just picked up the broken pieces and proceeded to teach me how to do it the right way. Hitting the crackpipe wasn’t as hopeless as I was lead to believe by the television. I thought after one inhale I was going to be on the streets begging to suck dick for a dollar. Yet, I didn’t feel anything. I kept doing most of the night but nothing. I mean, I would feel a euphoric sensation for about five seconds and then it go away and I’d have to hit the pipe again. It was annoying.

A couple of months later I tried crack again but this time it was with a different person. He was more of a stranger. I didn’t like his attitude. He seemed paranoid and kept accusing me of stealing his crack. I decided to leave his apartment. Crack wasn’t that serious for me. A few more times I tried crack, one time this guy came to my apartment. He said he had the good stuff. When he got to my house we lit up the crackpipe. It was better crack than I had previously experimented with. But the guy was crazy. Every time he hit the pipe he would start stomping around my apartment like he was in the Broadway play “stomp.” He made so much noise I had to put him out. He left the crack. I flushed it down the toilet. I’m lying, I smoked it.
I learned with drugs that it isn’t always the drug but the people who come with the drugs. When smoking drugs I don’t just get the high but I got to also deal with the users. I found crack heads are the most annoying drug addicts. They are always paranoid and irritable. I can’t see how anyone can enjoy crack when they constantly looking out the window, dancing around the house and looking for more crack.

I finally decided to give up hardcore drugs because the lifestyle was unromantic. I just wanted to get high, I didn’t need the soap opera. I only smoke weed now. I never heard anyone getting shot over weed.

Half on a baby

2008-09-06T04:31:00.000-07:00

Daylight Saving Time

Twice a year it seems we all bitch about it. What’s the point? I mean, really, where I sign up to have it stopped. It has no real purpose in the modern world so why don’t we just get rid of it? Who do we talk to?

I mean its election time, so should that be on the ballot somewhere. Do I write my congressman? Do I send a letter to the newspaper? I mean somebody has to get off their ass and stop the insanity. I mean why are we as a nation setting out clocks back and forth like fucking retards every year.

I decided to boycott. I wasn’t going to re-set my clocks. I was just going to go on with my life. Well I realized I really didn’t get much choice. All my clocks in the house reset themselves, even the clock on the stove. My fancy alarm clock even reset itself. The only clock that stayed the same was the VCR clock. I decided to leave it alone. Viva la revolution.

FameWhore

2008-08-18T19:49:00.001-07:00

I wonder how hard it is to become famous. I guess I’m what they call a pop culture junkie and it always amazes me the people who infest my entertainment like cockroaches. It seems these days it don’t take much considering Reality TV. I always ask myself, am I learning anything. Is my life getting any better? I mean I like bad TV like old school TV like Melrose place and 90210. At least bad TV in the early 90s had a plotline. Now it’s Bad girls, a butch of heffas just yelling at each other with no point in sight. Is it just for the fame?

What is the attraction to fame? I mean I want to be known, that is I want people to read my blog and eventually buy my books and novels whenever they are completed. I don’t want fame just for fame reason. I want a paycheck. I want a job. I don’t think fame is a job. I think fame is misguided celebrated unemployment. I mean, what the hell does Paris Hilton or Nicole Ritchie do for a living. How can they inspire? Shit, my sister dancing in bars, but I guess because she’s from the ghetto and don’t have cameras around her she’s not celebrated. Why don’t we celebrate welfare moms? Why don’t we celebrate high school drop outs? Maybe it’s the same. Maybe it’s different.

Fame is not a job. I need a job.

FameWhore

2008-08-18T19:49:00.000-07:00

Pulling it out of my ass

2008-08-13T08:54:00.000-07:00

Have you seen my Daddy.

I love it when politicians get caught. Especially those wide smiled, left wing, I’m more perfect than god politicians who behind close doors are cruising in airport bathrooms and paying for sex with high class prostitutes.

If I voted, I would consider the politician who outright said I smoked a lot of weed in college and because my job required urine tests, I quit. I don’t want the half baked reply that I didn’t inhale. It’s like saying I sucked his dick but I didn’t breath through my nose. Or I spat it out, so it doesn’t count.

The latest Politician to get caught with his dick out is John Edwards. I remember when I first saw him he reminded me of Ken from Barbie. He seemed a little too polished and that creepy smile like I’m father of year. The women swooned because he decided to stay with his wife during the hardship of Breast cancer but still used her inconvenience as a platform for his own personal agenda. He seemed like the perfect husband, father and politician. I knew he wasn’t. I knew behind that cosmetic bleached smile and highlighted blonde hair was a secret. I thought maybe he dressed drag on the weekends, or maybe he was an alien who performed alien probes on unsuspecting homeless people. Or maybe he liked little boys, but having an affair with a hot employee, that was too typical.

I would like John Edwards to go on the Maury Polvich show. I think they should have the blonde sexy mistress and the cancer stricken wife. They should shout obscenities towards each other and then show the child in question on the computer screen. It would be fun, when Polvich tells Edwards, you are the father, and the wife jumps up from her chair, slaps him and then runs to back and throws herself on the floor, crying and screaming. That would be awesome.

Then again, who can blame him for wanted some in-shape pussy. I mean, have you’ve seen his wife. I know she has cancer but I thought sick people got thinner not fatter. I’m just saying. And it’s interesting that all these women who get cheated on usually have let themselves go. I know we heard but she had three children but so did Kelly Ripa and she’s a skeleton.

I think it should be a rule, if your wife doesn’t make your dick hard, cheat on her. But I say that with fair warning because I foresee some heavy black girl stomping through the yard, knocking me to the ground, “You told Harpo to cheat on me.” Anyways.

John Edwards you are the father!