Porn O' Plenty

I have a substantial porn collection. Not an illegal amount, but enough to get me by in the event of a nuclear (or "nucular" as the Prez would say) explosion. I think I'll be good so long as the radiation poison doesn't affect my hands (in case I'm a sole survivor) or genitals (in case I'm a sole survivor). Although I haven't bought any new DVD's since this afternoon, it's still a collection to be reckoned with.

But now with my daughter getting older and being a latch-key kid, I'm being pressured to give them away, it's just not comfortable having them around the house anymore. At least that's what my girl says. I understand that, I'm not crazy. But the voices are telling me that secretly, she never liked my collection to begin with. Deep in my heart of hearts, I think she's actually resentful of it.

What has Butt-hole Pleasures ever done to you?, I ask. Oh, did Jenna Jameson look at you funny or something? Did you and Obsession happen to wear the same dress at a party? For the love of Christ, woman?!

What she fails to understand is that, to me, it's more than just porn (short for "pornography"). To me, it's like comfort food. Like meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Toothless, blind, syphilitic and imprisoned in the worst Mexican jail, I could still comfort myself with the thought, "Well, at least I still have my Vanessa Del Rio tapes."

And it's not just me. These tapes have been a source of comfort to so many other people.

"Oh, so you missed the game winning free throw? I know what'll do the trick. Here's Booty Talk #28. Check out scene 3 with Caramel and Mr. Marcus."

"Oh, the IRS caught up with you and your unreported income over the last 12 years? Check out Vanessa Blue's Greatest Hits. You'll particularly be interested in the barn scene. Just what ya need, bruh."

"So your job caught you renewing your NAMBLA membership at work? Oooh...yeah...ummm...I think I'm gonna have to go ahead and wish you good luck on that one..."

Research has shown that ejaculating men have a 0% chance of killing someone 15-20 seconds after the orgasm. "You know I really wanna kill that muhfucka, if I ever see him again...wait...Heather Hunter?...ah...ahhh....ahhhhh. I love you, man!"

My dilemma remains: Who can I trust with my porn collection? Who will take care of Caramel, Vanessa Blue, and Janet Jackme, the way I do? You don't just let anyone babysit your children.
And how do you go about giving it away? How do you broach the subject? Do you take out an ad? Do you hand them out on the street? No. You give them to people you know and respect.

So I ask my boss if she wants my tape Nymphos III and she gets all freaked out, talking about harassment. Yeah, in your dreams sweetcheeks!

eBay here I cum!

Or not!

Please Accept My Forgiveness

I hate being wrong so I never am. Even when all the evidence, finger prints and DNA tests point to me, I'm sure it was someone else. Positive of it. In fact, I wasn't even in town during the time in question.

You see, as a leader of men in my professional life, I feel it would be a danger to my staff's morale to be all wrong and sorry and stuff; to be crying in front of them all Jerry Falwell like: I have sinned, aww, God, boo-hoo, forgive me, ohhhh-ho-ho-ho!

Not I. Instead I go the Bill Clinton route: I'll say it again - I never had any relations with that woman... and I forgive you for thinking so.

Anyone could be wrong. Except leaders. You see, people want their leaders strong, unconscionable and unaccountable. Not only that, saying sorry is an inherent sign of weakness and my staff depends on me being a strong leader, not a quivering, sobbing, snot-bubbled wussy. They need something to aspire to. You owe that to them. So in the interest of all my underlings and peons it's necessary to show them how my perceived "wrong" is actually something they need to work on - or it'll cost them their job. Because if we really think about it, scrutinize it, go back to the genesis of the real problem, we'll both come to the same conclusion: it's your fault.

"Oh, so your paycheck's wrong? Well, don't let it happen again! I forgive you. No need for any explanations, everyone's wrong every once in a while you've used up your quota for today now get back to your desk!"

Problem solved on your end.

Also, it's important to terminate someone every once in a while to remind them who's in charge. You should make it a goal to fire someone, say... every other week or so. It's like in the Old West. Fewer things brought a town together than a good hanging. Nowadays, it's a good firing people want to see. Make sure to do it in a public place, like at the company Christmas party with several of their peers around to let them know it could be them next. Use a bull horn for maximum oratory exposure awareness (corporate lingo).

If I had my druthers - and boy I'm working on it - I'd terminate them instead of their employment. In fact, at the last quarterly meeting, I suggested we hang our employees thus terminating their life in lieu of their employment. After all, if they can't continue working here, why should they continue to live?

Are you kidding me? Imagine the unadulterated loyalty of a staff who knows they're libel to be hanged for the slightest thing? It would be like Singapore without the barbaric caning. No litter. Everyone'd be punctual. No late reports. No calling out due to having a sick child thus no overtime cost.

No infraction would be too small and punishment would be meted out expeditiously. "So Ed, I hear you don't like my tie, huh? Janelle get my noose! We're gonna have ourselves a 3PM hanging. Where's my bullhorn?"

"Cynthia, didn't we have a conversation about coffee stockings? Janelle!"

I'd trade in my bullhorn for a noose any day of the week. I'd be peeking around cubicles, swinging the noose, whistling.

"I'm watchin' you, dammit!" sans bullhorn.

How dope would that be?

But alas, that narrow-minded group of old farts calling themselves the Board of Directors rejected the idea by a 4 to 3 vote. But not to despair. I fully expect it to be on the ballot again come June.

So until then it's business as usual. Me, my bullhorn and my sorry staff.

With Rue My Heart's Bin Laden

My girl caught me in bed with another woman. I just looked her straight in the eye and said "bin Laden". I figured she'd immediately forgive me and go into the kitchen to make dinner. Instead, however, she joined us. An unexpected but most pleasant surprise.

It's not a secret, everyone's using it. From CEOs of Fortune 500 Companies to mail room clerks: Bad first quarter? Fuckin' bin Laden. Your package didn't get to you on time? Fuckin' bin Laden, man.

Fuckin' bin Laden: The ultimate scape-goat. Want to wage an unprecedented pre-emptive war against a sovereign nation that had absolutely nothing to do with 9-11?

So, Mr. President. How's the Weapons Of Mass Destruction search going? Perhaps while you're searching for them you'll stumble across the REAL killer in the Nicole Simpson case. I can't think of two words that go better together in the same sentence. The word "President" and the word "stumble". I remember being in Europe and people saying "You guys voted for that guy...AGAIN?"

I worked with someone that was a chronic liar. You know those people that lie for absolutely no reason, have nothing to gain from their lie at all? That was Wayne. Anyway, I'm meeting my friend Mike for lunch, and Wayne and I are leaving the building at the same time. Unbeknownst to me, Mike and Wayne knew each other from another job, said hello and had a quick chat. When Wayne walked away, Mike looked at me seriously and said "Don't ever believe a word that guy says!"

That's our President. Our President is everything that's wrong with everything. He's the reason my toaster oven is broke. He's the reason the Knicks are 3-119. But yet, bin Laden gets the blame. Why? Because as Bruce Hornsby would say "That's just the way it is."

I only wish I knew about him earlier. In retrospect, he's the reason I missed that layup, didn't hand in that homework assignment and messed up while performing the skit "Who's On First?" in the 5th grade. Now I know that bin Laden was directly responsible for Darlene leaving me when I was 21 and subsequently getting in that car accident 3.5 years later; for getting picked up for smoking in the park 2 years after that. Knowing that he was solely to blame for everything that's ever happened to me would have saved me a lot of whippings growing up and some heartache too. Ahhh...I feel better already.

Oh, so you don't like this post, huh? Fuckin' bin Laden, man.

Three With No Company

There were lots of things that really pissed me off when I was three. When I was two, everything was all good. Everything was rainbows, chocolate ice cream and Bugs Bunny. But by the time 1973 rolled around I started to really see what was going on. What life was really about. The conspiracies. The deaths. The plaid bell bottoms. The Vietnam war was still raging on; 180 people died in a Nigerian plane crash; the whole Watergate thing; Picasso died; gas went up to $0.38 per gallon - I mean, what was there to smile about?

Television was extremely irksome and a very sore point with me. Lucy's cool. I love Lucy! But everything else: they all kept picking curtain number 2 and getting a lifetime supply of squid; Was Paul Lynde - the center square on Hollywood Squares - err...different? Gilligan was a goof. You mean to tell me that at his age, on a desert isle no less he wasn't trying to get with Ginger OR Mary Anne?!? Was Archie Bunker a racist or was he making fun of his own ignorance? Way too much for a three-year old mind to wrap his mind around.

And then there's Maude!

It was around this time that I was sentenced to daycare. I was fine staying home alone but with mom going off to a new job apparently that was out of the question. So now they have me learning these letters and there's lots of 'em, like 26 or something. My thin box of crayons went from 8 colors to 64; from white, black and red to burnt sienna, fuchsia and indigo. Nap time wasn't optional and there was no eye candy to be found in the joint. I just wanted to be left alone. Then, the cherry on top was when my mother was trying to figure out what to get me for Christmas that year and didn't understand what I was telling her. I kept saying "Mattel, Mattel!" because at the time, Mattel had all the bomb toys and all the commercials I'd see told me I wanted Mattel toys. What in particular, I couldn't tell you but it was made by Mattel. Mom didn't understand and I burst into tears. That's when I stopped smiling and started perfecting my ice grill.

With no one to understand my ramblings, I decided I didn't need any of them. From now on, I'd be riding dolo. I don't want your burnt sienna your letter Q or your nap time. I don't want your gay celebrities your celibate co-stars or whatever's behind the curtain. All I needed was my suede brown vest with the hoop zipper. That's all. And my white turtle neck. That's it. Oh, and my Buster Browns. All I needed in the whole world was my brown suede vest with the big hoop zipper, my white turtle neck and my Buster Browns. To hell with every one else! Oh yeah, and my 12 inch Oscar Goldman doll from the 6 Million Dollar Man with the exploding briefcase. Nothing more. Just me, my brown suede vest with the big hoop zipper, my white turtle neck, Buster Browns and my 12 inch Oscar Goldman doll from the 6 Million Dollar Man with the exploding briefcase. And that's the way it's been ever since.

Don't even get me started on 1974!

Dyslexia For Cure Found

I believe I'm coming down with dyslexia. Is that something you can pick up? Is it a commutable disease? Can you get it from a public toilet seat? What's wrong with the world? It's backwards. Out of order. Broken. Upside down. Is it me? Or is it them? It's them, right?

I hear girls on the trains calling each other "son".

Chick 1: "What up son?"
Chick 2: "Chillin' ma nigga!"

Dude on the same train was wearing pink Timberlands talking on a pink cell phone.

The basketball courts these kids have today are evenly paved, no cracks. All rims are the same height WITH nets and there's nobody on the courts. The courts we played on as kids had cracks; one rim smaller than the other. God forbid you lost because then we had to wait hooouuurrrrsssss for next. Saying "I got next" would sometimes translate into I'll be back tomorrow.

When we were younger, yeah there were fat kids, but they stood out because that wasn't the norm. Nowadays there are gangs of fat kids. I ask my kids how gym is and they always seem to say "we didn't have gym today. We have gym on Thursdays." Didn't we have gym, if not everyday, like 3 or 4 times a week? Don't get me wrong. If research proved that taking away exercise in favor of, say, an extra science class was making brainiacs out of 'em that would be one thing. But now what we have is fat stupid kids. Name a fat President? Exactly. Remember when Clinton was eating one too many McDonalds cheeseburgers and was getting kinda gutty? Remember he was the butt of Saturday Night Live skits with the late Chris Farley playing him? Next thing you know every time you saw Clinton he was in a jogging suit, running to church, giving interviews on the run while clocking his 10 minute mile. No one wants a fat President. Tell that to your kid next time you see them stuffing some Twinkies in their face. "You know you'll never be elected President at the rate you're going. I had such high hopes for you." Then just walk away shaking your head. Let it sink in a little.

So after the season premiere of The Sopranos goes off Sunday night, I'm channel surfing and come upon Flava Flav's celebreality show "Flava Of Love" the season finale. Sigh...Ok, so explain to me the gist of this show again, please. They supposedly spent weeks, these girls, fighting with each other, spitting in each other's faces for what? What exactly was the grand prize? They don't get like, a million-gazillion dollars or something. I don't get it. He - Flava Flav! - is the grand prize? And these girls are alright with that? Someone get Chuck D on the line! Does Flav realize he was down with PE?!? There are no words. It's kind of ironic that he still wears the clocks around his neck 'cuz dude's stuck in a time warp. I can't tell you how pissed I was for wasting valuable minutes of my life that I'll never get back on that putrid swill. When the show goes off the logo shows it was produced by "Mindless Entertainment". Who says there's no truth in advertising? 911 ain't the only joke these days homey.

Crazy Is As Crazy Does

There's this guy at the train station at 53rd St. on the F line that's crazy. Or at least he seems crazy. But I don't know.

First of all, he's funny as hell. Funny. Funny. Funny. On some mornings, when I used to commute that way, I'd let trains pass just to hear him. So who's crazier - the crazy guy telling the jokes or the guy who stands around giving him an audience risking being late to work? About this guy: I'd say he's homeless. I mean he's not bummy. He doesn't smell. I've never seen him sleeping in the station. But he does wear the same clothes every day. Worn not shabby. Disheveled but clean. And he's always in the station. When I went to work he's there. When I left he was there. And I was so glad he was. But what did that say about my life at that time if the highlight of my day was hearing this disheveled probably homeless guy? Did I say he was funny? Every day he'd riff on a new topic. Current events. Sports. The arts. Whatever. He was a renaissance homeless person. The Gordon Parks of homeless people if you will. So he'd say his topic, such as "The Jew are in our pockets." Then he'd always say it a second time for emphasis "The Jews are in our pockets." Then he'd calmly go on and state his case. He'd back up his topic with 7 or 8 bullet points for why he believed the Jews were in our pockets but they'd be hilarious. Hilarious but true. Picture Chris Rock riffing at a train station. One of my favorite topics was his argument why the white man is trying to steal your black woman. "The white man is trying to steal your black woman." Every word enunciated and emphasized. The look on peoples faces while he's doing his thing is priceless! Some are uncomfortable. Can't wait till their train pulls in. Others such as myself were laughing and mesmerized. He knew he was funny. He'd snicker at some of his own things every once in awhile. Here's another crazy thing. Crazy and sadly true. When I was offered another position downtown getting more money I actually found myself factoring into my decision the fact that I wouldn't be able to commute the same way, so I'd have to miss my morning and evening hilarity. "Is it possible you have a midtown location I could work at?"

OK, but here's what's really crazy. One Sunday morning, swear to God, I was in upper Manhattan. Really early in the morning, don't remember where I was coming from or going, not important. So I see the guy from the station the supposed "homeless" guy - wearing the same clothes - walking toward me with this amazingly attractive white woman on his arm and they were headed into this ritzy doorman building. She wasn't a prostitute. The doorman seemed to recognize and welcome her in, them both really. They actually appeared to be - gulp! - a couple! It was the most bizarre sight ever! And he looked at me and smirked. I don't know if the smirk meant "I recognize you too" or if it was in response to my facial expression and he was like "yeah, she's with me" or a combination of the two but I had to pinch myself. It was real. It really happened.

What the fuck?!?!

Was she a fan? Was he just crazy like a fox? Maybe he was really rich raising his "crazy" status to the eccentric level. Don't know. Might never know. So now, when I go to heaven (heavy assumption) and I get to have all of my nagging questions answered the first will still be to find out how the pyramids were built and the second, I swear, is gonna be "And what the hell is the deal with that guy in the 53rd Street station?"

Death Of The Era

Today Gordon Parks. Yesterday Octavie E. Butler. The day before Richard Pryor. A minute ago Kirby Puckett.

When I was a kid, nobody died. Of course they did. But maybe I was shielded from it. I remember my first lesson in death was my mother getting a call that her sister-in-law, my aunt Phyllis, had died. I can still see my mother's pain etched face, the anguish, and hear her cries. Then a couple of years later Ms. Phyllis a friend of my mother's from across the street died leaving a young son named Kenyatta. She died, I believe, from a brain tumor. To my young mind I was glad not to be named Phyllis. Years later though, death was more common yet still not easy to handle, understand, grasp. Today, death is commonplace.

Who's out there with the literary skill of Octavia Butler to carry the torch? What contemporary comedian is on par with a Pryor? What renassaince man black or white could be put in the same sentence with Gordon Parks - painter, director, photographer, etc.?

I understand the fact that these people have lived and have touched me with their art and know that their deaths should be celebrated for their legacies. What I mourn is that the dearth created by their passing makes room for yet one more media created, insanely hyped untalented one hit wonder to come on down. But perhaps I'm being a bit too cynical. After all, 3-6 Mafia did just win an Oscar. You know it's hard out here for a pimp.

I rest my case in peace.