My Stereo Ain't Typical

I have a really good friend that we suspect is secretly hetero. Not that there’s anything wrong with that…

I believe it all started after we watched that episode of Little Bill where everyone had “their thing”. I remember him being noticeably affected by that episode and decided that being gay would be his thing and he’s been "gay” ever since. Yea occasionally he’ll wake up in time to make the parade, and he’ll throw in a slick line or two about wishing they’d return to the short shorts of the 1980’s when we’re watching an NBA basketball game, but really he’s not fooling anyone. I’ve never heard him once hum a show tune, don’t ever remember him mentioning going to a Lady GaGa concert or initiating a Lisa Stansfield or Diana Ross listening party. His shoes and handbags rarely if ever match and he doesn’t seem to find me attractive. Hello??? Hetero man walking!!! It’s not my intention to out or embarrass him in front of his family, I’m just sincerely concerned he might be taking the roster spot of a real gay person, you know? That he might be leaning on the closet door blocking a real gay person from coming out. It’s just not right.

My good Asian friend – Sum Yung Guy – is a different story altogether. Because everyone knows Asian people are the best drivers, my friend Sum Yung Guy is constantly bombarded with chauffeur offers and other driving related positions. But he wants to think “outside the box” as he says and get an accounting job or open a laundromat or nail salon. When applying for an accountant position he’s oftentimes told the position is no longer available and later finds out that the job was filled months later by a person of a different ethnicity. Or he might receive an offer of a totally unrelated position like "That accountant position you applied for has been filled but a buddy of mine is planning a bank heist and could use a getaway driver!"

As a friend, it’s only right that I implore him to rethink his narrow minded stance. “You know how much money getaway drivers stand to earn Sum Yung Guy?” I ask incredulously. “It’s off the books money and the risk versus reward is off the chain! Think about that Sum Yung Guy!” I implore him. “Think about that!”

But alas, he opts to stick to his far-fetched fantasy.

Personally, I don’t see regular folk trusting random Asians with their cuticles or unmentionables but follow your dreams, my man. It’s a bigoted world out there though…

Speaking of bigoted world, next Tuesday I have to fly to the UK office with my co-worker Mohammed. That bearded, turban wearing son of a gun practically makes a mockery out of the airports security checks. While the rest of us are coming out of our shoes and undergoing cavity searches, dude just breezes through security chatting up the customs agents while wearing an overcoat in August. They barely even glance at his passport. Last year, the metal detector went off as he went through and the head customs agent came out and apologized profusely.  It was embarrassing. He then personally escorted him on to the plane to ensure he didn’t have any similar unsettling incidents. For his troubles, he was bumped to first class and made sure to wave to me between sips of champagne while I trekked my way back to coach.  

My Native American friend Chief Humming Bear is a different kind of pain in the ass. This guy is constantly trying to claim something as his that clearly belongs to someone else. He’ll be riding in my car “This car is mine. I see it, so I claim it." He’ll be in my bathroom “This toilet brush is mine. I see it, so I claim it.”

It’s like hanging out with Debo from the Friday’s movies.

I guess it’s not enough that the arrogant SOB and his people are still benefiting hundreds of years later from taking the white man’s land, reneging on every single treaty ever written and signed between them, massacred their people in cold blood then herded the rest of them onto reservations where they’re placated with liquor while the adult suicide rate rose over 65 per cent in the last decade alone.

“Look at that loser,” Chief Humming Bear says to me while driving what used to be my car,  motioning toward a staggering drunk white man hanging out in front of a liquor store he co-owns with his brother, Makum Money Fast. And I pause for a second, because the man he’s talking about is named Jackson. And Jackson is my friend.  

But really, most of my best friends are white.

Just the day before Jackson was at my place relieved that a judge had ordered that New York City police cease and desist with their stop and frisk policy. He was excited about the fact that one day soon there was the possibility he could make it a whole city block without being gang tackled by a legion of our finest, without provocation or cause.

“Sheeit, I’ll even be happy if I make it half a block,” he says between mouthfuls of watermelon he douses with copious amounts of Louisiana hot sauce he seems to keep on his person. “By the way your toilet brush is missing.”

Then I stop and look at Jackson, unemployed, wearing a custom made leather Louis Vuitton suit with brand new Timberlands and I tell him “I understand part of it is the media portrayal but maybe if white men pulled up their pants and stopped shucking and jiving their way around the city looking for flat cardboard boxes to break dance on they wouldn’t be targeted so much.”

Then he hit me with this nugget. And I swear I’ll always remember where I was when he said it to me, like how I’ll always remember where I was when I heard Elvis, The King, had died. He turned to me, looked purposefully into my eyes and said “Next time an unarmed black child gets killed by a cop in New York City or a police officer in any state of this nation you let me know. And then we’ll continue with this talk of media portrayal and race relations.”

And there it was. For the remainder of the night nothing else was said as there was nothing else to say. I just continued to play Engelbert Humperdinck's greatest hits on my harpsichord while Jackson munched away on his hot sauce flavored melon. He had pulled his trump card and called a spade a spade. But not that we would refer to it as such.

'Cause, well, that would be racist.

Resur erection

As the title of this post implies, this post is concerning the plight of the big cats currently stranded in the flatlands of Mount Olympus.

Or not.

I notice the time is 6:21. But I digress. I should be at work right now. Instead I started off with a beer. Then gradually worked myself up to the Waffle House at 3:58AM.

"And in the end, the sweltering halitosis better known as your mom will forever be eradicated by the speed of your pen in comparison to my mind, vis-a-vis thunder to lightning..."
- The Book of Ski, eighth book 11th verse stanza 621

I videotaped a manifesto to be played at my funeral. On tape I get to tell the people close to me what I've really thought about them all my life. It's going to be very uncomfortable for many people and the only thing I wish is that I was there to actually see the look of utter mortification etched across their stupid fat faces. And you know what? What are you going to do about it - I'm dead? Deface my corpse? Who cares? That'll only make me come back and haunt you more than I would have anyway. I'm thinking I should have a practice funeral and bring the tape...

Or not.

"And in one voice in perfect unison, the vestal virgins screamed out 'Christ!' to which there was no response..."
- The Book of Ski, eighth book 11th verse stanza 629

When I first saw the opening scene to Mission Impossible 2, when Tom Cruise was scaling this 11 million foot mountain sans harness, gloves, Sherpa or gymnast hand powder at first I was like, C'mon Tom - who are you kidding here! Then my bemusement turned to anger like "how fucking insulting." Until I did it myself this past weekend. And I got not one hand callous or anything. Tom Cruise seems like he's really a dick. Not Michael Jordan Hall of Fame acceptance speech kinda dick, but...yeah, that's exactly how he seems....and as long as we're on the subject of Brett Favre, there's a reason why he's the most vilified athlete in New York history. Excuse me, what? What did you say A-Rod?

I hate when bartenders measure drinks. It's embarrassing. Do that back in the kitchen or something or bend down low behind the bar so I don't have to see that!

You know the feeling when you wake up not remembering the night before and firstly - you're so happy to wake up in your own bed - then you rummage through your pants pockets to look at receipts to get some sort of semblance of what happened the night before and then you stop when you notice the woman lying next to you in bed with the hearing aid? That's a feeling I could do without.

I used to date this girl in Cambria Heights, Queens when I was like 18. Travelling to her house would take the same time as a flight to New York to Florida, so every time I was on my way to her house I'd tell my friends I'm going to Disney. Her dad was rumored to be this former marine, former CIA hitman or something and he played the part well. Strong silent type. Had an economy of words and hardly ever spoke. One time I get to their house and she was upstairs "getting ready" so I sat in the dark kitchen with her dad who was just sitting at the table staring into the darkness. Then he told me this story: One time, right before we were sent to Vietnam, we were stationed in Mississippi and had to get on this public bus. It was Jim Crow days and those people out there did not play. When we got on, we knew immediately we were supposed to sit in the back and we did. So there's this Puerto Rican kid in our group, Ramos, and he sits in the front. The bus driver yells out, while still looking straight ahead "All niggers in the back of the bus." Total silence. The bus driver repeats again, this time louder "All niggers in the back of the bus!" Still total silence. Then the driver gets up goes to Ramos and stands over him pointing in his face "I said, all niggers in the back of the bus, now!" Ramos responds, "But I'm not a nigger sir, I'm Puerto Rican." The bus driver responds "I didn't ask you what KIND of nigger you were...." And he never finished the sentence. The story ended right there. Oddly, awkwardly and unfinished. Much like this blog post.

As the Book of Ski, eighth chapter 11th verse stanza 653 acknowledges:

"And in the end the beginning seems like a 32 minute manifestation thusly: make proud the mischievous miscreants amongst us; make merry the masturbatory moguls making merry on Madoffs, who made off on the Mets. Cast thy own rod into the murky waters of love's composite mystique. Yes, God's loving kindness seek..."

Or not.