Gobbledygook

Fandom, et al

2010-01-24T00:30:00.000-08:00

I'm a Giants fan. Yankees fan. Knicks fan. Ask me who I'm voting for and I'll tell you that I usually vote Democrat but I did vote for Bloomberg until he started in with that whack term limit change nonsense. I will, however, never root for the Bulls whether Michael Jordan is running the 2 or Derrick Rose is breaking cat's ankles laying it lefty.

Let's get that straight. As far as my sports teams, there's been no waffling. I've rooted for the same teams since I've been seven. Loyal to a fault. But even though I root for the Yankees I generally can't stand Yankee fans. You know the guy that's been a fan since 1996; the one that comes to the games because he gets tickets from the company but doesn't know who's playing first base and is more interested in who Derek Jeter is dating; the guy wearing the Yankees jersey with the player's name on the back of it.

You know the type: Bandwagon Fan.

First you're a San Francisco 49er fan, then you're a Dallas Cowboys fan. You used to be a "die hard" Bulls fan now you're the world's biggest Lakers fan.

You Bandwagon Bastard.

Being Bandwagon Fan is deeper than sports. We're talking about your moral fiber here. What do you stand for? You're disloyal; untrustworthy. Prone to bouts of unprovoked hysteria; phony. Don't want you around my children; seedy.

I have no patience for flighty, airheaded Bandwagon Fan. You've never visited the city; don't know anything about it - it's attractions or state flower - yet you know everything about Lebron James and his pregame meals. "Lebron likes to eat steak before each game. Medium well." Why are we breathing the same air? It's like when someone says they voted for Bush for his SECOND TERM and I'm like why are we still talking?

Bandwagon Fan is the guy that always feels the need to justify his fandom: well I'm a Cowboys fan because when my daddy was in Vietnam the guy who saved him was from Dallas.

Yeah, whatever you frontrunnin' flake.

Only thing worse than Bandwagon Fan is No Sports Guy. Like when you go to some function with your girl that you absolutely dread going to but you're trying to avoid the fight so you go and you're herded into a room with the rest of the guys there under the same exact circumstance and you're forced into making small talk and decide to talk sports because that's the one last common denominator and no one there is a sports fan and one other guy there - Misinformed Sport Guy - thinks that Reggie Jackson is still playing and you find yourself missing Bandwagon Cowboys Fan.

My cousin is a Jets fan. Calling him a Long Suffering Jets fan would be the height of redundancy like saying the phrase "I thought to myself" calling something "very unique" or saying "stupid reality show".

When Mark Gastineau left the Jets for Bridgette Nelson he was there. He was there for Marino's fake spike and Al Toon's umpteenth concussion. He's talking about going to Miami and watching the Super Bowl - if even from a local bar - should the Jets get past the Colts in the AFC Championship Game. I get it. Being a Yankees and Giants fan you sometimes take for granted rooting for a team that hasn't won. Then I remember I'm also a Knicks fan. The Knicks haven't won in my lifetime. They won when I was about one or two but that doesn't count.

My barber is also a Knicks fan but he's what I call Die Hard Crazy Fan. He's the fan that can't see the greatness of players that aren't on his team and says absurdities like "Larry Bird sucked" and offers why-didn't-the-GM-think-of-that? nuggets like "the Knicks should really trade for Kobe Bryant." I want to tell him how idiotic he sounds but he shaves me with a straight razor so I'll usually end up saying something like "sounds like a good idea." I'm a Knicks fan but I'm objective enough to know that they suck and they've sucked for a long time. They've recently upgraded to Terrible from Horrible so there's hope yet.

I understand Long Suffering Cubs Fan and Cleveland (pick a team!) Fan; franchises and cities that haven't won a thing in thousands of years and still maintain a faithful fan base. I don't, however, want to see the Cleveland Indians win a damn thing. In 2010, how is it even possible that no one in Cleveland sees anything wrong with the red-faced, ear-to-ear grinning racist Native American image of Chief Wahoo, the Cleveland Indians logo and mascot? Imagine if Alabama had a pro baseball team called the Alabama Coons and their grinning mascot Sambo shucked, jived, shuffled and tap danced across the infield during the 7th inning stretch of games and any fan attending the game in black face would get half off the price of ticket admission?

A few years back when I was writing sports for a newspaper - shout out to Black Reign! - I had the opportunity to speak with Kenny Lofton. Kenny Lofton had the rare distinction of having played for both the Atlanta Braves with their fans doing an Indian war chant and tomahawk chop during games but when we met he was playing for the Cleveland Indians with a big Chief Wahoo stitched right on the front of his uniform jersey. The Indians had a crew in those days: Jim Thome, Juan Gonzalez, Omar Vizquel, Lofton, the Alomar brothers but I really wanted to speak with their left fielder at the time - Manny Ramirez. Manny was doing his whole media boycott thing at the time so I couldn't even get a couple of grunts out of him. I already had a story filed for the weekend - an interview with Bernie Williams - so anything else I got was gravy. Since I couldn't get Manny I went over to Kenny Lofton.

"You played for the Braves and now the Indians, two organizations that blatantly flaunt racist stereotypes of Native Americans. What are your thoughts?" He just looked at me like if we were the only people in the locker room he'd punch me about the temple region. When he finally answered he said something like "I never thought about that blah blah blah". It probably didn't help that the Yankees had just swept the weekend series but at the very least I hope it gave him something to think about if even for a split second though I seriously doubt he lost any sleep over it.

With all of that said, I'd be remiss not to mention the nice job the NFL and NBA players seem to be doing giving money and rallying aid for the earthquake victims in Haiti. Former NBA player Alonzo Mourning has raised about $800K himself and has been in Haiti this week and has solicited even more money from NBA players. He's doing a great job and wonderful service and deserves to be recognized for this.

But I hated him when he played for the Heat.

Speak the Truth and Shame the Devil

2009-07-17T10:18:00.000-07:00

My 3 year old hasn't been saddled with life's censor filter yet, so she's liable to say anything. She doesn't differentiate between an adult and a child and either she likes you, or you're "stinky, nasty and terrible."

"I don't like that boy," she'll say well within earshot of a 50-something year old Asian man in the vegetable aisle at BJs one recent Saturday morning, pointing directly at him less I mistake exactly who she's talking about.

"Why not, Amaya?" I ask while lowering her arm and removing her index finger from practically off of the man's nose.

"Because he's stinky, nasty & terrible."

With adults, the truth tends to be fuzzy. "I never had sexual relations with that woman," or "I never took steroids, er...knowingly..."

Brutal honesty, sadly, is reserved for children under 5, old people and crazies.

It’s said that children and old people are more truthful because they are closer coming from and going back to the Lord.

Okay, I just made that up.

My grandmother, some 2 or 3 years before her death did away completely with her censor filter. At a cousin’s wedding, she beckoned me from across the room. I went to her table, sat down and she said “Ooh, Askia. Don’t head-butt me.”

I wondered how long she wanted to tell me that. For how long exactly did she fear my noggin?

We now live in a debilitating politically correct, everyone-makes-the-team-whether they-suck-or-not, generation.

In the 1950’s through the early 70s, the happy meal kid-sized portion was the regular adult sized meal in fast food places. Now we’re supersized and soft.

When we were kids there was always the one fat kid. If there were two of them, they’d naturally gravitate toward each other and be friends. Now there are whole classes of chubbies; fat and delusional children.

“You made the team chubby, you’re good!”

No! Put down the Playstation and Xbox remote; take the pizza and soft drink out your mouth. Here’s an apple and a basketball. Go outside and play!

Parents lie to their children all the time. You think I’m lying?

I only watch the first 2 or 3 weeks of American Idol. In those brutal first episodes of the new season, you’ll always see someone saying my family/mother/father says I sound like Brian McKnight…Celine Dione…Luther Vandross…Whitney Houston then proceed to give the most crackheaded, bizarre performance imaginable. I love seeing people being told the truth for the first time in their lives. That pained expression etched in their face is so…honest. Why would their family let that happen to them? It turns out the judges are the first people in their life to tell them the truth.

Just telling them the truth in the first place would have avoided all that. Even if you have to chain the front door and fight them; ending up with them on the floor with you on top of them with your knee in their back while their flailing and crying for Paula and Randy, so be it.

I could imagine the conversation with my mother if I told her I was going on American Idol.

First time: “You sound real stupid. Come over here and let me feel your head.”
Second time: “Shut it right now, boy!”
Third time: “Boy, I will kill you where you stand you embarrass me like that!”

Thanks, ma. Seriously.

Side note: You ever catch yourself lying for no apparent reason? You have absolutely nothing to gain from your lie. You’re like “Why did I just say that? Now every time I see this person I have to remember I told them I’ve been to Indonesia…”

Having a censor filter should be optional. I like to treat mine as if it has an on and off switch. If you have it off all the time and you’re not under 5 or over 70 then you are a crazy person and it’s not going to be good for you. So you have to remember to put it back in the “on” position every so often lest you be wrestled to the ground and straitjacketed. Having your censor filter in the “off” position is especially good when dealing with over-preachy people, solicitors and idiots. It also serves another practical benefit. Stress develops when you say “yes” to something when you should have said “no”. It’s also timesaving.

“Wanna come hang out with us?”
“No.” No explanation necessary. But if they want to know why and press you for an explanation, just tell them that they’re stinky, nasty and terrible. I promise you you’ll be rid of that person.

That guy that literally stinks on your job? The one that, when he walks past, living things like plants, flowers and small animals start wilting and dying in his wake? While it’s very difficult broaching the conversation with someone about their personal hygiene, it’s a lot more humane and less embarrassing then say, giving him a soap-on-a-rope as a Christmas gift as his Secret Santa in front of the whole company. Seen it done.

But that’s just me thinking out loud.

A healthy, confident ego is not the same thing as being an arrogant egomaniac with a false sense of entitlement.

The mother who cuts the line in the Scholastic store in SOHO and starts berating the young woman behind the counter who is the only person working in the store at the time because she -the mother- can’t find the new Clifford the Big Red Dog doll for her 3 year old Timmy and wants her to stop helping the other customers and come from behind the counter and help her now! is a lot different from the father who goes to Sears after work and is expected to patiently wait while these 2 male chicken head dudes behind the counter discuss their weekend in explicit details, finally gets to him and gives him the wrong information and sends him through the store on some wild goose chase and pushes him to the limit of grabbing them by the collar and threaten to put his foot up their ass if they don’t pay more attention to their job and his preteen daughter melts in embarrassment of the scene he’s creating and…

But I digress…

Imagine how different things would be if society deemed it perfectly acceptable if you hauled off and punched someone in the face for any over the line infraction? Not talking about the simple day-to-day mistakes like stepping on someone’s shoe on the train; but for doing something really stupid or egregious. Like when you’re driving behind someone and you can’t get around them and they’re driving like they have absolutely nowhere to go and the light’s about to change and they slow down at the yellow making you sit and have to wait for another light to change? It should be totally acceptable to get out of your car, politely tap on their window and just deck them in the temple area.

Again, just me thinking out loud.

A punch in the temple region, in my world, has been whittled down to the “Hey?!” pop, a more realistic, less painful, more accepted version; a second tier - if you will.

Sometimes you have to give your kids a quick “Hey?!” pop to get them back to their senses real quick. That’s when they’re doing something crazy and you’re trying to talk them off the ledge and they’re just not understanding the whole vocal thing.

That’s when you get up on them and say “Hey?!” and just pop them in the back of the head one time for emphasis.

No one’s above a good “Hey?!” pop.

Most athletes are pampered their whole life and never hear the truth from their family members and friends looking to ride their fame to their own financial freedom.

Imagine if Latrell “I can’t feed my family off $5 million dollars a year” Sprewell had someone in his life that loved him enough to tell him the truth?

“Hey Latrell?!” Pop! “You’re being a real jerk. Smarten up! You’re about to lose EVERYTHING.”

Always keep in mind life’s circle: first, you’re children to your parents. Then you’re parents to your children. Then you’re parents to your parents. Then you’re children to your children.

So keep your “Hey?!” pops to a minimum with your kids; for those absolutely necessary moments. One day, you will be in the ‘children to your children’ phase of your life and your now adult children might return the favor with a new version they call the “Hey, Pop?!” pops!

And that wouldn’t be good.

In fact, it would be quite stinky, nasty and terrible.

Dust in the Wind

2009-07-12T22:22:00.000-07:00

We were all skinny, active kids living in the projects with no frame of reference to let us know we were considered poor; loving life in blissful naïveté. When me and the boys weren’t playing baseball, football or basketball and long before Atari and Playstation came along to steal our imagination, we created games on the block with cans and made do playing manhunt in bushes.
In the days before texting…when we’d actually go outside and knock on a friend’s door to see if they could come outside and play.

If I had money, we had money - even if it meant splitting a 20 cents Twin Pop three ways.
Before bike helmuts and child seats we’d pile in the back of our uncle’s station wagon unrestrained - at times with the back window pushed all the way out for air circulation - bouncing to and fro, landing on each other and squealing in delight.

Before BCW, when parents were allowed to whip you with anything within arms distance we’d hear each others wailing through paper thin walls; we'd step over each others drunken fathers in the hallway - the rare few of us who had our fathers around.

We had our secrets and each others backs but were never ashamed of them.

Today I’m quick to tell my kids to never judge a school mate. You never know what life is like in their home.

Looking back on those days, our parents were children themselves. Indeed, in most of my childhood memories, I’m now older than my mother was.

We grew up in a 3 story brick building. There were 3 apartments on each floor, A, B and C. Living in the middle B apartment, our windows were in the middle of the A apartment where Lisa lived and the C apartment where Lily lived. Rocky lived above me in B.
When our mother’s called us inside at night, me and Rocky and sometimes Lily would hang out our windows and talk; if one of us was on punishment that day we’d relay to them the days activities. One of us, it seems, was always on punishment.

In the A apartment I spoke to Lisa. Lisa was my first crush. She was also, at times, my personal cheerleader. When I told her in the first month of the ninth grade that it was my intention that year to win the Jeff Petrak Memorial Award trophy for best athlete at graduation, she reacted with her usual Lisa-ness "Yeah, maybe in the next life." I knew though it was her way of spurring me on.

When I created an account on Facebook earlier this year, Lisa and Rocky were the reasons I did so. I was excited to find Rocky after some time. We caught up, she’s doing well and I was happy to hear that. There was absolutely no love loss; we both agreed that life gets in the way.

There would be no such luck with Lisa.

I found a mutual friend on Facebook who told me that Lisa had died two years earlier from brain tumors. It was like a sucker-punch to the gut; like smashing my Big Wheel into that concrete wall all over again.

I remember we had a picture together, me with Lisa and Rocky, from 9th grade graduation. I won that trophy and Lisa seemed more excited than I was. I remember her hand being on my shoulder in the picture. I had my mother send me a copy.

There was so much catching up to do. I hadn't seen you in 20 years, how did your life turn out? Were you happy?

I wanted to ask you if you remembered when I was going to fight Kendall from our 7th grade class. Kendall was new to our school. One day in first period I did or said something to egg him on and he just looked at me and said “three o’clock.”

My day in school was miserable from that point. I had gotten in plenty of fights, but Kendall was one of those country kids that was big for no other reason than just to be big for bigs sake. And country strong.

How long does a broken jaw take to heal? Does a raw t-bone steak on a black eye really help like it does on the Flinstones?

I remember you looking at me with your patented “good job” smirk and shaking your head. I showed up at three o’clock - with about 30 other school mates who were apparently anxious to see my blood on the outside of my body - because getting a beat down is a lot less painful than running home. Then for some miraculous reason Kendall's mother picked him up from school and we were friends from that day on. God protects babies and fools, so they say.

You and I walked home that day and didn't say a word to each other. You punched me in the arm halfway home and we both knew exactly what that meant so we just laughed.

Would you remember that?

I wanted to ask you to put on your thinking cap and see if you’d remember way back, back when we were three years old. I was in daycare and your mother would pick me up and I’d stay at your house until my mother came home from work. One day at daycare I had escaped and was hiding in some bushes, found a straw, stuck it in the ground and in my infinite wisdom started to suck up the dirt. I started throwing up immediately and was sent to the nurse’s station. There I was in the nurse’s station, belly down on a table with a thermometer sticking in my butt when your mother walked in with you holding her hand. I was mortified. I remember you folding your arms and giving me that patented, sarcastic, Lisa “good job” smirk. Even at three.

Would you remember that?

It’s crushing to hear of a friends’ death; even more when you didn’t have a chance to say goodbye. But I never loved you any less. Sometimes life gets in the way.

And I want you to know that I’m still looking forward to getting together and catching up with you.

But it’ll have to wait until the next life.

A few words on Michael...

2009-06-28T14:03:00.000-07:00

There's a scene that takes place in Jabba the Hutt’s palace in the movie Return of the Jedi, when this huge monster called the Rancor is unleashed on Luke Skywalker but Luke turns the table and kills the Rancor instead. Then its caretakers, two huge shirtless, hairy men embrace each other and sob uncontrollably over the loss of their pet.

The Michael Jackson coverage for the first day or so has teetered on uncomfortable and bizarre.

I saw this one dude in California, an uber fan, one of those guys that gets the operation to look like Michael Jackson but didn’t realize that Mike would go on to have several more operations and this guy couldn’t keep up financially with Michael so now he’s stuck in 2009 looking like the Michael Jackson from the Bad album?

That guy.

He was standing on some street in a pose like he wanted to break out in the Billie Jean routine but was just too distraught to perform so he just stood frozen in the first move of the routine: hand on his hat, glove hand extended, legs spread apart. And he just stood there. And people were coming from all directions just to console that guy. And the only emotion I could muster from the whole scene was "Seriously?"

Then of course every D lister has to be interviewed about how they felt about the passing of Michael Jackson. Thank you CNN. I was very moved and interested to hear how Spencer from The Hills was coping with his grief. It seems he will recover. Your interview with singer Aaron Neville was equally embarrassing:

“So when was the last time you saw Michael?”

“We never actually met…” Aaron Neville then admitted. "But I felt like I knew him. I loved his music sooo much…”

I never owned a Beat It jacket. Never wore one white glove. Never had a Jheri Curl or tried to dance like him. Well, not in public. I am what I consider to be a "regular" fan. Someone that really appreciated Michael Jackson's music and artistry since childhood. As kids, we'd rent the Jackson Five albums from the library. Record players didn’t have a rewind button so we'd have to literally pick up the needle and put it back to the part of the song where you didn't understand the lyrics until you got them.

In an interview a few years back Michael Jackson referred to Stevie Wonder as a "musical prophet." I believe the same could be said of him. His genius was seemingly effortless though you know he worked hard to attain his goal of perfection.

True story: I saw someone last week in a club all decked out like Jody Watley: the huge hoop earrings, the skirt over black leggings, big hair, and denim jacket. Very "Don't You Want Me."

“Hey Ms. Watley," I said.

"Excuse me?”

“Hey Jody Watley,” I said again, this time louder over the music.

“My name’s Evelyn. Who’s Jody Watley?”

“What year were you born?”

“1988.”

“Never mind.”

I couldn’t explain Thriller to you if you weren’t there. The album was a monster that took off on a life of its own like no other album before or after by ANYONE. Even the B sides were hits. It seemed like a new song from Thriller was released like every 6 months keeping the album itself on the charts for years.

The Police came out with their classic album Synchronicity which included the hit single "Every Breath You Take" the same year Thriller was released.

Sorry, Sting.

That’s the equivalent of someone, another famous person perhaps, dying the same day as Michael.

Sorry, Farrah.

Farrah Fawcett's passing, sadly, became a mere footnote in the whole MJ brouhaha. CNN's Larry King had a whole show dedicated to her, with interviews lined up with close friends and family, and cancelled that whole show and dedicated it instead to the passing of Michael Jackson. Farrah’s death was relegated to being mentioned as a mere afterthought.

“Oh, and 70’s icon Farrah Fawcett died earlier today too…”

But that's what happens when a person could say in all seriousness they were going to perform a sold out concert in Bucharest. Where exactly is Bucharest and what language do they speak there?

What is it about a single soul that could touch over a billion people? What kind of gift is that? Or is it a curse? To be sure, both sides have valid arguments. It was reported that the internet traffic searching news of his death on Twitter, Facebook and Google caused the internet to crash.

Who else would demand that kind of attention?

You know the old adage there’s a thin line between genius and insanity? I’m sure I was a minority but I always considered Michael Jackson somewhat normal in a genius kind of way. How many geniuses were considered “normal?” The eternally sockless Albert Einstein certainly wasn’t considered “normal” in his time. Neither was van Gogh or the child prodigy Amadeus.

How “normal” is Prince?

Michael Jackson gets a pass for hanging with the likes of Macauley Culkin, Emmanuel Lewis and Brooke Shields; other child stars who traded in their childhood for fame.

Generous to a fault, I believe he became an all too easy target. If your son’s virginity was taken by another man wouldn’t you want your pound of flesh? Or would you rather negotiate to have a screenplay you wrote made into a movie like one father or to have a mall in Vegas shut down so you can have a Versace shopping spree like another parent demanded?

Part of his legacy is that his music touched all generations and was timeless. He made songs you could dance to with your grandmother at a wedding; songs you don’t mind your preteen daughter uploading to her Ipod. True creative artists with career longevity don’t make songs called Birthday Sex.

Unfortunately, though, even in death nothing about Michael Jackson is Black and White. The first autopsy was inconclusive, another one was ordered and the speculation will continue even after that.

The only known facts seem to be he leaves behind three children, had a mother who adored him, a family that loved him and fans worldwide that worshipped him.

And that Michael Jackson is Gone too Soon.

The Artist's Life

2009-06-17T09:10:00.000-07:00

Are you a born writer? Were you put on earth to be a painter, a scientist, an apostle of peace? In the end the question can only be answered by action.
Do it or don't do it.
It may help to think of it this way. If you were meant to cure cancer or write a symphony or crack cold fusion and you don't do it, you not only hurt yourself, even destroy yourself. You hurt your children. You hurt me. You hurt the planet.
You shame the angels who watch over you and you spite the almighty, who created you and only you with your unique gifts, for the sole purpose of nudging the human race one millimeter farther along its path back to God.
Creative work is not a selfish act or a bid for attention on the part of the actor. It's a gift to the world and every being in it. Don't cheat us of your contribution. Give us what you've got.

- Steven Pressfield

The Crazy Meter

2009-06-16T00:36:00.000-07:00

I just wanted a hot dog. A chili dog to be exact. Innocent enough, right?

After dropping off my daughter to her Junior High School prom, I found myself around the corner from the original Nathan’s in Coney Island, Brooklyn. So naturally I had to stop there. Anything else would be tantamount to sacrilege. I promised myself that I’d only get something if the line wasn’t ridiculous. We pull up and it was practically empty.

It was meant to be.

So I’m waiting on the relatively short line with my nephew in tow and I hear a steady beeping. I immediately recognize it as my Crazy Radar, or CrayDar, that’s set off when a crazy person (hereafter referred to as a “Crazy”) is within 10 meters. It’s dude ahead of me in the line.

Now, it had nothing to do with the fact that he had only one strand of hair "styled" in a comb-over"; didn’t matter so much that he was wearing open toe Birkenstock sandals showcasing yellow toenails practically scraping the ground; wasn’t even because of his Capri-like army fatigue pants topped off with a Hawaiian shirt so small and tight it could be mistaken for his daughter's midriff. Nothing to do with any of those things, per se.

He just reeked crazy.

So after attempting to order something off the menu - like Beef Wellington or something equally absurd - does he just wait for his food in silence? No. Crazy doesn't do that.

“They profiled Nathan’s on Food Network yesterday so I just had to get here tonight,” says prospective Crazy Person, attempting to make conversation. It started off sanely enough, you know, something to reel you in to question if your CrayDar might have been set off accidentally.

The Golden Rule with how to treat a Crazy is the same when dealing with a rabietic dog: Don’t make eye contact.

For a millisecond I break the rule and sure enough Crazy launches into some absurd, unrelated, irrelevant - “how the hell did we get here?” - tirade about his Battleship being sunk and the price of pomegranates in Sheepshead Bay.

Rule #2: Don’t ever answer back.

So now it’s clear what I’m up against so I just totally ignore him, cross my arms and start tapping my forefinger against my pursed lips and stare at the wall menu as if in deep contemplation.

Should I get the hot dog…or…the…hot…dog…?

It’s working - as the How to Deal with a Crazy manual implies it would - dude gets his order and is about to leave when I hear my nephew offer “I love pomegranate juice!” thereby encouraging the Crazy.

“I guess you don’t have one of these,” I say to my nephew motioning to my internal CrayDar as we’re getting back into the car. “You can’t buy one. You kinda like, just have to have one. It’s hard to explain. Either you have one or you don’t.”

I think you have to be born with one.

My daughter has it, the older one. The younger one might be a Crazy herself but that’s the topic of another conversation.

When my elder daughter was about 4, she’d point out peculiarities in people.

“Daddy, that man is talking to himself.”
“Of course he is, sweetheart,” I’d say, “he’s a crazy person.”

I know Crazy; been around it all my life. When I was a kid, there was local guy named Marty that was a known Crazy.

A Crazy so crazy other Crazies called him crazy, Marty was known to shout out at unsuspecting passersby “You don’t tell me what to do!”

When his second floor apartment caught fire, Marty went out to his window ledge in an apparent attempt to jump to safety - nothing wrong with that. The problem was he used the window ledge as leverage to jump upward, making his head parallel to the third floor, thereby adding an extra 10 feet to the drop. So then a 20 foot leap turned into a 30 foot plunge.

“Of course he did,” I said to myself as Marty plummeted to the ground breaking both ankles.

While I may have a successful CrayDar, I’m also a very potent magnet, as well.

A Crazy person on the train will shimmy their way through a crowded, rush-hour subway car to find me and ask me some insane question; a Crazy on a packed sidewalk in London will stop only me and ask me for the time - even as we stand in front of Big Ben.

I’m not even safe in the hospital.

During my only ever hospital stay, I’m IV’d up and enjoying that I at least had my own room. That is until the third night. At about 2AM they wheel him into the room. He’s a young guy, late 20s probably and he’s hunched down low in the wheelchair reminding me of when Tupac got shot and still showed up to his trial a couple days later, albeit wheelchair bound.

Anyway, so he gets to his bed and belying the pathetic figure he was less than a second ago, he suddenly leaps out of the wheelchair and dives into his bed. Then he just lays there in a fetal position and starts moaning until the nurse puts the covers over him and draws the curtain closed between us.

“OK. Borderline batty,” I say to myself as the nurse leaves the room shaking her head.

About an hour and a half later, I’m awakened by CrayDar and look up to find Crazy standing over me.

“Did I wake you?” he asks holding two 8x11 frames. I look at my watch and it’s 3:30am.

“What can I do for you, Crazy?” I ask politely.

“I want to show you my Degrees,” he says.

I wasn’t the least bit angry or upset. Nor was I surprised or taken aback that a total stranger would want to show me his Degrees in a dark hospital room past 3 in the morning. Of course he’d do that. Anything less would be out of character for a Crazy.

The next day, he’s visited by a beautiful woman. This girl was breathtaking. I assumed it was his cousin or some relative until she grabbed his face and kissed him long and hard. Then he gave me this “I bet you want to know how I pulled this one off” grin while slowly closing the curtain, not breaking eye contact with me until the curtain was fully drawn.

And I did want to know.

So I asked him.

“I was suing someone for stealing this patent I created for this video game and needed a lawyer to represent me,” he explained. “I contacted her firm, she represented my case and the rest, as they say, is history.”

Of course he pulled that bad, successful chick.

One thing about Crazy people - they have absolutely no fear of failure. Other guys would see this beautiful and seemingly successful woman and be paralyzed with fear to approach her. But Mr. Crazy… he just comes by and probably starts in on the middle of some far-fetched bizarro conversation, she thinks he’s funny, he invites her to a comic book convention or something and the rest, as they say, is history. And she’s about to be history too, I assumed. She was probably vulnerable at the time. Crazy charmed her, she came to visit him out of a false sense of duty, but soon she’ll tire of all his absurdity and be done with him.

“So how long have you guys been together?” I ask my new crazy friend.

“Me and my fiancé? Hmmm…about…”

Of course she’s gonna marry him, I think to myself.

Of course!

Do What You Do When You Did What You Did To Me

2009-01-13T00:15:00.000-08:00

Jermaine didn't like his name. It made him think of Jermaine Jackson and he was no Jermaine Jackson. It was also ironic because his last name happened to be Jackson. But who he really despised was Randy Jackson. He of the skin-tight, striped pants that resembled an esemble worn by a man who was attracted to other men.

But I, your humble narrator, digress.

Jermaine was in love. He came to this realization when, while tying his new polka dot ascot and carrying on a casual conversation with himself in the third person, he mentioned quite unexpectedly "I believe Jermaine Jackson is in love."

This new nugget of information both frightened and thrilled him at the same time as he was not dating and had zero prospects. He tweaked his hardened nipples with ardent fervor as his mind wandered toward the future. Apparently there was hope. He left his duplex basement apartment that morning on a mission. For he was a man in love with someone somewhere somehow and he was about to find her some way.

"You!" he bellowed at the first woman he saw on the street. He stuck his index finger in her face an inch from her nose. "Come, let's have some pretty babies together. I took the day off."

"I met you before" she mentioned calmly. "Yes, your name is on the tip of my pleasure giving tongue. Don't you have some has-been, Las Vegasy name? Conway Twitty? Wayne Newton? One of those guys who does the thing with the white tiger? We took a knitting course together and I remember a bunch of us getting together afterward for the sole purpose of laughing at your name and outfit."

"I am Jermaine Jackson. Let's dispense with the gettin' to know you chit-chat and get to the business at hand. Come. My duplex basement apartment is within walking distance."

"What would your husband say?"
"Husband?" Jermaine blushed. The sneer on her face told Jermaine he was being insulted but he was too smitten with the thought of having an actual mate to be bothered with such semantics. "No, my lady, I am single. Single and free to make love the whole afternoon away like a drunken, wretched Kaola Bear of the Australian outback. Full of eucalyptus leaves smelling like hot Halls Menthol Cough Drops melted all over your naked, humping kaboshka!"

"I have to be honest with you. While your offer sounds very romantic and I'm basically taken aback by your...poetry, I really don't see myself being with a man whose clothes I'd want to borrow when everything was done."

"What's a blouse here or a pair of thongs there when we have what the world would die for? Love! Unabashed, hard core, hip thrusting, musty, post coital, you sleep on the wet spot, sticky, gooey love?"

That was unexpected. She was at once taken aback and at the same time repulsed about having to sleep on the wet spot. However, she sensed he was sincere and it looked like they wore the same size shoe.

"I will take you up on your offer Sigmund - "
"It's Jermaine."
"...and spend the next 10 minutes with you in unabashed bliss in your duplex basement flat. My name is Reebie but you can call me LaToya if you're nasty!"

"Tito it is then", Jermaine said proudly, hooking his arm into hers and leading the way. "And you have no idea how nasty I really am..."

"Oh, Jermaine!" she blushed as he led the way.

They made passionate love all afternoon and resumed in the evening. Reebie left with a newfound respect for spontaneity along with 2 handbags, a Pillbox hat and an unworn Irish kilt.

Jermaine looked up and watched as her satiated ankles passed by his window. He was definitely in love. Or was he just hungry? He was confused.

"Let's order some takeout Jermaine and set the record straight once and for all."

He ordered Chinese and while feasting knew it was definitely love. An hour later he was confused again.

"One things for sure, when what's her face comes back tomorrow I'll know for sure where this is all headed. And I'll have some lotion ready for those ankles. Damn!"

Period. End Of Story.

2007-06-26T10:16:00.000-07:00

When my daughter was two years old she had something very important she wanted to discuss with me. Her eyes were large, her look was serious and she started with "When I get big, when I turn three..." I don't remember what came after that.

Now, she's almost 12 and at the stage in her life when "little girls become women" as they say. The other night she went to the bathroom and called her mother in after some time. Now, I fully understand that this is part of life and it was bound to happen any day but at the particular moment I was confronted with it head on I really wasn't in the mood. I think the Yankees were losing or it was a Monday - I don't remember - I just wasn't prepared for it. Another thing that really bothered me about this was that they didn't seem at all mortified by this. In fact, if I were to thesaurisize their reaction to this morbid, tragic event, I'd have to use the word "giddy".

Is it me or is it them?

It's them, right?

My uncle Bill is the father of 3 girls. Whenever I go to him or any father for advice that's raised teenage girls it's like talking to a war veteran that fought at 'Nam. You bring up the subject and suddenly the mood changes. They get fidgety; start sweating. They don't want to talk about it. All they know is they survived and some of their friends did not. They kind of turn away from you, their voice quivers then trails off and you hear something faint like "Lost some good friends..."

Have I done enough? Have I told her enough about strangers? Even people she knows? Did I demonize everyone enough to where she trusts no one?

"Go to the cops, but don't really trust them either."

A background check or knowing someone a long time doesn't factor in opportunity.

I have a boy. There are some pitfalls there too. Boys aren't infallible. But it's a whole different ball game. Probably a double standard. Because if my son turns 17 and he's dating a 28 year old I might give a quick thought to what her intentions are but I also might give him a high-five. Switch that around to my daughter and they'll be finding body parts. What does a 28 year old man want with a 17 year old girl? Exactly. A hand here. A sawed off leg there. Chris Rock said that a fathers' only job is to keep his daughter off the stripper pole.

A couple years back I started writing a short story where a man goes to a strip club, goes to put a dollar in the g-string of a sexy dancer and realizes when she gets closer that it's actually his daughter. About that part I remembered I had a daughter and got too angry to finish or ever want to return to it. It started out being really funny though.

Times have certainly changed. In post-9/11 New York City, gun permits are increasingly hard to obtain. But you could always get a license for a rifle and rifles hold bullets and bullets go through guys trying to get with your daughter.

That's all I'm sayin'.

Inspirational Thought For the Day

2007-04-26T13:39:00.000-07:00

Death, like so many good movies, is sad. The young often fancy themselves immune to death. And why shouldn't they? At times life can seem endless, filled with belly laughs and butterflies, passion and joy, and good, cold beer.

Of course with age comes the solemn understanding that forever is but a word. Seasons change, love withers, the good die young. These are hard truths, painful truths - inescapable but, we are told, necessary. Winter begets spring, night ushers in the dawn, and loss sows the seeds of renewal. It is, of course, easy to say these things, just as it is easy to, say, watch a lot of television. But, easy or not, we rely on such sentiment. To do otherwise would be to jump without hope into a black hole, an endless abyss, falling through an all-enveloping void for all eternity. Really, what's to gain from saying that the night only grows darker and that hope lies crushed under the jackboots of the wicked? Who benefits from the knowledge that when a horse dies, it doesn't go to some blissful bluegrass pasture in the sky but is instead chopped into tiny pieces, some of which are made into glue? What answers do we have when we arrive at the irreducible realization that there is no salvation in this life, that sooner or later, despite our best hopes and most ardent dreams, no matter our good deeds and truest virtues, no matter how much we work toward our varied ideals of immortality, inevitably the seas will boil, evil will run roughshod over the Earth, and the planet will be left a playground in ruins, fit only for cockroaches and vermin.

There is a saying favored by clergymen and aging ballplayers: Pray for rain.

But why pray for rain when it's raining hot, poisoned blood?

Say What You Mean, Then Live With What You Said. Please.

2007-04-10T20:05:00.000-07:00

Michael Richards. Mel Gibson. Tim Hardaway. Imus. Countless politicians.

Stupid people? Probably not. Bigots? Perhaps, but certainly not in every case. Insensitive and egotistical, thinking they're above reproach? Definitely.

But the most baffling thing to me about these incidents is not so much that these people say these things in this YouTube, "politically correct" culture/generation. It's the even more head-scratching, you-can't-be-serious mea culpa campaign that's sure to follow in the ensuing 48 hours and the fact they're even granted a forum for their b.s.

Let's get him on the Jesse Jackson radio show! their PR person shouts. Call Sharpton! Get my client on tomorrow's show, the spin doctors insist.

But the spin and excuses their clients offer are often funnier than the stand-up routine Michael Richards was getting heckled for in the first place.

"I need you to help me with this anger I have inside," a soggy eyed Michael Richards -Seinfeld's Kramer - implored Jesse Jackson on the latter's radio talk show following Richard's nigger rant at Hollywood's Improv. And what a nigger rant it was!

“I’m not a racist. That’s what’s SO insane about this,” Richards insisted, his tone becoming angry and frustrated as he defended himself on the David Letterman Show.

(Cue corny, canned laugh track).

Umm...yeah. Whatever man. A tragi-comedy indeed.

The Miami Herald's sports reporter Dan Lebatard asked former NBAer Tim Hardaway how he would respond to having a homosexual teammate in response to the revelation by ex-player John Amaechi that he led a secret gay lifestyle during his NBA career.

"I hate gay people" Hardaway responded.

Dan Lebatard, a fan of Tim Hardaway after being a beat reporter for Hardaway's former team the Miami Heat, who considers Hardaway a friend and calls him "Timmy", was clearly taken aback by his response and gave him a chance to clear up or change his answer.

"I hate gay people" Timmy repeated with more conviction than the first answer.

He didn't seem bleary-eyed or under the influence. He was asked a direct question and gave in my opinion, an honest, direct answer.

This was Friday.

"Like I told my children, life is not easy." Hardaway told the Miami Herald. "This is a big bump I have to overcome. I'm going to deal with it like a champ. I've got to make sure people know I don't hate gay people."

This was Sunday.

(Cue corny, canned laugh track).

Radio personality Imus, a public relations nightmare and no stranger to controversy during his 20-plus year career was at it again with yet another insensitive overtly racist remark. This time the ire of his idiotic spewing were young athletes from Rutgers University's women's basketball team.

Two days after calling the players on the basketball team "nappy headed hos", Imus was on the mike with more spin than a DJ.

“Here’s what I’ve learned:" Imus started.

Wait! I feel an after school special coming on....

"... that you can’t make fun of everybody, because some people don’t deserve it,” he said.

Excuse me? What?

(Somewhere We Are The World is playing on an old, tiny record player. One with a turntable that drops the record when the one playing is done. Don't we all feel good now?)

Here's what I'd like to happen Mr./Mrs. booking agent, show producer. The next time, say, next week around this time when some entertainer, politician schmuck says something out his ass that's caught on tape then tries to get on your show to showcase their insincere sincerity, here's what you say:

Sorry man. No can do. You said it. You meant it. Now everyone knows.

Live with it.

Tomorrow, Today Is Yesterday

2007-01-23T12:18:00.000-08:00

A few years back - damn, maybe 11, 12 years ago now - back when I was still in advertising and a lot less jaded and much more ignorant, I briefly dated this temp receptionist at my job. Let's call her Phyllis. No, we can't call her Phyllis because that's her real name. So let's call her Phyll...isha.

Phyllisha was in her last year of college and had an apartment off campus in Long Island. She invited me out to her place one night after work. I didn't have a car so I took the Long Island Railroad. When I got to her place, it was her but it wasn't her. It was the first time I had seen her without makeup and my face must have betrayed me because the first thing she said was "This is the first time you're seeing me without makeup."

Her small apartment reeked of week old ashtrays and wet dog. She claimed she didn't smoke and her building didn't allow any pets. Perhaps she was smell deaf.

After a few minutes of idle how-do-I-get-in-your-pants-and-catch-the-very-next-train conversation, her phone rang. I don't remember if it was her boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, pimp, John, whoever, but they were arguing. She put it on speaker in case I was interested in hearing both sides. I pretended I was really into the Knicks game I was watching on her 7-inch tv, and tried to blink myself home like Jeannie used to do.

Eventually she got off the phone, turned off the Knicks game and started playing a song by TLC. I don't remember which song. What I do remember was she started performing for me. She started dancing and singing to the song like she was on stage or auditioning for Left Eye's spot years before Left Eye died. I remember asking myself if I got off the train at the wrong planet.

Pathetic/Sad/Uncalled for/Unjustified/Bewildering/What the fuckedness?! feelings came over me.

Here was this person I hardly knew and did not recognize, giving me the kind of pseudo, faux-sexy performance that would land itself on the very first show of a new season of American Idol when Simon is at his cruelest. She was totally turning me off. Any second I expected to hear Rod Serling's voice.

I bounced.

I don't know what made me remember this. I sat at the keyboard and said I would write about the very first thing that came to mind. It's funny though. It doesn't seem like so many years ago and the older I get the more I believe that time really is an illusion.

Today if I saw Phyllisha I wouldn't even recognize her.

With or without the makeup.

Me And My Cave

2006-09-22T13:36:00.000-07:00

It's not that I purposely set out to be antisocial, antidisestablishment or antidentite. Sometimes I just don't want to be bothered.

Even with my good friends I'll go days or weeks without returning a phone call. At times, when I'm on the phone in the middle of a conversation, I might just hang up on you. I realize that action could be misconstrued as perhaps being rude, but there are times when I'd rather not exert the mental energy to unravel your logic. No offense.

It's times like this where I just sit in my house with the shades drawn, a copious amount of illegal narcotics being smoked, about to be smoked or contemplated being smoked. Then about a scant 3 months later, I'm back on the scene as if nothing happened. Most of my friends know this about me and actually say things like "Give me a call when you resurface." I love these folks. They don't ask me for explanations, where I've been, why I just suddenly hung up in the middle of a conversation. They just let me be.

My eyes haven't totally gotten used to the light again, but as soon as I could make out the numbers on the telephone and remember yours, I'll call.

Promise!

Hibernation is over. I've got some serious writing to do. Now go away.

Music Mandatory!

2006-05-22T20:47:00.000-07:00

Recently, I learned that this 30-something year-old woman that I see regularly during my morning commute has come to the conclusion that she is, in fact, a lesbian.

This dude I see sometimes on the bus had to put his mother in a nursing home. His sister hasn't been out to visit her yet causing tension and a rift amongst the siblings.

A high school girl that frequently rides the same bus had sex with the captain of her school's football team and has been itching down there ever since. She doesn't want to go to the doctor because her doctor is a close friend of her parents.

How do I know all this?

While nearly 90% of Americans drive to work, mass transit (subway & bus service) is the primary form of travel for most New Yorkers. An estimated 4.5 million New Yorkers travel this way every weekday.

So, that's an estimated 4.5 million bullshit, nonsensical conversations you're subjected to twice a day from Monday through Friday not counting the bullshit you have to hear once you actually get to work.

My God! The shit people talk about in public is mind-boggling. Idiot, people are listening!

Forget the doctor knowing your dad if I ever see you with a man I believe is your father I'm putting your ass on blast strictly on GP - fool!

And it's always the same boring, ghetto, trifling shit: she needs to borrow $500 from her sister to buy her 8 year old son a PSP and the new Jordan VIIs because somehow her welfare check is late; he's calling his mother to wish her a happy Mother's Day and it's the Wednesday after; she's talking to one of her homegirls about how she had to beat down her man's baby's mama for lookin' at her the wrong way and she's 3 months pregnant with his baby but he doesn't know it yet.

No one talks on their phone in public about subjects that are useful to the general public. You'll never hear anyone doing a public service announcement on their cell phone. No one's talking about cures for cancer or the common cold or a great investment or stock tip. Never!

Teenage girls are the worst offenders. Or any female with a phone. God forbid it's a Nextel two-way so we're privy to what the brain surgeon on the other end is saying.

Teenage boys and young men are no better, especially when one of them starts pontificating about their sexual conquests. "Yo son, I had this bitch on her knees son, gaggin' n' shit, son!" Don't mind the grandmothers and elementary school children around. Just go ahead talking about your oral pleasure. It's all good. We're all very interested. Thanks for sharing.

Liar!

A few years ago a friend of mine had a party at his home after his son was christened. It was a family affair with children, aunts, uncles and grandmothers. He had a DJ at his house and what does the DJ decide to play at this family event? NWA. One of us goes to him and says "Money, that's not appropriate." So he puts on Method and Redman. "Foolio! This is a family event. Look around. What don't you understand about that?!" I was just waiting for 2 Live Crew. But it all comes down to the same basic lesson: you gotta know your audience.

So when I'm trapped on mass transit around a stupid conversation, or when I see a bunch of stupid people gathering around for a potential stupid conversation, or when I see a stupid looking person just staring at their stupid cell phone, I just reach into my bag for my music. Thank you Nas, Mos-Def, Seal, Kweli, De La, Jimi and everyone else in my playlist for the most necessary escapism, albeit temporary.

Lord knows there'll be plenty of stupid shit to listen to as soon as I reach the office.

Ode To The 25 Year Grudge

2006-04-25T14:17:00.000-07:00

"I forgive you."

That's what he said to me. A week ago today. That's what the train conductor walked to the other end of the packed subway car, excusing himself while squeezing and shimmying through all the rush hour commuters on the packed train car to tell me.

"I forgive you."

"Charles?" I asked.

"Mike." He corrected me. "That's what I'm talking about, brother. I forgive you." He then went back to the other end of the train, back to the conductor's closet, to announce the next stop.

How long did he have this on his chest? I wondered. Has he been waiting to see me for 20 years to tell me this? He caught me totally off guard so I was only able to stammer something like "thank you," in his wake. "Thank you?" For fucking what? Get over it, man!

Back in Junior High School, we'd play the dozens; snap on people. Make fun of them. Whatever you want to call it. We were all kids. It was a daily event. It was either Get or Get Got. Get 'em before they got you. Pre-emptive warfare. As kids, we were all susceptible. We all had our problems, growing pains, awkwardness. Everyone was a target. Especially me.

I had a lot going against me. My mother was known in the neighborhood for being very religious; I wasn't allowed to celebrate any holidays -my birthday included- which made me a total weirdo; for the first couple of years in Junior High I had absolutely no clothes.

Pre-emptive warfare.

Now back then, Charles, er, Mike was the kid that could dish it out but couldn't take it. He was a very dark skinned kid with the straightest, Chinese eyes. He also smelled like a band-aid for some reason. So naturally we'd do things like draw the Great Wall of China with a band aid on it; we'd call him names like Chan, Chang and Chong. Soon, it was any word beginning with "CH" hence, Charles.

But he wasn't the only victim. We had this kid in our class named Ahmad that had the biggest head and we'd call him "Headquarters"; I was extremely bowlegged so in addition to the religious jokes they'd call me everything from Jerry's Kid, Cisco Kid, bowlegged Lou, etc. We all got it.

Antonio was a black kid in our class whose family attended an all-white 7th Day Adventist Church so we'd take out a sheet of 8.5 x 11 paper, draw five tiny black dots and say "Antonio and his family at church". John Patterson climbed a tree, fell down and got a twig stuck in his right ear and punctured his ear drum causing him to be deaf in that ear. We had a field day with that one. We'd always talk extra loud around him, even when on his left side; we'd say something then repeat it in sign language for him; we'd repeat things even when he heard it right the first time; or sometimes we'd act like we couldn't hear him when he spoke to us.

So while it may have been cruel and disheartening, it was also fun and inventive. In fact, it still makes me laugh.

Is that wrong?

Even today I'll see someone and notice something funny about them and laugh to myself. The 12 year old in me still wants to bust on them but nowadays you might get shot and I've never said anything funny enough to die for.

He "forgives" me?

That was how we lived. The unwritten code. We were all fair game. I didn't think I was hurting anyone. And here I am on an otherwise ho-hum Tuesday and this guy comes over and makes me feel all bad and shit. What an asshole!

It's almost like the 12 year old me traveled to the future to get chastised by an adult Mike. But on the flip side, it's also a chance for the 30-something year old Mike to get dissed one last time by the 12 year-old in me.

What an extraordinary opportunity!

But instead I take the high road. I obviously had some negative affect on him and it's probably best to bury the hatchet after all this time. So when the train pulls up to my station, I get off and walk to the conductor's car. Mike had his head out the car, checking people getting off and on before closing the doors and announcing the next stop.

"Mike" I called out to him. I planned to say something like "good seeing you." Or make a lighthearted joke like "meet me at 3 o'clock by the flagpole". But the way he looked at me, with this smug look of disdain as if waiting for an apology, made me want to slap him instead.

"You still smell like a first-aid kit, you dick!" I heard myself say.

The train pulled off and he shook his head at me. Pitying my existence.

Some people never change.

Confessions Of A Potential Retard

2006-04-10T05:31:00.000-07:00

For some reason, my mother didn't send me to kindergarten. My sister went. My younger brother would go. But for whatever the reason, my mother decided to keep me home.

So in order to be assigned to a first grade class, since I had no kindergarten record established apparently, I had to report to the school office for an oral exam. The woman administering the "test", a typical librarian-type: pointed rim glasses, sensible shoes, coffee stockings (yikes!), took me in the office and asked me one question. One question only.

"What's your favorite cartoon?"

That's it? I thought. I'm in. Too easy. Bugs Bunny! My man. Ace boon coon. Partner in crime. Do you want to know what my favorite episode is, too? Sheeit.

That was all going on in my head.

Like Einstein, I didn't start speaking when kids were supposed to speak. I kind of grunted, pointed at things, gestured with eye and head motions, but I didn't have the speaking thing down pat yet. At five, I was still trying to figure the verbal communication thing out. But she was waiting to hear an answer.

"Bugs...Bunny." I finally answered, pushing the words out with much effort.

I don't remember exactly what happened after that. I just remember my mother crying and being consoled by the other women in the office as we left the room. They were shaking their heads, pitying us both, patting her softly on the shoulder.

"It's what's best for the boy," they assured her. I was sentenced to the worst first grade class,
1 E-4.

1 E-4 was a learning ground for the city's future criminals. In that class we were taught shank sharpening; identifying 5-0, even when plain-clothed; there was a course, Pencil: Writing Utensil or Weapon? Typical first-grade stuff, or so I thought.

Every day I took the little, yellow, mini bus to what was called the Mini School across the yard from the regular elementary school where everyone else attended. There were like 9 of us on a bus that could seat 25 comfortably. Every day I sat next to the same girl - Lisa - and every day she smelled like salami. There was a kid name George that had a dribble cup attached to his chin and all he did was laugh and drool and ask Lisa for her salami. She didn't know what salami was and every day she'd tell him so. There was Charles, who was nicknamed "Trouble" even back then. He's been in and out of prison since we were 16. Eric, nicknamed Otty or Righty (his big brother, a future crackhead who would later be found dead of mysterious circumstances, was called Lefty) would be in and out of prison too and would be dead by 20.

Observation: when you're feared being retarded, people talk about you like you're not there.

"Does he like juice?" they'd ask around me.

And they'd talk slow and loud as if you're hard of hearing. "WOULD...YOU...LIKE...SOME...JU-ICE???"

But on the flip side, they were always extra encouraging for the smallest feat. Tying my shoe might get me a "Great job!". Putting on my jacket by myself might earn me a gold star. Counting to ten would get me a big, wet kiss on the cheek.

That was until I started speaking. Then I started acing all the tests. I knew my colors. I realized, without being told or helped that the round peg could only fit through the round hole; that cops, even out of uniform, have a certain walk to them; a certain smug air of authority giving them away for what they are. My first grade teacher, an Irish woman named Mrs. Evis, was forced to send me to the big school across the yard.

"But he looks so stupid!" she protested.

At the big school things would change. Now tying my shoe would be "So what?" Counting to ten would make them ask"Why'd you stop at only ten?" Putting on my jacket would earn me a "Yeah?...And?..."

A few years ago, I asked my mother about the whole thing. My brush with retardation. And all she'd say was "Oh that was a long time ago," and change the subject. "I hear the Yankees are building a new stadium."

My sister, four years older, should remember it. "Oh, I don't know...you'd have to ask ma about that. That's great about the new stadium though, huh?"

Figures. Stonewalled as usual. Going to have to do my own research. Maybe talk to an old classmate. Lookup a former teacher. Maybe visit the old Mini School.

In fact, whenever I get out of prison, it'll be my first stop.

Somewhere A Village Is Missing Its' Idiot

2006-04-07T20:56:00.000-07:00

"Do you mind if I smoke?" - Ed Norton
"I don't care if ya burn!" - Ralph Kramden

I sit across from someone - at my job in Cubicle-Land - who's intensely bubbly. Bubbly ad nauseum. Every morning he greets me in his loud, cheery, sing-songy way "And how are YOU doing this morning?". And every morning he's greeted by my silence. It's the morning. How do you think I am? Idiot.

I don't mind nice people necessarily. Occasionally, I'm mistaken for being a nice person. It's just that behind his niceness, there's this insincere sincerity. Like he's trying too hard at it and it's not even necessary. At the job, we're all fast-talkers. I'm busy, get to the point. This guy, you ask him a question and he pulls up a chair, dissects the question, tells you an "interesting" totally irrelevant anecdote, then answers you three different ways to make sure you get the point.

A schmuck so schmucky that even other schmucks on my job call him a schmuck, this ass-clown of a man is insensitive to how unnecessary his existence is. He finds it necessary to say "hello" every single time he sees me. "Hey, big guy!" "There he is!" "How's it hanging there buddy?"

Infuriatingly fulsome, this unctuous asshole goes way out of his way to please as if he were born to do it. He walks around whistling and asks me if I need anything from the store; the refrigerator; the fax machine. Anywhere he's going is announced. "Just going to the head, big guy. Be right back."

Are you my butler or my co-worker? Beat it! Idiot!

"Let me know if my radio bothers you. If there's a song you don't like I'll change it."

He knows every word to every song ever made. That's not hyperbole. EVERY SONG. EVER MADE. Try him. My office is like a modern-day Name That Tune. People come by to try to stump him. It's like when Ralph Kramden was on the game show and all his neighbors would come by his apartment to quiz him. But when people come by and talk to him, I look at them like "What's wrong with you? Don't get him started."

As I type this he's singing along to his radio, swaying, eyes shut tight "She's got Bette Davis eeeeeeyyyyeessss." And his voice isn't half bad. Idiot!

He was on the phone the other day - true story, swear to God: "Yeah, I'd love to but I'm so fuckin' busy...Yeah, he's a real piece of shit, I know...yeah (laughs) fuck that...Okay, love you too, mom."

Now my first reaction was to laugh and say "What the hell?", but A: I don't like when people overhear my conversation in the cubicle universe and comment on it and, B: that would open the door to a conversation with him and that ain't happenin'.

Mind you - this isn't some young, straight from college cat. This guy's pushing 50. He's everything I don't want to be at 50. Kissing ass, trying to get a promotion that's not coming; working corporate and seemingly pleased about it. But perhaps that's his angle. Maybe he's so miserable that his defense mechanism with himself and the world is to act like everything's hunky-dory. Could he be that shrewd? I don't think so. I honestly believe he's just that way. And maybe this inner rage that wells within me whenever I see, hear or smell him is really fear. Could that be me at that age? God forbid.

You come in, he's there. You leave, he's there. You forget your house keys and come in on a Saturday to retrieve them, there he is, playing solitaire on the computer. He's like the office Bartleby except he's very accommodating. Does he have a life? I don't know. He has a picture of a woman in a frame on his desk. She's a brunette, with a way big smile and a carnation in her hair. She looks a little too perfect but at the same time, strangely enough, they seem to be a perfect pair. Two out of touch buffoons getting pimp-slapped across the face and saying "Yes, sir. May I please have another? "

Someone walks by and asks him "How's it goin' Ed?"

"You know, just surviving. I'm just a cog in a wheel, man."

Somewhere at this very moment, a village is out in search of its' idiot.

Between 5th & Mad

2006-04-05T00:02:00.000-07:00

When I was in the fifth grade, I had perfect attendance. The only year I ever accomplished that feat. I was also the most improved student. Why? My teacher, Mrs. C, had perky breasts and I was coming of age. Mrs. C had perky breasts, I was coming of age, and she always wore these dresses that highlighted her ample bosom. She always wore dresses that highlighted her ample bosom and most of the time she went braless.

It was 1980. She was married. Her husband was the guy in the Crazy Glue commercial that wore the construction hat that was glued to the beam with him in it, feet dangling. Remember that commercial?

I hated him.

It was also around this time, not ironically, that I started caring about the way I looked. When I heard Mrs. C compliment Leslie Sealey on his shirt I got really pissed because it used to be my shirt that my mother gave his mother because I outgrew it. I wanted to tell Mrs. C that but Tim might have overheard and I was wearing his old shoes at the time. Damn these hand-me-downs!

I remember the way the other teachers would whisper around her, this hot young teacher, 'harlot this', 'provocative that'. I didn't care about any of that. I'd make her laugh and she'd squeeze my cheeks. She was young, had the goods and didn't mind making the other teachers jealous about it. A little lower Mrs. C!

Why is it that you read of all these kids - goofy kids - getting it on with their female teachers nowadays? Usually their teachers are hot, too. You didn't hear about that when I was in school. Damn these new-age teachers!

Not only that, the girls going to school now weren't built like the girls when I was in school. I'm on the bus in the morning, looking at this woman trying to think of something quick and smart to say, the bus stops and she gets off and walks into a Junior High School! Then I notice her book bag with Nick Cannon on it. Damn this high hormonal food!

So last year on Mother's Day I get the courage up to contact Mrs. C. I look her up, call the number and sure enough she picks up and it's really her. I tell her everything. How she made me feel. How she was the best teacher ever. How I love her to this day. How it's not too late to make it happen.

"You're the kid that wore Tim's shoes right?"

I explain to her that now I have a job, could afford my own shoes, and could probably afford to buy her her own shoes too. And that's when the other shoe dropped. Leslie, the kid I gave my old shirts to, HE was with her now.

"Oh yeah!" I explode. "Well tell him I want my blue Le Tigre, my yellow Izod and my burgundy Chams DeBaron shirts back!" I scream before hanging up in her ear.

First I'll get the shirts back. Then I'll get the girl.

Damn I'm good!

Porn O' Plenty

2006-03-29T15:21:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-28T16:01:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-25T21:13:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-22T14:35:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-13T16:12:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-09T10:13:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-08T19:19:00.000-08:00

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.

The Pettiness Pending At Corporate Incorporated

2006-02-22T21:13:00.000-08:00

Little Orphan Annie, as her name implies, was but a child. Her tomorrow’s were filled with her ever-loving dog, Sandy; with lollipops and candy and chasing rainbows till she found the old pot o’ gold.

I’m an adult. You’ll be very hard pressed to find me singing optimistic anticipatory songs about tomorrow, especially on Sunday nights. I've been working in the corporate world for some time now and the one thing I can say with all certainty is this: Corporate life, in a word, is absurd.

It’s not that I don’t like my job. On the contrary. While I can be insanely busy at times, the days go fast and I actually enjoy the work for the most part. It’s just the other part of my job I could do without.

The human beings.

Human beings have questions that don't need to be asked. They have problems they intend to make your problems. They have rude, obnoxious children that should be in full contraction. They have comments that don't need to be heard lest spoken. They freely offer advice after eavesdropping on your phone conversation. Some of them consider bathing and breath mints optional. They have a total disregard for your personal space.

I never really had a problem with these creatures before. Occasionally when I ventured outside my office on the way to the bathroom or copier, sure they'd be around. But I'd dodge them ever so carefully like they were land mines. But after the company I work for moved spaces in January, I have no office. I have no door. And now I'm surrounded.

Let me tell you a very distinct difference between having an office with a door and a cubicle. When you're in your office, even when the door's open, people are compelled to knock before entering. There's just something about a door that makes people stop even when it's opened. Since being sentenced to work in a cubicle, it's like being on Madison Avenue during lunch time. You can be slaving away, looking as serious as you wanna look, eyes straight ahead on your computer screen burning up the keyboard and one of them will just come along, plop their elbow down on the edge of your cube all comfy-like and just start up a conversation. And it's usually this guy: you know the person who, when you're having one of those really useless meetings that they tend to schedule toward the end of the day and you're trying to get the hell out, he's the human that when they ask "Does anyone have any questions?" his hand is always the one up. Usually he's asking a question that was just asked or answered but since he's working to 10pm for absolutely no reason, why not make everyone else just sit around anyway? So now he's at my cube.

"Yeah, so this weekend me and the wife blah, blah, blah."

Some years ago, when I was a New Jack, I might stop typing and feign interest. I might even look this person in the eye to give the impression I cared. That was then. Now, I don't have the time to pretend or unravel your logic. Now, I just keep typing. Then It looks over at my computer screen to see what I'm doing. In my office, I could easily switch Windows, no one knew what I was working on. Not in a cube. They could usually just look right at your computer screen.

"Hotmail, huh?"

I just keep typing.

I know he's still there, holding his cup of coffee in one hand, his other hand in his pocket. He's rocking back-and-forth nervously. He knows I heard him. I know he knows I know. At this point it's just a matter of wills. He sees someone else and heads their way to bother them.

"Hey Steverino!"

I live by the Dilbert Principle. If you're not familiar with the cartoon, Dilbert is a working guy, works in a cube, and after years on the job has gotten jaded by the whole corporate schtick. The rule he lives by is simply this: People are Idiots.

When I was 19 years old I was dating this girl in Boston. On weekends I would take the now defunct Trump Shuttle and see her. In Boston, people (especially white folks), have an infamous way of totally ignoring you. I'd be driving her car, get lost and ask for directions and not only wouldn't they answer me, they'd look right through me as if they didn't see me. (I wasted a lot of money when i was 19!)

Now, in retrospect, I'm thinking that it's not that those folks were raging redneck card carrying racists. But it's probably because they've spent considerable time working in Corporate America.

You see, for your own survival in the corporate world, your instincts eventually kick in to ignore people. It's like when you get real cold your body automatically starts to shiver in an attempt to generate heat; when you survive a plane crash, the guy that was sitting in the aisle seat only an hour ago starts to look like one of those Bugs Bunny chickens and you find yourself wanting to eat him. It's about survival, man!

True story: on Monday, February 13 of this year, I'm in the interview room with a candidate. All's well, I'm thinking where I might have room for this guy and then he asks me "So, do we get paid extra on our birthday?" He started saying something else but at that point my corporate survival instincts took over and all is dead silent. Without me even realizing I was doing it, I just calmly starting gathering my stuff - my papers, pens, business cards - looked through him, smiled, got up and left the interview room.

How was I supposed to answer that?!?

Also, it never hurts to let them think you're a little bit crazy. Not postal crazy. But just enough so they'll leave you alone and won't want to talk to you unless it's totally necessary. Every so often, about every quarter or so, I usually walk around with a legal pad, go up to a group of three or so humans and ask an insane question. Then I act like I'm jotting down their equally unintelligible answers and when they ask why I'm asking them I'll just mutter something like 'psychological profile' and walk away. That usually buys me about 2.5 months without having to deal with them. (Totally unassociated but going through the drive-through and stressing repeatedly that your order is "to go" is a good one too).

I work. You work. You know. There aren't nearly enough sick/vacation/personal/mental health days or Fridays. There's gonna be some call. Something. Some crack headish question. Some human being. A man. Someone's interning kid, an idiotic nephew, a manager that boasts how good she looks for 40 when you thought she was 55.

That's what's waiting for me tomorrow. And it's only a day away.

The Last Reunion

2006-02-13T17:17:00.000-08:00

There would be no sack races; no ring toss, no basketball or name games at this one. And almost everyone was there this time around. To say goodbye to the matriarch of the family, Olga Pastor. Grandma.

Grandma, I felt like calling you today. Just woke up with you on my mind. Tried to recall your number 302-323...it was every day or every week even that we spoke. But I called when you were on my mind, spontaneous, like almost everything I do. I always seemed to make you laugh and you'd call me a rascal and although you had scores of grandkids I always felt like we had our own thing. It became our tradition for me to bring you a coffee mug from whenever I went away and you always seemed so interested in my trips; even wanting me to call you from Africa when I landed to make sure I was safe.

I admired the fact that you seemed to be always there. Attending all of our graduations, putting an emphasis on education. I admired the work you did with children with health problems and AIDS. Even getting interviewed on the radio, TV and in the newspapers for your efforts.

You got me hooked on Ovaltine, my favorite even today. You told me not to say "hi" to adults, but to say "hello" instead. You told me how important it was to have 2 voices: one I use with my friends and another one when I wanted to be taken seriously. You taught me things just by observing you and your interactions with people and nature. You were good for bringing in the stray dog and cat and calling him your pet and taking care of them.

I remember when I got to teenage years, I tried to make it a conscious effort to always take some kind of lesson from you when in your presence. Like at aunt Sylvia's funeral, I remember you telling me, while staring blankly ahead: You should never have to bury your child.

I remember when David and I came by your place in Delaware just to speak to you, to interview you about your life some years ago. I was really glad we did that. When we left there was a big rainbow out front and I took that to be a good omen. I remember asking you about your father that you hadn't seen since you were 12 years old. You told me the story about him and your mother being divorced, but he came by and you asked him to buy you a dress for a catillion you were to attend. He was to bring the dress for you that following Wednesday. Then you told us "You know, that nigger never came back!" You never saw your father again and the pain that experience caused you was so evident some 70-something years later! Lesson taught: keep my word to my children. Always.

I have a question Grandma. We were at Melanie's wedding and I came by you to say hello and you took a look at my head and said "Oohh, Askia, please don't head-butt me". What the hell was that about, Grandma? Have you always had that concern about my head? Even the way you said, Ooh Askia please don't head butt me? Did I ever head butt you before and forgot about it? Was I coming at you too fast, head first? Okay, so that day's lesson was not to head-butt Grandma. Lol!

I remember the last time seeing you. It was at aunt Marcella's house in June, a couple of months before you passed. You were sitting in the living room chair and you seemed very tired. I immediately recalled hearing or reading something years earlier that said people get very tired when they're ready to go Home. And there you were. I knealt down next to you and knew I was saying goodbye and tried to tell myself it was a good thing but it was very hard. You knew what I was doing, what we were doing, and you held my hand laughed and called me a rascal.

I got up today trying to recall your number to give you a call. Just woke up with you on my mind; to hear your voice and make you laugh. Instead I'm relegated to write this blog and it's a crude consolation prize.

And the lesson I take from today is about tide and time.

Quit Clownin'!

2006-02-12T15:45:00.000-08:00

It never fails to amaze me. More than amazed really; I'm astounded actually. Befuddled. Confused. Bamboozled. Run amok and lead astray as to why people, in busy metropolitan New York City during rush hour in the subway actually stop - stop! - what they're doing, stop hustling to where they're going, and crowd around some whack, lame-ass break dancers and actually seem like they're being seriously entertained by it?! These guys are not even break dancing really. They're doing the initial steps BEFORE you start to break dance. You know, like "I'm warmin' up to do some shit now" and they keep doing that step before you get on the ground and spin on your head but instead they keep doing that step over and over and they might freeze with their hand on their head or their crotch and then just abruptly pass it to their man who's just as whack?

Then there's a mime artist or whatever they're called. Freaks with makeup, berets and horizontal stripe shirts. And he or she is doing their I'm-stuck-in-this-glass-house routine and I can't talk or scream for help because I'm a mime bit and again there's this crowd in awe. What's that about?

(The only one saving grace about clowns and mimes is the hand held horn. Probably just the concept of it though. Imagine you're slaving away for massa at CSS - Corporate Slave Ship per my West Coast homie Supasister Lil B Wafflebuns - when one of Massa's underlings comes up to you and's like "Yeah, I can see you're busy and you know how I really hate to bother you but"

HONK-HONK-HONK.

"I'm sorry I don't underst-"
HONK-HONK-HONKHONK-HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK!!!!

I don't know, but I just really believe that would be some incredibly, hilarious shit. But you'd have to do it with a serious face, almost annoyed actually until they just go away. HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK!!!! In fact, holla at your boy if you come across a hand held horn or if you wanna surprise me for my birthday. I'd love that shit!)

But I digress.

I was in Amsterdam a couple of summers back and I'm on the second floor of a Coffee House with this outdoor patio. We're kicking back, blazing with some guys from Scotland and all of a sudden this mime appears in the courtyard downstairs and starts doing his thing. Now a couple of hours earlier someone in the same place was on their cell phone and a bouncer told them that wasn't allowed. I asked the guy why and he said, you know, people come here to get high, they don't wanna hear someone making arrangements for later or on the phone arguing with their girl. Understood. So now a mime appears downstairs intentionally, I believe, trying to kill everyone's buzz. So one of the guys from Scotland, this rugby player dude just loses it and tries to get downstairs to try to kill this mime and his friends are basically tackling him and trying to talk him out of it, telling him it's not worth it and I find myself screaming "let him go!" This guy - yeah it looks likes he's taken a fair share of blows to the head, is missing a few teeth and basically resembles Woody Harrelson's character from "Wag The Dog" - understands something that the average circus-going, child toting adult does not fathom. And it is this: clowns, mimes and vantriloquists and their dummies are inherently evil. They must be stopped by any means necessary and at any cost to yourself, family, country, and fellow man.

Case in point: John Wayne Gacey. Need I say more? One of the worst serial killers this country has ever produced. Side note: the good 'ol US of A has the world's market cornered as far as serial killers. No other country can even come close to touching us in that category. Doesn't that do you proud?

Now, John Wayne Gacey was a fun guy to be around. Perhaps he'd meet you at a bar or maybe you were unfortunate enough to be a clerk or stock boy at his store. So he'd say, 'hey Ray. When you finish stocking, why dontcha come by my house to watch the game and have a couple of cold ones?' Now, maybe he seemed innocent enough and you don't wanna say no to your boss too many times, so you go by his house have a few beers and then John asks you if you like magic. You hate magic, naturally, but you say you don't mind so John goes in the back and comes out dressed like a clown. Full makeup, big red nose, floppy shoes the whole nine yards. Me? I wouldn't be at dudes house from the get go but when I see him decked out in the clown regalia I automatically figure he's threatening me so I just start swinging. But that's me. You, Ray? Well you don't have anything against clowns so when he shows you the magic handcuff trick you oblige him but abra-cadabra there is no key, next thing you know you're getting "Marcellused" Pulp Fictionized and there aint no Bruce Willis to save your stupid, trusting ass and either they find you years later in storage bags in the freezer or under the floor Tell Tale Heart, Edgar Allen Poe style. Trust me on this, there has to be nothing worse than getting killed by a clown. Nothing funny about that.

And he didn't even have the courtesy to have a hand-held honker!

I know I'm not crazy because a clown has never made me laugh. Also, there's a word for hating/fearing clowns and it's Coulrophobia. Why would there be a word for it if clowns weren't direct spawns of Satan?

I remember being punished by my mother and sitting in Madison Square Garden during a Ringling Bros. Barnum and Bailey's Circus show - at least it felt like I was being punished - and just never liking anything about the show. Then the clowns would come out between the segments and do their ten people in a Volkswagon bit, throw a bucket full of confetti "water" and people would just roar with laughter and I just felt they were annoying and nothing else. And it always seemed like I was near the front row so they'd fuck with me and try to get me in on the act and I always brought an extra sharp pencil in case I'd have to accidentally stab one of them to death. I abhorred everything about the circus. I was afraid the tiger would go tiger and maul Gunther; a trapeze artist would fall to their death; the elephants seemed like they were abused; the bears on the little tricylcles wearing the stupid little hats seemed pissed the fuck off, the whole vibe was just wrong, man.

And do you remember the movie "Magic" from the late 70's about that vantriloquist dummie that was evil. I can remember the commercial like it was yesterday. It was a pitch black and all of a sudden it was a closeup on the dummies face and he'd say:

Abra-Cadabra we'd take her to bed, magic is fun....when you're dead!

Vlad the Impaler, the ruler of Romania and the person it is believed the fabled "Dracula" was fashioned after, once had a huge banquet for all the poor and sick people in his kingdom. It was a feast that none of them had ever had or could imagine. When they were done Vlad stood up at the head of the table and asked them "How would you like to be rid of your ills and concerns forever?" He then proceeded to have the castle boarded up and burned to the ground killing every single one of them.

I'd like to do the same to all the big red nose wearing, hands up the back of a little wooden doll having, lips not moving but still speaking members of our society. It would be my version of Michael Jackson's "Heal The World". Then I'd like to get on a tiny tricyle wearing a little hat and cape and circle round their evil remains. Then, in a final show of victory, I'd get my hand held honker out: HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK!

Coffee Is For Drinking Only

2006-02-01T06:41:00.000-08:00

God is a busy person, er, entity.

What with the wars, pestilence, famine, New York Knicks fans - myriads of people are vying for His time. (Love the word "myriad").

That's why I try not to bother Him unnecessarily. You know, I don't pray for things like a pay increase or a World Series victory...anymore. Sometimes you just gotta work with whatcha got.
But there are instances where you just find yourself immersed in justifiable supplication.

So I'm at this lounge in downtown Manhattan with my boy Tim. We're kicking back, catching up and it's time for work so I only have time for a few more, you know how it is. The bartender is someone that Tim knows so we're getting all these buybacks and next thing you know it's like Happy Hour and my frame is getting...a little...shall we say...bent.

Next day's phone conversation:

"Tim."
"Yes, this is Tim."
"Yeah, I know that's why said 'Tim'. Listen, the girl at the bar last night. How was she?"
"What girl?"
"You know, the sister we were with at the lounge, how did she look? Do you remember?"
"We were talking to girl at the lounge?"

So, the very next day the girl calls me. I forget her name so let's call her Olga. And I gotta tell you, Olga's got the goods over the phone. I mean, calling me the next day usually sends up signals of desperation but I know I could be a great conversationalist when a little toasty. I may not remember little details like your name or anything we spoke about but we seemed to have a good time so I somewhat disregarded the next day phone call rule. But the Shallow Hal in me still has no idea how she looks. Maybe she could help me out a bit.

"So, would you consider yourself light-skin or brown-skinnded because most people consider me light skin though I think I'm brown skin. What about you?"

"Oh, I'd say you're brown skinned."

OOOOkay.

"You have a nice body, you got to the gym?"
"You know, I was pretty much born this way."

She's not biting.

So now I'm committed to this Friday night date with someone that has a great voice and great personality and usually if a girl is too good to be true over the phone head for the hills, man. That ain't a good sign. (Why isn't "ain't" not really considered a word yet it's abbreviated?)

The plan was to meet in front of the theatre on 23rd street. I'm a block away and decide against praying for bionic vision for the reasons I stated earlier. Plus it would probably take about a week to kick in anyway. As I get closer to the box office, I notice a very light skinned woman, with a scrunched up face like something smells bad wearing coffee stockings in July with a cherub-like doesn't-say-no to dessert type chubbiness. Then I notice the very light skinned woman, with a scrunched up face like something smells bad wearing coffee stockings in July with a cherub-like doesn't-say-no to dessert type chubbiness waving at me.

"Hi, Askia. Have you decided on a movie?"

God I know I don't come to you too often because I know you have a lot to do and millions of folks are trying to get at you right now so I appreciate the time. I realize I should come to you more often just to thank you for certain things and I promise to do better in that department. But please don't let this be my date. For her sake, of course. I don't want to waste her time because I'm really not interested. I would be really, really, really, be appreciative if that wasn't her, again, for her sake. Please! Oh, and thank you for waking to another day.

There are so many things that shot through my mind other than "hello".

Here's a Public Service Announcement for the ladies. You don't have to read my blog, but you do, I'm very appreciative and occasionally I like to give back so here's a little something free of charge: there's not a single reason or occasion EVER where coffee stockings are acceptable unless someone calls you Grandma and you pay a discounted bus fare. By the way, Olga was my grandmother's name.

We decided on a movie.

"So what are we doing afterwards."
"Well, Olga on Saturdays I usually like to get up early and go to my uncle's farm and help him milk the cows. He's a paraplegic you know and needs my help so I usually like to get there around 3am so after the movie I'm gonna have to get you a cab."
"My name isn't Olga."

On top of everything else, I had to endure sitting through a 2-hour flick with a date wearing coffee stockings during a heat wave in the front row of the theatre!

I literally threw myself in front of a cab after the movie. I spent the rest of the night in a bar next to the movie theatre watching the Yankees lose to the Baltimore Orioles drinking nothing but Diet Coke.

Olga and I kept in touch for a while after that but eventually, for some reason, she lost interest.

Another thing about God - He has a wicked sense of humor.

Know How I Know You're Gay? Cuz Your Dick Tastes Like Shit!

2006-01-28T15:03:00.000-08:00

I have a friend that I grew up with that is gay now. Or, probably more realistically, he's always been gay and is just letting everyone else in on his secret. Let's call him "Ken" because that's his real name.

So I run into "Ken" in Manhattan on Tuesday morning for the first time in around 6 years. It was around 10:30 or so so I already had a good buzz on, but it seemed very apparent to me that "Ken" was trying to outgay everyone else. With the eye rolling, the head movements, the hand gestures and pleated skirt it was just a little too much to take in all at once. When he tried to hug me I heard myself yell out "Back up, faggot!"

The fact that I haven't seen him in 6 years has nothing to do with the fact that he craves dick nowadays as much as the fact that he finds Alphonso Mourning attractive. How the fuck can you grow up a New York Knicks fan and find Alphonso Mourning attractive?

In my silent moments, when I'm being totally introspective, I wonder what it says about me that I grew up with him and didn't see the signs of his gayness? Should the Diana Ross listening parties have signaled a bell or two? Maybe the fact that he'd smear globs of vaseline on his face before a fight? Perhaps the shirtless pictures of me he'd have all around his bedroom? I find myself fearing silent, introspective moments.

So here I am, on a bustling midtown Manhattan street in the company of a 6 foot, gay, invisible rabbit. Only everyone can see him and he's only about 5'7". And here's a total misconception about gay people: they all don't dress well. I was so put off by his choice of hand bag with the shoes he was wearing I just wanted to scream!

"So where are you headed" he inquired in his butt-pirated, sing-songy tone.
"Somewhere else" I responded.

There was this comic in the late '80s that once said, when asked about homosexual vs. bisexual vs. transgender: Look, either you suck dick or you don't suck dick.

So, after a few drinks I look at my watch and it's almost 10 pm. My father once told me that God punishes homosexuals by killing them off in one generation because they don't have children. Perhaps, but they have money and I didn't spend a dime. I couldn't tell you what we spoke about for 8 hours but I do recall telling the bartender "yes, I'll have another one".

I do miss my friend's company. Playing ball in High School, bagging Catholic School girls together and confirming our alibi's before we faced our moms. And it's really too bad that time and prejudice have eroded our once strong as steel childhood bond. Maybe when I run into him again and I'm broke and thirsty we'll talk about it.

...And then there was light

2006-01-25T10:16:00.000-08:00

Gobbledygook: unclear, wordy jargon. An attainable goal. Let's face it. It's not like a New Year's Resolution. I can be unclear every minute of every day. Easy. Just off the top, nonsensical babble. Whatever's on my mind. Done. I haven't stopped to think a second about anything written so far. And I'm like 54 words in, I'm sure. About me: I've read some books, done some things, bedded some bad-ass women and drank some beer in between. I'm your average 30-something black guy, working a job during the day attending illegal cock-fights till the rooster crows. Just like you. We're all one in the same. The only difference is that I'm much better than you in all ways except none. I can prove it. What number am I thinking of right now between 1 and 10? If you said 12,873 you'd be correct. Eleventeen should be a number. Ok, maybe you're better at me in math, but guess what? Unless you're an architect or your dealer is constantly ripping you off, what good does math do you anyway? No one's gonna grab you in a dark alley and tell you that your life depends on you giving them the correct answer to the square root of 11,118. Usually in those situations it's a geography question or they'll ask you for some chemical element or something. Just remember that the symbol for gold is AU. Trust me on that. I've read the bible cover to cover and the one thing I realized was that I was never so glad to be done with a book. Kobe Bryant scored like 144 points the other day. I thought it was a typo until I realized I was listening to the radio. He knows no one likes him so you'd think he'd just score 8 points a game and go home, like the rest of his teammates. Think about it: the next highest scorer on his team had like 13 points. What would happen if Lamar Odom forearmed Kobe in the throat while Kobe was going for a layup, got the ball and dunked it over Kobe and screamed "Yeeaahhhh!" in Kobe's face? It probably wouldn't be a good career move for Lamar, but I tell you I'd laugh and laugh. And really, that's what life is all about isn't it? I believe we make life much more complicated than it has to be. Life is nothing more than a good steak, a great friend, a compatible hot partner with a high libido and clear stilletos that knows how to whip up a batch of homemade grain alcohol. I mean, why do we make it so complicated? I have a couple of kids. Their names escape me right now...I think it's Mike and Tina. They're both boys around the same age. Possibly. Ok, I'm admittedly not the best parent. But kids are just so damn clingy. All they do is whine about "Daddy, I need some food." "Daddy, I need some clothing." "Daddy, I need some shelter." Get your naked ass back in the yard, and close the damn door it's raining! Kids, man. I'm writing a book. I've been writing this book for 24 years now. It's actually changed like 12 times. Totally changed. I now realized that I could have written like 5 different books on different subjects with all the changes I've made. They were small changes but they all add up. The characters names haven't been changed at all. It's just like their situations, genders and dialogue I keep messing with. And like the overall theme. If I was to sum up the theme right now, I'd say it was a cross between Octavia Butler's Parable of the Sower and the children's book "Good Night Moon." I have this chapter in my book where the main character, Karma, goes back home and unbeknownst to her guests she takes them to a little place she calls "The Forest of The Impaled." It's creepy and graphic. It's all in Pop Up. This is definitely a part of the book where parents would want to read to their children and let them know that impalements rarely happen today. One day I'll make this blog readable and presentable. Until then, goodnight moon.