this nigga

damn, nigga got his internet taken from him right as he was about to change the world with his blog. shit. oh well, guess this revolution gotta get paused for a hot one.

shit, last night a nigga was at a club in the lower east side watchin his boys rock band perform at their record release party, flirtin with his big tittied sister and drinking a scotch and soda, my poison of choice for the occasion. after each drink i would declare that it was my last but fools kept floating the dough for more and the evening kept stretching further. after a while cats got geared up and were hittin the bathroom in twos every ten minutes. next thing ya know its last call and a niggas bummin a cab to the hood with his homie. suckas straight broke so his dogs gotta foot the bill. at 5am a nigga finally gets home and tries to catch some streaming porno before he crashes but his fuckin internets trippin so just a joint gets blown and hes down for the count.

and of course a nigga wakes up half hour after he was supposed to already BE at work. all hung over, mouth parched, trying to piece together a lie to email the office before he shows up at noon. but oh yeah, the internets down, so fools cant email and just gotta walk in and take the heat. of course there was none, in this industry a late night and a hungover morning is normal practice, so a nigga just slides in unnoticed like boom. still, i had to leave earlier than usual, a nigga wasnt feelin to well, knowhatimsayin?

now im at a cafe by the palace jackin its speedy wireless network while i tap on my brothers borrowed laptop. this spot is in full swing at 8pm on a wednesday. packed with baseball capped five oclock shadowed guys and cute brunettes in strappy rayon tops. like its a fucking singles bar. they got 'I Got the Power' by Snap blasting on the overhead. what the fuck? has a nigga fallen to sleep and is having a dream where his local cafe, usually fraught with hyperactive toddlers and late 30 something housewives during the day, has transformed itself into a potential poon pick up spot? where the hell am i? for real do', fill a nigga in.

throwaway post

then what was i supposed to do? she backed up from my lap and sucked her finger then let the nail flick her teeth. it made a quick, sexy pop. she pinched her nipples until they were swollen and she stared into my eyes. she spread her legs and grinded her hips down to the floor. her ass looked amazing from that point of view.

-i love this song she said and the sentence came out like a long heavy breath. she was wearing lingerie. lace with hanging garters. the outfit was so standard it was almost comical. the stereotypical "sexy" uniform. the classic advertisement for seduction. its been working on men for centuries. and of course i was completely and utterly sold.

she leaned into me. her naked breast rubbing against my t-shirted chest. her neck passed my cheek softly. it didnt touch but i could feel it. i could smell it. it was a thick and pretty scent. like my head was buried in a heavy bouquet of flowers for a moment. i could hardly breathe. i gasped and choked on her allure.

the walls were tight around us and shook and shivered with rhythm. an R&b dancer was on the stage. thighs probably like a doomsday weapon, starting wars and killing men.

-you want me to stay a little longer? she asked. her nipple brushed my lip. i reached in my pocket. nothing but lint

shit. im outta dough. fucking hell.

she leaves. i stay in the booth for a little while longer, smoking a cigarette.

pfft.

weekend warrior

Friday:
at about 11pm i rolled out to Miss Williamsburg for my first gig since the spine slicing scene a month ago. i could only carry about an hour or 45 minute set with me and was ready to heat the floor but the decks were set too low and the spot was dead and quiet so i ended up just drinking beer and bullshitting with some cats i havent seen in a while. at about 2.30 we head to Crown Chicken in Clinton Hill for a very rare late night fried food excursion. those midnight fires where still burning and the joint was hoppin with young thugs from the projects across the street. at one point i was pretty sure i was gonna pay for my 2pc breast meal with about a pint of blood if not my life. i escaped with no cuts nor bruises and a box of artery clogging tasty goodness. after two bites i realized it wasnt even worth it and threw the rest away. i took a few swigs of my beer and a couple pulls on a blunt before i called a car to take me home, it was about 4am.


Saturday:
we head down to Coney Island for the Mermaid Parade at about 2.30, after a couple morning spliffs and my drip with a shot. a friend described the parade to me as "a steady stream of young, perky breast, naked and glittering, sweating and shining under the blazing hot Brooklyn sun" [im paraphrasing, i think he just said a lot of chicks show tit, but that didnt sound as cool]. well, there were some naked breast alright, but they were hardly perky and definitely not young. not that im being picky with my free nekid titty glimpses but there were a few droopy boobs i begged would discover a bikini at some point during the day.

after the anticlimactic parade we explored the actual boardwalk of Coney Island, which i had never been to. my knowledge of the famed amusement park [is that what you would call it] only extended to the Cyclone rollercoaster and that it was the spot where the final showdown between the Warriors and the Rogues went down. i couldnt get on any of the rides, which was lame. they might as well have all been named "THE SPINAL DISLOCATOR," or "THE VERTEBRAE VIBRATOR," or something else insinuating my eventual wheelchair bound lifestyle were i take that adventure so i just drank a few pricey beers and people watched.

Coney Island is kinda ghetto, but thats a whole 'nother post.

when we get home and my boy calls and invites up up to his crilla for some fight night antics. im not much of a boxing fan but im all about free food and drink so we bounce up to his spot at about 10.30. me and L-Squeeze each have about 8 shots of tequila and a couple beers before stumbling home and clumsily groping eachother before some sloppy penetration and passing out half clothed intertwined in sheets, sweat, humidity and eachother.

Sunday:
will is a sucker for nyc landmarks and he wants to digitally capture all of them while he's here, so we head into manhattan in search of some history. we find the Five Points pretty easy which is kind of miraculous considering we had no idea where it was at and just wandered the neighborhoods we kinda thought it might be in until we stumbled across it. it was as kinda meh, but will took pictures anyway and we turned the page.

then its off to the west village to check out the infamous "cage" where we might catch some sweet street ballin on its legendary court. on the way there i start noticing that there are more queens out than usual we realize its gay pride and there is a massive parade going on down Christopher street. one of the floats, which looked like a rainbow had exploded on the bed of a pick up, is throwing out bracelets similar to the "live strong" one but purple instead of yellow and saying "pride" instead of "live strong." im kinda into bracelets and im always down to support fags so i holler out for one and this queen limp wrist flicks me one from the exploding rainbow float thingy. as im putting it on, pretty proud of my new rubber wrist jewelry, i realize on the back, in bigger letters than the ones 'Pride' are written in it says STARBUCKS COFFEE.

jesus christ. i flung it into the street. im all for pride, but corporate sponsored pride? pfft.

too cool for school

Last night i went to a magazine's pool party at the top of a Holiday Inn on the west side of Midtown. it had a predictable 80's high school theme, replete with sponsorship by Bartles and James and an ipod playlist straight out of the John Hughes soundtrack catalog.

it was somewhat pleasant, though im much to jaded to admit i had fun. which i didnt, by the way. i just sat at a table drinking wine coolers and gabbing with some friends. the entire place was crowded with hipsters. even though the party had an 80's theme you couldnt tell if they were actually dressed for it or if they were just trendy new wave posers. every other rail thin shaggy haired white guy looked like they played bass in a faggy electropop band from williamsburg. nearly everyone was young and beautiful. it was painfully typical.

Richie Rich from the mega hip clothing designers Heatherette was pointed out to me. id never seen him nor was i very familiar with his clothing line. but it was quickly relayed to me, in a hushed but excited tone, that i should be. he was nothing less than fabulous and, dare i say, gorgeous as he paraded around the party. all striking colors and pouting lips a target for everyones finger. he actually reminded me of a girl i know back in disco. she cheated on me with a good friend. bitch.

anyway, apparently he was a fixture in the new york club scene during its early 90's heyday. the consummate clubkid in platforms a foot high and neon feather boas. everywhere all the time. now hes an in demand fashion maven who looks good in eyeliner and bosses around paris hilton. an honest to goodness success story for all us burnt out speaker freakers to look up towards, i guess. you go girl.

i left at about ten. it was getting pretty chilly on the roof, hardly was it pool weather. and the B&J really wasnt gettin my buzz going. that shits for 15 year old girls trying to lose their virginity, not 29 year old men trying to appear clever.

i got home to some brief relief. but eventually things turned sour. not fatally sour, but going to bed without saying goodnight sour.

my brother has placed a burden on brooklyn. i'll explain more later.

The Street Lawyer

there are skyscrapers. there is traffic. there is gossip. there is this blog.

there is loss. there are half empty beer bottles. there is is an orgasm in another language.

there are an infinite amount of things to talk about, yet i can think of none.

but i digress...


im reading a book. a paperback book. its got about 400 pages and could fit into the front pocket of just about any winter coat [for those of you in california, a 'winter coat,' is a rather thick and heavy jacket that is of considerable length and preferably the finest down lining. it is useful during the winter season in the further east, and insufferably colder, coast of the northern americas -ed]. as it is i carry it in my trusty man-purse record-bag along with my $5 sunglasses, my cigarettes, my wallet, my keys, a couple 12" singles, and all my make-up.

my mother left it here when she was visiting. i asked her if she bought it in the airport and she told me in an annoyed tone that no, she had borrowed it from a friend and asked did i want to read it. if i did, she would leave it here. -whatever, i said. i was involved with Billy Pilgrim and his perpetual death. so it goes. -go ahead and leave it. she did.

it wasnt until this week that i started reading it. i had nothing to read. i was out of magazines. had finished my book. i would watch tv, but even the advertisements were reruns. so i picked up the paperback. i didnt even think twice about it.

i was ready to be Grishamed.

i have to say, the most uncomfortable thing about me being Grishamed is realizing that im a disgusting literature snob. i mean, who am i to shamefully hold the book down so no one can read the authors name were they to curiously glance at what i was intensely involved in during my potentially spine dislocating herk and jerk subway ride to brooklyn? how can i conjure up the nerve to calmly add the disclaimer -its my mothers, every time i tell someone what it is im reading? why do i think i have the right to be ashamed of John Grisham. for he is not that bad of an author.

in fact, i can hardly put this book down. and i eagerly anticipate my subway commutes if only so i can sit and devour each simple, plot pushing sentence he has written. John Grisham is that sweet sweet candy that you know wont totally rot your teeth. kinda like xanax.

Sure, he is formulaic. all his stories are the same with not much, if any, depth to the characters. his plots are predictable and written not like a book, but an excellently delivered pitch for a movie. this book fills its function nicely. its cheap. its short. its easy and leaves you unenlightened.

still, i cant get past the guilt i feel. not for reading him, but for being so snobby about it. oh well, guess im kinda lame like that. fuck you John Grisham. eat shit.

oh yeah, i love how im the only one that writes this yet still insisted [to no one] on doing the -ed. thing. that was awesome.

holding up the wall

in the 6th and 7th grade i was living in san francisco and went to a typical inner city middle school. my financial situation was of the more meager sort, so i wasnt the most fashion forward preteen on the playground. needless to say, despite my cutting edge thread deficiencies, i still achieved a slightly less than awkward presence on the dance floor. the moves of this age were the rehearsed variation, the choreographed kind. they had names and songs named after them. the roger rabbit. the cabbage patch. the robocop. and, at least in the bay, the troop. if you couldnt bust these moves you were considered pretty much lame.

i could bust a few. not many. but a few.

the songs at these dances were primarily hip hop and R&B. most of the cuts were classics of the day, and the Dj's knew how to drop em just right. right as the dancefloor would start to heat up they would drop "Brass Monkey" or "Throw that D" and light the place aflame. and just as it got too hot they would ease in "I Need Love," or "I Wanna Be Your Man" and make all the cool kids get close and the B team hit the bench [i would have been a B teamer, offering desperate pleas for the coach to "put me in the game" every so often just to display effort].

and i tell ya, when the dances at my middle school hit the calendar everyone knew it was gonna be the main event. high school kids from around the city would pilgrimage to our spot to sneak into them [i got in this way one dance]. the cops would have to break them up. girls would get pregnant. couples got married in line. legend has it, that one year a 7th grader collapsed dead from an intense euphoric episode in the middle of the dancefloor and the crowd was so hot that nobody noticed for two hours, they just stepped around him. these grade school jammy jams were the cats meow. fo sho.

but my 8th grade school dances were janky. i had moved to a suburb outside the city and everyone got dressed up and they played lame pop music. well, it wasnt lame, i mean, you wouldnt call "Dont Be Cruel," lame. at least in 88 you wouldnt have. but still. they werent HOT. they were more like, lukewarm. some of the chicks had gotten pretty slutty by then though. so there was always that chance you could get some finger stink by the end of the night.

by the time i got to high school dances were a dreaded event, and by sophomore year i had given up on attending them [even though i had moved back to the city by then]. it was much more easy to just try to get every girl to have sex with you ALL THE TIME instead of waiting for that one moment between songs to "make your move." yeah, by then i had learned to cut out the middle man. dances had become a waste of time. they never delivered on any poon no how.

but just a moment ago i got the overwhelming urge to grind up on a girls ass while listening to LL Cool J. thats a whole 'nother type of horny.

where it all starts

i told my friend about my grandfather passing and he gave the standard reply of: oh, im sorry. and i gave my standard reply of: dont worry about it, its not your fault. and he laughed and said i was always able to lift his spirits.

he then went on to say he was depressed and he felt like dying and i went on to tell him that the easiest way to die is to live like youre not going to. he said that was sage advice and he was glad he had me around to talk to.

he mentioned he had stopped taking the anti-depressants he was prescribed because they made him feel lazy and uninspired and he never wanted to do anything when he was on them. he said they stole the character out of him and he would rather feel like being dead than just simply being alive and nothing else. he said they made life predictable and he couldnt stand knowing the next day would be the same as today. that today had nothing to offer. i said i know. he said thanks for understanding.

we talked about movies for a little while after that. then about music. then about being high. then about movies again.

(i thought of how she was on lithium and thorozine and how she laid around so much. she never cleaned the house. she never watched tv. she never finished that book she started to write [it reached around one hundred pages]. she was only there and that was that. after a while she would start to flush her medication, and i can see why. it prevented her from living. i would have done the same thing. i promise i would.)

then i started to see what he was saying. he wanted to begin again. he had reached another end. -well, i said, i gotta go. and he said back, -ok dude, i'll talk to you later.

and there you have it, another meditation on boredom.

end bit.

Hate

i hate feeling cramped, in my house, at my desk, or on the subway.
i hate being called to meetings right before lunch.
i hate writing boring post filled with hate
i hate the feeling i get when a family member calls
i hate not getting the joke until its too late and then realizing the joke wasnt very good in the first place.
i hate when i type teh word "teh" instead of "the"
i hate spam. i really really hate spam. especially when its not pornographic spam.
i hate not being able to be there for somebody when they need me
i hate making myself available to people and them not noticing
i hate when my girlfriend doesnt get along with my friends, because i never know if, were i made to choose, i would make the right decision.
i hate blogging sometimes
i hate the term "blogging"
i hate being lazy
i hate feeling guilty about being lazy
i hate paris hilton, even though i dont know her, i hate her. i can just tell.
i hate that if she wanted to fuck me, even though i hate her, i would totally give her the bone
i hate that it sounds immature calling your penis "the bone"
i hate when people dont reply to emails and i wonder if its because they are mad at me
i hate anyone thats mad at me
i hate that i hate sushi, because everyone else seems to love it
i hate poo and fart jokes unless i am making them, then i love them and i hate people that dont think they are funny
i hate hate. hate sucks ass.
i hate not feeling like my "i hate" list are finished. god i hate that.

on all counts

Michael Jackson was found not guilty [note i didnt say he "got off."]. im sure every blogger in the bloggerverse probably has an opinion on this. and im sure they will all share it by the days end.

either way the verdict went i would have been content with it. all fingers point to him being guilty. his mind is damaged. his ego is precarious. his imagination is retarded and never matured. in all matters he comes across as being bizarre. to be honest, were he not filthy rich and emphatically famous there would be almost no doubt in anyones mind that he was a child molesting pervert.

now i didnt follow the case closely, just caught the fringes of the information as it overwhelmed the media wires upon each new development, but from what i gathered there wasnt any clear evidence that he had sex with any kids. oh sure, it was clear that he had a unhealthy relationship with them, with the intimacy levels crossing boundaries that would make any parent shiver, but Michael Jackson, from all vantage points, seemed incapable of having a normal relationship with anyone, regardless of age [or sex].

there seemed to be only one kid accusing him of doing anything wrong, and his testimony [if there was any, was there? was it just his mother that spoke?] seemed to be shaky at best. no other children stepped forward. the only thing you got was some security guard saying he fingerbanged Macaulay Culkin or something. there was no real evidence. no MJ man-come on preteen underwear, no danish child porno mags found stashed in his shoe closet [from what i understand the only porno found was straight porno], no other kids saying he did anything.

now, this doesnt mean he didnt do anything. because, hell, he looks like he WOULD and it wouldnt be surprising if he DID. but he got found not guilty and for all intents and purposes i would have to say that makes perfect sense to me. but like im saying, it would have also made sense if he got found guilty.

bottom line, parents need to stop letting there kids play with michael jackson and michael jackson needs to start hanging around with people that are at least half his age. i dont care if he cant "trust" grown ups like he can children, if nothing else, this proved he cant trust children too.

hes michael jackson for chrissakes! hes the definition of a freak!

and on an ending note because i spent way too time even thinking of this, he should have gotten busted for giving kids alcohol. that was just stupid.

smirkin'

damn im back inside the cubicle womb. there was a minor uproar when i returned. hugs given all around. some genuine, some political. all very cautious. i got my coffee. i smoked a cigarette. i told some people that my entire spine was now a titanium rod. i told others that until yesterday i was in a full body cast. i held a straight face the entire time.

more later.

my Grandfather [the black one]

he died on wednesday. it was a heart attack. he was old. in his early 80s i think, but cant be sure. he had suffered many over the past few years. or so im told.

it had been fifteen years since the last time i saw him, and that was two years ago. he was a shadow of the man i remembered. he was lying in his bed, in his pajamas. his frame skeletal and his eyes clouded in hysteria. they danced in his head. they memorized the ceiling. they shot through to the sky behind it. they never once fell on me. i had to call his name to get his attention. i had no idea what name i had given him. i honestly couldnt remember the last time i had referred to him at all, yet the word slid naturally from my lips: daddy.

he turned to me, startled and only half way, as if he had heard a ghost but wasnt quite prepared to see it. he looked like soft brown skin hanging from bone. he spotted my face from the corner of his eye, his head had yet to meet me. she told him in a hushed voice that i was was his grandson. -jonathan. you remember jonathan. hes Gingers boy. he grabbed my arm, his grip was weak and gentle. of course he did. where is he from again? oh yeah. california. how you doin boy? where you been?

she stepped back from the bed and my aunt stepped back into the doorway and it was as if they expected us to have an exchange they knew wasnt for their ears. they wanted our secrets to be safe. they didnt want to know. it was a sham though, i knew the score. they were listening with every pore of their body. so i spoke loudly.

i was living with a nice lady in california. she adopted me. ive been ok. im taking care of myself. i live in new york now. no, you live in new jersey, not texas. new jersey, newark. i live in new york, in brooklyn. yes, i know. it's just over the pond. no, i dont know where my mothers at. no. i dont. i dont know. yes i live in new york now. ive been good. ive been taking care of myself. no. no drugs. no. i havent seen her. i havent heard from her. i know, its good to see you too daddy.

he used to wear a cowboy hat. i guess even the black people from texas wore cowboy hats. i never saw him without one on, except that last time in his bed. he was very quiet and rarely spoke but when he did, it was law. the bottom line. he wasnt the tyrant though. he set the rules and my grandmother enforced them. that was how it was ran.

he owned various businesses. a fish market, a towing service, a mechanics shop, a limo service, a corner store, many others. he sent his 7 daughters and 3 boys to good colleges. they are all very successful, except for one that succumbed to schizophrenia and one that committed suicide. he went to church every sunday. his hands were bruised and calloused. he always had a lit cigar in his mouth.

the funeral is next week sometime. someone is gonna call me and give me the details. they would have called me sooner, but they thought my number had been changed. oh yeah, and i dont have to be there if i dont want to. but it would be nice if i came. or so im told.

i gotta buy some black.

Memegram

So i got what is referred to as a Book Meme from Xenoverse recently. i dont really know what a "meme" is, but i have a vague recollection of something called a "book," and i do enjoy answering harmless questions.

1. Total Number of Books You Have Owned:
of all the questions on this list this one has to be the most absurd, so im glad whoever came up with it got it out of the way first. if there is anyone that can remember how many books they have owned, then they probably shouldnt be involoved in the meme thingy. i only say this because if you can remember how many books you have owned it probably means you havent owned many books. so the following questions would be somewhat tedious, wouldnt they?

2. Last Book I Bought
Slaughterhouse Five - Kurt Vonnegut

3. Last Book I Read:
the aforementioned last book i bought. i would have to say i was thoroughly satisfied with this read. actually i would say it is one of the best books i have ever read. granted, i only read it two days ago and its messages still linger in my imagination but i am fairly positive that in 5 years or so, i will buy and read it again. dare i say, it was and is brilliant

4. Five Books That Mean a Lot To Me:
"The Stranger" - Albert Camus. i first read this when i was 16 years old and it it was the only book up until then that while i was reading it i was thinking to myself -this guy is saying what have been saying. maybe it was the period i was at in my life, where each moment came and passed and i was just a boy growing old inside them. maybe i was in a stage at which i realized i would never be saved; that i was me and you were you and there was nothing else to it but that. regardless, it stunned me. and a devoured the rest of Camus's books and even went ahead to explore Satre, thinking maybe i had discovered a philosophy that could define me. Satre bored me though, his prose was weak to me. his ideas meandered. he was no Camus. hows that for a book meaning something to you, i explored a philosophy after i read it. thats being affected, fo sho.

"Trainspotting" - Irvine Welsch. i have to say ive read this book more times than ive read any other. i was hipped to it by this British roommate of mine back when i was 19 or so. she told me i HAD to read it so i did. this was before the movie came out [which i was sorely disappointed in, Welsch was much netter translated on to film in The Acid House. go see it if youre a fan] so there was no Glossary in the back and i had to decode the Scottish dialect half of it is written in. this proved simple after the first few pages as the rhythm and meter of Irvine's prose just pushed me further into the story and eventually i didnt even notice the funky spellings and alien phrases. this is another book that came at a convenient time in my life as i was hungry for any and every chemical available, and in disco thats a lot. so i guess a story that was told from pretty much my exact same vantage point: being of a bunch of lowlife ravers that refuse to kick, would prove of sever interest to me. the only book ive read where the feeling of poison was accurately described.

"The Autobiography of Malcolm X" - Malcolm X. probably the most interesting autobiography ive read. actually it is definitely the most interesting autobiography ive read. from his dark days of street hustling to his glory days of revolution on to the complete fruition of his intelligence and his shady demise. the book doesnt get all into the conspiracy of just who shot Malcolm, alluding the murderers might have been from the Nation and leaving out and government involvment. but still its an awe inspiring book. one that cements Malcolms legend amongst great black figures of this country [fred hampton and langston hughes for instance, never really got that literary stamp on their life, at least not a pop one].

"One Hundred Years of Solitude" - Gabriel Garcia Marquez. this was the book that twisted any other prose i had read up to that point on its ear. the breadth and scope of this novel, and the precise lyricism floored me. Marquez goes through 3 or 4 generations, and sums up some entire lives in one paragraph. all sprinkled with a little magic. easily one of the best books ever written.

"Going To Meet The Man" - James Baldwin. ok, this is just a collection of short stories, but each of them could take a fat chunky shit on most of the novels written in the 20th century. its got Sonny's Blues and the title story which alone can make you bleed.

Honorable Mentions:
Money - Martin Amis
The Tetherballs of Boganville - Mark Leyner
A Scanner Darkly - Philip K. Dick
Subterranean Blues - Jack Keroac
Tales of Ordinary Madness - Charles Bukowski

5. Four (or Five) Folks I’m Laying this on:

i know no one is gonna do this. at least no one i know who blogs. and then thats only about 4 people. if anyone WANTS to get tagged with this get at me. that means you Fresh, Zaida, and Sam.

People, sometimes

i got an unfinished draft of this meme thing courtesy of Fcb saved but before thats delivered lemme share this wit ya.

so me and will are hanging on the steps outside the palace late this evening or early this morning, whatever you want to call it, all hopped up on dialog, enjoying the night. he's explaining to me that the native americans call each other indian but dont like when other, non-native americans refer to them as such. he knows this because the last girlfriend he had was native american and lived on a reservation and schooled him on the NA ways. they dont prefer to be called indian by anyone other than another indian, unless the person is from india i guess, then they would have to call them native american, or so this is how it seems. he says -its like homosexuals calling each other queers or blacks calling each other niggers.

of course i have to rail on him for that one. he knew he fucked up once he said it, regretted the sounds before they left his mouth. i howl at him my frustration that people actually imply that blacks are MISPRONOUNCING the word nigger. that we are that stupid. its absolutely insulting. OF COURSE we know how to pronounce the word nigger, we just refuse to ever do it, as should everyone else. -you think if a black guy went up to another black guy and said "whats up my nigger?" shit would go down smoothly? hell muthafuckin naw! i would have cut his ass if i didnt know he was just trying to sound scholarly and over-enunciate everything like a fuckin jackass. he gave me the -alright alright whatever, and we moved along.

this happens every now and then, will reminds me he is white and i remind him i am black and then we go on as we are supposed to.

then my downstairs neighbor comes home, drowned in alcohol, fresh from a bachelorette party, stumbling toward the stoop, blond hair in full drunken sway. ive only seen this chick three other times since shes live here so its not like we have any catching up to do. we say hi to each other and im polite and shes polite and were matching each other grin for grin. then the liquor gets loose and she starts getting chatty. its gravy, ive been there, so i just listen. eventually she goes into how she saw my mom [the white one] a few times when she was here. she mentions how my mom was coming into the building and was right behind her as she opened the door. my mom had keys but my neighbor didnt know and still, she let her in anyway, because she said she was my mom.

im following her slur and fine with it until she mentions how she probably wouldnt have done that to a black woman and feels conflicted about it because she just saw the movie Crash and "it doesnt really matter what race anyone is but i realize i wouldnt have just let a black person in like i did your mother and thats just weird," and i stop grinning and wait. i wait because i know she is going to leave if i sit still and expect her to explain what she means. i wait and then she mentions how the dominican contractors that fixed her bathroom ceiling creeped her out. i wait some more and she says she didnt know if she could trust the dominicans that were in her apartment, hired to fix her ceiling, and she would hide her ipod before she left even though our landlord would be there the whole time and it was only one guy that was about 50 and never left her bathroom. i wait until she stutters that she has to leave and grabs her purse and walks up the stairs, wishing me a good night.

will is the first one to speak after she leaves. -damn, i saw that guy shes talking about. fool was about 85 years old. probably wouldnt even know how to work an ipod. that chick was a colonizer. he likes to call racist colonizers. he thinks its clever. i guess it kind of is.

-yeah, i say, still, i hid my PSP when he was in my bathroom.

-right. he answers, then burning his finger while re-lighting the joint, drops the matches and sucks at his wound.

sweet talking

so my new A/C is pretty fuckin sweet if i say so myself. A Kenwood LXMB8976 model. 12,000 BTU's of straight chill factor circulating through the mansion. keepin all the homies cool like that. lord knows we needed it being as we were somewhere between the 4th and 5th level of Dante's Hell up in here for the last three summers. its one of those newer, fancy models too. its got a digital display, a remote control, a smart chip built inside, and my favorite feature, a voice activating system.

i just explored that last bit this afternoon, i've always wanted a voice activated appliance and was pretty eager to exercise this new device. so this morning when i woke up instead of reaching for the remote to power up the chill system i walked into the living room and had this brief conversation:

me: air conditioner, turn on. set to 77 degrees
air conditioner: at. once. jon. setting. temp. to. 77. degrees.
me: ahhh. man that feels good.
air conditioner: happy. to. service. you. jon.

yeah it has a very halting speech. kinda talks all robot style. but hell, its pretty sweet still. and the smart chip even makes it polite. like, i said before, this air conditioner is quite the humanitarian. just this afternoon after i went and got myself a sandwich for lunch, i came back and had to lower the temperature on it a little so it would cool the room faster. and you know it said the sweetest thing:

me: air conditioner, set to 65 degrees.
air conditioner: setting. temp. to. 65. degrees.
me: oh man, thank god it is so hot in here.
air conditioner: i. hear. ya. buddy. you. should. relax. for. a. while. you. have. been. working. too. hard.
me: you know, youre right airconditioner, i think ill take a nap.
air conditioner: sweet. dreams. good. friend.

c'mon, you gotta admit, thats pretty nice for an air conditioner. i mean, L-water never even wishes me sweet dreams, let alone has she created a room temperature bearable in the summer at the drop of my voice command. and its not just people that my air conditioner is nicer than. the newer models have the same feature but their voices are much more fluid and their tone of conversation is way more casual. my friend has the 2005 model [mines the '04 jammy] and his speaks like its known you since middle school. we walked into his apartment one day and the a/c actually greeted him [along with voice activation it has heat and motion sensors to tell if its owner is in the room]. my mouth dropped. once we stepped in the room it was like:

air conditioner: sappenin brah. hot enough for ya? hahaha. just kidding. ill set myself to 75 degrees. that sound nice?
friend: uh.. yeah sure air conditioner. whatever. im going to be leaving soon so shut down in an hour.
air conditioner: no problem boss. hey, where ya going?
me: man, your air conditioner is kinda nosy
friend: shhhh. its sensitive.

see, i couldnt be having that shit. all being sarcastic and calling me 'brah' and shit. nah. gimme a nice polite robot voice any day. i dont need my a/c gettin all sensitive on me. fuck that. i got better things to do than worry about hurting my air conditioners feelings. pfft. i'll pass on that adventure. im happy enough with my 2004 model Kenwood LXMB8976. it does me proper indeed. besides, i've already named it. her name is Gloria.

oh, i think i hear her trying to call me. i'll hit you back later.


Toyota unveiled its prototype 2007 model,
nicknamed B.O.B.B.I., last week. it is reported to
walk, play the trumpet, and give what is referred
to in the A/C world as "Real Black Love."

Real Black Love

via popbitch

1. Being Bobby Brown, starts end June:
The couple's drugged-up ghetto lifestyle in
full glare. One episode has Bobby describing
how he helped his wife with her constipation,
by inserting his fingers to massage it out.
Whitney says, "When I told my girlfriends
about it, they said 'That's real love, baby.
That's real black love.'" Bobby then holds up
four fingers and wiggles them in front of
the camera.

i tried to come up with something witty to say about this but there just isnt anything to add. Bobby Brown has proven he is all man and i would only be so lucky as to have him massage my poo out. all im saying is bobby brown and mike tyson should make babies and sell them to lesbians on the black market

snow cave

thats it. were getting an A/C. its bouta happen today. 1pm. fresh new A/C. gonna cool my apartment real nice. gonna wash away this heat. gonna give me a good nights sleep.

finally.

the temperature gauge on my fancy futuristic Sharper Image digital clock decided that it was 87 degrees in the living room. thats in the back of the palace. the south wing, if you will. its must be at least 5 degrees hotter in the front, in the north wing.

we gotta fan but c'mon. whats a fan gonna really do? circulate the funk emanating from my sweaty balls? blow L-kitties hair all rock star style when she's playing air guitar? feed the starving children in africa? well maybe the first two, but it sure aint feeding no hungry babies. the fan is kinda heartless like that. it never thinks about the children.

but the A/C, well the A/C is a regular electronic humanitarian. its like the angelina jolie and bono of household appliances. im sure if the A/C could, it would heap turkey onto the plates of homeless people during thanksgiving. it would donate to breast cancer research. it would help old ladies across the street. if the A/C could, it would help cure the world.

thats why im about ta bounce and pick me up one. im about to have the chillest pad in brooklyn. its gonna be like a cave of snow up in this piece. take THAT stupid selfish fan!

my brother Will [the white one]

he got in last night at about 9:30 last night. three and a half hours after he was originally scheduled to land. his connecting flight got delayed in chicago due to the thunderstorms here in the apple. instead of taking jetblue he took southwest and some other airline ive never heard of. when i asked him why he said -to save $20. dumbass.

we met when i was living in a group home in Millbrae, an upper middle class suburb outside of san francisco. we were both 12 years old at the time. back then he was called Billy. i was still referred to as jon.

we were in the same English class together. or composition. or whatever they call it in 8th grade. since i was one of about 7 black kids in the entire school i was immediately considered exotic, like a rare species trolling the hallways [hey look! its a black guy. shhhh. dont move too quickly, you might frighten him away]. and the fact that i was from the city just cemented my status as the exceptional curiosity that everyone was just dying to study.

Billy, being what i can only describe as the biggest nerd in the world, was always trying to talk to me. i guess he was trying to get some insight into the urban mind or whatever and i figured he was pretty harmless so would play up my "city boy" persona as much as i could, regaling him with colorful stories [some true, some not] of life in the ghetto and the hard as nails adventures young black males persevered to survive into their teens. i would tell him how i had to sleep on the street sometimes [true], how i mean mugged the crackheads buying my rocks [untrue], how i stole and got arrested [true], how i was shot at and how i shot back [untrue], how i was in a gang [true], how my gang had to smoke fools every now and then [untrue] and so on.

now i know it isnt cool to lie about who you are but you have to understand, i was pretty lonely and completely out of my element. all these kids had parents and lived in a house and always had a refrigerator full of food and money in their pocket and were never hungry or angry or weathered with worry. so seeing as i couldnt fake like i was one of them, i just put emphasis on how much i WASNT. this worked to my advantage because unlike me, these kids DID try to fake like they understood where i was coming from. and the fact that NWA had just dropped straight outta compton there was even a soundtrack for them to pose to and me to claim was a melodic description of my background.

but that isnt why me and Billy became friends. here is how that went down: some kid named Jason who was somewhat of a bully and was a year older than us told Billy he was going to come to our school and beat him up. all "meet me on the playground at 3:00" style. Billy, being rail thin and aforementioned biggest nerd in the world was scared witless. im sure he deserved it [Billy had a big mouth] but i just couldnt bear to see this scrawny kid get his ass whipped by an older punk that was already in high school. so when three o'clock rolled around i met this kid on the playground and pretty much pounded his face a few times while telling him that beating up nerds wasnt cool. i cant say i was really trying to protect Billy, to be honest, i think i just kinda wanted to beat up a rich white person. or maybe im just a cool guy that likes to protect nerds.

in anycase, after that Billy was all on my tip acting like i was his best friend even though i always called him a dork and a nerd and to get out of my face because his breath smelled like milk. i think he even asked me once if i would be his bodyguard, which is like, the gayest thing you can ask anyone, ever. needless to say i declined but he was still always hanging around and inevitably he grew on me.

now being that i was either living in a broken home or a foster home [which might have been broken too], i spent a lot of time at various friends houses. Billy was one of the kids that would always invite me up to his moms house for the weekend. eventually it became every weekend and eventually me and his mother got pretty close and eventually, by the time i was in high school, i was spending the summer there.

im going to skip over all the drama of my family and how it came to be that his mom adopted me at the age of 15, because this post is about me and my brother [the white one], not me and my crippled familial past. by this time Billy had decided to start calling himself Will and had filled out a bit so wasnt as scrawny and awkward as when we were in middle school. the dynamic changed in our relationship and i was no longer the royal black kid from the inner city and he was no longer my eager understudy. after a while we got on more of an equal ground with each other [though i still call him a dumbass], and got comfortable calling each other brothers.

now, 15 years later hes crashing at the palace on the couch in L-bleezys pilates room. im gonna end it here because not only is this post too long but he just came home and i dont want him seeing that i let on that he once asked me to be his bodyguard. so later bitches. enjoy your day.

ones and zeroes

what the hell is this all about anyway? this blog, i mean.

its not like i ever have anything clear to say. or rather, anything clear enough for a reader to get somewhat invested in. im not always funny. im not musing on the wires. im not flexing my opinion nor am i revealing whats inside [and i even mentioned to ziada once my confusion, and how i reveal myself in riddles instead of figuring the riddles out]. i dont have the patience to write everyday, and if i did it wouldnt be very interesting anyway.

im a speck on the internet. a benign series of ones and zeros. i dont complain about it because see, i cant find my argument. so instead i just ramble along, like a drunk on the other end of the phone who should have gone to bed a long time ago. i harass your comment section, even if my piece doesnt fit in your puzzle. i cast a shade on your sitemeter. i pop up in your technorati. i talk about the same things as everyone else. i dare you to know who i am.

and there is where it falls apart. this blog, i mean. who am i daring you to know? what do my words mean and why do i hit publish? why do i check for comments? who do i want reading what i write? and what kind of reaction am i hoping for if they read it? do i want people reading this? is that vain? am i that insecure? what the hell is this all about anyway? this blog, i mean.

ill just keep writing i guess. and listening for the rain and suffocating in the heat. and hoping it comes to me soon enough. and laughing. i guess.

back to the grind.

damn.

so i let my fellow cubicle chumps know i was gonna be working from home because i wasnt ready to fully strap myself back into the saddle and i'll be god damned if a buncha fools wasnt all up on a niggas tip by 11am.

chump #1: [a certain rapper] needs more units in the street, we need to devise a plan on which markets his audience is strongest in.
me: yeah well, his last records tanked. no one cares about him without [former Dj/producer]. his strongest markets are new york and LA. then we can work around his tour and the marketing we are doing. whats his tour looking like?
chump#1: um... well, it hasnt really been booked. we think hes going to tour europe first.
me: well, thats a problem now isnt it.


chump #2: [obscure techno label] wants to put [obscure techno dj's] album on sale nationally at [national retail chain]. can we do this?
me: no.

chump #3: nothing has really been done while you have been gone. so i need you to call all these people and set up these promo campaigns. oh yeah, your desk looks like armaggedon.
me: sigh.

chump #4: so you gonna be able to play this weekend? we got the whole night and start spinning at 8.
me: well, i dont know.. i cant carry my flightcase yet. and you know..
chump #4: thats cool, ill get someone to carry your records. you can go on at 11 or 12. play whatever you want.
me: well, i havent hit the decks in a few weeks, and having been playing hip hop, acid, and electro with a bit of soul and house. is that cool? and i dont know how long i can play.. you know.. how long do i have?
chump #4: yeah dude. play whatever. two hours.
me: um... ok.

shit. monday arrived like an old friend bursting through the door unannounced. high on cocaine and ready to party and you arent sure if youre prepared to get down like that but you decide -fuck it, and do a line anyway.

and to top it off brooklyn is in flames. its like, 90 degrees in my apt.

word wars

one of my comrades said to me this afternoon, -my favorite word right now is "assgasm."

i had to admit, it was a nice word. plugging two well beloved aspects of modern society, the ass and the orgasm, while implying they both be directly involved in one anothers virtues. of course this takes upon many different meanings to many different people of varying sexualites. to the straight male its definition differs from the homosexual male, whos definition may or may not differ from that of the straight female, who's definition may or may not differ from the homosexual females. and who knows what it means to the trannie. still, all share the same goal. the glorious assgasm.

yes, its a fine word. but i cant think of many ways you can drop it into conversation. i mean, aside from telling some one your gonna give them an assgasm, exclaiming you are having an assgasm, or pondering on or speculating about assgasms from the past or the future, there really isnt much of a function for it in todays everyday dialog.

so i offered my own favorite word right now: uterelish.

uterelish is exactly what it sounds like; the relish produced by the uterus, and its just as thick and chunky as you imagine too. it was considered a delicacy in the further regions of eastern europe during the 17th century, used to smother turkey and potatoes in at royal banquets. these days, only the wealthiest, and most decadent people use it for anything other than face paint. and its been said that the uterelish of a teenage girl has gone for over $5k an ounce on the black market

but aside from its history, uterelish is a much more functional word. here are some examples of the word uterelish being used in everyday conversation [which is, surprisingly enough, more often than you'd think].

Girl #1: is this mayonnaise still good?
Girl #2: i dont know. what does it smell like?
Girl #1: um.. kinda like uterelish.
Girl #2. yeah, its good.

what am i going to do? i cant go home to my wife smelling like uterelish!

you have a little uterelish on your mustache.

fucking hell! i cant get these uterelish stains out of the curtains
and my moms gonna be home in like, 15 minutes!

baby, i wanna rub your uterelish all over my nipples.

and so on, and so forth...

end bit.

cars that go boom

there was a car sitting out in front of my house for about two hours. it was playing loud music with a lot of bass. i couldn't tell what the music was, so wouldn't be able to describe to you if it was rock, rap, or r&b. i only heard the violent burst of humming from its steady drum thumps. it rattled so hard i thought it was going to tear the trunk off.

it reminded me of a brief episode from the disco days of way way back. when i was about 11, me and a couple friends of mine used to hang out with these older kids from the hood. one of them had a car, one of them had some weed, and one of them had enough looks and game to swoop up some hoes leaning out the passenger window style.

the car was pretty much a japanese hoopty. a small, compact, four door, six cylinder bucket with a dull silver finish, tinted back windows and some black mag rims. but it had a serious stereo system.

we would go 'cruising' down Broadway, getting our adolescent kicks in the back alleys of North Beach. the stereo would be blasting too loud for us to even talk to each other. me and my friends would just huddle in the back seat, two practicing our "sexy gangsta" looks out the window and the friend in the middle sitting there in between a giggle and a scream.

at one point the song "my posse's on broadway" by master rapper sir-mix-alot was the seriousness in the tape deck. it had all the elements of a classic riding jam. bass, claps, and some fool flowin about hanging with his homies and pickin up chicks. one night we circled Broadway playing that song over and over. the bass in it tore through the car like a epileptic hurricane and the trunk rattled so ferociously i swore it was going to rip itself right off.

the car outside my window sounded just like that. like the night when i was 11 years old and in perpetual fear that sir-mix-alot was going to ruin my game with the ladies by breaking our car with his beats. posse up!

the perfect woman

i had a dream with you in it last night.

it was scrambled, of course, but in an orderly sense. you could read the thread of logic but couldnt quite get a grasp on it.

first it was a movie. a movie about us. we werent the only people in this movie, there was a cast of hundreds, with lots of quirky side characters and bitter, quick witted best friends. it was a musical. a grand one, the kind with a string of sexy cabaret dancers doing the can-can and huge choreographed numbers that ended with a glorious explosion of pyrotechnics. there were scenes where i would be running, gripping your hand, dragging you behind me. i guess i was the hero, you were my damsel, and i was protecting us from some unseen evil.

but thats not where it ended. the movie wrapped, and then the dream was just about us, as actors, playing characters in the movie. extras lingered about the set, co-stars congratulated us on a job well done. the cameras sat still, no longer rolling.

we went back to a big house. huge but not fancy. not fancy in the least. you lived there but i didnt, and every bedroom had at least two people in it. we were looking for a room to be alone, but everywhere we went random occupants [friends of yours i assumed] spoiled the privacy. finally we found one and we laid on the bed.

we started kissing, groping each other, feeling every inch of our body. then just as soon as we shut our eyes and prepared for ecstasy someone came in. they hopped on the bed next to us. started blabbing about their day. we were patient and polite, and they eventually went to sleep. when i turned towards you you were asleep too. you looked so cute, i didnt wake you up.

then i awoke. it was one of those dreams where when you wake up the dream haunts you. it stings you. it was one of those dreams where when you wake up you miss someone so much it hurts. so i tried to call you but there was no answer and no machine to leave a message on. then i sat down to write you but i realized i didnt have your address.

i paced around my apartment for a few hours. listening to the cars smashing outside my window and sucking down cigarettes. i ate an apple and finished the rest of a book i'd been reading. i surfed the internet and watched the sky begin to rain. i waited for a little while longer and by mid afternoon had forgotten you ever existed.

hollaback hair

so i figured out the word combination you should use in search for this site is: vagina cornrows. got it? so if you ever forget the address just go to google, type in those two words, and my site will be at the top of the list. see how easy i make it?

but if you typed in those two words and ended up at this site hoping to see some hot vagina braiding action then im sorry, you will not find much of that here. and hey, dont blame me! i scoured the whole internet in search for jpegs of some tight pube 'do's or even a 10 second movie of some prime prison patch but there wernt any to be found. so as you can see, gentle, non threatening, pubic pervert, i tried, but to no avail. just please, please dont be disappointed in me. maybe you should try craigslist. they got some freaky muthafuckas up on there. im sure you'll find some cornrowed, jheri curled, and maybe even some feathered poon on that piece. you can find most anything there. check it out.

tossing tuna salad

the other day one of my main soldiers casually pointed out dolphins as being unusually smart animals. i concurred. and while not just being a curiously intelligent sea mammal of magnificent grace and a benign, though slightly kinky demeanor, they are quite tasty too.

the goiter

we talked for a long time on the phone today. well, at least it was a long time for us. we rarely speak for longer than five or ten minutes at a time usually. and even these conversations have slow, relaxed pauses that perforate the actual airtime we share. it wasnt always this way. when we were in grade school, before i was adopted and his mother became our mother, we would sit on the phone for hours. not really talking about anything, just watching tv and holding the phone to our ear. these days our conversations are pretty much the same i guess, just much shorter.

but my brother is coming to stay with me for two months this summer, so we had to go over some shit. clothes he should bring. clothes he shouldnt. where he would sleep. where he most definitely wouldnt. how to get around. how to get into the palace. etc. etc. things that needed to be clear before he arrived. but i left out something...



what i didnt mention is his neck. his neck has a huge lump on it. a HUGE one. its only been there for about a year but its fucking monstrous! its like a fuckin baby head poking out of his collar. when you walk around the room you can feel it following you. and you cant take your eyes off of it, its mesmerizing. and towering. it is a commanding presence. at any moment you expect it speak. and you know if and when it does, its probably going to cuss a lot.

ive asked him about it before, and he just dismissed it as if it was a pimple. yeah dude, a pimple that looks like a doorknob growing hair. but i didnt press it because i realize he must be at least a BIT self conscious about it. i mean, he has looked at himself in the mirror and he has seen this lump the size of a preteen scrotum hanging from his neck. he HAS to bit concerned.

i asked our mom too, who has a bit more medical knowhow than i being that she's a nurse. and she told me its just a goiter. just some shit that sometimes grows under your skin and you have to get it removed. its not cancerous or contagious, its not fatal or even very harmful, and its not going to go away until he goes to the doctor and gets it removed. -he went to countless doctors, she said, and they all tell him the same thing. its not gonna kill him, its just this thing in his neck. so, thats that. until he gets it removed, he will... you know... have a big ass lump on his neck.

other than that, hes a decent enough looking guy. well groomed, fashionable, witty, the lot of it. but damn, hes got that thing on his neck. it just kinda creeps me out. maybe its just me, i mean, he seems to do fine in disco with it. having one night stands, having one more before last call, avoiding his phone because hes too tired to go out. maybe im just trippin. maybe im just an ass.

we'll see. i hope new york treats him politely.