my brother Mike [the black one]

He dresses like a caricature of who he wants to be. His clothes are loud and exaggerated, leather trench coats that scrape the ground and velvet Fedora’s tipped to the side. Absurdly oversized sports jerseys that hang loosely from his wiry frame, wide jeans squeezed onto his waist by a leather belt with two or three extra holes in it. the holes were most likely punched in with a kitchen knife and can more accurately be described as slits, and the excess denim they hold up looks gratuitous and comical, but no one dares laugh.

Underneath this farcical costume is a 6 foot tall specimen of a man. Thin yet muscular at the same time, nobody would contest his strength. He has big, almost pouty lips, a thin nose, and dark brown eyes. He manicures his facial hair in a way that proposes conversation, with complex sideburn shapes and angles jetting from the top of his head and various shades of hair coloring his chin and neck. His high cheek bones suggest the European blood in his veins but his golden complexion and raving afro decide that ultimately he is Black.

The inside of his car looks like the aftermath of a tornado or hurricane. One could easily assume that he lived out of it simply judging by the wardrobe that was strewn about the backseat and trunk. The mess doesn’t end there; every inch of the floor is littered with his legacy. empty beer bottles, various car parts and motor oil cans, the occasional scrap of paper with some random bit of information on it [a girls phone number, directions to a club, an address, a love note], food containers, condom wrappers, hygiene supplies, hair products, books and newspaper articles, a wide array of club flyers and R&B cd’s. it is an accomplishment even climbing into the passenger seat and just forget about sitting in the back. the gas tank is always on E but the engine never stops running and weather or not it is one of his long cruisers of the 70’s era or a small modern compact he is borrowing from one of his girlfriends, the same blizzard of his existence will be the result.

To say he is a big personality would be an understatement, his charm is nothing less than thunderous. He speaks furiously and is exceptionally articulate, so his arguments and conversation can be persuasive and almost overwhelming. When we were in high school, while drinking beer at lunch, laughing and getting drunk, he would be finishing homework or writing a paper. I don’t believe he has ever gotten any grade under a B. Still, academics were never the highest priority for him, his sights lie solely on the opposite gender. And his lust for women is only matched by their lust for him.

When we met in San Francisco both at 14 years old, he balked at the affairs I had with girls outside of our race. His southern upbringing couldn’t grasp my liberal approach towards dating. After more than ten years of living in San Francisco though, he has essentially no discriminations towards any race, size, or creed of the women he dates. seriously, that cat will hump anything. Its safe to say he has adapted pretty easily to his environment, yet all the while, staying the course and preserving his natural character.

He enters each situation with dangerous abandon, and his idea of consequence is subject to how confident he feels at any given time. I’ve witnessed him talk his way from under the barrel of a gun more than once, but I worry that one day it’ll be that same charm to pull the trigger. A literary analogy I used to use for our relationship is that he is Dean Moriarty to my Sal Paradise, but that was never really accurate. I don’t observe and live vicariously through him. He would never have allowed such a passive friend to share his youth with. that would have been too simple.

yeah, thats a crazy motherfucker but i love him, my brother mike.

oh yeah, and radiohead has a new blog but its not as clever as the beesknees. and where in the world has sam been?