I Have Changed.

You may have noticed that I rearranged the side panel there, to the right. I was trying to find an older post the other day, and it took me forever. This really pissed me off, and it helped me realize how useless my previous archival system was. So the posts/stories/shorts/whatever are listed by name instead of date.

Easier to find shit.

Word be bond.

The Last Straw

You really are not in the mood for her today. Maybe if you refuse to speak, she'll leave.

“Hey I was using that!”

You have no idea what she is talking about. But then again, you never do. So the pointing starts.

“That. That right there.”

Oh. That. Right. So you hand over the salt shaker you were using to put some flavor into some luke and limp fries at Wendy’s. Man, you hate Wendy’s. The fries taste like cardboard. So you salt them until they resemble a winter wonderland. Then the sarcasm hits you like a weighted bat.

“Yes." Bug-eyed. "Thank you.” With a flip of her extensions.

The frantic salting of her own pile of fries begins, but she keeps looking over at yours with a raised brow, on the verge of speech.

“Jesus. Do you really need all that salt?”

Yes, fucker, you need that much salt. What a judgmental… trade can be like that. Trade treats trade like sisters, but with only one dad, the competition is always there. You continue to maintain your silence, as you don’t want to get cut today. She's always up to cutting something.

“So, like I was saying, there’s this guy from back in my neighborhood who says he can get the best shit. I mean, really good stuff. Like, two lines and you’ll be setting your neighbor’s yard on fire wearing your mom’s favorite pearls, type-of good. Know what I’m sayin’? Sheeeeit negro. That’s all I’m gonna say about that.”

Your nails are too long to deal with the fries. Move on to the strawberry shake. Ooooh, the strawberry shake. And at Wendy’s, you always get a spoon with it too. One of those long-handled spoons, with the teaspoon end. Better than those gift-wrap-tube straws from McDonald’s. You always get too greedy. It flows too easy, and you always get that throbbing headache from the fat straws. She is still chattering. Maybe if you keep quiet she'll just get up and leave. But she never does.

“So did you talk to your sister about that thing we discussed earlier? I mean, I don’t want to get into it too much here, cuz, you know, there are people around and shit but I need an answer on that before Friday. Friday is my CUT-OFF. For that. Straight? Because it is a bonafide one-time thing for her. Cuba’s been givin’ her the eye, and he doesn’t waste lots of time on tricks like her, so she better flip and flip fast if she’s lookin’ for a solid hustle. Cuba ain’t the one, so don’t get it twisted. “

There’s no way in hell you’ll let Alisha get into this game. She’s thirteen, and still has a chance. No need to waste any years on the boulevard of stolen cream.

Oh great, someone she knows.

“Hey, hey Damon, Slick! Over here!”

Slick? How charming. And he isn’t even coming over to talk. The shouting is ruining your shake.

“Hey, this is my girl Trina, she’s in from Miami! Come on over here muthafucka and say hello!"

He won't.

"Well fuck you then!”

Doubtful.

“Fuck him and his triflin’ ass. I hear he got a chinky dick anyways. Triflin’ ass…”

Clever. With the racist allusion. Cleverly put.

“So they say that there’s this cat up off Monroe, who’s got boo-coo bucks and he don’t even want to run it or nothin’. He just likes it if you dress up in this outfit like that coyote from the cartoons or some shit and suck him off while he’s in this rabbit outfit. Bugs Bunny I think. Haley says she copped like two grip off that fool for doing it. But the suit was hot. And his breath stank like pickles and onions.”

She always talks like that. The up-and-coming hustle. But you are busy studying her hands. Her garish display of nothing. Too much gold on those fingers. You should never advertise like that around here. You can only keep what you can protect around here.

“But then again, Haley does some stupid shit. Like that one time she went with that dude to Matamoros for the weekend. Did you see her when she got back? That puta had a cut all the way from her left ear…”

Those long fingernails look like daggers. She could be slicing her own neck right now while she’s talking, and it would not be surprising. Nothing ever is. Surprising, that is.

“…all the way around the back of her head. I think that cracker really wanted to kill her. Like those devil worshippers down there. Remember them on the news? White folks is crazy like that. Some got no god and shit.”

That is true. And these fries are awful. Too much salt.

“I’m tellin’ you girl, if this business didn’t have Cuba or cash, I wouldn’t be in it today. Cuz some of these muthafuckas just ain’t worth my time. I could be working at Foley’s or some shit. In the air conditioning. Cuz some of these freaks got no god. Some just don’t know god.”

Forget the fries. Tell her that her gold is too much and she will lose it because she is too weak. Tell her here, we can only keep what we can protect. Everything else belongs to Cuba, or whoever takes him. Tell her now. Tell her that she has nothing. Tell her about the gold. Tell her that your sister will always belong to herself. Tell her that you can and WILL protect something. Tell her. Tell her now.

Better yet, tell her that her god belongs to Cuba. Maybe then she’ll fucking leave.

What Are YOU Lookin' For? Pt 2

Internet searches. People make them. And magically, then end up here.

They give me mixed emotions, and I feel compelled to discuss them with... myself, I guess. And you, if you bother reading. WORD.

u.p.*s entrance exam passers namely

Whoever was looking for a way to cheat on any UPS exams… you really suck. I mean, goddamn. How did you figure out how to use the interweb? Tool.

family inceasant [sic] pictures

My family is without ceasing too. Whatever that means. If you’re looking for photos involving family-on-family action… well… you need to know the password. That’s all I got to say on that. Boo-yeah.

hard muscle women fight photos

POW!

blogspot texas kicks fucking ass desperate white trash

I’m a bit confused on this one. Is Texas beating up poor trailer folk? Or are the trailer folk penning a blog on how badass Texas is?

More importantly, should I feel really, extremely, frustratingly maddened by the fact that someone did the search, and decided that my blog fit their criteria, regardless of what the hell they meant by it in the first place? Seriously. If someone asked, just generally, at no one in particular “donkey dick monkey peanut with strong red ribboned straw bags?” and the answer came back as you, you might feel as I do now.

she mooned me (twice on this one)

Yup. Twice. Two different people ticky-tapped that trio of words into google, and that’s how they came here. Birds of a feather, we surely are.

midnight monkey dildo (Five, yes FIVE goddamn times)

This is just too fantastic to make fun of. If I had a Japanese punk band…

monkey giving a gorilla an ex-ray

Great visual on that one. Maybe as good as “shark doing aardvark’s taxes”. Loons.

awful burps vomited

Yes, vurps. Tasty stuff. Especially if there’s broccoli pizza involved.

congolese porn (TWICE, AGAIN for the porn of Congo)

Jesus Christ. There’s something going on in the Congo man. Seriously. I get hits for this search every week, and they always come in groups. I might have to do some back-to-Africa travel here soon. Well, go-to-Africa travel. Whatever.

Donkey sex show carnival tent

For the record, donkey sex shows are never done in carnival tents. Usually it is done in an old bar, an abandoned warehouse, or my living room. The donkey tends to run if it sees daylight, so a tent is hardly a viable venue.

janky drug fuck porno europe

I have never seen someone else type the word “janky”. I thought I was alone there. Good to see that others are just as illiterate as myself. This is another case where I am confused as to how I should feel about this string of dirty nonsense beating a path to my door. It looks like I have no morals or something.

xray specs that see through cloths [sic]

On the back of every Boy Scout Magazine ever printed.

photos of jeanine garofalo (two searches for good ol' Jeanine)

Go to your high school yearbook. Look at any drama club pictures. You see that goth-ish kind of chick with no notable facial expressions who never looked anyone else in the eye? See her back there, in the rear corner of that one photo? The one who really had no friends but was always rumored to be dating thirty-year olds? There’s your photo.

Keep Your Footing, and Keep to the Right

It’s not that they don’t like you or anything, it’s just that they don’t have time for your ass. They’re probably late to something, and they aren’t going to stop and pat you on the head. Their wife has been waiting for them for two whole hours while the uptown six has been delayed by a jumper near Union. So they’re really fucking late, and they really aren’t interested in giving you an explanation as to why they may have slightly nudged your shoulder after you exited Barnes and Noble. You aren't the center of the universe you know.

I remember seeing some messenger-biker-guy clobber some pedestrian down in the village somewhere. The pedestrian, a small-framed collegiate-type (probably NYU) was making her way across an intersection against a red light, and BAM! Bike to the back. This bike just flew out of no where, the rider even tried to dodge her with an evasive right turn. But no. Futility on parade. She walked right into it. The biker fellow made the hit, and then kept wobbling beyond the laid-out pedestrian for maybe ten feet before he ate it too. All crumpled up inside his bike. He was beyond pissed off.

The girl got up slowly, laughed for a second, and then continued back on her way. Some delivery driver was dropping off some magazines at a nearby bodega, and helped the biker untangle himself. But he abandoned the situation before the biker even got completely to his feet. Magazines had to be delivered, with or without the good health of your fellow man. And after all that, the four-minute ordeal was over, and the delivery biker peddled himself back into the direction he was originally headed. Clean hands.

So it’s not that they hate everyone. Or that they’re out to get each other. It’s just that no one has time for this shit. Whatever “this shit” might be.

A friend of mine told me of a particularly sad story that occurred somewhere in Manhattan. I was not there, so I cannot vouch for its absolute authenticity, but based on the combination of: the (trusted) source, and my own experiences in New York, this is entirely plausible. But still sad.

He was exiting a subway station somewhere in southern Manhattan, and turning on to a busy street during rush hour. As he was moving through the crowded sidewalk, late as usual, trying to bust ahead of the pack, an elderly woman (early 70’s he guessed) fell down directly in front of him. Just dropped. Her legs said "fuck it" and that was that. Apparently, she just could not keep up with the herd. And what with him being a capable part of the herd, and egregiously late, he just stepped right over her and kept on truckin’. Bygones. He looked back and felt absolved to see that everyone else had done her the same lack-of service. But it isn’t mean, per se. Cold? Yes. But malicious? Certainly not. Malicious requires intent. Intent requires effort. Perhaps negligence is a better word. I'll let you judge. But I don't see mean as applicable in such cases. Most New Yorkers don’t have time to be mean to strangers anyway. What can you do? Darwin and such. I don’t know, maybe she should move to Jersey or something? Somewhere that is a bit slower-paced perhaps? Maybe stay at home during rush hour?

Again, it’s not like she was knocked to the ground. She fell. She may have needed help getting up, but no one’s boss will believe that story at work.

"Why are you late, again, you putz? There's a line a mile long begging for your admin assistant position."

"Well, sir, there was this woman who fell down, and the crowd was so thick that I had to really struggle to help her get to her feet and..."

"Is that the best you can do? An old lady fell? Worst lie I've ever heard. And even if it did happen, I don't pay you to pick up old folks from the pavement. Let their lazy families take care of their own business. You'd be out there all day on my dollar doing that, if I allowed it. You're fired. No you've got the time to pick up octogenarians... all damn day. Putz."

I'm just sayin'. Bygones.

So, it’s either 1) help the lady or 2) maintain a hard-to-find job. One feeds the soul, but the other feeds bodily functions and therefore takes precedence. No one feels that they have the luxury of time to tend to her needs. She NEEDS to move to the nice-n-slow ‘burbs. It isn’t personal. Believe me, as cold as I describe it, it is not personal.

NOT. PERSONAL.

It’s just that on the sidewalks of NYC, your feelings are just as valuable as everyone else’s: approximately that of a used match. Floating in a public toilet. No harm, no foul. Even treatment for all. So buck up, keep on your feet, and keep to the fucking right.

Oh, and Thanks

To those who commented on the short story thing. I really am trying to improve, so any and all feedback helps. Muchos Thankos. Seriously.

Word.

I may have mentioned this before.

Man. Me and my pseudo-philosophies will be pushed aside today, in favor of a short story. I tried my penny-pen in a contest a month back, give or take, and I really liked the idea of the short story. So brief, with so many allusions, so many loose ends.

The problem is that I suck at it (hence, no trophies on my shelves). I am too longwinded (surprise, surprise). So I am going to practice here. Read or don't, I care not.

Rain or Shine

We knew the deal. Five bucks for the lot is what the guy told us. We just didn’t have the five bucks. And he scared me, with his flannel shirt and Wranglers. I just wanted to get out of there. I like zingers and black cats and those cherry bombs are really cool. No one has five dollars though. But Ray had the best idea for us to get it because he likes fireworks a hell of a lot more than the rest of us. Ray never has good plans though.

The Walgreens by my Mom’s place had this old lady working the registers after dark. I guess everyone else would be in the back, cleaning up or something. But she was always there, alone, ringing up all those big black guys who buy the big black condoms and orange soda. It really stinks in there. It always smells like moth balls and the vinegar we use on Easter for eggs. And the floor is always so sticky with spilled apple juice. One time, me and my cousin ran down the card section and poured milk into all the cards. My Auntie Kate saw us do it and told us to go wait in the car while she got her pregnancy pills. It was hot outside that day so we waited under a tree in the parking lot instead, picking at dried-up toads on the ground. She never said anything to us when she came out of there. I think she is really pretty, and my cousin thinks so too. Ray’s plan is to just go in there and take the register. She is really old, so it should not be hard. Last time I was in there with my grandma when she got some bananas and Tylenol it looked like there was a zillion in that register. “We’ll be poppin’ off those fireworks this weekend” he said. Ray better plan it good though.

Ray is so stupid though. One time, two years ago we caught him in the bathroom with no underwear on. He said that he forgot, but we all know better with Ray. He wore the same clothes for three days in a row this week. I bet he has not even gone home yet. He came to school one time with his head shaved after being gone for three weeks. He told us his big brothers held him down and shaved it while he was sleeping. But it was a new shave and he had been gone three weeks. So stupid. Another time he was playing on the playground in second grade, and this bigger boy walked over from outside the school to him and punched him in the stomach. Ray peed on himself right there. And he went back to class like that. He smelled like pee all day, and no one would sit near him. He is so stupid. He better plan it good though.

Friday is here now, and we have no fireworks yet. I will see Ray before school ends so he better say something with his bald head. Mom says that she needs me to come home right after school to help my little brother eat. He has the sugars really bad, Mom says. And he needs to be fed most of the time. He doesn’t talk or anything. I call him my little brother, but he’s actually like, twelve or something. But he’s still a baby compared to me. And with Dad still in The Rack, I’m the man of the house. Or so Mom says. So Ray better get this done tonight. Because I can already tell that Mom is going to have me doing things for my brother all night. Tomorrow morning too. She’s been sick lately, and he’s been real fussy, so I might not even get out on Saturday to pop them off. I will be so mad if that happens. Ray better get this done tonight. Because I can already tell that Mom is going to make me mad. I know she is going to keep me at home all night with my brother. Maybe I can just sneak out for a minute. Ray better plan it good.

Ray is not in school today and I think he did that on purpose. He knows that he has that plan to make and he just does not want to. He is so stupid. At lunch today, he would have laughed at me because my soda exploded all over my lap when I opened it. But he would have asked me for some anyway. And when that retarded kid Jerry came over and sat with us, Ray would have told him to leave because he smelled like poo. But I do not care about the poo and ate my whole lunch without sharing. Because stupid Ray never came to the table. I heard two teachers talking about him today. They kept saying something about camps and him having pubic servants or something. Whatever that stuff is. So stupid. He better be here today. He better plan it good.

No Ray all day long. Mom has me at home and my brother is fussing. She is sleeping in her room with a fever, so I can watch all the TV I want. Whenever my brother gets too upset I just put a hand on his chest or on his forehead and he calms down so that is okay with me. I was watching Chips when Ray started banging on the window. He looked like he was crying, but it was dark, so I did not get a good look. He told me to meet him at the parking lot behind the KFC near Walgreens in an hour. I am not sure about all of this now. He was supposed to have a plan. But there is no plan. He just wants me to go. And I think he was crying. Plus my brother is really fussy tonight and I never get to watch TV this late. Ray looked much older than he normally does. Like my Dad does. Like my Dad did before he went to The Rack. I think it makes me sad. But my brother won’t shut up and I never get to watch TV this late. I bet that flannel guy is not even there any more. So stupid. There is no plan. Ray never has a good plan. Never.

Inner Peace and the Outside Push to Mediocrity

About three years ago I went to Houston to visit with my parents for a couple of days. It was the usual set of events that played out: I dropped my bags off at their house, and headed to my friends’ places for the evening and never made it home before the following afternoon. The nights were always a buckshot experience of caution-free boozery, sprinkled with almost-fights, late-night spring rolls at Mai’s, and lots and lots of double-parking. I would spend my early afternoons in conversation with my parents, still under the influence of the previous evening, and waiting with anticipation for the coming attractions of the evening. The more damage: the better. And that’s how I liked it. I was 27ish with no direction, lots of energy, and enough smarts to keep me afloat. Coming off of some absolutely mind-blowing mid-twenties, it was MY time to be lazy and blow off steam. I was all about myself, and had no intention of taking in the negative perspective of anyone else who may be looking in on the disaster that was: me. Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke, right? Right.

So, the Saturday evening of my visit, my parents and I are sitting around the dinner table, after a meat-and-potatoes meal, chatting. I was so hung over from the previous night that I really had no appetite or desire to speak, so the conversation was mainly between my parents. Whatever comments I tried to interject were received in much the same way that an errant cow tooth is received when biting into a taco. A mixture of curiosity and dismay. I have no doubt that I looked rather unimpressive: a grown man with a mid-level professional job who reeked of whiskey at seven o’clock at night, dozing off mid-sentence and practically sleeping in the green beans on his plate. Err… No one’s perfect, right? Yes. So in an effort to try and push me in a direction they thought helpful, my parents decided to discuss what it means to actually achieve SOMETHING in life. What it means to do SOMETHING important with your limited minutes on this planet. They rattled off a bunch of hoo-ha about the importance of finding a life-partner, of maintaining familial ties, and of preserving some sort of family tradition. Or something along those lines anyhow. I was probably still drunk, so I don’t have a real firm grasp on whatever they were babbling about. And that continued on for thirty minutes or so, which did little to keep my drooping eyes from hovering inches above my green beans. Just as I was about to completely zone out of the discussion completely, they turned it on me, specifically.

Here, to the best of memory, is what was said to me by my father while my mother nodded her head in complete agreement.

“The thing is, Craig, is that in life, we don’t always get to do anything great. Some of us, Craig, are simply not meant to achieve anything like that. Some people are lucky to be able to have children, and then maybe the children will be great. But not you. Not the parent. And there’s nothing wrong with that, because it is just as noble.”

If you can read that, and not feel any level of disturbance running through your neural pathways, then the comment was meant for you, not me. Nails on a chalkboard over here. While it only makes sense that someone has to occupy the uncontested spaces in the mediocre lot (in fact, by definition, the majority does), I don’t believe resignation to it is the best means to me finding my inner peace. I mean, to “settle” on mediocrity is to compromise one’s self. There’s nothing wrong with mediocrity, true, as long as it is the product of effort to avoid it. At least there was a fight drawn against it. At least there was a notion of possibility, a search, an adventure into brilliance in there somewhere. What the fuck is up with the resignation bullshit? Why MUST I resign myself to it?

I was speechless. And hung over. And angry, sad, disillusioned, disappointed, suddenly alienated. And feeling somewhat deserving of this complete lack of support. I felt almost guilty for it. I took it like an indictment. An indictment of mediocrity. My parents were pushing me into the mediocre department. It felt like they had lost faith in my abilities.

But that got me to thinking, as I felt sure that my parents were not intentionally trying to knock me down. I desperately tried to imagine their point-of-view, searching for some sort of explanation for the cruel tone, since I was convinced that their intentions were kind. The only thing I could come up with was their fear of seeing me fall again. They had watched me wage a war against myself and everyone else for 27 years, and the last 4 of those were the most destructive. They had seen me touch the sky, at almost the peak of performance and success, only to watch everything crash to the ground. They had to watch me clamor back up to my feet, and set off again in a similarly violent fashion, in yet another risky direction, which also ended in utter destruction. I am speaking in riddles here, because these events were very complicated, and would require a great deal of explanation. Suffice to say, my parents had been stressed enough by what probably appeared to them as pointlessly reckless behavior. And it was scary to them. They just wanted me to calm down and stop fighting my position. As if to say, “please, just settle down. You’re fighting for something you were never equipped to have. You are aiming too far beyond your capabilities, and it hurts us to have to watch you fail, over and over again. Just stop it. Stop doing this to yourself, to us.”

If that was indeed the message, then I could stomach it with more ease. It was not an indictment necessarily, but more of distress signal. Even though it still pissed me off, I could accept where they were coming from, and remain satisfied that their intent was never malicious. I labored over and under their comment for quite some time. I could not shake the feeling that they were looking at me the same way a parent would look at a son who ran for class president every year and lost, while the parent knew that their child had a severe learning disability which would preclude them from ever holding the office. Eventually, the parent would cringe instead of support when election time would come around again. Eventually, the parent would be compelled to sit their child down and have “that talk” in order to help shelter them from (yet another) sure-fire failure. And I am sure “that talk” would be loaded with resignation, much as my parents’ discussion with me.

It made me physically ill to consider that my parents might view me the same way. That they might feel the overwhelming urge to step in to offer me protection against my own inability to see how pointless the struggle is for me, specifically. My other siblings never received this talk, or any advice remotely similar. I felt patronized. I felt relegated. I felt compartmentalized as inferior.

I felt like a cheap Mr. Coffee coffee maker, returned to Target because it was “missing pieces from the factory”, and would never function as designed. For the first time in my life, I felt the feeling that no one had any faith in my abilities, and it mattered to me. Before that moment, I really never gave much thought to whether or not I had any support for my endeavors. And that was probably because it was always there, before, so there was no reason to question it. I began to spin in an awful cycle of self-doubt, which lasted at least a year, where I questioned my own abilities, my own judgment. I started to take others’ advice above my own constitution, and deferred to others’ opinions and directions whenever available as a preferred selection to my own. The results were not particularly bad, but they were a rather stark contrast to what I might have done. If I could have kept that up, then it would never have been a problem. If the charade were strong enough to continue, I would never notice my underlying discontent.

But that could never last. I am too difficult a person to follow the lead of others for too long. Especially if the end result is mediocrity for the sake of security. I collapsed under the weight of frustration, and the intense feelings of asphyxiation resulting from the pressure to “keep things safe”. My internal dialog had been more of an argument for quite some time, and was then turning into an all-out revolution. For all my parents’ good intentions, and my well-meaning attempt to “tow the line”, the plan was falling apart in front of me, inside me, in my mind.

Once again, I was at war with myself, and with what was expected of me. Once again, I was forced to pit who I am against who I expect myself to be (which I had not done in a while), along with a new contender: who I am expected (by others) to be. The third contender was quickly disposed of, as he truly is a waste of good character. But more importantly, he was disposed of because there was absolutely no positive tissue match there. My mind and motivations tried, but could not accept that version of self. It was wholly rejected, killed off, and easily disposed of.

So here I am. Back from the fires. Renewing the squabble between who I am and who I expect “me” to be. Even though I know that the results appear self-destructive, and that it can make me more difficult to get along with. I realize that my lack of acceptance of where I am makes me impatient, and my refusal to resign myself to mindless line-towing makes me appear unstable.

But I would take that instability over the resignation to mediocrity any day. Because, for me, it appears, by process of elimination, that my particular inner peace (if I am afforded any at all) is somewhere on the other side of my internal struggle. Somewhere in the dust of the climax. It has to be. Because it sure as hell isn’t buried within the acceptance of life on medium heat. I believe that fact is evident in that everyone wants everyone else to accept mediocrity. No one is honestly championing it for themselves. If you aren’t meant to dwell there, then it feels like a prison sentence instead of the vacation spot you got sold on. Never accept mediocrity. Never tow the line “just because”. And never let your questions be answered with “well, that’s just how things are”, because that is complete and utter rubbish. You deserve more from yourself, and there is nothing unhealthy about self-challenge. Resign yourself to nothing. Fall down, get back up with a grin, and give it another go, slapping off the hands of those who try to hold you back “for your own benefit”. Why not? What have you really got to lose? Mediocrity? Why would you care if that got lost? I would take brief and phenomenal failure over painfully long, soul-wrenching mediocrity any day. Any. Day.

So, to my parents and friends, I apologize before hand for being impetuous at times. For being obnoxious, or difficult, or too “cup is goddamn half-empty”. That’s just how I roll. That’s how I get things done. That’s how I understand things to be. And that’s how I will continue to make my way.

Because one day, I will be class president. Bet.

Motherfuck yeah.