G. Eric Francis's Blog, page 6
April 30, 2014
Quitting on the pot 'cuz the poop never drops
Yes I know...the title is gross.
Whenever I post something new, I try to come up with a title that will get folks to see what the hell I am talking about.
On this night, I am down in the dumps.
You see, my dream is about dead.
No, not the one where I am in great shape and my wife still thinks I'm cute.
I love to write. It is the one thing that I love doing...the one talent that the Good Lord has blessed with me with.
And shit if it hasn't done me any good; it's just more heartbreak. Sort of like that ex that keeps leaving you bombs in your mailbox.
(I have to tell you that story one day...unless I stop posting; that means that I forgot to open the mail door slowly).
I celebrated my 14th wedding anniversary yesterday, and it was one of the few times that my wife and I could put aside the dreariness of our existence and enjoy good food and dessert that we definitely couldn't afford.
A wonderful waiter kept the evening light, and for a moment, I felt like "this is the life."
Then "the life" came back from its drunken night out and kicked me in the gonads as the next day's morning arrived.
Now, nothing necessarily BAD happened...but the ringing "bong" of shattered dreams tolled against my dome like a 80's Mike Tyson uppercut.
But the feeling that I haven't been able to shake for decades just hung with me; never leaving like a fake case of herpes-simplex 10.
It is why I wrote...it is why I wish I could write stories for a living (not news stories; have a degree in Journalism, but never did anything with it), so I can just...well, escape reality while being able to survive in it.
One of the well wishers on my anniversary posted on a certain social media site that materialistic things aren't important; I should be happy in what I have with my wife.
Wise words indeed.
Sadly, however, love can't pay the mortgage, light bill, garbage bill, cable bill, cell phone bill, fix the roof, replace the carpeting and the HVAC, get my son to college, get both my kids the help they need, provide any hope for retirement, and everything else that money is required to do.
I write to escape...but I also write so people would want to read what I write.
I like materialistic things.
But beyond the peace that writing brings, I wish it would bring the ability to keep the peace.
That "poop" is just sort of hanging there.
Sort of like how that "bong" I keep feeling is...never dropping off to complete the task.
And once again, sorry for the imagery.
Whenever I post something new, I try to come up with a title that will get folks to see what the hell I am talking about.
On this night, I am down in the dumps.
You see, my dream is about dead.
No, not the one where I am in great shape and my wife still thinks I'm cute.
I love to write. It is the one thing that I love doing...the one talent that the Good Lord has blessed with me with.
And shit if it hasn't done me any good; it's just more heartbreak. Sort of like that ex that keeps leaving you bombs in your mailbox.
(I have to tell you that story one day...unless I stop posting; that means that I forgot to open the mail door slowly).
I celebrated my 14th wedding anniversary yesterday, and it was one of the few times that my wife and I could put aside the dreariness of our existence and enjoy good food and dessert that we definitely couldn't afford.
A wonderful waiter kept the evening light, and for a moment, I felt like "this is the life."
Then "the life" came back from its drunken night out and kicked me in the gonads as the next day's morning arrived.
Now, nothing necessarily BAD happened...but the ringing "bong" of shattered dreams tolled against my dome like a 80's Mike Tyson uppercut.
But the feeling that I haven't been able to shake for decades just hung with me; never leaving like a fake case of herpes-simplex 10.
It is why I wrote...it is why I wish I could write stories for a living (not news stories; have a degree in Journalism, but never did anything with it), so I can just...well, escape reality while being able to survive in it.
One of the well wishers on my anniversary posted on a certain social media site that materialistic things aren't important; I should be happy in what I have with my wife.
Wise words indeed.
Sadly, however, love can't pay the mortgage, light bill, garbage bill, cable bill, cell phone bill, fix the roof, replace the carpeting and the HVAC, get my son to college, get both my kids the help they need, provide any hope for retirement, and everything else that money is required to do.
I write to escape...but I also write so people would want to read what I write.
I like materialistic things.
But beyond the peace that writing brings, I wish it would bring the ability to keep the peace.
That "poop" is just sort of hanging there.
Sort of like how that "bong" I keep feeling is...never dropping off to complete the task.
And once again, sorry for the imagery.
April 23, 2014
1969...oh what a night (or The Brother-dent, Part Tres)
I was born in the late 1960's.
This isn't a secret, of course, because you can simply go back in history on this blog and figure that out.
I am coming up on my 14th wedding anniversary next week to a wonderful woman who happens to be Caucasian.
Now, I'm sure that you are wondering why I would bring up what (should be) an irrelevant point about my wife. I mean, I didn't marry her to add points to my "white women I've slept with" card (even tho, um, I have a few notches on that card. Don't worry, it's been ripped up for nearly 18 years). She is simply put my best friend/homie/crime dawg/partner/lover/arguing opponent/mother of my knucklehead kids.
And I fell in love for what she is, not because she burns a lot more easily than I do on a mid-summer day (and believe me, she burns. Like lobster with butter sauce burns).
The reason I brought this up is that I just finished watching "12 Years A Slave", a flick that I believe everyone of age should watch. If you are not familiar with it, it's the story of a free black man, Solomon Northup, who was kidnapped and sold into slavery, separated from his family for 12 years.
It truly was a very powerful film, and it brought me to tears as I watched it.
Now, as those who have read the blog for the past few years know, I am a stunningly handsome man of color (OK, just of color...damn it, there goes new female fans). You would expect that a film such as this (it was graphic, on point, and hard to watch how folks who look like me are treated)would affect me.
You would be right.
However, not necessarily in the way one might expect.
If folks didn't know, interracial marriage wasn't legal in the U.S until 1967. That is only 47 years ago. Since then things have gotten better for folks like me, including electing the first non-white president of the U.S. (President Obama is half white, but according to this old rule, he is considered black). Now while these are all wonderful things, well...
...Let me go on a different route.
I have always considered myself color blind (especially once I went to school and was surrounded by a lot of folks who had no idea who Grandmaster Flash was...and yes, I know I just dated myself). Not to use another old saying (and one that makes me secretly chuckle because I'm twisted like that), I give everyone "enough rope to hang themselves."
An old commercial from MTV that has always stuck with me said (paraphrased) "We are all equal here (showing a nursery) and here (showing a cemetery). What happens in between is up to you."
It was a 30 second commercial, but even 20 years or so later, it was so on point.
So I flash back to "12 years", and (spoiler here) there is a scene near the end of the movie where the whipping of a slave is so vivid (made me cringe like "The Passion of the Christ" because it was so vivid) it made me curl up in the fetal position.
And it brings me to day. Now, I've encountered plenty of white folks that have the mentality that people are people.
I have also encountered folks that probably wouldn't mind the 13th Amendment to be repealed, either.
I have a good friend who happens to be white that says some of the most bigoted shit I have heard in my lifetime.
However, if I was in a fight, he'd be by my side if he was there.
The entire fascination with skin (and I am guilty of it as well) is so utterly moronic sometimes, even though I understand it.
I at times get jealous of white guys and how they can do things with their hair (there was this dude at the last job I worked with who just had this pompadour; wouldn't work on me, but I thought it looked cool). But should I judge him because his hair is more flexible than mine (used to be)? Should I form opinions based on what I had heard and taught?
There are times I wonder if we are in 237 years as a slave at this point. I mean, black folks enslave themselves because we are guilty of falling into what people expect of us...or our apathy of doing nothing about it.
Are there certain people in Washington DC who are so disconnected from not just folks of color, but everyone else, that they are happy with the status quo?
How about the media? The current incumbent in the White House (whom I have shared my concerns on a couple of occasions...here and here) gets more flack from these guys than any president in my lifetime. Let's be real on 2 fronts:
1. He's a flawed president...but what president wasn't;
2. If he could tan as easily as my wife, it wouldn't be as intense. The previous occupant was a C+ student, and we elected him TWICE.
So in a lot of ways, we haven't changed much, truly. I mean, we've ADVANCED, but we haven't CHANGED.
If Mr. Northrop was still alive today, I wonder if he would of smiled and celebrated when President Obama was elected. I remember that night, and while I smiled because I saw something I thought I'd never see in my lifetime (more for my folks than anything, who got a taste of what it was like back in the day..wait, depending where you are, TODAY in the South), I didn't see a black man getting elected president. I saw a guy with limited experience being swept into office because the white guys in charge were too busy chasing war penis instead of handling the people's business.
But that's just the way I think.
But the bigger picture, in my humble opinion, is this...
...when will that MTV commercial become reality? And if never, can a few more people get the message?
I'm married to a white woman.
Her name's Carla.
I see her blue eyes. I am not jealous of them, and I never bought into colored contacts that were so prevalent back in my "yoot" (What's a Yoot?).
I just look into them and see love, despite all my many flaws.
Why can't we look at each other like that?
I wonder if Solomon wondered the same thing.
This isn't a secret, of course, because you can simply go back in history on this blog and figure that out.
I am coming up on my 14th wedding anniversary next week to a wonderful woman who happens to be Caucasian.
Now, I'm sure that you are wondering why I would bring up what (should be) an irrelevant point about my wife. I mean, I didn't marry her to add points to my "white women I've slept with" card (even tho, um, I have a few notches on that card. Don't worry, it's been ripped up for nearly 18 years). She is simply put my best friend/homie/crime dawg/partner/lover/arguing opponent/mother of my knucklehead kids.
And I fell in love for what she is, not because she burns a lot more easily than I do on a mid-summer day (and believe me, she burns. Like lobster with butter sauce burns).
The reason I brought this up is that I just finished watching "12 Years A Slave", a flick that I believe everyone of age should watch. If you are not familiar with it, it's the story of a free black man, Solomon Northup, who was kidnapped and sold into slavery, separated from his family for 12 years.
It truly was a very powerful film, and it brought me to tears as I watched it.
Now, as those who have read the blog for the past few years know, I am a stunningly handsome man of color (OK, just of color...damn it, there goes new female fans). You would expect that a film such as this (it was graphic, on point, and hard to watch how folks who look like me are treated)would affect me.
You would be right.
However, not necessarily in the way one might expect.
If folks didn't know, interracial marriage wasn't legal in the U.S until 1967. That is only 47 years ago. Since then things have gotten better for folks like me, including electing the first non-white president of the U.S. (President Obama is half white, but according to this old rule, he is considered black). Now while these are all wonderful things, well...
...Let me go on a different route.
I have always considered myself color blind (especially once I went to school and was surrounded by a lot of folks who had no idea who Grandmaster Flash was...and yes, I know I just dated myself). Not to use another old saying (and one that makes me secretly chuckle because I'm twisted like that), I give everyone "enough rope to hang themselves."
An old commercial from MTV that has always stuck with me said (paraphrased) "We are all equal here (showing a nursery) and here (showing a cemetery). What happens in between is up to you."
It was a 30 second commercial, but even 20 years or so later, it was so on point.
So I flash back to "12 years", and (spoiler here) there is a scene near the end of the movie where the whipping of a slave is so vivid (made me cringe like "The Passion of the Christ" because it was so vivid) it made me curl up in the fetal position.
And it brings me to day. Now, I've encountered plenty of white folks that have the mentality that people are people.
I have also encountered folks that probably wouldn't mind the 13th Amendment to be repealed, either.
I have a good friend who happens to be white that says some of the most bigoted shit I have heard in my lifetime.
However, if I was in a fight, he'd be by my side if he was there.
The entire fascination with skin (and I am guilty of it as well) is so utterly moronic sometimes, even though I understand it.
I at times get jealous of white guys and how they can do things with their hair (there was this dude at the last job I worked with who just had this pompadour; wouldn't work on me, but I thought it looked cool). But should I judge him because his hair is more flexible than mine (used to be)? Should I form opinions based on what I had heard and taught?
There are times I wonder if we are in 237 years as a slave at this point. I mean, black folks enslave themselves because we are guilty of falling into what people expect of us...or our apathy of doing nothing about it.
Are there certain people in Washington DC who are so disconnected from not just folks of color, but everyone else, that they are happy with the status quo?
How about the media? The current incumbent in the White House (whom I have shared my concerns on a couple of occasions...here and here) gets more flack from these guys than any president in my lifetime. Let's be real on 2 fronts:
1. He's a flawed president...but what president wasn't;
2. If he could tan as easily as my wife, it wouldn't be as intense. The previous occupant was a C+ student, and we elected him TWICE.
So in a lot of ways, we haven't changed much, truly. I mean, we've ADVANCED, but we haven't CHANGED.
If Mr. Northrop was still alive today, I wonder if he would of smiled and celebrated when President Obama was elected. I remember that night, and while I smiled because I saw something I thought I'd never see in my lifetime (more for my folks than anything, who got a taste of what it was like back in the day..wait, depending where you are, TODAY in the South), I didn't see a black man getting elected president. I saw a guy with limited experience being swept into office because the white guys in charge were too busy chasing war penis instead of handling the people's business.
But that's just the way I think.
But the bigger picture, in my humble opinion, is this...
...when will that MTV commercial become reality? And if never, can a few more people get the message?
I'm married to a white woman.
Her name's Carla.
I see her blue eyes. I am not jealous of them, and I never bought into colored contacts that were so prevalent back in my "yoot" (What's a Yoot?).
I just look into them and see love, despite all my many flaws.
Why can't we look at each other like that?
I wonder if Solomon wondered the same thing.
April 16, 2014
A tale for your tail
A short one today...just something that was floating around in my head a little while ago.
(Note, I am once again that "unemployed dude." Hopefully temporary. Wanna help? Buy my kids book and give it to ur nephew Bobby/Skippy/Whatever his name is...:)
Another bit of flotsam that just floated into my head this morning...
"Yo, Bobby!"
"Yeah?"
"I didn't get the job, man."
"That sucks, "Twaun....what happened?"
"I think that they wouldn't hire a black man with 1/4 gold tooth."
"What? That's ridiculous, dude."
"I'm serious, Bobby. Interview was going well, and then I smiled, just to show I was friendly. Next thing you know they said that they didn't think I was a good fit for the job."
"Twaun, now come on now. Every time things go wrong for you, you always blame your skin color. I'm a white guy, but you don't see me as white, right? We've been friends 20 years, and all I ever see you as is Twaun from the neighborhood."
"Bobby, man, you don't get it. I love you like a brother, but I bet that if you went for that job after me, you'd have a better chance."
"Twaun, what are you talking about? We went to the same high school and college. Your GPA was 1/2 a point higher than mine. About the only difference between the two of us is that you don't burn as easily in the summer...don't get mad, you know I'm joking...and that silly 1/4 gold tooth of yours."
"Damn it Bobby, I wish you were right man. I really wanted that job, but not all white folks think like you do."
"Sigh. Well, sadly I know this. At the same time, and I am only saying this out of love, folks of color might want to look in the mirror and see that sometimes y'all hurt yourselves."
"What? Bobby, be for real, man! You know that we are always being kept down. We even have a black president, and he can't do anything because of the angry white folks he has to deal with!"
"Twaun, our government was broken LONG before Obama took office. You might be right on a lot of things, old friend. But if you are ever going to win a war, you might want to get all of your soldiers onto the same page."
Bobby gave his friend a palm, tapped him on the shoulder, and went back into his brownstone. Twaun watched him walked away, and then sat down on the stoop in front of the building.
In his heart, he knew that they were both right.
However, he still didn't have a job...all the while knowing that his people, despite old wounds and new attacks, was also possibly wrong.
(Note, I am once again that "unemployed dude." Hopefully temporary. Wanna help? Buy my kids book and give it to ur nephew Bobby/Skippy/Whatever his name is...:)
Another bit of flotsam that just floated into my head this morning...
"Yo, Bobby!"
"Yeah?"
"I didn't get the job, man."
"That sucks, "Twaun....what happened?"
"I think that they wouldn't hire a black man with 1/4 gold tooth."
"What? That's ridiculous, dude."
"I'm serious, Bobby. Interview was going well, and then I smiled, just to show I was friendly. Next thing you know they said that they didn't think I was a good fit for the job."
"Twaun, now come on now. Every time things go wrong for you, you always blame your skin color. I'm a white guy, but you don't see me as white, right? We've been friends 20 years, and all I ever see you as is Twaun from the neighborhood."
"Bobby, man, you don't get it. I love you like a brother, but I bet that if you went for that job after me, you'd have a better chance."
"Twaun, what are you talking about? We went to the same high school and college. Your GPA was 1/2 a point higher than mine. About the only difference between the two of us is that you don't burn as easily in the summer...don't get mad, you know I'm joking...and that silly 1/4 gold tooth of yours."
"Damn it Bobby, I wish you were right man. I really wanted that job, but not all white folks think like you do."
"Sigh. Well, sadly I know this. At the same time, and I am only saying this out of love, folks of color might want to look in the mirror and see that sometimes y'all hurt yourselves."
"What? Bobby, be for real, man! You know that we are always being kept down. We even have a black president, and he can't do anything because of the angry white folks he has to deal with!"
"Twaun, our government was broken LONG before Obama took office. You might be right on a lot of things, old friend. But if you are ever going to win a war, you might want to get all of your soldiers onto the same page."
Bobby gave his friend a palm, tapped him on the shoulder, and went back into his brownstone. Twaun watched him walked away, and then sat down on the stoop in front of the building.
In his heart, he knew that they were both right.
However, he still didn't have a job...all the while knowing that his people, despite old wounds and new attacks, was also possibly wrong.
April 7, 2014
Father, Son, Frenemies, Fun.
Me and the oldest are frenemies.
Not exactly an odd concept, to be sure, since I am sure that there are lots of fathers out there who butt heads with their sons, especially when that fleshy part between their legs starts to short circuit the brain in the teen (and forever more) years.
Now my young man (because as tall as he is, I call him that despite his 11 years, 10 months and a couple of days he is as of the date of this post) is beginning to notice the ladies, but it isn’t his focus his days.
He’s one of the most handsome gaming nerds in the world.
Now I know you are thinking that just because I am his dad, I can say things like that.
But unless you haven’t been reading my blogs, you should know that isn’t how I roll.
If he was a 4 tooth, one-eyed, limping Hobbit with breath that reeked of toe jams and bad cheese, I would have told you so.
But luckily, he doesn't qualify for that sort of description.
Anyway, back to the frenemies thing.
In all the years he’s been around, I’ve probably been yelling at the lad since he was, oh, about 3.
We were on our way back from my in-laws…very lovely white folks from the Midwest who had accepted that her daughter being with me wasn't just a “phase”, despite the fact we've been together for 6 years at this point.
I was buckling up the boy in his car seat, and for no reason whatsoever, he bit me. Really expletive-ing hard.
Now, you ever get so mad that the wire that connects your good sense to your mouth gets fried?
Mine burnt the hell up.
Now, I can’t remember everything I said that day, but I remembered looking like someone from a bad UPN (look it up; Chuck D of Public Enemy once called it U Pay (a) Ni**** Network, and he was right) comedy, livid, and finishing off with “I am your father, and YOU WILL RESPECT ME! (Wife’s name), finishing buckling up this little son of a (female dog, not referring to my wife).”
I was spouting this off to a 3 year old who still hadn’t figured out where to put his feces regularly.
My in-laws, especially my brother-in-law, looked at me like I was James Evans from “Good Times.” I would have preferred looking like Cliff Huxtable, but that is for another post.
From that point forward, it wouldn't be unusual for him and I to get into it once a week.
Now in the back of my mind, I know arguing with a child is foolish, as that, well, he’s a child.
When I was growing up, there was no arguing. There was LAW. And BEATINGS. And limping to school the next day thinking “that probably wasn't a great idea.”
But things have changed in the USA since my day (it so hurts to say that) and kids know what 911 is now (even though my dad, b4 he got sick, once said to one of his other grandchildren “I may be going to jail, but you are going to the morgue”).
Today, he is the mouthy, possibly Asperger-having pre-teen that doesn’t pay attention if you, well, paid him to do so.
That’s the “enemy” part.
But then…
…there’s the part that helps out when his brother (see my previous post) tries to kill himself…or us, for that matter. The one who doesn’t hit him back, even though he nearly had his head taken off. The one who made up a handshake before he goes to bed that him and I share. Did I mention that he is one of the funniest people I know, making me laugh so hard I almost wrecked the car. And the kid who got tired when I took him to go see the latest Marvel blockbuster and put his head on my shoulder in the movie theater.
That’s the “friend.” Sadly, he’ll stop doing some of these things as he gains his independence, and that makes me sad.
It also makes me sad that the “enemy” part will probably get worse.
We are two stubborn men, cut from the same cloth in a lot of ways. I know I should be the mature one and try to control my temper, but well, I just can’t stand stupid. Makes my butt itch.
He’s a kid. He’s gonna do stupid things. I, despite my flaws, am a pretty decent dad, and I do honestly try to let a lot of things go, even though I’ll always throw in my favorite phrase:
“Dude, you gotta learn how to think.”
It never sinks in, of course, as it hasn’t sunk in for 99.8% of kids on the planet.
I guess that for me, to this day I cannot separate how brilliant this kid is from the fact that kids have the common sense of roaches walking into that famous motel they don’t check out of.
So “frenemies” we will continue to be…
…in the hopes that as I gray and he mans up, we will just be friends.
Even if we always agree to disagree.
Not exactly an odd concept, to be sure, since I am sure that there are lots of fathers out there who butt heads with their sons, especially when that fleshy part between their legs starts to short circuit the brain in the teen (and forever more) years.
Now my young man (because as tall as he is, I call him that despite his 11 years, 10 months and a couple of days he is as of the date of this post) is beginning to notice the ladies, but it isn’t his focus his days.
He’s one of the most handsome gaming nerds in the world.
Now I know you are thinking that just because I am his dad, I can say things like that.
But unless you haven’t been reading my blogs, you should know that isn’t how I roll.
If he was a 4 tooth, one-eyed, limping Hobbit with breath that reeked of toe jams and bad cheese, I would have told you so.
But luckily, he doesn't qualify for that sort of description.
Anyway, back to the frenemies thing.
In all the years he’s been around, I’ve probably been yelling at the lad since he was, oh, about 3.
We were on our way back from my in-laws…very lovely white folks from the Midwest who had accepted that her daughter being with me wasn't just a “phase”, despite the fact we've been together for 6 years at this point.
I was buckling up the boy in his car seat, and for no reason whatsoever, he bit me. Really expletive-ing hard.
Now, you ever get so mad that the wire that connects your good sense to your mouth gets fried?
Mine burnt the hell up.
Now, I can’t remember everything I said that day, but I remembered looking like someone from a bad UPN (look it up; Chuck D of Public Enemy once called it U Pay (a) Ni**** Network, and he was right) comedy, livid, and finishing off with “I am your father, and YOU WILL RESPECT ME! (Wife’s name), finishing buckling up this little son of a (female dog, not referring to my wife).”
I was spouting this off to a 3 year old who still hadn’t figured out where to put his feces regularly.
My in-laws, especially my brother-in-law, looked at me like I was James Evans from “Good Times.” I would have preferred looking like Cliff Huxtable, but that is for another post.
From that point forward, it wouldn't be unusual for him and I to get into it once a week.
Now in the back of my mind, I know arguing with a child is foolish, as that, well, he’s a child.
When I was growing up, there was no arguing. There was LAW. And BEATINGS. And limping to school the next day thinking “that probably wasn't a great idea.”
But things have changed in the USA since my day (it so hurts to say that) and kids know what 911 is now (even though my dad, b4 he got sick, once said to one of his other grandchildren “I may be going to jail, but you are going to the morgue”).
Today, he is the mouthy, possibly Asperger-having pre-teen that doesn’t pay attention if you, well, paid him to do so.
That’s the “enemy” part.
But then…
…there’s the part that helps out when his brother (see my previous post) tries to kill himself…or us, for that matter. The one who doesn’t hit him back, even though he nearly had his head taken off. The one who made up a handshake before he goes to bed that him and I share. Did I mention that he is one of the funniest people I know, making me laugh so hard I almost wrecked the car. And the kid who got tired when I took him to go see the latest Marvel blockbuster and put his head on my shoulder in the movie theater.
That’s the “friend.” Sadly, he’ll stop doing some of these things as he gains his independence, and that makes me sad.
It also makes me sad that the “enemy” part will probably get worse.
We are two stubborn men, cut from the same cloth in a lot of ways. I know I should be the mature one and try to control my temper, but well, I just can’t stand stupid. Makes my butt itch.
He’s a kid. He’s gonna do stupid things. I, despite my flaws, am a pretty decent dad, and I do honestly try to let a lot of things go, even though I’ll always throw in my favorite phrase:
“Dude, you gotta learn how to think.”
It never sinks in, of course, as it hasn’t sunk in for 99.8% of kids on the planet.
I guess that for me, to this day I cannot separate how brilliant this kid is from the fact that kids have the common sense of roaches walking into that famous motel they don’t check out of.
So “frenemies” we will continue to be…
…in the hopes that as I gray and he mans up, we will just be friends.
Even if we always agree to disagree.
April 6, 2014
The Future's Short Story Time
Yo.
This is the LAST blog for the next few days...I promise...:)
To be honest, I wanted to showcase something I was messing with, and I hope the folks that read my blog on occasion would enjoy it.
Have a good week.
A Gangsta Mini
“You know, I think you are better off without her,” Mo-Fu-Quan said as he poured a glass of wine in front of a sobbing 45-year-old man.
He placed the glass down in front of him, tapping his heartbroken friend on the shoulder as he sat down in a chair across from him.
“Man, she was my whole world,” Unique “I Write The Rhymes That Make The Gangstas Sing” Brown said through his tears as he grabbed the glass of wine Mo (for short) placed in front of him and sucked it down in one gulp.
“I mean, we were together for like 2 years, dawg! I even wrote that hit record that was on top of the charts for like 7 weeks!
“Yeah,” Mo said, shaking his head as he sipped on his wine. “That track ‘My Future Baby’s Mama’s Booty B All Good’ was an instant classic.”
Unique placed his head in his hands, trying to control his emotions. He had a concert in a couple of hours, and he had an image to protect.
“I’m gonna b alright, tho,” he said, as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “I have a rhyme to let people know about heartbreak. Yo, you wanna hear it before the show?”
Mo nodded, a smile on his face, glad that his boy was trying to get his head on right.
Unique stood up, wiped the last tear from his eye, and pulled out a folded piece of paper he had in his gold-plated stripped jeans.
“This is off the chain, dawg,” Unique said as he cleared his throat. “It hurts to lose Foshakeabootyquuana, and she’ll always be in my heart, but hopefully this will help others deal with loss love, know what I mean?”
Mo shook his head in agreement, and leaned forward to hear what Unique was about to spit.
Grabbing the paper and raising it to eye level, Unique assumed his stage persona, and began to rap.
Yo babyIt’s all goodEven though you twisted my love I’ll be OKAs soon as I drive by yo’ cribCold blast you and send you up above
I ain’t bitterI got mad paperAnd I’m gonna be alrightI’ll just hire an ex convictGive him a few thousandTo make sure you go goodnight…
“Hold up!” Mo said, a slightly horrified look on his face. “Umm…you’ve always talked about surviving the hood in your songs….now you are talking about killing ex girlfriends?”
“What are you talking about?” Unique said, surprised by Mo’s reaction. “These are like metaphors and whatnot…my fans know what’s up! It’s all good! Let me spit this next line and you’ll see what I mean.”
“OK,” Mo said, his eye raised slightly as he leaned forward again.
Unique got back into his persona, and continued to spit his lines…
So girlDon’t think you wonBecause you broke my soulI got two big brothersJust got out of jailThat’ll put your lifeless body in a hole…
“’Nique!” Mo exclaimed. “Where exactly are the metaphors in that?”
Unique folded his arms, disappointed that his boyhood friend wasn’t feeling what he was trying to do.
“Man, it’s just a man trying to express his heartbreak about losing his woman!” he said with conviction.“ “I had to make a little gangsta for my fans, ya feel me?”
Mo nodded his head nervously, motioning Unique to go on.
So I say yes, yes, y’all‘Cuz now I know the truthOn why you chose to goMy homie Ja’Finger Told me who u was foolin’ with…
Unique then stopped rapping, standing up straight. Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulled out a revolver, and pointed it towards his longtime friend.…my longtime homie Mo.
Mo’s eyes widened, as Unique walked over towards him, gun in hand, anger and tears on his face.
“Hold up man,” Mo said as began to get up, “it ain’t even like that.”
“Is that right, my man?” Unique said, as he stopped mere inches from Mo, his gun pointed at his head. “That was my bitch, fool!”
“Hey!” Mo said, “Her name is Shoshana!”
At that moment, Mo-Fu-Quan Jones knew he just uttered his last word.
After the sound of the blood splatter faded, Unique tossed the gun on top of Mo’s dead body.
“I guess I’m gangsta now, huh,” Unique said as he went back into his pose.
“I think I’ll write another rap,” he said as he sat back down, the pain in his heart now being soothed by the salve of revenge.
This is the LAST blog for the next few days...I promise...:)
To be honest, I wanted to showcase something I was messing with, and I hope the folks that read my blog on occasion would enjoy it.
Have a good week.
A Gangsta Mini
“You know, I think you are better off without her,” Mo-Fu-Quan said as he poured a glass of wine in front of a sobbing 45-year-old man.
He placed the glass down in front of him, tapping his heartbroken friend on the shoulder as he sat down in a chair across from him.
“Man, she was my whole world,” Unique “I Write The Rhymes That Make The Gangstas Sing” Brown said through his tears as he grabbed the glass of wine Mo (for short) placed in front of him and sucked it down in one gulp.
“I mean, we were together for like 2 years, dawg! I even wrote that hit record that was on top of the charts for like 7 weeks!
“Yeah,” Mo said, shaking his head as he sipped on his wine. “That track ‘My Future Baby’s Mama’s Booty B All Good’ was an instant classic.”
Unique placed his head in his hands, trying to control his emotions. He had a concert in a couple of hours, and he had an image to protect.
“I’m gonna b alright, tho,” he said, as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “I have a rhyme to let people know about heartbreak. Yo, you wanna hear it before the show?”
Mo nodded, a smile on his face, glad that his boy was trying to get his head on right.
Unique stood up, wiped the last tear from his eye, and pulled out a folded piece of paper he had in his gold-plated stripped jeans.
“This is off the chain, dawg,” Unique said as he cleared his throat. “It hurts to lose Foshakeabootyquuana, and she’ll always be in my heart, but hopefully this will help others deal with loss love, know what I mean?”
Mo shook his head in agreement, and leaned forward to hear what Unique was about to spit.
Grabbing the paper and raising it to eye level, Unique assumed his stage persona, and began to rap.
Yo babyIt’s all goodEven though you twisted my love I’ll be OKAs soon as I drive by yo’ cribCold blast you and send you up above
I ain’t bitterI got mad paperAnd I’m gonna be alrightI’ll just hire an ex convictGive him a few thousandTo make sure you go goodnight…
“Hold up!” Mo said, a slightly horrified look on his face. “Umm…you’ve always talked about surviving the hood in your songs….now you are talking about killing ex girlfriends?”
“What are you talking about?” Unique said, surprised by Mo’s reaction. “These are like metaphors and whatnot…my fans know what’s up! It’s all good! Let me spit this next line and you’ll see what I mean.”
“OK,” Mo said, his eye raised slightly as he leaned forward again.
Unique got back into his persona, and continued to spit his lines…
So girlDon’t think you wonBecause you broke my soulI got two big brothersJust got out of jailThat’ll put your lifeless body in a hole…
“’Nique!” Mo exclaimed. “Where exactly are the metaphors in that?”
Unique folded his arms, disappointed that his boyhood friend wasn’t feeling what he was trying to do.
“Man, it’s just a man trying to express his heartbreak about losing his woman!” he said with conviction.“ “I had to make a little gangsta for my fans, ya feel me?”
Mo nodded his head nervously, motioning Unique to go on.
So I say yes, yes, y’all‘Cuz now I know the truthOn why you chose to goMy homie Ja’Finger Told me who u was foolin’ with…
Unique then stopped rapping, standing up straight. Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulled out a revolver, and pointed it towards his longtime friend.…my longtime homie Mo.
Mo’s eyes widened, as Unique walked over towards him, gun in hand, anger and tears on his face.
“Hold up man,” Mo said as began to get up, “it ain’t even like that.”
“Is that right, my man?” Unique said, as he stopped mere inches from Mo, his gun pointed at his head. “That was my bitch, fool!”
“Hey!” Mo said, “Her name is Shoshana!”
At that moment, Mo-Fu-Quan Jones knew he just uttered his last word.
After the sound of the blood splatter faded, Unique tossed the gun on top of Mo’s dead body.
“I guess I’m gangsta now, huh,” Unique said as he went back into his pose.
“I think I’ll write another rap,” he said as he sat back down, the pain in his heart now being soothed by the salve of revenge.
Absolutely Autistastic!
My boy has Down Syndrome and Autism. He's 8 years old, stunningly handsome, and has a smile that make Charles Manson say "yeah, I'm crazy, but you are sort of cute."
He has also slapped his mother at least 25 times. Caught me about 6 or 7 times as well. His room is filled with holes from all of the objects that he's thrown when he goes into this crazed rage that no one sees coming. And his poor older brother, who rarely ever hits him back, has had his glasses broken from all the times his brother has attacked him in the back seat, with very little to defend himself.
A lot of people have kids like Noah, and they can sympathize with how difficult it is to live with someone like this...especially if you'd take a bullet for them.
He took my laptop computer (retail about $1100) and toss it across the floor once, denting one of its USB ports. I believe my reaction (paraphrasing the best I can, as this was about a year and change ago) was as follows:
"If you want him alive, get him away from me NOW!"
That is what I said to his mother as I watched my precious laptop bounce on the ground...twice.
Never saw his mother grab him up and move or so fast. And this girl is quick on her feet when she wants to be.
The last 2 years or so have been quite rough in my household. Just like I'm sure it's been rough in other households for kids like my boy.
We have to lock him in his room as well, because he has been known to leave the house. That fast girl I spoke about dashed after him more than once too. He has an ankle tracker on him, in case he decides to take a 2nd tour like he did at a neighborhood bbq last summer.
The boy is Autistastic, I tell ya.
Some folks blame the Autism part on vaccines. A friend of mind blames his diet, and suggests flipping the script on him and changing his diet.
Shit...this kid clears the table when he gets the food he wants. Imagine how much fun it would be if I told him "hey buddy, look, we are going to try this funky root that I can't pronounce instead of your Pop Tarts...you're ok with that, right?"
The funny thing is, I'd b willing to try switching his diet if I knew it would help....but sadly, it's cheaper to give him the stuff that might be short circuiting him than the other kind of food.
Wait...I know what you're thinking...you can buy an expensive computer, but you can't get food for your kid?
That expensive computer...and a lot of things like it, are now in countries like Russia, Germany, and some small town in Oklahoma.
Hocked it to keep the lights on, fix a car, and so forth.
Ebay is a wonderful thing.
In previous blogs, I talked about my books, why I write, and why I have such an odd view of things.
I like to call myself the negative optimist.
I am not as gloom and doom as I used to be...in a lot of ways, I have a fairly decent life.
But the real poverty of my existence becomes real when I look at my boy. His grandmother got him an iPad last year, and he loves the thing.
But when the battery dies...he becomes Autistastic.
Actually, it has happened beforehand...like when he bounces it off of his brother's head.
When I wrote my kid's book and released it a few weeks ago, I had grand dreams that this will be the one...my time is now. Not for fancy new things if it sold well. But to use the money from the book to find out how to get my Autistastic boy to sleep longer than 5 hours a night. To bring someone to my home so he can learn that tossing knives at restaurants isn't a good idea.
Just to be able to help him, including feeding him that unpronounceable food that my friend says may help him. At least if he doesn't like it, I can afford to lose the investment.
I will say this.
My son's Down Syndrome makes him who he is. The DS part makes him this warm, loving, non-judging, no race-seeing smiling ball of energy that gives me kisses when I come home from work, hugs when I am down, and all around perfect smile that just draws people to him sort of little guy.
The Autism part?
I don't mind the living in his own world part most days.
But the wars that come with it I can do without.
That a little too "Autistastic" for my liking. But he still is mine, "Autistastic" and all.
He has also slapped his mother at least 25 times. Caught me about 6 or 7 times as well. His room is filled with holes from all of the objects that he's thrown when he goes into this crazed rage that no one sees coming. And his poor older brother, who rarely ever hits him back, has had his glasses broken from all the times his brother has attacked him in the back seat, with very little to defend himself.
A lot of people have kids like Noah, and they can sympathize with how difficult it is to live with someone like this...especially if you'd take a bullet for them.
He took my laptop computer (retail about $1100) and toss it across the floor once, denting one of its USB ports. I believe my reaction (paraphrasing the best I can, as this was about a year and change ago) was as follows:
"If you want him alive, get him away from me NOW!"
That is what I said to his mother as I watched my precious laptop bounce on the ground...twice.
Never saw his mother grab him up and move or so fast. And this girl is quick on her feet when she wants to be.
The last 2 years or so have been quite rough in my household. Just like I'm sure it's been rough in other households for kids like my boy.
We have to lock him in his room as well, because he has been known to leave the house. That fast girl I spoke about dashed after him more than once too. He has an ankle tracker on him, in case he decides to take a 2nd tour like he did at a neighborhood bbq last summer.
The boy is Autistastic, I tell ya.
Some folks blame the Autism part on vaccines. A friend of mind blames his diet, and suggests flipping the script on him and changing his diet.
Shit...this kid clears the table when he gets the food he wants. Imagine how much fun it would be if I told him "hey buddy, look, we are going to try this funky root that I can't pronounce instead of your Pop Tarts...you're ok with that, right?"
The funny thing is, I'd b willing to try switching his diet if I knew it would help....but sadly, it's cheaper to give him the stuff that might be short circuiting him than the other kind of food.
Wait...I know what you're thinking...you can buy an expensive computer, but you can't get food for your kid?
That expensive computer...and a lot of things like it, are now in countries like Russia, Germany, and some small town in Oklahoma.
Hocked it to keep the lights on, fix a car, and so forth.
Ebay is a wonderful thing.
In previous blogs, I talked about my books, why I write, and why I have such an odd view of things.
I like to call myself the negative optimist.
I am not as gloom and doom as I used to be...in a lot of ways, I have a fairly decent life.
But the real poverty of my existence becomes real when I look at my boy. His grandmother got him an iPad last year, and he loves the thing.
But when the battery dies...he becomes Autistastic.
Actually, it has happened beforehand...like when he bounces it off of his brother's head.
When I wrote my kid's book and released it a few weeks ago, I had grand dreams that this will be the one...my time is now. Not for fancy new things if it sold well. But to use the money from the book to find out how to get my Autistastic boy to sleep longer than 5 hours a night. To bring someone to my home so he can learn that tossing knives at restaurants isn't a good idea.
Just to be able to help him, including feeding him that unpronounceable food that my friend says may help him. At least if he doesn't like it, I can afford to lose the investment.
I will say this.
My son's Down Syndrome makes him who he is. The DS part makes him this warm, loving, non-judging, no race-seeing smiling ball of energy that gives me kisses when I come home from work, hugs when I am down, and all around perfect smile that just draws people to him sort of little guy.
The Autism part?
I don't mind the living in his own world part most days.
But the wars that come with it I can do without.
That a little too "Autistastic" for my liking. But he still is mine, "Autistastic" and all.
April 5, 2014
Write....right! Part Deux
Blogging 2 days in a row.
That seems odd to me, since I almost forgot this site if mine existed.
I happened to look at the most visited posts I've made today while promoting my kid's book. Sadly, the more controversial ones (race and the like) got hundreds of views. M
Now, I don't regret most things I say, even though it hurts my happy birthday wishes from folks. I know I piss people off, which is why folks aren't talking about my latest creation.
But that is why I like to write, particularly here on my blog. Obviously, folks I don't know came to those supposed "taboo" subjects and at least heard what I had to say...before I was declared a anal orifice.
But the written word....man it is cool, isn't it? Misconstrued and understood. Weak and all powerful, to the point it would make Mother Nature look like a punk donkey female dog. It friggin' started wars, causes divorces, hell, were twisted (the Bible) to enslave dead people that are related to me.
But it is beautiful, isn't it?
How many poems wooed a woman's soul, or a book made you forget that your little girl got pregnant for the 3rd time before 18?
(Ok, maybe not forget it, but took the sting away for a second or two).
I write because the written word makes me immortal. I have sold less than 30 books since I was published. It stings, because I think the kids book is so unique, it would do well if people gave it a chance.
But my words are out there. Those beautiful things that came from me are out there, and no matter what...as I continue to slug through another weekly existence, dreaming of beaches I may never see, wondering if I could pizza myself to death while I finally watch all those movies on Netflix queue...
...crap, was I typing out loud again? Crap.
Those words.
That seems odd to me, since I almost forgot this site if mine existed.
I happened to look at the most visited posts I've made today while promoting my kid's book. Sadly, the more controversial ones (race and the like) got hundreds of views. M
Now, I don't regret most things I say, even though it hurts my happy birthday wishes from folks. I know I piss people off, which is why folks aren't talking about my latest creation.
But that is why I like to write, particularly here on my blog. Obviously, folks I don't know came to those supposed "taboo" subjects and at least heard what I had to say...before I was declared a anal orifice.
But the written word....man it is cool, isn't it? Misconstrued and understood. Weak and all powerful, to the point it would make Mother Nature look like a punk donkey female dog. It friggin' started wars, causes divorces, hell, were twisted (the Bible) to enslave dead people that are related to me.
But it is beautiful, isn't it?
How many poems wooed a woman's soul, or a book made you forget that your little girl got pregnant for the 3rd time before 18?
(Ok, maybe not forget it, but took the sting away for a second or two).
I write because the written word makes me immortal. I have sold less than 30 books since I was published. It stings, because I think the kids book is so unique, it would do well if people gave it a chance.
But my words are out there. Those beautiful things that came from me are out there, and no matter what...as I continue to slug through another weekly existence, dreaming of beaches I may never see, wondering if I could pizza myself to death while I finally watch all those movies on Netflix queue...
...crap, was I typing out loud again? Crap.
Those words.
Write....right!
Blogging 2 days in a row.
That seems odd to me, since I almost forgot this site if mine existed.
I happened to look at the most visited posts I've made today while promoting my kid's book. Sadly, the more controversial ones (race and the like) got hundreds of views. M
Now, I don't regret most things I say, even though it hurts my happy birthday wishes from folks. I know I piss people off, which is why folks aren't talking about my latest creation.
But that is why I like to write, particularly here on my blog. Obviously, folks I don't know came to those supposed "taboo" subjects and at least heard what I had to say...before I was declared a anal orifice.
But the written word....man it is cool, isn't it? Misconstrued and understood. Weak and all powerful, to the point it would make Mother Nature look like a punk donkey female dog. It friggin' started wars, causes divorces, hell, were twisted (the Bible) to enslave dead people that are related to me.
But it is beautiful, isn't it?
How many poems wooed a woman's soul, or a book made you forget that your little girl got pregnant for the 3rd time before 18?
(Ok, maybe not forget it, but took the sting away for a second or two).
I write because the written word makes me immortal. I have sold less than 30 books since I was published. It stings, because I think the kids book is so unique, it would do well if people gave it a chance.
But my words are out there. Those beautiful things that came from me are out there, and no matter what...as I continue to slug through another weekly existence, dreaming of beaches I may never see, wondering if I could pizza myself to death while I finally watch all those movies on Netflix queue...
...crap, was I typing out loud again? Crap.
Those words.
That seems odd to me, since I almost forgot this site if mine existed.
I happened to look at the most visited posts I've made today while promoting my kid's book. Sadly, the more controversial ones (race and the like) got hundreds of views. M
Now, I don't regret most things I say, even though it hurts my happy birthday wishes from folks. I know I piss people off, which is why folks aren't talking about my latest creation.
But that is why I like to write, particularly here on my blog. Obviously, folks I don't know came to those supposed "taboo" subjects and at least heard what I had to say...before I was declared a anal orifice.
But the written word....man it is cool, isn't it? Misconstrued and understood. Weak and all powerful, to the point it would make Mother Nature look like a punk donkey female dog. It friggin' started wars, causes divorces, hell, were twisted (the Bible) to enslave dead people that are related to me.
But it is beautiful, isn't it?
How many poems wooed a woman's soul, or a book made you forget that your little girl got pregnant for the 3rd time before 18?
(Ok, maybe not forget it, but took the sting away for a second or two).
I write because the written word makes me immortal. I have sold less than 30 books since I was published. It stings, because I think the kids book is so unique, it would do well if people gave it a chance.
But my words are out there. Those beautiful things that came from me are out there, and no matter what...as I continue to slug through another weekly existence, dreaming of beaches I may never see, wondering if I could pizza myself to death while I finally watch all those movies on Netflix queue...
...crap, was I typing out loud again? Crap.
Those words.
April 4, 2014
The More Things...Never mind, I hate those old sayings, especially when they are true
I haven’t blogged in a while.
I sometimes get into these ruts where my desire to write gets stuffed, cuz I feel most folks don’t’ give a flying diarrhea what I have to say.
Now I have done some writing…I published my 2ndbook (shameless plug here), and first for kids, “Cluck The Undercover Chicken.” I’ve sold, oh, 10 copies in the 3 weeks it has been out. It’s on Amazon all over the world in paperback and kindle. (OK, End of plug).
What has caused me to post for the first time in nearly a year is an old memory brought up while I was at work.
There is this tall lanky kid who I sit next to who’ll I’ll call BieberTallWithoutDaDrugs. Smooth with the ladies, but recently got his heart broken by some short chick with a bad perm.
Anywho, all the ladies dig him at work…especially the women of color. While in this day and age this shouldn’t be a big deal to me or anyone else, it reminded me of my college days, where I chased Caucasian women like a lion chased deer. Now I’d always heard (as ridiculous as it sounded) that white women where more sexually adventurous than black women, and that fascinated me.
This of course, in hindsight, was pretty funny to me, as that at the time my experiences in the arena was not as expansive as they are now…ok, wait, y’all didn’t need to read that…let’s move on!
Anywho, I had no success in that arena at all, besides an occasional drunk make out session with one of two partners (and a summertime romance that ended up derailing a lot of my hopes and dreams). We won’t even talk about my massive strikeouts with the ladies of color, who looked at me as the 200Lb version of Carlton from the “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.” I don’t know why this came back to me some near 25 years later, but it amuses me how much things have changed…yet in a lot of way, it hasn’t.
Every day the ladies of color I work with would muss with BieberTallWithoutDaDrugs’ hair, and he would try to play the role of the stereotypical pimp, enjoying the attention and feeling like he was in control. Even though I am happily married, I always got a smidge jealous, which probably explains why the memory of a time long ago popped in my head.
Back in my day (god it hurts to say that), a black woman wouldn’t have given BieberTallWithoutDaDrugs the time of day. And don’t get me wrong, he’s a great kid (when you are almost 20 years older than someone, you can call them a kid). But now, well, it is sort of cool that folks can just look at each other and say “hey, don’t care if you are so pale the mortician couldn’t tell the difference.”
Problem is, only a small sample see that.
There is a stomach virus going around my city right now. Just like that, wouldn’t’ be nice if the good things was viral instead of the bad?
Well, I guess, just like my luck with white women, that is just as big of a longshot.
I sometimes get into these ruts where my desire to write gets stuffed, cuz I feel most folks don’t’ give a flying diarrhea what I have to say.
Now I have done some writing…I published my 2ndbook (shameless plug here), and first for kids, “Cluck The Undercover Chicken.” I’ve sold, oh, 10 copies in the 3 weeks it has been out. It’s on Amazon all over the world in paperback and kindle. (OK, End of plug).
What has caused me to post for the first time in nearly a year is an old memory brought up while I was at work.
There is this tall lanky kid who I sit next to who’ll I’ll call BieberTallWithoutDaDrugs. Smooth with the ladies, but recently got his heart broken by some short chick with a bad perm.
Anywho, all the ladies dig him at work…especially the women of color. While in this day and age this shouldn’t be a big deal to me or anyone else, it reminded me of my college days, where I chased Caucasian women like a lion chased deer. Now I’d always heard (as ridiculous as it sounded) that white women where more sexually adventurous than black women, and that fascinated me.
This of course, in hindsight, was pretty funny to me, as that at the time my experiences in the arena was not as expansive as they are now…ok, wait, y’all didn’t need to read that…let’s move on!
Anywho, I had no success in that arena at all, besides an occasional drunk make out session with one of two partners (and a summertime romance that ended up derailing a lot of my hopes and dreams). We won’t even talk about my massive strikeouts with the ladies of color, who looked at me as the 200Lb version of Carlton from the “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.” I don’t know why this came back to me some near 25 years later, but it amuses me how much things have changed…yet in a lot of way, it hasn’t.
Every day the ladies of color I work with would muss with BieberTallWithoutDaDrugs’ hair, and he would try to play the role of the stereotypical pimp, enjoying the attention and feeling like he was in control. Even though I am happily married, I always got a smidge jealous, which probably explains why the memory of a time long ago popped in my head.
Back in my day (god it hurts to say that), a black woman wouldn’t have given BieberTallWithoutDaDrugs the time of day. And don’t get me wrong, he’s a great kid (when you are almost 20 years older than someone, you can call them a kid). But now, well, it is sort of cool that folks can just look at each other and say “hey, don’t care if you are so pale the mortician couldn’t tell the difference.”
Problem is, only a small sample see that.
There is a stomach virus going around my city right now. Just like that, wouldn’t’ be nice if the good things was viral instead of the bad?
Well, I guess, just like my luck with white women, that is just as big of a longshot.
July 12, 2013
The Years That Were Alive May Be Dead
"The Living Years", one of my favorite songs, is currently playing on one of my favorite 80's internet stations.
It always affected me, because my father and myself never truly had a strong relationship...actually, for the first 22 years of it or so, it sort of sucked liked a baby on a pair of 44DD's.
My dad is in a nursing home, a victim of some f'd up brain degeneration that has robbed him of his hearing, speech, and reasoning. He is still "Dad", but I haven't had a decent conversation with him in about 16 years.
In hindsight, I have only had one good conversation with the man in the 16,058 days that the Good Lord has allowed me to breathe on this planet.
It was when my wife to be first went to my hometown together. My mom, seeing that her son didn't have a decent suit, took me shopping for one. While my future spouse and my mother were checking out what suit would fit my formally 210 lb fame (late night trips to White Castle are a bitch), my dad, who I at 27 finally saw me as a grown man, put his arm around me and told me...a joke.
Now, to this day, I cannot remember what the joke was...but the punchline involved some pigs and the use of the infamous "N" word that got a certain cook fired.
But it was the first time that I actually enjoyed hanging out with my dad...as that no one saw the health issues that would rob him of his body and part of his mind.
These days, my dad is best described as...well...a bitter human being. He has his good days, but I know that he didn't intend to spend his remaining days amongst people whom he never truly trusted (ergo Caucasians...primarily those of the Jewish faith).
W/o getting into too many details, I am a big believer in Karma, and, well, I feel that part of the reason that my father finds himself in this state is due to the choices he made in life.
However, he is still my dad. I spent a good deal of 2012 traveling the roads btw the midwest and the East coast trying to help him any way I can. There are advantages of being chronically unemployed, especially when it comes to having free time.
I now have been a father myself for 11 years and change, and as they say, the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree. Now my dad was not an encourager...in a lot of ways, a lot of my flaws came from being berated for the first 2 decades plus of my life. From being referred to as an asshole, to being ripped for not fighting back against a mugger who took a watch that I received after I graduated from Intermediate school, I never quite measured up to him. It affected relationships, both platonic and otherwise, causing my hard to control need to being liked for years. It still affect me, even tho today I cover most of it with my snarky "look, like me as is or get the f off the boat" attitude.
Now, I am guilty of making some of those same mistakes; not so much in that I try to crush my oldest kid's will - sadly the temper is the culprit of most things (as well as a propensity to swear at my child to stop me from killing him).
Now, most times I tell him that he is a brilliant, handsome, good natured kid, and a fantastic brother to his younger sib, who got the double whammy of Autism and DS (the little one is actually an inspiration to the 2nd book I was working on b4 my attention got diverted by my musical choices this evening). But, the kid pisses me off as much as I have bowel movements, which is regularly (God I hope y'all got that joke). But I have also told him that he is the smartest dumb kid I know, due to the mind-numbing things he does.
Yeah, I know...he's 11.
Yet, I've been yelled out cuz I've said many a time that children r, well, stupid.
I know this. I was a kid. I was stupid. I once lifted a very expensive gold necklace from my mom's collection to give to an 8th grade crush.
Stupid.
I took a "pik" (I am hoping non minorities don't have to look that up) and used it to chop up my bunk beds cuz I had nothing to do.
Stupid.
Comes with growing up.
But the "apple" that I am went with what I thought was right...pop's was the law...even if those laws at time were somewhat flawed.
Last night, I took the kid to go see a $200 million sci fi flick that i know I didn't have the money for. But my boy, who has no friends, social skills, is cripplingly shy, and emotionally immature, actually wanted to hang with his evil taskmaster dad.
So we saw a cool flick. Did it once b4 by ourselves with the "Star Trek" reboot a few years back.
I wonder at times if he will remember times like this.
So there's the song "The Living Years."
My dad and I can no longer have a conversation that I can feel comfortable that all things were understood. I don't know if it is because of his condition, or that he is so angry at how his life had turned out (his fault, bad luck, or both) that he didn't want to hear anything ANYONE had to say.
I have accepted that perhaps we will never be able to cross the chasm that our adversarial relationship has caused.
U'd think that I would of tried to avoid creating my own, right?
I fear Karma...I've done some royally jacked up things.
But I fear more what my oldest kid may say after my "Living Years" have passed.
It always affected me, because my father and myself never truly had a strong relationship...actually, for the first 22 years of it or so, it sort of sucked liked a baby on a pair of 44DD's.
My dad is in a nursing home, a victim of some f'd up brain degeneration that has robbed him of his hearing, speech, and reasoning. He is still "Dad", but I haven't had a decent conversation with him in about 16 years.
In hindsight, I have only had one good conversation with the man in the 16,058 days that the Good Lord has allowed me to breathe on this planet.
It was when my wife to be first went to my hometown together. My mom, seeing that her son didn't have a decent suit, took me shopping for one. While my future spouse and my mother were checking out what suit would fit my formally 210 lb fame (late night trips to White Castle are a bitch), my dad, who I at 27 finally saw me as a grown man, put his arm around me and told me...a joke.
Now, to this day, I cannot remember what the joke was...but the punchline involved some pigs and the use of the infamous "N" word that got a certain cook fired.
But it was the first time that I actually enjoyed hanging out with my dad...as that no one saw the health issues that would rob him of his body and part of his mind.
These days, my dad is best described as...well...a bitter human being. He has his good days, but I know that he didn't intend to spend his remaining days amongst people whom he never truly trusted (ergo Caucasians...primarily those of the Jewish faith).
W/o getting into too many details, I am a big believer in Karma, and, well, I feel that part of the reason that my father finds himself in this state is due to the choices he made in life.
However, he is still my dad. I spent a good deal of 2012 traveling the roads btw the midwest and the East coast trying to help him any way I can. There are advantages of being chronically unemployed, especially when it comes to having free time.
I now have been a father myself for 11 years and change, and as they say, the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree. Now my dad was not an encourager...in a lot of ways, a lot of my flaws came from being berated for the first 2 decades plus of my life. From being referred to as an asshole, to being ripped for not fighting back against a mugger who took a watch that I received after I graduated from Intermediate school, I never quite measured up to him. It affected relationships, both platonic and otherwise, causing my hard to control need to being liked for years. It still affect me, even tho today I cover most of it with my snarky "look, like me as is or get the f off the boat" attitude.
Now, I am guilty of making some of those same mistakes; not so much in that I try to crush my oldest kid's will - sadly the temper is the culprit of most things (as well as a propensity to swear at my child to stop me from killing him).
Now, most times I tell him that he is a brilliant, handsome, good natured kid, and a fantastic brother to his younger sib, who got the double whammy of Autism and DS (the little one is actually an inspiration to the 2nd book I was working on b4 my attention got diverted by my musical choices this evening). But, the kid pisses me off as much as I have bowel movements, which is regularly (God I hope y'all got that joke). But I have also told him that he is the smartest dumb kid I know, due to the mind-numbing things he does.
Yeah, I know...he's 11.
Yet, I've been yelled out cuz I've said many a time that children r, well, stupid.
I know this. I was a kid. I was stupid. I once lifted a very expensive gold necklace from my mom's collection to give to an 8th grade crush.
Stupid.
I took a "pik" (I am hoping non minorities don't have to look that up) and used it to chop up my bunk beds cuz I had nothing to do.
Stupid.
Comes with growing up.
But the "apple" that I am went with what I thought was right...pop's was the law...even if those laws at time were somewhat flawed.
Last night, I took the kid to go see a $200 million sci fi flick that i know I didn't have the money for. But my boy, who has no friends, social skills, is cripplingly shy, and emotionally immature, actually wanted to hang with his evil taskmaster dad.
So we saw a cool flick. Did it once b4 by ourselves with the "Star Trek" reboot a few years back.
I wonder at times if he will remember times like this.
So there's the song "The Living Years."
My dad and I can no longer have a conversation that I can feel comfortable that all things were understood. I don't know if it is because of his condition, or that he is so angry at how his life had turned out (his fault, bad luck, or both) that he didn't want to hear anything ANYONE had to say.
I have accepted that perhaps we will never be able to cross the chasm that our adversarial relationship has caused.
U'd think that I would of tried to avoid creating my own, right?
I fear Karma...I've done some royally jacked up things.
But I fear more what my oldest kid may say after my "Living Years" have passed.
