Mellifluous Breeze

The Fam

2011-11-26T13:17:00.001-08:00

I don’t know where I want to be any more. There have been times when I had a crystal clear picture of exactly where I want to be. A lot of the time it involved some beach in Hawaii. Other times a nightclub in Manhattan.

I remember when Charles moved back to New York he stayed with his mom for a little while until he got his own place. He mused, “Don’t you ever just want to go back home and just sleep in the house you grew up in? Just to see everything and hug your mom and sit on those same chairs?” I actually wanted to cry a little; mainly because, honestly, I have never thought about it. But for a second there, I did. For a second there I thought of the possibility of going back to the Ida B. Wells projects or to our house in Park Forest South and just… walking around, hugging Breeze or our other dog… Dice. I remembered Momma’s Mickey Mouse pancakes and tying up the Christmas tree against the bars on the windows to make sure it didn’t tip over. I remember there was never a question about it; momma always let me make the angel on top of the tree. I remember Breeze drinking the water from the tree stand. When that stuff left, I never really looked back. I never really imagined a reunion or the possibility of going back.

I remember that last day at Ida B. Wells. I remember my last image being of our cat, Kenny, and her babies, sitting in a bright beam of sunlight on top of this standalone cabinet thing that had paint splatters on it from the last time I decided to paint the walls. She was just glowing, sitting there, looking at me. She seemed happy and content. I wasn’t. I was more worried and remorseful... for her, for me. And I had to leave her there. Everything was packed up. We couldn’t take her with us. My brother said he would “take care of it.” I never did ask what that meant. I never wanted to know. When Charles asked, “Have you ever just wanted to go home” for a second there… I mourned the home I can never go back to. And even now, so thirsty for a “home”, someplace familiar, warm and all compromising… the thought of it doesn’t bring me a lot of… peace. If anything I just get angry that it’s gone and it’s no way I can get it back. Ida B Wells has since been demolished. And whoever is living in our old house in Park Forest South I'm sure are light years away from thinking it’s remotely cute that some strange fat middle aged Black man is sleeping on their front porch for “nostalgia”.

I get jumpy at wanting that “home” feeling. I even want that feeling in people that I meet. I think that definitely had something to do with my obsession with/addiction to Dean all those years. I think my drinking has something to do with it too. I am most comfortable when I’m drinking. I’m also most comfortable those seconds/minutes after a really good orgasm. Not necessarily during the sex part, but most certainly after it’s over. I got to remember to mention that to a therapist one day.

I’m watching the movie “Crooklyn” and crying like a faucet… like I always do. I think the first time I saw it I was with my husband in his hospice room a decade or so ago. I kept thinking about when momma was in the hospital and almost died. And I was thinking about Daddy and how much I missed him. I remember my husband seeing me leak uncontrollably like a little faucet and he kept asking me again and again what was wrong and I just couldn’t tell him. He got so pissed off at me.

For the most part I don’t like talking about my family or my past. Every once in a while I’ll run down the “Story of Breeze” to people and it feels so odd. I never thought my story or my family’s story was ever that dramatic or... noteworthy really. Not in the big scheme of things I guess. I think I have always prided myself on the fact that we ride the middle, we don’t have any Olympic champions, but we don’t have any mass murders either. We’re just a bunch of remotely upwardly mobile Negroes trying to make it like everybody else. But every time I retell our story, or watch a movie like “Crooklyn” that allows me to silently reminisce over it, something in me just begins to ring like a huge bell, right from my core. I miss my momma. I really miss my grandma. And I would give anything to be with my great grandmother.

My family, my story, my life, was never simple, not really. I naturally want to downplay it and say that it wasn’t noteworthy or something as dramatic as say… Tina Turner having the crap beaten out of her or a friend of mine whose father plunged a knife in his neck or another friend who almost drowned in a capsized passenger train… but our stories, my story, what I felt, what I went through… there’s some weight to it, some validity. The love I have for my family, as well as the pain they have caused me is palatable, it’s real. I miss them something awful... ALL of them. I really do. It’s definitely one of those cards that I hold close to my chest. No one needs to know about my family. You can toss around stories of me and my ménage a twenty at bathhouses, drunkenly kissing strangers at some bear bar, riding the bus home from said bear bar on underwear night and completely forgetting to put my pants back on… just don’t fuck with my family. Don’t ever fuck with my family.

Scatman (The Latest on My Shit List)

2011-09-27T03:21:00.000-07:00

So… in the ever exciting adventures of trying to find love in L.A. including Dean and Dean II... here is the latest piece that has wound up on my shit list... let's call him Scatman...

So me and Scatman bum around the Sony electronics store where he proceeds to flirt hard core with the young sales associate for a good twenty minutes while I just sort of aimlessly walked around the store, trying to curse the concept of a $5,200 television but finding it increasingly hard to after slipping on the 3D goggles(!) and watching scenes from some High Definition cartoons on a 72” screen (!!) They even had a laptop hooked up to one of those screens and I googled around for an extended period of time, observing my own website in movie theatre high definition. I remember thinking that none of that stuff could fit into my lifestyle right now and feeling a little light headed and faint thinking of the lifestyle that could accommodate that. The house it would take, the income, the occupation to yield such an income; the education it would take to yield such a job to yield such an income; the tenacity it would take to yield such an education to yield such a job to yield such an income that could sustain such a home with such accoutrements; the type of friends who you would invite over to such a house who would appreciate the tenacity you would have to yield such an education to yield such a job to yield such an income that could sustain such a home with such accoutrements… and the reciprocal emotions of said friends or the lovers or would be lovers who have either been repulsed or enamored by your “lifestyle” without the slightest curiosity about your “life” or… you. And maybe you forgot who you were in that pursuit, or maybe the pursuit became you and that’s all you had. And would that be such a bad thing if at the end of the day you get to watch Shrek 3D on a 72” high definition plasma screen in a house in which this would be but one… just one, small piece of entertainment… in only one room. I almost fainted. Literally. I almost fainted. I actually swooned.

I left to get some coffee and a little air while Scatman yammered on and on with that guy talking about God knows what. I’m assuming his sky high aspirations to have that lifestyle, his none too subtle hints of sexual attraction, asserting that hyper-ego of his. I felt sorry for that dude… a little. He’s working on commission. I think any sales person knows fairly early if someone is actually going to give up the bucks or if the schmuck is a well-intentioned “tourist” there just to have a good time. But this was a young guy; couldn’t have been more than 25. I think he knew that Scatman wasn’t in the market for a goddamn thing sold in that store. I think he was intrigued by him… so much so that he was eager to buy what Scatman was selling… a little adventure, a little attention, a little fun.

When I came back after my fruitless trek for coffee, he was still yammering on. I could tell that the guy was a bit smitten, a bit curious to know more… about Scatman, about me even. He seemed like one of those guys who were ripe for the picking. Like, if I were to win the lottery and I went back up there and was like, I’m that guy you met a couple of days ago. I got $32 Million and no real plans. You want come with me and help me make some?” He would leave, right then, right there. His bag would already have been packed. It would have been right there behind the cash register. That guy… was ready for “more”. And Scatman indulged that fantasy for him.

Then he kind of took it away. They may have exchanged numbers, I don’t know. If they did, the way Scatman left (somewhat abruptly and emotionless) indicated that I was not to know. And if they didn’t, then that guy sat there for over half an hour listening to Scatman blabber on and didn’t sell so much as a mouse pad in all that time. In either case, when we left, that guy had this look on his face, I don’t know, maybe I’m putting too much into it but… I couldn’t help but feel this certain energy from him, the same energy you get from the puppies in the cage when you leave the pet store, that sort of, “I really want to go with you” energy. I talked to him for a minute and he seemed intrigued but I couldn’t help but feel like the guy and Scatman had invested some time together and there needed to be some… “closure” I guess is word. This new and exciting stranger walks into his life and he seemed just young enough to still believe in magical serendipity, but Scatman just left. He just left. And there I was, trying to make small talk. But… I guess I’m not strong enough to intrude on someone else’s serendipitous moment. I politely excused myself and told him it was really nice meeting him. I caught up with Scatman who made some comment about some store in our peripheral vision. I couldn’t say anything, I just looked at him. He responded, “What?” All I could think of to say was, “You’re kind of a douche.”

So Scatman. What do I feel about Scatman? Or rather, what did I feel about Scatman? I want to be in love. I really do. I feel I have so much to offer right now. I really feel as if I can be a really great boyfriend and Scatman seemed, if not the perfect receptacle for that love, at least a really great fit. I could see us, flaws and all, working through this crappy life together, bruised, fucked up, him the douche, me the asshole, maybe we could evacuate ourselves to some sort of solace together. It was definitely on my mind when I asked if he wanted to hang out. I know he said he didn’t want a relationship. And I wasn’t trying to second guess him. But I was trying to make the option open for him if he decided to change his mind. I would be the strong one, accepting his indiscretions, putting up with the mindless flirting and extra-curricular fucking… because I would love him and at the end of the day, he would love me. We would be some urban version of Larry and Althea Flynt. I was ready for that. And in the meantime, until we exchange vows… I would have some fun…

A couple of days later, I’m at Hamburger Mary’s. Because I’m driving, I drink nothing but about two bottles of water... which I think greatly decreased my fun and humor on this particular excursion. I didn’t have a bad time, but I can’t say it was necessarily good either. I was a little bored.

Then Scatman shows up. The club is packed. I can barely hear him. He’s with his friends. I’m with my friends. We kiss a little. He says he’ll be back. I say ok.

The majority of the night I walk back and forth between the conclaves of my friends positioned diametrically opposed to each other in the club, one set on the furthest edge of the dance floor, the other on the furthest edge of the outside smoking patio that has so much smoke wafting from it that it looks like the building is on fire. I never really have one consistent conversation with anybody, just little snippets and observations. I don’t talk to one new person.

My friend, Louie is there. He’s part of the group on the dance floor. Since he knows everybody I ask him the backstory of a few people that I think are cute and I want to approach;

“What about him?”

“His name is George. He’s 21. That 6’7” tall, 410 lb white guy he’s dancing with is his lover. I know he looks 55 but he’s actually 39. George needed a place to stay.”

“What about him?”

“Bobby. Doesn’t like Black men. Currently has a White boyfriend. Currently has several White boyfriends.”

“What about him?”

“He’s nice. He’s a really nice guy. He likes unprotected sex. He’s HIV+”

And it just went down from there.

I bump into Scatman a couple of times during the course of the night and there is this tall, thick, dark skinned dog faced dude all over him. I never see them kiss but they are most definitely intimate. I try to man up, I try to put up with this extracurricular flirting, I try to be the straight guy. Besides, we haven’t exchanged vows… I try to have some fun…

… to no avail. I am way too sober, way too cerebral, and just processing every little thing; the Black/White ratio in the room, the Black/White ratio in the music being played, why is there only one bar in this big ass club, didn’t they used to play music videos while the music played? Now what they have on the monitors is this notice that says if you text a message to this particular phone number, the text will show up on the screen for all to see. You can request songs to the DJ like that because the DJ gets those text messages too. So a good HALF(!) of the people are on the DANCE FLOOR(!!) are TEXTING(!!!) All of the monitors scroll messages like “Play Britney!” or “Gaga Rules!” or “Who run the world? GAYS!!” or “Tony is a bottom who takes 12 inches or more” or “Why are there so many fat guys here?” or “If you don’t like fat guys you came to the wrong place bitch!” or “Yeah Bitch!” or “Fuck You” or “No Fuck You!” or “No! Fuck You!” or “Play Robyn!” I am just way to sober for this.

After a while I decide to dance again for a good long time. I take off my shirt and just dance in my tank top. I throw my shirt in a far corner of the dance floor where I’m dancing only to find some White guy who is dancing close by… who seemed to almost intentionally find the shirt and try to do some African tribal stomping dance right on top of it. Instead of blowing up like I wanted to (besides what did I expect by throwing my shirt on the floor) I simply walk over, pick up the shirt, hang it on some wall ornament behind the White African stomping guy, then throw a stare at him that would have seared right through his soul if my eyes were lasers

After dancing for about half an hour, I think my night is done. I go back outside to try and dry off; I look like I have been swimming at this point. I go by the door that leads outside and feel the breeze and smell the smoke coming in. I lean on a nearby pool table and “People Watch” while I casually listen to my friends’ conversation as they sit on a couch across from me. Scatman comes over.

“How’s your night been going?” He says.

“It’s okay. It’s alright.” I say.

“Since you’ve just been ignoring me all night, just been hanging with your friends.”

He’s rolling his eyes. He’s walking away from me.

“Are you fucking kidding me?! Are you serious?! Are you fucking serious!?” I say.

“Doing your ‘Mean Girl’ thing all night and completely ignoring me.”

He’s serious. He’s actually upset.

“Dude! You have been hugged with up with niggas since you walked through the goddamn door!” I bark back.

“Well you were supposed to come over and pull me away and say you wanted to spend some time with me.” He retorts with an attitude and a neck roll I haven’t seen so viciously pulled off since Thelma on Good Times.

“Are you retarded? Are you out of your fucking mind?!” I screech.

He looks at me, rolls his eyes one last time and then sashays away.

And as if on cue, the music goes off, the lights come on, then the security guards start to do their predictable yet still always annoying barking to get out of the club before… the world ends. I put on my shirt and make way outside. I catch up with Louis. Now all this time Louis has referred to Scatman as my “boyfriend”, which I think is kind of cute. So when I catch up to him I tell him,

“My ‘boyfriend’ is really mad at me.”

To wit he replies, “Your boyfriend is kissing somebody. Right behind you”

I couldn’t help but laugh “Yeah, because he’s mad me.”

Louis, not understanding said, “How can he be mad at you when he’s kissing someone else.”

“No, listen… he’s kissing someone else… because he’s mad at me.” I try to explain

Finally waking up Louis says, “Ohhhh… I get it! He’s trying to get back at you!”

“Yeah…” I say, “…we’re doing this now. This is where we are.”

And this is when I turn around and there he was, kissing that dark skinned dog faced boy, eyes closed, tongue out... I could just read his thought bubbble, "Oh please dog faced boy... please, please… please find me attractive! If you can't validate me, who can!?"

And I was officially… done. There was no emotion. There was no feeling. I was completely sober and standing in the middle of what felt like an airless vacuum of reality where judgment and feeling didn’t exist. There was no right. There was no wrong. You can’t blame a scorpion for its sting no more so than you can blame the sun for rising. It’s just nature. Watching him kiss that boy was just as emotionless as watching water go down a drain or a cat eat kibble. Watching him all I kept thinking was… he is what he is… and God bless him for that. I gave everybody a hug, got in my car, put on my Kathy Griffin audiobook and left that parking lot without looking back one time.

On the freeway, however, the air came back… my blood returned to me, my breath returned to me. By the time I got home, my discontentment with Scatman was palatable. It wasn’t searing, but it was noticeable. And in the course of nursing that paper cut of a wound before it festered into a huge infection, I did take some time to be culpable for the situation myself. I think that’s why I don’t “hate” him. It’s like that phrase I heard RuPaul say, “You don’t lose power; you can only give it away.” I gave it away. Dude… I gave it away. “Hating” him would be giving away even more. Besides, I can’t play victim here. I mean… really… I dug this hole. If it’s any consolation… it’s a pretty small hole. I mean… I don’t know how I’m coming off but… I am pissed, that’s for sure… but I’m far from devastated. I remember devastation. I remember not being able to breath with my husband passed or when Dean dumped me. That’s low. That’s devastation. This is so nowhere near that. It’s just irritating really. It’s always noticeable when someone gets added to your shit list.

Breeze’s Playlist (11,08-16)

2011-08-16T22:16:00.000-07:00

Just an update of the Top Ten Songs played on my iPod as of date. It’s so weird to see the songs you have been listening to the most! In order from least to most played...

10. “Just A Ride” by Jem – Such a breezy little song

9. “Barely Breathing” by Duncan Sheik – Love this dude’s voice

8. “Intermission” by Senator & The New Republic - I don’t know why but this song reminds me of my brother

7. “Save Tonight” by Eagle-Eye Cherry – In my mind, this is the song some dude sang to his girlfriend the night before he was supposed to go to jail… then killed himself before he got there

6. “In Your Atmosphere [Live]” by John Mayer – You have to live in L.A. to truly get this song

5. "Now That You’re Gone [More Than I Can Feel]" by Floetry – I sing the hell out of this song in my car.

4. “Milk & Honey” by Goapele – Sex, sexy, sexiness…

3. “Oh, It Is Love” by Hellogoodbye – Reminds of when I was in love and used to see cartoon birds fly past me all the time

2. “The Entertainer” by KT Tunstall – R.I.P. all the legends, all the ancestors, all the puppies and kittens, love ya always Breeze...

1. “Take Off Your Shirt” by Bibio – The theme song for every Saturday night that ever existed. (How can you NOT want a cocktail listening to this!?)

Breeze Remixed (11,07-18)

2011-07-18T19:31:00.000-07:00

So I was writing in my journal and realized that I haven't posted anything on any of my blogs in an exceedingly long time so this is an EXTREMELY edited and censored version of what’s been going on with me with dozens of names and places censored out. Not really to protect the innocent, but to not get shot at when I walk down the street... again:

...it feels like I’m just mindlessly rowing out in the middle of the sea without the slightest view of land...

...all the jobs that were available I was horribly under qualified for and the few that I saw that I was qualified for made my head hurt at thoughts of acquiring yet another fucking office job...

...I’m sure when I leave work I’ll get on the bus and there will be high school students rolling blunts in the back seat and leaving piles and piles of the tobacco from their Swisher Sweets all over the floor, some girl loudly playing music on her cell phone as if it were a boom box and assuming everybody wants to hear fucking Young Jeezy at 5:00 p.m., maybe a fight or two, maybe the bus will break down, maybe the bus will breakdown because of a fight or two...

...I’ve got to get my fucking car fixed...

...I viciously chewed the hot dog and painfully loosened the cap on my back left molar which instantaneously felt like a gun shot in my mouth...

...I distinctly remember talking to [CENSORED] about how in my heart of hearts, I am attracted to physically fit dudes but my tiny little ego could never carry the heavy burden of actually declaring to the world that I don’t like to date someone out of shape considering that my own silhouette gets closer and closer to resembling a baby elephant as each day goes by...

...There are certain things that have slipped back on my prayer list that have not been on there for a while now. 1. Money. 2. Love. I haven’t asked for either specifically for a little while now but for the past month or so it’s been very directed, sharp and succinct requests. I need some money. I need a man. Amen...

...Once I lose some weight and get an Oscar, I’m going to remember this moment and tell [CENSORED] to go fuck himself...

...[CENSORED] drove me home. He really wanted to have sex. I really didn’t but I was just stinking drunk enough to give him a hand job. He exploded in 60 seconds, said he had a good time then immediately opened the car door. I felt like Kelly Bundy...

...I just don’t know if I can give another passionless pity blowjob to yet another obese guy. My heart just isn’t in it nowadays...

...The problem is, when I think of [CENSORED] I just see this ball of issues on top of issues swirled around this massive ego with a custard meringue issue on top...

...I really do think a financially affluent Republican with an extra three inches would probably serve [CENSORED] better than I ever could, the same way a drummer in a rock/rap band with an afro, tribal tattoos and six extra inches would serve me better than he ever could...

...I know I’m slow. I get that I don’t have full mental health, but it didn’t dawn on me until this night that [CENSORED] has got an actual, serious, drinking problem. And not in a fun way like me when I drink way too many beers and give some aging rocker a hand job then write about it on Facebook, I mean an actual DSM IV diagnosed, police involved, seriously fucked up behavioral malfunction. He’s going through some serious shit that seems like it has nothing to do with me and trying to slide myself into his dysfunctions as either a cause or cure would be the height of narcissism. He needs his mom, he needs his God, he needs a little counseling. If he wants me around for support I’ll be there, but I think staying on his peripheral vision would just save the both of us a lot of heartache...

Prince "Live!", Part 2

2011-05-18T01:18:00.000-07:00

After Weight Watchers the plan was to do some serious writing. I settled down into my chair at the coffee shop and checked my email. I got a message from the Amel Larriuex fan club saying that she would be opening up for Prince that evening. Now, it should be said the Prince is winding down an exclusive and monumental 21 dates here in Los Angeles. At this point, just about everybody in the city has seen him, especially with tickets going for as low as $25. Now every time I have tried to get these tickets they are usually $75 to $150. With my current mountain of expenses I had already conceded to the fact that $25 Prince tickets were just an “Urban Legend” and that I would just have to skip this possibly monumental, once in a lifetime opportunity; but for shits and giggles, I clicked on the link in her email to see… and there they were $25… total. No convenience fee, no handling fee… $25. That’s it.

Fast forward a couple of hours (after finding street parking to avoid the $20 parking at the Los Angeles Forum) and I was sitting an amazing SEVEN ROWS from PRINCE himself. I just couldn’t believe it! Everybody in my section, however, were “Los Angeles” cool;, they didn’t stand, they didn’t really sing along, they just kind of... sat there and just… looked. They wore pretty clothes and had pretty hair and pretty much treated the whole thing as if the Forum was a fancy museum and Prince was an elaborate kaleidoscope… they were slightly amused by the little lights and colors flickering in front of them; nevermind the little guy singing and dancing his ass off in between ripping through one of the best song catalogs ever created this century with random celebrities popping out of the audience like rabid gophers in a newly planted carrot field... they just… sat there. Not me. This has happened before at concerts here in Los Angeles, the performer is really giving energy and is really trying to make the show as interactive as possible… and the Los Angeleans are tightly bound to their role of distant, fashion forward critic/voyeur. They don’t really come out to have a “good time” or be a “part of an experience”, they really come out to impress their dates, impress their friends… make some sly and fierce comment about the performer and unfortunately, these are the fuckers who usually score the best seats.

This time around however, and I can’t help but think Prince himself had some hand in it, there were some actual “fans” and “music lovers” thrown into the mix of posers, “Star Fuckers” and the pseudo-bourgeoisie who thought Prince would be a “cute” background for their date that night. I was there… SEVEN FUCKING ROWS AWAY FROM HIM, in my blue jeans and “Whales Save Us” T-shirt, surrounded by these suits and skirts, proud to have paid up to $175 for their tickets, refusing to stand because it would scuff their shoes… and probably irritated as hell by me standing for the entire show, singing along to every single song, literally dancing so hard that sweat was pouring off of me like a faucet. Fuck it. It was a party! His name is Prince! And he is funky! And when he loudly questioned the audience, “Who in the house know ‘bout the quake!?” I screamed back with all of my might, from the bottom of my toes, to top of my ankles, from the pit of my stomach, to the little boy who saw him cup Appolonia’s breasts, to the adolescent who saw him slither around in bikini briefs and a garter, to the teenager who used to sit for hours upon hours looking at the cover of “Around the World In A Day”, the young man who so desperately wanted long hair tied in a bow like he did in the video for “I Wish U Heaven”, to the college student who thought the line “If we cannot make babies, make we can make sometime” was the most single most gay-friendly lyric in the history of funk, to the man used to play “Adore” on repeat to his husband and “So Blue” to himself when he died, all the way from the gut, all the way from soul,

“Who in the house know ‘bout the quake?”

“WE DO!!!!!!” I tried to scream the rafters off the place, I imagined screaming so loud a sonic wave rippled across the stage and he felt it, looked my way, noticed it came from me, smiled then yelled, “Really? Really? If you know how party say yeah!”

“YEAH!”

“If you know how to party say ‘Oh Yeah!”

“OH YEAH!”

I was lost after that. I wasn’t in a sea of wannabe M.A.D. people (Model Actor Dancers), I was just a guy, a working stiff, who really enjoys his music, and I stood there and I danced and I sang and I had a really good time.

I should say Amel was awesome too. It took her awhile to warm up. Soon as she hit the stage it occurred to me that she is probably used to smaller, intimate venues… not the mammoth 18,000 seat Los Angeles Forum. Her first song I think she was just trying to get her bearing, performing in the wind tunnel that is the Forum, opening up for the legend that is Prince. But after that, she kicked up her heels and just let it flow and sang her ass off.

Sheila E showed up in the middle of the show, and she didn’t need to warm up, she rocked it from the first hit of the drum. She pounded so hard and so fiercely she got an extended standing ovation that brought tears to her eyes which inadvertently brought tears to mine.

At one point this short haired Amazonian like woman got on the stage and began dancing her ass off, towering over Prince. The crowd went into an uproar. I looked closer and realized that it was Halle Berry. Now, once upon a time, I actually met Ms. Berry when I used to work at the House of Blues Sunset Strip (a.k.a. Playground for the Modern Day Capitalistic Nazi, but that’s another story…) Now keep in mind, I’m a short lil’ guy. Like 5’7”… in heels. Halle Berry is about an inch shorter than me. It was amazing to see her tower over him, though I was very ashamed to feel a sense of… I don’t know… “pride” maybe… that Prince, more than likely, comes up to my nipples.

Near the end, when just about the entire stadium had given up trying to be “cool” and was actually up dancing and singing and in the midst of one of the most orgasmic parties ever given, he went into multi-orgasmic mode and opened the flood gates to his stage and laypeople and celebrities a like filled it to boogey into the night. Somebody more in the know could name off more “Names” but from what I could recognize, I saw Craig Robinson of “The Office” fame completely having a good time and dancing with every available woman on the stage including Prince’s back up dancers and a woman I assumed to be Chelsea Handler but I could be totally wrong on that one. I clearly spotted Susan Sarandon of all people up on the stage getting her boogey on which just tickled me so. I don’t know, any day you get to see either Thelma or Louise dance a two-step is a good day. Chante Moore popped up out of nowhere and began improvising some scat notes while Sheila E pounded on the drums and the entire stadium was covered in purple confetti.

I remember at one point, at one encore or another, he asked the crowd if we wanted more and everyone just screamed, “YES!” His reply, “Ok. But you know, I’ve been known to wear out many a person.” Which was the perfect response… because he did. By the time the concert was finished, hours later, I was sweaty, and tired, and sore and hoarse.. and wanted more. I settled for a steak and shrimp dinner at Norm’s with a friend of mine then went home and fell into a coma-like sleep… where I dreamt about.. what silence looks like. Yeah, I imagined what silence looks like. Yeah, I imagined what silence

Prince "LIVE!", Part 1

2011-05-17T17:13:00.000-07:00

So this will be a quick entry about my recent tryst with the little man who sits alone in a paisley park, under the cherry moon while it rains purple… it’s the sign o’ times, it’s the sign o’ the times, it’s the sign o’ the times.

It should be noted that as of date I have been working my ass off at my daytime gig. That and on top of my favorite (bear) bar being closed for a month has equated to me neglecting all of the usual creature comforts that befit my blissfully degenerate lifestyle. You would think I would have somehow accumulated this wealth of self-knowledge, self-understanding and spirituality during this “Lent-like” period of my life but alas, I can’t remember being this confused, pissed-off, uninspired and flat out horny since my teenage years.

All that to say that… seeing Prince live at the Forum last Saturday was both a release and cause of

tension for me. It was extremely inspirational. It was extremely existential. It was extremely sexual. To say that it was simply “good” would be an insult the words phenomenal or astonishing or life-changing. It was… supercalifunkilisticsexyalidocious. One of the main things it brought to mind was the fact that so much time elapses between my periods of getting funky. I haven’t partied like that in a bit of time. We’re not talking about getting liquored up, making out with some strange dude(s), sending weepy love texts to your ex’s, having heated arguments with your friends over which was better “Velvet Rope” or “Rhythm Nation”, tipping strippers to sit on your lap while you put in five dollar’s worth of Fifty Cent songs on the jukebox type of party. This was a sober, sweaty, vertical, physical, nostalgic, innocent, erection, screaming, crying, singing, praying, fucking, Shelia E drumming, Halle Berry dancing, Amel Larriuex singing, black, white, straight, gay, Controversy, 1999, Around the World in a Day, Diamonds, Pearls, Starfish, Coffee, Maple Syrup, Jam, Jam, Jam type of par-tay. And I enjoyed every single solitary bit of it!

To be continued…

Song Titles From My Debut Album, “Areola”

2011-01-25T01:26:00.000-08:00

1. I Want To Fuck You With The Door Open

2. Hymen

3. Take My Hand (Be My Prison Bitch)

4. Size Is Everything

5. That Nipple’s Sore (Do The Other One)

6. I Love You (When You Do That)

7. I Don’t Care If You Fake It Just Don’t Tell Me

8. Bareback Mountains

9. Non-Oxydol 9

10. Ribbed (For My Pleasure)

Bonus Cuts

11. Sex In The Bathroom (Duet with Calvin McFadden)

12. Fat Boys With Flat Booties

MOVIE REVIEW: Leaving Well Enuf Alone

2010-12-19T20:15:00.000-08:00

For Colored Girls
Directed by: Tyler Perry
Starring: Kimberly Elise, Janet Jackson, Loretta Devine, Thandie Newton, Anika Noni Rose, Kerry Washington, Tessa Thompson, White Whoopi Goldberg, Phylicia Rashad

So the bias to this review is that not only am I not a big fan of Tyler Perry’s work but I am a huge fan of Ntozake Shange, the author of the film’s source material, “For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When The Rainbow Is Enuf.” The idea of someone whose artistic choices I have consistently questioned taking on the work of someone whose artistic choices are impeccable did not create an optimistic view on the collaboration for me. Even still, for better or worse, as an African American I do believe we need to support the endeavors of our community whenever possible but quite frankly, as I have said in the past, you see you a car crash on the freeway, you slow down, Tyler Perry helms the film adaptation of a 1975 stage play choreographed by an Obie Award winner, you slow down. I went to the see the film with a good friend with just the opposite bias, he loves Tyler Perry but he didn’t even know it was as an adapted work. I was expectinga complete wreck. He was expecting a complete cinematic triumph.

Neither of our expectations were fulfilled.

In order to truly explain “For Colored Girls” it might be best to touch a little on “For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When The Rainbow Is Enuf” the choreopoem as it was deemed by Shange when she originally authored it back in 1970’s Berkley, California. “For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When The Rainbow Is Enuf” was a series of poems authored by Shange that was performed using seven women known only by a color. The poems brilliantly interweave tales of the African American woman’s experience in a world that often times demeans, misunderstands and maligns her existence in a language that does not pitch the women as being suffering victims in a fishbowl they can’t get out off. It is a language that Perry, with all of his Madea tomfoolery and gospel extravagance, has yet to be able to capture on film or stage. While the source material is ripe with the over the top drama, angst and tension that has put Perry on the cinematic map, it also demands a certain use of subtlety, metaphor and poetry that has not been in Perry’s cinematic arsenal so far… but God bless him for trying, I’ll give him that… and what an ambitious try it is. “For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When The Rainbow Is Enuf” is right up there with “Naked Lunch”, “Dune” and “Beloved” as one of the most incredibly difficult pieces of literature ever to translate into an actual motion picture.

“For Colored Girls” the movie revolves around eight African American women, seven of whom are based on Shange’s original work, each dealing with some pretty heavy personal conflicts such as rape, abortion, infidelity and murder. What Perry essentially does is dissect the original twenty poems that make up the original choreopoem and filters them into a fairly heavy-handed narrative that while sometimes honors the original intent, often times bangs it around like a bull in a China closet. Not only do these women suffer horrendous atrocities but Tyler piles them one on top of the other in a dizzying display of victimization and discourse. You’re barely able to reconcile the rape storyline before it is intercut with the abortion storyline which is intercut with the murder storyline which is intercut with the nymphomania storyline which you still can’t fully reconcile because you’re wondering when Jo, the callous business woman played by Janet Jackson, is ever going to realize her husband is having sex with men or just how far has Alice, the super-evangelical mother with skeletons in her closet played by Whoopi Goldberg, swam from the sanity boat… and will she ever find her way back.

What slightly elevates this overwrought structure from daytime television schlock is the commitment each actress has in portraying their respective characters. Loretta Devine and Phylicia Rashad in particular give riveting performances as a sassy yet soft hearted single woman with a little too much love to give and a wise and overprotective building manager respectively. But it is Kimberly Elise who has the challenge of portraying the most aggrieved of the women who is raising two small children and dealing with an abusive husband, an eerily effective Michael Ealy, who is suffering from severe Post Traumatic Stress syndrome from his tour of duty in Iraq. As always, Elise delivers an amazingly heartbreaking performance as both her family and sanity crumbles before her eyes. However, mixed in with the stew of atrocities that befall the other women, her flavor is sometimes muted or often times condensed into uncontrollable yet predictable boughs of tears. In fact, every main character in the film is given their opportunity to pontificate on their lives in the most dramatic fashion possible that almost always results in a culmination of defiant prose and uncontrollable crying. True to Perry’s previous films, no one in “For Colored Girls” could ever be accused of “under-acting”. When these women feel emotion, they feel emotion, and with a running time of two exhausting hours, you can pretty much predict who’s about to let the flood gates go every time an actress stares drearily into the space and the harps start playing the background… all of which tends to lessen the gravity of each atrocity that continues to unfold.

As I said before, surprisingly my Tyler Perry loving friend did not care for the movie, feeling that it did not have the emotional depth of his prior releases. I felt it had about the same amount but I was more impressed with the visuals involved with the film. Quite frankly, it looked good. This was the first Tyler Perry film in which I was astonishingly impressed by the framing and timing of his shots. The way he used the camera to capture Anika Noni Rose’s flirtatious grin as she glides down the street or Macy Gray’s inebriated scowl in a dilapidated apartment I felt was nothing less than masterful, particularly considering that in prior films you were half way expecting a boom mic in most of the shots or cables on the ground. Thematically he still paints with a heavy hand; his “ghetto” is filled with pit bulls, loud drunken bores and scratchy music, his “unsavory men” are all chiseled and tattooed, and well… all men in general got “something” wrong with them, but cinematically, he seems to be getting the finer art of mise en scène. Not so much to fully capture the improvisational art house quality of Shange’s original work, but definitely a step in the right direction.

Though I can’t really define “For Colored Girls” as a car wreck, conversely I think it would be misleading to describe it as good movie. There was an uplifting, redeeming spiritual quality of Shange’s original work that made it impenetrable to tedium or world-weariness during repeat viewings that is most certainly missing in the film adaption. For example, while both pieces end by bringing the women together for a “laying of the hands”, Shange’s version was more an intentional dance of healing, the film adaption was more of an ode to the end “Waiting to Exhale” a la, “let’s just get them all to hug, it would make a good promo shot.” And while Shange’s stories of brutality are told through metaphor, dance and redemption, Perry’s is told through overwrought drama layered one on top of the other… and tears… lots of tears.

I don’t think the film is going to deter or add to Tyler’s fan base. As I was explaining to my friend, I don’t find the film too far from his other catalog of work. I imagine Madea actually could have made a guest appearance and felt right at home. In short, like it or lump it, he does what he does and he doesn’t seem to have any intention of altering the plan. But I am grateful that he’s got a whole new generation curious about “For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When The Rainbow Is Enuf” and Ntozake Shange in general and for that I truly thank him. However, if I find out that he touches Suzan-Lori Parks’ “Topdog/Underdog”, I can tell you now… I’m going to be one Colored Boy Who Considers Homicide When Successful Colored Filmmakers Can’t Leave Well Enuf Alone.

The Continuing Adventures of Bathhouse Bobby

2010-12-17T03:51:00.000-08:00

So I was thinking about sex, bathhouses and their place in my life. I haven’t been to a bathhouse in ages and I want to blame my finances but I think there’s a deeper compulsion there. I think there is a concession that I refuse to admit I make when I have quick anonymous sex. A very unsexy, clinical aspect to it that’s not fun, succulent or dangerous… the way I like my sexual trysts to be. As I get older the bathhouse seems to carry more utilitarian uses as opposed to frivolous entertainment. You’re hungry, you to the refrigerator. You’re hot, you turn on the air conditioner. In that same vain, when I’m horny, I want to go to the bathhouse… I don’t know if that was always its place. I don’t think it was ever that “automatic”, it was more or less a choice of entertainment options that I had. Sometimes it’s almost like a… check up at the doctor’s office, fulfilling some biological/physical need that is not only beneficial but necessary to be healthy. It seems like busting a nut in the process of sexual interaction with another flesh and blood human being is as paramount for physical health as bathing, relieving waste or exercising. I guess I feel like sex nowadays isn’t recreation more so than an… occupation. Being single and all, unemployed in this scenario, I miss the benefits. The serenity it brings; the reassurance of vitality and beauty. You can acquire insurance without steady employment, but when you’re employed you’re not consciously thinking of it, it’s just part of the accouterments of being employed. It’s the same here, if I were in a relationship, I would just get those extra benefits that comes with it. But because I’m single, I need to find those same benefits outside the confines of a relationship; some sort of COBRA continuation for sex, companionship, fun. I guess I’m just afraid of becoming dependent upon it, so complacent with welfare that I stop looking for an actual job…

I, Nymphomaniac

2010-12-12T03:49:00.000-08:00

I want to believe that I’m ready for a relationship. I‘m not fully sure, but if it were to be thrust upon me, I think I could do it… particularly with the right person. In the very least… I need a lover, if not lovers. Dude… these boughs of horniness that I go through are just insane! I just feel like a cat in heat, rubbing against couches and people’s legs, my naughty parts so swollen with expectation that all I can do is loudly meow into the night. I remember that movie “Black Snack Moon” when Christina Ricci was playing this woman who had a serious case of nymphomania. I so understood her! You just get in these moods and you can like… smell the testosterone in the air and you grab it for all it’s worth and just grind until you’re done. And more than likely, your mind is done long before your body is. You’re not even in the moment… but your body is just pounding away for dear life. I understand that. I am almost positive that if I had even a remotely better body, I would have been a porn star. I think all the other porn stars would have hated me. They would have been in it for the money. I would have been in it for the love of the game.

Live (Dean, The Requiem)

2010-12-05T03:46:00.000-08:00

So I decided to repost some ads up on some personals boards. Dean, oddly enough, was the first person to hit me up. He worries me sometimes… or rather,lately. Due to some fairly painful lessons learned this year I am more than aware that… you just can’t go back, no matter how desperately your mood swings may try to convince you… you can NEVER go back. With Dean, there has always been that inkling, that pin prick of hope. However, as of date, the compulsion to be with him seems foreign and misshapen. We’re friends. We could be good friends. I could be convinced to kiss him on a lonely, drunken night. But as for the day-to-day process of maintaining a monogamous romantic relationship… I keep getting images of a rogue elephant clopping through Times Square in New York, a fish awkwardly skipping it’s delicate sides across a hot desert, Sara Palin being offered a membership for Mensa… it just doesn’t seem palatable, or imaginable or…"right". Dean and I just don’t work like that. Sometimes I wish that we do. At this point, however, the reality of it is way too overwhelming, way too substantial. There is really no need to even go through the mental gymnastics of “What if…” or “Just maybe someday… “or “If only…” For better or for worse, we just don’t work. It’s a square peg that we both have been trying to force into that circle hole for far too long. Neither one of us are bad people. But neither one of us should be with the other one. Not like that at least. Not again.

Though I have this inkling, he’s trying to convince himself otherwise. I have this feeling that, he’s reminiscing a lot about the days when… his peg was… in my hole… and it’s kind of bugging me. He’s bored, he’s lonely… he has way too much time on his hands lately.And there is no way on God’s green Earth I am ever going to set myself up to be his consolation prize ever again. EVER. But honestly, this is a new concept. I have always been his consolation prize all these years. I have always been his “Break In Case of Emergency” boyfriend. He's married now and from what I can tell, the hubby doesn’t seem as if he has the slightest clue as to how to manifest that, it seems as if he has no clue of the sacrifice it takes to keep a true relationship going, the selflessness involved. Look at me… speaking as if I know what the fuck I’m talking about! But seriously, you don’t… you don’t get into a relationship just because you’re lonely and you think you should be in one. You start a relationship because you are ready to give, unconditionally, without excuse, obligation, fanfare or need for reciprocation… you don’t start a relationship because you are ready to get love, you start a relationship because you are ready to give love, and hopefully, if you’re lucky… the person you give it to isn’t a jackass and knows what to do with it. Anyways, that ain’t what happened between these two. They were lonely, they thought the other was cute, and they moved in with each other. His hubby is back to his philandering ways, because that’s what he does. Dean is back to being self-depreciating and hoping I (or some equivalent) will throw some unconditional show of affection his way, because that’s what he does.

What do I do? I wait like a vulture, picking over the carcasses that are left. At least that’s what I usually do. What am I going to do? Live. Wish everybody well, move on… and just live.See what other holes I can get into out there...

A Brief Meditation on Obama (Proposition 8 Reduex)

2010-11-26T03:41:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, while up at work, a co-worker proceeded to show me a mockup of his new photography book that he is going to self-publish. What he did was go all around Los Angeles and take pictures of all the Obama propaganda illustrations slapped on the side of various buildings around Los Angeles. The one thing that went through my mind was that I don’t think there has ever been another president in the history of the United States that has been scrutinized to such an extreme measure as Obama. Just looking through that book, I don’t remember ever seeing such an astronomical amount of presidential satire on public display like this; Obama as the Joker from Batman, Obama as Che Guevera, Obama as Superman, Obama as Sambo, Obama as God, Obama as Satan, I just don’t think any other president in history has been transposed into as many caricatures. And I can’t help but to think that it’s because of his race. America is really looking at him through this extreme microscope and are making as many willy nilly comments about him as possible and the whole concept just comes off as slightly offensive, as does this soon to be released book. An intent even my co-worker acknowledged and tried to diffuse by adding a supposedly “cynical” preface about the true nature of the book. For him the book is a satirical commentary about the artwork posted on the side of buildings. To me… it was just more shit on the septic pile of crap already out there that goes against his efforts.

Add to the fact that there is a part of the book that has a picture of the front of the Los Angeles Times with a headline proclaiming the Obama won the Presidential election along with the byline that Proposition 8 passed that he titled “The Blacks vote against the Gays” and I wound up leaving his office in quite the little huff. We did, however, get into a little tiff about the whole thing. I am just insulted with the notion that Black people were the sole cause of Proposition 8 passing, particularly since we are only about 8% of the population within the State of California. We kind of got into a heated conversation about it, with me bringing the most heat and he really trying to diffuse the conversation. In the end, he couldn’t really retaliate. No matter how he tried, he could not justify Blacks taking the full brunt of responsibility for Proposition 8 passing. He kept saying that Blacks “tipped the scale”. I kept saying, no more so than the Latinos, or the Asians… and quite frankly why aren’t you looking at White folks? Fuck the extra couple of hundred that could have helped, why aren’t you pointing the finger at the several thousand that flat out HURT! I just get so angry when we are used as a scapegoat for shit… and to make it even more egregious, we were being used as a scapegoat for some shit… we didn’t have anything to do with! We didn’t have anything to do with Proposition 8 being drafted nor were we included in any plan to fight it. Yet when it all went to shit, we were the ones to blame. It’s just so fucking aggravating! And the fact that my co-worker, a Latino homosexual, is jumping on the “Make Darkie the scapegoat” bandwagon, made it all the worse. I had to quickly evaluate my surroundings, myself, and truly calm down. I think I raised my voice but not to the point of it being “argument” level. I think you could tell I was pissed though. I did leave his office with the truthful intention that, “Everybody has a right to their opinion. This is your expression in your book. I just don’t agree with it.” And left it at that.

Critic v. Critic

2010-11-18T03:38:00.000-08:00

So I just finished listening to an OLD review of Toni Morrison’s Beloved by the Slate’s Audio Book Club with critics Stephen Metcalf, Meghan O’Rourke and Katie Rolphie. I’ve been really trying to get into their discussions but it gets increasingly hard as I have listened to them completely tear down books I thought were either just okay or actually pretty brilliant, particularly Metcalf. Just mention Elizabeth Gilbert's “Eat. Pray. Love." around him and I’m pretty sure his eyes will roll so far up in his head he will permanently look like a zombie. This is also the case with Beloved in which Metcalf decries,

“I am a white male critic and I have been trained over the decades to suspect the degree to which I prefer a writer like Richard Ford over Toni Morrison and hopefully we’re at that moment [in time] where that worm can turn a little bit and the people who really embrace Toni Morrison should inspect their own motives accordingly.”

All through the podcast, and pretty much every podcast I have heard him in so far, he utters some “tea party-adjacent” statement like that that just makes my skin crawl. He is definitely the “Simon Cowell” of the trio and unfortunately, the same way that I have completely removed American Idol from my world view (particularly since the Temptress Brown incident a few years ago) I think I am about to delete the Slate just as quickly as I have found them. But I leave this one note;

As an African American writer I have been trained over the decades to suspect the degree to which I prefer a critic like Elvis Mitchell over Stephen Metcalf and hopefully we’re at the moment [in time] where that worm can turn a little bit and the people who really embrace Stephen Metcalf should inspect their own motives accordingly...

...asshole...

Good to the Last Drop

2010-11-15T03:33:00.000-08:00

So I’m almost positive I have a caffeine addiction. I’ve been trying to deny it but I’m almost certain it’s true. I remember when I was younger, like in my twenties, I would get unbelievably tired. I would exist almost like this walking zombie, just awake enough to breathe, to walk, to stand, to utter “Welcome to Subway, how can I help you?” I used to muse that this purgatorial state to be some sort of spiritual after effect of growing older, maybe the unconscious and unnoticeable aspect of time slipping through my life force was unintentionally taking its toll on my physical state. In this state, my mind would just wander and discover and remember… and sometimes remember things that I might have discovered in a prior life. It was a dream-like state that astounded and confounded me all the time. Now that I am the ripe age of 39 I realize that it wasn’t a spiritual awakening… I just wasn’t getting enough fucking sleep… and I was hallucinating out of my mind. The same is still true, though it is less astounding and just plain fucking irritating. Maybe because I remember back in 2008 when I was going to then gym on a regular basis and eating remarkably healthy how absolutely great it felt to be awake and sober all the time and I was always ready to take on the world. But now, I’m sleep walking again, and it’s kind of pissing me off. My temporary cure for the moment… coffee. I’m on my third cup right now. I’ve done nothing but sleep all day today. The few times I was awake I fixed myself something horribly unhealthy to eat then went back down to sleep some more. I just couldn’t stay awake today. I’m thinking my body was making up for lost time during the week. The few times I was awake, there were frightening moments of pessimism; thoughts of how I am not strong enough to complete my tasks, how there is not enough time to do what I need to do, I berated myself with criticisms that if I cannot stay lucid and awake for thirty minutes just to wash dishes then how the hell am I supposed to finish my novels, finish my screenplays, own a corporation, raise children. I decided to fall back asleep and drift back into the ether of the universe outside the Milky Way and not think about it. About an hour ago, determined to continue my plans of going out tonight, I made a pot of coffee. I am ready to fuck the world right now. Hold on to its sides, stick my dick in the ocean, and just fucking pound until I come inside of it and make all the grass greener, the trees taller, the skies bluer, and everybody on the entire earth would be 20% happier.

And I’m drinking generic store brand coffee. I can only image what the fuck would happen if I bought Maxwell House...

My Dear Country

2010-11-06T03:36:00.000-07:00

The other day I went to Ralph’s. There was this Latino dude passing out fliers with coupons but he took one look at me and my oversized jacket and told me to check my laptop bag with security. He didn’t even offer me a flier. Didn’t help that while I was standing in the checkout line that the security guard who was also Latina and was previously walking around, stood right there in front my cashier and did not move. At one point I just closed my eyes and silently mouthed the words, “It’s just ego it’s just ego it’s just ego” to prevent me from just exploding in that store. I was enraged by the sentiment, the principle of the matter, the assumed intention. But again, that’s just fucking ego, that wasn’t real. I was pissed at a concept, which has validity I guess, but in reality, I don’t know if that adds up to anything, how it translates into waking tangible life; outside of politics maybe.

Fast forward to the past election in which the Democratic Party suffered major defeats in many national and state level elections, with many seats switching to Republican control. This is where that ego thing I was talking about comes into play. I try not to fall into ego versus ego “child play”, but when the victor controls policy… that’s a different scenario. Now that… I don’t have the tools to deal with. That’s probably why I have “unplugged” myself now that I think about it. Unplugged in the sense of not watching any television, avoiding news outlets, not participating in anything politically based. Ever since that whole Proposition 8 brouhaha, I just felt so passionate and helpless at the same time. And instead of trying to be that one snowflake that makes it in hell and encourages his brothers and sisters to fight the flames and join me, I just melted, and enjoyed my little puddle of bliss. But it still bothers me. It always bothers me. I don’t mind, for the most part, that there is a section of the country that thinks I am nothing but an immoral nigger faggot. That’s that ego thing I can disregard. But it’s when those connotations are translated into policy that affects my livelihood, my housing, my family… that’s when you have to take to arms. I don’t know the alternative. I have been trying to exist on this “No arms ever” plane but… I think in certain instances… you got to fight. I guess I just need to redefine “arms”. I don’t plan on shooting every Tea Partier… but I can’t, at least not right now, hug/love their discretions away either. The only other ammunition I can think of is the law and my own happiness.

So I’m going to vote at every given opportunity. I’m going to go to the Faultline and look at hardcore gay porn, drink beer, eat the best beef sandwich ever and God help me make out with a complete stranger that looks like Dan from “Roseanne”. I’m going to go to the nearest coffee shop and order COFFEE not TEA and drink from every water fountain around in remembrance of the time when I couldn’t. And when I get paid I know I’m going back up to the Ralph’s in hopes of seeing that guy and/or the security guard and wear a T-Shirt that reads, “Hey Fellow Snowflake! I’m In Hell, Come Join Me!” They might look at me weird but I’ll just say, “You know, I have no intention of hiding a Lean Cuisine in my laptop more so than you have any intention joining the Border Patrol. So let’s just cut the bullshit and work together to make sure there isn’t a Palin/Quayle nomination for 2012…”

My Coffeeshop Babble (Golden Showers Anonymous)

2010-10-25T03:31:00.000-07:00

It should be noted that I am in the middle of the Groundworks coffeeshop on Sunset and Cahuenga right now. I don’t know why this place has grown on me over the years considering the fact that I usually complain about this joint but I truly enjoy this huge big table that they have here and the music which is ALWAYS consistently on point. The main thing it has over the Bourgeoisie Pig is that the coffee here is ten times better. The main drawback is that it closes at 8:00 p.m. Right now it’s about 7:00 p.m. I just ran out of coffee… and the big table in which I was sitting here alone for hours which could comfortably seat about 8 or10 people is now fully inhabited with some sort of group or organization or whatever. I have no idea what they’re doing or why they’re meeting but they’re all white, they’re all speaking too loud, and they all have that overly friendly “I’m a creative executive” thing going on; the whole “I listen to Wilco and read comics books… in my condo”. Right now they are talking about the woes of their iPhones versus the Blackberry and the Android. Somebody just came in and the chick beside me just announced for the about the THIRD time, despite the fact that the only time I have looked up from my computer was to nod a hello to the overweight Tina Fey lookalike across from me “He’s not a part of this.” But I am a little curious to know what this meeting is about. I am so hoping it’s something like Golden Showers Anonymous or something. I know I’m babbling right now but I am so distracted by these guys that I can’t even concentrate on anything else right now. It should also be said that it’s fucking FREEZING right now and I didn’t leave the house with a jacket because I absent mindedly forgot that… it gets cold at night. Okay I just heard that they are going to be talking about catering, parking and vendors. They are expecting around 2,000 people with a budget of $11,000. They are throwing around names like Jon Lovitz, Paul Rodriquez, David Spade. They are talking about LAPD and security. I am SO HOPING this is Golden Showers Anonymous.

The Cotton/Poly Blend Mafia

2010-02-18T03:20:00.000-08:00

Last night I watched the complete series of a television show called “Cashmere Mafia”. When I say the “Complete Series” I mean seven episodes… that was the whole series! I thoroughly enjoyed it though and I did a little research to figure out the reasons why it was cancelled so prematurely. Seems like that Writers’ Strike that happened years ago was the main culprit. It’s somewhat of a “Sex and the City” knock off and I’m pretty sure that also had something to do with the demise also. Sex and the City was so pivotal, so monumental, such it’s own paradigm… for some particular reason all imitators don’t seem like flattery more so than thieves in the temple trying to piggy back off the work that Carrie and Co. put in. But there was something about Cashmere Mafia that touched me a bit. It was almost the opposite of Sex and the City. Whereas the focus of Sex and the City were the women’s sexual/romantic relationships in male dominated work force, Cashmere Mafia was more about the women’s place in a male dominated work force with their sexual/romantic relationships rounding out their identity, not defining them, not pushing the storyline.

While there were some definite similarities, four attractive, successful, sexually active women making it big in the Big Apple, Cashmere Mafia most definitely centered around their work place and the women’s careers. It really got me thinking about my life and my career. These women were so driven, so skilled, so confident in what they do. They were soldierly in their pursuit to not only maintain their position within the corporate world but to best it, conquer it, defeat it. I was at once fascinated, intimidated, jealous and inspired by their tenacity. I am so not that motivated or that confident in my skills to snatch an opportunity that might accidentally drift in my peripheral vision. These women… man… if it was something that was in their sights they would go through hoops and make it happen. And they were so well trained and business forward, so mature and confident…

I am so ashamed to declare even more female archetypes as inspiration but fuck it… I identify with them more so than any male character I can think of. I got to get stronger. I got to get that confidence. I’ve got to make my game stronger. Just looking at those women, then looking around at my studio apartment with it bankers’ boxes filled with old magazines, my television with it’s rabbit ear antennae, the roach motels on my desk… those women would never date someone like me, or be me, or hire me. I am so antithetical to what they are trying to accomplish in life and we so want the same things… to be strong and confident, successful, sexy… yeah… I want to be a part of the Cashmere Mafia. The Dude version of it at least. The Brushed Cotton Mafia? The Wool Mafia? The 30% Polyester 20% Nylon 50% Cotton Mafia?

The Do Over

2010-01-07T03:24:00.000-08:00

So somewhere around 2:00 p.m. today I made the discovery that I needed to do a “do over” for the day. I mentioned my “do over” plan to my boss. That we should just take the rest of the day off and start again tomorrow on Friday… or as I would more affectionately call it, “Thursday Part Two”. But he questioned, “Just the day? You just want to do the day over?” I began to think about that, more than a day.

I used to contemplate quite regularly about what I would do if I could it all again, specifically concentrating on my teenage years and all the pain therein. I haven’t done that in awhile though. But today, I thought about 2009… what would I change about 2009? What if I could go back to December 31, 2008 and just do the whole thing over knowing what I know now. The more and more that I thought about it, and as crappy as 2009 was, honestly… not too many things I would change. I still would have went to San Francisco. I would still would have to tried to rekindle a relationship with ex, even though it ended horribly and I wound up jumping out of his car to get away from him. I would have kept my current job. I probably would not have went Atlanta. I would have so much more money that way, would have been home for Christmas to see my mom when she got sick, I wouldn’t feel so much like I have some type of fucking lethal financial disease. Yeah, Atlanta… I would do that over. Everything else, from what I can remember, I think I would do just the same. Funny.

Breeze The Civilian (What's Up Wit Me)

2009-06-02T11:59:00.000-07:00

So what’s been goin on with me? Dude! All things considering, everything’s pretty cool. I want to bitch and moan a complain but the truth of the matter is, I’m healthy, I’m employed, I got my own place and I’ve got opportunities to upgrade it all so… yeah… I’m doing pretty good.

There is a part of me that feeds on despair. I would blame me being an artist but it’s one of those “What came first, the chicken or the egg” type questions. Did I start writing about the shit around me first or did I create the shit in order to write? I don’t know what came first… my inclination to bitch or my inclination to write about it?

I do know that physically everything is cool. I think that somehow, cosmically, I have slid a little bit. I have felt like this before and it’s usually much more intense. Like if I were to read my horoscope it would say something like all your moons were shoved up Uranus and got stuck or something. This feels more like, Jupiter is just a little darker, a little colder than usual. Like last year, it felt like my all stars were lined up pretty well. 2009, my Little Dipper is askew, my Orion is lopsided, my chocolate is in my peanut butter.

Like my love life. Usually when people ask me how is it going I tell them the truth and paint a verbal picture that would explain exactly what it is right now. Think of a dirty little kid in overalls a lá “The Little Rascals”. He’s dragging behind him his favorite red wagon with only three wheels down and dusty country road to play in a field. He knows he’s dirty, he knows his wagon is broken, he’s smiling and can’t wait to play. Yup… that’s me.

I’ve decided to become a “civilian” this year. I have been one for quite some time now, maybe since the year started; civilian in the sense of not being consumed with policies that are affecting my people. I can only remember one other time in my life when I took this stand, back in college when I was just obsessed with marching and picketing and doing whatever I could to create a somewhat peaceful and fair communist-esque existence for mankind. Then I fell in love, then I fell out of love… then I wondered, “What exactly is this life that I am fighting so earnestly to defend and cultivate?” So I decided I would put in a job transfer from the “Angry Gay Black Man” department to the “Man with a Life” floor.

Somehow I wound up taking on the case load of Angry Gay Black Man again last year and I sort of want my life back. I definitely think that there is a way to be socially and politically aware while being spiritually fulfilled and a hot piece of ass at the same time… I’m just not there yet. If you’ve ever wondered why I’m so enamored with Tori Amos... that’s why. I think she is one of the few people who have perfected it. I wrote a poem once in which I truthfully stated that, “Angels can’t fail with the right ammunition”, well... what’s going on with me… I’m just gathering my ammunition right now. These battles that are going on in this country right now, spiritually… I just don’t think I was meant to engage in them, I don’t think at this point I have anything to offer or share… at least not in the big ego driven macho way that I usually participate. I think right now, quietly living my life as a law abiding, God-fearing, poetry writing, ass fucking man is the loudest and most succinct political statement that I can personally make… right now. I’m putting everything in fate’s hands or if you want to get religious about it… God’s hands… at least for right now. I’m just taking my breaths, gathering my strength, living my life, charting my stars, with my little red wagon behind me, smiling, can’t wait to play.

Sweet Angeles, Hand Jobs and my Mother's First Name

2009-02-02T11:53:00.000-08:00

I got picked up at the Blue Oyster last Sunday by this amazingly muscular and attractive Mexican dude named Angel who gave me a hand job while he drove me home. I also bumped into Reagan again at the Blue Oyster too. I bumped into him a couple of weeks ago also. He definitely noticed the changes in my appearance. He didn’t even recognize me at first. Both times he was with somebody and both times it was pretty obvious that he just wanted to pull his dick out and fuck me right then and there… but both times he was with somebody. The first time it was with his “boyfriend”… this insecure bear-like dude who I have always assumed was whoring himself out to whatever sexual need Reagan and his friend’s came up with. Something about that guy just smacks of low self esteem; he just doesn’t seem to have a backbone. But there is something between them because they have been “together” for years now and when he saw me, as much as he obviously wanted to stick his tongue down my throat, he politely gave me a bear hug while NerdWhoreBoy carefully watched on. When I saw him this time he was with some black dude who has a video on the web sucking some white dude’s dick and getting pissed on ... so the attraction between him and Reagan is obvious. This time, with whatever emotional bond or obligation that he has to the black dude not being nearly as strong as NerdWhoreBoy, he was a lot more flirtatious with me... rubbing my head, fully enveloping my body with his and rubbing on my chest. It felt good. I have to admit that it felt really good. But I doubt anything will happen. Did I mention that I decided not to have sex unless it’s with someone that I care about?

Well… I decided not to have sex unless it’s with someone that I care about. No particular reason. Nothing really happened for me to come to that conclusion… nothing consciously at least. I don’t know. I want love. It’s a haughty goal, I will admit… but it’s not like I’m waiting to get married or for this extremely special relationship. I guess… I really do want it to mean something, something special; something more. I hate those couple of seconds after a one night stand when you clean up and you both go. I want to say that it’s awkward but it’s not really awkward at all, it’s actually pretty predictable. It’s like that aftertaste after saccharine. You know its coming, you know it’s gonna be horrible, but you just put up with it because of it’s no muss, no fuss sweetness. You get all that goodness without the extra added accoutrements of fat and calories. Well… I want the sugar. I want to be bothered. I want to have sex with someone and have them feel obligated to spend the night, and get breakfast, and call me every once in awhile to see how I’m doing.

Paraphrasing a conversation that I had with one of my best friends one night… I want to kiss somebody who knows my mother’s first name.

And it’s hard dude… like… I totally need to get laid. But I just remember that aftertaste. I could have totally pinned Reagan down and fucked the shit out of him right then and there. But then he’s going to go… and I’m going to be miserable… yet again.

But Angel was okay. That wasn’t like saccharine… more like… Equal or Splendora…. It was okay.

Hunger

2009-01-22T11:49:00.000-08:00

I’ve been thinking about the idea of hunger. I haven’t made any astounding conclusions or theories but I do think when people speak of basic human needs and basic human forces that drive our nature like revenge or protection or self preservation… hunger has to be in there somewhere; that emptiness, that space that needs to be filled, either with food or money or sex… and I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing, that’s the fucked up part about it. You can’t declare your hunger to be bad, it’s just life. We’re all addicts of one thing or another, I think it’s all about moderation and timing. I need to eat… and laugh and fuck and listen to really good music. I would say that I’m addicted to all those things. But I can’t do all those things 24 hours a day, no matter how euphoric the feeling is when I’m surrounded by them… even though the hunger for those things can just be so fucking overwhelming sometimes. I would so love to be this prolific porn star with a killer sound system and his own personal chef… but alas…

Funny I didn’t mention the writing thing in my list of addictions. It’s so getting away from me and it just totally sucks. I have so been trying to control my ego with my weight loss. I have somewhat thrown my internal self deprecation into high drive as of date. I have just been bombarded with compliments and support and I just don’t know how to take it outside of finding some reciprocal negative thing to accompany the compliment. I considered taking on the finer art of self mutilation; cutting myself, taking a little razor and making little incisions someplace secret on my body to let out some of that aggravation, self doubt and pain. But… that shit just seems painful, so I’ve just decided to be cynical instead. There is much less clean up and scar tissue when you’re just an asshole.

But I digress… the writing thing. One of the things that has been planted in my head with the weight loss is this idea of exactly how strong I am. I have been swimming in the idea of how mortal and fallible I am for years now. This weight loss thing has been convincing/reminding me how virile, capable and beautiful I really am. It scares me a little and I am by far not well equipped to accept any throne or “successful” or “accomplished” but I am solely accepting the fact that I have some strength, I have some beauty, I have some purpose here. And with that comes the writing thing. If I can lose 110 pounds, I can write a book. It’s just going to take some major efforts on my part. I am going to have to really, really rearrange some things around this year. It’s seems like this year is going to be the year of change. Ha! I just got that… change! Yes We Can!

EVERYBODY Got Their Something

2009-01-19T11:46:00.000-08:00

My horoscope in LA Weekly this week:

Libra (Sept 23. – Oct. 22): Mexican scientists have discovered a way to transform tequila into diamonds. Even the brands that sell for three dollars a bottle work fine as raw material. The catch is that the diamonds produced are too small to be used for jewelry. But they do have numerous practical uses: in surgical instruments, for example. You now have it in your power to preside over a comparable alchemical change Libra. What could you do that would be like turning lead into gold or tequila into diamonds?

For example...

Madonna before she became MADONNA... the tequila that eventually turned into diamonds...

Why I Could Never Be A Good Stalker

2008-12-15T21:43:00.000-08:00

I just became MySpace friends with Diesel Washington. Now I want to label him as pornstar Diesel Washington but after perusing his MySpace page I realize he’s more than that but, you know… the first time I saw this guy he had this white dude in a headlock and was fucking the crap out of him.

So I’m looking at his pictures and enjoying his profile and it suddenly occurred to me… when I grow up I want to be Diesel Washington. He’s everything I want to be. Well not everything, but in the “Second Life” game in my mind, he is most definitely my avatar. He’s tall, he’s muscular, he’s really dark skin(three things I have never been and always wanted to be), and you know… the porn thing can’t be a bad thing to put on your resume. Seriously, if I was a muscular 6’6” handsome dude with a ten inch penis, I don’t care if I was applying to be a fry cook at McDonald’s, I would totally attach a .wmv clip of me fucking the crap out of some white dude while I had him in a headlock to the application. This barbarian society of ours is just too patriarchal to pass up an opportunity to cash in on the allure of a penis based orgasm. Hell… I’m thinking about shoving a bratwurst in my underwear at my next performance review to see if it would help with a pay increase.

But it got me thinking, if I could, I would follow this guy everywhere. I would be a Diesel Washington stalker. I think I have that obsessive compulsive/addictive characteristic that could in effect make me a classic “stalker”. I think the only thing that has prevented me from being an official stalker of many people that I admire is the fact that I’m really really lazy. Like, Tori Amos came into town this year. Everybody who knows me knows that I worship the ground she walks on, she breathes out, I breathe in. When I finally got a chance to meet her in Amoeba Music it was one of the most defining moments of my life, and my natural intention was to stay there, hours upon hours if necessary, to catch a glimpse of her getting in her car or maybe snip a lock of her hair so I could maybe clone some of the DNA in it to create a homemade Tori or maybe serenade her with one of her songs, singing at the top of my lungs, “I WAS NEVER A CORNFLAKE GIRL EITHER TORI! IT WAS THE BEST SOLUTION!!”

But alas, I was kind of tired and really hungry so I got a Jumbo Jack with cheese and came home.

And now there’s this Diesel guy who I could totally see myself following around like a little puppy if given the opportunity… you know… if I’m not hungry or tired or America’s Next Top Model isn’t on or… Tori doesn’t happen to be in town at the same time.

I could never be a good stalker. I don’t think I have the attention span. Lately for no particular reason I’ve been obsessed
with all things dealing with the Manson Family and the Sharon Tate murders. It was just so senseless, so brutal and so… just… beyond my realm of compassion to feel sympathy for the people who committed those crimes. It was just so horrible. I’ve been watching some interviews of Susan Atkins, one of the women who slaughtered the eight month pregnant Sharon Tate. She is now in her 60’s and is now riddled with terminal brain cancer. She’s been incarcerated since 1971 and her husband/attorney has been trying to get her a “compassionate release” since her physical state is in such disrepair. The California Board of Parole Hearings denied the request meaning that she will more than likely die in prison and I don’t feel altogether bad about that decision. On a more selfish note… I will say that I’m a little pissed that someone who murdered an eight month pregnant woman can get married in jail… twice… and I can’t. But I guess in the “Second Life” game in my mind I would like to talk to her, and the rest of the Manson Family and go, “You know, seriously guys… wouldn’t you have rather just gotten a Jumbo Jack with cheese and went home?”

Tales from the Troll – Summer Lovin’ (Feel Free to Cut and Paste)

2008-11-26T03:28:00.000-08:00

At the end of each year, I like to reflect about all of the things that have happened during the
year. Unfortunately, I haven’t really done that for the past couple of years because they have totally sucked monkey balls. But for what it’s worth… 2008 kinda rocked. I have to say… I really enjoyed being 36 years old.

It’s kind of early to be raising the flag on this year considering we got over a month to go but I do feel as if enough has happened to review. I have often said that I feel like Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta and the beginning of Grease, dreamily pining on about their summer adventures now that summer is over and they have each gone back to their respective plebian lives. That’s definitely how I feel; for me…. summer’s OVER. It was a good run, but now we got to get back to normal life again.

The year started with me making an effort to take control of my weight. I was never really going to talk about it until I got down to some ridiculously
Olsen Twin-eque weight but… I joined
Weight Watchers back in January. Unbeknownst to me I found out at the first weigh-in that I had ballooned up to 384 pounds… and I’m 5’7 [yeah, go ahead, insert audible gasp here]. As of last Thursday I am down to 288… that’s a loss of 96 pounds. Another 4 pounds and I will have lost 100 pounds this year. I’m still as big as an elephant but it’s more of a… baby elephant… a cute baby elephant with a pierced nipple.

Because of this, I have become a lot more comfortable in my own skin this year and have been hanging out in the “Bear Community”... which is a whole other conversation but I’ll just say… it was interesting. No, I take that back, it’s been fun. It’s been amazingly, earth shattering, unbelievably fun actually and I have enjoyed every single moment of it. I have, however, been associating with a group of folks who I have so affectionately termed, “The Mean Girls” (you know who you are… feel free to cut and paste this shit). There is an encyclopedia worth of conjecture, assumptions and accusations surrounding The Mean Girls that could be written but I’ll just sum it up like this… everything was fine, until it wasn’t, and now it’s not. And it is a little sad but I do imagine myself to be Olivia Newton-John, moved to song thinking about those “Hot summer niiiiiiiiights!”

Obama won which was great but Proposition 8 passed and that completely sucked. It sort of propelled me into the fight for gay rights in the country and gay visibility in the black community. This past weekend I attended two panels that gave an opportunity for African American homosexuals and heterosexuals to dialogue and I also marched in a pro-gay rally that marched down Crenshaw Boulevard from Vernon to King and back. Yeah…
Crenshaw… gays and lesbians [yeah, go ahead, insert audible gasp here too]

I got to meet Tori Amos! She hugged me! Twice! I don’t remember what I said to her. I do remember security saying, “Sir… you have to breath…”

I also met Poet Laureate Al Young at the Squaw Valley Community of Writers Workshops during the summer. This is also a whole other conversation but it would not be an understatement to say that that experience as a whole completely changed my life and the way I see
everything. If Malcolm X had Mecca, I had Squaw Valley.

The Ex-boyfriend and I (or Notaboyfriend if you’ve been paying attention) have settled into a comfortable albeit guarded friendship. He has moved in with his current boyfriend and they are cohabiting quite well… supposedly. It feels really good to not hate him... it took up so much energy and so much time. I’ve always said that not all of that weight I lost was fat… some of it was notaboyfriend baggage. I honestly wish him and the new dude well. I’m not particularly optimistic… but I really do hope everything works out for the best.

I shaved my head. I was bored.

I haven’t been up to San Francisco all year… I don’t know how that happened but… I can’t repeat that next year… I MISS JEN!!!

I’m an absolutely horrible uncle. I have five nephews and one niece and I’ve pretty much neglected all of ‘em. That’s going to have to change next year too.

As I get older I am really digging my parents… I don’t know how/why that happened.

I had a pretty amazing kiss with a pretty amazing dude the other day that has had me smiling ever since.

But like I said… the year ain’t over yet, we’ve got a lot more game to play. So we’ll just have to see what happens. But still, damn, DAMN… “those hot summer niiiiiiiiights!”

The Most Stressful Vacation (God is in the Morning)

2008-11-16T23:48:00.000-08:00

So I took a vacation last week. I have been looking forward to it for about a month with the abstract goal of finding God. Yup… I had every intention of finding God within a five day period. And the truth of the matter is… I think I did find her. I think she’s in the morning though… and I have a tendency to wake up after 2:00 p.m.

Monday, November 10, 2008
I finally get paid. I was supposed to get paid the Friday before but because of some snafu at work, I didn’t get it until midday Monday. I woke up pretty late and decided to go to the gym. There was this husky football player looking dude on one of the stationary bikes in the corner wearing a long t-shirt and the shortest, tightest shorts I have ever seen on a guy. I so happened to be on the treadmill a couple of feet away, testing the theory that you can’t have an erection while running at the same time. I came home and just lounged the rest of the day. I wanted to do so many things this day but I figured… fuck it, it’s day one… I’ve got the rest of the week.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008
I wake up around 3:00 p.m. Go to the gym. I see the cute football dude with the Daisy Dukes and am so shocked that he notices me that I can’t think of anything to say to him when he looks at me and says hello… outside of turning away so he doesn’t notice that damn erection again. Later on I get into an intense screaming match/argument with the umpteenth person about the whole
Proposition 8 brouhaha, this one including two of my very best friends. After the argument is over I get on the internet and get into even more discussions with several other people about the issue. At this point I am so frazzled and on edge that I decided to journal about it for a little while then go to sleep. But before I go to sleep I decide to post a couple of paragraphs from my journal on my MySpace Blog.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008
I get phone calls, texts and emails all day from several of my friends telling me about how my blog has somehow ripped the very fabric of existence... who knew? I also have been lecturing to a friend of mine about how he needs to be more cognizant of the things that he says to his friends because he might be hurting them. I've been trying to take my own advice in this instance. I can honestly say, I never meant to attack or demean anyone specifically. But what I can say is what my great grandmother used to tell me... "I threw a stick at a pack of dogs, and the one that barked, is the one I hit." I was just making statements in a general direction...
anyway.. I wanted to go to the beach today, write a little, maybe get in the drum circle. I go to the gym instead. I can’t find the guy.

Thursday, November 13, 2008
The company that gave me a loan so I could have several dental procedures decided to make an electronic transfer from my checking account without my authorization leaving me in a negative balance… and the fees associated with it. I go to the gym again. I realize I have lost my opportunity to talk to the Football Daisy Dukes guy. I go to my Weight Watchers meeting and realize that I have lost damn near a hundred pounds over the past year. I also realize that I doubt if I will
ever stop loving my ex. It’s like when you’re bleeding, you don’t want all of your blood to stop all together, you just want the wound to heal and the blood to be redirected someplace else. That’s what I’ve been doing, redirecting those feelings someplace else.

Friday, November 14, 2008
I wake up at 4:00 p.m. I go to the gym. That dude is gone. I imagine what
would I look like in really short shorts. No one understands why I’m laughing uncontrollably in front of the mirror. I talk to a friend of mine who tells me that this whole Proposition 8 thing has “traumatized” me. He is the third person to use that EXACT same phrase. I pledge to try and avoid talking about it just for a little while. I walk to Santa Monica and LaBrea to get some cologne and on the way back, Proposition 8 protesters have taken up shop on Sunset Boulevard. I join them. I get on CNN for a couple of seconds.

Saturday, November 15, 2008
Screw the gym. I masturbate instead. My friend Dale is throwing a party at his house, I hop on the bus and boogey my way over there. I have an absolute blast. It was the first time that I can remember where I went to a party and just did not come off as this blubbering, drunken fool. Well… at least that’s what I remember… I got really fucked up! A friend of mine brought his digital camera and was taking pictures all night. I looked really cute. I kept saying,
“You know, if I saw this guy on Adam4Adam… I would totally fuck him!” Near the end, somebody brought up Proposition 8. I don’t remember everything, but I imagine one of those pictures to be of me with my head making a full 360* rotation on my neck… spewing split pea soup.

Today
I wake up at noon. I go see a friend of mine about doing some collaborative work with him. I get back home at around 3:00 p.m. and pass out again until about thirty minutes ago. It’s 11:25 p.m.

This is when I realize, I had so many plans for this week, so many things I wanted to do. And I realize that I needed to wake up earlier to get out of my house and out of my own head to do all of those things. That... God is in the morning, and I keep waking up after 2:00 p.m. And by that time, I’m busy dealing with my own crap and not paying attention to her.

So with that said, I’m little excited about getting back to work tomorrow. I’ll wake up early, think about the ancestors on the way to work, and exactly what the fuck am I doing in the big scheme of things, maybe write a poem or two in between updating the company’s website or making another database. I think I might have had too much time on my hands this past week… I’m kind of looking forward to some distractions.

Proposition (H)8

2008-11-12T02:22:00.000-08:00

This whole Proposition 8/ Gay Marriage thing has greatly affected Los Angeles and has completely shaken my personal life to the core. And keep in mind, I never expected it to. I put up my Militant Queer cap over a decade ago. But this issue has definitely drawn a line in the sand between me and some of my most dearest friends.

In the past I have had issues with friends who have proven themselves to be politically and socially antithetical to my most treasured core beliefs and I truly struggled with trying to be friends with these… “Nazis” as it were. But I just couldn’t. I could not find a palatable level of camaraderie with someone who was pro-life or against women in the workplace or against homosexuality or felt that there should be stricter immigration laws because there were “too many” Mexicans in California or that the welfare system should be completely eliminated as well as affirmative action. I found it increasingly hard to be civil or share a cup of yogurt with someone who was actively working against everything that I am actively working for. I eventually dropped these people and... I have never really looked back or regretted that choice.

But here I am again and I just have to investigate my own belief systems, exactly how sturdy are the friendships that I have and am I at the end of the day being short sighted and throwing away a half way decent friendship over
policy… again.

For the past week or so, more than one of my African American homosexual friends has declared that they are passionately
against gay marriage. I want to believe that this is an anomaly but there is a quantifiable percentage of the African American LGBT community that voted to ban gay marriage. I’m beginning to get the impression that this is because a vast majority of them are highly religious and saw this not as a legal issue but a religious issue. One of my friends told me that anything that degrades the sanctity of the traditional marriage unit of one man and woman is a direct threat to Christianity and above all, he is a Christian first. Keeping in mind that he is a flaming Black homosexual, I tried to explain that the definition of “traditional” did not include Black people for centuries and we had to fight tooth and nail to be included in the idea of “traditional” in this country; that the same people who drafted Proposition 8 are the same people who denied interracial marriage, who forbid Armenians and Mexicans from owning land; that this isn’t a religious issue, we’re not trying to redefine marriage in the church, just the law, we’re not trying to reinterpret the Bible, just check off married on our IRS tax forms. After a lengthy discussion… it all funneled down to what I have heard several times from deeply religious homosexuals including my own ex boyfriend, that at the end of the day, he truly feels that homosexuality, including his own, is wrong, is a sin and all homosexuals, including himself, are not going to get into heaven.

After having this conversation with a couple of other friends I discovered that they are also carrying that same level of self hate and they truly just want all the protesting to stop because “the people have spoken.” Well, we’re a minority, at one point the people have “spoken” against women’s right to vote, against Blacks right to vote… if we were to solely listen to the mouths of the majority we would still be in slavery. Just because the votes are in and the people have spoken doesn’t make it right and there is something in me that burns hotter and hotter each day trying to get that across to people, particularly my own brethren who
feel as if this doesn’t directly affect them as gay black men. I’m finding it hard again to break bread with people who feel as if homosexuality is an abomination. Its bad enough you feel that way… but then why would you turn around and ask me over for dinner or… to go to the bathhouse with you? It’s just been drawing this line in the sand for me and I have just been in heavy meditation thinking about it.

The truth of the matter is I have always found it hard to be one of those people who accepts everything about a person. I can’t go, “Billy is a convicted child molester, but he’s good at heart and makes a mean pot of spaghetti” or “Carol nails live cats up on her wall for decoration, but she’s really funny and listens to Tori Amos.” I can’t just glide over those monumental aspects in order to get to the juice of a persons character.

I’m about to lose friendships here and it’s just really bugging me. I don’t want to be reactionary… but I also don’t want to be blind either and have people think that I accept or condone that type of unfathomable soul/self deprecating behavior or try to have that shit flake off into my world view. I just got some heavy thinking to do.

My Dear Country

2008-11-05T17:30:00.000-08:00

It’s the day after America’s most monumental Election Day. I have been a fool to not document this journey. Though I don’t particularly feel like investigating every crook and cranny of this race right now either. Needless to say, Barack Hussein Obama II is now the 44th president of the United States of America. America now has its first president of African descent. It’s such a monumental event that I can’t fully envelope the idea around my head nevertheless express it with the most succinct words of honor, humility and pride. My people were stolen from our homeland and were forced to cultivate this land for the benefit of European immigrants, a benefit so great that they have been able to survive and thrive for generations from that toil. We on the other hand, not only have been denied the same benefit, but our spiritual selves seemed to have been raped, mutilated and left for dead with each passing decade. Obama being the President Elect of the United States of America is such an enormous sign that, after all these decades, after all these centuries… I just feel like… Obama being elected President of the United States, not appointed or deemed to be so by some status quo but elected… I honestly do feel like Africans and African Americans have achieved some sort of… spiritual reprieve. That whatever shackles we have been wearing all this time, physical, spiritual, emotional, either forced on us by other entities or self imposed… it just feels like… they’re gone. I don’t know if those words accurately describe the totality of what I feel right now but needless to say… fuck yeah! We got a Black President!

However…

Proposition 8 passed by a vote of 52% to 48%. This has been the anchor that tethers my otherwise relinquished joy to cold hard reality. I may not be a
nigger to this country anymore but I’m still very much a faggot... and it just fucking sucks. Actually, I’m just extremely pissed about it. This morning I almost wished that McCain would have won, the world would have made a little more sense to me. I can see a conservative Republican regime rejecting homosexuality but a liberal Democratic one? Wasn’t a major tenet of the Obama campaign about the acceptance of all Americans, to do away with those tiresome archaic prejudicial paradigms and archetypes that exist? Wasn’t a vote for Obama a vote for equality for all hard working citizens? I can accept McCain winning and Proposition 8 passing but for Obama to win and for Proposition 8 to pass... it's like...homosexuals are still waiting for our reprieve. I am extremely happy that Obama won, but I just can't go screaming into the streets in a fit of riotous joy that I see my heterosexual counterparts doing… this is not
totally a happy day for me. Maybe a little better… but I’m not really
happy.

Squaw Valley - Day Seven

2008-08-08T10:43:00.000-07:00

Squaw Valley Community of Writers, Writer's Workshops
Day Seven

Today is pretty much the last day of the workshops. There is some ending ceremony tomorrow but all consorted purposes, today was the end of Camelot… and it actually pretty sad.

I have done a complete 180˚ turn about this place. Well… maybe not a complete 180˚ turn, but I do think that in certain instances I have underestimated this place. There is something magical here, and I do feel very privileged and lucky that, for a brief period of time, I was actually a part of it… that I was a drop of blood that ran through this place's veins. Right now I am in the huge hall where the majority of workshops and talks took place. We finished our absolute last panel discussion about an hour ago and there is only a handful of people here just mulling about… reading a book or chatting. I, like every one here at this point, am a little exhausted… it just been an overwhelming week.

All week I have been completely freaking out over my work being critiqued. Sometime Wednesday my roommates and me decided to take a little a break and head to Lake Tahoe which turned out to be the best idea ever. We were trying to find the movie theatre and thanks to the wonderful people at Mapquest… we wound up smack dab in the middle of an unincorporated forest.

On our way back trying to find the nearest paved road we accidentally found this little spot where we could park the car and observe the most idyllic view of Lake Tahoe I think humanly possible.

Afterwards we got something to eat and finally got to the movie theatre and saw the new Batman movie (which was extremely disturbing to me by the way.)

So by the time my material was up for critique I was pretty cool and laid back about. In general a lot of people liked but it needs a lot of work… and I got some amazingly good feedback on how to make it so much better. I am really eager to get into it start to reconstruct it.

By the way… the Poet Laureate of California Al Young actually critiqued my work. Let me repeat that… AL YOUNG… THE FUCKING POET LAUREATE OF CALIFORNIA CRITIQUED MY FUCKING WORK! I mean… come on… do I really even need a Christmas this year?

Today I had a one on one conference with author Cai Emmonswho I absolutely love and who, just coincidentally… gets my work. The more I talked with her the more I… I just wanted to cry, I really did. It's such an orgasmic feeling when someone established in your field… gets you. She gets me. Man… yeah… I can totally skip Christmas this year!

Squaw Valley - Day Five

2008-08-06T06:26:00.000-07:00

Squaw Valley Community of Writers, Writer's Workshops
Day Five

Really busy. Really, really busy. But it's actually very fun and very rewarding. I don't know if it's the life changing, awe inspiring thing that I guess I have been hearing... not that that's a bad thing. I think it's just presumptuous to expect God to show up where you want her to. I'm not going to fool myself into thinking that the people I've met up here will be lifelong friends but… I am definitely open to that experience… and that HAS to count for something.

Tonight, twelve of my colleagues will read my manuscript and tomorrow each and every single one of them will tell me… in detail… what they thought about it. Yeah… I have bought just about bottle of Pepto Bismal in the Squaw Valley area. I know it's just me being self conscious again but I think I just off as Omarosa to these guys. I'm a little antagonistic and I make everyone blatantly aware that I'm African American. If Omarosa is the bad witch of the east, I am definitely the good witch of the west. I use my powers of racial intimidation for good…

Squaw Valley - Day Four

2008-08-05T11:32:00.000-07:00

Squaw Valley Community of Writers, Writer's Workshops
Day Four

One of the things that these workshops have done is brought out a ton of personal issues that I pretty much have been trying to deny or fake or just get over. I have a huge "thing" about race. I am consistently standing in judgment of my friends who seem so awkward when put in situations that involve demographics that don't include their own. I took one of my friends to my company party last year and she was like this extremely awkward fish out of water as she was surrounded by this brood of people who were neither African American nor lesbian like she. I silently judged and scoffed at the idea that she was unable to play that inevitable game of life of assimilating into a group of people while keeping true to yourself.

Low and behold, eight months later, here I am surrounded by (supposedly) straight white folks and I have never been so blindly defensive in my life. And these are some of the nicest people I have ever met and still this situation has brought out some of the worst parts of my psyche, which I kind of dig… so I can deal with it and get over it.

Today I decided to smile. I remember smiling. When I used to work at a bagel company a grillion years ago I remember one of the administrative assistances showing me the notes a manger took during my initial interview for the job. He wrote in all capital letters VERY NICE. SMILES A LOT. It's funny thinking about that now. Despite the fact I had to take out a $4,000 loan for some major dental reconstruction surgery a couple of years ago… I don't really smile. I can't remember the last time I did… especially to a stranger. So… today I decided to smile. And I felt a little of the rhetorical jiggaboo that I felt has been silhouetting my head like some halo made out of used Newports and crushed St. Ides cans began to fade away.

I smiled today, and talked to a girl. Her name was Xan, and I like her very much.

Squaw Valley - Day Three

2008-08-04T08:45:00.000-07:00

Squaw Valley Community of Writers, Writer's Workshops
Day Three

I have declared the house that I share with my roommates to be NERD HOUSE. Earlier on during orientation one of the organizers was explaining about how we need to keep the house that we are renting in the most optimal shape and although inevitably there will be some "Party Houses" just make sure nothing gets broken, everything stays clean and there is absolutely no trace of any party happening. I automatically hoped that my house would be that Party House. Last night during dinner, I sat with my roommates and just took a good gander at all of us. One guy who I absolutely love began to ponder about what type of superhero we would be if we were superheroes. He was just jazzed about this idea. I think he wanted to be Wolverine or something. I decided to invent some new superhero named Breeze who basically does the same shit I do but just bathes on a daily basis. I don't remember everyone else's choices but afterwards we went into this lengthy discussion of Freud v. Jung and early Chuck Palahniuk novels. After that, one of my roommates insisted that we have a name for our superhero group… and that's when it suddenly occurred to me… we're the fucking Nerd House!

We have Wednesday off from workshops and meetings and I imagine that's when a lot of the social parties will be going on. I decided that we were going to throw our own wild ass party… complete with cocoa and finger sandwiches and we may drive into town together and catch the new X-Files movie… a matinee of course. We are all such fucking nerds! And I think it is the absolute funniest thing that 1) I fit in perfectly, 2) we are all brilliantly proud of our demographic!

I shouldn't be writing nearly as much as I am during this retreat. It's really about reading other peoples works and taking notes from workshops and meetings. They very much discourage even bringing your laptop here. But I can't help it. It's like a nervous twitch for me. It's either this or get my tongue pierced and suck on it all through the day when I feel inadequate.

So far the critiques have been pretty brutal, at least in my opinion. One of my roommates is actually also in my group and he disagrees but I just think that some of the comments have been sort of cut throat. Then as luck would have it, I actually had to read HIS manuscript last night and critique it today and I think in this scenario I was probably that brutal asshole. At one point I said something to the effect that the characters in the story seemed kind of hollow, almost like mannequins and they needed some more description and characterization to flesh them out. Supposedly, this was the bar of brutality for the rest of the critique and my comment was used as the example of negative energy at the table. Or it was probably just me over analyzing again. I did just feel kind of awful when it was over.

And of course… I'll be on the chopping block Thursday so… I'm thinking Wednesday afternoon I'm going to buy everybody chocolate bars… I'm not above bribing to get some love…

Squaw Valley - Day Two

2008-08-03T11:30:00.000-07:00

Squaw Valley Community of Writers, Writer's Workshops
Day Two

Okay so, I skipped day one. I didn't really skip it, I was just really busy getting myself acclimated to this place and convincing myself not to just ask for a refund then head over to San Francisco to the nearest Bear Bar and drinking myself into oblivion. But alas… I'm here.

Back in 1969, novelists Blair Fuller and Oakley Hall, both residents of Squaw Valley, founded this community of writers. From what I understand, it was a ground roots sort of "Hey, you like to write, I like to write, lets find some other folks out there who like to write and get together and talk about… writing." Thirty nine years later it's expanded into this very prestigious little community of highly skilled writers and poets. Every year they mount these intense week long workshops in fiction, screenwriting, poetry and various other literary pursuits.

The Community has a very competitive admissions procedure and the level of writing is high and yeah… I got in this year.

Yesterday was my first day and the whole thing has just been one big shock to the system. I have been having extreme boughs of cold feet about this whole thing. I'm definitely getting over it now but on the seven hour(!) drive up here I was freaking out. I just got nervous thinking I was too short, too fat, too ethnic, too gay, don't have the write clothes and most importantly, the demon that has been scratching at my soul for far too long now… at the end of the day… maybe I'm just not that good of a writer and maybe I use the fact that I'm short and fat and gay with no fashion sense as a crutch to feign some sort of ghetto literati fabulousness. I began to freak out at the idea of being surrounded by these genuinely talented writers with something to say and all I have is a butt-load of bathhouse stories and enema jokes. I do have to say that once I hit the part of the freeway that splits between Sacramento and San Francisco it was a true matter of wills to head to Sacramento. I so very much wanted to just go to San Francisco, meet up with some friends, bum around the Castro district, have several drunken orgasms and forget the whole brouhaha. But alas… I'm here.

Squaw Valley is near Lake Tahoe and the whole scene out here is the most idyllic mountain lined countryside I have ever seen. It's actually quite breathtaking and little bit annoying and off putting for an uber-urban guy like myself who is accustomed to urine filled subway systems and circumventing the rogue upstart gang fight. For the urban, nothing is as tall as a building, to experience anything taller is awe-inspiring, to realize man didn't create it is downright religion finding.

The Community of Writers rents out local summer houses and condos for its workshop attendees. I am in this amazing three bedroom condo left type situation. When I first got there it just reminded of the "Real World" where I go this amazing space and realize that this place is MINE for an extended period of time. And like the Real World… I've got roommates. I was supposed to have five but so far only four have shown up. One is in the master bedroom this is spacious, private and has his own attached bathroom. Another is in the other spacious private bedroom, though that doesn't have a bathroom. That guy has to share the only other bathroom in the house with me and the other two guys; we stay on the undersized second floor room that houses four twin beds and seems to stay uncomfortably warm no matter what time of day or night.

I have been so awkward. I am so lethally afraid of becoming "that" roommate, that one roommate that everybody hates, who is so obliviously annoying and tactless. I think in the process of trying so hard to become that roommate… in certain instances I have become that roommate. Put it like this, when I first got food to put in the refrigerator, I took a sharpie and put my name on all my stuff then patiently waited for my roommates to come so we could have a "house meeting." Yeah… I am "that" roommate.

They separate all of us into groups of around thirteen. Each one of us has brought fifteen copies of our manuscript. Each night, each one of us will read a manuscript from two people in the group and the next morning those two manuscripts will be critiqued by each and every person in the group. Last night started the process, instead of popping popcorn and watching movies on cable with my roomies, we all spent all last night in complete silence… reading. Today we went to our separate groups to make our critiques. I haven't had a chance to talk to them about it yet but I can tell you that my group… was BRUTAL. Thursday, my manuscript makes the rounds I am scared shitless about it! I can only imagine how they are going to just mutilate my stuff. In the end, I know that more than likely every single thing that they tell me is something that I will need to hear and make my work stronger but still… it is just the most horrible experience to have people break you down like that. I think if someone says that I'm just not that good of a writer and that I use the fact that I'm short and fat and gay with no fashion sense as a crutch to feign some sort of ghetto literati fabulousness, I will spontaneously burst into tears and head straight to Frisco.

Where the Hell is Matt?

2008-06-29T01:54:00.001-07:00

I just found this video and I can't put into words why this thing makes me cry every single time I see it.

Celtic’s wins 17th NBA Title

2008-06-18T00:06:00.000-07:00

Okay... it TOTALLY sucks that the Lakers lost but... remember that dude who stood me up who I was supposed to share the moon with? Yeah... he was a huge Lakers fan.

Karma is a motherfucker!!!

The Ballad of Breeze and the Lonesome Moon

2008-05-19T03:27:00.000-07:00

So I went out with this dude. We agreed to go to a potluck thrown by some friends of mine Saturday before last. He came over to my place first and we walked up to the Bourgeois Pig which was thankfully pretty empty at the time. We just sat and talked and got to know each other and I pulled out my “Table of Honesty.” It’s this thing I have going on where I make an atmosphere where the truth and only the truth is laid out, no matter how uncomfortable or heinous or self deprecating. I really felt this need to tell him where I stood as far as relationships go and why I don’t truly trust him… mainly because there are eerie similarities between him and my ex… up to and including that not only do they know each other, but they even have same first name.

I tell him that I’m not going to punish him for the sins of his doppelganger but I would be a fool not to notice the similarities. He kept saying, “Don’t judge me based on the other guy. I know you had some bad experiences with him but I’m really feeling you man. I hope you give me a chance.” So I took a needle, and I made the tiniest little hole in my heart, just big enough for him to slowly seep into, but small enough to close if this whole thing turns out to be shit.

We talk for a couple of hours about life and our plans and what we want to do. From what I gathered, he unfortunately is not of the “passion” clan whereas he is motivated by an intense passion or fervor. He’s a nurse. He’s been a nurse for 18 years, that’s what he knows how to do, it pays the bills and he doesn’t see himself doing anything else… period. I tell him about being true to yourself… particularly when you’re in a relationship. It’s really easy to lose yourself in somebody, particularly when you’re in love with them, but you should never loose yourself, never lose your consistency. If you love dancing and eating almonds don’t stop dancing and eating almonds if you meet somebody that you dig. They dig you because of who you are, and if you stop dancing and eating almonds, you’re not being yourself, you’re going away from what they found attractive in the first place. And if they are worth their weight in salt… they would never ask you to not be who you are. You always have to remain who you are. You can comprise. Relationships are all about compromise. But you need to know who you are and what you need in order for you to you know what to give away so you can keep what you want. He was quiet for a couple of seconds then said, “Damn man, you are fucking deep.” I didn’t really mean to go so far off in that direction… but in retrospect, I think I was talking to myself as well as to him, reminding myself, “Don’t do this shit again dude. You can like him all you want, you can even love him, but don’t you dare give yourself up to him… I can feel that you want to.”

We kissed. We kissed a couple of times. Right there, in public, in the Bourgeois Pig. Luckily it wasn’t too crowded and I doubt anybody paid attention aside from the chick behind the counter who I was pretty ambivalent towards considering the fact she charged me $8 for two bottles of water and a glass of ice. But we kissed and held hands and just talked about life and it felt really really good and it was the first time I ever went out with somebody and felt like they could take my heart away from my ex. My ex has always been that bar, that friendship/relationship I have always wanted. This dude is the first person I ever went out with in which I believed I could get the intimacy, companionship and conversation that I like… and it could possibly… supersede what I had with my ex… this dude kissed me in public and held my hand. That was major to me. Major.

We get to the potluck and have a ball. We agreed to leave at 6:00 p.m. because he had stuff to do but I was having such a good time I decided to stay. I walk him to his car, made out with him again, told him that I’m really digging him and he said that he was digging me too. Sent him on his way then went back inside and got completely toasted.

Now according to my friends (a.k.a. black gay database), this dude is a player. Once he gets what he wants he’ll stop calling all together, most of the time he’ll get a new number completely, but he never stays around for long… ever. That’s his M.O., love ‘em and leave ‘em, he’s been doing it for years.

When I mention him to my friends I consistently keep saying that we are just talking, not really dating, not really seeing each other, just talking… which is the truth. No one tends to believe it for whatever reason. And I do have a track record for attaching myself quickly and vigorously, but I tell them as I tell myself… we’re just talking, and I have no intention of trying to move in with him. Although, a week into it… I was smiling thinking of him.

We agreed to hang out this past Friday. My friends were meeting at the beach to have a barbeque, have a few drinks and watch the sunset and I invited him to come along.

I take the bus from Long Beach to Playa Del Rey and on the way I call him and leave him a message telling him that I’ll be at the beach and I hope I see him there but to call me in either case just to let me know he’s ok.

Nothing.

I get to the beach and I eventually meet up with my crew. The sun goes down, the moon pops up and we laugh and talk and listen to 70’s soul and funk on the radio. My mind could not get off of him.

I call him again and text him.

Nothing.

It was that damn moon. At one point my ex calls me out the blue and I try to convince him to come out to the beach with me but he is extremely tired and a little under the weather, he’s going to take a Vicodin and get some sleep.

So I sat there with those people and made the sweetest lemonade out of the sourest of lemons… I was so fucking lonely, and so fucking disappointed. It was that damn moon. Just looking it, I so just wanted to walk a couple of feet away from our campsite and have that dude tell me something sweet and me kiss him on his neck and tell him, “I give up, let’s do this man.” With the way I was feeling, I would have said the same thing to my ex if he would have shown up. Then I was thinking about how I could lose the both of them. Then I was thinking, hell, technically I already did, my ex has a boyfriend and unless this dude is unconscious, in jail or trapped under a big ass rock… he’s gone. The moment that the black gay database was talking about came… just like that. And truthfully speaking, it hurt a little bit. I was trying to pretend that it wouldn’t or that I wasn’t invested since it was only a little over week. But you know… it was nice to dream. I guess that’s how it feels like… just… waking up from a really good dream. It’s not devastating… but it’s definitely irritating… and little sad. For whatever its worth I really did like him.

That night, chilling with my friends and that moon... I kept hearing that little speech I gave to him about keeping yourself, being true to yourself, not giving yourself up completely to somebody. Even if I had never met that dude, I would have went to that beach party anyway. He was just accompanying me… he wasn’t the inspiration. And that was what got me through that night… that I was supposed to be there to have a good time, with or without him. And my original concerns and assumptions were absolutely true… you got to keep yourself dude. When the person that you’re digging leaves… all you’re going to have is yourself. And if you’re really lucky… you’ll have friends around who you can share the moon with instead.

Tori Amos Inks "The Comic Book Tattoo"

2008-05-14T02:04:00.000-07:00

This July the ever-growing relationship between comics and music reaches new heights as Tori Amos and Image Comics release COMIC BOOK TATTOO, a 480-page, full color anthology adapting the themes and ideas behind her songs into a lush volume of sequential art. Read more...

Could the summer be ANY BETTER now?! This and the Sex and the City movie and Chuck Palahniuk's Snuff... man... I think I just had an orgasm...

An Apology (Soufflés and Shit)

2008-05-08T00:23:00.000-07:00

Wassup peoples. I do feel as if an apology is in order. I have definitely been out of sorts for no real apparent reason, I keep thinking that the stars in my constellation have been out of sync or something… my Jupiter ain't been in line with Mars. But nevertheless, they seem to be swinging back, I'm calming down and things seem to be slowly coming back to the palatable sense of dysfunction that I'm used to.

So if I have offended anybody for what ever reason recently, I say with a weary heart… "my bad." How about this… I even apologize for that whole kill cab drivers thing… ok I don't really mean that but like I said… I stop carrying a baseball bat with me…c'mon that has to mean something right?!

This year has been an experience for me. I've just been trying to soak it all in and just claim responsibility for all of the stuff I've made… the soufflés as well as the shit.

Kind of got my heart all twisted up again. I'm just so weird. There was a time I thought it was the most childish thing to have crushes on people or to be attracted to people. Several people who I know, even my own parents, said that they just couldn't see me actually with someone romantically for the long haul. I think everybody thinks I'm this fiercely independent person who just could never compromise that much… almost like Gloria Steinem… you would never think that she would actually need nevertheless want a man as much as she touts her independence as a woman… but here she is, married and really happy. Or even Ani DiFranco or Madonna… back in the day… who would have thought.

Well… I'm getting there, slowly but surely. Not really giving up my independence or fire but, my heart is getting twisted up right about now. I'm not ready and I'm not sure if I want it but… for right now, it feels pretty good, and that's all I'm paying attention to right now.

A friend of mine keeps asking me, what do I want… in the long haul… what do I want. He has asked so many times, I know he's expecting me to go on and on describing the perfect man and the perfect relationship. But every time he asks me I keep answering the same way, "I want to write. I want to be a professional writer, books, screenplays, poetry, magazine articles, song lyrics, short stories, whatever it takes to pay the rent and get me some peace. I want to write."

And it's true. As much as my heart is getting twisted up right now, and as much as I want to just… surrender, I know it all can go to shit. I know this time next week I could be solo again, lonely and masturbating and drinking too much… and then what will I have? What I've always had… my writing. When I think about my life and what makes me happy… I want a dude, I mean really want a dude… but my writing, well… I pray for a dude in my life, but my writing... is my religion.

ANTM Update – 08,04-30

2008-04-30T00:19:00.000-07:00

For those of you not in the know, I'm a HUGE America's Next Top Model fan. Truth be told, I actually don't watch television at all. It's actually become more of a decorative piece of art in my apartment more than anything. Except Thursdays when I catch Lost and Wednesdays when I catch Tyra and the crew on ANTM.

Supposedly Project Runway is the modern flaming homosexual's reality show of choice but since I never got cable I never went in that direction, but Tyra suffices just the same.

Each year thousands of girls audition from all over the country and only twelve are picked to compete. This year Tyra opened up an extra slot for a thirteenth girl. This is the tenth "cycle" of the show and all and all a very enjoyable one. Not the most noteworthy but still pretty enjoyable. It's pretty stupid how I get so invested in these girls but what can I say, I've always had my favorites and I root for them the same way a straight dude would root for his favorite team in the Superbowl.

This season girls, in order of elimination are:

Kimberly, 20 year old blonde from Worchester, MA who actually quit on the first fucking episode! I was really surprised that Tyra didn't bitch slap this chick for wasting her time…

Atalya, 18 year old African American sistah from Brooklyn who despite being a sistah… was pretty forgettable. Outside of maybe the Cyndi Brady lisp which was kinda cute…

Allison, 19 year old Sarah Silverman look-a-like from Waunakee, WI who sort of came off as a real bitch and whom I was thoroughly excited about when she got eliminated but who made me laugh and endeared me to her during her exit interview…

Amis, 20 year old weird white chick from Bartlesville, OK who I actually really, really liked but I knew she had a snowball's chance in hell of actually winning, (truthfully speaking, outside of Adrianne from the first cycle, no one with personality ever wins on ANTM)….

Marvita, 23 year old sistah from San Francisco who I was really, really, really hoping would take the show and the world by storm. I was very much invested in her since I saw so much of myself in her ghetto ragamuffin ways and was just hoping she would put the rest of those bitches in place. Even though she got eliminated, I'm looking out for her….

Aimee, 18 year old Mormon from Spanway, WA. Did I mention she was Mormon? Next…

Claire, 24 year old mother of one from New York, NY who was so tall and strikingly odd looking I thought was a shoe-in to win this thing. I was really shocked when she got eliminated; I was really rooting for her also…

Stacy Ann, 22 year old sistah from Miami, FL who I thought was just cute as a button and though it broke my heart to see her leave, I never really thought she was going to make it to the final three….

Lauren, 22 year old alternative riot grrrl from Brooklyn, NY who has been my absolute favorite from the beginning. I'm in love with this girl and was really hoping she would take home the prize with her rough around the edges, fish out of water, punk rock attitude but even I had to admit that the whole act was just wearing a little thin after awhile….

This week the final two were Whitney, 20 year old plus size model from Atlantic Beach, FL and Katarzyna, 22 year old from Roslyn, NY who had about as much personality as a glass of milk. Katarzyma I actually thought was going to win this thing being the sanest and quietest one of the bunch but I think the judges were also a little bored with her and sent her packing this week.

That leaves Whitney with Anya, a striking 19 year old from Honolulu, HI with the weirdest accent since Björk, 22 year old Iman look-a-like Fatima who hails from Boston, MA who was gunning to be this season's "crazy bitch" (every season has one crazy bitch) but was beaten by a landslide by Ms. Dominique, a 23 year old drag queen from Columbus, OH who could very well overtake Jade from Cycle 6 in being not only the series' crazy bitch but maybe reality t.v.'s crazy bitch. Omarosa might have some competition on her hands now…

Personally I'm gravitating towards Whitney. I just love Whitney and even if she gets cut now she came a really long way. The only other plus size model to make it this far was Robin and that was way back during the debut Cycle so I'm hoping that she at least makes it to the final three.

I have a feeling it might be a battle of the bitches Dominique and Fatima which I got to tell you… would be must see television! I think I would want Dominique to win… I would love to see a drag queen win this thing…

MONTHLY BREEZE (APRIL 2008 EDITION)

2008-04-08T00:39:00.000-07:00

First let me say... I feel much better since that little tyrant about the taxi drivers. I’m not really up for apologizing yet but I haven’t picked up a bat in DAYS!

Now that THAT’S out the way, for those of you keeping score... this is the newest Monthly Breeze... sanitized for YOUR protection.

A little late but still as fresh as evah!

So here you the go, the brand spanking new edition of the MONTHLY BREEZE!

You can download the printer friendly version here.

Past issues of the Monthly Breeze can be found in the BREEZE MAGAZINE now available via Cafepress.

Breeze Magazine, Vol. 1

Issues 1 Thru 11

Featuring articles, "Why Cicely Tyson is God", "Urban Homosexuality 101" and "Pink Office Politricks"

Breeze Magazine, Vol. 2

Issues 12 Thru 19
Featuring articles, "The N*gger v. Faggot Conundrum", "Much Ado About Mary Kay Letourneau" and "Semantics of the Down Low Brother"

Breeze Magazine, Vol. 3

Issues 20 Thru 30
Featuring articles, "Men in Black (Dresses)", "A Lighter Shade of Gay" and "Incareceration Fairytale Truths"

Read and/or wipe with accordingly.

Enjoy!

OPEN PLEA TO KILL ALL TAXI DRIVERS

2008-04-03T23:17:00.000-07:00

Just a rant I have to get off my chest and then I’ll be over it. I have a feeling that I’m going to fall in love with a taxi driver. I say this because I have always absolutely hated bus drivers and have always damned them to hell and then I turned around and fell in love with someone who just as it so turns out happened to be a bus driver.

Well there is new piece of meat in my gun’s telescope, taxi drivers. I say this from the pit of my soul that I absolutely hate every single taxi driver that has ever existed and I damn the lives of all future taxi drivers.

This is rage. I want to remember it so I can understand it better. Tonight, I actually caught a glimpse of Rev. Fred Phelps’ soul as I stood on the corner as taxi driver after taxi driver passed me by. After passing me by, one taxi driver had to stop because of a red light at the near by corner. I couldn’t help myself. I ran to the taxi and asked if he was for hire. He never even bothered to turn in my direction. I pounded on the window and said that his light was on. He just pointed at his fair box and shook his head no. Right then my life flashed before my eyes as I tried as best as I could to convince myself that getting arrested for busting this guy’s driver’s side window, yanking him out and stomping him into a bloody mess would probably not be good idea. But the more the idea of letting this Arabian cum mold get away with it just angered me more and right when I had got to that "fuck it all" point, the light turned green and he sped away.

Not before pounding on his window a couple of more times, calling him a racist motherfucker like a 1,000 times and most importantly, getting his Cab number… 3553, Checker Cab Company.

I could feel Fred Phelps in my heart, him and his brood of sheep picketing a funeral of a homosexual brought down by AIDS or AIDS related causes with their chants and picket signs, "AIDS kills Fags", "God Hates Fags", "God Never Loved You", "Burn in Hell Fag". I could feel that rage. I understood it. I still do. Right now as I type this I can see myself going to the home, hospital and funeral of every cocksucking taxi driver that has ever been shot in the head, raped, mugged, beaten with a baseball bat, burned or mutilated and chanting and picketing quite proudly in front of their families and friends "God Never Loved You", "You Got What You Deserved", "One Less Piece Of Trash To Take Out", "Who Will Stop For You Now?"

I have to remember this hate. I have to remember how bright and alluring it is like some brilliant kaleidoscope that rushes through your system like a sweetness you have been hungering for so long. All that hatred pent up, all that rage washing over you, everything that you’re not supposed to say or think in polite society boiling, just boiling inside; bubbling over any sense of decency or political correctness that you might have proudly held onto for so long. It’s the white liberal woman who has been on the forefront of civil rights all of her life, even walking with Martin Luther King in the march on Washington, who gets brutally raped by a black man and when asked she just breaks down and goes, "It was a NIGGER! A NIGGER RAPED ME!" It’s the male feminist who lost the support from the majority of his male colleagues by trying to stop the demonization of the feminine within the church, state and home, to find his wife getting ganged banged by her teenaged students and having to pay her child support and alimony during the divorce and him breaking down and saying, "All women are cunt whore bitches who’s womb is a wound that needs to permanently heal over!"

It’s that carnivorous fury that burns and burns with what seems like no end.

I hate taxi drivers. I hate taxi drivers. I hate taxi drivers! I wish they were all dead, every single one of them. If I were to wake up tomorrow morning and saw a report on CNN that every tax driver in the United States suddenly disappeared leaving only a puddle of blood… I would be ok with that.

If there were ever a day designated as a free for all to torture, beat and/or mutilate any taxi driver on the road I would be ok with that. I would even offer my name for the celebrate holiday, Breeze Vincinz Day.

Tomorrow I might apologize for this ranting and to the families who have lost someone who drove a taxi due to violence and to the families who have taxi drivers in them right now worried for their safety.

But for right what I have to say to them and to the taxi drivers themselves is… yes, I am pissed, yes I am raged filled, and if I had a baseball bat right now I think I would risk a little jail time just to go back out on Hollywood and Western and crack a few windshields of taxicabs passing by… and I may be an over emotional asshole because of that. But just keep I mind… every pint of blood that I wish you would spill is only a reflection of the disdain that you have for me.

While I understand the heat of a Rev. Fred Phelps-like wrath, it’s not as linear. I don’t hate taxi drivers "just because"... I hate taxi drivers because they hate me. And if passing a brother by on the street with eight grocery bags and a laptop is not hate, it’s a really close fucking cousin of it.

I might apologize tomorrow but tonight, to all taxi drivers I say fuck you. Fuck you! FUCK YOU!

Love!

2008-02-20T23:23:00.000-08:00

I’m not sure what’s going on with me this year but I have definitely been on this high that I have not been able to get down from. I’ve just had this burst of optimistic energy that I haven’t felt since my twenties. Truth of the matter is that a lot of 2007 was spent praying to God for 2008 to be a breakthrough year for me. Somewhere around Christmas Ghandi kept haunting my apartment writing “You must be the change you wish to see"over and over my apartment walls in cinnabar juice. Either that or my spleen started to naturally produce cocaine… either case, the colors of my life got turned up somehow and I’m truly digging the scene.

Now for the longest time I’ve been threatening to do something about my weight and this year I actually got off of my fat lazy ass and sought professional help. My body and I have had one of the most abusive relationships known to man. Ike and Tina had nothing on Breeze and his arteries. I decided to get the both of counseling before we killed each other. And as luck and the buckets of sweat that I have exerted over the past month or so will have it… I actually lost 16 pounds. Keep in mind this is the heaviest I have ever been in my entire life. I have friends who have had gastric bypass surgery who have often asked if I have considered it to which I constantly have sang a very strongly bass pitched, “No!" But then I weighed myself earlier this year and found out how close I am to a baby whale and that I am going to have to lose half more than half my body weight to get to my “recommended"body weight. Dude, seriously, I would have known that beforehand, I think I would have picked up a gastric bypass pamphlet or two.

But nevertheless, today I am a Buick minus 16 pounds, and I’m pretty proud of that. I imagine this is going to be an annoyingly slow process. I don’t I’ll actually be even remotely close to my goal weight until next summer… but that’s cool. Me and my arteries have been on speaking terms all year so far and as long we’re friends, I can wait.

Now I mention all of that because I have totally been on this subliminal “Boyfriend"hunt since the year started also. Again I have no idea where that came from either. Somewhere around Christmas I think John Holmes also haunted my apartment and wrote “You must get laid on a regular basis"over and over my apartment walls in semen. Either that or my spleen started to naturally produce ecstasy… either case, I’ve got a hard on that could cut glass and I could probably sit on a fire hydrant with room to spare right about now.

Though honestly, I do “blame"the weight loss. It’s not a lot but I have been very active this year, more so than in a really long time. For the past couple of months I have reduced my physical activity to sleeping, typing and the occasional bowel movement. Just walking half a block to Sunset Blvd. has had me winded, sore and covered in sweat. Last Thursday I walked about three miles then climbed the stairs to get back to my apartment.

And anytime you get more physical… you want to get… more physical. Sometime this weekend I just exploded and I did what I said I would never, ever, ever do again… and placed a personals ad! I try not to be judgmental but I always thought people who do that type of crap were akin to desperate losers… how the might have fallen.

Afterwards I joined an online big boi community and this is when it hit me… I have absolutely positive way too many too many profiles and blogs up. I can’t keep a track of all of them. As it stands I’m on MySpace, Facebook, Yahoo 360, Hi5, Blogger, Kingz Place, Bear Zone, Bear Citi, Bigger City and Adam4Adam. It’s just too much. And they all basically say the same shit… “I’m from Chicago, I like Tori Amos, I’m as big as a baby whale and my spleen might possibly naturally produce crystal meth."

I am just way too overexposed right now. But also… I am on this mad hunt to find a boyfriend, or at least a notaboyfriend who’s a good lay. The personal ad is going to be up for the next three months so I think after that I will probably just pull EVERYTHING down and just keep MySpace.

In the meantime… Breeze is looking for LOVE!

P.S.

If you know any dudes in the L.A. area who dig articulate men who are obese, hairy versions of Gary Coleman with predilections towards white hippie chick music... send ‘em my way!

Monthly Breeze (February 2008)

2008-02-10T12:32:00.000-08:00

All right people, for those of you keeping score... this is the newest Monthly Breeze... sanitized for YOUR protection.

And just let the record show... second month, second Monthly Breeze... this year is turning out to be AWESOME!

So here you the go, the brand spanking new edition of the MONTHLY BREEZE!

You can download the printer friendly version here or you can see the online version at www.breezevz.com/newsletter

Past issues of the Monthly Breeze can be found in the BREEZE MAGAZINE now available via Cafepress.

Breeze Magazine, Vol. 1
Issues 1 Thru 11
Featuring articles, "Why Cicely Tyson is God", "Urban Homosexuality 101" and "Pink Office Politricks"

Breeze Magazine, Vol. 2
Issues 12 Thru 19
Featuring articles, "The N*gger v. Faggot Conundrum", "Much Ado About Mary Kay Letourneau" and "Semantics of the Down Low Brother"

Breeze Magazine, Vol. 3
Issues 20 Thru 30
Featuring articles, "Men in Black (Dresses)", "A Lighter Shade of Gay" and "Incareceration Fairytale Truths"

Read and/or wipe with accordingly.

Enjoy!

Bold As Love

2008-02-06T00:33:00.000-08:00

Once I get a moment to catch my breath I'll actually sit down a write a "real" blog entry but until then I thought I would post what I've been going through lately.

I just read my boi Amarillo's blog and I thought it might be cool just to post a song to tide me over until I get a couple of minutes to really write.

So in the meantime, here ya go...

Anger he smiles,
towering in shiny metallic purple armour
Queen jealousy, envy waits behind him
Her fiery green gown sneers at the grassy ground

Blue are the life-giving waters taken for granted,
They quietly understand
Once happy turquoise armies lay opposite ready,
But wonder why the fight is on

But they're all bold as love
They're all bold as love
They're all bold as love
Just ask the axis

My red is so confident that he flashes trophies of war and
Ribbons of euphoria

Orange is young, full of daring,
But very unsteady for the first go round

My yellow in this case is not so mellow
In fact Im trying to say its frigthened like me

And all these emotions of mine keep holding me from
Giving my life to a rainbow like you

But I'm bold as love
Just ask the axis (he knows everything)

Bold as Love by Jimi Hendrix

Monthly Breeze (January 2008)

2008-01-13T00:35:00.000-08:00

For those of you not in the know, I write a monthly newsletter. Or rather, I used to write a monthly newsletter. Back in '06 I actually sqeeked one out every single month. Unfortunately 2007 was one of my most arduous years, time-wise, career-wise, relationship-wise, and I was only able to get out two.

Well 2008 seems to be perking up for me creatively so we're going to try and do it again this year consistently. So here you the go, the brand spanking new edition of the MONTHLY BREEZE!.

You can download the printer friendly version here or you can see the online version at www.breezevz.com/newsletter

Past issues of the Monthly Breeze can be found in the BREEZE MAGAZINE now available via Cafepress.

Breeze Magazine, Vol. 1
Issues 1 Thru 11
Featuring articles, "Why Cicely Tyson is God", "Urban Homosexuality 101" and "Pink Office Politricks"

Breeze Magazine, Vol. 2
Issues 12 Thru 19
Featuring articles, "The N*gger v. Faggot Conundrum", "Much Ado About Mary Kay Letourneau" and "Semantics of the Down Low Brother"

Breeze Magazine, Vol. 3
Issues 20 Thru 30
Featuring articles, "Men in Black (Dresses)", "A Lighter Shade of Gay" and "Incareceration Fairytale Truths"

Read and/or wipe with accordingly.

Enjoy!

One Word (ganked from amarillo_oso)

2008-01-08T00:37:00.000-08:00

You
Can
Only
Type
One
Word

Not as easy as you may think.

1. Where is your cell phone?
bag

2. Boyfriend/girlfriend?
nonexistetant

3. Your hair?
cornrows

4. Your mother?
beatuful

5. Your father?
love

6. Your favorite thing?
word

7. Your dream last night?
sex

8. Your favorite drink?
tea

9.Your dream house?
owned

10. The room you're in?
office

11. Your ex?
ass

12. Your fear?
death

14. Where were you last night?
home

15. What you're not right now?
satisfied

16. Muffins?
calories

17. One of your wish list items?
book

18. Where you grew up?
Chicago

19. The last thing you did?
piss

20. What are you wearing?
clothes

21. Your TV?
dusty

22.Your pet or pets?
love

23. Your computer?
heart

24.Your Life?
good

25. Your Mood?
hopeful

26. Missing someone?
Ron

29. Your work?
ok

31. Like someone?
absolutely

32. Your favorite color?
yellow

33. When is the last time you laughed?
now

A Love Song for Momma: Christmas on the Mountain

2008-01-02T00:38:00.000-08:00

HAPPY NEW YEARS! What a year 2007 was! 2008 is already shaping up to be a trip. But let's go over a the last of 2007. The family decided to all meet up in Clovis, NM for Christmas this year. My cousin has a whopping five kids and instead of gearing up the whole brood to fly them cross country, he suggested that we all come over there and we all begrudgingly agreed. I say begrudgingly mainly because Clovis, NM is in the middle of nowhere. The nearest cosmopolitan area is Lubbock, TX and that is two hours away. The nearest gay bar is in Albuquerque, NM… which is three hours away. What's in between? Cows. Lots and lots of cows… and horses… and farmland.

I was not looking forward to the trip at all and had planned on doing a ton of reading and writing to make the time pass faster on what I imagined to be long, lazy days in the middle of nowhere. What actually happened though was that I wound up falling love with my cousin's sons, two of the most adorable little boys that you have ever seen in your entire life. They're twins, about 7 months old at the time, but one is noticeably larger and has more hair. They are two of the happiest babies I have ever been around. Just thinking about them now makes me want to squeeze them! They were just so cute! Like little dolls! A lot of my time was spent playing "Superbaby" with them which involved me laying on my back and lifting them in the air with their arms and legs extended and floating them around with them laughing uncontrollably and slobbering on everything… including my forehead… gross yeah… but still… CUTE! Oh my God... those kids! I could only pray to get some happy babies like that one day.

At one point my cousin and I decided to go out for a drive. When we piled into my rental car and that's when my cousin discovered that my rear passenger side tire was completely flat. I called the rental agency who sent AAA to come out and put on the spare tire. From there, I drove to the local Hertz rental facility where they gave me a replacement car… a 2007 Mustang!

So we zoomed around Clovis for awhile until we got tired and got some Mexican food.

The next day me and momma squeezed ourselves into the Mustang to go see Alice, one of momma's friends from way back in the day. I wonder if they were even friends before I was born. I have always known her. She is the whitest women you will ever meet. White as in culture… she's like Sandy Duncan and Florence Brady all in one… but in that same vain, extremely nice and personable.

Alice used to see this dude named Michael who I vaguely remember. I remember he was white, had a beard like a hippie and lived on a huge house boat. He passed from lung cancer. She's now married to Luther, this black dude from Atlanta who believes the draft should be reinstalled and claims to have seen aliens when he was a kid... I guess it takes all kinds.

They bought land on the top of this mountain (literally… a mountain) and built a house up there. After driving around for four hours and actually getting caught in a snow storm (!), we got lost and Alice and Luther came out to meet us at the local post office so we could follow them up the mountain. So there we were, me and momma in this blue mustang going up the side of this mountain. I still have nightmares about us plunging to our untimely deaths.

One freaked out hour later we arrived at the most idyllic little living space I have ever seen. The house wasn't that large but it was very, very quant and very, very "country living". They built the house from the ground up and all of the wood that was used is beautifully exposed, from the floor to the ceiling plates. It's shaped almost circular and every room has the most absolutely breathtaking views of the New Mexico skyline with its endless mountains and hills and valleys. And at night, you could almost cry looking up at the sky. Maybe it's because you are so far up but you can see every single star in the sky, and they are all bigger and closer to you. It's not like in the city, here it's like they lowered themselves for you.

When we got there I was a really tired so Alice offered me a room to sleep in and I was out like a light in seconds. When I woke up they cooked us steaks and vegetables and we drunk apple juice and water. Alice suggested to momma that we spend the night and I would have liked to if it weren't for the fact that my plane was leaving the next morning at 5:00 a.m. So we bid farewell and I prayed upon high to get us safely back down that mountain in one piece. By the time we left it was pitch black outside. There were no street lights on the mountain and oh yeah… did I tell you that the roads are not paved… and we were in a tiny ass Mustang?

But we made it, in one piece, and the car was fine. So it was all good.

It was about three hours to get out there and it was three hours to get back so it was just me and momma in the car by ourselves in all that time. And it was ok. We didn't argue or get on each other's nerves or anything surprisingly enough. And our conversations were very easy. Ahhh... I think I love my mom! Don't tell her that though!

I remember one point, when we were about forty five minutes away from Clovis. It was pitch black, no street lights, but it was a full moon and that was the only light outside of my headlights. The road was completely empty for miles and miles ahead of us and behind us. The only thing that you could see was this eternity of moon kissed high grass and the horizon in front of us. The heater was on and we were warm and toasty in the car and we were listening to a mix CD I had made prior. "Hey Jude" by the Beatles came one and we both started singing it together. It was probably one of the most perfect moments I have ever had with my mom.

At one point she said, "I really like 'Eleanor Rigby'."

To wit I replied, "It's the next song!"

Art and Consequence

2007-12-13T03:35:00.000-08:00

Illustrations by Doodle Machine

Not too long ago I got into this major argument with my friend Bolét about the idea of artistic integrity. He went to book signing where the author said something to the effect of, "I'm not trying to be Toni Morrison, and I'm not trying to change the world… I'm just trying to write a book; I'm not trying to effect change." He also brought up another author's book release party where the author was marketing his book and a three hour "making of" DVD which consisted of the author's friends waxing on about how silly and crazy the author is when he hangs out with them on the weekend. Both of these occasions "inspired" Bolét so much that he told me, "You know, I'm just going to go ahead and write a book. Hell, if those two can, any body can. That's what I learned, that it's not that hard. It's really not."

All of which pissed me off immensely.

But I just reeled it in and said, “I’m not going to stand in judgment of anybody, but all I have to say is… whatever you do, do it with a sense of integrity.”

And that is sort of where the argument sprung to life. The gist of the argument was that I found it odd for anybody to mass market their art without any intention of trying to affect change. He thought that it was totally acceptable, if not preferable, to just make shit up without rhyme or reason and throw it out for mass consumption, particularly since it’s been done for so long by so many people throughout the ages.

And I just got pissed off all over again. We yelled and yelled and nobody “won” but if there is something positive I can say about the whole excursion is that it was a little fun. At one point he was just intent on not listening to a word I was saying so I just turned the phone upside down to where the earpiece was facing my neck and I was just babbling into the mouthpiece unobstructed by his nonsense.

I then continued the argument with a coworker named Larry. Now the thing about Larry is that he loves to argue, not debate, not exchange ideas… argue, and it’s something he does with my boss quite often. Having gotten into heated arguments with the both of them on several separate conversations, I now know the finer art of negotiating a conversation with the both of them. One thing you have to keep in mind is, you don’t have to have this conversation at all and you can pull out at any moment. You can’t take either of them too seriously. Anybody who can’t agree to disagree just isn’t worth the saliva you’re using to have the conversation with.

Both Larry and my boss both have this almost angelic gift of transposing whatever argument you happen to be having into a completely different topic. It is very clever and very ingenious and if you’re not paying attention you can get swept up in a whole other conversation. It’s almost like you’re playing in a bowling tournament and you’re winning, but your competitors are slowly making you bowl down another lane. So you’re winning in your lane, but losing in theirs. It’s a male defense mechanism like, “I MUST BE RIGHT IN SOMETHING! IF NOT THIS, THEN SOMETHING REALLY CLOSE!”

So I begin to state my platform that once you begin to mass market your art that there should be some intention of affecting the people who will be experiencing it. His argument: you do not need other people around you to create art.

I agree. I ask him to address the original platform that once you begin to mass market your art that there should be some intention of affecting the people who will be experiencing it. He says that not everyone will be affected by your art.

I agree. I ask him to address the original platform that once you begin to mass market your art that there should be some intention of affecting the people who will be experiencing it. He asks would I write even if I don’t get paid for it.

I say that I do that right now. I ask him to address the original platform that once you begin to mass market your art that there should be some intention of affecting the people who will be experiencing it. He says that you don’t have to have that intention, that you can just do it for yourself.

To wit I reply, if you are just doing it for yourself without any regard to how it might affect the outside world, then why would you put in the effort to market it to the masses? Why invite everybody into your home and cook for them if you don’t care that they would enjoy the meal?

Yeah… this is where the silence started. After awhile he said the exact same thing Bolét offered at one point, “I don’t know how to answer that.”

I know Bolét got pissed at me when I kept saying that if he wanted to add to the “bullshit” [of art] out there that he could be my guest. He didn’t think of it as bullshit. He just didn’t feel as if you had to have these lofty intentions in order to write a book or sing a song. But neither do I. I guess I don’t think “affecting change” is a “lofty” concept. Even if you’re the Spice Girls, even if it’s entertainment, that’s the purpose of it all, communication, hear what I’m saying and take it home with you. And then we got into this whole other argument about pop culture and that’s where we were on two completely opposite poles. He absolutely positively does not think pop culture in any shape or form has affected society in one single bit throughout the course of time. I on the other hand, predictably enough if you’ve been paying attention, firmly disagree. And as soon I mention the name Madonna as a prime example, he took one step to the left and started to play in the bowling lane over there to start a debate as to why I always use white women in my metaphors.

So I stopped playing all together. Or maybe just a different game, I turned the phone upside down where the earpiece was facing my neck and the talk piece was in front of my mouth and I just started babbling on, “I'm not trying to give my life meaning by demeaning you! And I would like to state for the record I did everything that I could do! I'm not saying that I'm a saint! I just don't want to live that way! No, I will never be a saint, but I will always say squint your eyes and look closer; I'm not between you and your ambition! I am a poster [boy] with no poster! I am thirty-two flavors and then some! And I'm beyond your peripheral vision so you might want to turn your head! Because someday you might find you're starving and eating all of the words you just said!”

Ani Difranco, 32 flavors, just in case you didn’t know.

[note to self: why do I always use white women in my metaphors?]

The Love Test

2007-11-21T14:23:00.001-08:00

The Love Test

My Result: Natural Lover

You have a willingness to explore and take risks, which makes you a real catch for people who want to get out and experience all life has to offer. Whether you're camping, mountain biking, or simply taking a walk on the beach, your ease in the outdoors is something to be admired. In relationships, you're one of those balanced people who is able to think both with your heart and your head. This trait will surely benefit you in any romance you embark on.

Take this test >

My Superhero Self

2007-10-13T20:32:00.001-07:00

I’ve often wondered what type of superhero I would be if I were indeed a superhero. I’ve always assumed I would be one of those lame ass ones. When I was a kid I remember reading a friend of mine’s comic book that detailed all of these off the radar superheroes that never made it to the Justice League. One was this dude whose name I think was ‘Spectrum’ whose main superpower was the ability to change the color of animate and inanimate objects. Yeah, feel free to yawn at any moment. That was it Jack… he was able to touch a phone and make it purple. He had a unitard uniform and everything; it was white with these multi colored dots on it and he had wavy red hair. I imagine he was young and needed to find his pride in his superpower so he made big deal out of it. If he’s still around you know what he’s doing… he’s a balding overweight data manager at some nonforprofit turning tea the color of coffee just to piss off his co-workers.

My Superhero self would be something on those lines. I keep thinking that I wouldn’t be a superhero whose power could be lethal, just really annoying. Remember “Firestarter”… that really cool chick that used to hang out with Spiderman and could fly and create fire from her hands and had that sexy ass costume? Well, I would be like, “Uncomfortably Warm and Moist Guy”. I would wear what I’m wearing now, blue jeans and an old rock concert t-shirt, but whenever I would enter a room or confined space, it’s temperature would automatically raise to 77F*… and be a little dewy. Not enough to kill, but just enough for people to unbutton the tops of their shirts want to open up a window.

Or maybe Pepto-Boy. Like… I would touch people and they would get slightly constipated for thirty minutes to an hour.

My arch enemy would be Nappilina… no matter what texture your hair… with one look she could make it coarse and nappy. Asians would love her. But the Brits would demand that she be destroyed. But no one can, because no one really knows who she is. So it would be up to me to stop her. I would go undercover and be her boyfriend or even marry her and be her husband and with my powers to make her slightly yet consistently uncomfortable, she never naps another persons’ hair again.

We would live in London. No one would notice.

Crazy Truck

2007-09-16T03:34:00.001-07:00

Taken from the article "The Myth of American Sanity"

I recently commented on someone’s blog who explained, in great detail, that he is a black man specifically looking to partner with another black man who will be his submissive “bitch”. I commented that it wasn’t my thing but I would love to get drunk with him and hear of his adventures. To wit he replied, in great detail, about how delusional and offensive I am and how he isn’t even remotely interested in pursing the “intimate” relationship with him that he assumed I wanted.

I kept thinking of this idea of free will and tunnel vision. To this dude, when it came to relationships, nothing else existed for him but this hyper-masculine sadomasochistic situation that included him, his “bitch” and (I assume) a bridle. And this is something that he chose… out of the 32 flavors of sexuality and then some, he chose (really fucking) rocky road. Which, honestly, I am not making a judgment call on… like I said, it’s not my thing but if he digs it, go forth and perspire. But I do wonder if he has taken that step back away from those trees and have actually seen the forest that he is so adamantly rebelling against. And if so, what purpose does the whole ordeal serve in the big scheme of things. I guess that’s why I was so curious about him. But I think those are questions that he couldn’t possibly answer outside of his comfort zone of being a “Bitch Owner”. To him, his agenda is no more sacrilegious than that of the passive aggressive duplicity of your typical homosexual relationship, which just begs the question... are we all just fucking nuts?

One thing I have to applaud the brother on is his honesty. I would so much rather have a guy that I am seriously digging tell me upfront that he is a psychopath before I decide to give him head… there is nothing worse than realizing you just licked the balls of the insane. Say for example, you meet a dude, and you’re hitting it off. Wouldn’t you rather him say, “Oh, by the way, I like to kill people and eat their body parts” than to find out months later that you ate out Jeffrey Dahmer’s ass? And this is the world that I’m living in, one set of brothas that are honest about their insanity and another set of brothas too insane to be honest...

This Week in Music!

2007-09-11T23:59:00.000-07:00

I can’t remember when I have been this excited about a week in music. It might have been back in 2001 when Macy Gray and Tori Amos dropped albums the same day (“The Id” and “Strange Little Girls” respectively). Or maybe when Janet Jackson first dyed her hair brown and showed some skin in her video for “Love Will Never Do (Without You)”. Or maybe when I sat slack jawed watching Madonna masturbate on stage after being seduced by two gay Latino men in pointy bras while singing a Moulin Rouge-worthy rendition of “Like A Virgin” on her “Blond Ambition” tour. Afterwards the stage turned into this candlelit church cathedral scene where Carlton Wilborn put a crucifix around her neck and she began gyrating on the ground. I thought to myself, “this is the most cutting edge, funky, rock and roll thing I have ever seen… and she is soooo going to hell for this.”

Now this week doesn’t have any of the sacrilegious glimmer that I love to have in my entertainment trappings… but dude… did you catch Britney at the MTV Award show last Sunday? I don’t have cable but I do have insomnia and sometime around 1:00 a.m. Monday I decided to go online and see what was going on in the world and that’s when I got the news of her less than flattering performance.

Then I clicked on MTV’s homepage where you can see the award show in it’s entirety and that’s when I saw it… “The” performance that everyone seems to be obsessed with… even myself, it’s like a lava lamp or like when you lick a lemon and it’s so bad that you want to lick it again.
In my over-zealous writer mind I imagine that minutes before she was to go on she had a major panic attack and pleaded with the producers to have someone else start the show. The producers demanded that she go out there… so…she did what any other red blooded American would have done in that same situation… took a couple of slugs of Jägermeister, put on her cleanest bra and panty set and jiggled around. I was truly hoping that either a) she was just going to pass out on the stage in the most dramatic of scenes that could have ever been shot on live TV since the Challenger explosion or b) we were going to see a white southern “Wardrobe Malfunction”, hopefully this time without the weirdo S&M nipple clamps.

But alas, were stuck with watching some chubby chick try her best to stay lucid for four and half agonizing minutes while adjusting the hair pins in her wig.

Now seriously, I am not one to beat up on celebrities but… come on… she lobbed that one to the world… you got to expect SOMEBODY to try and hit it.

I also thought it was quite symbolic for what I imagine to be one of the worst performances ever to be recorded on live television to be on MTV. Both Britney and MTV have become idols whose fame far outweighs their initial intention. People used to watch MTV because it was music television. It has since branded itself into a name and now MTV is more about “being” MTV than actually playing music on the station. Same with Britney. Britney’s fans loved her for her singing and dancing. She has since branded herself to be “Tabloid Queen Britney” and increases her fame for doing everything but singing and dancing. As I watched the Hindenburg-like performance I could only hope that everybody involved, executives, programmers and viewers alike, could see the irony of… an icon failing on an failed icon.

It was almost like watching a mother and daughter get high together… and wondering if anybody is going to stop them… and if not are they going to share.

Then there’s the whole Fiddy v. Kanye brouhaha. Truth be told, I am not the hip hop fan that a lot of people claim me to be and I can only imagine I have got that reputation because I am an obese black man with cornrows and facial hair. I listen to rap but it’s usually like the other music I listen to, underground. Outside of maybe Madonna, Prince and an occasional Spice Girls tune, I’m not a big top 40 fan of any genre. To me both Fiddy and Kayne are officially “mainstream” and I usually stay clear of those waters, particularly brothas in Fiddy’s camp. I never did understand how somebody from the ghetto could earn tens if not hundreds of millions of dollars… and still put in this effort of Orwellian proportions to be ghetto or to “keep it real”, it just never made since to me. Not that you should change who are, but I would tend to think with that much money you would put things in better perspective and take care of your family and the hood that has nurtured you… not flash it around like some post modern pickaninny looking for the biggest watermelon slice.

Needless to say, I’m not a big fan of Fiddy’s. Kaye is an insufferably egotistical bastard but he’s got two things going for him, he’s from my hometown (Chicago) and at the end of the day, he makes some amazingly heart felt music that is honest, vulnerable with a little bit of social consciousness thrown in, huge tasks to undertake within new millennium hip hop where the cream doesn’t rise to the top like in a glass of fresh milk, only the shit in a toilet bowl of a diarrhetic. Very few artists are able to cut through with some semblance of self, intelligence and artistry, Lauryn Hill, Common, OutKast being the head of a very small class, the rest… you’ve got kids talking about drugs and death and rape as if they somehow invented it themselves and are now the purveyors of a new form of filth… when it’s the same shit nigga$ been talking about for decades… if not centuries.

But I guess that’s a tirade for another day. Let’s just say this, the whole Fiddy v. Kanye thing I think is one of the more interesting topics in modern African American culture. LA Weekly even compared it to an election where Fiddy represented the conservatives and Kanye the Liberals, which I thought was an interesting idea.

But with that in mind, and with today being 9/11 and all, I decided… to go out and vote.
The way I figure it is… first we get rid of Fiddy, then Dubya then Whitney will make a comeback and sing at Hillary’s inauguration.

Hey… a boy can dream…

I Hate EMO

2007-08-24T22:28:00.000-07:00

Okay kiddies… I just made a grade A+ discovery. So… have you heard of the band Fall Out Boy? They have this song that they play on the radio all the time and I could never fucking figure out the chorus. Just a second ago I just discovered that it’s, “This Ain’t a Scene, It’s an Arms Race”. I kept thinking that they were saying “This Ain’t A Scene, It’s a Bath Whore Place.”

Anyway, while perusing the “is-it-innovative-or-just-really-fucking-crappy” music video for that song, I noticed that they are the authors of many an annoying song I’ve been hearing on the radio! Dance, Dance, Sugar We’re Going Down, Thanks for the Memories, all this time I have been thinking these songs came from different bands… no… all from one ass one. They must be SUPER rich because they play these songs every hour on the goddamn hour.

Then after some more research I find Panic! At The Disco, Less Than Jake, Death Cab for Cutie and My Chemical Romance. As I type this it’s beginning to make sense… I hate Emo. Who knew?

But I imagine this is a gender thing. If Tori Amos or Madonna ever went Emo… I would be ALL OVER IT!

Wassup!

2007-08-19T02:38:00.000-07:00

This will be a quick one, I swear. Just wanted to pop in and say what’s up to the handful of people who actually still read this bullshit. Okay, my bad… it’s not bullshit, it’s my words, it’s my life… I’m just terminally self-deprecating… but if you’re still reading this… you know that already.

Everything is pretty cool. I’m stressed out beyond belief but that’s nothing new. As I get older I’m starting realize that… nothing really changes, just your perception of it. I could bitch about all the crap goin’ on or I could celebrate all the good stuff. I guess it just depends on what color liquor I’m drinking at the time. But all in all, I’m doin pretty good.

I’m working on my weight, working on my finances, writing is going ok. Be nice if I were seeing somebody romantically but I totally appreciate my alone bachelor-time. I did, however, get solid confirmation that my ex-notaboyfriend got fucked by a friend of mine when we were seeing each other. Which again, I’m looking at it as the glass half full. I think women best understand that. Like when your guy just makes you crazy, you know he’s cheating but he’s playing those mind games. Then you FINALLY find that pair of panties that ain’t yours and you’re like, “FINALLY! PROOF!” That’s how I feel right now.

That wasn’t too long now was it? Let’s end it on better note uh… I lost my gag reflex when I was in Washington D.C. If you ever see a tall, light skinned, thug looking dude from Florida… tell him WASSUP!

Assholes

2007-07-14T00:51:00.001-07:00

For the past couple o’ months I’ve been feeling like I’ve been on this spiritual treadmill; like I can’t seem to get out of the rat race of my own predicaments. I think I’m probably just having another mid-life crisis moment, but I find myself whining, complaining and bitching about the same goddman things… I bore MYSELF! I’m going to be 36 this October. I keep imagining myself being 40 and STILL complaining about my weight, my job, my ex-boyfriend and that book I’m going to publish… “one day”.

It’s one of the reasons I haven’t written a newsletter in months. I imagine myself to be this black gay version of Andy Rooney… whining about insignificant bullshit in life that someone with three inches more than me could care less about.

A colleague of mine has one of the most well known black gay blogs out there and I watched as she so excitedly commented on the latest topic of the day. She tries to keep it updated at least once a week. A part of me was jealous that she has the resources and the gusto to get her opinion out there. Another part of me was like… you know… opinions are like assholes… everyone’s got one... and they’re never as clean as you would think them to be.

I’ve noticed I’ve just been consumed with assholes lately. So much so that I have just been a little weary of having my own sphincter make the rounds. (I haven’t written a newsletter in MONTHS) I just don’t think that what I have to say really makes an impact. It’s like pouring Evian into the ocean… no one’s going to fucking notice.

It also might have something to do with my current obsession with Michael Moore and Spike Lee documentaries. I’m watching all of these documented accounts of the treachery perpetrated through each rank of our government and I just feel… so small and so helpless. I’m starting to coagulate this idea that maybe the best any American can do is… protect his or her own family and just keep his or his own shit together… everybody else is just going have to fend for themselves. I don’t know if it realistic to think you can “save” the inner cities or the down trodden or out of work farmers or the minimum wage worker… I wonder if the best you can do is just provide for you and yours and hope that those who take care of themselves also will get what they need too. All I know is that... with each atrocity this country unleashes on its population, there is an equal amount of opinions and empty platitudes that, while extremely satisfying and moral, never seems to… ever really change things. People are still displaced from Hurricane Katrina. The men who beat Emmitt Till to death were acquitted.

Despite ALL the assholes of the “Vote or Die” campaign, Bush won the presidency for a second time… by a landslide. We as Americans have cried a river a tears for the over 3,600 soldiers that have died since the war began in 2003… and he still wants them over there a little longer… and you know what… they’ll probably be there no matter the well intentioned prose we write in our blogs.

I just… I think I’m losing faith. What does it all mean? At the end of the day, all the marching, all the pillaging, all the Oprah-worthy platitudes… does it REALLY mean anything? I’m just losing my faith in mankind. I am losing the belief that art or music or poetry could incite the revolution that needs to happen in this cynical post-911 iPhone American Idol shithole of a place we live in. And with that, with me being a writer, I’m losing my purpose. So there you go… people have been asking me what’s been on my mind… that’s what’s been on my mind. That’s my opinion. That’s my asshole.

Or maybe… I just need to get fucked.

Breeze on Vacation Prt 1 : Don't trip, I've been IncogNEGRO

2007-05-25T00:54:00.000-07:00

It’s about 1:30 a.m., Eastern Standard Time. I’m waiting for my 18 year old nephew to come in from doing God knows what with God knows who. My mother specifically told him to not to leave the house some time around 10:00 p.m. or 11:00 p.m. and as predicted, we haven’t heard from him since.

For those of you who have been keeping score, I have been incogNEGRO for quite some time now. My schedule for the past couple of months has been absolutely insane. A blind man could have seen that it was only a matter of time before the schedule I so fiercely thought I could control would so fiercely control me. I haven’t really written a word for months now and it has definitely affected my psyche. Well, I’ve written a little here and there, sort of like a man walking through the desert only being able to get a bottle of water every once in awhile, half a bottle maybe, nothing to REALLY quench his thirst.

I have definitely over extended myself over the past couple of months, the past couple of weeks in particular. For several weekends I have holed myself up in my apartment wearing nothing but my underwear trying to complete all of the projects I have had on board. I’ll get home Fridays at 8:00 p.m. from my regular day job, sit in front of my laptop and stay there until Monday around 7:00 a.m. when I decide to take a shower (maybe) and go back to my day job. The rest of the time I’m in this sort of, mindless haze trying to catch that damn dangling carrot in front of me, deadlines presented by my clients.

I have definitely been out of sorts. I’m not all together ashamed of that however. I have drawn some lines in the sand and have “showed my ass” if you will to a couple of people and entities but I think time was due. I mean… I lot of things that I have said were based on sleep deprivation but, they needed to be said. It’s like that phrase, “A drunk mind speaks the truth.” So does a sleep deprived one.

But enough is enough and I decided to take a VERY well earned and VERY well needed vacation. Washington D.C. is hosting their Black Gay Pride celebration during the Memorial Day Weekend and I have family in Maryland so I thought… what better time and location to chill out and relax.

And so far it’s been okay. It’s been great actually. I mean… here I am... journaling for Christ’s sake? When was the last time I had the time, energy or inclination to do that?

I’ve been trying to… get outside my head. I am notorious for living in my head. If you do this too, you know what I’m talking about. Consistently dreaming and dreaming about dreaming and fantasizing about this life that you know you will have one day once your ship comes in. But… you know… you’re not doing a goddamn thing about it… except dream about it, and live an entire life in your head.

I’ve lived my relationship with my folks in my head for as long as I can remember. I dream of my parents being so proud of me that they’re almost jealous of me. I dream that I’m paying their rent and all of their bills and when they have a cup of coffee they go… “My boy Breeze bought me this coffee!” The reality of it is, they’re proud of me, but it’s not paying their bills, and if given a choice, I’m almost certain they would prefer for my G-Spot not to be three inches up my ass.

They keep asking me why am I in town. Coincidentally enough, my nephew’s high school graduation is coming up and so that is the assumption. And while I do want to give him some words of wisdom for the big day… dude… I NEEDS to get LAID.

I am my parent’s kid. I mean, they are definitely two separate people with two separate personalities but I would tend to think that if you had a good five minute conversation with either of them you would definitely realize that I am a direct descendent. My mom is funny in a self-deprecating way, I get that from her. And in certain aspects, as we get older, she’s starting to seem more human to me because of that. She’s not Superwoman, she’s a Black woman on a fixed income trying to make it in the world. Which, in my head makes her a Superwoman, in reality; she’s my mom and I've got to come up with some creative to way to help her out… outside of dreaming for her.

I am a conservative oversexed workaholic. I’m sorry; I meant to say that, my father is a conservative oversexed workaholic. It’s almost been the same journey with my dad. I have always romanticized him in my mind. When I would say “daddy” I always meant “Daddy” like “Madonna” or “God”. I still do in certain ways. I used to blame him for not feeling adequate enough to please him, like he was always overly critical of me. Before coming out here I got my hair braided by this Belizean sister named Amy who told me that I will have children when it is time for me to have children. That certain people want to wait until they have enough money. She said, “Don’t think like that, you’ll never have enough money. Even if you had a million, million dollars, it will never be enough because you will always want your child to have more.” I think the reverse is true too. I could be this tall, thin brother with clear skin and a bevy of supermodels outside my door and a dozen healthy rusty-butt babies who are well loved and well taken care of and millions of dollars and at the end of the day you know what I would ask myself, “I wonder if Daddy is truly proud of me.” I would ask him so and he would reply, “Of course”… and I just wouldn’t believe him. I would never be enough. It took me 35 years to realize that… that’s my shit not his. He’s proud of me, I’m just not proud of myself, and I’m trying to push that shit off on him.

Being with them these past days has been an absolute pleasure for me. I think I forgot what it felt to have that type of love around you… unconditional and… long is the only way I can put it. It’s been long time since I’ve known my folks. Since day one you know. Aahh… I’m getting mushy. I’ll just say… my folks… are the shit! I love them both immensely and I’m proud to have them as my friends… when their not pissing me the fuck off.

Later today I will check into my hotel room and I am totally stoked about that. The last time I came to D.C. pride was a couple of years ago and I came with some really good friends of mine. We had an absolute ball. It was one of the best vacations I ever had and the friendship with one of my cronies only got stronger and better. We became best friends really. That is until last year sometime when I called him looking for support and a friendly shoulder to lean on as I was trying to platonically integrate my notaboyfriend back into my life and he shot enough holes in my self-esteem and intelligence to make Swiss cheese to look like sheet rock.

Needless to say… we haven’t spoken since.

The other two, well… one I was on shaky terms with anyway and the other just got… lost in the shuffle of life. So here I am… solo. And I’m cool about it. I’m not trying to pretend that this is going to be a better vacation than the last time. What I am expecting is just to relax, calm my nerves, leave all that Los Angeles bullshit behind, I would even dare say leave my identity behind and just start anew… but I wouldn’t go that far though. I would say; I am here to relax and have a good time. I want to be Breeze just… Breeze without the drama, Breeze without the million and one things to do, Breeze the halfway decent looking chubby guy… yeah… that’s what I want.

Oh yeah... and to get laid… thoroughly and intensely.

There are some prospects so I’ll let you know how it turns out. I want to write every day of this vacation. It just feels so good to me right now! My fingertips on the keyboard, my mind going in Improv mode and playing it out on the screen. This is fucking cool! Creativity… how I missed thee…

By the way, my mood now might seem a bit chipper than it did during the first paragraph because… my little nephew finally came home about thirty minutes ago. My brother’s name is Dice and we always call him “Baby Dice” which, predictably enough, he now hates at age 18. He’s going through that “Lil Bow Wow” phase where he wants to be respected as a man by dropping the “Lil” from his moniker… you know… as if wearing a pair of pants that fit wouldn’t do the same thing.

I told him today, that no matter how old he gets and no matter what does, he’ll always be “Lil’ Dice” to me, and that once he gets older, he’ll understand how that’s a compliment and not an insult. Once you’re around to see someone be born or have changed their diapers enough times, that doesn’t leave you. Ever. Even after they grow up and become crack head rock stars, heroin addicted porn stars, meth head whores, they’re still Lil’ to you. You still remember that five minutes of their life when they were untouched and unbruised by this pin prick of a world. When they just slobbered, and said “Daddy” and took a shit in their diapers and giggled like angels just drank ginger ale and were burping in their tummies. That never goes away.

Even when you know that they are doing drugs that have to be stronger than marijuana because they (and their room) have no noticeable smell and when they “decide” to talk they try to speak in hyper-philosophical strokes that come off as nonsensical then later leaves out the house at around 10:00 p.m. or 11:00 p.m. after their grandmother (your mother) tells them specifically to not leave to house.

Even after you feel in your gut that this one time that you have scheduled to relax and get laid is about to be flushed down the toilet because you fear that any minute you’re going to get a call from the police to either come pick him up or come view the body, or maybe you fall asleep and go check his room and realize he never came home at all and you have to play the waiting game with your mom as she worries herself into a minor aneurism like she did when your nephew’s father (your brother) pulled the same shit twenty years ago… back when her arteries were twenty years stronger and she wasn’t on a fixed income.

You want to hate them. You want to write them off as trash. Just throw them away like so many empty aluminum cans and plastic bottles that you know can be recycled but you don’t want to put in the energy and really… at the end of the day what good does it do anyway. You want to cut all ties, mark them for dead, pull up the roots and salt the soil so nothing ever grows there again.

But sometime around 2:30 a.m., they come knocking on the door, from God knows where, doing God knows what with God knows who and all you can think about was when you were carrying them around in your arms on your graduation day and he pissed on your suit coat and everybody including you and him thought it was the funniest shit in the planet.

You tell him to go to bed.

You thank God he’s in one piece.

You thank God you still have the opportunity to get laid the next day.

You keep on writing.

Rebel Songs

2007-03-18T01:35:00.000-07:00

THIS IS JILL'S...

THIS IS MINE...

There is a song that needs to be sung

But I don’t know the words

About your legacy

And your disregard

About how you are not

What you choose to be

Only what you have been taught

to believe

About

Barbaric masculinity

Submissive femininity

Blissful stupidity

and those useless commodities

hanging from your

neck, ears and fingers

that do nothing

for your legacy

that you disregard

as history

but is really

you fate

calling

It is a rebel song

Because rebel means to repel

the joys of assimilation

Because angels can’t fail

with the right ammunition

Because there is a safety in numbers

So it’s no wonder

Why so many have made

meals from the scraps

they gave us

despite the fact

we can sit at the table now

we own the table now

Niggas with attitude

You’ve made yourself niggas without latitude

You’ve taken the scraps they gave you

And made yourself a meal that never fills you

You’ve shellacked the shit they left behind for you

And curse the ones who don’t follow you

There was a history the existed before they grabbed you

And there were gods who came down to rest with you

And you were smelting iron before the Romans even knew what to do

And you had a God and he had a mother and you prayed to her too

You looked up in the sky and knew why the ocean was blue

You knew where the trees were solid, you knew where the wind blew

Africa didn’t call you a nigger, that’s what the Europeans gave to you

Nigger is the illusionary beast that funded the Americas and their tool

to help you forget

but never forget

They put chains on your ankles and raped Nigger into you

The ancestors ate chitins from the scraps of the pig that were left in stool

But that was because that is what they had to do

They shed a grand canyon of blood to make sure you didn’t have to

You don’t have to take the scraps

left behind

to find

your pride

You don’t have to take the scraps

left behind

to find

your pride

We can sit at the table now

We own the table now

Chitins do not honor the ancestors for that is not what they would wished to eat

Nigger does not honor the ancestors for that is not what they wanted you to be

You don’t have to take the scraps left behind to find pride in your history

when you were smelting iron before the Romans even knew what to do...

...you came from kings and queens

The poison you sell to your own people and the things you say out of ignorance

Is not a testament to the reality of the black experience

There is a safety in numbers, that’s why our family tree has this pestilence

Not just a couple of branches, it’s in the root, it’s in our consciousness

That what we want is really what we want and not just fed to us

This need for expensive clothes and cars, praying to a lily white jesus

There was no Manifest Destiny in Africa, that’s what the Europeans gave to you

Manifest Destiny is the illusionary beast that funded the Americas and their tool

to help you forget

but never forget

You predate Manifest Destiny

You predate nigger

You predate chitlins

You predate the brothas who figure

getting high is all they got

You predate the Sodom and Gomorrah

You predate Lot

You predate the notion that God hates gays because of that fable

You predate capitalism

You predate cable

You measured the cadence

in ocean waves

You raised children in cities

You raised children in caves

You constructed mathematics

You constructed mythology

You constructed cosmetics

You constructed hematology

You are in Congress

You are in Senate

You have been to the moon

You built Kimet

You were a slave

But you predate that too

(you get it?) you predate constraint

You... predate... you

And you are still here

(you get it?) You are still here

There is a song that needs to be sung

and I’ll try to come up with the right words

about your legacy

and your disregard

about how you are not

what you choose to be

only what you have been taught

to believe

It is a rebel song

Because rebel means to repel

the joys of assimilation

Because angels can’t fail

with the right ammunition

Because there is a safety in numbers

So it’s no wonder

Why so many have made

meals from the scraps

they gave us

despite the fact

we can sit at the table now

We own the table now

You don’t have to take the scraps

left behind

to find

your pride

Never forget

http://www.breezevz.com

Songs in the Key of My Life (Questions for Tuesday)

2007-02-06T00:40:00.000-08:00

So... I have been totally losing my grip on reality. I'll let you know when i get it back.

In the meantime, I checked out the MySpace of my straight-boy crush ?uestlove and found this little questionnaire and it made me feel soooo good going down memory lane I decided to share it and it sorta gave me hope that I'll be getting sane again... soon.

Song You Believe Your Parents Conceived You To: Poetry Man by Phoebe Snow

Song That Best Makes The Soundtrack of Your Childhood Neighborhood Theme: Everybody Loves the Sunshine by Roy Ayers (1970's Southside of Chicago baby)

Theme Song To Your Closest Sibling: Remember the Tinman by Tracy Chapman (Makes me think of Martin EVERY time)

The First Album You Ever Purchased: Purple Rain by Prince (I think Martin bought this one but I can't remember, might have been Janet Jackson "Control")

The First Single You Ever Purchased: If You Don’t Know Me By Now (Live) by Patti LaBelle (I HATED it when Simply Redd came out with their ASS version!)

Album Cover That Scared You In Your Childhood: Joy and Pain by Maze (The "Pain" side... it's fucking spooky man)

Song That Scared You In Your Childhood: Super Freak by Rick James (Just reminded me of cemetaries for some reason. Still does.)

The TV Theme of Your Childhood: Good Times

Favorite Song From Sesame Street: Pinball Number Count by The Pointer Sisters

Favorite Song From Mister Rodgers Neighborhood: N/A

Favorite Song From The Electric Company: Lolly licked a Lolly

What Were You Banned From Listening To In Your Childhood: Strokin’ by Clarence Carter

Rock Song That Rocked Ghetto/Ghetto Song That Rocked The Suburbs (as a kid): Let’s Go Crazy by Prince

Song You First Slow Dragged To: Smile On by Deee-Lite (aaaah.. College!)

First Cassette You Got For Your First Walkman: Showing Out by Mel & Kim

Best Cosby Show Theme: Bobby McFerrin

Favorite Soundtrack of Youth: Anything by Five Star and/or Control by Janet Jackson

Song That Played When You Got In Trouble And Grounded At Home: I Can Dream About You by Dan Hartman/Dancing in the Dark by Bruce Springsteen (They were always conspicously on the radio every time I got grounded as a kid)

Song That Played When You Thought You Was About To Get Some: Ecstasy by Barry White (What was playing in the car when Vernon drove me home from the Clubhouse)

Song That Played When You Got Some: Everyday by Jamiroquai (aaah.. damn... damn... damn... it was NEVER better than this...)

The Theme To Your First Break Up In High School: Make it Last Forever by Keith Sweat

The First Compact Disc You Ever Brought (not Album/Cassette): Rescue Me (Remixes) by Madonna

Album That You Stole From A Friend: Around the World in a Day by Prince

Your Favorite Album You Think Your Friend Stole: New Edition, he knows which one

If Ever In Car Accident....What Song Was Playing?: Raspberry Swirl by Tori Amos (got kinda caught up in the song, missd a turn and embedded my van into a hill)

5 Songs You'd Put On A Mixtape For A Potential Love One
* Andromeda & The Milky Way by MeShell NdegeOcello
* I Try by Angela Bofill
* What You Won’t Do For Love by Bobby Caldwell
* Shape of my Heart by Sting
* Minute by Minute by The Doobie Brothers

Song To Best Describe Your Best Relationship: Ooh Boy by Rose Royce and/or Everlasting Love by Chaka Khan (I forgot about love... it was good... it was DAMN good...)

Song To Best Describe Your Worst Breakup: Get Gone by Fiona Apple (...but when it's bad...)

First Concert You Ever Went To: CeCe Peniston

Magical Concert You Ever Went To: Lenny Kravitz (I saw God)

Worst Concert You Ever Went To: Joan Osbourne (Hate to say it but it just wasn't good)

Coolest Celeb Ever Met: MeShell NdegeOcello (If she had a penis I would have proposed)

Assholish Celeb You Ever Met: Macy Gray (But she was just having a bad day)

Godlike Celeb You Ever Met: Halle Berry (She touched my arm and I have yet to wash it)

The US Weekly "Oh They Just Like Me!" Celeb You Ever Met: Erykah Badu (definitely kindred spirits)

Song So Hype You'd Run Your Moms Over With A Trash Truck Going 100 mph: Thriftshop audio Mashup of Take Me Out by Franz Ferdinand and Milkshake by Kelis (this shit is just CRAZY dude!)

Song That Has The Ability To Make You Cry: Painters by Jewel (Little cheesy I know, but it just reminds me of my husband)

The One Song That Has The Ability To Make You A Kid Again: Double Dutch Bus by Frankie Smith

Song You Are Ashamed To Admit You Love: Realest Niggas (Remix) by 50 Cent, Biggie & Eminem (You can take the boy out of the projects but you can't take the projects out of the boy)

Song/Album That You Have To Gunpoint Others To: Crazy by Ray Lamontagne

If You Were To Marry Now What Song Would Be Your Wedding Song?: “No One Else” by Amel Larrieux (this song makes me want to get married)

What Song Best Describes Your Children/Future Children?: Happy Feelin’s by Frankie Beverly and Maze (oh yeah... happy Lil Breeze)

Who Killed Music? Diddy (American Idol a close second)

Who Keeps Music Alive For You? Ani DiFranco, John Legend, MeShell NdegeOcello, Bjork and Prince

Song Playing Right Now: Cleo’s Apartment by Marvin Gaye

BREEZE’S APPLICATION FOR LOVE

2007-01-19T06:49:00.000-08:00

So this idea did not totally originate from me. It actually was a post on a blog from an eFriend who posted his own application for love. I thought it was a little silly at first. I have become so jaded in my old age. There was a time I so believed in love and love at first sight. At tearing out those little “Love Is…” cartoons in the paper and keeping them in your wallet because they remind you of you baby. I used to burn CDs for my last notaboyfriend complete with illustrations and poetry printed on the labels. Dude… how fucked in the head was I to be doing some shit like that?

But alas, I was in love. And when you’re in love, you do shit like that. And truth be told, and let’s just keep this between you and me, I miss being in love. I miss having somebody on my side. I miss having somebody to feel all goofy, and cheesy and G-Rated about. I miss having somebody’s name to write beside my own and wonder how the tattoo would turn out if I threw in a couple of roses and maybe a bear. I miss love.

So this application is just my little way of reminding myself that it’s okay to be corny and a little cheesy. Besides, Valentine’s Day is coming up and prospects are quite low this year for the old Breeze. So fill it out to the best of your knowledge. All applicants will receive a reply. I am an EOB (Equal Opportunity Brotha), all should apply. Fats and Femmes to the front of the line. Use additional sheets if necessary. Applicants chosen will receive a date with Breeze which will include the following:

1. Dinner at some high class restaurant like Chez Mac Don Alls or Jaque N Dabocks

2. Movie of your choice as long as it is R-Rated and I want to see it

3. A hell of a story to tell your grandkids (or wife depending on who you are) So be honest, be thoughtful, and be REAL...

Who knows… maybe you will be the one I share my Kool-Aid with while watching Boondocks… you gotta play to win…

Name:
Birthplace:
Current Living:
Age:
Ethnicity:
Zodiac Sign:
Marital Status:
Have Kids:
Want Kids:
Do you know God?
Do you mention it every five fucking minutes?
Do you do drink/do drugs?
Are you willing share?
Are you a liar?
Was your answer to the previous question a lie?
Seriously dude, did you just fucking lie AGAIN?
Drag Queens: Deplorable or Damn Funny
Do you go to the gym?
Do you mention it every five fucking minutes?
Have you ever lived outside of the city you were raised in? Where?
Who’s your favorite artist within the R&B/Hip-Hop Realm?
Who’s your favorite artist outside the R&B/Hip-Hop Realm?
Are you bald?
If yes, can I sit on your head?
Do you have at least one Janet Jackson poster taped to your wall?
Pornography: Good or Gross
Are you more introverted or extroverted?
Are you financially stable?
If yes, if I were to propose giving you a vigorous blowjob and maybe a rim job for… let’s say... a CAR… would you consider that prostitution?
Would that be a problem for you?
Do you still live with your parent(s)?
Would fucking in their house be a problem?
Would you object if I were to ask them to join if they heard us?
Did you spend the equivalent of a year’s minimum wage on your wardrobe last year?
If yes, how does that make you feel?
If you answered “Fabulous” on the last question, are you blonde?
What do you want to do when you grow up?
Are you afraid to be happy?
Are you better talker or listener?
Does it take you a long time to have an orgasm?
Do you sometimes need marital aids to get you off?
When they are not available, do you resort to kitchen utensils?
Do you have a dishwasher?
Do you like to cook?
Do you like to eat out?
If yes, do you use a mint afterwards?
Would you be offended if, while performing oral sex I were to say, “Oh yeah, take that daddy’s little fuck slut?”
How about during anal sex?
Would you be up for playing a little game I like to call “R. Kelly and the Teenage Choir Boy”?
Lastly, are you or have you EVER been a bus driver?

Post all answers here or email to breezevz@breezevz.com. And do it NOW… the Kool-Aid ain’t getting any colder…

Mariah & Me (Bouillon Cube)

2006-11-07T00:02:00.000-08:00

Wassup Fam
I’ve been having some severe Mariah moments lately. Like… I’m a step away from running naked on TRL screaming, “I’m not going to answer my cell phone!” too. I’ve just been overwhelmed with stuff; work and spoken word stuff and life and love (or the lack of it). I can’t even put into words this “phase” of my life right now. I do know that in certain ways I feel as if I’m dissolving. Like at one point I was like this solid bouillon cube of sex and humor and radicalism and emotion and music. Nowadays it’s like, someone dropped me in a pot of hot water and I’m just… getting watered down and separating from the solid. Like everything that I’m about is getting further and further away from where it was and it’s becoming something else… something weaker.

Jesus I need a vacation.

I was so desperate at the thought that I went and bought my ticket for Maryland for Christmas yesterday… despite the fact I can’t really afford to spend that type of money right now, fuck it… I’ll just eat Ramen Noodles for dinner for the next couple of weeks… I need to see my momma, I need to see some snow.

A couple of weeks ago I told my friend Dale that I’m tired of being Breeze. He said, “That’s very telling; that you feel that there is a separation between the real you and Breeze, as if Breeze is a ‘character’ is you play”. Which isn’t necessarily true, I mean, we all play characters, it’s all a play. I responded, “Well, don’t you ever just get tired of being you? Don’t you ever get tired of being ‘Dale’?” And with that, I think he got it. Sometimes I just want to be another brother at table eating chicken. Not the gay dude. Not the black dude. Not the fat dude. Not the web designer. Not the writer. Just a guy. Eating chicken. With his peoples. That’s what I feel like right now.

I’m hoping this trip to Maryland with sort of drain the water, and leave me my bouillon residue afterwards. I’ll build another cube from that.

HIV Is A Gay Disease

2006-10-18T12:04:00.000-07:00

The Full Article is at http://www.breezevz.com/monthly_breeze.html, but here's an abridged version as well as comments that I posted on the OwnItEndIt.org message board

There is an ad campaign that is being heavily promoted in Los Angeles with the tagline “HIV is a gay disease. Own It. End It. It is sponsored by the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center. It is a shocking statement and I applaud the enthusiasm of trying innovative new tactics to further dialogue about HIV and AIDS, but as an African American, it does insult me to the core.

American history is rabid with instances where Caucasians have claimed ownership to events originated by people of color. Just like when Elvis claimed ownership to rock and roll on the back of Big Mama Thorton, I feel as if The Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center are claiming ownership of a disease on the backs of the disproportionate number of men of color in Los Angeles who are affected by the disease, not to mention the extraordinarily high percentage of people of color affected world wide, particularly in Africa.

I don’t think it is a far reaching summation to equate the ads that read “HIV is a gay disease” with “HIV is a white gay disease”, particularly since none of the ads feature people of color and most disturbing and startling of it all, the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian center has absolutely no programs whatsoever that address the needs of the LGBT communities of color, HIV impacted or not.

So you have an ad that features Caucasians that declares that HIV is a gay disease being sponsored by an organization that proudly has no programs for people of color. So… it bares asking… what the fuck is that shit?

And it just brings up that whole dichotomy of being gay and being black. The whole push for gay marriage is to promote that the right for two consensual adults to marry, is a civil rights issue dealing with the basic fundamental equality of ALL Americans. So how in the world can the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian center possibly ask for support to promote equality… when it is an organization that proudly ONLY serves the Caucasian community? And as a person of color (gay or straight) why should I feel compelled to give a damn about that crusade when it’s being presented in a way that seems diametrically opposed to the goals of my community.

And if I am gay, and that is my community, where does that leave me? Not at the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center, that’s evidentially clear.

I think of my former days [when I used to facilitate a gay youth group] and how if this were happening back then how I would have pulled some naively multicultural, Uncle Tom-ish excuse for the ads and/or the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center. It would have been something about how we all should support them and their efforts to help those affected and prevent further transmission. How by helping them promote the equality of homosexuals we’re helping to promote the equality of all men and women. Jesus… how I wish that were true.

When there is dialogue in regards to the AIDS epidemic, racial sociology is rarely put in the forefront which is immeasurably frustrating since those most impacted by HIV/AIDS are people of color. And I don't see how the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center or this campaign is doing ANYTHING to truly address that problem. This campaign does not seem at all to be wiling to address the needs of the people most in need of education and services, people of color. And considering the fact that the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center doesn't have ANY programs dedicated to those communities, it just comes off as another bleeding heart liberal elite attempt to garner sympathy and attention.

If the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center TRULY wanted to address the problem of increased HIV infection and Gay Equality, it might want to start by trying something that is truly innovative and provocative for the gay community; welcome people of color as a part of the community by respecting their presence, opinions and needs. Posters of two Caucasian men embracing with the slogan “AIDS is a Gay Disease” is not going to do that especially when statistically speaking, HIV/AIDS affects communities of color more so than any other demographic in Los Angeles and the world as a whole.

How can the gay community expect to promote compassion in regards to Gay Equality when on that same level, the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center is doing nothing to promote equality within its own walls?

It just seems to me that by helping the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center the only people you're helping are the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center who... coincidentally... is not doing a goddamn thing to help your black ass.

Boy from the Ghetto (Making it past 30)

2006-10-16T07:08:00.000-07:00

I got some advertisement from Yahoo 360* saying that every blog entry doesn’t have to be this monumental dissertation on life and death and other smarty shit like that. I think it was divine intervention. Usually when I decide to write in this thing I am usually trying to mine for some emotional or spiritual revelation but you know, at the end of the day, it is just a fucking blog.

So let’s just go over some of the broader strokes of things that have expired this year and things that are expected to happen. This year just zoomed by man. Can you believe that it’s fucking October? Just yesterday I was grieving for Katrina victims and telling everybody to donate to Red Cross as a gift for me for my 34th birthday. Turn around… and here I am turning 35 already. Who would have guessed… me… at 35.

I attended some spiritual gathering Saturday night with some friends of mine where the discussion revolved around alternative spirituality, crystals and Pagans and such. At one point we were asked to say the names of loved ones who have passed away. Every one said a name or two. I just started rattling off the names all of my friends who I grew up with in the projects who passed, all of my friends who were put down by AIDS… I never thought I was going to make it to 35. I never thought I was going to make it to 30 really.

Dude… my life, my life, my life, my life… in the sunshine…

I stopped speaking with a really good friend of mine this year and that just sucks. I keep going over the situation over and over in my head to come up with what can I do help facilitate a resolution and I just can’t come up with an answer. I came to him near crying asking for advice and a shoulder to cry on and he laughed and insulted me away. I don’t know what my position should be. I need an apology and he’s just not built for that unfortunately. It’s damn shame though. I really do love him.

Had a very brief encounter with the notaboyfriend for a second there. In retrospect I am extremely happy that I did. It just cleared up a lot of doubt as to my feelings for him and any obligations that I felt compelled to have towards him. Basically… it all came out in the wash; all the bold faced lies, deception, cowardice… bullshit… it just all came out. You ever see the Matrix? Like when Neo or Trinity needed to know how to fly a plane or drive a motorcycle and they would download the operation manual and that information would just slam into their head and they would know everything in a matter of seconds? That’s basically what happened to me. After one conversation it was like somebody stuck a plug in the back of my head and the past four years of complete madness with this dick-wipe just slammed in my head in a couple of seconds and for the first time EVER in the four years since I’ve known him I got a clear, concise, objective view of the whole relationship and came to the exact and accurate conclusion that… me being with this dude… was just ONE BIG FUCKING MISTAKE. Not that I didn’t learn anything, because I learned a lot. I just didn’t need to learn it like THAT. It’s like when you keep telling a kid to not touch the pot because it’s hot and he touches it anyway and then later on he looks at his burned hand and goes, “I should have never touched that pot.” That’s where I’m at. I learned my lessons, and I won’t touch that pot again, but I can’t help looking at my burned hand and going, “I just should have NEVER touch that goddamned pot!” Never. NEVER. I know they say never say never… but I don’t think THEY’VE ever been in a relationship with a sexist, egotistical, lying hypocritical bigot… who drives a bus.

NEVER!

The spoken word thing is going good. It’s going great actually. I wish I had more time to devote it. Being on the mic is quite addictive. I just need to get some more pieces memorized by heart.

Pretty much the only reason I came out to Los Angeles was to be with my best friend Kim because she was pregnant at the time. I moved in with her and her roommate. Well, she had the kid, then the next year 9/11 happened, and we ALL lost our jobs. The roommate moved South, Kim moved to the other side of town, I stayed in Hollywood and prayed nonstop for God to give me some peace to calm my thoughts of slaughtering everyone who worked at the House of Blues on the Sunset Strip (my previous Nazi-esque employer who unceremoniously not only fired me but denied me unemployment). Kim and I lost contact with each for YEARS and only just recently have we begun to reconnect… and it feels so weird. We were crazy college kids when we met. But now, she’s about to get married, I’m going through a “Divorce”… it’s just trippy. In certain ways I feel as if I let her down for not being there for her for the past couple of years… but you know… the phone works two ways… and I would have adored some female energy when I was dealing with that “Four-Year Mistake”.

I am unbelievably horny. I’ve sort of sworn off sex for awhile. I bumped into the notaboyfriend’s ex-boyfriend at a sex club and it just freaked me out. I couldn’t even pinpoint the reasons why. The whole thing just seemed to tilt my whole spiritual being on its side. And I guess I’m a little pissed because I don’t really have anybody to talk about it with who would really understand. Usually people are stuck at the “sex club” part and are just so intrigued and titillated by that that the rest of the story is sort of moot to them. And I think part of that is probably why my London Bridges haven’t been falling down. I think somewhere along the way I actually began to internalize a lot of the puritanical judgments thrown at me when talking about my attendance at a sex club or bathhouse or whatever. I consistently find myself DEFENDING myself and I think that creating the motivation to fight over something like this… makes me feel like I lost already. And the idea of doing it again… feels dirty… which it hasn’t felt like for YEARS. But even still, I’m about to start humping lamp posts nowadays I’m so horny.

And every once in awhile, I miss love. I miss being in love. I miss having that preoccupation. I don’t when I’ll be ready to really do it again. But I like thinking about it for now. I can’t remember the last time I actually made love. I’ve fucked my brains out but I can’t remember when I made love with someone who I was in love with. I keep going back to my first boyfriend… over TEN YEARS ago… that’s a DAMN shame!!!

Went to Los Angeles Black Gay Pride this is year for the first time… and last time. Disappointing isn’t even the word for it. Well… maybe it is… or maybe REALLY FUCKED UP AND DISORGANIZED.

Found a long lost friend of mine named Rangi who lives in North Carolina. That was definitely one of the highlights of this year.

And of the friendships that have weathered the storms were highlights.

My health has been the absolute worst. I have never in my entire life been THIS out of shape. I feel as if I have a fat suit on… like I can go in the bathroom and unzip myself out of all of this until I look down and I’m like, “Shit… that’s not a shirt… that’s my fucking back!” It sucks being fat. Fuck that whole Bear community shit. I’m a step away from getting surgery or vomiting or something. I tend to believe my self esteem is pretty healthy… but I HATE being fat.

Well… there were things that went on this year but, I’m tired as hell so… that’ll have to do. Oh wait.. the music so far:

I didn’t like the new Ani DiFranco CD “Reprieve”, it was o.k.; I liked “Knuckle Down” MUCH better. And I liked Beyonce’s “B-Day” MUCH better than “Dangerously in Love.” I think I’m officially done with Janet… it was a nice run though. India.Arie and Pink made the only songs this year that made me cry, “I Choose” and “Who Knew” respectively. If I were a girl, I think I would want to be Corrine Bailey Rae and despite the fact I’m probably the absolute LAST Madonna fan, the live “I’m Going To Tell You a Secret Disc” was really fucking good; her live version of “Like A Prayer” really had some teeth to it. John Mayer’s “Continuum” has got to be the best album I heard all year, hands down. The Roots “Game Theory” a REALLY close second. Van Hunt gets the MeShell NdegeOcello award for consistently making albums that are inhumanely good… and never sell. Best song title, Evanescence “Call Me When You’re Sober”. Best album title, Yo La Tengo “I Am Not Afraid of You and I will Beat Your Ass”. A for Effort award, Fergie, “The Dutchess”. Best Rock and soul collaboration, U2 and Mary J Blige on “One”… white folks just couldn’t HANDLE Mary on that track and she sang her ass off.

And come back to the five and dime Erykah Badu, Erykah badu…

Ten Questions for Tuesday

2006-09-12T12:58:00.000-07:00

What can I say, I'm a dork... I like filling out questionnaires. Besides it's only ten questions... feel free to answer yourself...

What is your favorite word?
Momma

What is your least favorite word?
AIDS

What turns you on?
Sincerity

What turns you off?
Elitism

What sound or noise do you love?
Can I say music? Music. Acoustic guitar.

What sound or noise do you hate?
Babies crying

What’s your favorite curse word?
Fuck

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Truck driver

What profession would you not like to participate in?
Politics

If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates
I’d like her to sing the theme song to “Welcome Back Kotter”

What I've Learned pt. 2 (Notes for Lil' Breeze)

2006-08-31T17:21:00.000-07:00

It should be noted that I’m a magazine junkie. As of date I’ve got subscriptions to approximately twelve magazines, Esquire being one of them. One of the running gags of Esquire magazine is “What I’ve Learned” where they ask a celebrity to list things that they have learned over the course of their lifetime.

Every once in awhile I’ll start my own “What I’ve Learned” list just for shits and giggles; maybe just to prove to myself that I’ve learned SOMETHING in the past 34 years.

However, this year in particular has proven to be one of my most intriguing, difficult and transitional years I have ever experienced… and it ain’t even over yet. God only knows what zany adventures await me in Maryland and Chicago when I make my trek over there for the holidays.

The major highlights for me this year have all revolved around management; anger management, ego management, libido management, financial management, it’s just been this consistent struggle to keep everything in its place or in the very least try to use the chaos in my favor. And it’s been a REAL struggle. I would like to believe that as of date I’m ahead of the game, but I guess only time will tell. If you happen to see a chubby black dude with cornrows covered in blood crying uncontrollably about his not-a-boyfriend and living in an overcrowded, racist, sexist, homophobic world while trying to spit on the gaggle of officers trying to handcuff him on COPS… well… you’ll know that I fucked up.

But so far so good.

I just recently bought that P!nk album “I’m Not Dead”. It’s okay. I don’t like it as much as the last one “Try This” but that’s usually how it goes; I adore the albums that are commercial flops. P!nk’s “Try This”, Madonna’s “American Life”, anything by MeShell NdgeOcello. But there is one song on “I’m Not Dead” that I thought was interesting. The self explanatory song is titled “Conversations with my 13 Year Old Self”. I used to try and play that game; what would I have to say to my younger self, I always drew a blank, because I never thought that I had anything to offer little Breeze. It was definitely a narcissistic intention because I could never pinpoint a time in my life in which I felt I was wrong or really needed guidance. But this year… dude… I now realize exactly how big of a fucking idiot I am… and have been for a really long time.

So I began writing another “What I’ve Learned” list with the intention of it being life lessons for Lil’ Breeze. So I dedicate this to him… wherever he is.

Never disclose details of your relationship with your friends. Despite their intentions, they will NEVER understand.
There is no such thing as a winnable war.
J.L. King’s books on living “On the Down Low” and his pleas that he’s not gay because he doesn’t coincide with the gay “lifestyle” would be similar if someone Biracial claimed that they don’t consider themselves African American because they don’t like chicken and watermelon.
I too am going to write an intense expose revealing the secret, discreet, clandestine, provocative, surreptitious underground world of the down low brother who oddly enough has sex with both men and women. I’m going to call it, “Nigga Get Over Yourself, You’re A Faggot.” Chapter One: “Who You Think You Fooling?”
Sex is intimacy.
Size does matter… but so does the compensation for the lack of it.
The only consistent feature of all of your dissatisfying relationships is you.
Note to Atheists: God is love.
Note to Christians: Love is God.
There is only one true stereotype; that no matter what people say, at the end of the day, we ALL just want to come home to someone who digs us.
You can’t change people. People have the right to their opinion and to pursue whatever dream that they have for themselves. Although… that doesn’t necessarily mean that you are obligated to give audience to their lunacy or invite them in your house.
With the majority of the main players in the Hip-Hop industry being African American millionaires, I think it’s a goddamn shame that the face of the American humanitarian effort to help Africa is Angelina Jolie. (Get Rich or Die Trying? How about get rich, put on a fucking shirt and help prevent someone else from getting shot nine times.)
Fuck the new-wave feminism shit; it is not cool for men to cry.
A friend of mine believes “Love” is a byproduct of the devil. I think its cell phones.
God in fact did not make Adam and Steve, he made Adam and Eve. Actually he made Adam and Lilith but Lilith wasn’t going to put up with Adam’s lazy ass and Adam was threatened by that so he had her banished and asked God for a more docile woman so he made wishy washy Eve who couldn’t stand up for herself to save her life and did anything anybody told her including a snake who told her to eat from the tree of knowledge (and mind you not one time did she think it was odd that a fucking snake was talking to her) and she ate it anyway and Adam was so pussy whipped that he took a bite from the apple too completely going against what God told them both to do so he banished them both from the Garden of Eden forever. So… you know… maybe God SHOULD have made Adam and Steve then brought Lilith around because even a fag knows that the world needs a woman and when the snake came around I’m pretty sure that between two fags and a fag hag SOMEONE would have thought to question a talking snake then got some Raid or something and sprayed it out of the garden and mankind would have lived happily ever after without some jackass consistently pouting about how God made Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve… as if that wouldn’t have been a better plan.
As far as nature v. nurture is concerned, you can teach a man how to suck a dick, but you can’t make him like it.
Racism still exists. Anybody who tells you that it doesn’t… is a racist.
Some people might mistake your reality for racism but that will only further prove your point.
Contracting AIDS is never an option.
If there were a pill that I could take that would cure me of my homosexuality I would definitely take it, especially if it were a really big suppository.
You’re not Madonna; quit dying your fucking hair.
Your mother loves you; she just doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing.
Coffee makes you shit.
Though it may not seem like it at the time, there is life after high school.
A true friend will always be there for you and you’re under no obligation to maintain relationships with people because you have a history with them.
Loner is not a bad word, easily-influenced is.
Your family loves you; it’s just outweighed by their passive aggressiveness.
You’re not going to hell because you’re gay. You’ve done MUCH worse things than get fucked up the ass.
You can only do what you can do.
Ice cream has no bones.

Beautifully Human, Horribly Male

2006-05-16T00:45:00.000-07:00

I just came from a writers’ workshop where I read a huge chunk of the novel I’m writing and I discovered the most absolute striking thing… I… am a dude. I mean, I joke all the time about being a lesbian trapped in a man’s body and I always have considered myself to be the utmost feminist but as the night went on it became blatantly clear that no matter how deep you pull back the artichoke layers of my existence… you’re gonna find a guy.

The section of the book in which I read went into detail about the relationship between a HIV+ guy (Victor) and his HIV- boyfriend (Smoke). Now this part in particular comes from Smoke’s point of view and he explains in detail the trials and tribulations of his relationship with Victor; from the physical and mental confrontations the two have to Victor disclosing the fact he was HIV+ late in the game or that he was still involved with his ex lover who he currently still lives with to an incident where Victor loses control of his bowel movements and shits all over Smoke while they are sleeping. Smoke explains all of the intimacies within their relationship, good and bad on both parts, and decides to leave him.

Now the attendance of tonight’s workshop was all male and one female. The one female had the biggest problem with the section citing that she felt absolutely no sympathy for Smoke and was ashamed that he would abandon Victor. When I asked if she would feel the same if both parties were HIV- she said that she would feel differently, that the fact he was HIV+ made her feel more sympathy for Victor and Smoke just sounded like a whiny, bitchy guy who doesn’t take care of his responsibilities. A sentiment that unintentionally cut to the bone because, predictably enough… I am Smoke.

The funny thing about it though was that all of the men “got it”. They got Smoke’s pain, his negatives and his positives as well as they got Victor’s duplicitous nature. It confounded me that she could not garner an ounce of sympathy for Smoke despite all of his anguish and only felt empathy for Victor. While talking with a friend who attended the workshop he ascertained that this was because she was looking at it from a woman’s maternal point of view and that the fact Victor was physically ill took precedence over his personality quirks. He also noted that my story was specifically MALE. That the language, structure and dialogue was by far geared towards a male audience. There were certain phrases and metaphors that I used that he and other male members of the audience got right away but was lost in translation by the female member.

My friend told me that I need to decide who I want my audience to be. There is no right or wrong answer to that question, I just need to decide and write appropriately. If I want my audience to be male then I’m headed in that direction. If I want my audience to specifically target to both genders, I might need to make some alterations. But the whole discussion just tripped me out because… I NEVER CONSIDERED ANY OF THAT. I never thought my story was so insanely male or that I was somehow neglecting the feminine spirit. It was almost on the level of writing, “I like puppies and kittens” and someone saying, “That’s a racist comment.” You’re just sitting there going, “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

My friend and I continued talking about men consciousness versus women consciousness and how he has been guilty himself of emulating female consciousness in some of his relationships and the whole discussion began to fall on me like a ton of bricks. I was just bombarded with flashes of my life, particularly some recent parts, where my entire mentality has been motivated by pride, principle, virility, circumvention, assumption and my everlasting pursuit to maintain that Teflon coating around my heart and ego. And then I imagined all that man juice, dripping into every single word I have ever written, leading up to the novel I’m writing now which… apparently reeks of it.

I think a part of me is uncomfortable about creating something specifically “male only”. Another friend of mine brought up Oprah and how what she does is directed towards women and I guess that’s the route I always wanted to go, to bring some enlightenment to men, but just not at the “expense” or exclusion of women. It’s just disorienting to think I’ve created a piece of work that could be deemed… exclusionary.

And I’m still tripping on the fact that I am such a GUY. The woman in the discussion commented that she could not see the love between Smoke and Victor. I constantly talked about how they used to physically fight each other all the time and then fuck right afterwards. The men got it; they were crazy about each other. The woman could not see sympathy with Smoke leaving his HIV+ lover. The men got it; Victor was a chicken head and Smoke had enough. The woman could not see how Smoke could have some ill will towards his overbearing mother. The men got it; she was a lunatic. The men got these things from the get go without further explanation. So my crossroads is whether I should, do I want to or could I benefit by further explaining certain scenarios for my sisters.

One thing that the female participant suggested I do is give copies of the section to women that I know and ask for their opinion and I definitely plan to do that. I’m very curious to see if my writing and/or I myself am indeed that tragically male.

The jury’s out on whether or not I’m going to completely rehaul my intentions for the book. But I am insanely curious to know where I and my book stand on the gender scale.

Winter

2006-05-03T00:45:00.000-07:00

Somehow I feel as if I have slipped into some warped alternative dimension of what my life could have been if I would have made different decisions. Have you ever wondered about that? That somehow somewhere out there is someone who is the exact carbon copy version of you, but making different decisions. Like there is a African Breeze who’s married with kids, a Parisian Breeze who’s part of the military and studies ballet. Lately I don’t feel like myself, like I’ve been making the decisions of the Scandinavian Breeze or something. The Ghetto Breeze just hasn’t been doing some of the things that I usually do. The decisions I’ve made have been categorically unBreeze-like.

I can’t remember a time where I have had so many people pissed off at me intentionally. It’s so weird, Breeze… the antagonist. I guess it was bound to happen. I guess you can’t be everybody’s Ed McMahon. And here I am, trying pawn off my responsibilities and not claim responsibility for my actions, “No, it really wasn’t ME, it was the Scandinavian Breeze…”

I know I sound cryptic (as usual) but long story short (and without conspicuous details) in the past month or so I have either damaged, altered and/or completely severed ties that I have had with some pretty important people in my life… intentionally. Breeze doesn’t do this. Breeze sticks it out. But Breeze (like Latifah) has had it up to “here”. Who knew I had the balls to let some people go? And while I think they were healthy decisions to be made… you know… I just wish shit was cool with us. That was always the plan, that at the end of the day that we would cool. I thought I could get to that point with ambivalence and delusion, like I have been doing for the past thirty-four years. But I guess everything changes.

I am now Scandinavian Breeze I guess.

I really want to reprint these lyrics in hopes everybody who I have pissed off lately could maybe, just maybe, get the gist of them more so than the lectures and arguments and disagreements and debates and broken hearts and broken promises that have been passed between us like a hot plate. Maybe, just maybe, Tori can get across, what I haven’t been able to.

Winter
© Tori Amos

snow can wait
i forgot my mittens
wipe my nose
get my new boots on
i get a little warm in my heart
when i think of winter
i put my hand in my father's glove

i run off where the drifts get deeper
sleeping beauty trips me with a frown
i hear a voice"you must learn to stand up
for yourself cause i can't always be around"

he says when you gonna make up your mind
when you gonna love you as much as i do
when you gonna make up your mind
cause things are gonna CHANGE so fast
all the white horses are still in bed
i tell you that i'll always want you near
you say that things change my dear

boys get discovered as winter MELTS
flowers competing for the sun
years go by and i'm here still waiting
withering where some snowman was
mirror mirror where's the crystal palace
but i only can see myself SKATING around the truth
who i am but i know dad the ice is getting thin
mirror mirror where's the crystal palace
but I only can see the myself
skating around the truth who I am
but I know dad the ice is getting thin

when you gonna make up your mind
when you gonna love you as much as i do
when you gonna make up your mind
cause things are gonna CHANGE so fast
all the white horses are still in bed
i tell you that i'll always want you near
you say that things change my dear

hair is grey and the fires are burning
so many dreams on the shelf
you say i wanted you to be PROUD of me
i always wanted that myself

he says when you gonna make up your mind
when you gonna love you as much as i do
when you gonna make up your mind
cause things are gonna CHANGE so fast
all the white horses are still in bed
i tell you that i'll always want you near
you say that things change my dear

Compartments

2006-04-18T17:11:00.000-07:00

Alright… so, I know it’s been ages since I have updated my blog… my BAD! I am so no good at this thing! I recently watched “The Big Lebowski” and I just laughed my ass off. I AM JOEY LEBOWSKI. I am the most lazy, irresponsible, beach combing hippie this side of the color line. I keep joking that I am subconsciously trying to get myself fired from my job. I just have not been putting in 110% like I usually do. To tell the truth it’s been more like 22%... at the most. I told a friend of mine that I should quit. She asked if I could afford to do that. I responded with the most joyous “Hell no!”

I’m fucking losing my mind dude.

My emotions have been afflux. There is a very natural state of docility that I exist very well in. You would think I were a stoner. I could go for days with my incense, a lava lamp and my Tori Amos CD’s. But then there’s reality, you know. A brother HAS to get paid you know. I’m all about the life of a struggling artist but the truth of the matter is that what I’m TRULY addicted to is… having health insurance and a bank account.

So you make that compromise. You blow out your incense, you find the cleanest shirt with a collar you can find, and you drag your fat ass to work. The whole exercise is quite daunting. I’ve been trying my damndest to keep my emotions and different aspects of my life separate. Making sure abstract thoughts of fancy don’t bleed into my construction of medical databases, making sure the negative emotions I allow to filter through me when writing do not make an appearance when talking to colleagues, keeping my work at work and my home at home. Making sure my peas never touch my potatoes if you will. I’m trying. Not sure how well it’s working… I’m at work right now… writing this entire thing.

The other day, while on the number two bus, I completely exploded on this old, crazy, homeless woman. She said I was standing to close to her and I called her every cock sucking bitch whore that I could scream at the top of my lungs. That’s only happened once before in my adult life with a co-worker with whom I momentarily lost grip on reality with. When I was a kid it happened all the time, temper tantrums if will. I hate them. I hate losing control. And I don’t have a good explanation for my explosion on the homeless lady outside than she pissed me off and I regrettably have anger management issues. I think it’s a manifestation of my passive aggressive tendencies. I let so many things get passed me and then it takes just one crazy woman with an attitude to get me damn near arrested.

Compartmentalize. It’s all about keeping emotions and experiences in their tidy little place, I got to keep that in mind. The boardroom is not the place to be a hippie, the bedroom is not the place to be intellectual, the crazy homeless woman is not who you should be surrendering your piece of mind to… everything in it’s own place, it’s own time.

Buffalo

2006-01-26T16:32:00.000-08:00

When I woke up this morning there was a post-it on my door
It said, “Quit your bitching boy” and it was signed by the world
When the Indians killed the buffalo, they used every part possible
and that animal is my existence today

I’m trying to use my tears to swim back to what I know is God
I’m trying to use my fears to define the battles I have not fought
When the slaves killed the hog, they used every part they got
and that animal is my existence today

And as perfect I’d like to think myself to be,
the rug can only hold so much swept up dirt you see
And if you’ve never been dirty, then you don’t know what it means to be clean
And that bath is my existence today

And those original sins
They are my kin
And my bloodline is impure but kind

And I don’t expect to win
By avoiding my sins
I’m going to use them like my love and my pride

I’m not ashamed of my needs
I’m not afraid if I bleed
Love will be my cowboy tonight

I’m going to use my heart
The good and the bad parts
To do good by God, to do right

To win this contest, to win this fight

Sometimes the paranoid are chased, I’ve seen them behind me
They try to make me believe in things like oatmeal trees
and blood for oil and death to Tookie
Trying to convince that day is night

And in the palette of my life everything has not been cool
I know of the periwinkles in my past I know of all my blues
And I know that all of my colors don’t particularly compliment you
but these colors are my existence tonight

And these original sins
They are my kin
And my bloodline is impure but kind

And those things you say
used to encapsulate
You can’t use them on me to define

I’m not ashamed of my needs
I’m not afraid if I bleed
I’m not afraid of the dark or the light

I’m going to use my whole heart
The good and the part parts
To do good by you, to do right

To win this contest, to win this fight

A friend of mine recently told me that, while he enjoys my writings, he rarely understands what the fuck I’m talking about. I suddenly felt all Erykah Badu-ish,

“What good do your words do if they can’t understand you, don’t go talking all that shit Badu!”

I totally got where she was coming from. When she proclaimed that she was born underwater with three dollars and six dimes, I got it. The world at large, however, was like, “what the fuck has she been smoking?”

I recently went to a rap group recently that had a moderator that went on and on about how we, as a society, come from a place of victimization. That there is an absolute supreme reason why the creator decided to have the two carbon based life forms more affectionately known as your parents coalesce and form the life force more affectionately known as you; that the fact that you are alive and conscious was no mistake… but a divine purpose. He went on to say that many of us preoccupy ourselves by devoting our consciousness to the negative experiences that we have had that have made us feel victimized. That those experiences and feelings that we all have had where we feel substandard because of our race or gender or age or weight or height or financial income or skin complexion or sexuality or whatever the case may be have hindered us from realizing that there is a divine purpose for our existence.

He had us pair off. We each had to tell the other person an experience that we have had where we felt victimized and then tell of what we feel is our individual ultimate motivator that gets us out of bed and prevents us from taking a gun to our heads and blowing our fucking brains out.

We all then went around the room and summed up of our partner’s victimization tale in one word and then the motivation tale into one word. (Coincidentally I chose stigma and compassion for my partner and he chose dogma and love for me).

The moderator then went on to say, “If you didn’t notice, all of the words dealing with victimization were negative words and all the words dealing with motivation were positive words.”

No shit Sherlock.

He went on to say that we need to not concentrate on being where we came from but being who we are and where we are going and always concentrate on those motivating factors in our lives.

The funny thing is, I have come up to the exact opposite conclusion a month or so ago and it prompted me to write “Buffalo” which my friend said he liked, but didn’t understand. Again... Ms. Badu…

“What good do your words do when they don’t understand you?”

I never want to (again) fool myself into thinking that I am infallible. I fuck up. I fuck up a lot. And as far as being a victim, I am by far the most self deprecating fellow that I know. I don’t feel good at all about being fat and part of that is because I don’t like the way people treat me because of it, or at least the way I perceive treat me because of it. For those same reasons I don’t like being short and old and balding and poor. I do feel stigmatized for my sexuality and my plebian upbringing and I devote quite a bit of my conscious pondering those things and sometimes I do throw pity parties for myself.

The thing is, I have come to a place in my life were I have decided to accept all those facets of my existence, the good, the bad, the ugly; much in the same way the Indians when they used the entire Buffalo. They threw none of it away; they used the skin and the meat and the bones, the whole buffalo. Just like the slaves who used the whole pig, they didn’t throw any of it away; they used the whole thing, pig feet, chitterlings and such. The same these cultures did not throw any of the animal away, I don’t want to throw any of my emotions away, regardless if they are negative or come from a place of victimization, I’m not going to disregard them and abandon them, I’m going to claim them as my own and use them to better understand myself and other people.

“Those original sins, they are my kin.” Those evil feelings that I have, I’m not going to dismiss them, because they are mine, they come from me. I’m going to sit down and figure out where they come from. I’m not going to lie and deny the fact that I want to kill the bus driver that passed my stop. No. I want to kill her. I have murderous thoughts of running her over with the bus. And I’m not going deny that anymore. Instead, I’m going to acknowledge that this is a evil murderous thought, figure out where it came from, how it came to fruition, how to control it and how to relate to the young brother who is in front of me with a gun pointed to the bus driver’s head because she passed his stop.

“Brother, I know what you feel. And you have every right to be pissed off, but it’s just not worth it.”

So I think I’ll just hold on to my victimization just a little while longer. Or as Tori Amos sings,

“I’ve got my rape hat on, but I always could accessorize.”

What? You don’t get that line either? Well… hopefully you understand “Buffalo” a little better now. Or at least understand the Buffalo tattoo I’m going to get next paycheck.

Yahoo 360° Degrees of Separation

2006-01-15T18:11:00.000-08:00

So the truth of the matter is that I am a cynical son of a bitch. In my natural state I am very shy and quiet. On more than one of occasion my great grandmother would hit me upside the head and say, “will you stop being so bashful all the time!” The thing about us bashful ones, howeer, is that still waters do run deep, and I while I was being so quiet, there were a million comments running in my head filled with derision and venom.

As I’ve gotten older, life itself has blunted my need to be quiet and innocent. I’ve often thought of it as being disgruntled and bitter and I don’t think the truth is too far from that. This is what struck me while perusing profiles on Yahoo 360°. My eyes rolled back in my head a million times looking at peoples’ pictures and blogs. I know that my own 360° profile is nothing to write home about but I got to tell you, a romp through a few of these profiles is like the ridiculous meeting the ridiculous, there is no sublime.

And this has to do with my cynicism because a lot of the ones that I tire of are usually those silly “positive” ones with words of encouragement and enlightenment written in a language so serious and sober I imagine the author actually thinks that 911 could have been prevented if the hijackers would have only logged on and read, “Don’t be deterred from love, reach your goals and be free.”

Usually they are accompanied by a blog that is filled with such existential angst as, “Yo, why is it so hard for brothers to be in a relationship?” or “Yo, why brothers be trippin all the time?” or “Yo, why brothers can’t keep it real?” or “Yo, why is life so hard?” And while I might be inclined to try and give an answer, the moment my finger hits the keyboard it hits me, this is fucking Yahoo 360, who gives a shit! I agree that enlightenment can be found in the oddest of places but I guess I would be leery about the mentality of the person who would post the question, “What is the meaning of life and how significant is the archetype of love in that definition?” and actually expect a quantifiable answer.

“Yo, life is just life yo. You live and you love, for real tho.”

But it has to be the profile pictures that are the absolute bee’s knees. Take a look at my examples as I have diagramed below.

1. The close up body part shot. It’s usually of an eye or really moist lips or of lips with a tongue sticking out of it. I imagine that someone told the person in this shot that they had sexy eyes or sexy lips and decided to crop the picture down just to show that part, thinking that when people see it they will go, “Wow, how sexy.” Usually the opposite happens. If the only thing on your profile is a picture of your lips, more than likely we’re thinking it’s because the rest of you needs to be in a jar of formaldehyde.

2. The spiritual environment shot. I try to stay far away from these brothas as much as possible. These usually are by the brothas who are way too spiritual, zen, enlightened and new age for their own good. And not new age in that yoga, Yanni type of way, but the niggas who think that if they mediate and tell people that they mediate that that would disqualify them from being niggas.

3. The shot you took ten years and a hundred pounds ago shot. I didn’t think people still did this but I have met up with more than one person who was 20-something on their profile shot and like 40-something in real life. It’s principle really, because there is absolutely nothing wrong with being 40-something or even looking 40-something, it’s the idea that you put up your college graduation picture and had me thinking that’s how you look NOW.

4. The distorted shot. I’e been guilty of this, you know, you take a shot and manipulate it somehow to show just the good parts of yourself. It’s sort of like #1 but more proactive via Photoshop or protools.

5. The it's not you shot. Look at this guy. He has one of the most beautiful faces I have ever seen. He is not me. He is not you. So let’s neither one of us put him on our profiles… ok?

6. The Madonna/Whore shot. This is where your profile shot is blatantly sexual but your profile says something to the effect of, “Not looking for a hook up, just friends.” Try putting on pants next time dude. And changing your screenname from “WantsToGetPlowedByBigBlackDick” wouldn’t hurt either.

7. The Bling Bling shot. I think this might have something to do with me getting older but I just find this one to be the most annoying of them all. It’s like asking someone to tell them about yourself and they show you… a picture of their car. “How very white of you.”

8. The I’m Straight shot. And offset of #6 whereas the picture is blatantly homoerotic and the profile states that they are absolutely not gay and only looking for ladies. They’re called pants dude, ladies like those too.

9. The Dick Shot. A hybrid of #1 and #6 whereas you crop the picture down just to show your dick and the profile says something of the effect of, “Not looking for a hookup, get to know me first. No face pic no response.” I think I know all I need to know about you, “Tiny”.

But alas, my own pictures and profile are not award winning either, but I just had to get that off my chest. Whew, I feel so much better.

My Next Tattoo

2006-01-07T02:34:00.000-08:00

Wassup peoples. I know… long time no hear. A friend of mine recently got in contact with me because he hasn’t heard from me in awhile. He noticed that I haven’t updated this blog in forever and I haven’t printed out a “Monthly Breeze” newsletter in quite sometime. I just finished perusing some of my past posts and it suddenly dawned on me that I did sort of drop off the map there for a minute and I did disappear on a somewhat dour note… you know, me and the ex drama and all.

Well, it should be noted that all is well. The holidays were insanely busy for me and despite the fact that I planned on spending an ornate amount of time brooding about my little broken heart, the truth of the matter is that I just didn’t have time to. And now that the holidays are over and everything is starting to plateau out again I think about the ex and my little broken heart and it’s the weirdest thing… I don’t give a fuck. Who knew? I mean, it’s fucked up and all but… it happens. It’s so weird, I never thought I would be here… happy bachelor boy.

With that in mind, I’ve been fully enjoying the accoutrements of my bachelordom. The holidays found myself driving between Upper Marlboro, Columbia, Baltimore, Washington D.C. and Brooklyn. My family drama is a WHOLE other Oprah that I don’t want to get into but needless to say… I love them all, as much as you can love a gaggle of insane Negroes.

I do have to note the relationship between my mother and I. If I haven’t mentioned it before, my mom put in this excruciating effort to raise me a latch key kid. Partly due because I’m the baby of the family (the adorable baby of the family) but I assume mainly because my older brother succumbed to the world’s vices and she, bipolar mother bear that she is, would rather I not even know such vices exist rather than trust my own free will in dealing with them; case in point, driving from Upper Marlboro to Brooklyn. Mind you, I have no idea how to get around in New York, I’ve never lived there, but one of my best friends lives there and I had a map on how to get to his place. So I’m about to drive, alone, at 9:00 p.m. to Brooklyn. I’m a little worried, a little intimidated, I have my fears, I shrug them off. But my mom comes up and asks in the most Little Bo Beep innocent voices she could conjure up, “Are you sure you don’t want to just stay here and not drive to New York?” To wit I spontaneously just started laughing uncontrollably. When I finally got my composure I snorted, “NICE TRY MA! I’M GOING!”

It was on my mind the whole ride to New York. As if I don’t have my own qualms and fears about going, as if I am not frightened SHITLESS about the idea of going to New York City BY MYSELF in the middle of the night, you would offer me THAT! Not “Have fun and be safe” but, “You sure you want to go and be a man instead of stay here and be my little boy.” Why the fuck would you even offer that option to me when you KNOW I have qualms with being man and you KNOW that I need to be? Why would you give me the option to wuss out when you KNOW I need to have some balls? Why would you offer me the opportunity to stay in the jungle when you know I could go get some courage from the wizard up the road? Yeah the wicked witch might get me but, goddamn… don’t you think after awhile I would want to risk it? Would you really want a son who never even tried? What type of life is that? GODDAMN YOU FOR WANTING ME ON YOUR TEAT ALL THIS GODDAMN TIME!

So yeah, I’ve got mother issues.

Luckily enough, New York was cold enough to freeze anybody’s teat off so I was able to get that out of my psyche and concentrate on keeping warm and having some fun… which I did.

Needless to say… I HEART NEW YORK. I more than heart New York, I SPLEEN NEW YORK!

I was only there for a couple of days and my entire time there was spent shuttling between Brooklyn and Manhattan I still had a phenomenal time, met some phenomenal people and danced with some of New York’s finest.

I also should note the phenomenal times I spent in Baltimore and Washington D.C. and give shouts outs to all those folks who took time out to hook up with me during the season. The time I spent on the east coast was way too short and I didn’t get a chance to hook up with everybody I desperately wanted to get a cup of coffee with (Halcedama this means you) but I’m very grateful that luck and fate happened upon the few that I could squeeze in (Leffrey this means you).

Over the past couple of months I have slowly fallen in love with Los Angeles. I’ve been here since 1998 and it’s taken me THIS long to actually dig this joint. Yes, it’s a little superficial, plastic, cold, but I think after all this time, my defense mechanisms have developed to the point where that shit doesn’t even bother me anymore. I don’t take it personal when the “beautiful people” don’t invite me to their reindeer games; I just chalk it up the “game” and move on. I don’t take it as personal anymore, I just realize that assholes are going to do what assholes going to do and move on. Now that I adopted this philosophy, I can truly see the beauty that is Los Angeles, the beauty that is Hollywood. Though I still talk about Los Angeles with a certain amount of dourness, I can admit that I love this town. Yes, pigs are flying, hell is freezing over, Breeze Vincinz loves Los Angeles.

When I first got into town I had a crew, a clique, a group of comrades with whom I hung out consistently with. That crew has since disbanded to other parts of the country leaving me here solo in Los Angeles. Traveling to the east coast this winter made me proud to hold it down for L.A. As much as I dug New York and Baltimore and Washington D.C… I did absolutely LONG to get back home to L.A. and it’s warm weathered narcissism.

As it stands, I feel as if I am working without a net. All of this time, I have had a plan or a notion as to where I wanted to go and what I wanted to do. This is the first in a long time; if not the first time ever… that I simply can not predict my future… I have no idea where I’m going. And while I keep telling myself this is a good thing, I do have to admit… I’m terrified.

The ex has something to do with that. For awhile there I imagined myself with him in New York or Atlanta, raising some kids maybe, a dog maybe, and it was a slow pace to get to that. Now, it’s like, I’m working alone here, and EVERYTHING is a possibility. For the longest time my objective was New York or bust. Now I’m like, you know, Los Angeles ain’t so bad, I can see myself being here for another five, ten years. I could write, I could sing in coffee shops, I could continue to fix computers, I could do anything. The possibilities are mind boggling. This year alone I’ve gone on separate dates with a drag queen and a white boy (though that's not partiuclarly fair to the white boy... don't tell anybody but I'm really starting to dig him, white or not). I’m just up for anything right now, nothing seems wrong, the world is my oyster.

There’s a line in an Alanis Morissette song that I have always adored but now it seems to have even more meaning for me know. It goes, “This won’t work as well as the way it once did, because I want to decide between survival and bliss. And though I know who I’m not I still don’t know who I am but I know I won’t keep on playing the victim .”

… I think I just found my next tattoo.

INCREDIBLE!

2005-12-15T13:37:00.000-08:00

So the ex, out of the blue, started to contact me for some particular reason with the implicit need to return my DVDs, which I just found to be odd, all things considering. We eventually had a face to face, the first since my birthday back in October. Turns out since the breakup he’s become somewhat internet savvy and has poured over my entire website as well as all of my journal entries and blogs… including that little Fuck You number. So… I imagine that this is what he read, “Blah, blah, blah, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, give me back my fucking DVDs.”

The conversation afterwards seemed to justify that point as we didn’t really cover any new ground, just regurgitated old shit that has already been established, admitted and apologized for with the bottom line being, the only thing he can offer me at this point is friendship; which took me awhile to sink in and really react to. It’s been three years you know. And in those three years he’s admittedly fucked up so many times and every single time I took him back because at the end of the day I figured a life with him would be better than a life without him. And now, this one time when I admittedly fucked up, he doesn’t offer me that same courtesy, even after I’m literally begging for him not to go, even after he knows he is all I EVER wanted.

Talking to a friend about it, I summate that it was due to a “Pre-Breakup” that happened MONTHS before that I was just not privy to. He started the process of getting me out of his heart back in August or September. So by the time my birthday came around, it was a done deal. And now… he’s COMPLETELY cold to me. He just had all this angst building up in him and the passive aggressive schmuck that he is, just let it fester without telling me until it got to THIS point, where he doesn’t even want to kiss me or touch me… or even phantom the slightest notion of a reconciliation. There’s nothing I can do.

He broke up with me months ago; he just decided to mention it now.

And I think it’s that timeline that’s just fucking with me. Any crying he did, that is if he even cried AT ALL about any of this, happened months ago. It’s just hitting me NOW, and I’m still in the mode of, “We can work this out! Me and you against the world!” He’s months passed that. He’s already planning the NEXT chapter of his life; all of this done without so much as phone call or an email or a postcard letting me know what’s going on, and now that I do, there’s nothing I can do about it. He’s spent the past couple of months developing this thick skin towards me so by the time I hear about it and am trying to win him back; show him how much I want him, how much I need him, how much I love him, how much I would move heaven and hell to make sure that we are cool, it just bounces right off of him. That whole part of him in regards to loving me… died, and he never gave me a chance to save it. If I do have any qualms about this whole thing it would be that... I just wasn’t privy to the process of breaking up. By the time he decided to tell me that he didn’t want to be with me, there was nothing I could do… but listen… and try to figure out what the fuck happened… or if it was even love in the first place if you can shut it off like a valve without even considering turning it back on again… ever.

But what I thought was TRULY, really funny was that in the midst of all of this… what he really thought I truly wanted… was my Incredibles and Black Gang Bang #13 DVDs back.

Now that… is TRULY incredible.

NO MORE ANTM!

2005-12-08T12:14:00.000-08:00

I've been patient, I've tried to be unbiased, but I can no longer abide by America's Next top Model. The whole... "fiasco" has just pissed me off for the last time. I want to say I'll never watch again but... as I hear... they're shooting Cycle 6 as I type this.. and who am I to lie and say I'm not going to take a peek. I will say I probably won't watch it as intensely as I have been. I think I have been emotionally invested in these girls and with this last fiasco with stuttering, "sexy-as-a-glass-of-skim-milk" Nicole winning over Nik, it was just waaaay too much for me. I still can't believe it.

I can't help it, I have to throw the race card in here. I totally think they picked a white girl over a black as opposed to the "best" girl. I try not to think in those terms but if you think about it, if there were never a black winner in the past, don't you think they would have picked Nik to be the "first". Well... they had two... in a row... and I just can't help wondering if having three consecutively was too much.

I can't watch that show like I used to. Eva withstanding, they have never, EVER picked anybody that I was routing for. Yeah, I'm being petty, yeah I'm being sensitive, but it is just a t.v. show, and I can just not watch.

Happy New Year! (The Long Ass List)

2005-12-05T01:49:00.000-08:00

A fellow 360° blogger friend listed several areas of interest that best described him. Acknowledging my own obsessive compulsive behavior to create list after list and keeping in mind 2005 in closing, I give you… YAHOO’S LONGEST LISTING OF A SINGLE MEMBER’S BULLSHIT!

Enjoy!

TOP TEN ALBUMS OF 2005
1. “Can’tneverdidnothin’” by Nikka Costa
One of the best albums ever made… period. Soulful, funky, jazzy and a voice that could compete with old school belters like Aretha, Nina or Janis; anybody with soul should own this album.
Stand out track: “Til’ I Get To U”

2. “Surrender Dorothy” by Alana Davis
The perfect follow-up to the glossy “Fortune Cookies” She trimmed her hair, and a lot of the extra accouterments of a pop album, and wound up with this concise romp through some of the finest rock and soul since Tina Turner’s hey days.
Standout track: “Letter”

3. “Extraordinary Machine” by Fiona Apple
The debate is on whether the officially released version is better than the bootleg version that was leaked via the web earlier this year. There are a few of the bootlegged versions I prefer but this one still packs a wallop as only Fiona’s “Wait till I get him back, he won’t have a back to scratch” derisive self can.
Standout Track: “Extraordinary Machine”

4. “Jagged Little Pill Acoustic” by Alanis Morissette
According to record sales, Alanis has dropped off the face of the planet. But according to the lyrics of her four studio albums, she has become the sonic messiah for anyone in need of existentialism in their music. This brilliantly stripped down version of her debut reminds you of the power of her words and her growth as a vocalist.
Standout Track: “Not the Doctor”

5. “Where You Live” by Tracy Chapman
Tracy’s albums have always been hit or miss. Thankfully, this time around, it’s mostly hit. Critics and fans alike complain about Tracy’s consistent dour demeanor and delivery but that’s somewhat like complaining that Elvis moves his pelvis too much… its part of the show, what did you expect? And “Where You Live” showcases Tracy’s disposition in brilliant bittersweet undertones.
Standout Track: “Don’t Dwell”

6. “Flo’Ology” by Floetry – The Fantastic duo releases another fantastic soul/rap hybrid.

7. “Late Registration” by Kanye West – Finally, FINALLY a hip hop album that doesn’t come off as a minstrel show.

8. “Be” by Common – Finally, FINALLY, Common makes a socially conscious album that doesn’t suck.

9. “The Spirit Music Jamia: Dance of the Infidel” by MeShell NdegeOcello – She doesn’t sing on this one, but with Cassandra Wilson and Lelah Hathaway pitch-hitting, it’s still all good.

10. “Confessions on a Dancefloor” by Madonna – Naysayers beware, she’s back with a vengeance, she’s coming out swinging, and the boat loads of raging queens who abandoned her for “American Life” are going to scratch their way through Mariah and the Pussycat Dolls to get her back on top.

TOP TEN SINGLES OF 2005
1. “Sunrise” by Simply Red. The guiltiest pleasure of the summer. With a hook swiped directly from Hall & Oates’ “I Don’t Go For That”, this has to be the best rape of a piece of music since Diddy was Puffy.

2. "1 Thing” by Amerie featuring Eve. I dare you to tell me you did not rock this song this summer… I DARE you.

3. “Pon de Replay” by Rihanna. What can I say, I’m a sucker for one hit wonders. By the time the fourth chorus comes around you know you’re never gonna hear from Rhianna again… but wow... what a trip to the fourth chorus!

4. “Gold Digger” by Kanye West. When I first heard this song I lost my mind. The bass line is bananas and the vocal war between Kanye and Jamie Foxx with both of them spitting at the same time is just sick.

5. “Get Right” by Jennifer Lopez. For one brief shining moment, I became a Jennifer Lopez fan. I really dug the horn shout outs and the gay-erffic video that went with this song. But then she pulled it really quickly and released that God-awful remix with Fabolous… which was anything but.

6. “Sitting, Waiting, Wishing” by Jack Johnson. Ever see those Corona commercials where two people are doing nothing but sitting on the beach sipping Coronas? This is the perfect soundtrack.

7. “The Blower’s Daughter” by Damien Rice. Probably the saddest song by a male vocalist I have ever heard.

8. “I May Hate Myself In The Morning” by Lee Ann Womack. Snaps up for Lee Ann for keeping it real. If Patti LaBell made this song it would have been a National Anthem for black women everywhere.

9. American Idiot” by Green Day. “Well maybe I’m the faggot America. I’m not part of the redneck agenda. Now everybody do the propaganda and sing along in the age of paranoia.” Enough said!

10. “Sleeps With Butterflies” by Tori Amos. The album sorta sucked. And if I think a Tori Amos album sucks… it SUCKED. This song was one of its saving graces. One of her rare straight on love songs in the vain of “China” or “Snow Cherries from France.”

TOP TEN MOVIES OF 2005
1. Palindromes (Directed by Todd Solondz) Aviva is thirteen, awkward, sensitive and desperate to become a mother. The film revolves around her family, friends, neighbors and her plight to fight someone to impregnate her. The most brilliant thing about the film is that Aviva is played by eight different actors of varying ages, races, sizes and genders. The most heart warming mind fuck ever filmed since “The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”

2. Sin City (Directed by Frank Miller and Robert Rodriguez ) An adaptation of Frank Miller's stories based in the fictional town of Sin City, this was one of the year’s most fascinating and dramatic films. Besides, anything with Rosario Dawson is worth its weight in gold.

3. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (Directed by Tim Burton) A more accurate interpretation of the Roald Dahl tale of A young boy who wins a tour through the most magnificent chocolate factory in the world, led by the world's weirdest candy maker than the 1971 version. And with Johnny Depp helming the title role with eerie Michael Jackson-esque overtones, it’s much more in keeping in the spirit of a “Dark Comedy”.

4. Crash (Directed by Paul Haggis) Several characters of different racial backgrounds collide in one incident in Los Angeles. The different stereotypes society has created for these backgrounds affect their judgment, beliefs and actions, and in turn causes problems for each of them. One of the more realistically disturbing films dealing with racism in this country in the Spike Lee realm of social commentary. BTW, Spike, where you at?

5. Sometimes in April (Directed by Raoul Peck) A clear-eyed look at the Rwandan genocide. It dives into the history, the emotion and the psychology that made up the 1994 slaughter that claimed upwards of 800,000 lives. I claim this film to be Africa’s “Schindler’s List” and notwithstanding, it was largely overlooked by the mainstream.

6. Rize (Directed by David LaChapelle) Documentary that chronicles a dance movement that rises out of South Central Los Angeles with roots in clowning and street youth culture. Best Documentary about street culture since “Paris Is Burning”. Side note: Madonna uplifted Voguing in vain of Paris Is Burning for her video “Vogue” much as she is trying to do with krumping with her current video “Hung Up”.

7. Batman Begins (Directed by Christopher Nolan) The Kanye West of Batman movies. Finally a Batman tale that takes the cape crusader seriously and gives him something to do outside of glower.

8. Layer Cake (Directed by Matthew Vaughn) The future James Bond stars as a successful cocaine dealer planning an early retirement but is lured back into the business by a love interest and an international drug ring. A rock ‘em sock ‘em action film with bite.

9. The Transporter 2 (Directed by Louis Leterrier) A mercenary is implicated in the kidnapping of the young son of a powerful USA official. Another rock ‘em sock ‘em action film, this time with the craziest bitch this side of Kathy Bates in Misery.

10. Robots (Directed by Chris Wedge, Carlos Saldanha) Not as infectious as “The Incredibles” but this tale of a young idealistic inventor who travels to the big city to join his inspiration's company, only to find himself opposing its sinister new management has heart of its own. And hearing Robin Williams ham up all of his lines is always good for a laugh.

TOP TEN BOOKS OF 2005 (These books haven’t necessarily been released this year but I did read them this year, so there you go)
1. The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd
A road trip involving a 14 year old white girl who runs away from home with her black nanny to discover the truth about her mother’s life and death. The two rag tag adventurers happen upon a trio of black sisters who raise bees to make honey and who also was quite acquainted with her mother. A heartwarming coming of age tale dealing with race and religion in 1960’s America. One of the better books I’ve read in awhile.

2.The Abs Diet by David Zinczenko
Less of a diet but more of a lifestyle regime that includes tons of information regarding nutrition and exercises that specifically target the abdominal muscles. It also provides an interesting history on the food manufacturing industry in this country and how it has successfully pumped our diets with toxic fats for profit.

3. Abarat Part 2: Days of Magic, Nights of War by Clive Barker
The sequel to Barker’s breakthrough children’s adventure Abarat which continues the harrowing adventures of Ms. Candy Quackenbushe and her adventures in the ethereal land of Abarat. Amazingly scary and creepy to be a “children’s book” but damn entertaining.

4. Dick: A User’s Guide by Dr. Michele Moore and Dr. Caroline de Costa
Just as the title says, this book dives into the biology of the male member. A practical and funny refresher course for all who has a dick or is close to someone who does.

5. The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Men by Bill Brent
I read this after so many people told me how interesting the book is and I have to agree. Who knew proctology could be as fascinating as gynecology? All hail good ass fucking!

6. The Witches of Eastwick by John Updike
A COMPLETELY different tale from the movie starring Jack Nicholson and Cher but is still a good read. These witches are REAL witches who cast spells on people, gossip and fuck everybody’s husband.

7. Psychology for Screenwriters by William Indick, Ph.D.
An interesting psychology starter course that shows how modern movies structure themselves against theories proposed by some of the greatest philosophers of our time. A must read for any screenwriter looking to better structure conflict within their stories.

8. The Art of Creative Writing by Lajos Egri
Egri is the leader in literary instruction and this book is the bible of creative writing. Gravitating towards the importance of character in story, this book is a must read for anybody even attempting to write.

9. Good Scripts Bad Scripts by Thomas Pope
This book is all about negative reinforcement, which is perfect for me. Not only does is delve into good scripts and why they are good, they dive into bad scripts and describes why they are bad… an ingenious idea!

10. Life As A Boy by Breeze Vincinz
Like I was going to leave my book off the list! An emotional and poetic exploration into the catharsis of a single gay black man searching for his soul, his true love, serenity, God, and a good piece of ass. A must read for young and old alike. Ok, not that young.

5 snacks I enjoy
1. Chocolate Covered Pretzels
2. M&M’s
3. Twix
4. Krispy Kreme Doughnuts
5. Chocolate Chip Ice Cream

5 songs I know all the words to:
1. Like a Virgin, Madonna
2. 32 Flavors, Ani DiFranco
3. Icicle, Tori Amos
4. My Stupid Mouth, John Mayer
5. Levitcus: Faggot, MeShell NdegeOcello

5 things I would do with 100 million dollars:
1. Pay all my bills, except for the Student Loans, just to piss them off
2. Invest 30 million in a mutual fund for retirement
3. Set up college funds for all the kids in my family
4. Get my mom a house
5. Start my own production company

5 favorite TV shows:
1. Drawn Together
2. America’s Next Top Model
3. Sex & The City
4. Good Times
5. All In The Family

5 bad habits:
1. Nail biting
2. Procrastination
3. Mumbling
4. Tardiness
5. Laziness

5 biggest joys:
1. My family
2. My friends
3. My music
4. My writings
5. My Website

5 bands/artists you've seen live:
1. Tori Amos
2. Indigo Girls
3. Vonda Shepard
4. Paula Cole
5. MeShell NdegeOcello

Two Names You Go By:
1. Malcy
2. Coop

Two Horrific Experiences from Childhood
1. Watching my aunt accidentally slice open her arm
2. Hearing my mom was diagnosed with a brain tumor

Two Things That Scare You:
1. Being impaled
2. Immobility

Two of Your Everyday Essentials
1. Music
2. Thought

Two Things You Are Wearing Right Now
1. A smile
2. A nipple ring

Two of Your Favorite Bands or Musical Artists (at the moment)
1. Floetry
2. Madonna

Two Things You Wouldn't Do Even If Asked
1. Pose naked
2. Drive drunk

Two Truths
1. God is love
2. You should always make Kool-Aid with sugar

Two Physical Things that Appeal to You
1. Eyes
2. Facial Hair

Two of Your Favorite Hobbies
1. Going to the movies
2. Writing

Two Things You Want Really Badly
1. To lose weight
2. To be a full-time writer

Two Places You Wouldn't Want to go on Vacation
1. Iraq
2. Kuwait

Two Ways that you are stereotypically a Guy
1. I absolutely HATE shopping
2. I eat like a pig

Two Things You Normally Wouldn't Admit
1. I like to clean wearing nothing but my underwear and a tank top
2. A part of me cries every time I hear Michael Jackson’s “Ben”

Two Things You Are Thinking About Now
1. Sex
2. Losing Weight

Two Stores You Wouldn't Shop At
1. Saks Fifth Avenue
2. Hot Topic

Ding Dong The Bitch Is Dead

2005-12-02T00:15:00.000-08:00

I am loud and proud America's Next Top Model fan. In fact it's come to the point where it's the only thing ever really watch on television. I actually plan my Wednesday around who will be the next to get cut.

This is the 5th season, or cycle rather, and even though I absolutely ador the show I do have to say that I have not agreed on any of the girls thatthe judges deemed to be the winner for ANY season. For Season One I was pulling for Shannon . Season Two, Yoanna stole the crown from Mercedes . Season Three... ok.. I was REALLY pulling for Eva , though I did still feel Yaya should have one. Last season was an absolute travestywith the Naima beating out Kahlen . Naima won ever single competition throughout the entire season and I was hoping that the judges wouldn't be so predictable as to give her the title. Comparatively speaking people were routing for her but that had a LOT to do with the fact that particular season was home to series more volatile contestants. Naima was quiet and courteous, which the judges took as professionalism, but I took as pure boredom. Something that comes across achingly string in her "My Life As Covergirl " commercials in which she fakes fun and joy while talking about the miracles of lipliner with her "friends" in a cafe.

Whatever .

This season, I have to say had two womnen whom I say without fear of reprise, could make me rethink this whole gay thing... Coryn and Nik . I tell you, I think I would swear of dick all together if I could get with either of the two. Particularly Coryn. She is the finest woman I've seen outside of comic books.

When both she AND Nik wound up at the bottom two (meaning one of the two had to be elimimated), my heart just sunk. Which it did even further when Coryn was the one eliminated.
I swore, and was going to stand by my oath, that if Nik got eliminated and did not make it to the final three, I would stop watching the show all together. Thankfully, after Wednesday's show, I pleased to know that she is in the final three, along with Nicole , a white girl as interetsing as a glass of skim milk and Bre , my ghetto princess who I adore... though I'm still amazed made it further than Coryn.

But the point of this blog post is to rub in the face the eliminated of JAYLA . It's amazing how she made it so far or how the othet contestants even tolerated her absolutely bitchy tendencies. She stole Nik's line in a commercial compitetiion and most recently gave Bre a flu medication that induced immediate drowsiness... minutes before a photo shoot. She has been bitchy, and thoughtless and inconsiderate... mind you all qualities of a top supermodel, but still annoying to see.

But now we're down to the three, Nik, Nicole and Bre. A friend of mine says Bre has a snowball's chance in hell mainly because the last two winners were black and bi-racial and Bre has the most beuatiful of dark chocolate complexion that could make the show seem bias to African Americans. And as ludicous as that sounds, I to understand the thought.

Mainly because, the only reason I can see Nicole winning is because of her chalky white skin and that lily white innocent thing she's got going. Other than that... dude... skim milk.
Now Nik.... whew... NIK! If Bre doesn't win, it has to be Nik. If I see that damn Nicole in next seasons' "My Life As A Covergirl" commercials, I'm going to fucking kill myself.