So, since there was quite a bit of interest in the saga of Hot Daddy, I thought I would provide all you voyeurs an update.
Today, I have basically been vibrating with extra energy. I couldn't sit still. I looked like an ADHD kid that had been given a shot of meth directly to the brain. I was in the laundromat with David this morning, and if you had hooked an electrode to my skin and touched it to the circuit breaker, I could have powered the entire damn place by myself.
David was folding laundry, and I was basically using all my will power to make him fold faster...as I was afraid that I was about to physically jump out of my skin and run screaming around the laundromat shreaking "WALOOLOO LOOO WALOOO LOO LOO" at the top of my lungs.
I ain't trying to get sent to the nut ward at Mt. Sinai.
Anywho, we got back in, ate lunch, and I decided that I would lay down. David decided to be off to the gym. I tried to fall asleep but at 3pm, at the time when the elementary school across the street gets done for the day, the damn ice cream man shows up with his ridiculous music.
If I had a shotgun, he would be a dead ice cream man right now. Hey kiddies...how about some Grey Matter Ice Cream. Delicious!
Anywho, so after about an hour, I decided to get up and go to the gym. I wasn't sure if David would still be there or not. I changed into my gym clothes, and no sign of that man of mine. I walk out of the locker room and there he is...HOT DADDY.
I got on the suicidal cardio machine, and Hot Daddy starts using a machine behind me. Of course the wall in front of me is ALL mirrors...and Hot Daddy is obviously not wearing any underwear and obviously half "cocked." Hot Daddy could also be called Very Very Big Daddy.
Anywho, I head downstairs to lift weights, and as I hit the first landing, I look back up and there is Hot Daddy lookin' down at me. I smile, and realize I had left my music making instruments in my locker, so I duck back inside and who should I run into the shower area but my baby boo. I give him a kiss, and wink, and grab my gear, and head back out.
On the floor, I see Hot Daddy seeing me. And after a few minutes, he turns and heads into the locker room. My Mama didn't raise no fool...so I followed on after. David is dressed and leaving, smiles, and says "Hot Daddy is back at the lockers. Have fun," and then giggles.
I will spare you the pornographic details, but, suffice it to say that I saw Hot Daddy in action, and sweet Jesus I was not disappointed. There were a few people in the steam today, and Hot Daddy clearly was interested in me. Enough said on that subject.
After showering, I get dressed and here comes His Royal Hottiness. He smiles and says, "You got left behind today."
I replied, "Oh, you saw my partner?"
He said, "Yes. Your boyfriend is a shy one."
I would not describe David as shy.
"Naw....he is just direct in a different way that I am."
"Awww...well by how I judge those things you are very direct. You always make eye contact."
"Well, that's because David and I both think you are adorable."
"Adorable?" He chuckled his pecs flexing, "I think you can only describe people under 30 as adorable."
"Well choose the adjective you like...we both think you are hot."
The man actually blushed. "Well thank you for the compliment."
I then introduced myself, and he introduced himself to me. We chatted for a few more minutes, and I explained the nature of my relationship to him...which made him smile even more broadly.
And then, just before leaving he let on that he had been at the gym in the morning a couple of days before and hadn't seen us there (Ummmmmm he noticed we were missing...excellent)...
and then he asked...
"Will you boys be here in the morning?"
"Oh yes."
"I will see you then."
I smiled, nodded, and walked out.
I basically sprinted home to tell David the story. The rest of the conversation between David and I is privileged information...but...let it be known...that I was not the only happy one with today's events.
The rest of the details, though, are for participants only. Use your imagination, and then turn it up a notch...it's even better than that ;-)
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
The Blacks Are Coming! The Blacks Are Coming!
Lord have mercy I can't stand Republicans. I don't hate who they are. I hate what they do. Love the Republicans, hate the Republicanism. Whatever, fuck 'em.
A good friend of mine wrote recently that we need to be partisan. Hell fucking yeah. I am partisan as hell. And the root of partisan is party...and I'll be damned if any Republicans are invited to mine. I am going to have a big ass black dyke hippy draft dodging Communist feminist Wiccan abortion doctor recovering addict as the bouncer at the door with a loaded double barrelled shot gun and Black Panther tendencies.
I heard the dumbest thing I believe I have EVER heard on the radio today:
“Blacks, blacks, blacks. The blacks are everywhere. The blacks are being promoted. I am being discriminated against because I am white.” So spoke a woman from Oklahoma interviewed by BBC America about Barack Obama and his first 100 days in office.
I love BBC America...if there is a wignut Fox news Rupert Murdoch blowin' bleach blonde former beauty queen turned pundit out in the wilds of the rural West, they will find her...put her on the radio...and giggle.
Now, pardon my French lovin' ass, but, with African-Americans making up 12% of the U.S. population how the hell are we “everywhere?” Yesterday, a story came out saying that college educated blacks are being laid off at TWICE the rate of blacks without a college degree. So where the hell are we getting promoted? Popeye's Chicken? Shit.
Has this lovely woman in Oklahoma taken a gander at Obama's cabinet? There are more women/white women up in there than there has ever been in any administration ever. I mean come on Janet Napolitano, Katherine Sebelius, Hilary Rodham Clinton, and I am sure I am missing a few.
And, for the record, back in 1921 the good people of Tulsa, OK rioted and burned to the ground what was called the Negro Wall Street (Greenwood District). They segregated black folks, only allowed them to live within a 35 block radius, refused to let them shop, eat, or go to school with the white folks, had the dubious honor of being the only city in America with segregated telephone booths, and then got pissed the fuck off when black folks spent their money on each other and ended up developing a community that rivaled any white community in the state for education and elegance. So what did they do? They burned the entire damn district to the ground. They shot women and children. They shot and let bleed to death a noted black surgeon that the FUCKING MAYO BROTHERS (you know...Mayo Clinic...best hospital in America) said was the best black surgeon walking the planet. And this heifer is going to have the nerve to get the hell up on the radio and suggest that she was being discriminated against?
Sweet Jesus.....OOOOOOOOOHHHHH SWEET JESUS!
And the Right in this country wonders why it got its ASS handed to them in the last election. They wonder why their own pundits are saying that the GOP has become irrelevant and is falling apart around them. They wonder why the hell Arlen Spectre would jump ship after 30 years as a Republican. Here's the answer, listen closely: YOUR BASE IS A BUNCH OF RACIST LOONIES SPOUTING SHIT IN PUBLIC THAT MAKES THEIR OWN MAMAS PRETEND AS IF THEY DON'T KNOW WHO THE HELL THEY ARE.
In the end, I know that this was just shooting off at the mouth by one stupid woman. Unfortunately, I know that her ignorance represents what a segment (and probably a large one) of poor, working class, white folks believe. It's not the fault of the average every day working white person that they may believe this. I lay the blame squarely at the feet of sensationalist radio personalities like this random white woman from Oklahoma who gets on the radio, makes fucked up statements like the one she made. In the end, when the James Byrd style lynchings happen, when black kids are beaten in school, and when black churches are burned to the ground it is the black community that pays the price for one woman's insipid ignorance.
A good friend of mine wrote recently that we need to be partisan. Hell fucking yeah. I am partisan as hell. And the root of partisan is party...and I'll be damned if any Republicans are invited to mine. I am going to have a big ass black dyke hippy draft dodging Communist feminist Wiccan abortion doctor recovering addict as the bouncer at the door with a loaded double barrelled shot gun and Black Panther tendencies.
I heard the dumbest thing I believe I have EVER heard on the radio today:
“Blacks, blacks, blacks. The blacks are everywhere. The blacks are being promoted. I am being discriminated against because I am white.” So spoke a woman from Oklahoma interviewed by BBC America about Barack Obama and his first 100 days in office.
I love BBC America...if there is a wignut Fox news Rupert Murdoch blowin' bleach blonde former beauty queen turned pundit out in the wilds of the rural West, they will find her...put her on the radio...and giggle.
Now, pardon my French lovin' ass, but, with African-Americans making up 12% of the U.S. population how the hell are we “everywhere?” Yesterday, a story came out saying that college educated blacks are being laid off at TWICE the rate of blacks without a college degree. So where the hell are we getting promoted? Popeye's Chicken? Shit.
Has this lovely woman in Oklahoma taken a gander at Obama's cabinet? There are more women/white women up in there than there has ever been in any administration ever. I mean come on Janet Napolitano, Katherine Sebelius, Hilary Rodham Clinton, and I am sure I am missing a few.
And, for the record, back in 1921 the good people of Tulsa, OK rioted and burned to the ground what was called the Negro Wall Street (Greenwood District). They segregated black folks, only allowed them to live within a 35 block radius, refused to let them shop, eat, or go to school with the white folks, had the dubious honor of being the only city in America with segregated telephone booths, and then got pissed the fuck off when black folks spent their money on each other and ended up developing a community that rivaled any white community in the state for education and elegance. So what did they do? They burned the entire damn district to the ground. They shot women and children. They shot and let bleed to death a noted black surgeon that the FUCKING MAYO BROTHERS (you know...Mayo Clinic...best hospital in America) said was the best black surgeon walking the planet. And this heifer is going to have the nerve to get the hell up on the radio and suggest that she was being discriminated against?
Sweet Jesus.....OOOOOOOOOHHHHH SWEET JESUS!
And the Right in this country wonders why it got its ASS handed to them in the last election. They wonder why their own pundits are saying that the GOP has become irrelevant and is falling apart around them. They wonder why the hell Arlen Spectre would jump ship after 30 years as a Republican. Here's the answer, listen closely: YOUR BASE IS A BUNCH OF RACIST LOONIES SPOUTING SHIT IN PUBLIC THAT MAKES THEIR OWN MAMAS PRETEND AS IF THEY DON'T KNOW WHO THE HELL THEY ARE.
In the end, I know that this was just shooting off at the mouth by one stupid woman. Unfortunately, I know that her ignorance represents what a segment (and probably a large one) of poor, working class, white folks believe. It's not the fault of the average every day working white person that they may believe this. I lay the blame squarely at the feet of sensationalist radio personalities like this random white woman from Oklahoma who gets on the radio, makes fucked up statements like the one she made. In the end, when the James Byrd style lynchings happen, when black kids are beaten in school, and when black churches are burned to the ground it is the black community that pays the price for one woman's insipid ignorance.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Ain't I A Woman?
Well, actually, no I am not a woman. I was not so blessed as to have been given the gift of life. Though, after seeing friends and family go through the birthing process, I would be lying if I said I am jealous of the actual birthing process. Giving life is a miracle...shooting a football out of a hole the size of a lemon makes me think waterboarding would be a more enjoyable alternative.
Today, the U.S. Congress unveiled the first statue of a black woman in the nationa's capitol. And, fittingly, it was Sojourner Truth. On the dais today were Secretary of State Hilary Clinton, House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, House Minority Leader John Boehner with First Lady Michelle Obama making the dedication and Cicily Tyson acting out the speech Ain't I a Woman.
Unfortunately, fucking C-SPAN left the program just before the First Lady spoke. Idiots. But, they did show Miss Cicily give the performance of a lifetime. I was on this crazy machine at the gym that combines an eliptical machine, stair climber, nordictrack, and mideval torture device, and I had the broadest grin on my face listening to Cicily. She brought the speech to life. She made Sojourner live again, and each time she said, Ain't I a woman, I tucked my penis back and said, YES I AM!
Somehow I made it to 31 _ years of age without every having heard or read the full text of that speech. It, along with Martin Luther King's “I've Been to the Mountain Top,” is now my favorite speech of all time. The entire speech is roughly four or five paragraphs long (I am going to include it at the end of this blog). But in five paragraphs Sojourner Truth laid out the best, most succinct, and clear articulation of actualized feminism that I have ever seen. I understand the value of academia and theory. I often lapse into academy speech. But this brief oration reminded me that some people earn (or should earn) their doctorates in exactly 354 words.
Sojourner Truth was a powerful woman. She was a radical. She was a mother of abolitionist, civil rights, and feminist movements. The honor she received today was overdue and well deserved. Thank you Sojourner. You were one hell of a woman.
(P.S. And what a hell of a present to Miss Truth that Arlen Specter announced he is going Blue Dog on us and giving the Democrats a filibuster proof majority in the U.S. Senate. Word).
Text of “Ain't I a Woman” delivered in Akron, OH at the Women's Convention in 1851.
Well, children, where there is so much racket there must be something out of kilter. I think that 'twixt the negroes of the South and the women at the North, all talking about rights, the white men will be in a fix pretty soon. But what's all this here talking about?
That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain't I a woman? Look at me! Look at my arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain't I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man - when I could get it - and bear the lash as well! And ain't I a woman? I have borne thirteen children, and seen most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother's grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain't I a woman?
Then they talk about this thing in the head; what's this they call it? [member of audience whispers, "intellect"] That's it, honey. What's that got to do with women's rights or negroes' rights? If my cup won't hold but a pint, and yours holds a quart, wouldn't you be mean not to let me have my little half measure full?
Then that little man in black there, he says women can't have as much rights as men, 'cause Christ wasn't a woman! Where did your Christ come from? Where did your Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with Him. (emphasis added)
If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back , and get it right side up again! And now they is asking to do it, the men better let them.
Obliged to you for hearing me, and now old Sojourner ain't got nothing more to say.
Today, the U.S. Congress unveiled the first statue of a black woman in the nationa's capitol. And, fittingly, it was Sojourner Truth. On the dais today were Secretary of State Hilary Clinton, House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, House Minority Leader John Boehner with First Lady Michelle Obama making the dedication and Cicily Tyson acting out the speech Ain't I a Woman.
Unfortunately, fucking C-SPAN left the program just before the First Lady spoke. Idiots. But, they did show Miss Cicily give the performance of a lifetime. I was on this crazy machine at the gym that combines an eliptical machine, stair climber, nordictrack, and mideval torture device, and I had the broadest grin on my face listening to Cicily. She brought the speech to life. She made Sojourner live again, and each time she said, Ain't I a woman, I tucked my penis back and said, YES I AM!
Somehow I made it to 31 _ years of age without every having heard or read the full text of that speech. It, along with Martin Luther King's “I've Been to the Mountain Top,” is now my favorite speech of all time. The entire speech is roughly four or five paragraphs long (I am going to include it at the end of this blog). But in five paragraphs Sojourner Truth laid out the best, most succinct, and clear articulation of actualized feminism that I have ever seen. I understand the value of academia and theory. I often lapse into academy speech. But this brief oration reminded me that some people earn (or should earn) their doctorates in exactly 354 words.
Sojourner Truth was a powerful woman. She was a radical. She was a mother of abolitionist, civil rights, and feminist movements. The honor she received today was overdue and well deserved. Thank you Sojourner. You were one hell of a woman.
(P.S. And what a hell of a present to Miss Truth that Arlen Specter announced he is going Blue Dog on us and giving the Democrats a filibuster proof majority in the U.S. Senate. Word).
Text of “Ain't I a Woman” delivered in Akron, OH at the Women's Convention in 1851.
Well, children, where there is so much racket there must be something out of kilter. I think that 'twixt the negroes of the South and the women at the North, all talking about rights, the white men will be in a fix pretty soon. But what's all this here talking about?
That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain't I a woman? Look at me! Look at my arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain't I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man - when I could get it - and bear the lash as well! And ain't I a woman? I have borne thirteen children, and seen most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother's grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain't I a woman?
Then they talk about this thing in the head; what's this they call it? [member of audience whispers, "intellect"] That's it, honey. What's that got to do with women's rights or negroes' rights? If my cup won't hold but a pint, and yours holds a quart, wouldn't you be mean not to let me have my little half measure full?
Then that little man in black there, he says women can't have as much rights as men, 'cause Christ wasn't a woman! Where did your Christ come from? Where did your Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with Him. (emphasis added)
If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back , and get it right side up again! And now they is asking to do it, the men better let them.
Obliged to you for hearing me, and now old Sojourner ain't got nothing more to say.
One Liner of the Week Award: Megan Thomas
You know the world is a little bit off kilter when a possible major health epidemic becomes the topic of witty banter. Hell, according to a student from Mexico City interviewed yesterday, kids in schools in Mexico are making jokes about Swine Flu and homework.
Have to love a fatalistic sense of humor.
This morning, I logged into Facebook, as I am wont to do, and I noticed my friend Megan's status which read:
"Oh My Lawd!! I can feel the swiney flu sneaking up on me It's lurking outside mah door with brass knuckles. This is worse than Communism!!"
I laughed so hard I almost shat myself.
And this is the One Liner of the Week.
Have to love a fatalistic sense of humor.
This morning, I logged into Facebook, as I am wont to do, and I noticed my friend Megan's status which read:
"Oh My Lawd!! I can feel the swiney flu sneaking up on me It's lurking outside mah door with brass knuckles. This is worse than Communism!!"
I laughed so hard I almost shat myself.
And this is the One Liner of the Week.
Monday, April 27, 2009
The City That Never Sleeps...But I Sure As Hell Do
Sometimes I look out of the window and I think..."Holy Fuck! That's New York out there." As if, magically, I went to sleep in South Minneapolis and woke up in Hell's Kitchen. It doesn't help that there is a secret underground railroad from the Minne-Apple to the Big Apple. Half my damn graduating class from college is in the city somewhere, and almost once a week someone from home sends me a text or an email and is like..."Yo Trick...I am at the Starbucks in Times Square...bring yo ass."
So far, just shy of five weeks in the City, things are going okey dokey. There have been some bumps...of which I have already blogged. Why, this very day, I had a PTSD episode...had some minor palpitations...and worked it out by sauteing some salmon and making tostones. When in crisis...go gourmet!
Each your heart out Paula Dean.
I am thoroughly enjoying this here city of mine. David and I are carrying along nicely. I once told him that a significant portion of the issues in our relationship that did not revolve around his ex boyfriend (which in and of itself accounts for 98.9% of the drama...incidentally the same amount as the genetic similarity between humans and chimpanzees)...was due to the distance. Distance breeds insecurity, uncertainity, and broke ass bank accounts.
The insecurity and uncertainity has largely been managed...the broke ass bank account is another matter entirely. But I digress (of course...I can digress...it's my blog). David and I play nicely together (most of the time). We have fallen into an easy rythym that manages to not be boring. We follow a pretty standard schedule every day, but there is enough variety in that schedule that I do not feel the urge to run full barrell at the nearest wall just to see how it feels to bounce off. Now where did I put that helmet...
Of course...monsieur y yo have had a modified open relationship for this first period. Only a little steam room good times. In the next few weeks we will be exploring the outside play...I am nervous as hell but I will deal.
Also, there are a ridiculous number of beautiful men that walk by every day. Sometimes If feel like I have died and gone to a hot ass buffett. David has one of the most delicious booties in the world. It is like the cherry on top of the sundae....but I like to eat the sundae too...if you know what I mean ;-). In the end, things will be just fine...David has some weird genetic mutation where he almost never feels jealousy. I, however, come from a complex racial and ethnic heritage...most of which are known for things like challenging people to duels and fights to the death over a wandering eye...or...in Left Eye Lopes' case (God rest her soul) burning down the houses of motherfuckers that step too far out of line. I have managed to manage my celosidad by talking to David about it. Of course, I am a little bitter that my first planned hook up was ruined by the Evil Ex. Forgiveness is for yourself and not for others. Remember that.
Forgive me. I been drinking.
In the end, I am excited about NYC and its possibilities. I will be even more excited when I have a job and can take advantage of those possibilities. This place ain't cheap. And while I don't have champagne tastes (this pinot is for you Eartha!), I do like a nice reisling. From the Minneapple to the Big Apple, I find that, like a little green worm, both apples are home.
So far, just shy of five weeks in the City, things are going okey dokey. There have been some bumps...of which I have already blogged. Why, this very day, I had a PTSD episode...had some minor palpitations...and worked it out by sauteing some salmon and making tostones. When in crisis...go gourmet!
Each your heart out Paula Dean.
I am thoroughly enjoying this here city of mine. David and I are carrying along nicely. I once told him that a significant portion of the issues in our relationship that did not revolve around his ex boyfriend (which in and of itself accounts for 98.9% of the drama...incidentally the same amount as the genetic similarity between humans and chimpanzees)...was due to the distance. Distance breeds insecurity, uncertainity, and broke ass bank accounts.
The insecurity and uncertainity has largely been managed...the broke ass bank account is another matter entirely. But I digress (of course...I can digress...it's my blog). David and I play nicely together (most of the time). We have fallen into an easy rythym that manages to not be boring. We follow a pretty standard schedule every day, but there is enough variety in that schedule that I do not feel the urge to run full barrell at the nearest wall just to see how it feels to bounce off. Now where did I put that helmet...
Of course...monsieur y yo have had a modified open relationship for this first period. Only a little steam room good times. In the next few weeks we will be exploring the outside play...I am nervous as hell but I will deal.
Also, there are a ridiculous number of beautiful men that walk by every day. Sometimes If feel like I have died and gone to a hot ass buffett. David has one of the most delicious booties in the world. It is like the cherry on top of the sundae....but I like to eat the sundae too...if you know what I mean ;-). In the end, things will be just fine...David has some weird genetic mutation where he almost never feels jealousy. I, however, come from a complex racial and ethnic heritage...most of which are known for things like challenging people to duels and fights to the death over a wandering eye...or...in Left Eye Lopes' case (God rest her soul) burning down the houses of motherfuckers that step too far out of line. I have managed to manage my celosidad by talking to David about it. Of course, I am a little bitter that my first planned hook up was ruined by the Evil Ex. Forgiveness is for yourself and not for others. Remember that.
Forgive me. I been drinking.
In the end, I am excited about NYC and its possibilities. I will be even more excited when I have a job and can take advantage of those possibilities. This place ain't cheap. And while I don't have champagne tastes (this pinot is for you Eartha!), I do like a nice reisling. From the Minneapple to the Big Apple, I find that, like a little green worm, both apples are home.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Rookies versus Dish
So today marked the first game in the Big Apple Softball League. Where the girls are guys and the guys are ladies and they all have tramp tendencies. Except me...I am a straight up slut.
But I digress...so today's adventure begin at 6:30 this morning when I was sure that the alarm going off was some sort of karmic retribution for sins I must have committed in a past life...like killing Jesus or shooting Abraham Lincoln. Nothing short of murdering a religious icon or civil rights leader could possibly justify me having to wake up before the sparrows on a Sunday morning.
David was a gem. He made breakfast, packed snacks, made sure we had bandanas to wipe the sweat from my brow, and filled a water jug covered in silverbacks for our journey to Red Hook Park in Brooklyn. Now only in America could an Ikea co-opt a pier and set up their own ferry service across the East River to shop. The ferry goes from the Upper West Side in Manhattan to Brooklyn. It takes about a half an hour...making the trip quick and painless. It also doesn't run at 7am on Sunday morning.
So David and I took a train to a bus to Ikea...and then had to walk across a giant park of baseball fields until we reached a much more humble softball field, where my game was already in session. I thought, for a moment, we were going to have to hire a camel, a pack mule, and a porter to finish our trip. Instead, turns out, I just needed a port-a-potty. I know peeing in public is a liveability crime and should not be done. But peeing in my pants is a crime against humanity, and that is worse.
The first game was fun. I was an extra hitter, and I managed to smack the ball. I think I even had an RBI. The Lord was with us, and we trounced the Dish thoroughly...something like a katrillion to four. David and Rich...the softball wives...were seated on the benches cheering us on...and the team was in good spirits.
Then we took a break between games
When we came back for game two versus the Dish, we were a little bit like Aretha Franklin....fabulous...but we let ourselves go a little. To start off with...I was now pitching. Ooops. A combination of nerves, rising temperatures, and, well, good old fashion shitty luck and not having pitched in two years brought back the days of yore when I was as surprised as the batter if I pitched a strike. After walking about two dozen people (or four)...I begged Reggie to take me out. He obliged. My team, all the while, was very supportive. That was very awesome actually.
In the meantime...back at Dish Headquarters...the Dish coach must have been handing out spinach and steroids cuz the bitches came back with a vengeance. All of a sudden, every ball they hit smacked the ferry driver three blocks over.
And then Mason got really upset. He was playing third base, and one of those steroid enhance spinach eatin' gaysians stepped up to the plate and hit a line drive directly at him. Mason spun around circles, burst into flames, and now in a red thong snatched the ball out of the sky with a look on his face that said, "Now what. Bitches."
I love her.
Later in the game, I did have one shining moment. One of the Mega-Hitters decided that cuz I couldn't pitch...and cuz coach put me out in right field...that I couldn't catch either. If I see her at the bar I am going to punch that one in his pate. So he smacks one away out to right field...and I caught the spirit...and the ball. Redemption is a sweet sweet liqour.
And karma is a cold dose of water.
My next at bat...I bounced the ball into center field. My old coach Titi told us that once we hit that ball you run to first base like you was a slave in the Old South heading towards freedom. What he didn't tell us was that in the New York league they don't tie down the damn bases, so not only am I out, but I hit first base, trip on it, and end up flying through the air like one of those crazy ducks in Duck Hunt. I hit the ground, roll, end up with a scratched knee, leg, and about half the grit from the field in my boxers.
I am butch as hell.
In the end the Dish won by something like a googleplex to six, but our team was way prettier.
But I digress...so today's adventure begin at 6:30 this morning when I was sure that the alarm going off was some sort of karmic retribution for sins I must have committed in a past life...like killing Jesus or shooting Abraham Lincoln. Nothing short of murdering a religious icon or civil rights leader could possibly justify me having to wake up before the sparrows on a Sunday morning.
David was a gem. He made breakfast, packed snacks, made sure we had bandanas to wipe the sweat from my brow, and filled a water jug covered in silverbacks for our journey to Red Hook Park in Brooklyn. Now only in America could an Ikea co-opt a pier and set up their own ferry service across the East River to shop. The ferry goes from the Upper West Side in Manhattan to Brooklyn. It takes about a half an hour...making the trip quick and painless. It also doesn't run at 7am on Sunday morning.
So David and I took a train to a bus to Ikea...and then had to walk across a giant park of baseball fields until we reached a much more humble softball field, where my game was already in session. I thought, for a moment, we were going to have to hire a camel, a pack mule, and a porter to finish our trip. Instead, turns out, I just needed a port-a-potty. I know peeing in public is a liveability crime and should not be done. But peeing in my pants is a crime against humanity, and that is worse.
The first game was fun. I was an extra hitter, and I managed to smack the ball. I think I even had an RBI. The Lord was with us, and we trounced the Dish thoroughly...something like a katrillion to four. David and Rich...the softball wives...were seated on the benches cheering us on...and the team was in good spirits.Then we took a break between games
When we came back for game two versus the Dish, we were a little bit like Aretha Franklin....fabulous...but we let ourselves go a little. To start off with...I was now pitching. Ooops. A combination of nerves, rising temperatures, and, well, good old fashion shitty luck and not having pitched in two years brought back the days of yore when I was as surprised as the batter if I pitched a strike. After walking about two dozen people (or four)...I begged Reggie to take me out. He obliged. My team, all the while, was very supportive. That was very awesome actually.
In the meantime...back at Dish Headquarters...the Dish coach must have been handing out spinach and steroids cuz the bitches came back with a vengeance. All of a sudden, every ball they hit smacked the ferry driver three blocks over.
And then Mason got really upset. He was playing third base, and one of those steroid enhance spinach eatin' gaysians stepped up to the plate and hit a line drive directly at him. Mason spun around circles, burst into flames, and now in a red thong snatched the ball out of the sky with a look on his face that said, "Now what. Bitches."
I love her.
Later in the game, I did have one shining moment. One of the Mega-Hitters decided that cuz I couldn't pitch...and cuz coach put me out in right field...that I couldn't catch either. If I see her at the bar I am going to punch that one in his pate. So he smacks one away out to right field...and I caught the spirit...and the ball. Redemption is a sweet sweet liqour. And karma is a cold dose of water.
My next at bat...I bounced the ball into center field. My old coach Titi told us that once we hit that ball you run to first base like you was a slave in the Old South heading towards freedom. What he didn't tell us was that in the New York league they don't tie down the damn bases, so not only am I out, but I hit first base, trip on it, and end up flying through the air like one of those crazy ducks in Duck Hunt. I hit the ground, roll, end up with a scratched knee, leg, and about half the grit from the field in my boxers.
I am butch as hell.
In the end the Dish won by something like a googleplex to six, but our team was way prettier.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
One Liner of the Week Award: Lara Stroud
So, today....my play cousin Lara Stroud sent out a real press release from Minneapolis. On Earth Day, Popeye's Chicken chains across the country were offering a chicken deal...eight pieces for $4.99.
When black folks showed up to get their deal in Minneapolis, they found handwritten notes on the door stating that they would not be honoring the national advertisement, but they would be offering nine pieces for $9.99. Ya'll do the math.
Folks were angry.
Indeed, there was a line out of the door and down the block...and six Minneapolis po po had to show up and quiet things down.
When Lara sent me this API story this morning, I had to commiserate with her and own that I probably would have rioted, jumped through the glass store front window a la Shaft...grabbed a bucket of chicken and a trough of dirty rice and headed deeper into the Southside.
Lara said she would have ended up shot or bitten by police dogs. She also stated that the story would have read:
"Two African Americans, one female one male, tasered and arrested while rioting for an 8 piece."
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the One Liner of the Week Award.
When black folks showed up to get their deal in Minneapolis, they found handwritten notes on the door stating that they would not be honoring the national advertisement, but they would be offering nine pieces for $9.99. Ya'll do the math.
Folks were angry.
Indeed, there was a line out of the door and down the block...and six Minneapolis po po had to show up and quiet things down.
When Lara sent me this API story this morning, I had to commiserate with her and own that I probably would have rioted, jumped through the glass store front window a la Shaft...grabbed a bucket of chicken and a trough of dirty rice and headed deeper into the Southside.
Lara said she would have ended up shot or bitten by police dogs. She also stated that the story would have read:
"Two African Americans, one female one male, tasered and arrested while rioting for an 8 piece."
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the One Liner of the Week Award.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Dorothy, We Ain't In Minneapolis Anymore!
So...there is a man at my gym I call “Hot Daddy.” He is about 6', well built, anti-gravity bubble booty, tanned, with a schlong that he could probably have classified as a weapon. And he's real pretty in the face.
Well, David and I had bumped into Hot Daddy in the past. On more than one occasion I caught him staring at David...like...bore a hole through your head sort of staring. If one of those red dots had shown up square on David's ass...like from the laser sight of an assault rifle...I would not have been surprised.
Now...I have been known...in my day...to be a little jealous. That jealousy goes up a notch when it involves someone I think is hot but doesn't give me the time of day. That's called Bruised Ego Jealousy Syndrome (BEJeesus Syndrome for short).
The last time we saw Hot Daddy, he had just come out of the steam room where it was obvious that his Johnson had been doing some steaming of its own. He walked past me, put his hand on David's waist, and moved him aside....but in a very sensual/possessive way (I AM NOT PROJECTING! Maybe a little)....basically....I wanted to gnaw off his arm that go around.
I have grown since that incident.
Today we saw Hot Daddy. And he, again, did the Cyclops eye laser deal wherever David managed to be. It was matched in hilarity only by my one time steam room jack off adventure buddy who got so excited that he couldn't finish the job and was basically shaking from excitement. Needless to say, David and I were both totally amused. Later on, after David and I had finished exercising, we hit the locker room for shower time, and Mr. Excitement was getting dressed behind us, and when I stripped, he got a full on woody. I was totally flattered ;-)
When we excited the shower...Hot Daddy was there talking to an older gentleman. David and I got dressed, and I was giggling and told David that as long as he let me watch video from a hook up between him and Hot Daddy, I would be cool. Then, Hot Daddy walks by and speaks!
“What's up guys?” He says...as he passes.
“Hey there.” I said.
And then I about jumped straight on top of the nearest locker as Hot Daddy runs his finger up my ass crack through my shorts as he walks by.
I can count the number of times in my life that I have been literally speechless. I felt my ears turn bright red, my eyes were so wide that any passing lemur would have mistaken me for one of its own kind, and I told David what happened. David, being Mister Cool, giggled. I didn't know whether to be angry or flattered...I was fighting a hard on and wanting to punch him in the face. David was tickled. MEN!
Now don't get me wrong. In a night club, I have been groped many a time...in the Midwest...we know that the gym is for cruising but touching is for the steamroom ;-). Good Midwestern boys don't just run their finger up other boys butts in the locker room...especially not in front of their boyfriends. We are good boys and do it on the sly. I am definitely not in Minneapolis anymore.
In the end I was flattered. I looked at my hottie man, and was thankful again for our relationship and the way we communicate. I also offered up a silent prayer that one day I would get to be the meat in a sex sandwhich between Hot Daddy and my hotter man. Thank you Jesus!
Well, David and I had bumped into Hot Daddy in the past. On more than one occasion I caught him staring at David...like...bore a hole through your head sort of staring. If one of those red dots had shown up square on David's ass...like from the laser sight of an assault rifle...I would not have been surprised.
Now...I have been known...in my day...to be a little jealous. That jealousy goes up a notch when it involves someone I think is hot but doesn't give me the time of day. That's called Bruised Ego Jealousy Syndrome (BEJeesus Syndrome for short).
The last time we saw Hot Daddy, he had just come out of the steam room where it was obvious that his Johnson had been doing some steaming of its own. He walked past me, put his hand on David's waist, and moved him aside....but in a very sensual/possessive way (I AM NOT PROJECTING! Maybe a little)....basically....I wanted to gnaw off his arm that go around.
I have grown since that incident.
Today we saw Hot Daddy. And he, again, did the Cyclops eye laser deal wherever David managed to be. It was matched in hilarity only by my one time steam room jack off adventure buddy who got so excited that he couldn't finish the job and was basically shaking from excitement. Needless to say, David and I were both totally amused. Later on, after David and I had finished exercising, we hit the locker room for shower time, and Mr. Excitement was getting dressed behind us, and when I stripped, he got a full on woody. I was totally flattered ;-)
When we excited the shower...Hot Daddy was there talking to an older gentleman. David and I got dressed, and I was giggling and told David that as long as he let me watch video from a hook up between him and Hot Daddy, I would be cool. Then, Hot Daddy walks by and speaks!
“What's up guys?” He says...as he passes.
“Hey there.” I said.
And then I about jumped straight on top of the nearest locker as Hot Daddy runs his finger up my ass crack through my shorts as he walks by.
I can count the number of times in my life that I have been literally speechless. I felt my ears turn bright red, my eyes were so wide that any passing lemur would have mistaken me for one of its own kind, and I told David what happened. David, being Mister Cool, giggled. I didn't know whether to be angry or flattered...I was fighting a hard on and wanting to punch him in the face. David was tickled. MEN!
Now don't get me wrong. In a night club, I have been groped many a time...in the Midwest...we know that the gym is for cruising but touching is for the steamroom ;-). Good Midwestern boys don't just run their finger up other boys butts in the locker room...especially not in front of their boyfriends. We are good boys and do it on the sly. I am definitely not in Minneapolis anymore.
In the end I was flattered. I looked at my hottie man, and was thankful again for our relationship and the way we communicate. I also offered up a silent prayer that one day I would get to be the meat in a sex sandwhich between Hot Daddy and my hotter man. Thank you Jesus!
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Dignity
Dignity is a word that is, I believe, over used. From the time we are children we are told to lose with dignity, live with dignity, to not lose our dignity, and, finally, to die with dignity.
I have always had a vague notion of what that means in some contexts. If you should happen to lose a game, it means show yourself and those with whom you've played respect. Conduct yourself with honor. Bow to your opponent and understand that you can play again another day. Do not, however, throw the Monopoly board across the room when playing games on family night, when you have landed on Boardwalk and your dapper older brother has built a hotel and you find yourself broke and out of the game. Ahem. Little sister.
To live with dignity, I have come to understand, is to recognize that no matter the circumstance in which you find yourself to carry yourself in a way that you have no cause to apologize to others because you have treated the world and yourself with respect, courtesy, and humaneness.
To avoid losing ones dignity, please refer to the rules around living with dignity.
But the one that I have never truly known, or had cause to know, outside of the realm of pop culture and big screen movies, is to die with dignity. In the cinema it means falling on your sword when you have dishonored yourself or refusing to beg for mercy when you are kneeling on the chopping block and the guilloitine is racing for your neck. When I would see those scenes, usually when I was pretending I was a horribly wronged Mary Queen of Scots or a love lost samurai in Ancient Japan, I would watch the Queen/warrior die, without a sound, and a stoic righteous look on their faces.
That is Hollywood for you.
Life is a lot messier, but the dignity I have come to know in the dying is much more powerful. In the last six months I have lost two family members to cancer. One, my cousin, was taken before he reached the age of 30. The other was the mother of my sister, a family member of choice, who was cut down before she could watch her grandchildren grow up. Both my cousin, Jim, and Mrs. Harris were terrified. Both fought for their lives with tenancity and strength. Both had moments of tears, and both asked for and accepted the love and support of family and friends. But neither of them, one young and one older, wanted or accepted pity. Though neither were a burden and both were lovingly given all that those around them had to give, both acted in such a way that it was obvious that even when they needed to ask for love and support and needed to cry and feel their pain and be afraid, tried their damndest to do otherwise. They both spent more of their time worrying about the impact of their health on their families than they did thinking about themselves. And both, in the end, shut their eyes surrounded by love, devotion, and caring---that they did not beg for but were given because of who they were and how they moved through this world.
That is what it means to die with dignity. It does not mean you are unafraid. It does not mean you do not hurt or ask for love and support. It does mean that you fight like hell, keep living and until the very last moment, and do so in a way that does not demand but accepts the love around you.
In life and in death my cousin and Mrs. Harris taught me something about life, showed me the ways in which I need to look more closely at myself, and gave me the opportunity to love them in the way they deserved to loved.
It is cliche to say, but I would quite literally give anything to have Jim and Mrs. Harris back on this earth, healthy, living, and touchable. I am not God, and I can not bring them back, but I can honor them and the lessons that their living and dying have afforded me. I only hope that when it is my time to leave this world, that I leave it with the same strength, love, and dignity with which they departed. Sleep well family. Thank you.
I have always had a vague notion of what that means in some contexts. If you should happen to lose a game, it means show yourself and those with whom you've played respect. Conduct yourself with honor. Bow to your opponent and understand that you can play again another day. Do not, however, throw the Monopoly board across the room when playing games on family night, when you have landed on Boardwalk and your dapper older brother has built a hotel and you find yourself broke and out of the game. Ahem. Little sister.
To live with dignity, I have come to understand, is to recognize that no matter the circumstance in which you find yourself to carry yourself in a way that you have no cause to apologize to others because you have treated the world and yourself with respect, courtesy, and humaneness.
To avoid losing ones dignity, please refer to the rules around living with dignity.
But the one that I have never truly known, or had cause to know, outside of the realm of pop culture and big screen movies, is to die with dignity. In the cinema it means falling on your sword when you have dishonored yourself or refusing to beg for mercy when you are kneeling on the chopping block and the guilloitine is racing for your neck. When I would see those scenes, usually when I was pretending I was a horribly wronged Mary Queen of Scots or a love lost samurai in Ancient Japan, I would watch the Queen/warrior die, without a sound, and a stoic righteous look on their faces.
That is Hollywood for you.
Life is a lot messier, but the dignity I have come to know in the dying is much more powerful. In the last six months I have lost two family members to cancer. One, my cousin, was taken before he reached the age of 30. The other was the mother of my sister, a family member of choice, who was cut down before she could watch her grandchildren grow up. Both my cousin, Jim, and Mrs. Harris were terrified. Both fought for their lives with tenancity and strength. Both had moments of tears, and both asked for and accepted the love and support of family and friends. But neither of them, one young and one older, wanted or accepted pity. Though neither were a burden and both were lovingly given all that those around them had to give, both acted in such a way that it was obvious that even when they needed to ask for love and support and needed to cry and feel their pain and be afraid, tried their damndest to do otherwise. They both spent more of their time worrying about the impact of their health on their families than they did thinking about themselves. And both, in the end, shut their eyes surrounded by love, devotion, and caring---that they did not beg for but were given because of who they were and how they moved through this world.
That is what it means to die with dignity. It does not mean you are unafraid. It does not mean you do not hurt or ask for love and support. It does mean that you fight like hell, keep living and until the very last moment, and do so in a way that does not demand but accepts the love around you.
In life and in death my cousin and Mrs. Harris taught me something about life, showed me the ways in which I need to look more closely at myself, and gave me the opportunity to love them in the way they deserved to loved.
It is cliche to say, but I would quite literally give anything to have Jim and Mrs. Harris back on this earth, healthy, living, and touchable. I am not God, and I can not bring them back, but I can honor them and the lessons that their living and dying have afforded me. I only hope that when it is my time to leave this world, that I leave it with the same strength, love, and dignity with which they departed. Sleep well family. Thank you.
Monday, April 20, 2009
The Lord Works in Mysterious Ways
Do you ever have those days when you know, without a doubt, that the Hand of God has been on you?
Yesterday was one of those days. I started the day happy as a dung beetle in a pile of horse shit. It was a sunny day in Manhattan. I was off to the gym where I had a great cardio work out. I came home, made a delicious lunch, finished a couple of things I needed to get done online...was preparing for a well deserved nap...and then my partner's ex and his boyfriend came home. I let them know that I would be laying down, and my "roommate" starting cursing at me about me taking a nap and how he wanted to play his music. I again stated, respectfully, that I would be taking a nap and they were welcome to play music, but if they would keep it down, I would greatly appreciate it. I then closed the door and prepared to take a nap.
Then World War III broke out.
I won't go into details, but suffice it to say that these two extremely wounded human beings nearing 50...knowing that my boyfriend was out of town...ambushed me and basically took turns screaming at me and hurling vileness at me with such a deep hatred...that it was obvious...even during it all...that what they were projecting at me was what they were really feeling towards each other and about other circumstances in their lives.
I used every single training experience I had ever been given to de-escalate the situation. I never raised my voice...I spoke calmly...I listened to what they had to say even when they were screaming, even when I was called out of my name. Finally, they left. That is when I broke down.
Knowing that what had gone down was not about me didn't matter. For real...my boyfriend's ex's current boyfriend and I have met two times...and we had never exchanged harsh words. Nor had I ever spoken unkindly about him in any way.
I have never felt so unsafe in my home as an adult.
The fact that I stayed completely calm, acted with absolute integirty, did not demean or debase the people that were attacking me, and showed them respect even as I was being disrespected was a gift from God (and a credit to those fantastic people in my life that have taught me what it means to be in conflict and how to be in conflict without losing myself...I am not always good at it...but yesterday I was flawless...and that fact alone is proof that God was with me).
The rest of the day also was God touched.
I went to softball practice, and I hung out with my new team for the first time. I adore them. I think I remember most of their names, but I sure as hell know that I couldn't attach their names to them all. We had a great practice...my pitching was decent (it can always use improvement)...and then I batted. Now, I have never had a problem hitting the ball. But I have also never been a Herculean hitter. Yesterday, almost every ball I hit was, at the very least, deep in the outfield...a couple of times they would have been straight up home runs. I was in awe of myself. Either the bat was magical or I had an angel swinging along with me. I refuse to take credit for it until I actually do it in a game.
My coach is hilarious. The guys were super welcoming and sweet (and crass and hilarious....sweet God I felt at home). We went to the ultra-bear bar for super cheap drinks. I met Danny O'Donnell...Rosie O'Donnell's brother who is also a NY State Assemblyman...he is a very nice man and very...friendly. He also took me to task for talking smack about Jennifer Holiday's duet with Jennifer Hudson...sorry but the woman was terrible.
I then hightailed it to a borough to a secret location to hang out with some friends plotting an electoral revolution...more to come on that in the future.
It is rare that you have the opportunity to see, in different ways, the good Lord working in such diverse ways...but from the support of my partner, to my conduct during the conflict, to new friends and a great team, to a great evening with my co-conspirators, it was obvious that even though some of the day was extremely difficult and called up memories from childhood that I thought were laid to rest...that I was not doing any of it alone...and that God himself and an assortment of characters that sometimes took the shape of cute Greek first ladies and old friends in new places were right there with me.
Yesterday was one of those days. I started the day happy as a dung beetle in a pile of horse shit. It was a sunny day in Manhattan. I was off to the gym where I had a great cardio work out. I came home, made a delicious lunch, finished a couple of things I needed to get done online...was preparing for a well deserved nap...and then my partner's ex and his boyfriend came home. I let them know that I would be laying down, and my "roommate" starting cursing at me about me taking a nap and how he wanted to play his music. I again stated, respectfully, that I would be taking a nap and they were welcome to play music, but if they would keep it down, I would greatly appreciate it. I then closed the door and prepared to take a nap.
Then World War III broke out.
I won't go into details, but suffice it to say that these two extremely wounded human beings nearing 50...knowing that my boyfriend was out of town...ambushed me and basically took turns screaming at me and hurling vileness at me with such a deep hatred...that it was obvious...even during it all...that what they were projecting at me was what they were really feeling towards each other and about other circumstances in their lives.
I used every single training experience I had ever been given to de-escalate the situation. I never raised my voice...I spoke calmly...I listened to what they had to say even when they were screaming, even when I was called out of my name. Finally, they left. That is when I broke down.
Knowing that what had gone down was not about me didn't matter. For real...my boyfriend's ex's current boyfriend and I have met two times...and we had never exchanged harsh words. Nor had I ever spoken unkindly about him in any way.
I have never felt so unsafe in my home as an adult.
The fact that I stayed completely calm, acted with absolute integirty, did not demean or debase the people that were attacking me, and showed them respect even as I was being disrespected was a gift from God (and a credit to those fantastic people in my life that have taught me what it means to be in conflict and how to be in conflict without losing myself...I am not always good at it...but yesterday I was flawless...and that fact alone is proof that God was with me).
The rest of the day also was God touched.
I went to softball practice, and I hung out with my new team for the first time. I adore them. I think I remember most of their names, but I sure as hell know that I couldn't attach their names to them all. We had a great practice...my pitching was decent (it can always use improvement)...and then I batted. Now, I have never had a problem hitting the ball. But I have also never been a Herculean hitter. Yesterday, almost every ball I hit was, at the very least, deep in the outfield...a couple of times they would have been straight up home runs. I was in awe of myself. Either the bat was magical or I had an angel swinging along with me. I refuse to take credit for it until I actually do it in a game.
My coach is hilarious. The guys were super welcoming and sweet (and crass and hilarious....sweet God I felt at home). We went to the ultra-bear bar for super cheap drinks. I met Danny O'Donnell...Rosie O'Donnell's brother who is also a NY State Assemblyman...he is a very nice man and very...friendly. He also took me to task for talking smack about Jennifer Holiday's duet with Jennifer Hudson...sorry but the woman was terrible.
I then hightailed it to a borough to a secret location to hang out with some friends plotting an electoral revolution...more to come on that in the future.
It is rare that you have the opportunity to see, in different ways, the good Lord working in such diverse ways...but from the support of my partner, to my conduct during the conflict, to new friends and a great team, to a great evening with my co-conspirators, it was obvious that even though some of the day was extremely difficult and called up memories from childhood that I thought were laid to rest...that I was not doing any of it alone...and that God himself and an assortment of characters that sometimes took the shape of cute Greek first ladies and old friends in new places were right there with me.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Rep. Harold Ford, Jr. Being Groomed as Baracks Successor
Call me Negrodamus (thank you Dave Chappelle). I am predicting right here and now that barring any massive screw ups by Obama or Harold Ford Jr...that in 2016, Harold Ford Jr. will be one of the contenders for the Democratic nomination for President of the United States.
I was watching Meet the Press today while losing copius amounts of moisture from my forehead as I was doing cardio. There were a slew of politicos and pundits on the show today including former Republican House leader Dick Armey. Mr. Armey trotted out the old tired Republican lines about spending, big government, etc. He also tried to paint the TEA parties as some sort of grassroots movement that his Freedomworks PAC supported with technical assistance. Bullshit, ahem. His only moment of honesty was when he happened to acknowledge that the actual TEA party protests started in response to Bush and TARP and not to Obama.
Anywho...U.S. Rep. Harold Ford, Jr (D-TN)...who recently ran and lost a race for the U.S. Senate...was the sleek and HOT rep from the Dems on the show. Talk about on point...this man could spin shit into sunshine and make quartz into diamonds. He was clear, concise, coherent, with a controlled passion that made Armey look like the dried up half baked Texas pseudo-intellectual he is. It was immediately apparent to me that this young, smokin' hot black man from the South is being groomed carefully for the White House. And whoever coached him for his appearance on Meet the Press needs to be behind the scenes before any Democrat anywhere speaks in public.
I will admit that I got off my cardio torture device only a half hour into the hour spot...but I will look into my crystal ball and predict that the rest of the show continued with Rep. Ford, Jr. smiley politely while tearing Armey a new one...with occassional interjections from a couple of the other guests.
I think we may have another President Ford. But this time, he's black.
I was watching Meet the Press today while losing copius amounts of moisture from my forehead as I was doing cardio. There were a slew of politicos and pundits on the show today including former Republican House leader Dick Armey. Mr. Armey trotted out the old tired Republican lines about spending, big government, etc. He also tried to paint the TEA parties as some sort of grassroots movement that his Freedomworks PAC supported with technical assistance. Bullshit, ahem. His only moment of honesty was when he happened to acknowledge that the actual TEA party protests started in response to Bush and TARP and not to Obama.
Anywho...U.S. Rep. Harold Ford, Jr (D-TN)...who recently ran and lost a race for the U.S. Senate...was the sleek and HOT rep from the Dems on the show. Talk about on point...this man could spin shit into sunshine and make quartz into diamonds. He was clear, concise, coherent, with a controlled passion that made Armey look like the dried up half baked Texas pseudo-intellectual he is. It was immediately apparent to me that this young, smokin' hot black man from the South is being groomed carefully for the White House. And whoever coached him for his appearance on Meet the Press needs to be behind the scenes before any Democrat anywhere speaks in public.
I will admit that I got off my cardio torture device only a half hour into the hour spot...but I will look into my crystal ball and predict that the rest of the show continued with Rep. Ford, Jr. smiley politely while tearing Armey a new one...with occassional interjections from a couple of the other guests.
I think we may have another President Ford. But this time, he's black.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Susan Boyle Singin Cry Me A River: Download It Here
Hey folks:
My friend Megan Thomas, bless her heart, extracted this file from a video. It is a flawless recording of Susan Boyle singing the blues ballad "Cry Me a River."
I uploaded the file to my FileDen account. Download "Cry Me a River."
Damn I love me some of this woman's voice. I am SUPER gay, and I would snog her.
My friend Megan Thomas, bless her heart, extracted this file from a video. It is a flawless recording of Susan Boyle singing the blues ballad "Cry Me a River."
I uploaded the file to my FileDen account. Download "Cry Me a River."
Damn I love me some of this woman's voice. I am SUPER gay, and I would snog her.
God Bless Pop Culture
So, tonight, I was a fool and I drank two large iced coffees before heading to gongyo. Let me tell you, after being juiced up on an extra huge dose of caffeine my chanting at this evening's prayer service sounded like the Chipmunks Christmas Album played at warp speed. I was rocking back and forth as if I had been struck with Sudden Onset Autism, and I was afraid that I might spontaneously combust.
As you can probably imagine, since I am writing this at 1:15am, that going to bed at my regular bedtime was not an option.
So, I decided to indulge a little addiction I have called Scrabble on Facebook. David and I have been locked in a non-stop loop of games for almost a year. This evening, I decided to post a Scrabble ad for a random game. I always include in the posting that gay guys are a plus. Otherwise you get middle aged soccer moms posing as 20 something former sorority girls that want you to type dirty to them while you play suggestive words. I ain't having it.
So, along comes Tung, a recent high school graduate from somewhere in the hinterlands of Canada (he could be from Toronto for all I remember but anywhere north of Minnesota is one big giant nowhere).
As we are playing, our little Tung initiates a chat that goes like this:
Tung: "So you are gay."
Me: "Sho nuff."
Tung: "That's so COOL."
Me: "Yep. I am gay. I am pretty happy I turned out this way."
Tung: "I wish I knew gay people"
Me: "You probably do."
Tung: "Not to be like rude or what not. But I always wanted to know how gays act in a relationship compared to a man and a woman."
Me: "Not rude at all. It doesn't really work like that. I am a man. My partner is a man. Neither of us is the 'woman.'
Tung: "Really. Ha ha. I am expanding my vocabulary playing Scrabble and I am learning something about gays."
I could not make this stuff up if I tried. God bless pop culture. Ten or even five years ago, I highly doubt the reaction of a 18 or 19 year old person who had never met a gay person (that they knew about) in real life would think that being gay is cool and wish that they knew gay people. Perhaps little Tung is gay and wants to come out. Or perhaps he is just a product of his time. Either way...it was strangely refreshing and definitely made me giggle out loud.
As you can probably imagine, since I am writing this at 1:15am, that going to bed at my regular bedtime was not an option.
So, I decided to indulge a little addiction I have called Scrabble on Facebook. David and I have been locked in a non-stop loop of games for almost a year. This evening, I decided to post a Scrabble ad for a random game. I always include in the posting that gay guys are a plus. Otherwise you get middle aged soccer moms posing as 20 something former sorority girls that want you to type dirty to them while you play suggestive words. I ain't having it.
So, along comes Tung, a recent high school graduate from somewhere in the hinterlands of Canada (he could be from Toronto for all I remember but anywhere north of Minnesota is one big giant nowhere).
As we are playing, our little Tung initiates a chat that goes like this:
Tung: "So you are gay."
Me: "Sho nuff."
Tung: "That's so COOL."
Me: "Yep. I am gay. I am pretty happy I turned out this way."
Tung: "I wish I knew gay people"
Me: "You probably do."
Tung: "Not to be like rude or what not. But I always wanted to know how gays act in a relationship compared to a man and a woman."
Me: "Not rude at all. It doesn't really work like that. I am a man. My partner is a man. Neither of us is the 'woman.'
Tung: "Really. Ha ha. I am expanding my vocabulary playing Scrabble and I am learning something about gays."
I could not make this stuff up if I tried. God bless pop culture. Ten or even five years ago, I highly doubt the reaction of a 18 or 19 year old person who had never met a gay person (that they knew about) in real life would think that being gay is cool and wish that they knew gay people. Perhaps little Tung is gay and wants to come out. Or perhaps he is just a product of his time. Either way...it was strangely refreshing and definitely made me giggle out loud.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Gov. Pawlenty is an Asshole
The MN race for U.S. Senate between Republican incumbent(and asshole) Norm Coleman and DFL challenger (and winner) Al Franken could have been written by George Lucas. It's a bad script, with an over the top villain, and hokey special effects (aka TV ads).
Let's be clear: Al Franken is the U.S. Senator from the Great State of Minnesota.
Norm Coleman is an opportunistic, party changing, flip flopping jackass loser that is clinging for dear life to the senate seat that once belonged to Sen. Wellstone and now has shit smeared all over it by the current office holder.
On November 4, 2009 the ballots were counted and Franken had won.
There was an official recount that included previously discarded or uncounted ballots and Franken won.
A three panel appeals court in Minnesota entertained a lawsuit by Coleman and, yesterday, they declared that Franken had won.
Here's a joke..."How many electoral and/or judicial bodies have to declare a person the winner before he's won?"
The answer? It doesn't matter as long as an arch-conservative asshole sits in the governor's mansion and is entertaining misbegotten ideas of being the 2012 Republican Presidential nominee: Tim Pawlenty.
Tim Pawlenty inherited a fiscally healthy state and drove it into the ground. Thank God the DFL took over both houses of the state legislature and have been able to keep most of his moronic initiatives in check. But, in this instance, a winner in a statewide race can not be declared unless the election is certified by the governor. The governor (a Republican) is ignoring the fact that after two ballot counts and a judicial order and by all indicators Al Franken is the winner. Pawlenty has declared he will not certify any election results until all appeals run their course.
Coleman is now preparing an appeal to the MN Supreme Court. It is my GREATEST and most fervent hope that Justice Alan Paige gets the appeal, rolls it up, and smacks Norm Coleman in the face with it and says, "Bad ex-Senator. Sit." and then tears the damn thing down the middle and says politely, "We decline to hear this bullshit appeal. Go back to St. Paul and fade quietly from view. Or it's the sausage factory for you."
I love Minnesota. It is the greatest state in this country (even accounting for subzero temperatures for a quarter of the year). But, lord have mercy, Norm (WHO IS NOT A MINNESOTA NATIVE!) is an embarassment. Most of us learn in kindergarten to play nicely and to not be sore losers. Obviously he skipped that day. Unfortunately, it is Minnesota that suffers and is looking at an additional two months without a second U.S. Senator. Norm could give a shit about the voters of the state. But who needs a constiuency when you've got an ego the size of Lake Superior.
Let's be clear: Al Franken is the U.S. Senator from the Great State of Minnesota.
Norm Coleman is an opportunistic, party changing, flip flopping jackass loser that is clinging for dear life to the senate seat that once belonged to Sen. Wellstone and now has shit smeared all over it by the current office holder.
On November 4, 2009 the ballots were counted and Franken had won.
There was an official recount that included previously discarded or uncounted ballots and Franken won.
A three panel appeals court in Minnesota entertained a lawsuit by Coleman and, yesterday, they declared that Franken had won.
Here's a joke..."How many electoral and/or judicial bodies have to declare a person the winner before he's won?"
The answer? It doesn't matter as long as an arch-conservative asshole sits in the governor's mansion and is entertaining misbegotten ideas of being the 2012 Republican Presidential nominee: Tim Pawlenty.
Tim Pawlenty inherited a fiscally healthy state and drove it into the ground. Thank God the DFL took over both houses of the state legislature and have been able to keep most of his moronic initiatives in check. But, in this instance, a winner in a statewide race can not be declared unless the election is certified by the governor. The governor (a Republican) is ignoring the fact that after two ballot counts and a judicial order and by all indicators Al Franken is the winner. Pawlenty has declared he will not certify any election results until all appeals run their course.
Coleman is now preparing an appeal to the MN Supreme Court. It is my GREATEST and most fervent hope that Justice Alan Paige gets the appeal, rolls it up, and smacks Norm Coleman in the face with it and says, "Bad ex-Senator. Sit." and then tears the damn thing down the middle and says politely, "We decline to hear this bullshit appeal. Go back to St. Paul and fade quietly from view. Or it's the sausage factory for you."
I love Minnesota. It is the greatest state in this country (even accounting for subzero temperatures for a quarter of the year). But, lord have mercy, Norm (WHO IS NOT A MINNESOTA NATIVE!) is an embarassment. Most of us learn in kindergarten to play nicely and to not be sore losers. Obviously he skipped that day. Unfortunately, it is Minnesota that suffers and is looking at an additional two months without a second U.S. Senator. Norm could give a shit about the voters of the state. But who needs a constiuency when you've got an ego the size of Lake Superior.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
One Liner of the Week Award: Sister Mary Raphael
So, this evening David and I were listening to NPR. They were doing a story on a small monastery just down the hill from the Hollywood sign in Los Angeles. The monastery is home to both nuns and monks of the Dominican order. Now, the nuns are cloistered but they are famous for their pumpkin bread. The monastery is going through some rough times right now because the monastery oven is broken.
Well...there is one nun, Sister Mary Raphael, who has the task of leaving the convent now and again to shop for necessities. According to NPR, the sister is not impressed with folks walking around with their iPods and cell phones. Sister Mary Raphael said, "I see people walking around on their cell phones. Always on their phones. And I want to say to them, 'have you said hello to God today? Have you called God today?"
Sister Mary Raphael is no joke...and she is the winner of the One Liner of the Week Award.
Remember..."Have you said hello to God today?"
Well...there is one nun, Sister Mary Raphael, who has the task of leaving the convent now and again to shop for necessities. According to NPR, the sister is not impressed with folks walking around with their iPods and cell phones. Sister Mary Raphael said, "I see people walking around on their cell phones. Always on their phones. And I want to say to them, 'have you said hello to God today? Have you called God today?"
Sister Mary Raphael is no joke...and she is the winner of the One Liner of the Week Award.
Remember..."Have you said hello to God today?"
Monday, April 13, 2009
Brandon's Collard Greens Recipe
Last night, I served up a mess of collard greens at my pal Norman's Easter dinner. It was a great crowd...including a Jew, a half Lebanese girl, a Russian gal straight from the gulag and shit, a Malaysian, a me, and a Southerner. It was all diverse and stuff.
Most of the folks in the room had never had greens before (let alone hamhocks). By the end of the night all that remained in the bowl was the skin of one of the hamhocks and there were calls for my recipe. Here it is.
This recipe will cook roughly a half stock pot full once full cooked and boiled down. It will comfortably feed four to six.
Brandon's Hell's Kitchen Collards
4 to 6 bunches of collard greens
1 red onion
1 to 2 jalapenos
Crushed red pepper
3 to 5 garlic cloves
4 smoked hamhocks
salt
black pepper
oregano (dried)
Cooking instructions:
Wash the collard greens and make sure there is no dirt and grit on them. Then, peel the leaf off the stock and away from the center stem. Discard the stalk and stem and set the leafy greens in your stock pot.
Once you have cleaned the greens and placed them in the pot, get your hands way down in there and tear the leaves into smaller pieces.
Add the hamhocks to the pot.
Dice the onion and garlic and jalapenos and place those in the pot as well.
Fill the pot with water leaving about an inch of room at the top of the pot. Then sprinkle in the salt, pepper, dried oregano, and crushed red pepper. If you like your greens hot...use more pepper...if not...use less. Same goes for the jalapeno.
Turn the greens on medium high heat and bring to a low boil. Cover them bad boys up and then let 'em percolate for the next four to six hours. The longer you let them cook, the better the flavor...when you taste the greens...and they melt like butter on your tongue...they are done man. If you are in a hurry, you can eat 'em after about four hours cooking time.
You can do all of this in a crock pot as well.
Also, from time to time add water to the pot--make sure the greens are always covered...and stir occassionally to make sure they don't stick to the bottom of the pot.
For good luck, make you some black eyed peas and rice and serve 'em up with the greens.
And there you have...when folks smack their lips together and are rubbin' their bellies...tell 'em Brandon sent ya.
Most of the folks in the room had never had greens before (let alone hamhocks). By the end of the night all that remained in the bowl was the skin of one of the hamhocks and there were calls for my recipe. Here it is.
This recipe will cook roughly a half stock pot full once full cooked and boiled down. It will comfortably feed four to six.
Brandon's Hell's Kitchen Collards
4 to 6 bunches of collard greens
1 red onion
1 to 2 jalapenos
Crushed red pepper
3 to 5 garlic cloves
4 smoked hamhocks
salt
black pepper
oregano (dried)
Cooking instructions:
Wash the collard greens and make sure there is no dirt and grit on them. Then, peel the leaf off the stock and away from the center stem. Discard the stalk and stem and set the leafy greens in your stock pot.
Once you have cleaned the greens and placed them in the pot, get your hands way down in there and tear the leaves into smaller pieces.
Add the hamhocks to the pot.
Dice the onion and garlic and jalapenos and place those in the pot as well.
Fill the pot with water leaving about an inch of room at the top of the pot. Then sprinkle in the salt, pepper, dried oregano, and crushed red pepper. If you like your greens hot...use more pepper...if not...use less. Same goes for the jalapeno.
Turn the greens on medium high heat and bring to a low boil. Cover them bad boys up and then let 'em percolate for the next four to six hours. The longer you let them cook, the better the flavor...when you taste the greens...and they melt like butter on your tongue...they are done man. If you are in a hurry, you can eat 'em after about four hours cooking time.
You can do all of this in a crock pot as well.
Also, from time to time add water to the pot--make sure the greens are always covered...and stir occassionally to make sure they don't stick to the bottom of the pot.
For good luck, make you some black eyed peas and rice and serve 'em up with the greens.
And there you have...when folks smack their lips together and are rubbin' their bellies...tell 'em Brandon sent ya.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Chittlin's Are Good For the Soul
(This article was written for and submitted to BlackPower.com)
Three times a year, I wake up before the sun, put pots of various sizes on the stove to boil, spend hours dicing, chopping, cleaning, tearing, baking, frying, broiling and carving up a feast. Collard greens slow cooked for hours with hamhocks, until the meat is falling off the hock and the greens are smooth as silk and melt on your tongue. Macaroni nd cheese that is akin to one of Pele's sacred mountains, cheese bubbling and percolating throughout layers and layers of macaroni masking as sediment, top golden brown and crisp with occassional butter, mozarella, and cheddar magma breaking through the surface. Turkey, slow roasted in the oven, garlic cloves slipped beneath the skin, the skin rubbed with olive oil, seasoning salt, garlic salt, pepper, and pats of butter snuck inside to make sure it stays so moist that the juices bead on the surface and sweat down the sides when you pull it from the oven. Mash potatoes and homemade turkey gravy. Stuffing. Pies. Glorified rice. Gizzards and neckbones. These are the blessings that I lay on the people I love, these are the spells and incantations I work to bring health and strength to my family, these are a holy inheritance that has sustained my people and my family for more than three centuries. This is soul food.
For those that did not grow up in a black family or a Southern family, soul food is viewed as a quaint regional cuisine. Perhaps you have had chicken and waffles at Amy Ruth's or sampled the greens and mac and cheese at Gladys Knight's Chicken and Waffles. Perhaps you have tried chitterlings on a dare or ate jambalaya while on vacation in New Orleans. For those of us that know better, we know that soul food is the way that our family keeps our history alive. Standing around the kitchen on Easter, watching my Great Aunt Sis cleaning chittlin's and telling me how putting a potato and an onion in the pot kills the smell was always the signal that a story was on its way. She would then turn to me and, in the same breath, tell me how the black community burned down the Negro school when the Supreme Court orderd the end of segregation so the white folks could never make them go back. With a chuckle, she would stir the greens, wink, and say, “But I don't know nothin' 'bout that.”
In my time, I have had to confront rabid vege-naziis that rail at me for eating meat. Having no understanding of what it means to take what was once thrown at you....trash given to trash...and making living, delicious, sustenance out of it. Pigs feet and chitterlings, neck bones and hog maws, tails and tongue. These were the things doled out to the least and from which we made the most. These are the foods that fed Martin Luther King, Jr and Malcolm X (minus the pork). These are the foods that fed Harriet Tubman and Sojourner Truth. These are the foods that fed Assata Shakur and Marcus Garvey and Maya Angelou and all of those black folks that laid the bricks of the road we now travel so much more easily because of their sacrifice and the celebration they made of scraps and ends.
On Thanksgiving morning, Christmas morning, and Easter morning, I wake up with joy in my heart. I turn on the stove, and I look at the bountiful blessing of histoy laid out in front of me. I lose all sense of time as I pour my love, joy, affection, sorrow, pain, and hope into every dish, into every cut and slice, into every pot. This is soul food. Food that sustains the soul, that is a gift, that is to be cherished and treasured and eaten as a way to celebrate family, history, the ones we love, and ourselves.
Three times a year, I wake up before the sun, put pots of various sizes on the stove to boil, spend hours dicing, chopping, cleaning, tearing, baking, frying, broiling and carving up a feast. Collard greens slow cooked for hours with hamhocks, until the meat is falling off the hock and the greens are smooth as silk and melt on your tongue. Macaroni nd cheese that is akin to one of Pele's sacred mountains, cheese bubbling and percolating throughout layers and layers of macaroni masking as sediment, top golden brown and crisp with occassional butter, mozarella, and cheddar magma breaking through the surface. Turkey, slow roasted in the oven, garlic cloves slipped beneath the skin, the skin rubbed with olive oil, seasoning salt, garlic salt, pepper, and pats of butter snuck inside to make sure it stays so moist that the juices bead on the surface and sweat down the sides when you pull it from the oven. Mash potatoes and homemade turkey gravy. Stuffing. Pies. Glorified rice. Gizzards and neckbones. These are the blessings that I lay on the people I love, these are the spells and incantations I work to bring health and strength to my family, these are a holy inheritance that has sustained my people and my family for more than three centuries. This is soul food.
For those that did not grow up in a black family or a Southern family, soul food is viewed as a quaint regional cuisine. Perhaps you have had chicken and waffles at Amy Ruth's or sampled the greens and mac and cheese at Gladys Knight's Chicken and Waffles. Perhaps you have tried chitterlings on a dare or ate jambalaya while on vacation in New Orleans. For those of us that know better, we know that soul food is the way that our family keeps our history alive. Standing around the kitchen on Easter, watching my Great Aunt Sis cleaning chittlin's and telling me how putting a potato and an onion in the pot kills the smell was always the signal that a story was on its way. She would then turn to me and, in the same breath, tell me how the black community burned down the Negro school when the Supreme Court orderd the end of segregation so the white folks could never make them go back. With a chuckle, she would stir the greens, wink, and say, “But I don't know nothin' 'bout that.”
In my time, I have had to confront rabid vege-naziis that rail at me for eating meat. Having no understanding of what it means to take what was once thrown at you....trash given to trash...and making living, delicious, sustenance out of it. Pigs feet and chitterlings, neck bones and hog maws, tails and tongue. These were the things doled out to the least and from which we made the most. These are the foods that fed Martin Luther King, Jr and Malcolm X (minus the pork). These are the foods that fed Harriet Tubman and Sojourner Truth. These are the foods that fed Assata Shakur and Marcus Garvey and Maya Angelou and all of those black folks that laid the bricks of the road we now travel so much more easily because of their sacrifice and the celebration they made of scraps and ends.
On Thanksgiving morning, Christmas morning, and Easter morning, I wake up with joy in my heart. I turn on the stove, and I look at the bountiful blessing of histoy laid out in front of me. I lose all sense of time as I pour my love, joy, affection, sorrow, pain, and hope into every dish, into every cut and slice, into every pot. This is soul food. Food that sustains the soul, that is a gift, that is to be cherished and treasured and eaten as a way to celebrate family, history, the ones we love, and ourselves.
New Collaboration with Mr. David Berube
Word to your Mothers! David and I have started work on a new collaboration. At the end of each week (more or less), I am writing a short short story---about a paragraph long--about the previous weekin New York. David's job is to illustrate those stories. Two stories have been written at this point, and they are patiently waiting for David's illustrations. I haven't run this by David yet, but I think the project should be called "Livin' in Hell('s Kitchen)." I am clever.
This project was, in part, inspired by our pal Yuval Sheer aka The Ice Chewer and the cool stories and illustrations on his blog.
Stay tuned for our first two stories and illustrations.
This project was, in part, inspired by our pal Yuval Sheer aka The Ice Chewer and the cool stories and illustrations on his blog.
Stay tuned for our first two stories and illustrations.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Poem: Mixed Emotions
I wrote this poem six years ago. The first time I read it, at the Late Night Series Hosted by Laurie Carlos at the Pillsbury House Theater, I was knocked over by the audience reaction. It was the third spoken word piece I had ever written, and it was the second time I had ever read in public. It gave me the confidence to move forward with my writing, it helped define my niche in the spoken word community, and it is still a crowd pleaser. I think my poetry has become more sophisticated since I wrote this...but it is still my all time favorite. You can hear it recorded if you check out my brother Rodrigo Sanchez-Chavarria's CD Desconocidos.
Mixed Emotions
Are you mixed? What are you? Where are you really from? Your Mama’s white huh? You speak Spanish like a Mexican, Nuyorican. White boy with a tan. What ARE you?
It’s too bad you can’t identify
What I clearly can’t deny
I’m a fine, sweet lovin’, smart ass, smart mouthed, smart boy
With more history in my veins than you can ever hope to comprehend
I am a Swede-a-Rican, Negro, Native, German, Dutch, English, Scottish, Norwegian, Spic.
Praire Nigga, Island Nigga, Nigga Nigga,Faggot
And the next person that asks me if Puerto Ricans got big dicks
I am going to take mine out and choke him with it
What am I? Martian Motherfucker! I reply.
Or sometimes I quantify: 2/8 black + 4/8 white + 1/8 Native + 1/8 Puerto Rican
You do the math
I am tired of calculating the motivations and objectification of my ancestral relationships
It doesn’t matter what I say
You’ll make up your mind anyway
I am the Nigga that makes you grab your purse
I am the Spic that you love to curse
I am the low down, caramel brown, miscegenation revelation of this world’s future
I am Nefertiti & Piri Thomas
I am Harriet Tubman & Sitting Bull
I am John Brown & Jesus Christ
If you don’t like it that’s just too damn bad
I have had it with playing Cirque du Soleil
Contorting my face and my race in order to placate your fears
I know the story that you’d like to hear about leaving the jungle and my very first spear
How my Mom rode a Zebra with a bone in her lip
Titties sagging to the ground with a kid on each hip
How I salsa-ed to school
That I can use an abacus
How I feed the chickens in the morning
Worked the fields late at night
How I attained my manhood from a wildebeest fight
You’d like to know how many languages I speak
That I feel homesick when I go to the zoo
Well this is the point that I tell you to back the fuck off
Get away from me or my first in your face is the last thing you’ll see
I am from right here born queer in the Great State of Minnesota
Me, Charles Schulz, and Charles Lindbergh
Schultz illustrated, Lindbergh aviated, and I’ve navigated
The convoluted mimicry of this multi-racial democracy
I’ve checked the boxes
Tried to conform
Finally said fuck it and blew up the norm
I rejected the questions
I refused to be placed in a box
Marked other ethnicity/race
I am an Afro-Euro-Boricua-Fag
I’m so multi-national I should have my own flag
My roots are three continents wide
And no one can make decide to choose one or the other
The history of my father or that of my mother
My brothers and sisters
We are here to stay
Your time for a say in it has long passed away
You should have thought about that before you screwed my Mom
Raped third world women from Santiago to Saigon
I am a product of your perfidy, colonization, and slavery
Now I’m pissed off and roaming free denying your attempts to colonize me
It’s fairly obvious and plain to see
That I am the person that you’d like to be
Tiger Woods?
He ain’t got nothing on me
I am not your boy-geisha tropical blend
Dark skinned Latin melanin friend
I am proud to be Puerto Rican, Black, Swedish, Anishinabe too
What face you see is up to you
I am a chameleon I get to be everything inside of me
No limitations
No expiration date
I get to be in the club
I don’t need a pass
I am enough
If you don’t like it, fuck it that’s tough
I’m a mixed race diva from my feet to my hair
You better get used to it
I ain’t going no where.
Mixed Emotions
Are you mixed? What are you? Where are you really from? Your Mama’s white huh? You speak Spanish like a Mexican, Nuyorican. White boy with a tan. What ARE you?
It’s too bad you can’t identify
What I clearly can’t deny
I’m a fine, sweet lovin’, smart ass, smart mouthed, smart boy
With more history in my veins than you can ever hope to comprehend
I am a Swede-a-Rican, Negro, Native, German, Dutch, English, Scottish, Norwegian, Spic.
Praire Nigga, Island Nigga, Nigga Nigga,Faggot
And the next person that asks me if Puerto Ricans got big dicks
I am going to take mine out and choke him with it
What am I? Martian Motherfucker! I reply.
Or sometimes I quantify: 2/8 black + 4/8 white + 1/8 Native + 1/8 Puerto Rican
You do the math
I am tired of calculating the motivations and objectification of my ancestral relationships
It doesn’t matter what I say
You’ll make up your mind anyway
I am the Nigga that makes you grab your purse
I am the Spic that you love to curse
I am the low down, caramel brown, miscegenation revelation of this world’s future
I am Nefertiti & Piri Thomas
I am Harriet Tubman & Sitting Bull
I am John Brown & Jesus Christ
If you don’t like it that’s just too damn bad
I have had it with playing Cirque du Soleil
Contorting my face and my race in order to placate your fears
I know the story that you’d like to hear about leaving the jungle and my very first spear
How my Mom rode a Zebra with a bone in her lip
Titties sagging to the ground with a kid on each hip
How I salsa-ed to school
That I can use an abacus
How I feed the chickens in the morning
Worked the fields late at night
How I attained my manhood from a wildebeest fight
You’d like to know how many languages I speak
That I feel homesick when I go to the zoo
Well this is the point that I tell you to back the fuck off
Get away from me or my first in your face is the last thing you’ll see
I am from right here born queer in the Great State of Minnesota
Me, Charles Schulz, and Charles Lindbergh
Schultz illustrated, Lindbergh aviated, and I’ve navigated
The convoluted mimicry of this multi-racial democracy
I’ve checked the boxes
Tried to conform
Finally said fuck it and blew up the norm
I rejected the questions
I refused to be placed in a box
Marked other ethnicity/race
I am an Afro-Euro-Boricua-Fag
I’m so multi-national I should have my own flag
My roots are three continents wide
And no one can make decide to choose one or the other
The history of my father or that of my mother
My brothers and sisters
We are here to stay
Your time for a say in it has long passed away
You should have thought about that before you screwed my Mom
Raped third world women from Santiago to Saigon
I am a product of your perfidy, colonization, and slavery
Now I’m pissed off and roaming free denying your attempts to colonize me
It’s fairly obvious and plain to see
That I am the person that you’d like to be
Tiger Woods?
He ain’t got nothing on me
I am not your boy-geisha tropical blend
Dark skinned Latin melanin friend
I am proud to be Puerto Rican, Black, Swedish, Anishinabe too
What face you see is up to you
I am a chameleon I get to be everything inside of me
No limitations
No expiration date
I get to be in the club
I don’t need a pass
I am enough
If you don’t like it, fuck it that’s tough
I’m a mixed race diva from my feet to my hair
You better get used to it
I ain’t going no where.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Advanced Praise for It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt!
Advanced praise for my first solo book of poetry, due out at the end of September from Summerfolk Press, It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt.. Look soon for the release of a webpage for the book!
"Brandon Lacy Campos is part tomahawk thrower and part philosopher, a fresh voice of queer rebellion, an outsider talking of revolution, avenging exploitation. The stinging lashes on a slave’s back, the mystical incantations of native medicine men, the curiosities of an innocent white child and the cultural bisection of a bilingual Latino—these are the things he sees, as these are the things he is. These poems are monuments to the victims of abuse, to the splendor of visionary queer consciousness—to true America."
Charlie Vázquez, fiction writer, blogger and host of the queer East Village reading series, PANIC!
"Brandon Lacy Campos is part tomahawk thrower and part philosopher, a fresh voice of queer rebellion, an outsider talking of revolution, avenging exploitation. The stinging lashes on a slave’s back, the mystical incantations of native medicine men, the curiosities of an innocent white child and the cultural bisection of a bilingual Latino—these are the things he sees, as these are the things he is. These poems are monuments to the victims of abuse, to the splendor of visionary queer consciousness—to true America."
Charlie Vázquez, fiction writer, blogger and host of the queer East Village reading series, PANIC!
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Goodbye Slammers, Hello Rookies!
This morning, after a night spent in deep battle with my explosive colon, I woke up at 9:30, look at David, kissed him, and started to panic. This morning was the second and final draft for the Big Apple Softball League. I was supposed to get a softball glove last night on my way to chanting, but, due to marital strife, I was unable to do so.
So, this morning, not only did I have to be in Chelsea by 11am, I also had to get to City Sports (in the opposite direction of the park), get a glove, and then get to Chelsea.
We did it.
I walked up to an astro turf field on West 27th, that was slowly being filled by queers of multiple genders, wearing numbers stuck to their backs, and eyeballing each other as they warmed up with some ball throwing. I met a kid named Memo, and we managed to throw the ball to each other (well I threw it to him and he threw it to the fence about 100 feet behind me) exactly twice before the Comish (Reggie) called us all together.
All roughly 60 of us pooled together, huddling like the Daddy Emperor Penguins in March of the Penguins, cussing at NY One which had promised us a 60 degree day and we got 49 with -2000 wind chill.
Then the exercises started.
We chose positions on the field and begin a series of drills. Surrounding us were the managers from the teams looking to draft players. I felt like the fat kid with thick glasses and and an afro in gym class. I just knew I would be last picked.
first turn to field a ball came up and the woman hitting the ball hit it to short instead of 2nd base. I decided to be a superhero and ran across the field, jumped to grab the ball, missed, tucked, and rolled across the astro turf. Titi would have been pissed cuz I never did shit like that on the Slammers.
Then came batting, which is when the called for the pitchers. Now, I was the backup pitcher for the Slammers. Sometimes I was on fire and other times I was fired and pulled off the field. So, I was a bit nervous to get up and have to lip sync, I mean pitch, for my life. I stepped to the mound and low and behold, I pitched a strike. As a matter of fact out of roughly 15 pitches perhaps three or four were outside of the strike zone. Not only that, I was catching pop flys that were hit by the batters. Miracles do happen.
After about 2.5 hours, everyone had been put through their paces, and then came the selection process. One of the other pitchers was first pick. My little heart fell. Then, all of a sudden, the commissioner pointed at me and said "Come here." He informed me that I would be pitching for his team. And a guy standing next to him smiled and said, "I told him to pick you."
I was a first round draft pick. Selected before the other managers began meeting to dole out the remaining 58 players. I felt like I was walking on air! I felt so good I let loose with a TRIM SPA BABY! You like my body? (that's for you Slammers out there).
So there you have it. I tried out for the Big Apple Softball League. I wasn't picked last. And I will be back on the softball field this summer. Feeling a little bit like Sporty Spice (and lookin' like Scary Spice). Rock on! And thank you to my beloved man for standing in the freezing as cold with me, snapping pictures, and cheering me on.
So, this morning, not only did I have to be in Chelsea by 11am, I also had to get to City Sports (in the opposite direction of the park), get a glove, and then get to Chelsea.
We did it.
I walked up to an astro turf field on West 27th, that was slowly being filled by queers of multiple genders, wearing numbers stuck to their backs, and eyeballing each other as they warmed up with some ball throwing. I met a kid named Memo, and we managed to throw the ball to each other (well I threw it to him and he threw it to the fence about 100 feet behind me) exactly twice before the Comish (Reggie) called us all together.
All roughly 60 of us pooled together, huddling like the Daddy Emperor Penguins in March of the Penguins, cussing at NY One which had promised us a 60 degree day and we got 49 with -2000 wind chill.
Then the exercises started.
We chose positions on the field and begin a series of drills. Surrounding us were the managers from the teams looking to draft players. I felt like the fat kid with thick glasses and and an afro in gym class. I just knew I would be last picked.
first turn to field a ball came up and the woman hitting the ball hit it to short instead of 2nd base. I decided to be a superhero and ran across the field, jumped to grab the ball, missed, tucked, and rolled across the astro turf. Titi would have been pissed cuz I never did shit like that on the Slammers. Then came batting, which is when the called for the pitchers. Now, I was the backup pitcher for the Slammers. Sometimes I was on fire and other times I was fired and pulled off the field. So, I was a bit nervous to get up and have to lip sync, I mean pitch, for my life. I stepped to the mound and low and behold, I pitched a strike. As a matter of fact out of roughly 15 pitches perhaps three or four were outside of the strike zone. Not only that, I was catching pop flys that were hit by the batters. Miracles do happen.
After about 2.5 hours, everyone had been put through their paces, and then came the selection process. One of the other pitchers was first pick. My little heart fell. Then, all of a sudden, the commissioner pointed at me and said "Come here." He informed me that I would be pitching for his team. And a guy standing next to him smiled and said, "I told him to pick you."
I was a first round draft pick. Selected before the other managers began meeting to dole out the remaining 58 players. I felt like I was walking on air! I felt so good I let loose with a TRIM SPA BABY! You like my body? (that's for you Slammers out there).
So there you have it. I tried out for the Big Apple Softball League. I wasn't picked last. And I will be back on the softball field this summer. Feeling a little bit like Sporty Spice (and lookin' like Scary Spice). Rock on! And thank you to my beloved man for standing in the freezing as cold with me, snapping pictures, and cheering me on.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo
This evening, I entered a brightly lit, ornate redstone building covered in scaffolding on East 15th on the border of the Village and Chelsea. I met my best friend, RJ, there--after a hasty cab ride as I thought I was going to be late--to attend evening chant. RJ had recently started attending prayer services at this Buddhist Society, and I, a Christian pan-theist, gladly joined him.
It was nothing like I expected.
To begin with, the chanting had started early. We entered a room filled with a Bennetton spread of nationalities literally humming with the Nichiren Buddhist chant Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo (for those that love them some Tina Turner and have seen What's Love Got to Do With It a half million times as I have will recognize this as the chant she was taught). The chanting and the room were alive with energy. The sound jumped directly into my chest, and before my butt hit the seat I was chanting along with the crowd.
As I looked around, I noticed young and old, Asian, Latino, Jewish, Black, and White filling the room (thanks to Tina Turner the largest groups were black folks and a pan-Asian hodgepodge--and true to form most of the black folks arrived late as hell including the Afro-Latin@s). The service was simple, except the five minutes of the liturgy which sounded like a Buddhist monk on meth, and largely consisted (except for that five minutes) of chanting Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo which means I commit myself to the cosmic law of cause and effect and to the ultimate universal truth expressed through sound. Damn that little old Japanese/Sanskrit phrase packs a lot of punch.
I fell into the easy rythym of the chant. About half way through, RJ looked up and said, "call me." Which is a code word for HOT MAN. I paused in my chanting to appreciate the Latin thick 'em that was moving out to take a call. Yes, the Buddha is good. Hey glory.
About 15 minutes into the service, I found myself chanting and rocking back and forth to the vibration of the sound. And then I experienced a strange and awesome sensation. I felt as if a cool fire was emanating from my skin...like...if they had killed the lights...my little brown ass would have been all a glow. It was a cool feeling. And then the little Japanese women next to me, who arrived late I might add, started chanting out of rythym and threw off my feng shui...and I lost my glowing feeling. But for a minute I felt like Bruce Leroy...whose the master? I am!
I have always believed in God. It's been both a blessing and a curse. He and I have not always gotten along, but I've always believed in him. This was an entirely different way of experiencing him. And one that I will be repeating. I am no hero for opening myself to the experience, but I am proud that I was enable to enhance my faith journey...even if it was a little bit Barry Gordy style.
It was nothing like I expected.
To begin with, the chanting had started early. We entered a room filled with a Bennetton spread of nationalities literally humming with the Nichiren Buddhist chant Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo (for those that love them some Tina Turner and have seen What's Love Got to Do With It a half million times
As I looked around, I noticed young and old, Asian, Latino, Jewish, Black, and White filling the room (thanks to Tina Turner the largest groups were black folks and a pan-Asian hodgepodge--and true to form most of the black folks arrived late as hell including the Afro-Latin@s). The service was simple, except the five minutes of the liturgy which sounded like a Buddhist monk on meth, and largely consisted (except for that five minutes) of chanting Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo which means I commit myself to the cosmic law of cause and effect and to the ultimate universal truth expressed through sound. Damn that little old Japanese/Sanskrit phrase packs a lot of punch.
I fell into the easy rythym of the chant. About half way through, RJ looked up and said, "call me." Which is a code word for HOT MAN. I paused in my chanting to appreciate the Latin thick 'em that was moving out to take a call. Yes, the Buddha is good. Hey glory.
About 15 minutes into the service, I found myself chanting and rocking back and forth to the vibration of the sound. And then I experienced a strange and awesome sensation. I felt as if a cool fire was emanating from my skin...like...if they had killed the lights...my little brown ass would have been all a glow. It was a cool feeling. And then the little Japanese women next to me, who arrived late I might add, started chanting out of rythym and threw off my feng shui...and I lost my glowing feeling. But for a minute I felt like Bruce Leroy...whose the master? I am!
I have always believed in God. It's been both a blessing and a curse. He and I have not always gotten along, but I've always believed in him. This was an entirely different way of experiencing him. And one that I will be repeating. I am no hero for opening myself to the experience, but I am proud that I was enable to enhance my faith journey...even if it was a little bit Barry Gordy style.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Poem: Carey
Another oldie but goody. I wrote this poem about six years after my Grandfather passed away. My Grandfather was an amazing human being. Words fail to describe exactly what he meant to me and my family. When someone like him passes, it is a light going out of this world. Thank God I believe in the world to come...so I know his light is not lost only shining in a different, better place.
I love you Grandpa.
Carey
I remember that day when Mom called and said
You didn’t make it
She told me that You held her hand and died
You asked her to fly with You and to bring me too
I would have found a way
Like Icarus I would have made wings of wax and feathers
Or of mud and leaves—anything that would have lifted me
With You on a flight to the sun
I wouldn’t have been afraid for my wings to melt
Because you were Grandpa Carey
And You would have carried me
You would have carried me like you did when you were alive
Tucked underneath your arm or huddled beneath one of your stories
You would have carried me like You did our family
That you supported until your lungs gave out from the asbestos
That you carried even with your laughter wheezing from you chest
Oxygen life lines in your nose
You swore that my chuckle was contagious
That as a baby I laughed so hard and deep that you had to laugh too
But it was You, always You that gave to me
You filled my mind and my stomach with your wit and buttermilk pancakes
Your gentle hugs and callused hands that smelled like roofing tar and sawdust
It was you that knew all my secrets
Would ask me, “How is Grandpa’s little girl?”
I would answer, “Grandpa, I’m a boy,” and You would smile
Maybe not understanding gay but understanding different
White man/native man caught between the rez and reality
And You loved me just the same
It’s been six years since You left us
72 months since I’ve heard your voice
More than 2000 days since You went home
This poem has been 52,560 hours in the writing because I still look for You
On holidays
I sit in my spot on the couch
And look for You in your chair at the end of the kitchen table
Where the floor slants downward the foundation settling into the dirt
Sometimes I hear You playing solitaire and You swore you never cheated
But You always won
Sometimes I play cribbage with your ghost, and I remind it of the one time I beat You
And as usual You pretend not to hear
Just like when we would watch Wheel of Fortune together
And You’d play deaf if I guessed the puzzle before you did
I pray to you sometimes when I think God is too busy to listen,
Because you were never too busy for me
And sometimes when I think I can’t make it
I can hear your rocking chair creaking
And the sound of Price is Right with no TV in sight
I remember the day that we watched the black televangelist on KDLH
You announced that someday that could be me
I shook my head, and you said that with faith I could anything
With faith I could move mountains
With faith I could make the blind see
With faith I could change the world
But faith hasn’t brought You back to me
Faith hasn’t brought back the only man I’ve ever loved unconditionally
And sometimes I get so angry that I never got to say goodbye
That I won’t go to Your grave because I’m afraid that the finality of stone nourished by your body
Will take away the faith I have left
I am trying to understand why He took You
When at times like today I need You
I need You because you are the only Father I have ever known
And while you art in Heaven, I’m here alone
“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.”
And the courage to say goodbye
To the man who carried me
And who carries me still
I love you Grandpa.
Carey
I remember that day when Mom called and said
You didn’t make it
She told me that You held her hand and died
You asked her to fly with You and to bring me too
I would have found a way
Like Icarus I would have made wings of wax and feathers
Or of mud and leaves—anything that would have lifted me
With You on a flight to the sun
I wouldn’t have been afraid for my wings to melt
Because you were Grandpa Carey
And You would have carried me
You would have carried me like you did when you were alive
Tucked underneath your arm or huddled beneath one of your stories
You would have carried me like You did our family
That you supported until your lungs gave out from the asbestos
That you carried even with your laughter wheezing from you chest
Oxygen life lines in your nose
You swore that my chuckle was contagious
That as a baby I laughed so hard and deep that you had to laugh too
But it was You, always You that gave to me
You filled my mind and my stomach with your wit and buttermilk pancakes
Your gentle hugs and callused hands that smelled like roofing tar and sawdust
It was you that knew all my secrets
Would ask me, “How is Grandpa’s little girl?”
I would answer, “Grandpa, I’m a boy,” and You would smile
Maybe not understanding gay but understanding different
White man/native man caught between the rez and reality
And You loved me just the same
It’s been six years since You left us
72 months since I’ve heard your voice
More than 2000 days since You went home
This poem has been 52,560 hours in the writing because I still look for You
On holidays
I sit in my spot on the couch
And look for You in your chair at the end of the kitchen table
Where the floor slants downward the foundation settling into the dirt
Sometimes I hear You playing solitaire and You swore you never cheated
But You always won
Sometimes I play cribbage with your ghost, and I remind it of the one time I beat You
And as usual You pretend not to hear
Just like when we would watch Wheel of Fortune together
And You’d play deaf if I guessed the puzzle before you did
I pray to you sometimes when I think God is too busy to listen,
Because you were never too busy for me
And sometimes when I think I can’t make it
I can hear your rocking chair creaking
And the sound of Price is Right with no TV in sight
I remember the day that we watched the black televangelist on KDLH
You announced that someday that could be me
I shook my head, and you said that with faith I could anything
With faith I could move mountains
With faith I could make the blind see
With faith I could change the world
But faith hasn’t brought You back to me
Faith hasn’t brought back the only man I’ve ever loved unconditionally
And sometimes I get so angry that I never got to say goodbye
That I won’t go to Your grave because I’m afraid that the finality of stone nourished by your body
Will take away the faith I have left
I am trying to understand why He took You
When at times like today I need You
I need You because you are the only Father I have ever known
And while you art in Heaven, I’m here alone
“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.”
And the courage to say goodbye
To the man who carried me
And who carries me still
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