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Why is Bill Clinton so sexy? Well, he's just really really good at what he does (when he's in the right mood). Here are my favorite quotes from last night's speech, ones that really shredded the republicans and lifted Obama in ways that only Bill Clinton can articulate.
Here are some of my favorite quotes from the speech. Watch the video for yourself HERE.
Finally republicans gained control of Congress and the White House and "LOOK WHAT HAPPENED."
"I love Joe Biden."
Hillary said she will do everything she can to get Obama elected. Bill: "That makes two of us. Actually, that makes 18 million of us."
"Everything I learned [as president] has convinced me that Barack Obama is the man for this job."
"Obama's first decision was selecting a running mate [and] he hit it out of the park."
"Barack Obama is on the right side of history."
Bill Clinton to John McCain and the republicans: "Thanks but no thanks."
Obama Picks Joe Biden
It's official. After all the speculation, I get a text at 3:09 a.m. saying Joe Biden is indeed Obama's pick for a running mate. Fine. Great! The mad guessing game is over!!!!
Obama fights back
Wow.No more Mr. Nice guy. Obama pointed out that McCain said you have to have at least $5 million to be considered 'rich'. Maaan, I have a long way to go. That means if I make 4 million I'm just, er, middle class? Check out the video, HERE
GIVE BOLT A BREAK! (Oh, wait, he's not American)
A CNN story quoted the International Olympic Committee chief Jacques Rogge (of Belgium) saying Olympic runner Ussain Bolt is disrespectful when he wins and "showboats" across the finish line without regard for his competitiors. Yeah. Michael Phelps would, too, if he was a runner. He does his own version of showing off, and he should. No one has a problem w. Phelps. If they did, it wouldn't be on CNN, you betcha!
No we McCain't
In an interview on Politico.com, John McCain was asked how many houses he and his wife own. The answer? Er...ahhhh....he'll have his staff get back with you on that. LMAO!!!
Then the Obama camp immediatly decided to have some fun with this new ad: posted HERE on utube.
Eye for an Eye. Let's get it, Dems!
Then the Obama camp immediatly decided to have some fun with this new ad: posted HERE on utube.
Eye for an Eye. Let's get it, Dems!
Detroit Hippies
There's no hippie like a Detroit hippie, I'll tell ya. As much as I've always leaned a bit towards the hippie side, I always thought the only true hippies left were people like my parents, who were hippies and still are, now they're just old hippies. And since the 60's my two sets of parents have a. left the country b. became a part of the American working class c. have random friends from their hippie past pop up now and then. But Detroit still has a very strong hippie population and its claimed some of my generation. I think that's pretty AWESOME!
ARE JOURNALISTS STUPID?
So as we all know, it's getting close to the time when McCain and Obama are going to pick their 'veeps' for the general election. And I think every single major media outlet (and not-so-major ones, too) are going on this wild goose chase to see if they can guess who each candidate will pick. It's like McCain/Lieberman ticket? Obama Biden? Huh? Maybe? Yes? No? Huh?
My thing is: Unless we're SERIOUSLY going to influence this choice by writing and reporting about it, then WHO CARES? They'll pick who they pick, and then we can say, Oh! He picked so and so and then write about that. Not spend days, weeks, months, trying to figure out who it will be. That's a waste of energy. Once it's announced, sure, I want to be the first to know! But before then even if I did guess right...a few hours after they announce it, it won't matter who was right. If it does, then that's just stupid, Journalistis.
My thing is: Unless we're SERIOUSLY going to influence this choice by writing and reporting about it, then WHO CARES? They'll pick who they pick, and then we can say, Oh! He picked so and so and then write about that. Not spend days, weeks, months, trying to figure out who it will be. That's a waste of energy. Once it's announced, sure, I want to be the first to know! But before then even if I did guess right...a few hours after they announce it, it won't matter who was right. If it does, then that's just stupid, Journalistis.
McCain says media love Obama. REALLY?
This would be on the news 24 hours a day if this was Obama. If Obama can't beat this guy, then Americans are stupid, or Obama needs to run a better campaign.
If I were a drug lord I wouldn't hire Lil' Wayne. Here's why:
[Just for fun}
When I was considering Lil' Wayne for the position of Subcomandante Drogas I took a couple things into consideration.
First of all, he gets most of his money from being a rapper these days and is arguably a great one, so I'd have a really hard time scheduling him in.
And then I started thinking, well, he's in the spotlight far too much. If he was working for me and he got mauled by the paparazzi, then what?
So after further deliberations I thought I could have him work an international cartel from somewhere where he would not be recognized. Um... No. That wouldn't work out either. He's way too into himself. When he woke up and realized that his neighbors had no idea that he was the 'best rapper alive' or had any way to gauge his talent, he might shrivel up and die.
So, needless to say, he didn't get a call back. I hope I didn't hurt his feelings.
Anyway, we can still have heroin boiling parties in your glass house, right Mr. Carter?
~MMF
When I was considering Lil' Wayne for the position of Subcomandante Drogas I took a couple things into consideration.
First of all, he gets most of his money from being a rapper these days and is arguably a great one, so I'd have a really hard time scheduling him in.
And then I started thinking, well, he's in the spotlight far too much. If he was working for me and he got mauled by the paparazzi, then what?
So after further deliberations I thought I could have him work an international cartel from somewhere where he would not be recognized. Um... No. That wouldn't work out either. He's way too into himself. When he woke up and realized that his neighbors had no idea that he was the 'best rapper alive' or had any way to gauge his talent, he might shrivel up and die.
So, needless to say, he didn't get a call back. I hope I didn't hurt his feelings.
Anyway, we can still have heroin boiling parties in your glass house, right Mr. Carter?
~MMF
Meghan McCain's political blog
Get this: Yesterday, John McCain held a press conference at the Big Rock (very fancy steak house in Birmingham, MI) during which he encouraged attendees to visit his daughter's blog, as she was covering her life on the trail. So I decided to check it out after I got an e-mail from my co-worker Ed Brayton that included a link to a blog that points out how much Meghan's blog coverage sucks.
I laughed so hard, I thought I'd share. But don't take my or Nick Gillespie's opinion for it. Check out Meghan's blog and get your own opinion, HERE.
Notice how 'awesome' the photo captions are. They go something like 'Check out this kid's tie' and 'How cute is this little girl'.
Complete with glamor shots of Meghan!
[Also notice that "Jay", the "Straight Talk Express" bus driver, is the only black person in a crowd of 3,000.]
Here's what Meg was most proud of this week:
And the main entry right now on the blog: oday began with one of the most memorable and unique town halls of Dad's campaign, held at the Toyota Arena in York, Pennsylvania. For the first time, Jay drove the "Straight Talk" right into the middle of the packed hall and Dad, U.S. Senator Joe Lieberman and former Governor Tom Ridge exited the bus into the cheering crowd of more than 3,000 people to start the town hall. It was such a cool entrance and an amazing event! I had a great time watching it unfold from the front seat of the bus. It was also fun spending most of the day with Senator Lieberman, one of the nicest and most genuine people I've ever met. Tomorrow we head to Michigan...>
I can sum all that up in one sentence: "Dear diary, I had so much fun on the bus with Dad today. Love, Meghan.
I assume this blog is geared at young people. But, as a young peron, I have to say, it misses the mark. It insults my intelligence ... and hers.
People, not plants
Just like the blossoms are disappearing from the spring trees, I'd like to go incognito. Maybe I'd be stuck to the wheel of a car or the bottom of a shoe, like a petal. Then, I wouldn't have to respond to anything, anything at all. I wouldn't have to write stories about things and wonder if they matter in the long run.
I'd like to write about plants, not people. But it's people that need to be written about; people that need to be kept aware of their their own nature. For now, I need to write about people because if I am the flower I think I am, then I will have my time to shine, my time to be a novelty, then disappear.
I'd like to write about plants, not people. But it's people that need to be written about; people that need to be kept aware of their their own nature. For now, I need to write about people because if I am the flower I think I am, then I will have my time to shine, my time to be a novelty, then disappear.
Flower Day
On a day full of brisk wind and spotted with the occasional rain shower, gardeners from all over Michigan came out to be a part of annual "Flower Day" at Eastern Market in Detroit. Hundreds of vendors were there selling everything from petunias to plam trees. Organizers expected about 150,000 people to attended throughout the day on Sunday. The 42nd Annual Flower Day is one of the biggest flower shows in the country, taking up more than 15 acres of space with vendors, live music, and visual entertainment. The turn out was stellar this year, despite the unpredictable weather. If spring was ever in the air, it was at Eastern Market on Sunday. Here are some views of the colorful event:
Mike Huckabee jokes about Obama getting shot
'That was Barack Obama," Huckabee said. 'He just tripped off a chair. He was getting ready to speak and someone pointed a gun at him and he dove for the floor.'"
Obama visits Macomb: a look at the press. Plus: Edwards Edorsement
I woke up at 6:15a.m. this morning because I had a press check-in at 9 a.m. in Macomb and I had to figure out how to get there, and also how to get a rose thorn out of my foot ... but I digress. The Obama event that was announced last night around 5:00. I've never been to one of these national press things and I learned a lot, if nothing else, about how the press works. I got a weird feeling early on, when I saw about ten TV trucks outside and press busses and all the rather gittery people they contained descending upon this little community college student center. It was very competitive.
I mean, just before Obama went on stage, the press pounced at the sight of a hijab on a muslim woman. Why? Were they thinking: "Here's our chance to know what the muslims think!?!" I have a feeling I'm on the right track. I felt like a vulture and made sure not to follow suit and attack the muslim couple and their kids with questions and shove cameras in their face. The whole press thing kinda creeped me out, it was like a bunch of hungry, informational hyenas circling for scraps of information thrown down by the lions (in this case, BO and his campaign). Good Old, old Al Allen, a looking a bit tired
One more thing: I overheard a guy from The New York Times interviewing Isaac Robinson the political director for the Mich. Teamsters Union. He was a really twitchy little guy who insisted on chewing gum a mile a minute and had some admirable skills in writing shorthand. But when he got the chance to speak with Robinson about the event what did he ask? "Why isn't Obama Wearing a flag pin? Does it bother you? Do you think it'll matter to people in the gen. election?" REALLY? Really, little twittery NYT guy? Aren't you, like, the standard other journalists wish they held themselves up to? UM, I'm a little confused.
Oh yeah, I ALMOST FORGOT. This press guy with scraggly brown hair to his shoulders got my attention and some other people's, too, when he literally was walking so fast he ran into a metal TV pole really hard and stumble backwards with his hand to his head. We were like "Are you all right?" And he wandered forward looking a bit bewildered. "Physically, I'm ok. Mentally, NO." was the answer he gave before being swallowed somewhere in the crowd of other mentally strained press. I got the feeling a lot of them were on speed and really really stressed out. I wanted to be like relax. Seriously. Stop being robots, we're all people.
One reporter who was there kept signing loudly during Obama's speech. He obviously didn't like the whole Obama thing, but he's neutral, right? UM YEAHRIGHT. So am I. But it's OK! How is anyone supposed to be neutral, we're people!
This other reporter for a Warren daily was there with his little personal camera and admitted he was gonna try and get some "personal shots to show m friends" Obama fan? I think.
And One thing I noticed is that the crowd in front of us press could clap and on the other side of the ropes, silence. At first my hands automatically started coming together but when I saw the stone faces of the press I caught myself. I did laugh at Obama's Viagra joke, though, I couldn't help it. Viagra's just always good for a funny, especially when you're talking about drug companies and health care ... it lightens the mood.
So anyway, no one was talking about Clinton today, that's for sure. I felt like she's almost a joke now. People there were democrats. They were working class people I'd say. All of them were either "on the fence" or for Obama. Even those "on the fence" said they felt like Obama was gonna be it seeing as Clinton is losing. I mean, John Edwards endorsed Obama this evening in Grand Rapids. So, anyway, things are looking very good for BO. Obama is very charismatic, funny, relational. Edwards, a running mate? Maybe.
I mean, just before Obama went on stage, the press pounced at the sight of a hijab on a muslim woman. Why? Were they thinking: "Here's our chance to know what the muslims think!?!" I have a feeling I'm on the right track. I felt like a vulture and made sure not to follow suit and attack the muslim couple and their kids with questions and shove cameras in their face. The whole press thing kinda creeped me out, it was like a bunch of hungry, informational hyenas circling for scraps of information thrown down by the lions (in this case, BO and his campaign).
In fairness, it was a very controlled environment. I could tell people that came, aside from the press ,were big Obama fans and that that may not have been such a coincidence. This way, the message that will be broadcasted will be "Macomb Loves Obama" and I'm sure they do. I'm sure they do, but, almost everyone?
Either way, my point was that the press pick apart an event like a carcass and descend upon certain people just to follow a set of silly requirements:"Talk to the muslim people, talk to the white people, we wanna know, we wanna know what they think!" For instance the people who got to ask Obama questions during the event got mauled by press seconds after Obama left the stage. And of course, they're all gonna say the same thing to each news person, so why would everyone want to get the same thing? One woman there, Susan Watson of Canton, said she refuses talk to the News Or the Freep. Good for her. She talked to me, though.
I found myself smiling a lot to compensate for feeling like a jerk when I asked people questions and if they were receptive I made it more conversational. I think I spent too long with certain people and didn't get as good a sampling of the crowd as I could have, but there is something lost and gained from that. I just know I didn't like the "annoying reporter" technique where they just pick at you until you say something--anything.
Early on, I met a girl named Christina, who worked for the Detroit News, and she was very nice, but seemed a little disgruntled about a lot of things--like how her job made her wake up early and get to the place before anything even stated happening, about how the News website sucks because she has to write three different versions of the story (on for web, and a couple for the paper). She also was saying how they told her to wear her running shoes because she might be chasing down people for comments. She was asking me questions, like "How many black people would you say are here" or "Who are those people sitting behind Obama?" I was happy to help, lol. They also had asked her to ID people she was interviewing and how reporters have to take pitures now and that's not what she went to school for...ikes. Also, how annoying they guy from the Freep was (competition). Somebody doesn't like their job much? Maybe it was a bad morning.
The other thing I noticed was that "The Press" means white people. Of the 50 press people there I think there was one asian, and thee blacks--one was me and the others were this guy from MTV with dreadlocks, and this other guy wearing a tigers cap who was behind one of the fox 2 cameras....And, oh yeah, Al Allen who was standing around looking a little dazed and confused, but does he count? 
One more thing: I overheard a guy from The New York Times interviewing Isaac Robinson the political director for the Mich. Teamsters Union. He was a really twitchy little guy who insisted on chewing gum a mile a minute and had some admirable skills in writing shorthand. But when he got the chance to speak with Robinson about the event what did he ask? "Why isn't Obama Wearing a flag pin? Does it bother you? Do you think it'll matter to people in the gen. election?" REALLY? Really, little twittery NYT guy? Aren't you, like, the standard other journalists wish they held themselves up to? UM, I'm a little confused.
Oh yeah, I ALMOST FORGOT. This press guy with scraggly brown hair to his shoulders got my attention and some other people's, too, when he literally was walking so fast he ran into a metal TV pole really hard and stumble backwards with his hand to his head. We were like "Are you all right?" And he wandered forward looking a bit bewildered. "Physically, I'm ok. Mentally, NO." was the answer he gave before being swallowed somewhere in the crowd of other mentally strained press. I got the feeling a lot of them were on speed and really really stressed out. I wanted to be like relax. Seriously. Stop being robots, we're all people.
One reporter who was there kept signing loudly during Obama's speech. He obviously didn't like the whole Obama thing, but he's neutral, right? UM YEAHRIGHT. So am I. But it's OK! How is anyone supposed to be neutral, we're people!
This other reporter for a Warren daily was there with his little personal camera and admitted he was gonna try and get some "personal shots to show m friends" Obama fan? I think.
And One thing I noticed is that the crowd in front of us press could clap and on the other side of the ropes, silence. At first my hands automatically started coming together but when I saw the stone faces of the press I caught myself. I did laugh at Obama's Viagra joke, though, I couldn't help it. Viagra's just always good for a funny, especially when you're talking about drug companies and health care ... it lightens the mood.
So anyway, no one was talking about Clinton today, that's for sure. I felt like she's almost a joke now. People there were democrats. They were working class people I'd say. All of them were either "on the fence" or for Obama. Even those "on the fence" said they felt like Obama was gonna be it seeing as Clinton is losing. I mean, John Edwards endorsed Obama this evening in Grand Rapids. So, anyway, things are looking very good for BO. Obama is very charismatic, funny, relational. Edwards, a running mate? Maybe.
National Police Week, Anyone?
NATIONAL POLICE WEEK ACTIVITIES continue throughout the Detroit community ... like this one, where kids get to play basketball with real live cops!!
On Thursday, May 15, 2008,
Central District (7310 Woodward) – From 1:30 p.m. until 2:30 p.m., Central District officers and teens will play in a basketball game called, “Playing with a Purpose”. This activity offers an opportunity for officers and youth to build healthier relationships by interacting through sports. The game will be held at Consortium College Preparatory High School located at 1250 Rosa Parks Blvd.
WHY NOT EVERY DAY? One jolly day of basketball will make a difference, will it??? Cops could have an after school athletic program on a weekly or monthly basis. Could is the key word there. Hmm I should be in charge of something. Or maybe I could just sit here and talk about it.
The Detroit Police Department’s Office of Public Information will provide media with daily information on activities taking place in the six police districts for the duration of 2008’s National Police Week.
Northeastern District (5100 E. Nevada) – Beginning at 10:00 a.m., officers will provide students a tour of the district station and lunch followed by a presentation from a Registered Nurse who works at the Detroit Receiving Hospital’s in the emergency trauma unit. This event ends at 1:15 p.m. "Oh no, this is what happens when you play with guns?!!!" I'm curious as to what this 'presentation' will feature. I think I'm gonna check it out...maybe.
Western District (1441 W. 7 Mile) – At 7:00 p.m., Western District hosts a candlelight vigil service and will release balloons in memory of fallen officers. During this ceremony, Western District’s Explorers will perform a marching drill. Members from the Buffalo Soldiers organization will have their motorcycles on display and Radio One station - 102.7 will distribute free tee-shirts. [AWESOME hot 102.7 will be there!!! Gottta get my free T!!!]
Eastern District (11187 Gratiot) The United States Post Office will be available to assist with completing pass port applications. At noon, students from Osborn High School will participate in a Mock Trial with Circuit Court Judge Deborah Thomas. The day will end at 5:00 p.m. with a memorial service and the releasing of balloons in honor of fallen officers.
Northwestern District (11450 Warwick) – Beginning 9:45 a.m., officers will discuss with Community High School students the opportunities in law enforcement career as well as the importance of community service and driving responsibly. This event will end at 2:00 p.m. [this is kinda cool. Hope the kids enjoy it and learn. Persuasive skills are what get you ahead in life.]
On Thursday, May 15, 2008,
Central District (7310 Woodward) – From 1:30 p.m. until 2:30 p.m., Central District officers and teens will play in a basketball game called, “Playing with a Purpose”. This activity offers an opportunity for officers and youth to build healthier relationships by interacting through sports. The game will be held at Consortium College Preparatory High School located at 1250 Rosa Parks Blvd.
WHY NOT EVERY DAY? One jolly day of basketball will make a difference, will it??? Cops could have an after school athletic program on a weekly or monthly basis. Could is the key word there. Hmm I should be in charge of something. Or maybe I could just sit here and talk about it.
The Detroit Police Department’s Office of Public Information will provide media with daily information on activities taking place in the six police districts for the duration of 2008’s National Police Week.
Northeastern District (5100 E. Nevada) – Beginning at 10:00 a.m., officers will provide students a tour of the district station and lunch followed by a presentation from a Registered Nurse who works at the Detroit Receiving Hospital’s in the emergency trauma unit. This event ends at 1:15 p.m. "Oh no, this is what happens when you play with guns?!!!" I'm curious as to what this 'presentation' will feature. I think I'm gonna check it out...maybe.
Western District (1441 W. 7 Mile) – At 7:00 p.m., Western District hosts a candlelight vigil service and will release balloons in memory of fallen officers. During this ceremony, Western District’s Explorers will perform a marching drill. Members from the Buffalo Soldiers organization will have their motorcycles on display and Radio One station - 102.7 will distribute free tee-shirts. [AWESOME hot 102.7 will be there!!! Gottta get my free T!!!]
Eastern District (11187 Gratiot) The United States Post Office will be available to assist with completing pass port applications. At noon, students from Osborn High School will participate in a Mock Trial with Circuit Court Judge Deborah Thomas. The day will end at 5:00 p.m. with a memorial service and the releasing of balloons in honor of fallen officers.
Northwestern District (11450 Warwick) – Beginning 9:45 a.m., officers will discuss with Community High School students the opportunities in law enforcement career as well as the importance of community service and driving responsibly. This event will end at 2:00 p.m. [this is kinda cool. Hope the kids enjoy it and learn. Persuasive skills are what get you ahead in life.]
Global Climate Change Isn't Just Warming
this is devastating to hear about. I wonder if it has to do with global climate change?
AP: Dem leader switches from Clinton to Obama
AP---
Bill Clinton appointed Andrew chairman of the DNC in 1999, and he led the party through the disputed 2000 presidential race before stepping down in 2001. Andrew endorsed Hillary Rodham Clinton last year on the day she declared her candidacy for the White House.
In a lengthy letter explaining his decision, Andrew said he is switching his support because "a vote for Hillary Clinton is a vote to continue this process, and a vote to continue this process is a vote that assists (Republican) John McCain."
"The ship is taking on water right now," Andrew said at the news conference. "We need to patch those holes, heal the rift and go forward to beat John McCain."
Asked for a response to Andrew's decision, Clinton spokesman Phil Singer said, "We support that Democratic process and think that every American should be able to weigh in and support the candidate of his or her own choosing."
'Mettle under fire'
Andrew said the Obama campaign never asked him to switch his support, but he decided to do so after watching Obama's handling of two issues in recent days. He said Obama took the principled stand in opposing a summer gas tax holiday that both Clinton and McCain supported, even though it would have been easier politically to back it. And he said he was impressed with Obama's handling of the controversy surrounding his former pastor, the Rev. Jeremiah Wright.
Superdelegate sampling
Here's a look at some of the Democratic Convention's 796 superdelegates.
Wright's outspoken criticisms of the United States have threatened Obama's candidacy. Obama initially refused to denounce his former pastor, but he did so this week after Wright suggested that Obama secretly agrees with him.
"He has shown such mettle under fire," Andrew said in the interview. "The Jeremiah Wright controversy just reconfirmed for me, just as the gas tax controversy confirmed for me, that he is the right candidate for our party."
Andrew's decision puts Obama closer to closing Clinton's superdelegate lead. Clinton had a big advantage among superdelegates, many of whom like Andrew have ties to the Clintons and backed her candidacy early on. But most of the superdelegates taking sides recently have gone for Obama, who has won more state contests.
Bill Clinton appointed Andrew chairman of the DNC in 1999, and he led the party through the disputed 2000 presidential race before stepping down in 2001. Andrew endorsed Hillary Rodham Clinton last year on the day she declared her candidacy for the White House.
In a lengthy letter explaining his decision, Andrew said he is switching his support because "a vote for Hillary Clinton is a vote to continue this process, and a vote to continue this process is a vote that assists (Republican) John McCain."
"The ship is taking on water right now," Andrew said at the news conference. "We need to patch those holes, heal the rift and go forward to beat John McCain."
Asked for a response to Andrew's decision, Clinton spokesman Phil Singer said, "We support that Democratic process and think that every American should be able to weigh in and support the candidate of his or her own choosing."
'Mettle under fire'
Andrew said the Obama campaign never asked him to switch his support, but he decided to do so after watching Obama's handling of two issues in recent days. He said Obama took the principled stand in opposing a summer gas tax holiday that both Clinton and McCain supported, even though it would have been easier politically to back it. And he said he was impressed with Obama's handling of the controversy surrounding his former pastor, the Rev. Jeremiah Wright.
Superdelegate sampling
Here's a look at some of the Democratic Convention's 796 superdelegates.
Wright's outspoken criticisms of the United States have threatened Obama's candidacy. Obama initially refused to denounce his former pastor, but he did so this week after Wright suggested that Obama secretly agrees with him.
"He has shown such mettle under fire," Andrew said in the interview. "The Jeremiah Wright controversy just reconfirmed for me, just as the gas tax controversy confirmed for me, that he is the right candidate for our party."
Andrew's decision puts Obama closer to closing Clinton's superdelegate lead. Clinton had a big advantage among superdelegates, many of whom like Andrew have ties to the Clintons and backed her candidacy early on. But most of the superdelegates taking sides recently have gone for Obama, who has won more state contests.
Oh, no.
I'm sad. Poor Obama. I forgot, why is this a huge issue again? Why isn't the national debate about the fact that our economy is swirling down the crapper and how to fix it? I'm guilty of playing into this, now I feel bad. Sry, barack. Wow. This is SO sad.
Rev. Wright: "..., BUT WE CAN MAKE IT."
It was a strange and rather refreshing feeling to see CNN braodcasting live from progressive black paster Jeremiah Wright with a big tag on the screen "Wright: I've been running for jesus a long, long time." This is hilarious and ironic and I think this is history in the making.
The fact is, I went to church Sunday and it was all black. I’m sure a lot of whites went to churches that were nearly all white. Now I know that they mean when they say 11 a.m on Sunday us the most segregated hour in the country. And we all worshipped the same god (mostly), just under different cultural contexts. The content of Wright’s speech attempts to bridge those divides in ways we rarely hear.
I hate to say it, but if there was not a black man about to be president there would not be a bunch of white people watching Morning Joe discuss a black paster's address to the NAACP. How many of those people ever attended a black church, be it the Church of Christ or a Baptist service, or any for that matter? This is groundbreaking for many and I hope it isn't taken out of context again. Remember, Dr. Wright was standing in front of the NAACP at a dinner called FIGHT FOR FREEDOM. This is the context of this speech. For those who say hes racist, maybe they forgot that this is country heaviliy divided racially and though we've come a long way, it was only 40 years ago that segreagation was legal. Remember that. An now this is history in the making as whites tune into black culture (black religious culture at that). Many don't realize Dr. Wrght has ben the #1 black preacher in America since the early eighties. This is nothing new. The only diference is we're all tuning in, and it's wonderful. Let's use this chance to talk about race, about accepting people, rather than griping over whether it was racist, becasue it was not. Speaking of racist ..., um, nevermind.
I think a lot of the problem is white guilt, and the feeling of whites having to defend themselves, of feeling all catagorized as being racist or suffering from stereotyping becuase of things their forefathers did. But just because their forefathers admitted to being racist, and they cant doesn't mean racisim no longer exists. Worse, it thrives behind closed doors and closed mouths and festers in the minds of people because if they bring it up, they'll be labelled a racist. Many people, including black people are prejudiced against black people. Just because people listen to hip-hop and identify with bits and scraps of hip-hop's popular culture does not mean they are not racist. Even today, the issue of biracial families if taboo. I have heard my white and black friend say. "My parents aren't raist but they just would kick me out if I started dating black guy." or "My parent's aren't racist they just would disown me if i dated a white girl. UM... let's all get over our PC cleanliness and admit we're all a little racist. Once we admitt it, we can start trying to change. Until then it will be a game of "not I, said the chicken"
The fact is, I went to church Sunday and it was all black. I’m sure a lot of whites went to churches that were nearly all white. Now I know that they mean when they say 11 a.m on Sunday us the most segregated hour in the country. And we all worshipped the same god (mostly), just under different cultural contexts. The content of Wright’s speech attempts to bridge those divides in ways we rarely hear.
I hate to say it, but if there was not a black man about to be president there would not be a bunch of white people watching Morning Joe discuss a black paster's address to the NAACP. How many of those people ever attended a black church, be it the Church of Christ or a Baptist service, or any for that matter? This is groundbreaking for many and I hope it isn't taken out of context again. Remember, Dr. Wright was standing in front of the NAACP at a dinner called FIGHT FOR FREEDOM. This is the context of this speech. For those who say hes racist, maybe they forgot that this is country heaviliy divided racially and though we've come a long way, it was only 40 years ago that segreagation was legal. Remember that. An now this is history in the making as whites tune into black culture (black religious culture at that). Many don't realize Dr. Wrght has ben the #1 black preacher in America since the early eighties. This is nothing new. The only diference is we're all tuning in, and it's wonderful. Let's use this chance to talk about race, about accepting people, rather than griping over whether it was racist, becasue it was not. Speaking of racist ..., um, nevermind.
I think a lot of the problem is white guilt, and the feeling of whites having to defend themselves, of feeling all catagorized as being racist or suffering from stereotyping becuase of things their forefathers did. But just because their forefathers admitted to being racist, and they cant doesn't mean racisim no longer exists. Worse, it thrives behind closed doors and closed mouths and festers in the minds of people because if they bring it up, they'll be labelled a racist. Many people, including black people are prejudiced against black people. Just because people listen to hip-hop and identify with bits and scraps of hip-hop's popular culture does not mean they are not racist. Even today, the issue of biracial families if taboo. I have heard my white and black friend say. "My parents aren't raist but they just would kick me out if I started dating black guy." or "My parent's aren't racist they just would disown me if i dated a white girl. UM... let's all get over our PC cleanliness and admit we're all a little racist. Once we admitt it, we can start trying to change. Until then it will be a game of "not I, said the chicken"
I turned on the news this morning, and thought, 'oh, no, not again'! It seems we've encountered another round of nasty little sound bytes and TV shout-fests. This time political analysts are being even more finicky. Yesterday Barack Obama's former paster, Rev. Wright, spoke publicly for the first time since the controversy broke out over sound bytes from one of his sermons. In an interview on "Bill Moyers Journal" that will air on PBS tonight at 9:00 p.m., Rev. Wright defended himself against the harsh criticism of his sermon and was asked how he felt when Obama distanced himself from him in a speech following the controversy.
His answer was an honest one: He wasn't offended or surprised at Obama's actions but said, "He's a politician, I'm a pastor, we speak to two different audiences." This shouldn't be debatable, as every politician must remember that in order to succeed they have to appeal to a wide variety of voters and avoid controversy when possible. But political analysts are saying that Wright's statements were as good as throwing Obama under the bus at a crucial time, and that Obama's campaign is "pulling their hair out" at the remarks. Well, yeah, now they are, thanks to those who have "analyzed" these statements and interpreted them as bad for Obama.
After watching a bit of the interview that leaked onto the Internet, I thought it was clear Rev. Wright was not using the word politician to carry negative connotations. He was very soft-spoken throughout the interview, and it seemed as though he was trying to explain why he didn't take Obama's speech it personally because it was a political move. But it seems it doesn't matter what he meant, rather what they interpret it to mean. This is getting very tiring. I have a feeling Rev. Wrights recent comments are going to be splashed all around by Obama's opposition and the vicious cylce will start all over again not because of what Rev. Wright said, but the fact that he said anything at all. No matter what he said it was bound to be spun every which way. Maybe it would have been better if he avoided the limelight for a while longer just for those reasons alone.But in case it's not clear already, Obama is a politician, just like Clinton and McCain, and has to pay attention to his words and acts at all times, especially these days. If Obama did not in some way remove himself from those statements he would have been cornered, as a politician. And so he what he had to do, because in fact, as Rev. Wright was quick to say in the very same interview, he never associated himself with those statements in the first place.
His answer was an honest one: He wasn't offended or surprised at Obama's actions but said, "He's a politician, I'm a pastor, we speak to two different audiences." This shouldn't be debatable, as every politician must remember that in order to succeed they have to appeal to a wide variety of voters and avoid controversy when possible. But political analysts are saying that Wright's statements were as good as throwing Obama under the bus at a crucial time, and that Obama's campaign is "pulling their hair out" at the remarks. Well, yeah, now they are, thanks to those who have "analyzed" these statements and interpreted them as bad for Obama.
After watching a bit of the interview that leaked onto the Internet, I thought it was clear Rev. Wright was not using the word politician to carry negative connotations. He was very soft-spoken throughout the interview, and it seemed as though he was trying to explain why he didn't take Obama's speech it personally because it was a political move. But it seems it doesn't matter what he meant, rather what they interpret it to mean. This is getting very tiring. I have a feeling Rev. Wrights recent comments are going to be splashed all around by Obama's opposition and the vicious cylce will start all over again not because of what Rev. Wright said, but the fact that he said anything at all. No matter what he said it was bound to be spun every which way. Maybe it would have been better if he avoided the limelight for a while longer just for those reasons alone.But in case it's not clear already, Obama is a politician, just like Clinton and McCain, and has to pay attention to his words and acts at all times, especially these days. If Obama did not in some way remove himself from those statements he would have been cornered, as a politician. And so he what he had to do, because in fact, as Rev. Wright was quick to say in the very same interview, he never associated himself with those statements in the first place.
Discovering the Beauty Supply I
It was so cold outside, the bones in my fingers hurt. Even under three layers of thick clothing, my body became rigid with an inescapable chill and my breath turned white in front of my face. Keep in mind, this occurred in the short few steps that spanned from my door to my car. It was nearing the end of January, the thick of winter.
My sister and I stepped out of the door on a Sunday evening in search of a hair conditioner that would better suit my dry, unruly hair.
And from my new apartment on the East side of Detroit (to which I have yet to secure my bearings) we had a lot of exploring to do.
Having spent my early teens and beyond in the suburbs, the concept of a one way street was still rather foreign. And beyond the familiar suburban habits of frequent CVS and Rite Aid, I had no experience. I was at a loss. Where did one get products for their hair in these parts? Needless to say I had, and still have, a lot to learn. What was more, beyond the common offerings of John Frieda, Pantene Pro V, I was most helplessly unfamiliar.
We drove to the end of the block, turned off of Forest onto Mt. Elliot and hoped that something would catch our eyes, perhaps a pharmacy: Walgreen’s, Rite Aid, or so on. And before long we came to the end of the road at Gratiot. There, I made a right turn, because those are the easiest, and not even a block in my sister pointed suddenly and enthusiastically: “There! It says beauty supply!”
Indeed, Just what we needed. It was like the sign was made for us. We had beauty, we needed supplies: perfect.
Out from the car we rushed across the icy parking lot under an opaque winter sky, heads tucked down into our scarves, hands pushed down into our pockets, straight for the door of Sophie’s Beauty Supply. With a tug of a frigid hand, the door opened and the sounds of a cheery wind chime rocking too and fro above the door alerted the staff of our presence. With a hard step of the boot we knocked the ice and snow from our feet, and felt our face tingle at the contact with warm air. I didn’t need a mirror to tell me my nose was pink.
Inside, we were greeted by the doorman who sat on a stool just left o the entrance wearing jeans and a very colorful hoodie and looking rather bored, but very kind and approachable.
For a moment, I paused to take in my surroundings. It was, well, not what I had expected, though rather lovely in its variety. On one wall I eyed a very large earring collection and on another wall, toiletries: tissue, plungers, and so forth, and on yet another wall, a dozen large, stylish handbags, immediately caught my fancy. It had the basic content of a corporate pharmacy, and them some, not to mention a certain urban fashionable appeal that those places so desperately lack. I felt instantly as if I could leave that place with a new wardrobe, along with kitchen appliances and bathroom accessories and still have some money to spend at the Save-A-Lot down the block, all the while looking, um, fly. And it was not until then that I discovered the beauty in the Detroit beauty supply.
Everything including coats, panty hose, scissors, t-shirts, shoe laces, oil burners and shower caps met my eyes and m sister and I had to use our will power as blinders just to reach the aisles hair products. And there were aisles, one after another of hair goo, gel, serum, conditioner, cholesterol, protein, olive oil, shea butter, and so forth, it was rather overwhelming to me, as a newbie to the African American hair experience, and it showed: in my hair and at that moment, my bewildered face.
Kehinde Wiley
This is a time to define our modern culture; to rip it at the seams and stuff in the people that were left out for so long. To take the art of the past, and make it the art of the present. This is the time of sampling, of cross cultural understanding. This is for those who think in black but write in white. This is for those who think in white and write in black. This is the crossing of a culteral borderland. This is the artwork of Kehinde Wiley:
Two Heroic Sisters of the Grasslands, 2007
Consider The Fiasco
Recently, after a very embarrassing episode, I began to the consider ingredients that make up a good old, face reddening, melt-into-the-ground, fiasco. A lot of the time a fiasco is just an unfortunate series of events stacked precariously high, that comes crashing down on unsuspecting victims at the most pivotal of times. These instances include: important meetings, highly anticipated performances, a featured presentation, during an audition for a coveted part, or a job interview. Sometimes, no matter how prepared you think you are, you are subject to a deep, sharp turn in events that sends you down the hill in a barrel so to speak. It's like a domino effect, one thing goes wrong and then another and the next thing you know, you're watching in horror as the whole affair implodes before your eyes.
By the time people have reached adulthood, they've most likely been dragged down into the unrelenting currents of the fiasco a few flabbergasting times.
There's nothing quite as terrible as being on the wrong end of one, being misunderstood, and feeling utterly helpless as your carefully thought-through plans start to crumble along with your pride. On the other hand, in retrospect, there's nothing quite like the laughs a good debacle renders from the most cynical of audiences. I mean, if you can't laugh at yourself, then .... Mark Twain and Stephen Leacock certainly capitalized on this ideal. They basked in the hysterics of the everyday fiasco, and right now, so am I. I'd recount my most recent utter failure right here and now if it wasn't so recent. But today I will revisit a classic fiasco, one for the books and one that did not anyone in particular.
The faces were these:
I've never enjoyed being the host. I mean, having a few friends over is one thing. But hosting, hosting a party... That, my friend, is quite another. It was new years eve. They quiet day before the loud night. It started all well. I had the food almost ready, the drinks chilled. I even had the house clean and smelling great, with a giant fruit bowl in the middle of the living room simply for aesthetic value. And I brought out my only set of matching glasses and my mom's hand-me-down punch bowel. I stood back and admired my work with a smug face, arms akimbo: I was doing OKAY.
I should have stood there longer to thoroughly enjoy that smug feeling of accomplishment while it lasted. I would have, if I had known how long it would take before I felt it again and, perhaps, how far down into the depths of shame I would plummet.
At any rate, instead of lingering and enjoying my peace, I scurried into the kitchen to put on a pan of oil in which to fry some chicken. It was almost 7 p.m. and my friend Jay was set to be there son, to bring some beer among other spirits to the party. The vast majority of the people were not set to arrive until 9 p.m. or later so I was not feeling rushed. Then my cell phone rang. I picked it up. I answered. It was Jay, outside, needed help bringing in the drinks. I said OK. I put the phone back onto the kitchen counter and went out to give her a quick hand. I had a couple minutes before the grease got hot anyway. On the way out, I noticed a bag of trash sitting by the back door, begging to be taken out before the party. And I thought, "If i don't take it out now, I never will." So I grabbed the bag by the neck and instead of going out of the front door, I went out the back, to drop the trash off on the way to my friends car. The back door swung shut behind me. It wasn't until a few minutes later, when Jay and I returned with an arms full of liquor and beer, that I realized it had locked... from the inside. I tugged on the knob with my one free hand and tried to turn it. It didn't budge. My stomach turned a bit.
"It's probably just 'cause I have all this stuff," I said quickly, to my friend, who looked somewhat concerned. I set down the beer, the bags, the boxes, and turned back to the door. This time a gave it a good hard turn and tug, but to no avail. It felt like I had swallowed rocks and they were sinking fast into my stomach. I gulped. Through the thick paneled glass I could see the pan on the stove and from outside I could hear the grease popping over the heat. I knew for a fact that the front door was locked. And bolted. It was all I could do not to panic.
"Can I see your phone?" I asked Jay, who now looked at me with a hint of disbelief, perhaps even distaste. She handed over the phone giving my that look, like, "Are.You.Kidding." Kidding, I was not. I squeezed her phone tight in my hands, hoping beyond hope that I could remember my landlord's number. Or even my roommate's for that matter. And the more it dawned on me, the harder I held the phone: I was helpless without my cell phone. A spineless grovelling idiot who only knew three numbers by heart: 9-1-1 (and the chinese food place down the road by the dry cleaners). It was a few sconds before I realized I had been gripping her phone as if I believed the little device could be squeezed and emit numbers like an orange emits juice. I was completely lost without my cell phone. Locked outside of a house that had a pan of oil burning in it not to mention the very high flame. I was dead. So much for the new year.
*More to come, I'm tired for now.*
TBC
2 a.m. Confessions
It's 2:00 in the morning and I can't sleep. Well, maybe that's an overstatement, perhaps it's just that I don't want to sleep. I want to sit up all night reveling in the wonder of the, you guessed it, Internet. A bonafide cyber scavenger, I am.
Yes, I am an addict, just like you, most likely. I really didn't realize my dependance on this marvelous tool until I no longer had household access to it. That makes sense. We often take for granted that which is most necessary if it is available enough.
This drought lasted a dragging four months. Four months of darting to the library in any window of free time I had during business hours. Four months of paying frequent, "friendly", visits to my unsuspecting, internet hosting friends: "I was just in the area, I missed you! Um, mind if I check my email (aka facebook/myspace/blogspot/gmail/yahoo)?" And four months of sitting in cafes trying to dodge the barista so I didn't have to buy a coffee to jack their wifi signal. And lastly, no more rushing from page to page before the place closes or my friend, hip to my tricks, kicks me out. It's all mine, all day, the world of information and misinformation at my fingertips: and I never have to leave the house.
Armed with a macbook pro and a new Sierrra Aircard, I can march into my future in confidence, rocking the unadulterated 21st century swagger that has permeated my generation: I know everything. Seriously. I have google on my side.
An hour ago I had no idea who Kehinde Wiley was. He was just the name on my favorite piece in the new DIA. Now I can tell you where he was born, where he went to school ...where he is now... And I will. I will, because I can: I'm so cultured, didn't you know? Didn't you know Kehinde Wiley's art comments on the ... Which he is quoted as saying ... And was inspired by.... Goddamnit, no one wants to hear it. I suspect I have wasted a purely good hour of my life. It's unreal.
No, despite all these confessions, I'm not a stalker. Just a lover of information on art, and writing, and botany. And, oh yeah, Barack Obama.
The madness doesn't stop there. I'm not sure where it stops, exactly, nor where it started, now that I think of it. Perhaps it was the first day I embarked on my maiden voyage onto the Internet from my college dorm, who knows. But I do know that since I've had this unlimited access, I've become something of a fiend. I gobble down information like candy and then start to fancy myself an expert, which is dangerous, mostly to myself. I think we've all fallen into the urge to diagnose ourselves online. It starts with an itchy eye. After a few minutes of frantic googling, you're convinced you have methylglutaconicaciduria. Yikes. Better get some help before you die!
Then, after an hour of panic you stop and think and remember something very important. You want to slap yourself in the face: turns out you didn't wash your hands after cooking and you had peppers for dinner!
That makes sense too. Dammit, WebMD, are you trying to give me hyperthyroidism? Wait, do you really think I need to practice psychoneuroimmunology? Is that why does my shoulder hurts? Oh, no! And so on.
But all jokes aside, I really do love the internet. I mean, otherwise, where could I ever find the recipe for Max & Erma's chicken tortilla soup (That's on recipezaar.com, BTW)?. Or how would I know what to do with that slap of whiting in the fridge that I bought on impulse? How could I read about Barack Obama's mom at 3 a.m.? Why is Hilary still talking on the phone at 3 a.m.?
O.K. I digress. I think with all this primary campaigning I've become uber-political. It's sad. That's another thing the Internet will do to you: have you stuck in front of the monitor watching jello commercials in between video clips of campaign updates and interviews when you should be looking for a job so you can pay your huge internet bill. Did I say that? I mean, you know, hypothetically, of course.
Anyway, when all is said and done, I think the Internet has done remarkable things for our society. Let's face it, how we communicate has changed. How we research has changed. How we live has changed, and is still changing because of the Internet. Whether it's news, gossip, education, music, etc., it's all there, for our little gen-y paws grope. We're not gonna buy the sunday paper. We know of a place where we can read it. For free. We're not going to buy music. We know of a place where we can get it. For free. We're not gonna pay attention and be servile to corporate employers. We're gonna shuffle into the office in office in flip flops and design a page layout that will blow your mind. We're not lazy, but we have swagger.
And those are the problems people are having with the Internet today. But don't blame the Internet, folks. If anything, blame yourself for not being adaptable enough. Make the Internet work for you! I do. It gets me free stuff. It gets me free information. It gets me recipes and diagnoses my many illnesses, however fatal. It entertains me at 4 a.m. So now it's time for media, musicians, and whoever else that feels violated by the "age of information" to grab the Internet b the neck and say, "Ante up, BITCH, it's Christmas!"
~MMF
What a Mess...
Bored? Why not turn into the nations new and exciting soap opera: the 2008 democratic primary. Oh yeah, it's got all the ingredients for a juicy daytime drama. The gossip, the he said/she said, the nasty for nasty attitude (mostly on Clintons part, she tends to be more nasty, less eloquent).
But the BEST part is the scrambled mess that's taking place with MI and FL. I've been lodged on the MSNBC/CNN page for weeks, with a bowl of popcorn, entertained. Those happen to be the only two states I've ever lived in during my time in the US. But why all this trouble? Like Howard Dean insists, they broke the rules, now they gotta pay the price, however undemocratic it may be.
Seriously, they didn't think about this BEFORE HAND? Really? Hilary didn't seem to care about democracy when Mr. Obama's name wasn't even ON the Michgan ballot. So now her aides are saying that If Barack's campaign tries to stop a re-do then he's interfering with the democratic process and will hurt him in the general election. REALLY?
It's no secret that I'm a big Obama fan, and that I am almost dead broke. So WHY did I just donate to the Obama campaign? I really don't have a great, mind blowing answer for you. It's just that when I see him speak, when I read his writing, and when I hear his sharp responses to tough questions, I feel like this is the person I want to call my president.
Another element is just Ever since my siblings and I have been alive, I mean, during the entire span of gen-Y's emergence to adulthood, there's been either a Bush or a Clinton in the office. How democratic is that? If a Clinton was president again it would be just like having a dual family monarchy or dictatorship of sorts. It's time for change. Not the cheezy kind of "change" that pretty much every politician speak of with such vehemence. It's seriously re-thinking the ways we approach age old problems such as health care, unemployment, medicare... You know, the usual suspects.
You can tell a lot about a candidate just on how they run their campaign. Ask questions, get answers for yourself: For instance: What kind of adds do they run? How much time do they spend talking smack, rather than the issues? How do they treat those working hard on their campaign? What kind of strategies do they use to rack up votes? Etc.
Either way, we all have to face it: NO ONE person is perfect. And when whoever wins gets sworn into the office, my life, your life, heck most peoples life is not going to change. You're still going to be rich or poor or whatever your situation was before. What I think Sen. Obama offers to this whole affair more than anything is the little thing that flew out of Pandora's box a long time ago: hope.
Wilde, Like Oscar
I've always been a fan of Oscar Wilde. Of course, as you can imagine, I fell into the rapture of Dorian Gray some time ago, but recently I came upon a new book that shed light on Oscar's character as a the person rather than solely the writer and poet and I suspect he has enchanted me from the grave.
It is a semi-biography "based on true events" they boast. The name of the book is Oscar Wilde and a Death of No Importance.
I don't know how I feel about factual accuracy in highly personal depictions of events. There are certain techniques employed in autobiographical and biographical writings.
In short, the fact doesn't (and often cannot) articulate the feeling at times. I think there is nothing wrong in using symbolism to capture a mood, an atmosphere: who cares if it took two days. I wrote that it took two weeks because, well it felt that long...etc, and I need the reader to fully understand this. To me it's just a variation of a metaphor. The idea of a metaphor, in a sense, stretched over a piece to cover more than just "The knife to the heart" but also the difference between two hours and two weeks.
Imagination is underrated! And the story should unfold like a cherry tree in April. You get my drift.
Wilde once said, "Biography lends to death a new terror" and I chuckle at that statement, but in my eyes it all depends on the biographer (Wilde actually told his friend to take notes as to later be able to write one). He was fortunate to have some good ones. Many people "worshiped" him, he took command and captivated all those in his presence indeed, I consider him a genius. And he suffered his dues to the great mind behind his eyes. Sir Arther Conan Doyle echoed this sentiment when creating fictional character Sherlock Holmes. Though I doubt nowadays heroin and cocaine could be compared to homosexuality, perhaps that was lent to the Victorian era in which these events took place. Hey, don't get red in the face, they hadn't even invented running water then. It wasn't our prime...well socially speaking, but then again, now isn't either. But I digress.
However, genius bears the mark of woe as well. And I think that is the point of this post. We all strive (in some way at least) to be "brilliant", "Cutting edge" but who really wants to endure the burden of genius? It's a serious thing to take on, and a lonely road to travel. The delicate line that separates genius and lunacy is not getting any bulkier despite what researchers suggest. In fact the odds are good for the modern sociopath: go to work, bite some heads off, get promoted. HELLO, corporate America, you're brilliant! Shine on, down my organic throat.
Judgment Placement
It is said that one should never judge books by their covers. So what, then, shall we judge them by? Judgment, face it, is inevitable. While it isn’t wise to start with the cover, who shall say it is wrong sometimes go by the first page or second, and so on?
That the cover should be spared judgment is reasonable, however, is the material not far therein is protected by the immunity of the cover? In order to find out if you like the book in question, must you reserve judgment until you have to read the whole thing, cover to cover?
I took the effort of opening a book some days ago and read until I felt utterly unimpressed. I was only to the second page, and I hadn’t even moved far from the shelf it came from before putting right back into the gap it came out of, and moved on amongst the shelves until I was fully captivated by the first words chosen by F. Scott Fitzgerald in the fore pages of “Beautiful Damned.”
Aside from the few horrid pieces I have ventured to open, I can usually endure the first two chapters of any book, and sometimes, I finish those chapters feeling breathless and dive headfirst into the next chapters only to strike the hard bottom of trite words and content. My personal judgment line usually falls after the first couple chapters, after which, any reader who knows their taste will either scoff and throw it aside, or plow further into its pages. This method usually works because
it's common sense that a writer will put their best words forward. It’s natural to start strong. How many one paragraph clips do you have of unfinished (notwithstanding, rather brilliant) ideas? And they all look good because they’re the fresh wind of new thoughts that always land strong from the pen of a trained writer.
I would consider myself a writer in training, proven by a bachelor’s degree if not years of dedication to the skill, who still has a lot to learn. My talent is, of course, debatable, as even I spend much time debating my own skill with, um, myself. One thing, I think, that outshines talent in most cases, is dedication, ambition and passion.
More than half of the time great talent is bulldozed by the cutthroat ambition of the mediocre. But once in a while we experience a jewel of a writer who has all the talent and ambitious qualities rolled into one being. Unfortunately, I am not one of those. Fair, fair enough. I’m sorry, I like to sleep in.
Just before she left the country
Left the stone house all forelorn
Left the toucans in the jungle
Let the morning glories mourn
Let the river do the laundry
By the morning she'd be gone.
Under stars she made a wish,
So strong it could have been a prayer
No clouds could break the moons long beaming
Hands clasped in the warm moist air
In between two mango pillars,
Lost in lust for northern pears
Lost in love for leaving sisters,
Dreaming she would meet them there.
When the sun rose it was over
Broken like the sun breaks dawn
Dishes piled the steel bowl over
Dogs barked at a strange young man
Wash the rags, her mother told her
Wash your little brothers hands
Plant the corn fields with your father.
Chop bush with the strange young man.
In the fields she plants the plumb trees
Congo Charlie's golden plumbs
Two weeks and she knew she'd leave him
Three weeks that she knew would come
Four weeks and she felt mistaken
Five weeks she was feeling wrong
Six weeks and she stopped her counting
Maybe next year she'd be gone.
Left the stone house all forelorn
Left the toucans in the jungle
Let the morning glories mourn
Let the river do the laundry
By the morning she'd be gone.
Under stars she made a wish,
So strong it could have been a prayer
No clouds could break the moons long beaming
Hands clasped in the warm moist air
In between two mango pillars,
Lost in lust for northern pears
Lost in love for leaving sisters,
Dreaming she would meet them there.
When the sun rose it was over
Broken like the sun breaks dawn
Dishes piled the steel bowl over
Dogs barked at a strange young man
Wash the rags, her mother told her
Wash your little brothers hands
Plant the corn fields with your father.
Chop bush with the strange young man.
In the fields she plants the plumb trees
Congo Charlie's golden plumbs
Two weeks and she knew she'd leave him
Three weeks that she knew would come
Four weeks and she felt mistaken
Five weeks she was feeling wrong
Six weeks and she stopped her counting
Maybe next year she'd be gone.
Open Life
THIS ISN'T A BLACK/WHITE THING
THIS ISN'T A WRONG/RIGHT THING
NOT EVEN A RICH / POOR THING
OR A PEACE/ WAR THING
IT'S A LOVE / LIFE THING
IT'S A HIGHER / HEIGHTS THING
IT'S A LIVING / LIGHT THING
NOT A WINNING/FIGHTS THING
BUT AN OPEN/LIFE THING
LIKE AN OPEN/MIC THING
YOU'RE A LIVING SONG.
SING.
THIS ISN'T A WRONG/RIGHT THING
NOT EVEN A RICH / POOR THING
OR A PEACE/ WAR THING
IT'S A LOVE / LIFE THING
IT'S A HIGHER / HEIGHTS THING
IT'S A LIVING / LIGHT THING
NOT A WINNING/FIGHTS THING
BUT AN OPEN/LIFE THING
LIKE AN OPEN/MIC THING
YOU'RE A LIVING SONG.
SING.
up ahead
up ahead
lights spinning down a tunnel of dizziness
and falling forward,
not falling but
falling
an unbreakable fall
but hopes of an unbreakable you
make for an unbreakable landing.
lights spinning down a tunnel of dizziness
and falling forward,
not falling but
falling
an unbreakable fall
but hopes of an unbreakable you
make for an unbreakable landing.
But if it ends in pieces,
then pieces it be
and if it ends at a begginning
the beggining will see
another me.
hope is kind
but only when you're hoping for something you know is true
and love is blind
but only when you're loving something not for you
go ahead,
I don't need to catch up with you there
don't wait,
Because I don't plan to
it's not that I can't run,
I've been known to be fast
but maybe I've already ran down that path
Our paths will cross 'cause hope is kind
But it's still sad, our love was blind.
Young American Gentlemen part II
"Oh, you mean the sniffly little fuck who's always walking around with a polka-dot hanky and talking about love? Yeah i think i know 'im."
Miss Carprenter led the way down the street to her brother's house.
She was always this pleasently charming to his guests, especially when in his nostalgic absent-mindedness would give people his mother's address. Also, it can be assumed, that that is why he lived on the same street he grew up on: nastolgia, what a horrible disease.
But Miss Carprenter had no symapthy for her brother, however diseased he might have been with the past, and hoped only that as soon as she reached eighteen she would be allowed to leave, anywhere off of that desolate street dripping with memories of past generations, perhaps even the entire town was infected by an addiction to passed times.
"The bones in my feet ache every time a storm is on it's way." The lanky Stranger told Miss Carprenter as she walked a good two paces ahead of him down the sidewalk.
"Oh." She didn't even bother looking over her shoulder or even feigning any interest. The cracks in the sidewalk were far more captivating.
"I say a storm's on it's way," the Stranger continued, "Because the bones in my feet hurt."
"Well the bones in your feet might take a job at the weather station." She stopped abrutly at her brother's door and turned to face the Stranger.
"Anan never told me he had a relative like you." the Stanger smiled. "So sweet, so full of life."
Miss Carprenter ducked out from under his rosey stare and ran home, all at once believing in hate-at-first-sight and wishing a storm would, come and wash that worm away; the Strange worm with the achy bones in its feet, and take it and flood it into the storm drain with all the other worms and flush it into the sewer and...and was it her imagination or did the bones in her own feet start hurting in each step she took?
Before she reached her door, a great storm enclosed around the subdivision, a storm to end all storms, a storm to pluck up houses like weeds and suck down buildings as if they were nothing more than intricate sand castles on an inland shore. And just before Miss Carprenter reached her door, it pulled her up on top of the heap of flotsam that the wind-current had created and set her there, safe and sound, all alone, with nothing but the past and a little thing called love woven in the threads of her dress and the charge of her beating heart to remind her of life.
She puckered her face as the sky turned blue and the sun shone down with no trees or buildings to thwart its rosey glare and she wiped her face with the back of her hand and laughed as her brothers old polka-dot hanky floated by her desolate island.
She should have cried and wailed at her desolate fate, but she could not, for now she was joyful joyful joyful, as only a dog knows how to be happy with the autonomy of their own spirit.
~MMF
Miss Carprenter led the way down the street to her brother's house.
She was always this pleasently charming to his guests, especially when in his nostalgic absent-mindedness would give people his mother's address. Also, it can be assumed, that that is why he lived on the same street he grew up on: nastolgia, what a horrible disease.
But Miss Carprenter had no symapthy for her brother, however diseased he might have been with the past, and hoped only that as soon as she reached eighteen she would be allowed to leave, anywhere off of that desolate street dripping with memories of past generations, perhaps even the entire town was infected by an addiction to passed times.
"The bones in my feet ache every time a storm is on it's way." The lanky Stranger told Miss Carprenter as she walked a good two paces ahead of him down the sidewalk.
"Oh." She didn't even bother looking over her shoulder or even feigning any interest. The cracks in the sidewalk were far more captivating.
"I say a storm's on it's way," the Stranger continued, "Because the bones in my feet hurt."
"Well the bones in your feet might take a job at the weather station." She stopped abrutly at her brother's door and turned to face the Stranger.
"Anan never told me he had a relative like you." the Stanger smiled. "So sweet, so full of life."
Miss Carprenter ducked out from under his rosey stare and ran home, all at once believing in hate-at-first-sight and wishing a storm would, come and wash that worm away; the Strange worm with the achy bones in its feet, and take it and flood it into the storm drain with all the other worms and flush it into the sewer and...and was it her imagination or did the bones in her own feet start hurting in each step she took?
Before she reached her door, a great storm enclosed around the subdivision, a storm to end all storms, a storm to pluck up houses like weeds and suck down buildings as if they were nothing more than intricate sand castles on an inland shore. And just before Miss Carprenter reached her door, it pulled her up on top of the heap of flotsam that the wind-current had created and set her there, safe and sound, all alone, with nothing but the past and a little thing called love woven in the threads of her dress and the charge of her beating heart to remind her of life.
She puckered her face as the sky turned blue and the sun shone down with no trees or buildings to thwart its rosey glare and she wiped her face with the back of her hand and laughed as her brothers old polka-dot hanky floated by her desolate island.
She should have cried and wailed at her desolate fate, but she could not, for now she was joyful joyful joyful, as only a dog knows how to be happy with the autonomy of their own spirit.
~MMF
The Girl in the Red Dress, She Took My Breath Away
(PLEASE CLICK ON THIS LINK: http://www.uruknet.info/?p=12676 BEFORE READING THIS POEM. It's also embedded in the title if you're feelin' lazy)
The girl in the red dress,
she took my breath away:
took my lungs fast,
and with them tore my heart away
Searching through gods, religions, and some dynasty shit
tryna find the one that can answer for this:
burnt flesh, perfect dress
How the fuck'd we come to this?
You could see her teeth melting out her skull
the same teeth that cut the gums just a month before
But...
they say 'walk fearless in the shadow of death'
And...
'those who leave this world can finally rest'
So...
should i hit up that party tonight?
Or...
pray in bed and turn out the lights?
Back when I I I was firing shots
back when I I was connecting dots
back when I survived, against the odds...
I...didn't pay attention in class?
Just forgot so I could make all this suffering last,
and laugh,
when Ma dropped the rolling pin
so she could dance on one foot
in pain again
Screaming Subtleties
Wishing her hair was shorter and wishing, at the same time, that the wind would stop, Jane Salstow stood at the corner of a Great Lake and a Great City feeling somewhat out of place in her yellow dress and shocking orange pumps with the heels lost in sand and only pointy tips protruding from the surface. The shoes were fabulous, subtle instruments that knocked wind from the beige people of the Midwest. Too bad, she thought, that they did not have a similar effect on the lake. Maybe the wind would blow the scent of smoke away, maybe it would blow away the gut-kicking smell of liquor and new clothes, leather and everything else. Maybe it would blow her away, like a giant yellow leaf in the fall, a leaf with fabulous orange shoes.
There were no more stars, because they ran out of energy from burning all night and there was no sun because it ran out of energy trying to keep things happy all day, there was just the moon that would never burn out because it, in fact, wasn't burning at all; just reflecting on the day like some do before sleep. Jane removed the orange weapons from her feet and walked towards the water slowly, but it was hard because she went straight into the wind, face first, hair blowing into her mouth and it was dark because the moon is only known for it's light in bad poetry, and she walked and stopped, moving in bold increments until her toes met the icy water of the Great Lake. Just across the dark body, lights of a Great City burned fossils, feeding the walls of bright blue as they towered far into the sky, all around her. She, at the bottom, by the lake, looking upward, had a long way to climb. A yellow speck against a blue background she stood at the edge of the water between day and night, in ambigous hours of time when the sun cannot dictate whether it is morning or not and the moon is useless. But then she decided to go away, and leave while no one was watching. The dawn always has a way of converting good friends into good strangers. She concluded in thoughtful retrospect: everything looks different under sunlight than it does in barlight. Drasticly. So she decided to float away, in one of her orange shoes. She climbed into the shoe and though it was a tight fit and the smell of leather made her sick, she sat in there and with her arms pushed the sharp orange vessel onto the water and floated, quite effortlessly, all the way to Canada where she was disgrutled to find that everything there was still blue.
I love wildly
Morgan Sharp was an idealist on logistical matters and a realist when it came to matters of emotional consequence. He sat, wrapped in a pungent smoke from the incense, wrapped in a blanket from his reckless travels to Mexico and shivering in the fever that comes with a freshly breaking heart. He felt the tour bus moving, right then, moment for moment, frame by frame, every pebble the wheels ran over jolted the bus in a way that made the edges of the new wound tear slightly. It was harder for him now than it had ever been, because this time he was the one who ended everything; sent pieces of love to the bottom of everything. There was the feeling, at sunrise, the feeling that the world would never stop, no matter what...no matter how many hearts and necks broke in the darkness, it would return each day because it had to. The world would turn, it was only the laws of physics, agonizing in the consistence of their neutrality. Peter's constant tuning of the guitars made his ears hurt. Music hurt his ears. Every sense pained him. He cringed while Kenny killed Hendrix notes on the electric.
"Back before our love got lost you told me, you said, 'my love is constant as the Northern Star'... I said 'constantly in the darkness? Where's that at? If you want me I'll be in the bar'." ~Joni M.
At sunrise he knew she would wake up, he knew exactly how she would look around and laugh at first. Exactly. He looked out of the window and with throbbing eyes beheld the silhouettes of trees as they raced over the glowing sea of sunrise. Eastern light beams blurred into tears and confusion as the awareness of space and time came chopping into his sides. Frame by frame life was converted into memories and memories, conversely, were recoded into life. At some point before sunrise it happened: the very edges, the last strings of his heart, snapped under the constant friction of living and the vital organ separated into two solid pieces sending prickly slivers of pain to every sense he possessed. It was then he started to cry, he cried for hours and days, until the bus was filled with tears, silent and remorseful, they filled the streets over which the bus had passed causing dust to settle and puddles of sadness to spring. The bus moved west, and so did the tears, making a blue trail all the way to California, and there they remained but sparkled this time, in the sun. Then he remembered, somewhat bitterly, the brown girl on the corner four months before, the one whose heart he broke, the only one who could ever lead him to break his own: the one who said it was impossible to drown in one's own tears,that only those of our loved ones had that power. " He rocked back and forth on the dawn, hoping she was safe from his tears, hoping he was not safe from hers.
In Chicago, similar pools formed, but these were louder perhaps and more lamenting. She woke up to the same sun Mr. Sharp had seen from the bus, only the trees weren't racing with her, they stood constant as before. By the same light source they saw into the distance, only he was looking East and she, West. Only trees and space prevented them from seeing one another as they became crippled in the aftermath of a devastating lovestorm.
He left one of the two necklaces, like he said he would, behind the mirror in the living room: he left the cross. The same cross his father had left him the morning he abandoned the infant star at the door of a hospital. She took it, like she said she would, and threw it down from the overpass, watching it land on the railway tracks far below. It was only sanity, then, that held her from following it. She walked up to the edge, were Sanity held her back, firmly, around the waist, and coaxed her off of the ledge. "This is the New Year." It rung in her head.
"So this is the New Year," Morgan Sharp stood singing under the spotlights onstage guitar in hand, people screaming his name...and in the dark crowd he could see no faces but he felt music, note by note, and his mind, altered as it was on stimulants, depressants and narcotics was clear like sheets of water frozen in noonday sun. He felt conscious that someone was watching, one person who's eyes he could never forget, because when they were laid upon him he felt exposed, like a heart wrapped in transparent flesh and cotton. His first live performance broadcasted worldwide with at midnight. Indeed, she was watching, but this time from a secure seat in her new life, and when she saw him onstage she turned to stone, stuck there, a chunk of soft granite, far after they cut him from the screen to show how a domestic woman might use a new age-dustpan. But before that, just before they sold him to the advertising companies, He looked towards the audience as the smoke of the new year swallowed him whole he said, "I love, wildly." Screams almost drowned out his last words: "Because that's the only kind of love there is."
Midnight. So that was the new year, a year that turned him into a memory,one that required intricate recoding. Whether the memory was fond or foul, well, that was irrelevant.
"Everybody get your best suits or dress on.
Let's make believe we are wealthy for just this once.
Lighting firecrackers off on the front lawn
as thirty dialogs bleed into one.
I wish the world was flat like the old days,
and we could travel just by holding a map.
No more airplanes or speed trains or freeways..
there'd be no distance that could hold us back."
~Death Cab for Cutie
"Back before our love got lost you told me, you said, 'my love is constant as the Northern Star'... I said 'constantly in the darkness? Where's that at? If you want me I'll be in the bar'." ~Joni M.
At sunrise he knew she would wake up, he knew exactly how she would look around and laugh at first. Exactly. He looked out of the window and with throbbing eyes beheld the silhouettes of trees as they raced over the glowing sea of sunrise. Eastern light beams blurred into tears and confusion as the awareness of space and time came chopping into his sides. Frame by frame life was converted into memories and memories, conversely, were recoded into life. At some point before sunrise it happened: the very edges, the last strings of his heart, snapped under the constant friction of living and the vital organ separated into two solid pieces sending prickly slivers of pain to every sense he possessed. It was then he started to cry, he cried for hours and days, until the bus was filled with tears, silent and remorseful, they filled the streets over which the bus had passed causing dust to settle and puddles of sadness to spring. The bus moved west, and so did the tears, making a blue trail all the way to California, and there they remained but sparkled this time, in the sun. Then he remembered, somewhat bitterly, the brown girl on the corner four months before, the one whose heart he broke, the only one who could ever lead him to break his own: the one who said it was impossible to drown in one's own tears,that only those of our loved ones had that power. " He rocked back and forth on the dawn, hoping she was safe from his tears, hoping he was not safe from hers.
In Chicago, similar pools formed, but these were louder perhaps and more lamenting. She woke up to the same sun Mr. Sharp had seen from the bus, only the trees weren't racing with her, they stood constant as before. By the same light source they saw into the distance, only he was looking East and she, West. Only trees and space prevented them from seeing one another as they became crippled in the aftermath of a devastating lovestorm.
He left one of the two necklaces, like he said he would, behind the mirror in the living room: he left the cross. The same cross his father had left him the morning he abandoned the infant star at the door of a hospital. She took it, like she said she would, and threw it down from the overpass, watching it land on the railway tracks far below. It was only sanity, then, that held her from following it. She walked up to the edge, were Sanity held her back, firmly, around the waist, and coaxed her off of the ledge. "This is the New Year." It rung in her head.
"So this is the New Year," Morgan Sharp stood singing under the spotlights onstage guitar in hand, people screaming his name...and in the dark crowd he could see no faces but he felt music, note by note, and his mind, altered as it was on stimulants, depressants and narcotics was clear like sheets of water frozen in noonday sun. He felt conscious that someone was watching, one person who's eyes he could never forget, because when they were laid upon him he felt exposed, like a heart wrapped in transparent flesh and cotton. His first live performance broadcasted worldwide with at midnight. Indeed, she was watching, but this time from a secure seat in her new life, and when she saw him onstage she turned to stone, stuck there, a chunk of soft granite, far after they cut him from the screen to show how a domestic woman might use a new age-dustpan. But before that, just before they sold him to the advertising companies, He looked towards the audience as the smoke of the new year swallowed him whole he said, "I love, wildly." Screams almost drowned out his last words: "Because that's the only kind of love there is."
Midnight. So that was the new year, a year that turned him into a memory,one that required intricate recoding. Whether the memory was fond or foul, well, that was irrelevant.
"Everybody get your best suits or dress on.
Let's make believe we are wealthy for just this once.
Lighting firecrackers off on the front lawn
as thirty dialogs bleed into one.
I wish the world was flat like the old days,
and we could travel just by holding a map.
No more airplanes or speed trains or freeways..
there'd be no distance that could hold us back."
~Death Cab for Cutie
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
Many years from now, I will remember my distant love affair with the eccentric art dealer from Hawaii, a time when the intense enchantment of love pumped from my heart into my veins and how we sat together, being hypocritical, under the shelter of a great oak tree. It started raining that day, we spent it under the oak tree playing mankala with pebbles in the dusty ground. It started raining, which at the time was a blessing considering the record breaking heat and the number of days between cloudbursts. It was a lazy thick rain, the kind that seemed to rip the sky and soak the ground without much effort, the kind that was proceeded by a rainbow poised high and magical in the eastern side of the sky. Love, like other drugs, has a way of altering with your judgment and, in most cases, makes you realize after you come down that you just wasted your day under a fucking tree...in the rain.
"If you stare long enough it will disappear." Mr. Grenier took my arm and led me away from the arch of colors in the evening sky. One day it will all come together, he would tell me quickly after walking away from beautiful sights that deserved much longer glances. He was so ridiculously predictable in his spontaneity.
"If you stare to long your eyes will become immune." He said this with a smile as he wiped the rainwater of his face with his sleeve. "Here." He offered a cotton corner of his T-shirt. He one of those who would at any given occasion, walk to the edge of reason without faltering and throw himself into an unfamiliar corner of the world with no inhibitions. From an early age he learned to approach love, among most other things with a senseless abandon and the only things that made him hesitate or doubt were beauty and magic. He felt as if humans had only a small capacity for absorbing beauty and like a bucket under a running faucet it would fill to the brim if one went around staring at beautiful things until eventually they became common. In other words, he was a lousy pretentious fuck, but hear me out:
"I've seen people caught in love like whirlwind,
listening to their squads
and listening to girlfriends
that's exactly the point where
their whole world ends: lies blow in.
That's where the drama begins."
~the roots
There are few places in the world that I would refuse to go and there are no places in the world which Mr. Grenier would refuse a visit. He had journeyed across the Sahara, ventured through the deep jungles on the Amazon and attempted to climb the highest mountains of Nepal all before turning thirty, or at least, that's what he said. He was a dumbass, but that was apparent. If at some point he felt inspired by the promise of an opportunity to learn, he hardly hesitated beyond the almost unavoidable and most inconvenient task of packing. On the evening we realized we were in love, he took a painting and slid it out of the window of the 26 story office building onto the filthy streets of downtown Detroit. "I'll have to reimburse Blake." Rubbing his chin mischievously he shrugged off my stare of astonishment. "What? I just felt like it."
Major dumbasses. Both of us.
Before that evening in Mr. Blake's art studio we never looked each other in the eyes lest one should give in to their feelings and we never spent time with one another outside of the circle of mutual friends. Something broke that afternoon in June, some unspoken rule that exists between friends. Not only did it break but it shattered into a million pieces like a glass frame thrown from the 19th story window of an office building in Detroit, MI.
Reading his tattered copy The Satanic Verses as he lay on his back under the red light cast from the oriental fixtures of his Chicago apartment Mr. Grenier seemed quite at peace with himself, and his surrounds for an hour. He was lost in the bold and beautiful world Rushdie created and I was lost in the bold and ugly world of the internet, sitting against a pile of imported pillows on the other side of the bed. Neither of us was aware of time or space or of anything Beyond the objects that temporarily captured out attention and, or course, each other.
In the beginning, when we woke up together for the first time in the vastness of love and the even greater vastness of Peter Blake's guest bedroom, a strange feeling came over me, as if a six sense had been activated. Ever since then I became enshroud with a strange awareness of Mr. Grenier, as if he presence made the air thinner or his movements made the axis earth title to the slightest degree but tilt nonetheless. On one occasion, when I was so taken up in my writing that I did not hear him come through the door, the light changed and I knew when he and I were in the same room without needing any of my recognizable senses confirm it.
The span of an hour was all the enjoyment Mr. Grenier could ever got out of the satanic verses in one dosage, especially in his third time reading it. The aged book and it fell off of the bed with a dull thud as he let it go. I shut down my computer and placed it on the floor near where the book had fallen. In the following seconds I felt an awareness so clear, so thorough that I knew he had to feel it as well and there grew a tension, a thickness in the air that seemed it would suffocate us and the only thing we found alleviated the intensity was the intimacy of physical contact. I felt his presence so strong by all of my senses that at one point I could not distinguish between my body and his and I was swept into a somehow altered state of consciousness.
exhausted and confused, tangled in a warm sea of Egyptian cotton and still pained by the newness of love, tears flooded forth like they had never had before and probably never would after. He took my hand and moved so that he was again on his back and my head was resting on his chest. Speaking for the first time in hours he ran his hand up and down my back. "I love you." He probably did.
"And they were falling, 30,000 miles,
the pilot was on the air saying,
'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.'
And then they splashed into the deep blue sea.
It was a wonderful splash.
Into the caverns of the future
with just our flashlights & love
we must plunge, we must plunge
we must plunge
then we'll get there,
way down there at the bottom of everything
and then we'll see it
and we'll see it
and we'll see it!"
~Bright Eyes
"If you stare long enough it will disappear." Mr. Grenier took my arm and led me away from the arch of colors in the evening sky. One day it will all come together, he would tell me quickly after walking away from beautiful sights that deserved much longer glances. He was so ridiculously predictable in his spontaneity.
"If you stare to long your eyes will become immune." He said this with a smile as he wiped the rainwater of his face with his sleeve. "Here." He offered a cotton corner of his T-shirt. He one of those who would at any given occasion, walk to the edge of reason without faltering and throw himself into an unfamiliar corner of the world with no inhibitions. From an early age he learned to approach love, among most other things with a senseless abandon and the only things that made him hesitate or doubt were beauty and magic. He felt as if humans had only a small capacity for absorbing beauty and like a bucket under a running faucet it would fill to the brim if one went around staring at beautiful things until eventually they became common. In other words, he was a lousy pretentious fuck, but hear me out:
"I've seen people caught in love like whirlwind,
listening to their squads
and listening to girlfriends
that's exactly the point where
their whole world ends: lies blow in.
That's where the drama begins."
~the roots
There are few places in the world that I would refuse to go and there are no places in the world which Mr. Grenier would refuse a visit. He had journeyed across the Sahara, ventured through the deep jungles on the Amazon and attempted to climb the highest mountains of Nepal all before turning thirty, or at least, that's what he said. He was a dumbass, but that was apparent. If at some point he felt inspired by the promise of an opportunity to learn, he hardly hesitated beyond the almost unavoidable and most inconvenient task of packing. On the evening we realized we were in love, he took a painting and slid it out of the window of the 26 story office building onto the filthy streets of downtown Detroit. "I'll have to reimburse Blake." Rubbing his chin mischievously he shrugged off my stare of astonishment. "What? I just felt like it."
Major dumbasses. Both of us.
Before that evening in Mr. Blake's art studio we never looked each other in the eyes lest one should give in to their feelings and we never spent time with one another outside of the circle of mutual friends. Something broke that afternoon in June, some unspoken rule that exists between friends. Not only did it break but it shattered into a million pieces like a glass frame thrown from the 19th story window of an office building in Detroit, MI.
Reading his tattered copy The Satanic Verses as he lay on his back under the red light cast from the oriental fixtures of his Chicago apartment Mr. Grenier seemed quite at peace with himself, and his surrounds for an hour. He was lost in the bold and beautiful world Rushdie created and I was lost in the bold and ugly world of the internet, sitting against a pile of imported pillows on the other side of the bed. Neither of us was aware of time or space or of anything Beyond the objects that temporarily captured out attention and, or course, each other.
In the beginning, when we woke up together for the first time in the vastness of love and the even greater vastness of Peter Blake's guest bedroom, a strange feeling came over me, as if a six sense had been activated. Ever since then I became enshroud with a strange awareness of Mr. Grenier, as if he presence made the air thinner or his movements made the axis earth title to the slightest degree but tilt nonetheless. On one occasion, when I was so taken up in my writing that I did not hear him come through the door, the light changed and I knew when he and I were in the same room without needing any of my recognizable senses confirm it.
The span of an hour was all the enjoyment Mr. Grenier could ever got out of the satanic verses in one dosage, especially in his third time reading it. The aged book and it fell off of the bed with a dull thud as he let it go. I shut down my computer and placed it on the floor near where the book had fallen. In the following seconds I felt an awareness so clear, so thorough that I knew he had to feel it as well and there grew a tension, a thickness in the air that seemed it would suffocate us and the only thing we found alleviated the intensity was the intimacy of physical contact. I felt his presence so strong by all of my senses that at one point I could not distinguish between my body and his and I was swept into a somehow altered state of consciousness.
exhausted and confused, tangled in a warm sea of Egyptian cotton and still pained by the newness of love, tears flooded forth like they had never had before and probably never would after. He took my hand and moved so that he was again on his back and my head was resting on his chest. Speaking for the first time in hours he ran his hand up and down my back. "I love you." He probably did.
"And they were falling, 30,000 miles,
the pilot was on the air saying,
'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.'
And then they splashed into the deep blue sea.
It was a wonderful splash.
Into the caverns of the future
with just our flashlights & love
we must plunge, we must plunge
we must plunge
then we'll get there,
way down there at the bottom of everything
and then we'll see it
and we'll see it
and we'll see it!"
~Bright Eyes
Young American Gentlemen
Young American Gentlemen of the 21st Century
It is spring, the season most notorious for inspiring the hopeless romantic, you know, those pathetic people who pick flowers from the meadows and write poems about the changing season as if it was their job. Love in the air apparently, makes me begin to itch…I’m allergic to love at this point, much like I’m allergic to goldenrod, those horrific puffy yellow things that grow in the ditch behind the dorms that some people dare to call flowers. Those are the malicious yellow horrors that grow in the supposed meadow. As for poetry,it makes no sense: the snow is melting because the earth’s axis is now in a position closer to the sun, not because the fuzzy love bunnies came out to play. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “Someone’s a little bitter.” Well you’re right. I am bitter. I do want those golden flower things to be retrieved from the ditch for me by a charming man who will teach me about the fuzzy love bunnies melting the snow. However this breed of man seems to be endangered in these days of late. The young American Gentlemen of today are quite different that those from the yester-year. They have new takes on courtship, dating and life in general. Everything is backwards. First comes sex, then, well, love just sort of happens. Accidental.
What if it all was an unofficial audition?
There's this man. I met him a little over a year ago. We got together, fell in love, had a great time, then fell into a bad spell of poor communication. We broke up for a short spell ( that seemed like ages) and then we got back together. Sounds pretty simple and predictable when I put it like that. But the thing is, it's not boring at all. It's the most exciting love affair I've ever had and every other lover pales in comparison. I've always been a cynic. I've thought that the person one ends up with is the one that annoys them the least. You know how in the intro I sound cynical and I have been for years. What's changing? Am I really in love this time? I don't know, but it's a strange feeling that I like a lot. He's used the word forever and it doesn't scare me. I've used it back and it was sincere. What in the world? I like this. I hope it lasts. For some reason I think it will.
OK. The best relationship I've ever had is in the ICU and it's half my fault. What to do? This is worse than I imagined.
Dear Mr. NOW,
I wrote you a love letter and it sat around for a month before I threw it into the trash along with the notebook it was written in. It's true, I have a commitment problem. I love you today. I may or may not love you tomorrow. I don't want to cheapen love notes with half sincere words and send them to every gentleman I fall in love with. If I do that then by the time I'm 30 there will be multiple love letters circulating in this existence that I'll wish I never sent. I don't believe in "the one." I get more excitement out of "the one for Now". I like open endings, tentative plans (there's a difference between tentative plans and being blown off) and journeys with no destination in mind.
When the excitement of '"Now" drains low, I'm turning the page. It's nothing personal, but of course I can't write that in a love letter. I know love isn't as romantic and cottony as its reputation. Actually I'm glad it's not. That would not only be boring but exhausting. Here's the long and short of it: I love you. I missed you when you were gone all weekend, you make me smile, you challenge my heady opinions and you make me want to be a better person.
But I'll never be 100 percent yours. For instance, today I woke up and spent the day with myself. I had such a great time. I missed you and thought how great the next time we meet will be: passionate, pure and adoring. But because I am who I am I don't think another person will ever make me complete. Why? Because I already am sovereign in my happiness. I'm afraid that some things never change. And if I ever do end up with anyone (it may or may not be you), they will understand my need for solitude, my need for a private life, even from them. And they, too, will have their own life to tend, things they rather enjoy that have nothing to do with me. And when we do meet it will be like it is with you, Now: passionate, pure and adoring. But it's a fine line between freedom, space, and bad communication. While I like my space, I also like to be able to count on a lover's word. I'm not hard to please.
Earning my stripes: The Infatuation:
Dear what's-your-face:
I love how passionate you are about politics. The way your voice raises a little bit when you're upset at what you just heard on NPR. Your eyes are so clear, sometimes I think they're bottomless, I could sink beyond return. So I try not to look. Do you notice that when we're talking I'm looking at anywhere but your eyes? It's not because I'm crazy. Well, maybe I am. But right now you are the man of my dreams, and I can't have you. I can't even try. I know you're not perfect. No one is. I know now that whoever you end up with is the person that annoys you the least. But there's something special about you. I noticed that the day we met, and you were wearing a gray shirt and stained jeans and work boots. I love how plain you dress. You're absolutely unpretentious when you have every reason to be. Not only are you brilliant in your academic discourse, but you have a fundamental understanding of the city you live in. That's saying a lot, but I won't go into detail because the internet is weird and you or someone you know might end up reading this. My secrecy is imperative. But I have to tell someone. These feelings for you are building up like a storm in my body. I feel you all over, I dream about you at night, and when the sun rises I have daydreams.
It's evening now. I feel like there's so much still to know about you. I can't leave before I find it out. If I leave I might never see you again, and that's something I'm not willing to risk. I do admit that not seeing you again may be better in the long run. I understand and respect your commitment and relationship with your lovely lady. She is delightful and you two, of course, deserve each other.
But is it wrong to look? To talk? to enjoy each other's political rants and raves and maybe a smoke here and there? Sometimes I sit at home trying to decide whether there's a loophole in the ten commandments, because I covet you every day.
When news breaks about X or Y, I want to call you. I want to know what you think. I want to meet outside and talk about it. I want to stare at the speck of paint on your face because you've been working all day and you're covered in it. that way I can keep my eyes out of yours.
But I know you look at me. I caught you a couple times. Nothing pleases me more. And when you said I was pretty, I was tickled. You probably have no idea.
I hope we stay friends, after I'm long gone outta this dismal place. I hope we both come back. I hope we both find happiness. I wish you joy as I wish myself: in abundance. You deserve every favor that comes your way. You have saved a community. Don't ever think you're wasting your time. The work you're doing is historic, and brilliant. And I'm not easy with compliments.
Young Secure Gentleman:
His name was Paul Ramond, well, actually that wasn't his name, but names don't matter to you (unless you're paul, or me who's interest it is at this time to keep his identity unknown).
Paul walked around from day to day with his chest up, chin up, looking straight forward and not concerned with people who talked about him, bad or good. He was beatiful and confident enough to sit alone at lunch but humble enough to let all of his admirers sit sit next him. Almost too confident. He let his looks warp his world to the point where he did not know the difference between him, and the center of the universe.
He was a couple years older than me but no more mature. I could see that when he picked up where I left of at phone tag. He called himself "the king." I'm not sure the word Queen was in his vocabulary.
I might as well fess up now, my taste in men is famously bad.
A Modern Gentleman:
He smiled and nodded after hearing my story...well, the big parts of it anyway, from beggining to end. It was New Years Eve and a time for making new friends, I suppose. After I drew my tales to aclose, I expected some of the usual reaction, you know, the immature questions regarding nudity, regarding my accent, regarding my wardrobe, and the awkward "did you use war paint ans spears?" question. But instead he leaned back and took a sip of his champagne and said. "Yeah, I know how it is. When I was in India......" And he matched my story, bit for bit, shocker for shocker and we compared scars. Afterwards, we became friends, as is to be expected of two like minds, and the reason he does not get a number like the rest is that he is, in my mind, an example, one of the reason I have not given up on young american male species entirely. His good looks never corrode his humility, and the looks of others do no deter him. He is a true humatinarian, and for these reasons he is such a good friend of mine. We will only ever be friends because, well, it is all to pretentious. Whoever he marries, I will be at his wedding and if I ever get married (god fucking forbid), would only be honored if he could be there too. He departs from the Midewest, he departs from the USA in the fall and he is one of the few who actually carried out his dreams, regardless of circumstances.
He is vocal, he is intellegent, he is handsome, worldly, well dressed and well spoken: he is a Young American Gentleman.
Andrew, if you ever read this, just know I mean every word.
Gentleman I
He was a brilliant young man; there was no confusion about that. One could merely sense a certain depth about him from the consistency of his eye-contact and his thoughtful conversational impromptu. But behind the atmosphere of intellect that seemed to surround him loomed a great unknown. He had a three dimensional presence, one that gave birth to many questions, yet only conceived answers. After my first encounter with him I left his side feeling an unshakable understanding that he was not common. I drew upon that conclusion quite instantaneously upon engaging in his conversation. However, his motives were intangible and it was difficult to distinguish between dry humor and spontaneity; he spoke with such calculative randomness. I believe he thought himself somehow enlightened and superior in intelligence though his pointed theories were well diluted with ambiguous words. Never once did I loose myself in following his strain of thought and never once did I feel he was advanced in any way beyond my comprehension; only enshrouded by an idiosyncratic freedom. Young James M. was a man of thought without boundaries and master of his own world: a world he was rarely obliged to depart from even to appease his public. There, he would be center of attention in the walls inside his head. Indeed he seemed eager to please no one but himself inevitably, in more ways than one: he spoke what he thought and was motivated by the idea of heightening his own status just to stare down at the faces of others. In his mannerisms however, he seemed quite subtle; this ego seemed not to be written on his face or spoke by his tongue: nothing about him was so direct. That is what set him apart; that and the fact that he was one hundred percent Italian and could no longer eat pizza. He was a living contradiction that could spout line after line of Shakespeare or Whitman, and that he, in his own words, described himself as a “recovering Catholic” despite of his family origins.
Gentleman II
He was grounded to some degree, while still possessing the freedom that comes along with youth. His presence exuded youth in appearance and culture though he somehow he seemed to live beyond his numeral age in years. Unlike his twin brother he did not harbor mystery of any sort, and while there was no doubt regarding his intelligence, he seemed to perform on an academic level. Young Lorenzo had a naïve charm, though I doubt naïve is the best word to describe his academic knowledge. To be a young M. was to be naïve to some degree… and to be young is to be naïve on more levels than one, but he had harnessed that naivety and he was in control, unlike some misguided young gentlemen of the Grosse Point area. No, he was quite calm in his life, and as far as I could tell, quite satisfied. He was not one to complain of trivial mishaps, and his youthful face was frequently graced with a pleasant grin unless he was imitating Dave Chappelle and claiming to be Rick James (bitch) and then smiles and laughter were abundant. In the few hours we made acquaintances he seemed to be more of a realist, unlike his brother James who was constantly basking in ideals such as his stab at the discovery of the potency of pornography. In this real world Lorenzo seemed content however, rarely seeking escape from his own reality by means of drugs or television, though he more often than not engaged in the latter. Sunday night Sopranos, boys, enjoy yourselves. And whether it be clicking on soundboards on the internet or speaking of an old professor of his, he seemed thoroughly entertained, and one could assume easily that he was not void in any need or desire. When served up contradictions he waived his opinions in order to escape argument though he never came off as unassertive. He got what he wanted out of life within his own understanding of things and did not trouble himself questioning controversial matters. He had no problem quoting Tony Soprano while admitting the television character was a bad man and not attempting to draw parallels or make explanations to justify his actions. His adaptive qualities let him enjoy simple pleasures of life without becoming too involved. Part of his charm was his calm, indeed between him and his wily twin he seemed to hold a voice of reason. He remained intelligent on conservative grounds and was not unwilling to learn, thus demonstrating fluidity in thought.
Gentleman III
“Pardon me but I got paper to chase.” He sat at the wheel of a red pickup truck contemplating, or rather, re-evaluating his pre-calculated plan. No, he was not malicious nor did he have any ill favored intentions. If he, his personality, and his actions could be defined by a shape it would, undoubtedly, be a blunt object. There was a raw sense in all he did, nothing was refined. No time was wasted in trying to word things eloquently and no thoughts were concealed in his head, they just had a way of running unchecked at they sprung from his brain and darted to his mouth where they catapulted out with no such thing as resistance. But what Hood lacked in tact he made up for, somehow, in charm though charming is not quite the adjective that best describes some of his spoken prose. Perhaps amusement would be a better word for the energy of his presence. He seemed easily amused in simple and intricate conversation as long as the topic did not wander too far into the jargon of academia. No, our young Curtis decided it not his to go to college. He found his calling in, well, self-employment so to speak. He had a dream and a rather simple one in fact. His eyes were set on a “certain place” in which, as rungs on the latter to getting to that “place” were many legal and illegal methods of approach. He took both: either/or pending the gage of profit.
Ahh yes, he was an entertaining specimen, to this day just the thought of him puts a crooked smile on my face. He struggles with life, as we all do, making plans he could not keep, falling in love only to get his heart broken by his call to make profit. This young gentleman loved money yet his love of the puritan work ethic somehow clashed with his materialistic obsession, therefore, he stepped onto the other side of the law, leaving behind any romantic affiliations, any feelings other than the love of money.
Nothing describes my taste in men better than the word poor. Hood fit the poor category very well, though his “thuggish” style was rare to my past collection of mens. Yet, I remember a point back in the spring & summer of 2004 when I was wildly infatuated with this specimen not even I could tell you why; perhaps it was his calm reactions and his mysterious unavailability. But I do remember that every time I saw his face it was like cool, cool water running down my back. I would play memories of my dates with him over in over like film that never stopped, although I knew how it would end, I couldn’t help but watch. In the spring, I worked through lifeguard training; it would be dishonest to say that my mind was ever really intent upon lifesaving procedures, rather contemplating whether or not Hood would call me like he said he would.
All summer this sort of game played out, his was deliciously unattainable and I was blinded by infatuation, and then he sort of faded out just as summer has a way of doing, not to be heard from until NEW YEARS 2005 at around 1:00am:
The ball had dropped an hour before and I was well on my way to obliteration and dialing under the influence when up came Hoods number on my screen, and out of sheer impulse, I pressed the green “send” key… and got his voicemail. I left a message that must have given away my state of mind, for minutes later he called back. I'm almost sure it is the best new years kiss I'm ever gonna have.
Gentleman IV
If there is a type of young man whose description cannot be harnessed into words Thomas R. would be that type. I cannot tell you how broad and open this young man seems at first, and yet, how he closes down so fast. There is nothing I can use to sum him up, for though the word “open” comes quite close, does not cover for the times he is reserved as a clam. I was absolutely wild about this young gentleman, to the point where food seemed a secondary necessity, and everything that was not his was an unimportant afterthought. He seemed spontaneous and impulsive, which I believe he is, undoubtedly, almost to the point of naivety is up for anything, anytime such a spontaneous spirit, I hardly believe he considers half the proposals he creates. It seemed at times that he felt the need to constantly entertain, never sat back and let things go. He claimed he never cared about what people thought but I feel that he cared far more than he let show…just not for me.
Aye, there's the rub.
So I let him go, because I'm not a stalker and it took what seemed like ages for him to become a secondary, and now, an afterthought. I have never been in love, and maybe I never will be. But if love is any stronger than how I felt about Thomas..it might kill me, because the feeling nust be so VERY intense. As for now….I am not sad, I don’t regret anything…when everything is lonely I can be my own best friend. What’s so easy in the evening, by the morning’s such a drag.
Gentleman V
He thought he could sing like bob Marley. He thought he could play guitar like Bob Dylan. He thought sex on the first date was standard. He thought he was a Christian. He was a republican. One other thing regarding his personality is certain: he acted like a ten year old child when he was not humping your leg like a dog. There were some endearing qualities to him, undoubtedly; otherwise I would stand insulted to have ever encouraged his company. He had the naïve, unabashed charm that could put at least a small smile on the most severe faces…and when he spoke he spoke to everyone. He was an entertainer in many respects but unlike Mr. Thomas he was not putting on a show for other people, he was putting it on for himself.
Okay I’ll finish this later I’m getting tired, it can only go downhill from here. As you can tell they're geting more and more recent. What sat is that V stops at 2004...hehehe.
I wasn't kidding when I said famously bad.
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