Wednesday, November 25, 2009

A Surplus of One

I’m not as thankful for brutal honesty as I need to be.

I’m not as thankful that my taste buds still work as I need to be.

I’m not nearly thankful enough that people don’t see me as a flaming ass.

I’m not thankful enough or attentive enough to realize every orgasm is a communiqué to and with God.

I’m not thankful enough to slow down and live as opposed to acknowledging the hovering anxiety that stays by my head.

I will fuss about how crazy she drives me but I don’t often thank my wife for keeping me sane.

Thanksgiving as a verb is not merely for gods, it is for one another. Thanking that which you need is an ancient tradition. The hunter thanks the beast for the meat. The ant thanks the child for not stepping on it. The sleeping woman thanks the man for draping a throw over her chilly feet. I am thankful—-head bowed thankful—-that there are living, human beings sometimes reading whatever claptrap I throw out. The common thread is there is thanks without knowledge, thanks that carries itself through its actions and effects. Actions speak louder than words because for the most part we are stupid, mumbly, incoherent things. I can look a man in the face and fervently thank him while wishing I might push him in front of a bus without threat of criminal consequence. The handshake, though, might be a little tight, so he knows. Giving lip service to being thankful is a waste of everyone’s time.

I’m not thankful enough that my sisters-in-law are bright, attractive women. Not thankful enough that my boss doesn’t try to work out personality issues via his position. Not thankful enough that I can hold a child or a hundred pound machine with equal ease. I’m not thankful enough that the one time somebody tried to break into my house was a half-hearted effort at best; they moved a window screen then said forget it. I’m not thankful enough for me, myself and I, ‘cause, dammit, I’m a pretty cool dude. Falsity is a bitch. If you’re not thankful for who you are and what you’re giving, then who are you and what are you giving? Me, I wear lots of hats and I’m thankful that my head is malleable. I’m even able to stare God straight in the face and say “Thank you for my life.” Period. Not thanks for the awesome gift of life itself, but thanks for the particular bit of living I’m feeling right now. My life. Where I’ve kissed breasts, held hands, been punched, made babies smile, kept peace, shown errors, killed when necessary (bugs and beasties but no sapiens yet), eaten Pizzapapolis pizza, made women feel loved and my wife know love, held on at all costs, cried in vain, been bored to freaking tears, despised all of mankind, saw ‘Wings of Desire’ by Wim Wenders, marveled at Prince in concert, never have or will have an opportunity to discuss things with the Pope, watched the last breath of life dry in my father’s lungs, and I have walked, walked everywhere. By sinew and determination my legs have carried me.

But I can’t say thanks for everything, ‘cause some things in life just ain’t right. And that’s where Thanksgiving goes wrong. Thanksgiving doesn’t mean be thankful for everything in your life, but take the time to figure out what you need to be thankful for. I’ll never be thankful for harm coming to a child. For brutality. Intentional ignorance. All ignorance is intentional but some ignorance is lots worse than others. I’ll never thank god for suffering. The day I can’t appreciate a lovely moment for what it is without the precarious balancer of suffering behind it is the day I lather up in bacon grease and open my fly to the ice weasels.

I’m thankful that I don’t take entirely for granted why I’m here. Forgive the messianic complex but my name means ‘light bringer’—-no, I am not your god (yet) but I will take the time to look at things and tell you to come over here and see. By the time I'm done with life "mission accomplished" just might mean something again.

Enjoy Thanksgiving, and in utter sincerity, Thank You.

Monday, November 9, 2009


Well , hello there. Nice to see folks made it. Glorious Revolution’s to the left. Smut’s on the right. Shoes must remain on but you can hang your tops over here. I haven’t actually done much with the place but you can see we’ve got it framed for a sunroom, a nice office, definitely a walk-in closet, and I’m thinking (once the Wife’s input is in) a deluxe laundry room.

Actually, you might want to see one of the September rooms. The first one done was back on September 22 and the rest of the house just kinda flowed from that. A neo-classical modern thing working. Got a little baroque, I will admit, but not a lot. Just that once. You’ll know it when you see it.

Take your time, get comfortable. I’m as new to this as you. My first showing, you know? The décor’s all me. Yes, I can be fabulous. Two have already joined the Glorious Revolution, and one’s contributed. The interweb’s a wonderful tool, so interact at will.

Do not, however, break anything. There’s a lot of delicateness here. Brother will break down and cry, complete with issues.

Anyhoo…piddle about. All are welcome. The invite was sincere. Restrooms are plentiful. Enjoy yourselves.

But for god’s sake, do flush.

Monday Double Shot!!!

Here in Detroit—-and I suspect around the country—-Christmas music has been playing on one of our MegaMart ownership-styled radio stations since about a hair past Halloween. Around the clock. The city thinks it’s ridiculous. The entire state thinks it’s ridiculous. But what do we matter, right? Clear Channel’s will be done.

This is for them.

The A Team

Jesus made the best chocolate chip cookies. Vishnu made the bread. Buddha handled the punch, and of Shiva, tis better the less is said. The ?Great Spirit sat at the head of the table. Mohammed prepared everyone spiced tea. Moses kept bringing word of the world below; finally, everyone bowed their heads. Didn’t pray for lasting peace, didn’t demand pious dread. This grand celestial gathering sent thoughts of fasting instead. No gorging on indolence and foolishness, no dripping red helpings of greed. Quite full off fear and avarice, and deception is why most wound up dead. Supping on evil causes conniption fits guaranteed to shred a peaceful bed. And the dreams of these humans, Moses reported, the dreams, he perplexedly said…

…of those sad mistreated things, ‘tis better the less is said.

“There’s always more,” their dreams scream and scream. “Control, consume and confound!” A steady supply of money is preferable to hallowed ground. “Drink and eat and never need, but always want instead.” Have unwise sex, and seek chemical twists, to balm the wounds by which you’re led.

The celestials fell silent. Jesus stood, decision made. Buddha joined him too. Botha Dish of the African plains completed the trio three. What good’s a party in the celestial rounds with noisy neighbors below? They rappelled to earth, clad all in black and packs, the mission abundantly clear: spread less fear not more cheer, and get back to the work of the day. Their descent was watched from above till the clouds swallowed them up and the ?Great Spirit sat back to lament. Another thousand years, as it gazed at the pile of warm cookies, before any returned to fill up that plate, but this is the role great spirits play, and of that what more is there to say?

Story Day! --- "Hollywood"

Dying had become pretty old for Len Turman by the time he turned forty-six. He’d played the voice of a robot, and the robot had died. He’d been the young black dude in a platoon of brave men, and he’d died. He’d played a sword-wielding immortal and felt good that in the film he was supposed to have lived over four thousand years…until an older and evil immortal deceived and decapitated him. He’d had things rammed into him, poured over him, sliced diagonally across him, shot through him, horribly-gone-wrong spliced into him, lemming-ed off a cliff, absorbed, bitten in half, exploded, knifed, poisoned, burned, and even—as the only black man in a film about the French revolution—guillotined. He’d performed every stunt imaginable and acted against a rainbow assortment of special effects screens. He had yet to have onscreen sex, which is why he got into acting in the first damn place, and today was his birthday. Birthdays were tailor-made for deciding when certain shit was about to stop.

Len Turman made calls. He wasn’t a bad actor, so he made convincing calls. By the time he was done there were twelve black men of varying ages, incomes and acting abilities parked outside his home. Of the twelve, two were famous enough for paparazzi, and before you knew it Len Turman was in front of the TV cameras looking the world dead in the eye and telling Hollywood:

“We quit.

“No more will we die while lesser actors go on to numerous sequels. No more will we turn our backs on wounded villains or provide chewable ethnic flavor.”

“Well,” somebody said.

“We are not your surprise twist endings, your tragi-comic sidekicks, or your security officers. We are actors, dammit—”

“Well, well.”

“We are men!”

“Full grown.”

“We are not going to be the characters everybody knows not to invest too much attention in!”

“Bubba was my best good friend!”

“Oh, no! To quote our great acting brother, we are huge, we are monumental… King Kong ain’t got shit on me!”

“Jungle boogie!”

“Effective immediately, if the subplot calls for somebody to die, it’s gonna be from somebody a whole lot shades lighter than me.”

So a bunch of light-skinned brothers got work. But it wasn’t the same, everybody knew it. Movie-goers knew it. The right expectation just wasn’t there. The ‘Why A Brother Gotta Die?’ movement kept growing and growing, until eight months later Len was found buck naked and OD’d, between two silicon mounds whose dark carpet most certainly did not match the highlights on her blonde head.

Word quickly filtered on the street that Len Turman was a known titty man. Jessica Kitaen’s titties were fake, but they were the best fake money could buy. Fox News aired snotty hourly segments on the so-called ‘Man with a Mission’, and it didn’t take long before light-skinned brothers returned to working as lawyers or shifty boyfriends. Darker brothers returned to work too: Hollywood memorialized Len Turman the only way it knew how. Made a bunch of movies about him.


Friday, November 6, 2009

My Dog Can Kick Your Dog's . . .

There’s a Dogspace. There’s a Dogspace. I kid you not. A place where people can post pictures up and create member profiles…for…their…dogs. I kid you bloody @#*%#ing not. We are so completely batshit lonely that not only do we crave these weird-ass virtual “friends” everywhere but our dogs need them now too. Is “2 girls, 1 cup” the absolute requirement of the day, where everything that can be seen begs to be seen???

I don’t wanna know about your @#*%#ing dog. I did MySpace for 2 seconds as a lark; got on Facebook thinking it was beneficial—it is not—and, by God, the first time I get some random Twitter on my phone (I think I’ve got email function on it, I don’t know) from somebody I haven’t spoken to in 3 months asking me what I’m doing or telling me they’re going out for Whiz and bread…There…Will…Be Blood. I will go all Daniel Day-Lewis upside some crazy mofo. Reach all the way back to a tomahawk, some Mohicans and “No matter what happens you stay alive,I will find you!”—because if anyone’s gonna be the one to beat your ass, I’m gonna be the one to beat your ass. “Go ‘head,” I say with my one eye twitching, “Twitter me. Twitter me bad.”

MySpace. YouTube. When Schwarzenegger comes back butt naked to make sure humanity is doomed he’s going to realize it’s a wasted trip; coulda stayed home and watching cyborg porn.

Twitter? Twitter deez! said the poet to the pastor. Twitter deez!

1) Reality has become the exclusive province of television. 2) The populace is now so stupid that becoming interesting is really too much of a bother. It’s much more preferable to hit Second Life and pretend we’re Astaire on the ceilings of our foreheads. Technology does not serve anymore, brethren. It is marketing itself to create itself. Butt Naked Arnold Machine ain’t looking for John Connor, it’s looking for Market Share.

Dogspace. Social Networking at its best used to be sitting around dissecting the latest episode of Twin Peaks to blow your mind. Or deeper still, saying hi to a pretty lady and being able to carry a conversation with her for five to ten minutes without running out of steam. Social networking used to actually involve people. I ain’t a person on the computer. I am Thor, master of the Willy that brings both joy and thunder! Over there somebody’s Albert Einstein by way of Paul Newman, Cindy Crawford if you squint real hard and completely forget what Cindy Crawford ever looked like, totally over their father fixation (the fact that 18 of her 39 “friends” have monikers like Daddydat69, HopOnPopWhyNot, or WhoArtInHeaven means absolutely nothing) and lastly and leastly over there somebody took time out of their day to create a member profile for their dog on Dogspace, and invite other people/dogs to be their dog’s friend.

Let me repeat that. Listen closely. There are dogs (get the mental picture) that have member profiles on

I can just hear the ghosts of dinosaurs laughing at us, frickin’ T-Rexes with their spastic little arms unable to text worth a damn. I’ll be damned if a dinosaur laughs at me! I am not part of the Matrix! I will not be engineered to be a part of everything without being a part of anything.

I will run naked through the streets and make love with my wife in the Pope’s guest quarters. I will leave my cell phone at home in a drawer on purpose—not charging; let the sucker die of starvation!—and walk outside without shaking.

Lord help us.

Pet lovers? I understand you. I had several dogs growing up. They’re wonderful. Make you feel like God in the garden. Pick up a ball and randomly toss it all the way to the end of the yard? His crazy ass will run it back tongue looping and tail wagging every time. Maintenance ain’t that hard either. Feed ‘em. Play with ‘em. Keep ‘em from sniffing diseased butts. They’re basically children except there’s no chance they’ll grow up hating their looney fart of a parent. Unless you are looney, in which case dogs will run away. You’ll never know why. You’ll think it was a dog thing. Lassie, come home. But Lassie knows crazy. And crazy is not a reliable source of food.

Never fuck with a dog’s Alpo.

Can I ask this: who cares what kind of dog you have? Who needs to see those cute pictures? Who gives a rat’s ass that your dog sits at attention whenever America’s Funniest Pets comes on? I’ll tell you who: crazy, looney folks like you, you Dogspace-using tool of the idiocracy. There are a lot of you, but dammit, that doesn’t mean you should have access to technology! The Amish aren’t sitting around mailing sketches of their horses to one another. Hobbies? Fine. I like Star Trek. But I’m not about to give my imaginary Tribble a page on Tribblespace. Hell, I don’t have an imaginary Tribble. If I did he would kick your Dogspace ass beyond Antares.

Comes a point when the unnecessary becomes the ridiculous. Just because you can…doesn’t mean you should. Can we stop pretending useless, idiotic things are actually beneficial in some synergistic, marketable way? Must every bit of cool technology end up as something annoying? When I was a kid I wanted a communicator and tricorder so badly I’d have gone to church for them. Thanks a friggin lot Verizon and Blackberry! Communicators and tricorders were not meant for douches! They were for Kirk and Spock, dammit, men of action. Heroes. Heroes who needed heroic things. When they perfect transporter technology and fake-accented spokesmen are able to beam themselves directly into the homes of every American for ten seconds a night during mandated commercial breaks in our dinnertimes, I will personally allow rabid squirrels to nest in my pants. On a nightly basis. Then I literally won’t have the balls to keep myself from going nuts.

Amen and good night.

Use the interweb for what it was created for. Sweet, blessed porn. (That’s irony, son. Use irony as you would a dildo in an elevator. Sparingly and with great precision.) Woof.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Today's Shameful Blog

Best part of eating a caramel apple? It’s the nuts. I love nuts. Absolutely adore nuts. Can’t get enough nuts to satisfy me in one day. Mouthful of nuts is heaven.

I say this out loud.

Somebody giggles.

Dammit, people.

Yes, I’m a man, and yes, I need nuts. Just because I need nuts doesn’t mean someone should giggle nervously every time I say I need nuts. Well I need nuts, dammit. If you were a man reading this I would go straight for your nuts. Snatch ‘em off ya like I owned stock in it. Best ones are the ones with a little size to them. I’ll do a sunflower seed too but hit me with a big football shaped almond or that fat cashew with just the right angle of curve to it and I’ll scream “Touchdown!” every day.

Nobody’s come out with a candy bar in ball form. They’re missing a huge market. I know about Whoppers but you hurt your jaw on those. Imagine a Snicker in ball form. I’d roll as many of those bad boys cheek to cheek as I could. They could pack it with extra nuts. Around Christmas several companies come out with round chocolate treats, some of them covered with nuts, but a man shouldn’t have to wait for a special holiday occasion to get his inner nut on. You’d think with all the protein benefits sucking up on nuts would be a year round thing.

I’m just wondering.

So today’s shameful blog is about actresses who give me boner shame. Pam Grier. Nia Long. Carla Gugino. Eva Longoria. Penelope Cruz. Bai Ling. Raquel Welch. Rosario Dawson. Sophia Loren. Jennifer Beales. Salma Hayek. Jennifer Connolly. Now, understand and accept, this is binding only if none of the aforementioned have taken to turning themselves into scrawny sticks suitable only for poking at the ground. A woman who can stand upright in a 20 mph wind is a beautiful thing. This list, and it’s hardly complete, honors women who’ve stopped time at a particular moment of perfection to occupy my lonely mind as permanent objects d’boner whee. That’s French for “out of my league”.

Actors Who Give Me Boner Shame:
Antonio Banderas
Mumble mumble mumble…mumble mumble mumble; meaning there’s more, but—hell, Antonio Banderas—why go on? If I was gay I’d drop some change on the ground where Antonio passes and hide in the bushes. That is one fine, smoldering man. From earlier posts you might imagine I have a jones for the Latin spice. Tell me you wouldn’t eat a cat for Penelope Cruz? In the words of the poet: “Shee-id!” ‘Cause if you tell me that, you would lie to your mama. Which is wrong. I have a thing for flat-out, outright, confident sexual sensuality. Man or woman, it don’t matter. Hell, hot is hot.

Taye Diggs? I would tear him up if I were so inclined. Keanu? Give whole new meaning to the Matrix Bend Over. Slow mo deez. But seriously, in 2009-about-to-be-2010 (this is the future!), can we talk about sexuality as it relates to identity and the raging frivolousness of homophobia? I didn’t do this but when we met I looked the Wife dead in the eye and said, “If Prince ever approaches and offers to do me, I am not saying no.” I can look at a male statue from any one of the classic periods and appreciate it on both an artistic and aesthetic level. The human body, done right by art or nature, is a beautiful thing. Gonads don’t preclude me from admitting that Marc Singer of Beastmaster fame had a helluva male ass back in the day. I know what a helluva male ass looks like. It’s how I want mine to look. I know what it’s like to hug a man, I know what it’s like to kiss a man on the cheek—I, easily shocked, non-cosmopolitan 5th reader, and I’ll slow down because you’re new to this—even know what it’s like to kiss a man on the lips in greeting…FOR THESE THINGS I HAVE DONE. And the Wife naked is about the best thing on this earth alongside peach cobbler and deep dish pizza. So verily I say unto you: I am not ashamed of being what I am. A human being. Because seriously, if Beastmaster’s ass throws you into serious conniption fits about homosexual marriage and the erosion of God into fine dust, you got problems with yourself. Seriously.

Dudes and Ann Coulter? Get a grip. If I catch a gay dude checking me out I pump up. I run home and tell the Wife just to keep her on her P’s & Q’s. Maybe do a little flexing in the mirror. And if a woman lets slip that she fancies me by either word, deed or small bite of her lip as I pass by, I become a major stallion of love that night…depending on whether or not it’s one of the Wife’s TV-watching nights. Friday is Ghost Whisperer/Medium/Numbers night. Jennifer Love Hewitt’s cleavage hasn’t won an Emmy yet but America is rooting for her! (Watching Ghost Whisperer is like watching that special Gomer Pyle episode where they finally get around to discussing spiritually, and where Goober turns out to be a woman with a nice rack, but I digress.)

I don’t understand the paranoia about gays. Guys, come here, especially you Religious Right types. Conservatives, uptight mofos, Vatican priests—come here. Get your asses over here. Don’t tell me your porn tapes aren’t cued up mid-scene where the women are getting it on in hot lesbian bliss. Don’t you dare tell me you’re against homosexuality as you stand there with curiously smooth and supple palms. There’s a reason a jerkoff with very little apparent talent could build an empire off “Girls Gone Wild” drunk party chicks sucking face with each other: you like gay sex! “But, dude, gays are dudes. We don’t watch dude sex. That’s gay!” Ok, smart ass. Let’s run down the names: John Holmes. Ron Jeremy. What? You say you know these names? Seen their rods and watched them hammer? They weren’t getting off on dudes, you say? But if you take the rod out of the equation is porn porn or just a Lifetime Channel movie? Ron Jeremy is NOT Antonio Banderas by any stretch of the imagination, but millions of hot-blooded American men have watched him whip his King Dong from film to film, all while maintaining those supple palms.

Sex is sex, folks. Don’t be scurred of it. Don’t be scurred of stigmas. Don’t worry about that. The only thing we have to fear…are those who fear. Let’s start wrangling ‘em in one by one. Your faithful blog site herein initiates Gay Dudes for Straight Men day. Gay dudes, run up on one of your hetero male friends today and body hug him. If he tries to pull away, grind. If he gets rough, bust him in the chest. Your fist can inflict pain just the same as anyone else’s. Now understand: VIOLENCE IS NOT SEXY. This, your Blog In Servitude, ain’t for everybody, just the sexy people. My homosexual brethren and sisthren: I do not want to see hate crimes perpetrated upon weak-minded homophobes. Pity them if you must and work your hardest to reeducate them, but do no harm…unless they push you, then rip those earrings off and engage in the most vicious slap fight they’ll never forget.

I mention this because somewhere out there, right now, another state is banning gay marriage. Right now.

The future.