Selves Served. None Exchanged.

Briefly and softly: More massacres of children today. We can't say it was an "Equus" style killing of anguish and euthanasia. In China it was a man with a knife in a classroom. This has happened before. In the U.S. it was a man with guns and a bulletproof vest to protect himself in a school full of elementary children. These vests are not supplied to children. I'll speak of the man in the U.S. That's where I'm from. Children the world over -- innocents, children and adults alike the world over -- are cut down every minute you are awake like wheat left to dry in the sun. People have expressed relief that the man in the bulletproof vest was killed. I'm not that glad. I want to know what synapse misfired to wake him up with the idea his morning needed deaths. In the days or weeks that led up to the culmination of this plan, what happened to his mental fail-safes? And if he didn't have any, how do we eradicate his type? I want to ask him point blank: HOW do I prevent your kind? How do I isolate you physically and genetically from existence? I want to exhaust every rhetorical question there is to ask, then I will kill him and crumple to the ground and cry forever. I will cry forever. After a point the real world will overtake the false one we've built, the one of broken relationships and failed lives all jumbled and bagged into a satchel of excuses. After a point we will tire of being born into this false world howling and covered in blood. After a point even the filthiest wish to be clean. "The promise of Eden hides our fears," wrote the artists Wendy and Lisa in one of their songs. "But while we're here why wait for heaven?" I'm not interested in heaven on Earth. Earth on Earth will do. Earth on Earth will do. My Beautiful Lost, apologies for not being strong enough to save you. In that regard we are truly made in God's image. Find your world, my friends, and make it without blood for clay.

Must Love Pets

In describing the ick of a particular brand of instant coffee, a friend used the expression "I wanted to stick my tongue up a cat's ass to get the taste out of my mouth." Yesterday I watched the new series 'Beauty & the Beast' on the CW network. I wasn't a huge fan of the late 80s (I think) B&theB, but it had Ron Perlman and Ron Perlman makes everything better. This revisit to that show--because remaking Nightrider, Bionic Woman and V did SO well--does not have Ron Perlman. It has Kristin Kreuk. She was on Smallville, where she was interesting for all of 35 minutes. She is the Jessica Alba of her generation. What I'm saying is she's not even convincing splashing water on her face for makeup commercials. Additionally, the show is on the CW network, which is pretty much glitter on a monkey's ass. Nail in the coffin: it proved itself so devoid of creativity that it actually used the "droplets o' verisimilitude" blood spray on the camera lens during what I think was supposed to be an intense fight scene but was instead a hyper-kinetic, random splotch of grunt noises. I laughed out loud. This is the kind of show where you pretty much have the entire first season written scene for scene in your head before the first commercial break. Nutshell rundown since I brought itup: Doc's brother died in Twin Towers. Doc's all "I will avenge you, bro!" so gets a hard on for some Iraqi invasion. Army's like, psst, secret super soldier program over here, son, get you some. Doc's all hell yeah. Problems and complications ensue. Army decides to put kibosh on beast soldiers. Kill some, not all. Kristin's mom and Kristin attacked not too long afterward; yes, Mom is connected, Kristin, you dummy. Shaving Commercial Beast Guy in shadowy beast mode saves Kristin but Mom gets all dead. Kristin develops thing for dogs. Flash forward, Kristin now a cop, a petite, pretty, edgy cop haunted and driven to solve the mystery of the beast and her mother's murder. Well, as edgy as Kristin can get. She furrows her brow a lot. Has a tough talking Latina partner and a black police chief with shoe polish on his head instead of hair and more toning makeup on his pretty face than Kristin. Brother looks unreal. Both supporting characters get to say the usual sidekick/black police chief stuff. Kristin gets to eye-emote. Blah blah blah, crap about a new murder case, cop, cop, introduce comedic scientist helping Shave Guy find cure, Kristin meets Shave Guy,fight scene, Kristin saved yet again by beast guy, shadowy FBI dudes, get all Twilight for a minute to show Kristin and Shave are destined to really inconvenient romance, Stay away, No, I...I have to wait three more episodes before I say I love you, Ok, but I'm gonna be your protector in the night up on this rooftop, I'll feel your presence, I know you will, No it's too early for sexual tension, I'm a beast man; I'm nothing but sexual tension, Here, stare at me in this beautiful, low-cut gown. Aaaaaannnd... Scene! It was Friday. I was comfortable. I didn't want to get up. TV was on. What I'm saying is don't watch this with your cat.

Thirst

Writers can be skittish things, and every now and then require a quick slap in the face. Ru Freeman reminded me of the definition of a writer. There’s no such thing as a writer who sells a lot of books, or a writer of note and stature. They’re fictions. Useful ones in their way but fictions. Anything that follows the word “writer” is mere addendum; the root remains apart, for there are those of us who see and speak the truths as we see them in order to process those truths, and there are those of us who do not feel that same compulsion, that need to express the invisible with the same initial confusion of the original (biblical) Word. No one demands a farmer define himself. Writers would do well to emulate that notion. You are a writer when you write. That’s the seed and root of it. Rise in the morning and plow your fields. I don’t often wax philosophical, but when I do I wax Sartre. Stay conjectural, my friends.

Congressional Aid

If you’re not sure what all the foofla is, it’s about sex. Presidential hopeful Mitt Romney’s Hair has picked Congressman Paul Ryan as his vice presidential running mate. Mr. Ryan has said the whole thing about gays wanting to be acknowledged as actual people and not fodder to make yourself feel good for not shouting “Fag/Dyke!” is a non-issue. Basically. I disagree. The rights of child molesters to work at day care centers, that’s a non-issue. The rights of stalkers to keep the objects of their fixations in a basement full of baby dolls and perfume? Entirely a non-issue. Two women or two men who just want to grow old together, maybe raise some smart kids, maybe enjoy the benefits and dignities our society affords those who value commitment in a land of screaming transience, a prime of which is recognized as “marriage” (sidenote: marriage – n – the blending of one with another), that, to me, is an issue when huge machinery is put into place to scream “No!” at them. As a black man (sorry, sir, that’s still an issue) who’s never harmed anyone I’ve still had that screaming “No!” directed at me and it’s a sound not unlike a soul being slapped to death. It is by no stretch of logic or imagination a good thing. So for you, Paul Ryan, to seek the benefits of television by saying equality is a non-issue —and I’m going there with it—for people you’re positioning yourself as the potential employee of (political office = representative of the people = make sure you fill out your time sheet, son) means either you think that what they have is good enough, or they’re not good enough for what “you” have. That’s a troubling notion, sir. So let’s talk about sex. And let’s be forthright. Two men or women attracted to one another just might lead to sex that the Puritans, God bless their fanatical tuckusses, would have to flagellate all thoughts of enjoyment out of their heads. The Puritans, like Reagan, still enjoy a vaulted, mythic status in the American genome, yes? The Puritan Work Ethic, Puritan Values, Codes of Conduct – all things I clearly recall being drilled into the wee minds trapped in history classes from grades 4 through 8. I won’t go into the fact that pretty much all the history we were presented with was a lie of omission so huge it’d do Loki proud. I’m more concerned with the inference that the mythical Puritans were somehow better than what we were in 4th grade history and are now. They were the kind of people who would see the whole “Should gays be allowed to marry” thing as a non-issue. End of story. Go chop that wood. You, I know you’re not about to go out in public without that hijab. Oh, sorry. Cross cultural thing there. Bonnet. (Perspective, sir, must be pliable to be of benefit.) I took one lasting thing from all those history lessons about the Puritans, and the Quakers, the Shakers and other early American white folks who wore weird hats: they were some scared motherfuckers. Couldn’t handle a damn thing without it being sinful unless there was heavy misery involved. Lord knows what they would have done in a Cinnabon; their little heads would have exploded at the sinful goodness even as they smeared sticky cinnamon on their naked bodies in defiant abandon. I’ve been there, both to Cinnabon and defiant abandonment in the face of the Lord; it’s a heady mix. The senses flare. Desires tangle and subsume. The soul implodes, but from that implosion a new galaxy of experience bursts forth. That can be daunting on an individual level, but when it turns into group-think it becomes fear. Capital FEAR. Walls of repression form a thousand miles high and of hard-packed stone. And anything that peers through any cracks in that wall do so with the eyes of devils. That’s a lot of fear to carry. When sucking dick leads to mental hysteria, I’ll care. When clits and nipples become weapons of mass destruction, I will certainly care. When the gaze of a homosexual freezes a heterosexual to the spot and turns him or her to stone, I will care so hard I’ll get a boner. But I cannot, right now, pretend that any of this happens. And thus the consensual sex of grown folks does not matter to me. It does not matter to the notion of marriage. Doesn’t damage it one bit. There’s your non-issue. The big, honking, red-alert, shields failing, Captain Kirk to the bridge issue is thinking full equality, in this instance, should not apply. ‘Cause if I ask you why, you don’t get to point to a Bible. Know your history, sir. Jim Morrison went back in time after a particularly bad acid trip and wrote pretty much every bible. You need to show me your logic. In high school I wasn’t a dumb kid. After algebra and geometry I came up with this theorem, one I’m proud of to this day: Given that angle A is congruent to angle C, and line DE is parallel to line FG, prove that the fall of Man is imminent by citing personal example. Show all work. I need to know, Mr. Ryan, that if it’s just about the sex why’s that so bothersome? Before we proceed with your application, let’s clear that up. Don’t want to go into a new job with unnecessary issues. ‘First do no harm’ is indeed a job requirement, brother. And if it’s not about the sex… what is it? By the way, I emailed this to your office. I'm thinking it might not get through to you. Peace.

The Magic of White Cleavage: Gold in Them Thar Hills?

I was at a golf function for work manning the prize room. Drunk guy attempts to erase some of the numbers on the dry erase prize board. Then he notices me. He’s a small, white guy. I’m not. “Oh, dude, sorry. I’m trying to impress these girls, they gave me their tickets…” I’m not overtly violent. But here’s how I felt about the golf outing in general and him in particular:

One of the “girls” he spoke of came by and, lo and behold, pale, lifted, separated, 30-something careerist cleavage, maximized by the act of bending slightly to adjust a heel strap. And I thought: ‘This little drunk advertising sales rep is willing to get his ass kicked for the love of a V.’ Presidents have risked their office. Priests have – well, not so much them. Athletes have ruined marriages and bank accounts because of the magical cleavage of white girls. And don’t get me started on the Black Man’s kryptonite! What makes white cleavage such a heady brew? Is it, for white male career types, the call of the mythical West so ingrained in American Caucasian consciousness where women represent acquisition and the taming of the land? And for all other brothers from a different mother, is it the tantalizing tease of taboo’s restrictions lifted, separated and possibilities calculated in the male mind with all the diligence of a physicist pondering alternate universe string theory? What happens if I show you this?

Odds are good you entertained a light-speed unconscious flash of fantastic sex whether you’re man, woman or half blind. It’s Pavlovian. In America white women are cocaine; everybody else is either weed or beer. Of course we know the racial history of this, but it’s 2012; we’ve been exposed to international cleavage for a good while and we like it. But we still go coo coo for Caucasian puffs. The cool, vanilla perfection of a slide down that glide. The warmth of breasts that long to see the sun. We want to free the cleavage from its nest as though cupping rare, delicate birds, and place the boobs on a tall pedestal where their light will shine for the ages. And when I say we I mean y’all. I’ll spelunk a boob whether it’s chocolate, tan, olive or albino. I’m just that kind of guy. The color of the cleave doesn’t bring baggage to my mental flights. No checking/scanning for things that go boom on my lust field. Yet for something so powerful, strangely enough the portrayals of this beautiful offering often show the head above as bubbly or empty. I’m sorry but bubbly and empty can’t possibly be sexy. Which means a lot of folks get off on power trips and not the sweet nibbly bits. Poor deluded bastards. Intelligent cleavage splits atoms and pinpoints the existence of god. And in that most folks stand up and take notice when intelligent white cleavage enters our lives, I’m going to stand here and proudly say intelligent cleavage creates the world. I’ll need to put a little more thought into this. White cleavage is the Calgon of cleavage; discuss. Unless you’re a drunk, white dude hoping to get laid. In which case, see first graphic above for handy reference point on not only my but cleavage bearing women’s everywhere position regarding you.

Unfinished Rosario

It’s pretty much public knowledge that I would chew a certain actress’s panties as part of the recommended daily allowance of seven important vitamins and minerals. What might surprise you, Dear Glorious Revolutionary, is the fact that at 11:59 on a Thursday night I realized just how deep my devotion for this unnamed saint of a woman is. I dreamt about her and, lo, she was not naked. And I saw that she was not naked. And it was good.

Granted certain people can be covered in wet leaves and still give off l’orgaseem (French for le damn), but in the dream she wore a suit vest over a plain white tee, and a pair of biker shorts (no, thank YOU, Jesus). Shoes? I dunno. I didn’t get to her feet.

The point is, the mixture of a lie doth ever add pleasure! Truth was I’d have loved to have had her naked and sliding across the room on baby oil. Gospel truth, no lie. But the addition of those mundane (yet trendy) clothes made brother want to grab the staff and go all biblical. I say unto ye: Boom shaka laka damn.

So instead of preaching this sermon to the Wife, I get up, and I scribble a few words (writing when horny is better than a Krispy Kreme off a model’s ass), then realize, hey, waitaminute, the internet’s on all day. And the YouTube thingey has every image of Man’s history ever recorded, including one nude scene from what I’m told is an unintentionally comedic take on Alexander the Great. Now, I ain’t no student of ancient cultures, but Colin Farrell as anything? Come on. Although I will say this: if you can take a movie sex scene with Rosario Dawson and turn it into the most cringe-worthy slapstick since Mr. Bojangles “accidentally” pimp slapped Shirley Temple, there’s a huge load of dubious talent in there somewhere.

Kudos, Mr. Farrell. Kudos.

So me and Willie watch it, and we’re laughing and we’re looking at each other like, you believe this shit?, when it dawned on me that the unnamed actress (ignore the previous sex paragraph) is more appealing to me clothed and funny and sexy and sultry and hopefully telepathic – HEAR MY THOUGHTS!— than butt naked on a million dollar set. For as much as I would ride an old woman to get to her, her true appeal, my friends...is her soul.

Yeah, marinate for a minute. Flowers and sitars and everything.

Ride an old woman...to get to the one you love. That’s deep.

The soul thing is deep too.

I didn’t even watch the whole clip, because know what? I respected her too much. That wasn’t her on my ‘puter any more than those were her boobs the size of Volvos on your neighborhood multiplex screen that one weekend when Alexander was out. Imagery is nothing but light fooling us. I’m not black and you’re not white and roses aren’t red. Color is illusion. Light’s not the mixture of a lie, light IS the lie. The truth, my Revolutionaries, is in how we pile up the atoms. Can we get any deeper than that? Yes, but I’m not that smart. Last night was a mixture of dream and reality. I’ll make up a science-sounding word: duons. As in do unto others as they need to be done, with life and hunger and a deep appreciation for their various nibbly bits (which is reality). I was devoted to her all the way down to the duons.

So, all 3 of you reading this, the question that gnaws at your soul which only you can answer, is this: Who would you ride an old lady for?

Ride her hard.

I'm so glad dreaming is still free.

Damaged Goods

Class Action Product Liability Suit Filed Against The Creator Of Man
Suit filed against God
“Shoddy workmanship in every single model” cited

Fucked up citizens and their attorneys have filed suit in Federal Court alleging that God, in His capacity as Supreme Creator, giver of Life Most High, did willfully saturate global markets with products He knew were dangerously flawed .

Stunned citizenry reacted swiftly. “Jesus Christ!” said Jesus (the Christ) of Nazareth, Jerusalem, one of the plaintiffs who initially approached the law firm of Ganos, Opply. “I’m trying to do my job, bring the truth and share the Good News, and God’s creations, Ok, God’s, string me up—-then stab me in the side to see if I’m dead. Who does that? What kind of software accounts for that? I swear, I couldn’t move that boulder fast enough to get out of there!” Plaintiffs seek punitive damages in excess of 800 bazillion dollars with redress to be shared equally among the entire human race.

Sources close to the Creator confirm that it was indeed His signature on the order “Be fruitful and multiply”, a direct consequence of which was the creation of fuckups Nero of Rome, Idi Amin formerly of Uganda, and John Glosternell of Eastpointe, Michigan.

Attorney Phillip Loquell, a noted asshole and lead counsel for the plaintiffs, confirmed for reporters that he, himself, was a prick. “I’m one of the most unpleasant and egomaniacal attorneys pretty much in the Iowa State Bar, graduated top of my class while holding down two jobs, and I wake up most mornings trying to wish my family away.” Loquell visibly swallowed before smoothing his thinning hair, a habit increased in frequency since his fifty-first birthday. “How sick is that, right? My second wife’s only seven years older than my son. Seriously, how the hell does that happen?”

Counsel for the defendant insists that the ways of God cannot be fathomed by Man and that this is all a big misunderstanding.

“Nowhere is it stated or implied that Our Father is obligated to maintain each and every unit He produces, and, if you’ll notice, each unit arrives to factory specs,” said Edric Jerome Prew, founder and senior partner, Spratt, Prew & Fine. “What people do with their units is no one’s fault but their own.”

“We would expect counsel for such an egregious deity to resort to something as duplicitous as invoking Free Will defense,” said Loquell. “Show me one human being on this planet who is not damaged, just one, and we’ll drop this suit.” Added Loquell: “Bunch of fuckups.”

Statements leaked from several depositions paint a damning picture of Our Celestial Shepherd. “All I know is that if God had performed a little due diligence in the design and manufacture of His products maybe, maybe…” said Hilary Bailor during her deposition as expert witness for the plaintiffs, trailing into silence, thoughts of the man waiting for her at home—Mr. Todd Bailor, not a complete ass but you know, not, well… just not.
The earth’s sapient citizenry assert that after billions of years you’d think God would have given up on being mysterious and unknowable and instead show a little more pride in His workmanship. Even Jeremy Elliott, a lineman at Chrysler’s Mack Avenue plant in Detroit, Michigan currently shaking his head in disgust while hoping to God the next round of random drug tests skipped him, knows that if he skimped like that on quality control he’d be fired and divorced before the ink dried on his pink slip. “Sickness and health, richer or poorer my ass,” confirmed Elliott.

All attempts at mediation having failed, counsel for the plaintiffs agree that while this lawsuit is necessary, no outcome will be truly satisfactory. “Nobody’s saying God is bad,” said Loquell. “Look at Carla Gugino, for Christ’s sake! You don’t get that from somebody who doesn’t care, but there has to be accountability. There has to be accountability.”

The Supreme Creator’s staff said Jehovah Most High could not be reached for comment, citing technical difficulties with Heaven’s communications apparatus.

“Typical,” said most of North America. “Probably outsourced everything to damn overseas.”

“’Technical difficulties’ my ass,” agreed Elliott around a mouthful of weed smoke filling the interior of his car directly after the end of his shift. Pausing to wonder whether or not to answer his wife’s call on the damned insistent cell phone, he muttered, “Can’t be reached for comment. How fucking predictable is that?”

As of press time all of humanity had grand ideas on how their expected settlement awards would make them happy and free, although everyone just kind of looked at everyone when asked what specific plans they had.

i WISH i was in dixie...

War On Racism starts today: The Lohan-Diggs Initiative. Find somebody of a different hue you’d love to see naked (or, if you feel ready for universal love, shag till your spinal column snaps), then keep that image in mind as you encounter said hue(s) in real life. Note: those of you who are virulent racists may keep photos in your pockets for review.

Since racism tends to be fueled by self-hatred I’d like to take a moment to tell the Deep South: It’s OK. We know you actually love us. Everybody loves black folks. We remind you of Snickers Bars, what’s not to love? We know you know slavery was not cool. Not cool at all. Short sighted planning on the management’s part, we get that, we’ve all been there. I’d grease up my big, black Mandingo chest and hug every one of ya if I could. Let go the guilt, let go the ancestral shame. Cast aside that reactionary Safety Mechanism O’ Doom and join us.

Take my hand, Deep South. Let me take you to Love Land. Clarence, and I’m a Scorpio…

Let me float this by you: after a while you won’t be able to breed any more pig-eyed, sphincter-tight progeny willing to carry your psychosis forward. Gotta be blunt here, brothers: you’re obsolete. Even Racism 2.O is an obviously detectable virus; hell, even Norton Anti-Virus blocks it, and we know Norton ain’t for shit. Your numbers are dwindling. Your kids are learning Spanglish. Your oldest son’s got a black girlfriend. So’s your oldest daughter, and when she and Vanessa get married they plan to adopt an Asian child (still hot on the market). So I ask, what does it profit you to sell “2012: Don’t Re-Nig” bumper stickers (kudos on the wordplay, by the way), or introduce legislation that you know will disproportionately target the poor and historically disenfranchised without offering viable alternatives?

Nobody, not even Sarah Palin, is stupid because they want to be. Not deep down. But human beings are Cling-Ons, holding to whatever scrap bumps against them when they feel they’re floating in perilous waters. When they feel threatened. But you’re holding onto a false assumption. We’re not after your jobs (yeah we are), your women (yeah we are), or the America you want to take back (Kraft Mac-n-Cheese uses Rap in their jingles; you’ve already lost, son)— these things are not yours to own in the first place. This ain’t a game of marbles where you can just gather yours up and go home. We earn the jobs same as you. “Your” women are not possessions to direct (that’s a big one to get through your heads, so we’ll wait). When you’re a kid and you know you’ve done wrong you do one of two things: Blame somebody else, or punch your little brother. Ever since 1863 a segment of this nation’s been blaming the blacks, the browns, the reds, the yellows, and the effete Northern sympathizers for absolutely nothing. Oh, they’re blaming them…but have no idea for precisely what. Shame, brothers, makes the mind foolish. Keeps you stupid and unpopular. The Lohan-Diggs Initiative will grow you up fast if you let it.

We’re not kids anymore. If someone wants to indoctrinate you in stupidity, shake it off. That’s what growing up means. “When I was a child I behaved as a child. When I became a man I cast off childish things.”

Grow the hell up, my peoples. The Lohan-Diggs Initiative ain’t PG-13.

The Stoopid People

I’m one of the stupid people. Set up: I’m brushing my teeth. There’s a candle lit. The Wife loves candles, but this one’s strong enough to kill insects. So I flash-decide to blow it out. I lean over and do so. Using a mouth full of toothpaste. Damn.

I’m one of the stupid people. My brothers and I – well, we were young lads at the time but still old enough to know the particulars of gasoline— we’re home alone for a spot one afternoon. We notice that water’s gotten all over the top of the gas can Daddy kept in a leaky storage cabinet off the kitchen. Mind you, the can itself is sealed watertight. Dinged and bent metal can. We’ve heard our father cuss about water in his gas tank enough times to know that bad gas is not a joke; apparently one drop of water could kill a station wagon, so we decide to test the gas by pouring a bit into a saucer (in the kitchen sink, mind you— safety first, science second; the opened can was at least a good 12 inches away). Once in the saucer. . .we drop a match on it. Explosions galore. Flame whooshes up to sear the paint off the upper sink cabinet, older brother snatches the can away from the ignition point, making sure to liberally sprinkle us younger ones, next older bro manages to slap the faucet on while we’re all gonna die, the 2 youngest have now flown so fast out of the kitchen that they met their younger selves. In the midst of all this I achieved a higher state of being and remember thinking in capital letters well before internet communication, OH. SHIT.

Fire got put out. Cabinetry was smoky and fucked. Mama and Daddy would be home twenty minutes, tops. We boys were smoky and fucked. No amount of painting, cleaning, airing out the kitchen, and knowing their babies were alive and well would cover the fact we’d potentially burned the kitchen down. Our being fucked was reinforced by my oldest brother (he might have been 16 at the time) waiting till after we’d finished the immediate clean up to say, “Yep, that gas was still good.” Damn.

As one of the stupid people I feel compelled to apologize for all the idiocy you’ve faced today. It was surely a lot. There was the dumbass that waited to put his left turn signal on until the light turned green, effectively trapping you behind him. There was the kid who thought it’d be manly to shatter a glass bottle in front of your house while you weren’t home. Then that woman, the way she called your phone all pissy and indignant about the level of service your company provided. If only she’d dialed the right number. I feel you. I feel responsible. How can I stop your pain?

Watch this. It’ll do.

The Most Astounding Fact from Max Schlickenmeyer on Vimeo.

The Avengers

There is cool, and then there is the Heavenly Host sitting in primo seats waiting for the lights to go down. Some folks don’t realize that all human evolution was designed to bring us to this point: an “Avengers” movie (Marvel Comics, not Ms. Peele), written by someone who can write, directed by someone who can direct, and crewed by people who get it.

Put on some Depends then watch this preview.



People misunderstand superhero comics. It ain’t about testosterone, tights n tits. It’s about possibilities. Fire up a kid’s imagination and you create a small god. Even as a kid I knew grown folks with superpowers beating each other to high hell was goofy. I didn’t read comics for the fights (well, sometimes; Hulk versus Thor was always good for leveling a few mountains, and Wolverine versus Wendigo: classic), I read comics for the What If factor of life. What if there was a being who consumed planetary energy for food? What if you had the Power Cosmic? What if a person could develop a cool armored suit and defend those who needed defending? Who would these people be on the inside, and how could they teach me to be me? Myths, my friends. Spiderman, Hulk, Batman, Valkyrie, Storm, Jean Gray, Moira McTaggert having to hunt her own son—these were the stories that fired the imagination. They created a small god.

Me. Hey there.

You’re able to read this via an astounding web because of small gods. You’re able to keep in touch with hundreds of people around the world while you’re at work because of small gods. You’re able to watch television at a bus stop, make love to your significant other without touching them, and travel at speeds faster than a speeding bullet because of small gods. Evolution rides on technology, be it genetic or mechanical. As kids, we left comic shops with brown bags full of wonder and we asked ourselves, ‘What if this was real?’ I would have pushed my brother in front of a bus just to see Spiderman swing down and save him. I would have died from the utter cool of it.

And the Avengers are the ultimate cool. The Avengers wasn’t the best comic. They couldn’t touch the X-Men for sheer power of story line. Didn’t have Spiderman’s universal appeal. What they had was star power. They were the cool kids all gathered at the cool table being cool as shit but cool about it. Not douche cool. Captain America. Iron Man. The Hulk. Thor. The Vision. The Wasp. Scarlet Witch. Their roster changed all the time, but just seeing Captain America, Iron Man and Thor in the same comic? Hellz yeah. And they all had each other’s backs. In a fight they were a well-oiled machine, playing off one another’s strengths. Watch that preview again, a little more glee pee won’t hurt you. The scene where the Hulk catches Iron Man before shell head plows into a building? That’s the Avengers. When Iron Man rounds another building and tells his team he’s bringing the party to them, while the Midgard Serpent is hot on his heels? You just know that there are some heroes about to do what needs be done no matter what. This movie looks like what my imagination used to conjure up back in the day. This movie just might be the first and last true superhero movie. This movie, my friends, is what the Mayans had circled on their calendar. When you go see it I’m sure there’ll be a few Mayans buying popcorn.

Save a seat for me at the back of the theater. I’ll be the kid grinning ear to ear.

Aluminum Foil Might Be Your Best Friend

'What's on your mind?' Facebook asks. I'll tell ya. Stupid people. What are we gonna do with all the stupid people? Let's not pretend there aren't stupid people. They're the ones asking all the stupid questions. Nobody point a finger here please. People are finding it harder and harder to generate enough mental electricity to fire their brains. How many times have you seen somebody flat out run to catch an elevator...only to ride it up one floor? That's just stupid. Or introduce legislation favoring corporations that get fat off poisoning us. There's a lot of stupid. I blame air fresheners. Let me put my foil hat on a minute: every other TV commercial is for air fresheners. Stuff we bring into our houses...and breathe in. Every. Day. I've been an adult for a long enough time to not recall so much emphasis put on home freshness. Did people become extra nasty and funky in the last 10 years? People think scent isn’t a physical thing, but it is. You’re ingesting stuff, folks. Beware.

I think they’re including stuff in those fresheners to make us stupid. Er (since there’s already TV and Nascar). All the scented candles and the sprays and the plug ins. Mark you me, there’s heinous fuckery most foul afoot (if you liked that turn of phrase, it’s a shameless plug for Christopher Moore’s book “Fool”—available in paperback!). Like the pharmaceutical industry, these mega-corps are not spending all that money on advertising for the public good. They’re right now using phase harmonics to cut through my shields but brother’s using heavy duty restaurant aluminum foil. Rotating frequencies all up on your asses, bitchaz! So ask yourself, did it stink that badly in my house before I plugged 8 different scents in 8 different rooms…or are those heinous bastards going to come out in 5 years with “Natural Scents” to counteract all the nose herpes their years of selling us their fake crap brought about?

You say they can’t and wouldn’t do that? The gubmint wouldn’t let them get away with pushing harmful crap down our throats. Ok, you Pall Mall smoking mofo. Put down that brewski and pay close attention. One word. Sugar. I ain’t even gonna go high fructose. Straight up cane. If I told you there was an all natural substance that would decay your teeth, elevate endorphin levels to manic levels, exacerbate depression, make you fat, and attract bees, would you line up and say, “Oh, boy, sign me up!”

Course not. Don’t be stupid.

There’s a lot of talk now about this Monsanto Corp, which already sounds like something James Bond should be taking down, but on top of that they’re grabbing people’s food supplies worldwide by the balls. Bioengineered super sweet fruits and vegetables. I don’t want my orange tasting like Mountain Dew. I don’t want to use my red bell pepper as a night light. I want my food to be food, and I want my deep breaths to contain air.

Never you mind the crinkling of my foil hat. The world blows smoke up your butts, people. Puff puff.

Pass.

The Thing About Television

The thing about television is that nobody after a certain age should actually want to watch it. I mean, it’s all written to be as non-taxing to the 14 year old mind as it can be. Should any grown person ever give a damn about the new fall season? Now maybe, just because there are natural lulls and voids in yours and my life, having 2 or 3 shows to watch on a regular weekly basis is all right, but how many cop shows, lawyer shows, medical shows, wacky attractive white folks comedy shows, pseudo talent/reality/documentary shows, fat-people-are-people-too shows, watch-paint-dry-as-I-rent-my-house shows, and idiotic news does the human brain need? And they’re all the same bloody show!

“Tooth & Mouth: When it comes to crime, a crack team of dental technicians find that truth…is often in the eye of the molar. Presented with limited commercial interruption by Colgate Chewing Floss; tonight on Fox.”

Here’s how TV knows it’s got you ungently by the balls and you don’t even care: CSI; CSI: Miami, CSI: New York; CSI: L.A. (probably coming); NCIS; NCIS: L.A. (really); Law & Order; Law & Order: SVU; Law & Order Frickin’ Jesus—- Sweet greasy damn, they’re not even pretending to hide it anymore! It’s all Mountain Dew, folks, just a different colored dye! (By the way, Mountain Dew is now MTN Dew; even our beverages are illiterate.)

But we watch anyway. We could, let’s say, play cards, or study a new language, or learn an instrument; we might take up painting, mold clay, scrapbook, reminisce. Cooking can be a joy to perform when approached as a possibility rather than an obligation. Conversation-—remember that?-—conversation is a beautiful thing once the mind is engaged. Instead, we watch TV. We get home from work, we’ve got 5 or 6 hours to kill before bed, we devote at least 3 of those to TV. On average. I’m not saying TV doesn’t have its place. Like terrible romance novels and Tom Cruise movies, the brain needs its candy. But even candy has its levels of benefits. Candy doesn’t have to decay the brain and sludge the cognitive processes.

TV, like bad books, often intentionally kills our ability to think. Parasitic self-preservation.

TV does not care about your marriage, your kids, the goals you coulda, woulda, shoulda reached, or whether anybody in your family ever amounts to anything. If corporations have the same rights as individuals (get this, they do. Yeah, I know) then TV is the Pope. TV tells you when to wake up, when to take a leak, when to pay attention to your spouse, when to eat, when to go out, when to stay in, when to finally get things done…because, for a lot of us, our time is scheduled around something stupid on TV. I remember when TV was at least a gracious guest. Sometimes it tried to be art. Rod Serling was a god.

Do we all know that advertisers have made television the ubiquitous necessary evil? Societally, it’s a necessary evil because there are some nights a man needs his Cinemax after those long spells of not getting any, but other than that, along with a couple cooking shows, one comedy, and a righteous documentary on PBS about Blues players or other bit of coolness, what does TV actually offer to justify stealing life away from us middle-aged fucks who are already closer to death than we realize?

Addiction: When someone’s addicted what’s the first thing out of their mouth after some truth is put in front of their faces? “I don’t have to (fill in addiction blank); I just do it when I feel like it; I can stop anytime I want.”

Shut the pie hole. You do have to; you do it all the time; you’ll stop when you’ve been abandoned by everybody who cared about you. Maybe. Or you’ll spiral into the addiction so hard you’ll be scheduling your life according to the convenient blocks in TV Guide.

And that, my friends, would be a crying shame.

How To Be A Tween-Aged Girl?

Dear Diary: Ok, so, like, this entry is completely and totally about WTF, right? So, like, there’s this singer, right, named Chris Brown who totally apes Michael Jackson if MJ didn’t have any talent, and he is, like, so full of himself, and I’m like, Why, really, but he was with this other girl singer (who sang about umbrellas! Hello, mini wtf) who he decided to punch around a bit, then he was like, “No I didn’t,” then he was like, “Screw everybody,” then he was like, “I’m SO sorry,” then he was like, “Buy my new album,” so, like, at the Grammys (why name an award after grandmothers, really!) somebody thought it’d be a good idea to have him perform and have her perform, but not together ‘cause lesbians would be all “Oh hell no,” but still though that’s kind of nasty, especially after Whitney Houston died and she’d been with that complete fuck of a husband, and you’d think the Grammy bosses would have been able to connect the eww dots and back off or something, right, but no, so they do it and Chris Brown is all “Yeah, look at me, look at me” and Rihanna is all hump-the-floor since she can’t sing for shit, so she’s all “Humping the floor I am empowered,” and then a bunch of girls start tweeting that Chris Brown could beat them up anytime, but it’s, like, a double intender ‘cause “beat it up” means have sex too, like, you know, “I’ma hit that,” except stupider and from guys pretending they know how to do it, and the girls are all ha ha, we don’t care, sarcasm and shit, but it’s not, so the media goes all, “But what about the children?” and girls are still like woot woot and guys who don’t know how to do it are like, hell yeah Chris Brown, you are our god, but I’d probably get put in jail or have to go on Dr. Phil if I ever kneed a guy in the balls for saying he was going to beat me with his double intender, right, as if that’s fair, right, so, like, WTF?

But finally I just turned off the TV and read. I did NOT know that Bella got pregnant since the movies are such ass and I refuse to see them. I mean, he’s a vampire; shouldn’t his thing be full of dust? But Bella’s all like “I love you, but I love you” and E & J are like, “Shit, make a damn decision” and she’s all “I don’t need either of you. Yes I do,” and part of me was saying, “Screw this, write in the diary”... so I thought long and hard about, like, what I’m expected as a woman to think and feel, right, like in 5 years when I’m in a deep relationship letting a man know his boundaries and making sure he’s not a prick, and all these Oprah level emotions just jumped me and I’m all WTF, this is weird, so I figured if I wrote it down it’d make sense somehow. But it doesn’t.

Plus Chris Brown is stiff when he dances. I mean, what a douche. No way in hell my deep relationship man is gonna be a douche. I mean, I’ve got SOME standards. So thanks for being my diary. Good night.

What Keeps Me Going

Gave another kid a homemade sketch pad yesterday. He's always getting in trouble and I hardly ever see him smile. I asked him what he liked to draw and he said cars, so I made him a pad with examples of cars, motorcycles, space shuttles, starships, superheroes, and ninjas, because what 9 year old boy doesn't like those? His little face lit up. He's got a beautiful smile, exactly as a kid should. That's another two seconds out of hell for me, but reprieve in the afterlife isn't motivation.

I'm here for the here and now.

By Force Of Will Alone

By force of will alone I keep the world from ending until I have seen Who Fears Death, The Hobbit, The Avengers, and The Herculoids (Herculoids not in production but one day for sure, and please god, not in some hipster ironic way) at a movie theater. By force of will alone I keep the world from ending until I've lived to see Earth experience First Contact of the 3rd Kind: a ship landing in Central Park crewed by aliens who are not metaphors for our own stupidities. By force of will alone I keep the world from ending until I am surprised in the mail with autographed photos of Rosario Dawson and Pam Grier, separate photos or together on one, although both on one would result in an extended comatose orgasmic state for me, which I would hope medical science wouldn't rush to cure. Following that, apocalypse y'all. Break out the Mad Max soundtrack and stay away from my property. By force of will alone I keep the world from ending until my novel The Brothers Jetstream: Afropuffs Are the Antennae of the Universe is completed, published to great acclaim, turned into a movie starring Taye Diggs and Idris Elba with a script co-written by Harlan Ellison and Steven Barnes. By force of will alone I keep the world from ending until I see the first woman I ever fell in love with again, just to say hi. By force of will alone I keep the world from ending until they start genetically modifying people to be able to breath underwater. A pair of Speedos are kept handy for just such an eventuality. And a trident. And my declaration of war against the surface dwellers. By force of will alone I keep the world from ending until Jesus comes back and reveals he was gay two thousand years ago and he's just as fabulous now. The environmental clean up costs would be staggering what with all the tiny heads exploding, but it'd be totally worth it. Plus the ascendancy lanes would be a lot less congested. By force of will alone I keep the world from ending until a certain someone has had a full and happy life with her bird and her knight. She knows who she is. By force of will alone I keep the world from ending until a corps of Victoria's Secret models are sent to deeply Muslim lands to foment gender revolution. "You can take away my lift-and-separate... but you can't take away... my freedom!" By force of will alone I keep the world from ending until the people of Wal-Mart are a pestilence no more.

Or until the peach cobbler finishes baking in my oven.

Imperius Rex.

Telly's On In the Dentist's Office

Random thoughts as the television drills the brains out of me.

Lifetime Network. Seems to me, on the womanly front as I wait about as the Wife gets her teefes drilled, it's akin to me--strapping Mandingo Buck that I am--watching a "Watch Kunta Get Beat" Network every day. Guess somebody's gotta watch those heavily-edited sex scenes featuring bad eighties electric guitar in the background. I've been subjected to it a few minutes. Check off: woman in danger; woman killed; woman in threatening situation; badly edited and highly cliched sex/guitar scene; smoldering heroic type of manly dude; blonde with the good hair that you know will survive anything; blonde whose hair isn't as suitably coiffed -- set to die. Ladies, your name is not Vicky Victim. Stop watching massa coil that lash.

The previous time waiting for the Wife in a waiting room they, they made me watch Wendy Williams. I still hurt inside.

Why can't waiting rooms have individual isolation chambers? I'd much rather achieve an altered state of reality where I revert to prehistoric man and eat deer at the zoo than watch Wendy Williams.

I'd rather shave my nads, spackle them entirely with peanut butter, and fall asleep on a park bench than watch Wendy Williams.

You'd think there'd be a lot of male frontal nudity (even blurry dicks count) on the Lifetime Network, but there's not. Lots of tight blouses and female cleavage though. Curious.

I'll bet Wendy Williams starred in a Lifetime Network movie. That explains the current state of the world.

This is Wendy Williams, likely a good mother and decent human being, but god!



Now you hurt too.

I'm so sorry.

At least the rare token blacks on the Lifetime Network movies are too incidental to die. The dream is alive, Dr. King!

Why A Man Should Never Plausibly Imagine Himself As The Hot Chick In A Porno Shower Scene: The Weight Loss Blog, Supplemental

So I'm soaping up in the shower and start to slide into that scene in every soft porn movie where the fabulously endowed woman finds the combination of gel, breasts, and a handheld nozzle powerfully hornanistic -- but it's just me in the real shower. Me. By myself. With chest hair and everything. Atop firm, supple breasts.

Look away, lads. Look the hell away.

Methinks more vegetables and less desserts are in order.