Hopped Up On Chocolate Covered Peanuts, Ma!

There are so many people in this world who are better than me. Me? I’m going straight to hell, otherwise this whole heaven/hell thing is a dubious affair. I can just see me in heaven blaspheming away and wondering what’s a brother gotta do to get a copy of Emmanuelle in Space on VHS. Twice in my life I’ve been burned by holy water. I imagine that says something. I mean, my thoughts are absolutely vile sometimes. If I was psychic I’d be Firestarter, Carrie, Cujo (granted, he was a big, rabid dog, but if he’d been psychic he’d have been a big, rabid, psychic dog), a pissed-off Professor X and maybe even a little pissed-off Second Coming Jesus on the side. If my thoughts create bubble universes I’ve got a trail of death and destruction a mile wide and six miles deep in my wake. And a bunch of naked women. Sacrifice your pizza to me; I am come the Beast. See, I did an online personality test recently. I’m an INTJ, which is code for introverted think tank of a sexual dynamo. I added that last bit. Actually it means Mastermind, so you can see why I get to add that last bit. Astrologically I’m a Scorpio, which means I’m practically a dark, vampiric, mysterious god of sex. (D’you see the trend here? Women are supposed to spontaneously give birth after hugging me. Says so in all the pertinent literature.) Religiously I’m basically a neo-pagan heathen, which means I worship goddesses and nature nymphs so I can see naked women dancing around fires; my heathen-ness stops short of human sacrifice unless we’re counting the scores of dumb people I’ve mentally consigned to the squish of Rabinandrath Dragoon’s hoary hoof. I’m doomed also because when it comes to family less is always so much more, and when it comes to marriage there are times I wish I’d kept the receipt. It’s all about temptation, isn’t it, that sliding door to heaven or hell? I’ll bet temptation makes God jealous. God enters the room from one doorway and walks toward me. He/She/It’s wearing its best universe, it’s smelling good—then Rosario Dawson enters the room from another doorway. She too walks toward me. Here’s paint and a brush; finish the picture. But here’s the kicker: despite the raging cauldron of barely restrained meat muppetry that is my boon and curse… I am a rather mild dude. I don’t seek titles, don’t feel the need to impose outside of telling someone “Kneel before Zod,” and could quite easily live an entire week without saying a word. Yet there are many driven the opposite way. The ones always at war with the clerks at Walmart. I have never warred with a clerk at Walmart. This begs the question: If I’m going straight to hell, what’s the level below?

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.