Poking Tigers

Poking a tiger is not like playing 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey.' If you plan to poke a tiger you'd best know precisely where its tickle spots are, otherwise shit will be the exact opposite of funny. The Onion thought it was being arch and funny over the weekend when it called a 9 year old actress a cunt. It wasn't funny. The actress was black. It wouldn't have been funny, cutting, or satirically relevant if the actress had been white, olive, or a glowing avatar. Some things you just don't do. You don't call a 9 year old a cunt and expect that to not get back to her. Then there was the fashion magazine, Numero, that featured a photo spread of a 16 year old white girl bronzed to look brown, captioned "African Queen." It's a fashion magazine. The only thing worthwhile to come out of fashion is the movie 'Zoolander.' Everybody knows fashion is fucking stupid. "No, he/she's not just a model, he's a supermodel." Expectations are automatically lowered in that arena. But we're in 2013 now. This is the future. Nobody gets to sing the theme song from "Kimba, the White Lion" anymore. Tarzan doesn't get to beat up an entire village of black folks. The African continent is not the supporting character/black friend of the cool white world. In case anyone is still unclear, that shit was foul back in the day, that shit is foul today, that shit will get your ass kicked. Race is a huge tiger. Don't pretend otherwise. Instead of celebrating a little 9 year old girl who'd done a good job at a difficult task, the decision was made to poke a tiger. That's as baffling as denigrating an Olympian because of her hair. Which happened. Instead of an editorial board nixing the idea of painting a child black in the pages of their pedo-fetishistic magazine, heads nodded in agreement and said, "Yes, this is a good thing." Will there be outrage? I actually hope not. Outrage is just publicity misspelled these days. Instead, I hope there's a gigantic, mile high wall of TIRED slamming their way. Bone-tired, gut-tired, Son of a bitch, what the hell-tired TIRED of this shit. Tired and bored with it. Move the hell on, get the hell out of the way, be thoroughly ignored to the point of eradication. Then there was everything that didn't get reported on the news or shared on Facebook. Sexisms, racisms, isms, schisms--petty fucks trying their best to get under the skin and rattle the bones just to hear what a full life sounds like in comparison to their empty homes. You can only hurt somebody who's more compassionate than you. Many, many examples of people poking tigers. I wish they'd realize how tiring it is to see that finger coming all the time. I sent a note to Numero magazine. It said this, clearly referencing their 'African Queen' spread: "We are tired of you. We are tired of the attitudes that foster such tunnel vision. Signed, Clarence Young, American of African descent, 47 years on this earth." That's it. We're tired of giving you the satisfaction of outrage. Tired of tolerating yet another "Ha ha, I'm not racist" moment from you. Tired of talents marginalized, heritages gentrified like so much cacao into Cocoa Krispies, tired of the stupid games you play in order to make money. We're tired of your laziness, your insipid thought patterns, and especially the ways you pander to your idiotic base. I'm not going to engage you in a dialogue, a diatribe, nor reverse demonization. I'm going to hope that you get a million billion emails and letters saying simply "We are tired of you," and that those million billion emailers and writers turn their backs on you. Forever. We know your pressure points. While you've been indiscriminately poking tigers, we've studied your anatomy. We know what gets you. We know what sticks in your craw. FTDS stands for 'fuck the dumb shit' my friends. It was something me and my friends in high school bandied about. I'm grown. They're grown. We don't plan to wait on you. FTDS. Good bye.

Politics Sucks Monkey Balls But Let’s Indulge A Second (or: Being 47% A-Hole should disqualify one from human contact, & Ronald Reagan was not a god)

Let’s see if I can follow the numbers. 1. When the powers finally convinced the poor that getting pissed on in the face, with patience, would turn into lemonade, things slid with the quickness. Reagan and crew didn’t invent the ethos of trickle-down economics, but they perfected the marketing of it. Trickle-down economics is a terrible psychology to live under. 2. Meanwhile the 1980s world felt like it was an itch away from nuclear annihilation so there was this huge, mass ‘Fuck It’ when it came to personal responsibility and caring about one’s future. 3. Bush One was elected only because of his link with Reagan. 4. Bush Two – same by extension, but more out of a sense of desperation on Republicans’ part than anything else. Hence all the voting shenanigans, outright fraud, and Florida. Beautiful Florida. 5. With no publicly viable links left to Reagan, GOP turned into McCain/Palin. Then Romney/Ryan (the same, only strangely stickier in the way that a noxious booger is), a team that came out of the most ludicrous batch of contenders for the highest office in this land that this country has ever seen. One would think we’ve been in the grips of a massively funded, national performance art piece, one which we’re not sure when it’s ended and we’re too embarrassed to leave our seats. That said, let’s move on to the polemic. Prosperity always comes at the expense of others. It’s been America’s heartbeat since day one. Worship the hoarders known as the wealthy, demonize all else; invest obscene resources into commercialization with which to buy expensive husbands, wives, cars and lives, and create intricate systems of industry-- like prisons or the cattle-car public school system-- designed to propagate social woes. Keep people focused on winning the lottery, becoming American idols, becoming instant chefs, eating diets of fool’s gold in the hope of ingesting enough iron to become lightning rods for that one good strike. Do that, and wealth can put the country (the world) on cruise control. I guess if you’re gonna “Thelma & Louise” you might as well do it in a luxury car, huh? “On Star? Hi, yes, I see a cliff up ahead and I have no plans on stopping so I just wanted to see if there was anything you could do before I kiss my ass goodbye. No? Ok, thanks.” Monkey balls.

Wagging The Dog

Why is verbiage about a man's willy always in inflated form? You'd think we're talking about High Science. "Erectile Dysfunction." "Premature Ejaculation." "Men with erections lasting more than four hours should seek medical help." As well as an attorney for the very much deserved harassment suit you'll receive at work. Even the balls get to sound like Greek heroes: "Testicles, the hidden Argonaut." So much foofery, when willies are the goofiest, most Forrest Gumpish things on the planet. Even Idris Elba's willy is goofy. I'm sorry, ladies. Truth hits everybody. Whereas technical lingo for lady bits always sounds like something Jabba the Hutt's dentist might mention about Jabba's general oral health. Woke up with this on my mind, y'all. It's on my mind. There's a reason the "running in slo mo on a beach" scene is never of a man with "a lot on his mind," yes? This isn't to say there aren't some majestic ones out there, otherwise we would never have come up with the names "Sweet Dick Willy," "Goldenrod," or "Thy Rod and Thy Hammer." This isn't to say they can't be cute and cuddly. I'm sure if we men could get the message out it would be "Hold one every day," but, lo, we are prevented from expressing our true feelings. But such a tiny minority hardly grants every dong wearing a Gomer Pyle smile ambassador status. No more pomp and circumstance, Erectile Dysfunction commercials. As my man Willy Shakespeare said (y'all didn't realize that's the first porn name ever, did you?): "What a piece of work is a rupert, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals—and yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust..." {pre-edited version. Historical note: "Rupert" wasn't seen as aristocratic enough so it became "Richard" and then shortened to the colloquial "Nixon."} What is this quintessence of dust, this schlong of such pedigree that Cialis commercials must interrupt my every waking moment? Willy Shakespeare (yes he will!) knew what was up. The rupert might have its recommendations, but nothing about it is like attaining Everest.

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.