Friday, January 18, 2013
Monday, February 27, 2012
"Yo, let's play a game," he said. "We'll hit the balloon around to each other and whoever lets it hit the floor gots to take a shot!" He said. I was terrified: Not of losing but of drinking from a bottle of backwash-Patron which was now about 1/3 full. Somebody else pulled out a bottle of unopened vodka, which no-one else seemed to be interested in. This motivated Hi-Tek say, "yo, I don't drink no vodka unless it's mixed with sump'm." I then happily volunteered to play, if I could take shots of vodka instead of Patron. "I just don't like tequila," I explained lamely in my most non-narc voice," it gives me hangovers like fuck the next day."
I must admit, I had no idea how much fun "Balloon Patron" would turn out to be. The guys, mostly attempted a series of "no look smashes" trying to psyche each other out, whereas the girls simply did their best to keep it in play, defensively, there were a few quasi-diving digs, and a few slowballs with the attempt to graze it lightly it off another competitory's foot, to get it to fall, harmlessly to the floor.
Truth must admit, he was the first to be subjected with a drink, as a hot-shot from Mr. Patron caused me to try to get fancy and hit a spinner just out of Hi-Tek's reach, with my left hand. the show went well-wide, and I was the last to touch the balloon. I tried to reason that it was his responsibility to reach out for it, but to no avail. Hi-Tek then said "shit, give me that Paton, I WANT to take a shot anyway."
The game continued, drinking and smashing, as what sounded like "Rick Ross' greatest hits" reverberated off every wall in the room, in the background. We had two interruptions, Blanche's daughter came running in at one point laughing hysterically trying to avoid being mugged in the face with a black, Costco cupcake. This lead all of the women to engage in a five-minute cupcake-mugging orgy which stopped the game just as I was beginning to perfect my techniques. Giggle then sat back down on the couch and said something incomprehensible, which she explained by adding, "oh, never mind, I think I'm just horny." The second interruption occurred when, Whatsername's boyfriend, responded to a good serve from Maria, by intentionally popping the balloon with his cigarette. In the third period, the game evolved to two balloons, then three, and we finally had six in the air at one time. As Mr. Patron said "man this shit too confusin' with too many balloons," and we went back to two.
I left not long after, but I think my Drinks with Proles helped me to realize that Mr. Murray is right, and wrong at the same time. I truly had fun playing Balloon Patron, and the felt like nice people. If bored I could hang out with those folks again, but probably wouldn't go out of my way, and even then probably not long enough to where they would stop wondering if I were a narc. I feel that he has something in saying that there is a difference between the different classes of Americans, and these misunderstandings are going to drive a permanent wedge between Americans, if they have not done so already.
I don't think Proles, in large part, have any great interest in doing Patrician stuff either, at one point in the night, I asked Mundo, in the midst of our all-star game conversation if he thought that Jeremy Lin's play was an aberration, only I did not use that term. I got the feeling he did not know who Jeremy Lin was, or care.
Blanche offered to walk me outside and gave me a perfunctory hug-n-kiss with genuine warmth in her eyes and said "You're going to call me right?" I said "Sure", meaning "Honey, probably not," as I dis-embraced to get into my car. Blanche wasn't an unattractive woman, but at this point if I was going to have sex with a prole she'd have to be really, really sexy, sexier than a woman that I was going to sleep with that I had something in common with, and she wasn't all that.
I guess, even in purely physical affairs, class distinction matters.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
This got me to brainstorming today's exemplary post; the title of which I shall call, "Truth's Immigration Policy."
Let's face it folks, we've become lazy and soft. Your great-grand-daddy might have ridden across the frozen Minnesota tundra in a covered wagon, and tamed a 40 acre plot of land without metal tools, but you take a week off from work when you stub your toe on the curb. You are fat, whiny, you watch TV four hours a day, and you have not done real work since daddy gave you 50 cents to mow the lawn in middle school.
One of my best friends is an organic farmer. She farms 3 acres and sells a variety of vegetables and flowers at farmer's markets and local restaurants. Her employees are a motley crew of Mexican and Central American immigrants and her two sons, with an odd Navajo Indian thrown in. Her farm is 15 minutes from the best university in New Mexico, and she occasionally gets the odd 19 year old hobbyist to work at the farm; that is an 18-20 year old white kid from the New Mexico Tech who wants to "get closer to the land" and "work with his hands." I once asked her how long the hobbyists last and she replied, "usually until about lunch."
The upshot is, farm work is tough, physical, painful work, and American citizens, cutting across racial, sexual and class lines, simply don't want to do it, nor do they want to do other servile jobs that allow our oligarchs to get rich, and handsomely remand the rest of us to comfortable servitude. "You have to understand, 'Truth'", she once told me with her passion rising to an apex, "a lot of our kids have never even had callouses on their hands before!"
Let's face it, Lovers of Truth, like my friend, we need immigrants in this country, both the "ready to re-make the world" type who want to come over and establish their bright, shiny American Dream, and the type who just want to send a few bucks back to Tegucigalpa, and have a few beers on Friday night. the Not So Harmless Bureaucrats from the state of Alabama found this out in no uncertain terms. In addition to this, Americans, in their new found softness, tend to leave cold, snowy areas for warm temperate ones. When the workers do this, the companies they work for are not long to follow (unless of course, they've already moved to a warm, temperate area such as Juarez or Beijing). So this leaves rural Kansas, urban Detroit, and in-between Ohio to rust and die. All the while, we have 48,000,000 people in Los Angeles hanging out in a Home Depot parking lot, offering to change your lightbulb for four dollars.
So here's my plan, and keep in mind it's still a work in progress:
The President, in his honorable eminence, gets together with congress to create an edict. All persons of foreign birth and non-American citizenship must make his way to put his name on a roster at one of a few hastily arranged "roster stations" in metropolitan areas in all 50 states. Everyone has 2 years to come and and receive a number identifying himself. After two years, anyone who has not register is deported, additionally, anyone who has wanted for a violent crime or having otherwise made a nuisance of himself, also deported.
Once we've identified the compliant immigrants, areas that are short on workers, elementary school students, etc. "bid" upon them; that is, they ask the government how many they need, and they receive them, sight unseen by number only. You may get Mexicans men, Jamaican women, or Bulgarian transsexuals, you do not know until they show up. As these places are dying they receive housing in the empty and unused hosing being foreclosed upon, and they set up their lives. They live in the community for a period of 10 years, and and if they've done well, worked hard, adjusted properly and not been incarcerated, they are given citizenship, and are then free to move wherever they would like.
Granted it's a little simplistic at this point, but he U.S. immigration problem, foreclosed home problem and dying industrial town problem are now solved, and you see, I never even had to pick up a hoe.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
1) People made a great issue about Wes Welker not catching a wide open pass. It wasn't a great throw, and I think one thing than can be gleaned from the play is that the fact that he dropped the ball, and the fact the Brady didn't put it on target stem from the same issue...the guy is 5'8. This leads us to...
2) Danny Woodhead looks good when he plays, so i've read claims of "racism" in his not playing the whole game; guess what, he's 5'8 (if that) also. This leads us to...
3) Quarterbacks would rather throw the ball to long-armed 6'2 guys, than 5'8 guys, not to mentions have one as the last line of defense between he and a rampaging Terrell Suggs or Jared Allen. Don Wassal, get over it.
4) Eli Manning is really, really good, better than his brother, and I never thought I'd say that.
5) Bill Belechick is he best coach in football. He has taken a team with a sloe-footed QB, the aforementioned munchkins, two slow, washed-up wide receivers, a middle linebacker running five-flat 40s, and a guy with 70 lbs. of gut as his best player on defense to the superbowl; their 5th in a decade.
OK, now for the important stuff: I'll tell y'all a little something about "Truth", he loves his nightlife and has for 30 years now. On Friday night whether I am in Brooklyn or Muskogee, Okla., you can probably get even money odds on catching me in a bar, or club, or someplace where an alcoholic libation will be served. One thing that all of these untold nights on bar stools has taught me (one of many), is that there's a shark-jump period in a bar that tends to happen right about an hour before closing time.
It is at this point in time that the women go from horny and adventurous, to bored, the guys start getting drunk and growing beer muscles, the DJ starts playing old shit you don't want to hear, and/or the band gets too sloshed to perform a passable "Stairway to Heaven." In short, after an hour before closing time, you're not getting laid (I might, you won't), and either of us is more likely to get into a fight, or get a DWI, so you should have left earlier.
Well, RoadSoda denizens, I hate to sound morose, but I think the United States clock now reads 1:01 a.m.
If there is one quintessential event that says "America", it would have to be the Superbowl. To give you a hint, the text editor will not even allow me to write the word without a capital letter without prompting me to correct it with a finger-waving dotty red line. The Superbowl always seemed to say to the rest of the world, in my opinion; "look at all we have, and you suckers are still riding camels and wearing lederhosen!" The literally and metaphorically "bigger than life" athletes, the excess, the pyrotechnics, the million dollar commercials, the feminine-quality-enhanced cheerleaders, the 100,000 spectators, the two weeks of relentless hype; it almost used to make "Truth" want to tell "freedom-fry" jokes on a few occasions, but not this year.
I don't know what it was, but I just didn't feel the "oomph" this year, before, during of after the festivities. I thought that maybe it was just "Truth's" unworthy opinion, so I asked a few others, "does it seem like we're a week...4 days... 2 days, an hour away from the Superbowl?" The unofficial pollees all seemed to agree with me that no, it did not, and that I was not alone. It sort of felt like the season was over following the two excellent conference championship games. I guess sort of ignored it until watching a few minutes of the pantomimed, embarrassing spectacle which occurred a week prior to the game, otherwise know as "The Pro Bowl" (or the who-gives-a-shit-I'm-here-for-a-vacation-and-not-to-get-hurt-and-fuck-up-my-next-contract Bowl),
and the feeling ramped up all week long through the cliched late night segments, the news reports which seemed just a little shorter and less urgent than I remembered, and press clips with embarrassing questions, but the players provided corporate answers. Then the game itself arrived.
The first half was low scoring, yet somehow the defense didn't seem particularly good, and everyone just seemed a little off. Then we were treated to the normal over-produced halftime show, which I will return to later, and to the second half of a tight, well-played game, which somehow still seemed anti-climactic.
I know that you're thinking by now, "so where's the brilliant allegory between my nation, and football", and I think there were two things, that only tangenitally concerned the game itself, the caused me to liken the LXVI to closing time at a bar: The first was the pregame trophy and MVP presentation in which the players seemed to react sort of like multimillionaire banker finding a $5 bill on the street; Eli Manning and the Giants seemed almost as though it was just another practice, the stadium emptied out early, and even the confetti did not appear as thick as it has in the past. The losers didn't even bother to speak to the press until the postgame news conference, they probably needed rehersal time to pretend they cared.
The second, was the halftime show itself.
The "closing-time" feeling dogged me for almost two weeks, but Madonna's halftime performance struck me between the eyes like a 2 by 4. It was, in essence a 53 year old woman, who looks younger on the outside, and will do anything to retain her appearance, dancing slowly and stiffly in comparison to a bunch of backups who are 30 years younger. They gladly accept the check from the old woman now, for the opportunity, but would stab her in the kidney in a second, to be where she is. Sure, Madonna looked great "for her age" and so does our homeland, but like the Pakistani-British rapper she contracted to perform with her, there are lots of other bit players all to happy to throw up the finger.
Madonna did a "capable" job of performing a group of 20 year-old hits everyone knew, but I didn't recognize her new stuff, and wasn't particularly impressed by...what she is doing lately, or what she will be doing in the future. In short, the halftime show, the Superbowl itself, and We, seemed to highlight entities that are over the hill, and will not ever regain their glory, like jazz, film noir, and the Ottoman Empire.
Maybe I'm reading to much into a silly football game, but life seems to work well in allegory if you keep your eyes open. Just think; 2,000 years ago in Rome there was a family of four looking to buy a new chariot going over the options, and a couple of competing vineyards trying to explain to the locals why their drinking their brand would make you sexier and more sought-after then that of the other guys. And the 40,000 Coliseum spectators at the Christians-vs-lions matches were eating it up.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Without the internet, I would not have been the last man to know that multimillionaire knee-grows are back in slavery again.
What, you hadn't heard?
Bryant Gumbel, on his sometimes-pretty-good SportsNews show, Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel broke the news to me, and, hopefully a few other ignoramuses
In case you are later in getting the news then I am, and are reading this blog in 2014, I will set the scenario:
The National Basketball Association has mostly black players.
Said "NBA" is on strike.
The commissioner of said NBA is a white man named David Stern (who has his paycheck signed by a coalition of the mostly white owners) and Gumbel does not like him.
Gumbel referred to Stern as " the NBA's infamously egocentric commissioner." This seems to be a statement that would be validated by a fair number of people. He then went to on to say; "His efforts were typical of a commissioner who has always seemed eager to be viewed as some kind of modern plantation overseer, treating NBA men as if they were his boys."
So, the commissioner is a plantation owner and the players, by proxy, I guess, are his slaves. This disregarding the verifiable fact that a few of the slaves actually make more money than the man with the whip!
From what I can recall of my increasingly faulty memory, this is about the 4th time we have been returned to slavery this year. Multimillionaires striking seem to bethe first ones gaining access to the ship, as Pittsburgh Steelers running back Rashard Mendenhall declared himself a slave during the NFL strike this summer.
Now 'Truth' is not one to pass judgement on another, so let me elucidate my personal feelings on 'modern-day slavery': If it entails a multimillion dollar paycheck for something I used to do for free, beautiful groupies, luxury vehicles, and and fans, whom, despite knowing how much money I make line up to by me drinks; I say "Where the Hell is the WhiteBoi with the Damn Shackles, and Why is He Taking so Long?!"
Bryant Gumbel has made these sort of statements before, and he just strikes me as yet another example of the 60 plus year-old blackman who wouldn't be doing anyone outside of his immediate family a disservice if he would just hurry up and shake St. Peter's hand already. My Afro-American friends seem to universally pan me for my views, the general consensus goes something like this:
"But 'Truth', you need to lighten up on that, Bruva, you don't know where he came from!" 'Yes, buddies, on some level, I do: I am a light-skinned (although not nearly as light as Bryant) A-Am who was raised in a middle class family in a metropolitan area also.'
Now I don't know exactly from where Mr. Gumbel is coming; I was not hired to host the nightly sportscast in America's #2 media market for beaucoup dollars a month after my 22nd birthday -- I did not ridicule my younger brother for being 'too dark', and I did not leave my black wife for Becky Van Gordenheimer from Iowa, but otherwise, our backgrounds aren't that different.
For years, Bryant Gumbel was the easy, black commedian proxy for "light-skinned sellout", and there is little doubt in my mind that Bryant was wounded deeply by this. He wants to retain a little "verifiable blackness" with "his people" and signify to them that a Black Park Avenue Millionaire who spends most of his time with at the charitable soirees of his White Park Avenue Millionaires buddies is still a real Nigga, Yo!
Truth is not so dense that he does not understand that years of somewhat nasty black-community ridicule can undermine a man's sanity, but on some level, is there anything more comical than the stereotypical Malcolm Duke character that so many black men, young and old, rich and poor have allowed themselves to become? that is, they talk like Malcolm X, and fuck like David Duke.
No, Bry, I do not consider Mr. Stern an overseer of any sort, and I certainly don't consider anyone who wears an official "NBA" patch on their uniform a slave. I will defend the 1st amendment with my dying breath, but in fairness, if ESPN found fault enough with Hank III to terminate a business relationship over the immortal sin of comparing someone to Hitler, I would not protest much over Bryant's termination from HBO. But hey Bryant, on while you are cleaning our your desk, please don't trash the commissioner's business card, make your last surreptitious act scanning it on the HBO equipment and send it to my box. Tell Dave I have my sack and garden gloves ready.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
"'Truth', he says; I think I've discovered the key to a happy marriage."
This piqued my interest, as his marriage has featured infidelity, property destruction, and multiple calls to the police.
"Every woman is crazy", he continued, "and every man is selfish. The key is for both parties to realize it, and for a woman to make herself 10% less crazy, and for a man to become 10% less selfish."
He delayed to let the genius sink in.
"Once you have that, expecting anything else is just asking too much."
I pondered it for hours, put it through the paces, and looked critically at my relationship, his relationship and that of others...and I have to say, it works for me.