It’s February in a part of Chicago where hearts break all the time. The coldest month of the year is reserved for Black History and Valentines day. (I wonder how alienated do you feel if you are white and white and lonely?) Last year, I spent Valentines day drinking Tequila out of a coffee mug. My friends had off and left me to go to a lingerie party in uptown. I didn’t mind to much thou, any girl brazen enough to venture into the arctic February dressed in lace and fishnets is way to sketchy for my liking anyway. Pneumonia isn’t sexy, not these days. So I stayed in and sipped the night into a deep stillness. Hoping more every second that my phone would erupt into that frenzied sporadic tune that indicated I had a new text message. More specifically , a text message from you. I’d hear the ring and gallop to the phone, It would be an ode to me in 160 characters or less about much you missed me, about how your life was, and how you hoped I was doing well. I’d respond with something allusive and cool and eventually we’d be faking misery together again, hand in hand. But the only text message I got that night was from a friend at the party, informing me that there were too many dicks on the dance floor, and that he was coming back to the apartment with beer.
I guess you’re a boat that drifted away from my shore, and I guess I deserve that. I forgot your birthday, and even thou you said I didn’t have too, I didn’t make it to your brother’s funeral. I’m sorry for being a ghost back then, I’m sorry for not being the guy you wanted me to be. I’ve sorry I’ve buried myself so deep but the best thing about you leaving, is the space left behind.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Ethiopians don't get the Food Network
At my great Aunts wake my uncle Andy and aunt Elsa asked me to baby sit their three youngest children, my cousins Christopher, Brandon and Kyle. They were going to Detroit for the funeral services of my distant aunt Rita who had passed 3 days prior. The majority of my family was making the trek to Michigan, but I was given the option of staying home by my father so naturally I opp ted out of the 4 hour car ride there and 3 hour car ride back. The members of my family who were staying behind were all busy or notoriously irresponsible where as my responsibilities were masked and hidden from the family by my father. My dad acted like he was my agent or attorney or some other professional con who was paid to make me and my pseudo accomplishments look like a sterling silver dinette set when in reality I was a K-mart brand spork.
In light of my public image I was the number two choice to baby sit the children, the number one pick was my Great Aunt Helen who was deceased. I won by default. Although I suppose “won” is the wrong adjective because being assigned to babysit Chris, Brandon and Kyle was no victory. They are terrorist. Tiny mutant terrorist with no regard or fear. If there was baby jail, these three would be baby felons and would be in baby San-quieten where they would wait years while a arduous trial raged on to determine if they were to be put to death by the baby gallows. Or electric chair, of course they'd need booster seats.
Before long news of me babysitting the children was spreading to all those in attendance at the wake. Apparently my dad had volunteered me to watch that boys for the weekend at he and my mother's house. My father had played Judas and sold me to the Romans. As I drifted from room to room of my Aunt Helen home people would nudge and tap me telling me how nice or dumb I was for taking own such a task. The warnings were said jokingly but had a tinge of seriousness that was both urgent and cryptic. I found my way to the deck where my cousin Gordon and Alexander were. These two were the older siblings of the three I was tasked to watch. Gordon was 17 and Alexander 16 and I had spent ample time with both of them in our younger years but the chemicals and melodrama of adolescence had removed us from such close company. But our family crest and blood gave us a hereditary reverence and understanding of one another.
We talked of the family, the “adults”, then we talked about Detroit and Aunt Rita's death and then about Aunt Helen and the house. This house meant more to all of us then our slack faces and general apathy led the elders to believe. The soggy yellow wood of the deck creeked as it had always. Under the deck was old bikes and century old cob webs, it smelled of rain drenched paper. Aunt Helen's house hosted countless family gatherings for around a century. These walls held up the ceiling in the Lawson name for years but we cared little about generations past. Gordon stared at the huge tree in the yard that casts a shadow over the shed. He had climbed and fallen from that oak once. The impact of the fall knocked him unconscious and me and Alexander dragged his body down the street to avoid a scolding. I held him by the arm and Alex had him by the legs, half way down the block an old woman watering her grass saw us and shrieked at the trail of small blood droplets behind us. He isn't dead I exclaimed she replied with a half nervous “I didn't ask.” and retreated calmly but quickly back in her house. Alexander had lived at aunt Helen's for the past few months to escape his family. He was now a star football player at his high school and was arrogant. Aunt Helen's death forced him to move back to his parents and brothers home. The furniture in the home was wrapped in plastic and had been for as long as I could remember. I thought about two small dogs that I could not place names nor remember relevancy of. The three of us shared a laugh about the old blue haired woman people called Aunt Franky, who had passed at least a decade ago. Aunt Helen's house smelled stale but safe. The refrigerator was always full and to this day my Aunt Helen's house is the only home I know with a pantry. Joint Juice plus, a formula developed to strengthen tendons and energize the drinker, was always in stock. But flexible joints are no competition to time and a willingness to let it take you. Aunt Helen's home was in a nice, hilly, green suburb. I remember hearing talk of selling the house. Meaning my services would be needed to help move dusty, heavy and ancient pieces of furniture out of the house. The basement was head quarters to huge spiders and probably rodents. Over the next few months the adults would need my help cleaning the place thus my next few memories of the home wouldn't be so fond.
The next day at around 11 a.m My Uncle Andy dropped the kids off, he gave me a few instructions and 50 dollars for food and pocket money. My parents had left earlier that morning. The kids came with two duffel bags one filled with clothes and the other with complicated age inappropriate toys. I was in the kitchen making ravioli when they all came in. Christopher was the oldest at 10, he was chubby and had a peanut shaped head, he wore taped glasses and shrunken stained shirt. Brandon was the second oldest, he was around 6 I think. People said he looked and acted just like my father did when he was a child which I found neither humorous nor promising. Kyle was the youngest and worst. In his 5 years of living he had deliberately wronged me more than any one else I had ever met. He spat in my food, thrown toy trucks at my head and crouch called me every foul name in the book and grinned at me during all of it. I'd made a plan, since he was too small to exact physical revenge on now, I'd wait until he was about 17 and I'd sleep with his girlfriend or give him a black eye before prom.
“We're hungry.” Christopher said in a shaky cartoon-eque voice.
“Yeah, and thirsty.” The raspy voiced Brandon said. Kyle just grinned, the little prick.
“I ordered pizza, it should be here soon.” I lied. The only call I had made all morning was to my friend Mike who I hadn't seen in months. He lived a few blocks away from my parents house and since I was spending the weekend here I thought this a good opportunity to catch. He'd be here within the hour.
“What kind of pizza?” Christopher asked squinting through his glasses he looked like a midget librarian.
“What kind do you want?”
“Peperoni.”
“That's the kind I ordered then.” I said turning off the stove as my ravioli finished.
“Did you get bacon on it too?” Christopher asked.
“What the fuck? No kid your age should even know bacon on pizza is possible.”
“I love bacon on pizza.” Christopher said smiling awkwardly.
“And ham.” Kyle yelled. I saw obesity in these children s future,not like it was hard in America to be fat anyway. While other countries live of 7 cents a day, we stuff our pizza crusts with cheeses and sauces, which if I'm not mistaken, is essentially pizza stuffed pizza.There is no Food Network in Ethiopia.
“No bacon, no ham, just pepperoni. Thats all the swine you rejects need.”
“Man.” Christopher said sounded utterly heartbroken. He ran off with Brandon and Kyle strutted past me to the basement. Either to play with my dog or to raid the storage room for my old toys. At my fathers behest, I hid everything that was valuable or easily breakable in a box in my room. These three had at least broken 15 hundred dollars worth of property collectively and I'd be damned if my collectors edition War Planets figurines were....
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Girls just wanna have fun...
NOTE: I might get in trouble for this one
I know this kid, good kid. A bit fat, and his finger nails are usually dirty, but besides those fixable handicaps, he’s a real stand up guy. Let’s call him ‘Farguat’. Now Farguat is a homo, and a closeted homo at that. His family and religion discriminated and alienate, so for fear of being ostracized he keeps his fat, dirty, gay ass in the closet (It’s a tight fit). I thinks its utterly fucked that Farguat can’t love who he wants to love, it’s a tremendous atrocity when a man is can’t hold his lovers hand in public for fear of judgment from a brutish and perennially corrupt religion, Being a gay Christian is like being a Jewish Nazi. But that’s a whole other California roll…
A few years back, before the sterility of face book, Farguat made a fake myspace page, posing himself as a girl. Stealing some pictures from a girl in Akron, Ohio and decorating his page with sparkly shit and pulsating banners that read ‘Juicy‘ and ‘Heartbreaker‘, ‘Raquel’ the 5’5 , light brown haired, 34 D cup sized bombshell was born. And let me tell you folks, she was a certifiable tramp, in the best possible way.
Pickings are slim in the Midwest when you’re a boy who cant catch a football and would rather play Guilty Gear than dribble a Spalding, and eventually you get lonely enough to date online. Not me now, oh hell no, that e-dating shit is for the birds, I’d rather take a swim down lonely river than so much as dip my pinky toe into murky and polluted pool of internet relationships, fuck all of that. (Craigslist Erotic Services >E-Harmony)
But A few friends of mine, well they weren’t so lucky, lonely, and near sighted, and virgin dicked, they came across Farguat’s Frankenstein woman via myspace. And sooner rather than later 3 of my friend fell for Raquel. They were enamored with her, she was a nerd, she got their jokes, listen to their problems and she talked in ways that weren’t mean or dismissive. She gave them, hell even myself, hope. Hope that even boys like us could find pretty faces to kiss.
All the while, completely oblivious to us, our friend Farguat pecked away at his key board capturing hearts and stiffing penises. Now what made Farguat decided that he couldn’t go on any longer with the charade is unknown to me. Guilt, I reckon, but soon he came to the grim decision that Raquel had to be done in, she had to disappear, she had to be killed. My friend, lets call him ‘Numchuck Ralph’, receives an email from a woman claiming to be Raquel’s mother saying that Raquel had died in a tragic drunk driving accident. Everyone was devastated , even me and I had never even chatted with the bitch. After mourning for a day of so, Numchuck Ralph acted on his lingering suspicion, and decided to investigate the death. Numchuck Ralph is as comfortable on a computer as a pig is in shit, he knows just about everything there is to know about just about everything. He follows the IP address on the email to an account on a gay dating website, and who do we see on said butt pirate hook up site, our friend Farguat.
Now legend has it my friends confronted Farguat about it, and through negotiations, independent theory and probably an ass whooping, all is settled.
But my thing is, If Farguat could shape shift, He would of Fucked his friends.
And changing morphing into a girl to fuck your friends isn’t cool
I know this kid, good kid. A bit fat, and his finger nails are usually dirty, but besides those fixable handicaps, he’s a real stand up guy. Let’s call him ‘Farguat’. Now Farguat is a homo, and a closeted homo at that. His family and religion discriminated and alienate, so for fear of being ostracized he keeps his fat, dirty, gay ass in the closet (It’s a tight fit). I thinks its utterly fucked that Farguat can’t love who he wants to love, it’s a tremendous atrocity when a man is can’t hold his lovers hand in public for fear of judgment from a brutish and perennially corrupt religion, Being a gay Christian is like being a Jewish Nazi. But that’s a whole other California roll…
A few years back, before the sterility of face book, Farguat made a fake myspace page, posing himself as a girl. Stealing some pictures from a girl in Akron, Ohio and decorating his page with sparkly shit and pulsating banners that read ‘Juicy‘ and ‘Heartbreaker‘, ‘Raquel’ the 5’5 , light brown haired, 34 D cup sized bombshell was born. And let me tell you folks, she was a certifiable tramp, in the best possible way.
Pickings are slim in the Midwest when you’re a boy who cant catch a football and would rather play Guilty Gear than dribble a Spalding, and eventually you get lonely enough to date online. Not me now, oh hell no, that e-dating shit is for the birds, I’d rather take a swim down lonely river than so much as dip my pinky toe into murky and polluted pool of internet relationships, fuck all of that. (Craigslist Erotic Services >E-Harmony)
But A few friends of mine, well they weren’t so lucky, lonely, and near sighted, and virgin dicked, they came across Farguat’s Frankenstein woman via myspace. And sooner rather than later 3 of my friend fell for Raquel. They were enamored with her, she was a nerd, she got their jokes, listen to their problems and she talked in ways that weren’t mean or dismissive. She gave them, hell even myself, hope. Hope that even boys like us could find pretty faces to kiss.
All the while, completely oblivious to us, our friend Farguat pecked away at his key board capturing hearts and stiffing penises. Now what made Farguat decided that he couldn’t go on any longer with the charade is unknown to me. Guilt, I reckon, but soon he came to the grim decision that Raquel had to be done in, she had to disappear, she had to be killed. My friend, lets call him ‘Numchuck Ralph’, receives an email from a woman claiming to be Raquel’s mother saying that Raquel had died in a tragic drunk driving accident. Everyone was devastated , even me and I had never even chatted with the bitch. After mourning for a day of so, Numchuck Ralph acted on his lingering suspicion, and decided to investigate the death. Numchuck Ralph is as comfortable on a computer as a pig is in shit, he knows just about everything there is to know about just about everything. He follows the IP address on the email to an account on a gay dating website, and who do we see on said butt pirate hook up site, our friend Farguat.
Now legend has it my friends confronted Farguat about it, and through negotiations, independent theory and probably an ass whooping, all is settled.
But my thing is, If Farguat could shape shift, He would of Fucked his friends.
And changing morphing into a girl to fuck your friends isn’t cool
Friday, January 8, 2010
No matter where you go, There you are
NOTE: Inspired by consumerism, apathy and a good friend Mike Dos Santos
“It’s like a fucking bee hive in that bitch.” Mike said searching his pockets for his gloves. “All that frantic motion, niggas crawling over other niggas. Half them niggas I didn’t even know.”
“That’s a pretty amazing analogy, Mike.” I told Santos before taking a drag from my cigarette. I guess crowed house parties are a lot like bee hives. Mike was prone to saying insightful shit, in between all the ignorant shit that is.
“Thank you, nigga.” Mike said. He adds ‘nigga’ on to the end of ever sentence, almost like a un official period. It’s like some weird tourretes tick, no matter how elegant the statement is, no matter how poetic or discursive, it didn’t feel right to him with a ‘nigga’ thrown into it. He made white people uncomfortable. I never understood why white people get so tense when they hear the ‘N’ word. Their eyes dart around like a nervous child, it’s like they feel guilty for even thinking about it. Wasn’t it white people who first coined the phrase? If I made up a word, no matter how taboo of offensive, I’d say it every day. I’d get it printed of shirts and buttons, I’d even get it on my license plate; ‘Nigga 41.’
We stood outside the house were the party was taking place, it was early December, glove and knit cap weather. In 20 years of life, It saddens me to say I’ve never been able to keep a pair of gloves for more than 3 weeks. I always loose them, when I was a kid I used to have those clips that attached my gloves to the cuffs of my coats, I wondered where I could purchase those. Mike wore finger less gloves. Stylish? Sure, but far from functional. But beauty is pain, and I guess having frost bite means you must be pretty damn beautiful. I thought about trash cans fires and hobos wearing the same type of gloves as Mike huddled around them. Then it hit me like a brick to the spine.
“We should bring a hobo to that party.” I crack a wide, teeth bearing smile. Mike smirked, dismissing it as a joke. But I held eye contact, and that smile slide further up my face. Mike’s face and age make him easy to read. I stare right into those doo-doo brown eyes and I can tell he’s working things out, his smirk parts and confusion paints his face.
“Wait, you serious?”
“Serious as Syphilis dude.”
He strokes his beard a moment. He’s 18 but wears facial that hides his baby face and makes him look mid twenties. If he didn’t shave he’d have a full fledged wizard beard, I’m talking Gandalf from Lord of The Rings.
“Think about how incredible that would be Mike. A certified bum walking around that party. Just all toothless and stinky and crazy. It would be the funniest shit ever.” I’m getting more excited by the second, and Mikes hesitation is melting.
“Nigga they wouldn’t let no bum in.” Mike shakes his head but I nod like bobble head in fast forward.
“Why wouldn’t they, I’ll give the dude the five dollars and if he gives me shit, I’ll give him an extra five.”
“Damn nigga, You’re willing to pay ten dollars to get a bum into a party?”
“I’m willing to pay whatever, nigga.” My dealings with Mike have taught me that the N word is contagious. “Think about it dude, It’s December, 5 months into the school year, nothing new anymore. Same girls, same dudes, its pretty much the same party every weekend. Promoters don’t even have fun anymore, they throw parties to make money now, I mean, when’s the last time you’ve had a distinctive memory from a party? Now imagine how sick of a memory it would be if we brought a bum inside.”
Mike rubs his face and starts to laugh. “Nigga, Alright. Let’s get a bum.”
And with that we were off, in search of a vagrant. Being homeless is a really bizarre condition. It’s like being invisible. Bum spend all their days looking at people walk by, with clothes they can’t wear, cars they can’t drive. They see us holding hands, and answering phones and they know they’ll never hold that hand or answer that phone. It must be pretty fucking miserable. The least me and Mike could do is get this bum a lap dance and a beer or two.
But first we had to find one. We walked the dimly lit streets......
NOTE: HAHA, you thought I was going to finish it didnt you? Who do you think I am, a good writer?
“It’s like a fucking bee hive in that bitch.” Mike said searching his pockets for his gloves. “All that frantic motion, niggas crawling over other niggas. Half them niggas I didn’t even know.”
“That’s a pretty amazing analogy, Mike.” I told Santos before taking a drag from my cigarette. I guess crowed house parties are a lot like bee hives. Mike was prone to saying insightful shit, in between all the ignorant shit that is.
“Thank you, nigga.” Mike said. He adds ‘nigga’ on to the end of ever sentence, almost like a un official period. It’s like some weird tourretes tick, no matter how elegant the statement is, no matter how poetic or discursive, it didn’t feel right to him with a ‘nigga’ thrown into it. He made white people uncomfortable. I never understood why white people get so tense when they hear the ‘N’ word. Their eyes dart around like a nervous child, it’s like they feel guilty for even thinking about it. Wasn’t it white people who first coined the phrase? If I made up a word, no matter how taboo of offensive, I’d say it every day. I’d get it printed of shirts and buttons, I’d even get it on my license plate; ‘Nigga 41.’
We stood outside the house were the party was taking place, it was early December, glove and knit cap weather. In 20 years of life, It saddens me to say I’ve never been able to keep a pair of gloves for more than 3 weeks. I always loose them, when I was a kid I used to have those clips that attached my gloves to the cuffs of my coats, I wondered where I could purchase those. Mike wore finger less gloves. Stylish? Sure, but far from functional. But beauty is pain, and I guess having frost bite means you must be pretty damn beautiful. I thought about trash cans fires and hobos wearing the same type of gloves as Mike huddled around them. Then it hit me like a brick to the spine.
“We should bring a hobo to that party.” I crack a wide, teeth bearing smile. Mike smirked, dismissing it as a joke. But I held eye contact, and that smile slide further up my face. Mike’s face and age make him easy to read. I stare right into those doo-doo brown eyes and I can tell he’s working things out, his smirk parts and confusion paints his face.
“Wait, you serious?”
“Serious as Syphilis dude.”
He strokes his beard a moment. He’s 18 but wears facial that hides his baby face and makes him look mid twenties. If he didn’t shave he’d have a full fledged wizard beard, I’m talking Gandalf from Lord of The Rings.
“Think about how incredible that would be Mike. A certified bum walking around that party. Just all toothless and stinky and crazy. It would be the funniest shit ever.” I’m getting more excited by the second, and Mikes hesitation is melting.
“Nigga they wouldn’t let no bum in.” Mike shakes his head but I nod like bobble head in fast forward.
“Why wouldn’t they, I’ll give the dude the five dollars and if he gives me shit, I’ll give him an extra five.”
“Damn nigga, You’re willing to pay ten dollars to get a bum into a party?”
“I’m willing to pay whatever, nigga.” My dealings with Mike have taught me that the N word is contagious. “Think about it dude, It’s December, 5 months into the school year, nothing new anymore. Same girls, same dudes, its pretty much the same party every weekend. Promoters don’t even have fun anymore, they throw parties to make money now, I mean, when’s the last time you’ve had a distinctive memory from a party? Now imagine how sick of a memory it would be if we brought a bum inside.”
Mike rubs his face and starts to laugh. “Nigga, Alright. Let’s get a bum.”
And with that we were off, in search of a vagrant. Being homeless is a really bizarre condition. It’s like being invisible. Bum spend all their days looking at people walk by, with clothes they can’t wear, cars they can’t drive. They see us holding hands, and answering phones and they know they’ll never hold that hand or answer that phone. It must be pretty fucking miserable. The least me and Mike could do is get this bum a lap dance and a beer or two.
But first we had to find one. We walked the dimly lit streets......
NOTE: HAHA, you thought I was going to finish it didnt you? Who do you think I am, a good writer?
For Eli
Were you designed for this, or have you adapted to the foggy
Mornings when we wake up on floors or rooftops.
You drink goats milk with paintings of women with
perfect proportions and purple skin.
You refuse to be out done or done in.
Were you designed for this life, or did the company of
scoundrels help you adapt.
This life we fill with chemicals and voodoo and trumpets and girls
The night we swam with Lucy and chased rabbits and got trapped in bathrooms and cried because the mannequin had no toes.
Were you designed for this, or have you adapted to the knowledge that no one can hurt you as bad as you can hurt yourself.
Mornings when we wake up on floors or rooftops.
You drink goats milk with paintings of women with
perfect proportions and purple skin.
You refuse to be out done or done in.
Were you designed for this life, or did the company of
scoundrels help you adapt.
This life we fill with chemicals and voodoo and trumpets and girls
The night we swam with Lucy and chased rabbits and got trapped in bathrooms and cried because the mannequin had no toes.
Were you designed for this, or have you adapted to the knowledge that no one can hurt you as bad as you can hurt yourself.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
I've been on more floors than wax
*Note; This, like just about everything I do, is unfinished. It's a chapter in a book I abandoned writing called "One day this will all seem funny." It was basically about this kid and him moving to college, about 63 pages in a realized it had noooooo point what so ever, so i made the book a journal and started a new book idea, it's called "Chainsaws" and been so much fun so far, but that beside the point
I've been busy with stand up and writing jokes but i still care about my loyal readers (all 3 of you) and you guys will get a kick out of this; pretty shitty in terms of prose but ehhh...idk..enjoy
Let me start this chapter by saying my family, on both sides, has a history of substance abuse, I've got more alcoholic cousins and uncles than the Kennedys. I have an uncle in a blue collar rehab clinic in Milwaukee and a cousin who got arrested for getting busted with a half pound of grass in the mid nineties who still hasn’t got back on his feet (He lives in a one bed room apartment with his sister and her boyfriend. And by “apartment” I mean hotel and by “live” I mean survive.) Almost all of my family smokes pot casually and the few who don't drink pretty heavily. Not to give you the impression that we are a family of addicts and nere-do wells. The majority of us live the Disney channel special American dream, we just enjoy the good life, and our definition of said good life is being sufficently stoned, sauced or medicated. That being said, I was reluctant to try cocaine.
Cory Doyle, a stunning dame and possibly the most beautiful blonde I'd ever seen in real life, invited me to the monthly “White light.” party she threw in her apartment. I had no idea what a white light party even was, but if Corey Doyle would of invited me to a “ass juice and coffee” party I would of jumped at the opportunity.
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world sugar titties.” I told her.
“Oh, you better not handsome.” She laughed as she walked off with her roommate Emily, a slightly less stunning blonde, and this tall gay guy who seemed to shadow them around everywhere.
Cory, Emily and I shared an odd sense of humor. It was refreshing to finally meet a girl other than Alissa who I could call rather sexist names like “sugar titties” or “Ms. Sweet rump.” without getting them angry or weirded out or worst of all been written off as “that funny oddball kid who I'd never have a meaningful conversation with.” I even referred to Emily as my “next rape victim” in an elevator one day and she just laughed it off. I thought of our exchanges as flirting, but for all I know they could have thought I was a creep. I had kissed Cory once, she came to our room to score one Saturday, upon opening the door she gave me seemly committed hug and before exiting she gave me a fourth grade style kiss, although I could classify it more as a “I'm so happy we have weed now.” celebratory peck. I vaguely recall on a different occasion tiring to have a full on make out session with her at one of the barb boys parties. I was rejected , and like most drunken defeats my subconscious blocked it out. But even in rejecting my liquor induced advances she still choose to sit next to me and finished the conversation my penis had rudely interrupted.
Later that day I got a text from Cory saying she was going to stop by to pick up my donation for the party, I assumed that I was donating alcohol, so the customary five bucks would cover my share. I looked in my wallet and saw that I only had two twenty dollar bills. I'd need change.
“Randy? You have change for a twenty?” I knocked on his already open door.
“Uh..yeah.” Randy told me. He then looked in his desk drawer and pulled out a tin box where he kept his cash. The box had separated compartments
for bills with different face values like a cash register, I guess in a way it was a perverse, cash register. Randy gave me 4 five dollar bills.
“Need change to get another hooker?” Randy jokingly asked.
“You know just as well as I do no prostitute in the south loop trusts me.” I say, we share a laugh and I continue with “But yeah, you know that Corey girl? The blonde?”
“Yeah Hannah Montana. Whats up?” Randy called her Hannah Montana because he thought she looked like the God forsaken teen sensation of the same name.
“Well she invited me to a party in her room this Friday and she's coming over for my donation for alcohol, she's probably getting a lot if she's coming over to get money 4 days in advance.”
Randy looked up at me from his desk chair. He gave me this confused look
That he often gave me when I said something ignorant or naïve.
“Dude I'm pretty sure she isn’t coming over for a liquor run.”
I look at Randy curiously and he continues;
“Yeah I knew a guy last year who used to date her, they used to have coke parties and shit...” Randy would go on but I had already zoned out.
The second Randy mentioned cocaine the term “white light” begin to make sense. She was throwing a blow party, she was going to turn her room into Studio 54 and I was contributing. I had limited knowledge with cocaine but I knew it was expensive and if I gave her 5 bones she'd think I was cheap sake. I was pretty cheap, but with a girl as high profile as Cory Doyle I'd have dig deep, I'd have????______????? Ten dollars should do it.
“Hmmm, she did say that it was a white light party.”
“Well there you go. Yeah dude I went to a few last year and.” Randy paused to snicker. He looked at the floor as if was remising. And what a sweet memory to reflect on, a gathering of privileged youths snorting Daddy's weekly allowance. Randy snapped out of his less than wholesome daydream to tell me that the parties we a lot of fun for the first hour or so.
“Around hour two, once the blow is all gone, you start the comedown. That's when you feel like total shit.”
Feeling like a shit bag wasn’t that new to me. I was pound of myself maybe a total of 4 hours a week, the other???______??? I was shaking my head and cursing my actions. But I still felt I needed more info.
“Total Shit, like how? We talking the normal frustration and mild loathing here? Or...what?” I said walking into the room a little more.
“Its like, “ he sighed and went on. “The only thing as bad as the come down is how good the high itself feels ya know? You go from 100 to negative 100, from on top of a mountain to fucking...I don’t know, New Orleans. Post Katrina.”
“It makes you feel super guilty, like imagine if you inadvertently killed your mom.” Michelle said from underneath Randy's bed cover. I didn’t even know she was in the room. This bitch was sneaky.
“Yeah and a bus of orphans and boat of puppies.” Randy concluded.
“Jesus H. Garcia.” I said looking at my handful of money. I was intrigued. Not by the promise of cationic guilt. But by the idea that there was a feeling out there equal to the opposite of accidently killing my mother. What a high.
“Do you know anywhere to get any Randy?” I asked in the tone a cop would have in an interrogation. If I was to go to this white light party I'd need experience. Practice, powder practice. You don't send a rookie to the super bowl. You don't send a virgin to an orgy.
“Not officially but I know Jerome across the hall as a pretty big private stash, he might throw you some.”
Jerome from 603 had been in our room a few times to talk shop with day.
I knew the guys in 603 were pretty big pot heads. I hung out with this guy Tyler from that room a few times, and I had run into their Asian roommate Matthew by the vending machines one night. I loaned him a dollar, still haven’t got it back to this day.
“Jerome huh? Think he'll let some go to me?” I asked.
“Maybe dude, he owes me favor anyway. Tell him it's for me.”
I thanked Randy and walked out. I thought about Jerome for a minute.. He was an interesting character in many rights. He was the only white man I ever met named Jerome. He was about five feet tall and walked with a limp. His girlfriend came over once to borrow one of Randy's books. Randy asked her where Jerome was and she explains that he was at the hospital for monthly physical therapy. She went on to explain that as a kid Jerome spent way to much time on his big wheel and it slowed his growth and gave him a pretty bad case of scoliosis. His family had been in a class action lawsuit with Fisher-price for the better part of 18 years. There were apparently file cabinets upon file cabin ants of cases from families claiming that riding big wheel had caused permanent damage to children. I owned a big wheel. I was short. I had a light case of scoliosis. I wonder?
I've been busy with stand up and writing jokes but i still care about my loyal readers (all 3 of you) and you guys will get a kick out of this; pretty shitty in terms of prose but ehhh...idk..enjoy
Let me start this chapter by saying my family, on both sides, has a history of substance abuse, I've got more alcoholic cousins and uncles than the Kennedys. I have an uncle in a blue collar rehab clinic in Milwaukee and a cousin who got arrested for getting busted with a half pound of grass in the mid nineties who still hasn’t got back on his feet (He lives in a one bed room apartment with his sister and her boyfriend. And by “apartment” I mean hotel and by “live” I mean survive.) Almost all of my family smokes pot casually and the few who don't drink pretty heavily. Not to give you the impression that we are a family of addicts and nere-do wells. The majority of us live the Disney channel special American dream, we just enjoy the good life, and our definition of said good life is being sufficently stoned, sauced or medicated. That being said, I was reluctant to try cocaine.
Cory Doyle, a stunning dame and possibly the most beautiful blonde I'd ever seen in real life, invited me to the monthly “White light.” party she threw in her apartment. I had no idea what a white light party even was, but if Corey Doyle would of invited me to a “ass juice and coffee” party I would of jumped at the opportunity.
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world sugar titties.” I told her.
“Oh, you better not handsome.” She laughed as she walked off with her roommate Emily, a slightly less stunning blonde, and this tall gay guy who seemed to shadow them around everywhere.
Cory, Emily and I shared an odd sense of humor. It was refreshing to finally meet a girl other than Alissa who I could call rather sexist names like “sugar titties” or “Ms. Sweet rump.” without getting them angry or weirded out or worst of all been written off as “that funny oddball kid who I'd never have a meaningful conversation with.” I even referred to Emily as my “next rape victim” in an elevator one day and she just laughed it off. I thought of our exchanges as flirting, but for all I know they could have thought I was a creep. I had kissed Cory once, she came to our room to score one Saturday, upon opening the door she gave me seemly committed hug and before exiting she gave me a fourth grade style kiss, although I could classify it more as a “I'm so happy we have weed now.” celebratory peck. I vaguely recall on a different occasion tiring to have a full on make out session with her at one of the barb boys parties. I was rejected , and like most drunken defeats my subconscious blocked it out. But even in rejecting my liquor induced advances she still choose to sit next to me and finished the conversation my penis had rudely interrupted.
Later that day I got a text from Cory saying she was going to stop by to pick up my donation for the party, I assumed that I was donating alcohol, so the customary five bucks would cover my share. I looked in my wallet and saw that I only had two twenty dollar bills. I'd need change.
“Randy? You have change for a twenty?” I knocked on his already open door.
“Uh..yeah.” Randy told me. He then looked in his desk drawer and pulled out a tin box where he kept his cash. The box had separated compartments
for bills with different face values like a cash register, I guess in a way it was a perverse, cash register. Randy gave me 4 five dollar bills.
“Need change to get another hooker?” Randy jokingly asked.
“You know just as well as I do no prostitute in the south loop trusts me.” I say, we share a laugh and I continue with “But yeah, you know that Corey girl? The blonde?”
“Yeah Hannah Montana. Whats up?” Randy called her Hannah Montana because he thought she looked like the God forsaken teen sensation of the same name.
“Well she invited me to a party in her room this Friday and she's coming over for my donation for alcohol, she's probably getting a lot if she's coming over to get money 4 days in advance.”
Randy looked up at me from his desk chair. He gave me this confused look
That he often gave me when I said something ignorant or naïve.
“Dude I'm pretty sure she isn’t coming over for a liquor run.”
I look at Randy curiously and he continues;
“Yeah I knew a guy last year who used to date her, they used to have coke parties and shit...” Randy would go on but I had already zoned out.
The second Randy mentioned cocaine the term “white light” begin to make sense. She was throwing a blow party, she was going to turn her room into Studio 54 and I was contributing. I had limited knowledge with cocaine but I knew it was expensive and if I gave her 5 bones she'd think I was cheap sake. I was pretty cheap, but with a girl as high profile as Cory Doyle I'd have dig deep, I'd have????______????? Ten dollars should do it.
“Hmmm, she did say that it was a white light party.”
“Well there you go. Yeah dude I went to a few last year and.” Randy paused to snicker. He looked at the floor as if was remising. And what a sweet memory to reflect on, a gathering of privileged youths snorting Daddy's weekly allowance. Randy snapped out of his less than wholesome daydream to tell me that the parties we a lot of fun for the first hour or so.
“Around hour two, once the blow is all gone, you start the comedown. That's when you feel like total shit.”
Feeling like a shit bag wasn’t that new to me. I was pound of myself maybe a total of 4 hours a week, the other???______??? I was shaking my head and cursing my actions. But I still felt I needed more info.
“Total Shit, like how? We talking the normal frustration and mild loathing here? Or...what?” I said walking into the room a little more.
“Its like, “ he sighed and went on. “The only thing as bad as the come down is how good the high itself feels ya know? You go from 100 to negative 100, from on top of a mountain to fucking...I don’t know, New Orleans. Post Katrina.”
“It makes you feel super guilty, like imagine if you inadvertently killed your mom.” Michelle said from underneath Randy's bed cover. I didn’t even know she was in the room. This bitch was sneaky.
“Yeah and a bus of orphans and boat of puppies.” Randy concluded.
“Jesus H. Garcia.” I said looking at my handful of money. I was intrigued. Not by the promise of cationic guilt. But by the idea that there was a feeling out there equal to the opposite of accidently killing my mother. What a high.
“Do you know anywhere to get any Randy?” I asked in the tone a cop would have in an interrogation. If I was to go to this white light party I'd need experience. Practice, powder practice. You don't send a rookie to the super bowl. You don't send a virgin to an orgy.
“Not officially but I know Jerome across the hall as a pretty big private stash, he might throw you some.”
Jerome from 603 had been in our room a few times to talk shop with day.
I knew the guys in 603 were pretty big pot heads. I hung out with this guy Tyler from that room a few times, and I had run into their Asian roommate Matthew by the vending machines one night. I loaned him a dollar, still haven’t got it back to this day.
“Jerome huh? Think he'll let some go to me?” I asked.
“Maybe dude, he owes me favor anyway. Tell him it's for me.”
I thanked Randy and walked out. I thought about Jerome for a minute.. He was an interesting character in many rights. He was the only white man I ever met named Jerome. He was about five feet tall and walked with a limp. His girlfriend came over once to borrow one of Randy's books. Randy asked her where Jerome was and she explains that he was at the hospital for monthly physical therapy. She went on to explain that as a kid Jerome spent way to much time on his big wheel and it slowed his growth and gave him a pretty bad case of scoliosis. His family had been in a class action lawsuit with Fisher-price for the better part of 18 years. There were apparently file cabinets upon file cabin ants of cases from families claiming that riding big wheel had caused permanent damage to children. I owned a big wheel. I was short. I had a light case of scoliosis. I wonder?
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