Our Igor

NOTE: I'm doing something really cool right now for the blog, this ain't it thou.

I once got asked the question If I’d rather have my feet cut off or my hands. I can’t remember the context of the conversation, but I can say that amputation is a frequented topic among my friends. Not a whole lot of thought went into my answer “Feet, man fucking, cut em’ off.” My reasoning being that hands are more noticeable part of the body, hand shakes and hugs, high fives and masturbation. “A world with out hands seems like a dark place man, a place I aint trying to go to.” We laughed and talked more about hands and how we’d much rather lose our feet than go through life never holding a hand or running fingers through the hair of a lover or a whore, which ever comes first. The conversation meandered from amputation to insemination, or something else gross. But I dwelled on my feet for a little while, looking down at the beat Nikes that had become my signature shoes. This size 12 had helded me up all my life, and I never thanked them. And here I am, so eager to remove them just so I could get some up, the shirt, under the bra action. If my hands were hedonism my feet were devotion. They are martyrs, willing to be dragged and drowned all the while holding us up like the venerated roots to an ungrateful tree. They are martyrs like Jesus, willing to take to the cross to absolve us. At risk of sounding blasphemous, I’ll even go as far as to say our feet love us more than Jesus. Think about it, Jesus want all that thanks and penance and money feet don’t ask for any of that. It’s like, I get it Jesus, thanks for doing me that favor but you don’t have to bring it up every time we meet thou. (I have a friend, Jonathon, who picked me up from an airport once and every time we see each other he brings it up, that shit was like 2 years ago man.)Our feet are suffocated by boots, constricted to be put in hells, bound and mutilated. Arguably our most valuable exterior body part, we treat them like lepers, leaving in sweaty dens, lumbering around in their own stench as we pummel them. They are our loyal servants, our Igor. Imagine if you will, and uprising of the feet, a subversion, a rebellion. Imagine if our feet suddenly took matters into their own hands. Imagine you are running from a lion in the Serengeti, and your feet, fed up with the abuse choose to stop, you go limp, you fall, and the ravenous beast rips you shreds. Or you are crossing the street, maybe you just got out of class and suddenly get a taste for some delicious Blizzard treats at the local Diary Queen, half way across the street you notice you movements become sluggish, you panic as you watch the incoming traffic barrel your way, you push and push, straining your tendons, but its not use. Your feet feel like lead, immovable and spiteful. A Ford focus, pounds the brakes but its too late, the impact catapults you 20 feet in the air you fly and crash onto the asphalt, dead as hell. Thank your feet people, they are the real heroes.

Healing

NOTE: It's been about a year since I started Scoundrels and Vagrants. I was in bad shape, to say the least. I was going through this self inflicted depression that I can only refer to now as an identity crisis. S&V started off as my way to whisper to a world that other wise never seem to listen. I wanted the world to know how much I hated it for what it had done to me and people like me. It was my way to deal with my social anxieties and awkwardness, without drinking or drugs.Eventually, with a little help from my friends, I pulled myself out of that existential gang bang and emerged as a better, healthier, smarter, prettier Adam. That's when I sold out, I started writing with other people's satisfaction in mind, dumbing things down, taking out lines I thought would reflect myself badly. I forgot about empowering the wicked, wierd, disenchanted rebels and started thinking about all the skirt these words could get me. Then that sent me into another emotional shit factory, that I worked myself out of (well kinda, I'm still a little bit of a sellout, but fuck it, sell outs at least sell, right?) Anyway, lets cut this self-indulgence short and let me tell you that what you are about to read is a piece a wrote when I was 17 and completely honest. I was immature but at least I was sincere and my heart was good. My hearts still good, I think...


The truth regarding me and Karla Solis


Karla Solis is a girl. I am a boy. I met Karla Solis my junior year in high school. She was beautiful then, dark curly hair, beautiful eyes, and 36 C breasts. She was perfect for me. It wasn’t long after I noticed Karla Solis enter the lunch room that I would talk to her. Karla Solis sat at a table with the new crop of freshman girls, all of them as pretty as they were naïve, they laughed and whispered, they ate and talked with their mouths full, disgusting freshman, but not as disgusting as I was watching Karla Solis stuff her face with chips and homemade sandwiches and carrots and apple juice. I walked over to their table, they all seem to stare up at me, all of them were beautiful in there own right, but my eyes stayed on Karla Solis as she wiped her mouth and said. “Hello.”
For weeks after that day I sat at the freshman girl table, I had made casual friends with all of them, they liked me because I was funny, not because I was cute, not because I helped them with homework but because I made them laugh, which wasn’t very hard to do. I listen to their stories, they asked me my opinion on boys, I hated giving advice on relationships, but they all seemed to ask, I’d usually give them a half-thought out answer and being impressionable they hung on my every word. I watched as the freshman boys glared at me, they too wanted Karla Solis, but they were to shy to approach her, I had grown out of that phase, shyness, nothing good came from it, the quote “good things come to those who wait” is bullshit. I guess hey lacked confidence I had grown over my high school career,
After school me and Karla Solis would talk before her mom came to pick her up in her yellow van that often had a dog in the back, we would talk about how are days had been after lunch, we talked about other girls at the table, we talked about teachers, none of these topics I particularly gave a shit about, but it was what Karla Solis wanted to talk about, so I didn’t mind. One of these times after school Karla Solis had taken out her phone, to text someone, one of the goofy lunch table girls no doubt, I asked her, “Hey how come you never text me?” knowing that she didn’t have, nor did she express any interest in having my number.
“I don’t have your number silly.” Karla Solis said in her voice that if attached to anyone else I would hate.
I gave her my number, just as her mothers yellow van pulled up,
“Bye Adam.” she said looking into my eyes
“Peace” I said in an attempt to be cool, I waited to the yellow van and Karla Solis were far enough away , put my hood up, and made my way into the short white school bus that honked for me. I hated the school bus, and I hated people knowing I rode it.
Days past and no text or call from Karla Solis, it didn’t worry me to much. In school one day I decided not to sit with the freshman table but with my friends who claimed I was “Pussy wiped” and hassled me into sitting with them. I got my food from the lunch line and sat down and ate. I looked over at Karla Solis and her friends look at me and grin, I saw Karla Solis take her phone out, to text me no doubt. Seconds latter my phone vibrates with the immanent text message. I read “Why aren’t you sitting with us, get your but over here mister.” with one of those stupid fucking faces made with symbols…the one with the tongue hanging out. I escaped my friends and squeezed into the chair with her.
“I’m surprised you can fit with my fat-ass.”
Karla Solis thought she was fat, infect she wasn’t at all, its just the rest of her friends where twigs, Karla Solis brought her own lunch from home, because school lunches were fatting, although she would often pick at other peoples food. She was very self-conscious. She jogged and toke karate and dieted in attempts to loose weight.
“I lost 10 pounds Adam, aren’t you proud of me?” Karla Solis would ask me one day
I walked up to her and poke her stomach, “yes” I’d reply.
We talked and text on the phone everyday, stayed up way past her bedtime and laughed thru the night, I’d go to bed thinking about her, I’d read her texts over and over and over again. I’d look at her myspace, that I had convinced her to get, when ever she had a new picture posted I’d look at it, and smile. I was becoming very smitten with Karla Solis, no longer did I just want her 36 c breasts on my face, I wanted her. I was falling for Karla Solis. With every word we said to each other my heart grew fonder of her, I’d hug her and kiss her forehead everyday, I’d watch her blush when I did. I put my arm around her in hallways. She wouldn’t jerk away like some, she wouldn’t even ease out like most, she just stayed there, in my arms, like she didn’t mind that Adam Lawson was touching her.
As the year progressed the freshman boys gained enough confidence to ask Karla Solis out, I was jealous but never came right out and said it. She ask me if I should go out with them, I would take my anger out on her.
“Sure fatty, you need all the love you can get.” I berated her even more, calling her all types of names, like a lover scorn, She cried that day, her deep brown eyes peered at me a welled up with tears and she cried and cursed me. I was glad I made her cry, I was glad she cared enough about my words that she cried.
“Fat whore.” I spat.
“Why are you acting this way?” Karla Solis would say.
“Why are you acting so fat.” I couldn’t tell her, I could only insult, and insult I did.
She eventually ended up going out with him. I apologized and we were back to the way it was before. Us on the phone every night, she told me how much she wished her boyfriend could be like me, funny, charming, honest. When she said charming I laughed, I was in no shape nor from charming, at school I was known for my vulgar jokes and how I wrote “balls” on every black board in the school. And as for honest, if I was so honest why couldn’t I tell Karla Solis I felt, how I was falling in love with her, how I’d give most anything to be her boyfriend. How I’d Love her, How’d buy her presents, How I’d probably cheat on her, How I’d hide it, How I’d marry her.
Going into my senior me and Karla Solis didn’t speak much, I ignored her, I wanted her to come and speak to me first, She did, once a week almost she’d make an attempt to talk to me, I’d pretend I forgot the memories she brought up, I’d pretend I didn’t want to text her, I’d pretend to hate her, I’d tease her. Karla Solis went thru boyfriends fast, bout one every month, one of them was my friend. I’d casually ask him how things were going between them, how far they had gotten, how her room looked, how she was doing. He said he hadn’t gotten far, didn’t even let him grab her boobs he said.
“Oh man, what a bitch” I’d say, inside grinning, and thinking that a girl.
One day her boyfriend got hurt in a wrestling match, being a witness to the injury I thought it the perfect excuse to call Karla Solis, I didn’t care that he was hurt, I just wanted to talk to her.
The phone rang, she answer almost immediately.
“Hello?” she said in a shaky voice, obviously surprised by me calling.
“Hey, just thought I’d tell you Mario is getting hauled off in a ambulance.”
“What!?”
I explained the situation, she said she’d call him. The next day at school Karla Solis hadn’t said a word to me. Her boyfriend came back to school in a cast few days later.
“Hey man, I just want to thank you for telling my girl I was hurt, that’s respect man.”
“Yeah, no problem.” I said almost sincerely. “She told you about it.”
“Yeah she said that you called her and gave her the news, she said she was surprised, she thought you hated her…” he talked for awhile after that, about how much his arm hurt, and how good he had it and how much he was entitled to a sympathy lay.
Me and Karla Solis had a few conversations after that, I would text her occasionally, she’d text back. One of my favorite memories of her is after school it was raining softly and we talked in the rain while everyone else was under the small shelter under the schools awning. I toke my phone out I played with it.
“Eww still have that old crappy phone I see.” Karla Solis joked.
“Shut up.” I said, and opened the phone and grabed her lip with it. She looked at me, I looked at her with my phone attached to her lip, she didn’t mind it, I loved that about her, she didn’t me. I’ve sense graduated, moved on. I still think about Karla Solis. Still look at her text messages sometimes, still wonder what could have been. I hope I see Karla Solis again.

Post script:
I thought this one was important because I still find myself pushing people away, for no good reason but my own self consciousness. Man, I was 17 I'm 20 now, nigga's gotta grow up.

Closeface

Girl, you got something terrible between those legs. Enchanting and infuriating, like playing Jenga drunk. I’m talking of course about your vagina. The bizarre folds of skin that gives way to a cavern of inarticulate wonder. A weapon of mass distraction, your sharpest sword, your Atomic Bomb. Utter destruction disguised as a roast beef sandwich, or the sagging, wrinkled skin in between the fingers of an elderly man whose swung to many hammers. And what’s worse than the way it looks are the thing’s I’ve done to for it. Traveled state lines as well as phantom lines that separate tolerance and criminal devotion. I’ve emptied my pockets buying clothes to make myself hip only to end up looking like an inept, chicken legged jackass. I should of just bought a bear trap, or a giant pussy magnet, or maybe a net gun. My dealings with your vagina have reduced me to mist. You’ve turned this yellow boy into a paper thin boner, who’s prime directive has de-evolved to bartering Claire’s gift cards in exchange for sex. But I do look fondly on those nights rich with alcohol, where we would talk about shooting stars and sand castles. And my darting, hazy eyes would journey up your legs, past your knee to that pink void, where I left my heart.

I am going to make it though this year if it kills me

For Alissa/Valentines Day

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.

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....

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