Violence begets violence begets more violence. Broken trust. Hate. Rage. Racist cops versus poorly trained cops vs criminals vs innocent people murdered over a routine traffic stop. Gun control for the ones who would protect us instead striking fear into our urban communities. This has never changed but is a trend in the media. The double edge sword, of the light it sheds on an ongoing struggle in these communities to the social outrage it causes resulting in the death of police officers. My, what a savage place this has become. And yet has anything really changed. I remember growing up and seeing it in on television in he 90's, let alone my own neighborhood. Harassment and profiling from these "protectors." Hearing about a friend that was beaten in the middle of the street by a police officer because he was walking down the street on the wrong day, wrong time, wearing the wrong clothes and fitting the wrong description of the wrong person. Myself being held at gun point (more than once) for fitting a description then being let go with a "warning." The feeling of helplessness. Vulnerable, angry, rage filled. This can cloud a perception of the many out there trying to make a difference. The realization that a police officer has never helped me directly but maybe an arrest or traffic ticket to someone else help save my family in this butterfly affect. Confusion and angst comes with a maturity of guilt concerning this attitude of "We aren't going to take this laying down anymore. We can't just keep letting this happen to our people. It's time to fight back against those who swore to keep us safe." Then seeing it bubble over in Dallas. And more murder. And more Murder. You resist, you die. You comply, you die. How can we restore faith in a system that's lost faith in the community it's supposed to work for, for a better tomorrow. I HAVE A KID for god's sake.
Where does the change come from? Who can change this from continuing? Can this change from being the status quo? How can faith be restored? Can all this social outrage lead to a solution without anybody dying? Where are the politicians voices on this issue? Is this a distraction propagated by unseen forces to keep us from really seeing past the smoke and mirrors? Is another human worth that price? Is it worth your life? Is pride worth your life? Is your ego worth human life? Why are they so nervous and scared? Why do we have to live in fear? Why is it so easy?
There's no point to this, just screaming in the dark. On facebook, screaming in the dark, on twitter, screaming in the dark, bloggers, screaming in the dark, protesters, screaming in the dark. Where's all the political bullshit now. Silence is all I hear. Just another black kid. Just another cop using deadly force on an unarmed, non resisting minority. It's not close to me. That stuff is in the news. That's why I live in the suburbs. That's why I don't stay out late. That's why I don't....blah blah.
Friday, July 8, 2016
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Oct. 20 something Part 3
Carolyn arrives...
She arrives before the crowd shows. Carolyn sits next to me. She doesn't say anything but her presents is tolerable and comforting. She's been through this before. She has pain similar to this. Her brother through similar devices is gone also.
The chattering of family members interrupts our solemness. They come to mourn. They come to pity. They come out of respect. They arrive together. The seats start to be taken. They leave a pew's distance to separate us from them for whatever reason. Don't they know it's just us. George and Pauline sit on Jackie's side. Somebody walks up and bends down to talk to Pauline. They agree on something. The lights, already dim, turn lower. A projection screen descends from over the casket. It's a slide show of Patrick. Yuck. It opens with a picture him. A social media picture of him. Fades in a date which resembles his birthday but is clearly not Patrick's because the person who put this slide show together is off by 2 years and 8 days. Jackie snaps out of her stupor to yell out, "What the fuck? His birthday is March 10, 1985!" She says this to the screen. This slide show was done poorly with haste. Maybe it was done today. Maybe this morning. It continues with more social media pictures. Apparently whoever made this production didn't know Patrick or bother to ask for older photos. The music is disgusting and even worse than the situation. Some early 90's ode to suicide with an Eddie Vedder knock off voice.
This is all going to be hilarious one day. The pictures continue. Finally it fades to black. A family member takes the podium. Vague tones about loss and Patrick being too young fall out of their mouth and then George relieves them. Thank God. Wait. Now George is introducing a pastor or reverend or preacher. What the fuck is this? It's no secret Patrick didn't believe in the Bible or whatever this guy is about to say. He's a light skinned black man. Glasses with expensive frames. Rings of success on his fingers. Maybe it's the tone of the situation. But I immediately hate this guy and everything he believes in. The man slides to the podium with a confidence of faith but more likely he was paid upfront. I hate this man. I look at Jackie and her scowl is as sharp as the man is dressed. The fury is bubbling over. Outrage and audacity are footnotes to the hatred we feel for this man. It isn't the man's fault, he's probably honest and does good and blah blah. His presence is unwanted. Funerals are for the living not the dead, I know this now.
There is tension in this place and it's coming from Jackie and I as we are determined to let it be known this is not what Patrick would've wanted. It's all we have considering reasoning and understanding are on hiatus for the time being. This integrity to keep "what Patrick would've wanted" doesn't make any sense. Patrick didn't want anything, he didn't even want to be here, this is so other people can feel good about themselves and leave bad thoughts of where Patrick is or could be here, in the hands of a man who didn't know Patrick. A thought inhabits me and I smile for a second. If this were somebody else and Patrick were sitting next to Jackie and I, we would be laughing at the ridiculousness. I can almost hear his laugh before the present moment wakes me up.
The Man leads in with:
"Now before I get started, I would like to say a prayer for everybody here. Lawd, thank you for your blessings and thank you for this day. We are here because Paul has brought us together with our love for him and Lawd, thank you for that. Amen,"
Room full of people. "Amen."
"Now everybody Paul was a good boy"
Jackie and I, "It's Patrick you fucking idiot!"
"Now, now we are all upset, now now, Patrick was a good boy and as he lay, you know Jesus has him in his heart."
Jackie and I, "He didn't believe in that you fucking idiot!"
"Alright now, now, we are all sad with the loss of this young man, now please don't yell out things, we are all sad here."
Jackie screams out loud with no other purpose than to drown out this man's nonsense.
"Okay everybody bow your head. Lawd, please help this family in their time of need. Amen."
Room full of people. "Amen."
The preacher or pastor or reverend leaves the podium. You can almost see him pull his collar and say, "tough crowd."
Now is the time for family members to say something, I guess, because a family member announces if anybody has anything they would like to say about Patrick to please come to the podium. Only a handful of people seemed to muster up the courage to take the podium. All family members, with nothing really to say, just trying to say something nice about him. Keyword "trying".
Patrick dealt in absolutes and so he himself was one also. You either loved Patrick or you hated him. Now to have a room full of people and half of them are there out of politeness? Some of them with enough guilt to actually take the podium? They said facts. Just facts. Things like " Patrick was my cousin and even though he had his ways, I'm very sad for his family" or "Patrick used to pick on me growing up and was mean, but he really loved his family." This is a circus. This is a parade of awkward stumbles. A just cause of the effect of how much of an asshole Patrick is.
This all comes to an end. An announcement is made telling people to line up and see Patrick one last time. Most people don't. A few stragglers make their way up to the casket where I see Patrick is almost smiling. Some, gay men, perhaps lovers, friends, crying and touching Patrick's hands before turning and walking straight out. Women, girls, lovers perhaps friends, again crying and touching Patrick before the heaviness forced them to exit as well.
This charade is over. The closure is in everybody's pocket and they will take it home. Except for George, Pauline, Jackie, myself, everyone else is satisfied. A collective sigh is at the door waiting for the audience members. Jackie and George stay seated. Pauline and I make it to the outside hall before most of the on lookers make their way to exit. We make our way to the two grand chairs poised near the ledger. The ledger where people sign in and write kind words to the dead or surviving family. Again funeral keepsakes. A year book signing idea. So we can look back and see who signed Patrick's death book. I hate society.
Pauline sits and loses herself to a thousand yard stare. I'm watching people as they leave. Some smiling and laughing, others trying not to stare at Pauline. Others quickly leaving to other obligations. Michael weaves through the crowd and makes his way up to Pauline. Michael is Pauline's nephew from her younger brother Peter. Michael's small stature invades our space. "I'm so sorry for your loss Tia." He says this as he bends over and touches Pauline's arm. This makes me uncomfortable. I know he's about to say something awful or stupid. Sure enough, without fail, Michael continues "So, like, I had to take off of work for this, so do I get a note from you or from somebody that works here?" This would be hilarious if I wasn't in this moment. As Michael says this he looks at Pauline, then me, then back to Pauline. Pauline never makes eye contact and turns her head away from Michael. "Mikey get the fuck away from my mother." Everybody knows Michael works at McDonald's. Everybody knows this because he tells everybody how great it is and the benefits. It's McDonald's and they'll need a note for his absence and he thought it would be a perfect time to bother his grieving aunt who was barely able to dress herself for this occasion. He has a straight face the whole time. "I was just asking Georgie, you don't have to be a jerk."
"Get your stupid ass away or I'm going to break your neck." Michael gives a look of defiance before he walks away. I hate him. I hate McDonald's.
Everybody leaves finally except us. At last silence is free to consume the building minus the sounds of footsteps as they echo throughout the halls. The side doors open to the chapel. A silver van with no windows backs up to the doors just outside. Workers have us step out as they put Patrick in a card board box and load him into the van. His body is something to be moved now. Not a person or even fragile. Just a job people have to carry out. We are to follow the van now.
The van leads us to San Fernando Cemetery III. It's a long drive on the other side of town but it feels like short minutes when we arrive. We enter the cemetery passing large weathered black iron gates. It's another long drive to the back of the cemetery. We pass other funerals along the way. People holding one another and you can see flower stands with long colorful ribbons. The patterns of fresh cut grass. The sun not holding anything back. We pull up to a small old stone house. It's gray with black shadows in the corners. The van pulls in and backs up to the side of the house. We step off the car to another entrance parallel to the van entrance. The van opens its back doors and Patrick in the card board box is hoisted on a rolling belt like he's a package. The garage doors to the van's entrance closes behind the box. The van takes off. Maybe to fetch another package. The entrance we walk through into the house has a counter on the right side center and a large window showing the garage area where Patrick is being handled by a worker. George goes to the counter where there's a lady posted. Words exchange. The garage worker guides the box of Patrick into a large burnt iron oven with another flame kissed window so you can witness. The worker exits the garage area and walks through another door separating the two rooms for safety.
George walks back and says that we can watch the cremation and the ashes will be available at the funeral home in 3 days where we are to pick them up. Without any warning. Flames ignite and engulf the box of Patrick. The flames make it hard to see anything. I walk outside. It will take an hour to burn Patrick's body to ash.
We decide not to stay.
I hate sunny days. I hate people. I hate October. I hate family. I hate McDonald's. I hate the fact Patrick doesn't know my daughter or Jackie's son. I hate holidays. I hate this time after Patrick.
I wrote this for me. Memories fade and after 8 years time is catching up to me. It's hard to remember Patrick's voice. It's hard to remember his laugh. It's hard to remember his pain. Only glimpses of images come into view when I'm alone. Some memories keep replaying constantly so as not to forget his smell or his smile or his walk. This is for me. Forgetting is a terrible human trait. You can forget pain along with happiness as life moves forward. Always moving forward.
Thank you for reading this and if you got anything out of it, good for you.
She arrives before the crowd shows. Carolyn sits next to me. She doesn't say anything but her presents is tolerable and comforting. She's been through this before. She has pain similar to this. Her brother through similar devices is gone also.
The chattering of family members interrupts our solemness. They come to mourn. They come to pity. They come out of respect. They arrive together. The seats start to be taken. They leave a pew's distance to separate us from them for whatever reason. Don't they know it's just us. George and Pauline sit on Jackie's side. Somebody walks up and bends down to talk to Pauline. They agree on something. The lights, already dim, turn lower. A projection screen descends from over the casket. It's a slide show of Patrick. Yuck. It opens with a picture him. A social media picture of him. Fades in a date which resembles his birthday but is clearly not Patrick's because the person who put this slide show together is off by 2 years and 8 days. Jackie snaps out of her stupor to yell out, "What the fuck? His birthday is March 10, 1985!" She says this to the screen. This slide show was done poorly with haste. Maybe it was done today. Maybe this morning. It continues with more social media pictures. Apparently whoever made this production didn't know Patrick or bother to ask for older photos. The music is disgusting and even worse than the situation. Some early 90's ode to suicide with an Eddie Vedder knock off voice.
This is all going to be hilarious one day. The pictures continue. Finally it fades to black. A family member takes the podium. Vague tones about loss and Patrick being too young fall out of their mouth and then George relieves them. Thank God. Wait. Now George is introducing a pastor or reverend or preacher. What the fuck is this? It's no secret Patrick didn't believe in the Bible or whatever this guy is about to say. He's a light skinned black man. Glasses with expensive frames. Rings of success on his fingers. Maybe it's the tone of the situation. But I immediately hate this guy and everything he believes in. The man slides to the podium with a confidence of faith but more likely he was paid upfront. I hate this man. I look at Jackie and her scowl is as sharp as the man is dressed. The fury is bubbling over. Outrage and audacity are footnotes to the hatred we feel for this man. It isn't the man's fault, he's probably honest and does good and blah blah. His presence is unwanted. Funerals are for the living not the dead, I know this now.
There is tension in this place and it's coming from Jackie and I as we are determined to let it be known this is not what Patrick would've wanted. It's all we have considering reasoning and understanding are on hiatus for the time being. This integrity to keep "what Patrick would've wanted" doesn't make any sense. Patrick didn't want anything, he didn't even want to be here, this is so other people can feel good about themselves and leave bad thoughts of where Patrick is or could be here, in the hands of a man who didn't know Patrick. A thought inhabits me and I smile for a second. If this were somebody else and Patrick were sitting next to Jackie and I, we would be laughing at the ridiculousness. I can almost hear his laugh before the present moment wakes me up.
The Man leads in with:
"Now before I get started, I would like to say a prayer for everybody here. Lawd, thank you for your blessings and thank you for this day. We are here because Paul has brought us together with our love for him and Lawd, thank you for that. Amen,"
Room full of people. "Amen."
"Now everybody Paul was a good boy"
Jackie and I, "It's Patrick you fucking idiot!"
"Now, now we are all upset, now now, Patrick was a good boy and as he lay, you know Jesus has him in his heart."
Jackie and I, "He didn't believe in that you fucking idiot!"
"Alright now, now, we are all sad with the loss of this young man, now please don't yell out things, we are all sad here."
Jackie screams out loud with no other purpose than to drown out this man's nonsense.
"Okay everybody bow your head. Lawd, please help this family in their time of need. Amen."
Room full of people. "Amen."
The preacher or pastor or reverend leaves the podium. You can almost see him pull his collar and say, "tough crowd."
Now is the time for family members to say something, I guess, because a family member announces if anybody has anything they would like to say about Patrick to please come to the podium. Only a handful of people seemed to muster up the courage to take the podium. All family members, with nothing really to say, just trying to say something nice about him. Keyword "trying".
Patrick dealt in absolutes and so he himself was one also. You either loved Patrick or you hated him. Now to have a room full of people and half of them are there out of politeness? Some of them with enough guilt to actually take the podium? They said facts. Just facts. Things like " Patrick was my cousin and even though he had his ways, I'm very sad for his family" or "Patrick used to pick on me growing up and was mean, but he really loved his family." This is a circus. This is a parade of awkward stumbles. A just cause of the effect of how much of an asshole Patrick is.
This all comes to an end. An announcement is made telling people to line up and see Patrick one last time. Most people don't. A few stragglers make their way up to the casket where I see Patrick is almost smiling. Some, gay men, perhaps lovers, friends, crying and touching Patrick's hands before turning and walking straight out. Women, girls, lovers perhaps friends, again crying and touching Patrick before the heaviness forced them to exit as well.
This charade is over. The closure is in everybody's pocket and they will take it home. Except for George, Pauline, Jackie, myself, everyone else is satisfied. A collective sigh is at the door waiting for the audience members. Jackie and George stay seated. Pauline and I make it to the outside hall before most of the on lookers make their way to exit. We make our way to the two grand chairs poised near the ledger. The ledger where people sign in and write kind words to the dead or surviving family. Again funeral keepsakes. A year book signing idea. So we can look back and see who signed Patrick's death book. I hate society.
Pauline sits and loses herself to a thousand yard stare. I'm watching people as they leave. Some smiling and laughing, others trying not to stare at Pauline. Others quickly leaving to other obligations. Michael weaves through the crowd and makes his way up to Pauline. Michael is Pauline's nephew from her younger brother Peter. Michael's small stature invades our space. "I'm so sorry for your loss Tia." He says this as he bends over and touches Pauline's arm. This makes me uncomfortable. I know he's about to say something awful or stupid. Sure enough, without fail, Michael continues "So, like, I had to take off of work for this, so do I get a note from you or from somebody that works here?" This would be hilarious if I wasn't in this moment. As Michael says this he looks at Pauline, then me, then back to Pauline. Pauline never makes eye contact and turns her head away from Michael. "Mikey get the fuck away from my mother." Everybody knows Michael works at McDonald's. Everybody knows this because he tells everybody how great it is and the benefits. It's McDonald's and they'll need a note for his absence and he thought it would be a perfect time to bother his grieving aunt who was barely able to dress herself for this occasion. He has a straight face the whole time. "I was just asking Georgie, you don't have to be a jerk."
"Get your stupid ass away or I'm going to break your neck." Michael gives a look of defiance before he walks away. I hate him. I hate McDonald's.
Everybody leaves finally except us. At last silence is free to consume the building minus the sounds of footsteps as they echo throughout the halls. The side doors open to the chapel. A silver van with no windows backs up to the doors just outside. Workers have us step out as they put Patrick in a card board box and load him into the van. His body is something to be moved now. Not a person or even fragile. Just a job people have to carry out. We are to follow the van now.
The van leads us to San Fernando Cemetery III. It's a long drive on the other side of town but it feels like short minutes when we arrive. We enter the cemetery passing large weathered black iron gates. It's another long drive to the back of the cemetery. We pass other funerals along the way. People holding one another and you can see flower stands with long colorful ribbons. The patterns of fresh cut grass. The sun not holding anything back. We pull up to a small old stone house. It's gray with black shadows in the corners. The van pulls in and backs up to the side of the house. We step off the car to another entrance parallel to the van entrance. The van opens its back doors and Patrick in the card board box is hoisted on a rolling belt like he's a package. The garage doors to the van's entrance closes behind the box. The van takes off. Maybe to fetch another package. The entrance we walk through into the house has a counter on the right side center and a large window showing the garage area where Patrick is being handled by a worker. George goes to the counter where there's a lady posted. Words exchange. The garage worker guides the box of Patrick into a large burnt iron oven with another flame kissed window so you can witness. The worker exits the garage area and walks through another door separating the two rooms for safety.
George walks back and says that we can watch the cremation and the ashes will be available at the funeral home in 3 days where we are to pick them up. Without any warning. Flames ignite and engulf the box of Patrick. The flames make it hard to see anything. I walk outside. It will take an hour to burn Patrick's body to ash.
We decide not to stay.
I hate sunny days. I hate people. I hate October. I hate family. I hate McDonald's. I hate the fact Patrick doesn't know my daughter or Jackie's son. I hate holidays. I hate this time after Patrick.
I wrote this for me. Memories fade and after 8 years time is catching up to me. It's hard to remember Patrick's voice. It's hard to remember his laugh. It's hard to remember his pain. Only glimpses of images come into view when I'm alone. Some memories keep replaying constantly so as not to forget his smell or his smile or his walk. This is for me. Forgetting is a terrible human trait. You can forget pain along with happiness as life moves forward. Always moving forward.
Thank you for reading this and if you got anything out of it, good for you.
Friday, September 11, 2015
Oct. 20 something part 2
It's quiet, here, in the chapel of graceful degradation where George and Pauline keep Patrick. It's only us here. In a few short hours other people will come to say goodbye to Patrick. He lays in a generic casket, wearing his favorite band's shirt and clothes that I knew he would have worn if he were living. I was tasked with shopping and deciding his "viewing" clothes. My younger brother as well as George and Pauline's son and Jackie's near twin lay, too good for his surroundings. His eyes glued shut. The gray enveloping his should be fair completion and pigment. He is very cold. Stiff. Silent. His hands rest on his belly in a well known fashion. His head propped by a small pillow. I notice that the clothes were cut along the sides. The person responsible for putting his clothes on has learned a trick to this staging process. An illusion we never wanted to know.
How contrary the weather is, it eludes tragedy. I can hear the birds outside singing and the sway of the trees as they dance with the breeze. I can hardly remember anything routine from the last few days concerning hygiene or driving or sleeping, yet somehow Jackie and myself are sitting in the front pews, as George and Pauline hold each other standing over Patrick, quietly sobbing. Jackie is catatonic. Her stare, piercing and focused. Her eyes need not blink due to the constant tears.
This funeral home is understandably fake and smells like an old library. It's a mock chapel. No religious fixtures anywhere so as to accommodate the dead and their mourners with ambiguity. The lights are dim and the ambiance is calming. Immediately after the "viewing" Patrick is to be put in a van and taken to a crematorium. These employees of the funeral home or vultures of human emotion, keep using words and phrases that annoy me. On the surface, compassion, but hanging over us, just above our heads, they pluck for the $2000 urn, because "Patrick deserves the best." These fucking animals. There are cards all around, on the pews, at the podium, with a prayer and Patrick's full name. Fucking vultures. Funeral keepsakes? People are going to show up soon and ruin the quietness. Whispering nonsense, trying not to stare, keeping time, looking at their cell phone, planning dinner, thinking about work. My anger and rage make me hate them for nothing.
I'm so angry. Today is the day we say goodbye to his body. I'm so sad. His smile and spirit will never fade but torment me until I lose my mind. I really hate this. Patrick was never much on social graces. He loved who he loved and dismissed everything else. Violent and beautiful swam through his blood constantly battling to the surface. He dealt in absolutes. There is no in-between with Patrick. An intelligent, good looking, 22 year old boy lay and will never wake up again. He is no saint by any means. He is no villain to those he loved. Just a person with all the flaws to be considered human. He suffered from mental afflictions from boyhood. As kids we found his medical chart in Pauline's records and read his many diagnosis's. That was not a good time. He cried. The records revealed the words "Abnormal", "homosexual" and "depressive", "bipolar". He questioned the world. The 80's were less understanding than now and so were we considering we were children. He started to really spiral out of control in his teens with self mutilation. Cutting himself to "take the pain away". I still don't understand that concept. He would sow himself up and would wait until he was sober to start. He never said why he did any of it. He would just shrug and smile to himself as you asked him 10's of thousands of times to stop. Ten's of thousands of times why, 10's of thousands of times saying that's not helping and to get help, stop hurting yourself, things will get better, I love you, you're hurting mom.
He was institutionalized for drug use. I remember that day. He had been up for days. He was scared to go to sleep. Something was tormenting him. A drug he had taken 3 days before fried his brain. He was just a child. Pauline, Jackie and myself were watching TV and he stood at the doorway. He said, "Mom I need to go to the hospital." He said it so calmly and as a matter of fact. Before Pauline had a chance to ask why, he yelled it again and began to cry but not before raising a blade to his wrist and slicing the flesh. He began to wipe the blood on the walls and scream, "Now! Now!"
Those times were not out weighed by the good times. His smile. His sense of humor. Our provocative conversations about God and sex. His laugh. His ability to make a point and have it hit even if you didn't agree with him. He would make you loathe the fact that his point of view was undeniable. The jokes, the stories, the scariest times were all floating in the air. They were so tangent that you could grab one and hold it until reality stripped it from you and pointed to the casket.
How contrary the weather is, it eludes tragedy. I can hear the birds outside singing and the sway of the trees as they dance with the breeze. I can hardly remember anything routine from the last few days concerning hygiene or driving or sleeping, yet somehow Jackie and myself are sitting in the front pews, as George and Pauline hold each other standing over Patrick, quietly sobbing. Jackie is catatonic. Her stare, piercing and focused. Her eyes need not blink due to the constant tears.
This funeral home is understandably fake and smells like an old library. It's a mock chapel. No religious fixtures anywhere so as to accommodate the dead and their mourners with ambiguity. The lights are dim and the ambiance is calming. Immediately after the "viewing" Patrick is to be put in a van and taken to a crematorium. These employees of the funeral home or vultures of human emotion, keep using words and phrases that annoy me. On the surface, compassion, but hanging over us, just above our heads, they pluck for the $2000 urn, because "Patrick deserves the best." These fucking animals. There are cards all around, on the pews, at the podium, with a prayer and Patrick's full name. Fucking vultures. Funeral keepsakes? People are going to show up soon and ruin the quietness. Whispering nonsense, trying not to stare, keeping time, looking at their cell phone, planning dinner, thinking about work. My anger and rage make me hate them for nothing.
I'm so angry. Today is the day we say goodbye to his body. I'm so sad. His smile and spirit will never fade but torment me until I lose my mind. I really hate this. Patrick was never much on social graces. He loved who he loved and dismissed everything else. Violent and beautiful swam through his blood constantly battling to the surface. He dealt in absolutes. There is no in-between with Patrick. An intelligent, good looking, 22 year old boy lay and will never wake up again. He is no saint by any means. He is no villain to those he loved. Just a person with all the flaws to be considered human. He suffered from mental afflictions from boyhood. As kids we found his medical chart in Pauline's records and read his many diagnosis's. That was not a good time. He cried. The records revealed the words "Abnormal", "homosexual" and "depressive", "bipolar". He questioned the world. The 80's were less understanding than now and so were we considering we were children. He started to really spiral out of control in his teens with self mutilation. Cutting himself to "take the pain away". I still don't understand that concept. He would sow himself up and would wait until he was sober to start. He never said why he did any of it. He would just shrug and smile to himself as you asked him 10's of thousands of times to stop. Ten's of thousands of times why, 10's of thousands of times saying that's not helping and to get help, stop hurting yourself, things will get better, I love you, you're hurting mom.
He was institutionalized for drug use. I remember that day. He had been up for days. He was scared to go to sleep. Something was tormenting him. A drug he had taken 3 days before fried his brain. He was just a child. Pauline, Jackie and myself were watching TV and he stood at the doorway. He said, "Mom I need to go to the hospital." He said it so calmly and as a matter of fact. Before Pauline had a chance to ask why, he yelled it again and began to cry but not before raising a blade to his wrist and slicing the flesh. He began to wipe the blood on the walls and scream, "Now! Now!"
Those times were not out weighed by the good times. His smile. His sense of humor. Our provocative conversations about God and sex. His laugh. His ability to make a point and have it hit even if you didn't agree with him. He would make you loathe the fact that his point of view was undeniable. The jokes, the stories, the scariest times were all floating in the air. They were so tangent that you could grab one and hold it until reality stripped it from you and pointed to the casket.
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
Oct 20 Something Part 1
Some time has passed....
I'm not too sure what day it is or the time but the sun is out. I'm not sure what to feel. Like a washing machine of rage, sadness, anger, guilt, relief, trying to get clean, while spinning and cycling, swooshing and smashing, and drowning. News of Patrick relayed through tears from Pauline and George. He was sent to a morgue downtown somewhere. Suicide is always first treated like a homicide. He's alone. His body is being examined. They tried to take his corneas despite the fact he is not a donor. Word came back that they could not use them because we , as a family, were over seas for a time while mad cows were terrorizing America. The 90's were a great time. Patrick has no sight.
Some time between crying and fits of screaming in the fallout of chaos, Jackie has managed to tell me what happen in the moments before insanity. Patrick stayed with her from time to time because of routine fights with his boyfriend. He was awake that morning and smiling and they talked briefly before she left for work as they did almost everyday. George is suppose to pick up Patrick that day, so he can drop off job applications.
Jackie came home for lunch Oct. 18th. The front door was unlocked and she explained she never leaves her apartment unlocked. She calls Patrick. Nothing but silence. She goes to her bedroom and something, she says, tells her to check closet. She opens the closet door and among the clutter of clothes and shoes, Patrick is hanging by his neck from the closet hanger bar. She describes Patrick in a way that a child would. Jackie sees Patrick folded on himself because the bar was only four feet from the ground. His legs bent and his knees hanging just above the carpet floor of the closet. His eyes closed and his tongue is poking out of his mouth. The rope is cutting into his flesh around his neck. Her first instinct is to help him stand, so she tries to pick up Patrick with her 5' 2", 125 lb frame. It is no help. She runs to the kitchen to grab a knife and runs back to Patrick. She cuts the rope and Patrick falls. She says he falls with no pain, no noise except the sound his body makes from folding on the floor. In a panic Jackie calls George. George did not pick up Patrick.
George did not pick up Patrick. He over slept. He is to be at Jackie's apartment at 9 am but he does not show. George arrives at Jackie's apartment during Jackie's lunch Oct. 18th. Jackie is screaming. She can't stop screaming. Don't let him die! George checks Patrick's pulse. No pulse. He calls 911. He starts CPR on Patrick. George describes Patrick's breath as a terrible odor coming from Patrick's stomach. Such a terrible taste, the taste of death. The rope left a deep ring around his neck. He hates this rope and later finds it came from the dumpster near the back of the apartment. George is still doing CPR. Patrick is making soft grunts but only as reaction to George. Patrick has no pulse. No breath. No life. Patrick is dead.
I'm not too sure what day it is or the time but the sun is out. I'm not sure what to feel. Like a washing machine of rage, sadness, anger, guilt, relief, trying to get clean, while spinning and cycling, swooshing and smashing, and drowning. News of Patrick relayed through tears from Pauline and George. He was sent to a morgue downtown somewhere. Suicide is always first treated like a homicide. He's alone. His body is being examined. They tried to take his corneas despite the fact he is not a donor. Word came back that they could not use them because we , as a family, were over seas for a time while mad cows were terrorizing America. The 90's were a great time. Patrick has no sight.
Some time between crying and fits of screaming in the fallout of chaos, Jackie has managed to tell me what happen in the moments before insanity. Patrick stayed with her from time to time because of routine fights with his boyfriend. He was awake that morning and smiling and they talked briefly before she left for work as they did almost everyday. George is suppose to pick up Patrick that day, so he can drop off job applications.
Jackie came home for lunch Oct. 18th. The front door was unlocked and she explained she never leaves her apartment unlocked. She calls Patrick. Nothing but silence. She goes to her bedroom and something, she says, tells her to check closet. She opens the closet door and among the clutter of clothes and shoes, Patrick is hanging by his neck from the closet hanger bar. She describes Patrick in a way that a child would. Jackie sees Patrick folded on himself because the bar was only four feet from the ground. His legs bent and his knees hanging just above the carpet floor of the closet. His eyes closed and his tongue is poking out of his mouth. The rope is cutting into his flesh around his neck. Her first instinct is to help him stand, so she tries to pick up Patrick with her 5' 2", 125 lb frame. It is no help. She runs to the kitchen to grab a knife and runs back to Patrick. She cuts the rope and Patrick falls. She says he falls with no pain, no noise except the sound his body makes from folding on the floor. In a panic Jackie calls George. George did not pick up Patrick.
George did not pick up Patrick. He over slept. He is to be at Jackie's apartment at 9 am but he does not show. George arrives at Jackie's apartment during Jackie's lunch Oct. 18th. Jackie is screaming. She can't stop screaming. Don't let him die! George checks Patrick's pulse. No pulse. He calls 911. He starts CPR on Patrick. George describes Patrick's breath as a terrible odor coming from Patrick's stomach. Such a terrible taste, the taste of death. The rope left a deep ring around his neck. He hates this rope and later finds it came from the dumpster near the back of the apartment. George is still doing CPR. Patrick is making soft grunts but only as reaction to George. Patrick has no pulse. No breath. No life. Patrick is dead.
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Oct. 18 Part 2
Pulling up to the apartment complex....
The sun is shinning. The clouds are all but tiny streaks across the sky. It is such a rich blue tattered canopy. The air is thin and cool yet somehow still. Jackie is sitting at the foot of the steps with eyes heavy and confused. Her poorly dyed hair, wild as always. Her work uniform a mess. Hands in a knot in her lap as the ground rises up making it too short so her legs have to bend. Tears have stained her face. The distance her fixed gaze seems infinite. I brush pass her as I take the two flights of stairs. In four large steps I take the faulty stair case exposed to the elements. The cracked cement steps and hand rails with chipped paint shake as I reach the rest of my life.
906 stood at the top as I embrace the door way. I had not noticed the ambulance outside, but two uniformed men and George stood over Patrick, with heads hung low in failure. George slightly raised his head as my shadow interrupted his stare. His large arms are folded. The weight of agony overwhelming his large stature. There is no comfort in his face. There's a yellow tarp or sheet or picnic table covering over Patrick, over his torso and face. His long arms and legs were exposed due to the size of broad shoulders of a 6' 1" frame. I float to his side. Tragedy is all around me and invading my chest making it hard to breathe. I kneel down and tug on the yellow covering revealing his face. His eyes slightly open and lost. No life or breath in his lips. A gray blue tint consuming his fading pigment. This was not Patrick but a shell left behind. A vacancy. Blue and dark at the corners of his mouth. His jaw open and pushed back as he lay. A stillness like no other. His large hands and fingers relaxed on the dingy carpet.
As I examined Patrick, George started to cross the threshold from where he and the two paramedics were standing. As a group they yelled, "Get away from him!" The shock I fell under took over and "Fuck you, he's my brother!" came out. I repeated the word "No!" every time my brain dealt with reality until it lost meaning. George's arms held my arms down and pushed me to the door. Patrick is dead. This is forever. This is not real. This hurts unlike any other pain. I am outside of 906 and Patrick lay on a dingy carpet. I walk down the stairs sit next to Jackie. Our silence is not peaceful. The muted sorrow is only disturbed by a car that pulls into a parking space facing the apartment.
A strange, fat woman opens and exits the driver side. Walks to same side passenger door and opens it. Pauline emerges from the strange woman's car. Her disposition emanates from the moment her foot steps out of the car like a mist of despair. Carrying her satchel of a purse, she slowly makes her way towards Jackie and myself. The fat strange woman turns off her car and proceeds to follow Pauline. Pauline makes a timid yet determined walk to the stairs and marches past two almost lifeless fixtures half blocking the steps. She makes a gesture to the woman beside her and the woman stays behind. A slow deliberate pace up the stairs as she makes her way. Pauline enters the apartment and closes the door behind her.
Silence is ruled by Jackie and I as the stranger's nervous energy has no affect on us. Time is irrelevant as the apartment door opens once again. George and Pauline come out into the day. As they make their way down the stairs a large van pulls into the parking lot and blocks the cars in as it stops suddenly. A fat short man and a short thin partner retrieve a stretcher from the back of the van. On the stretcher is a large, dark, dirty blue, heavy blanket. They make a glance at the family of lost hope with a stranger looming. The men make no sound except the banging of the stretcher's wheels as they slide over diffuse pavement broken by time. Up the weathered stairs to commence a job the men were to answer. It took no time to wrap up Patrick in the blanket and strap him down to the stretcher. They almost rushed past George, Pauline, Jackie and myself with a destination too far to waste time.
Just then, Pauline stops these men and says, "Wait," with a soft surrendering voice. The two men looked at eachother and haulted. Only Patrick's face is exposed to the sky. Emotions swelled beyond capacity in all of us except the three strangers. Tears and half broken tender words trickled as we all laid hands and lips to Patrick's face and covered body. One by one we say a few sweet meaningless words and with the end, the two men continue to carry out their mission.
The sun is shinning. The clouds are all but tiny streaks across the sky. It is such a rich blue tattered canopy. The air is thin and cool yet somehow still. Jackie is sitting at the foot of the steps with eyes heavy and confused. Her poorly dyed hair, wild as always. Her work uniform a mess. Hands in a knot in her lap as the ground rises up making it too short so her legs have to bend. Tears have stained her face. The distance her fixed gaze seems infinite. I brush pass her as I take the two flights of stairs. In four large steps I take the faulty stair case exposed to the elements. The cracked cement steps and hand rails with chipped paint shake as I reach the rest of my life.
906 stood at the top as I embrace the door way. I had not noticed the ambulance outside, but two uniformed men and George stood over Patrick, with heads hung low in failure. George slightly raised his head as my shadow interrupted his stare. His large arms are folded. The weight of agony overwhelming his large stature. There is no comfort in his face. There's a yellow tarp or sheet or picnic table covering over Patrick, over his torso and face. His long arms and legs were exposed due to the size of broad shoulders of a 6' 1" frame. I float to his side. Tragedy is all around me and invading my chest making it hard to breathe. I kneel down and tug on the yellow covering revealing his face. His eyes slightly open and lost. No life or breath in his lips. A gray blue tint consuming his fading pigment. This was not Patrick but a shell left behind. A vacancy. Blue and dark at the corners of his mouth. His jaw open and pushed back as he lay. A stillness like no other. His large hands and fingers relaxed on the dingy carpet.
As I examined Patrick, George started to cross the threshold from where he and the two paramedics were standing. As a group they yelled, "Get away from him!" The shock I fell under took over and "Fuck you, he's my brother!" came out. I repeated the word "No!" every time my brain dealt with reality until it lost meaning. George's arms held my arms down and pushed me to the door. Patrick is dead. This is forever. This is not real. This hurts unlike any other pain. I am outside of 906 and Patrick lay on a dingy carpet. I walk down the stairs sit next to Jackie. Our silence is not peaceful. The muted sorrow is only disturbed by a car that pulls into a parking space facing the apartment.
A strange, fat woman opens and exits the driver side. Walks to same side passenger door and opens it. Pauline emerges from the strange woman's car. Her disposition emanates from the moment her foot steps out of the car like a mist of despair. Carrying her satchel of a purse, she slowly makes her way towards Jackie and myself. The fat strange woman turns off her car and proceeds to follow Pauline. Pauline makes a timid yet determined walk to the stairs and marches past two almost lifeless fixtures half blocking the steps. She makes a gesture to the woman beside her and the woman stays behind. A slow deliberate pace up the stairs as she makes her way. Pauline enters the apartment and closes the door behind her.
Silence is ruled by Jackie and I as the stranger's nervous energy has no affect on us. Time is irrelevant as the apartment door opens once again. George and Pauline come out into the day. As they make their way down the stairs a large van pulls into the parking lot and blocks the cars in as it stops suddenly. A fat short man and a short thin partner retrieve a stretcher from the back of the van. On the stretcher is a large, dark, dirty blue, heavy blanket. They make a glance at the family of lost hope with a stranger looming. The men make no sound except the banging of the stretcher's wheels as they slide over diffuse pavement broken by time. Up the weathered stairs to commence a job the men were to answer. It took no time to wrap up Patrick in the blanket and strap him down to the stretcher. They almost rushed past George, Pauline, Jackie and myself with a destination too far to waste time.
Just then, Pauline stops these men and says, "Wait," with a soft surrendering voice. The two men looked at eachother and haulted. Only Patrick's face is exposed to the sky. Emotions swelled beyond capacity in all of us except the three strangers. Tears and half broken tender words trickled as we all laid hands and lips to Patrick's face and covered body. One by one we say a few sweet meaningless words and with the end, the two men continue to carry out their mission.
Friday, August 7, 2015
Oct 18th Part 1
Oct 17 texts
_____________
Patrick
I can't take it anymore brother. I'll see you on the other side
George:
You can't be a pussy your whole life. Everybody has problems. Shut up with that shit
Patrick:
Fuck you, you fucking faggot. I'm going to do something with my life and be better than you.
______________________________________________________________________
Waking up before the sun has always seemed over zealous but I have to be at work today by 7 am. I wake up dragging ass like I have most of my life. I look at my cell phone and it's 6:15am. I look over at Carolyn. My 220lbs shifts the entire bed and she doesn't even move because she's lost in peaceful sleep. I make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth and put on my wrinkled scrubs. I will eventually wake up at work.
The morning drive to the hospital is always as quiet as possible. No music, no sound, except the cool October air rushing against my window. My eyes are still heavy with sleep and the thought of quitting dances across my mind in a worn path. I've never been a morning human.
I arrive at work. Looking tired but not from the night, I pass co-workers and say, "Good Morning", in my best voice. The morning comes and goes, and with time the burden of sleep on my eyes eases. My body is awake and my mind is focus to get through another day in the life of George. I have my cell phone in my back pocket occasionally pulling it out in secret to text Carolyn, like an ordinary day.
Walking through the QC area my phone vibrates. I rush to the back reading area where privacy is warranted. The screen shows DAD. I hesitate to answer as he will probably just want to chat and because of policy number 5 section 2, that could be a problem with my supervisor. I answer it anyway.
George: "What up Pop."
George: "Georgie"
George: "Yeah dad, what's up. I'm at work"
George: "Georgie.....Patrick....Patrick committed suicide"
George: "What? What are you saying? Is he hurt? Where is he? What?
George: "Georgie, Patrick committed suicide. He's dead mijo."
George: "Ok! Where are you? Are you doing cpr? I'm on my way?!"
George: "I'm here at Jackie's apartment."
George: "I'm on my way, keep doing cpr, Dad!"
Blood is rushing. Blood is rushing to my face, hands, legs. Blood is rushing in my ears as if I can hear it. Blood is rushing away from logic. I push the exit door to the back. The thought of telling a co-worker before I leave floods an irrational surge to my brain. I run, not walk or fast walk or jog, I fucking run to the front of the department. I pass by my supervisor and the front desk clerk. I pause for only a moment to utter the words, " I have to leave, my brother died." Saying those words made my eyes pour and my voice squeek. The reality of those words were still fresh as I was only repeating my father.
The drive towards forever seemed like a blurr. I was driving well over the speed limit, weaving in and out of caution. No matter how much I pushed safety, it still felt slow. These emotions were waves crashing against doubt and disbelief. My dad's intelligence questioned. Patrick wasn't dead. What if he was? How can he be dead? What the fuck is going on?
_____________
Patrick
I can't take it anymore brother. I'll see you on the other side
George:
You can't be a pussy your whole life. Everybody has problems. Shut up with that shit
Patrick:
Fuck you, you fucking faggot. I'm going to do something with my life and be better than you.
______________________________________________________________________
Waking up before the sun has always seemed over zealous but I have to be at work today by 7 am. I wake up dragging ass like I have most of my life. I look at my cell phone and it's 6:15am. I look over at Carolyn. My 220lbs shifts the entire bed and she doesn't even move because she's lost in peaceful sleep. I make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth and put on my wrinkled scrubs. I will eventually wake up at work.
The morning drive to the hospital is always as quiet as possible. No music, no sound, except the cool October air rushing against my window. My eyes are still heavy with sleep and the thought of quitting dances across my mind in a worn path. I've never been a morning human.
I arrive at work. Looking tired but not from the night, I pass co-workers and say, "Good Morning", in my best voice. The morning comes and goes, and with time the burden of sleep on my eyes eases. My body is awake and my mind is focus to get through another day in the life of George. I have my cell phone in my back pocket occasionally pulling it out in secret to text Carolyn, like an ordinary day.
Walking through the QC area my phone vibrates. I rush to the back reading area where privacy is warranted. The screen shows DAD. I hesitate to answer as he will probably just want to chat and because of policy number 5 section 2, that could be a problem with my supervisor. I answer it anyway.
George: "What up Pop."
George: "Georgie"
George: "Yeah dad, what's up. I'm at work"
George: "Georgie.....Patrick....Patrick committed suicide"
George: "What? What are you saying? Is he hurt? Where is he? What?
George: "Georgie, Patrick committed suicide. He's dead mijo."
George: "Ok! Where are you? Are you doing cpr? I'm on my way?!"
George: "I'm here at Jackie's apartment."
George: "I'm on my way, keep doing cpr, Dad!"
Blood is rushing. Blood is rushing to my face, hands, legs. Blood is rushing in my ears as if I can hear it. Blood is rushing away from logic. I push the exit door to the back. The thought of telling a co-worker before I leave floods an irrational surge to my brain. I run, not walk or fast walk or jog, I fucking run to the front of the department. I pass by my supervisor and the front desk clerk. I pause for only a moment to utter the words, " I have to leave, my brother died." Saying those words made my eyes pour and my voice squeek. The reality of those words were still fresh as I was only repeating my father.
The drive towards forever seemed like a blurr. I was driving well over the speed limit, weaving in and out of caution. No matter how much I pushed safety, it still felt slow. These emotions were waves crashing against doubt and disbelief. My dad's intelligence questioned. Patrick wasn't dead. What if he was? How can he be dead? What the fuck is going on?
Thursday, November 6, 2014
42 Ways You Know You're an Asshole
This new tired, stupid list shit I see on the Internet. People can't help but click and find out shit they already know. From boring facts nobody cares about to when you're going to die. There's a list for if your mate is right for you and there's a list for if your dog is right for you. There are some that you write the list yourself and it tells you which goonie you're most alike. When did this become a thing. The steady slope of stupidity that America is, is as steep as the caveman's forehead. Only cavemen had a progression and in this world of "idiot information" there's a degression of culture and context.
But I'm no different so here it goes,
1. Fight Club is the best movie ever made.
2. Watch any reality T.V.
3. You watch U.F.C. and think if you had time to train.
4. Think ISIS has a point.
5. Give to United Way instead of volunteering yourself, they have a millionaire CEO!
6. Think Obama cured racism.
7. Believe in global warming.
8. Don't believe in global warming.
9. Grown man and Taylor Swift is your shit behind close doors.
10. Have a tennis fantasy league.
11. Wear skinny jeans and you're over 30.
12. Think the electoral college works.
13. Have a sticker on your back car window of 13.2 mi.
14. Have a sticker on your back car window of 26.2 mi.
15. Have a sticker on your back car window of 100 mi.
16. Have a sticker on your back car window of any mileage but it was already on the car when you bought it.
17. Think Game of Thrones was based on a true story.
18. Watch Walking Dead and think it's better than Breaking Bad.
19. Only watched the last episode of Breaking Bad and then had to watch the whole series.
20. Never heard a studio audience.
21. Vegans.
22. Eat fast food for every meal.
23. Think terroist are anybody with a beard and dark skin.
24. Use all the toilet paper and don't replace roll.
25. Ever watched CNN and totally agreed with everything.
26. Ever watched Fox News and totally agreed with everything.
27. Hate Jesus.
28. Hate Jews.
29. Hate kids.
30. Think you don't want kids because watching your nephew is the same.
31. Talk about things you've only read about like you've experienced them in life.
32. Think the government is out to get you.
33. Yell at people with your windows rolled up in shitty traffic.
34. Gave middle finger to someone in traffic and noticed they had a child in back seat.
35. Driven your friends to a gig with hopes of a guest spot.
36. Leave the light on to scare roaches away.
37. Taken advantage of a homeless person because they needed a place to stay.
38. Touch kids.
39. Realize life is empty.
40. Eat pizza for breakfast.
41. Laughed at Steve Harvey's comedy.
42. Read this blog. (obviously)
The hard part about this form of shit is stopping.
But I'm no different so here it goes,
1. Fight Club is the best movie ever made.
2. Watch any reality T.V.
3. You watch U.F.C. and think if you had time to train.
4. Think ISIS has a point.
5. Give to United Way instead of volunteering yourself, they have a millionaire CEO!
6. Think Obama cured racism.
7. Believe in global warming.
8. Don't believe in global warming.
9. Grown man and Taylor Swift is your shit behind close doors.
10. Have a tennis fantasy league.
11. Wear skinny jeans and you're over 30.
12. Think the electoral college works.
13. Have a sticker on your back car window of 13.2 mi.
14. Have a sticker on your back car window of 26.2 mi.
15. Have a sticker on your back car window of 100 mi.
16. Have a sticker on your back car window of any mileage but it was already on the car when you bought it.
17. Think Game of Thrones was based on a true story.
18. Watch Walking Dead and think it's better than Breaking Bad.
19. Only watched the last episode of Breaking Bad and then had to watch the whole series.
20. Never heard a studio audience.
21. Vegans.
22. Eat fast food for every meal.
23. Think terroist are anybody with a beard and dark skin.
24. Use all the toilet paper and don't replace roll.
25. Ever watched CNN and totally agreed with everything.
26. Ever watched Fox News and totally agreed with everything.
27. Hate Jesus.
28. Hate Jews.
29. Hate kids.
30. Think you don't want kids because watching your nephew is the same.
31. Talk about things you've only read about like you've experienced them in life.
32. Think the government is out to get you.
33. Yell at people with your windows rolled up in shitty traffic.
34. Gave middle finger to someone in traffic and noticed they had a child in back seat.
35. Driven your friends to a gig with hopes of a guest spot.
36. Leave the light on to scare roaches away.
37. Taken advantage of a homeless person because they needed a place to stay.
38. Touch kids.
39. Realize life is empty.
40. Eat pizza for breakfast.
41. Laughed at Steve Harvey's comedy.
42. Read this blog. (obviously)
The hard part about this form of shit is stopping.
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
I Got Robbed
Call her Bella. A green eyed, black kitten that we found at a grocery store parking lot a few years ago. My wife (at the time) decided to keep this rodent till, fast forward, moving into a new place and a pet deposit is out of the question. So she gives Bella to my in-laws. Needless to say Bella died within 6 months. Before Bella died she had kittens, so her legacy will live on, yada yada, sad but purposful life or whatever.
The next part of this story is second hand considering I was working or being "selfish" telling jokes at the time of the incident.
-Fast forward a couple of weeks after Bella dies. My four year old daughter visiting with her grandparents with her Momma on a Sunday, starts asking "Where's Bella?" My stupid brother-in-law opens his big mouth and starts in with, "Bella died and went to heaven." Of course that's not the end of it. Apparently from what my innocent baby girl recalled when I picked her from school the next day, "Bella is in heaven with the love of Jesus and God and she lives in a big mansion." And when she (my innocent baby girl) dies, "she's going to heaven to see Bella's mansion."-
The words choked me up when I heard this from my bright eyed littled girl. That idiot brother in-law robbed me of a moment with my little girl. Word of advice if a kid asks you a question about a subject that might change the way they see the world forever and you didnt help make them directly, tell them to ask their parents instead of taking it upon yourself to plant seeds of "wisdom" on your own. Of course that wasn't the end of it....
"Daddy what's Jesus?" "What's God?" "What's love?" These questions were pouring out of her face faster than the time she caught a stomach virus from school. She needed these questions answered as we made our way to happy hour (Sonic, relax.) I told her to lets get a drink first and I would tell her the answers to her questions. I figured I'd buy some time and maybe her attention span would help me out and she'd forget the whole subject.
We pulled into Sonic and ordered, "I'll take a strawberry banana shake and the lady will have a small banana cream shake, extra cherries please." My baby girl said, "While we wait daddy, can you tell me what God is?"
-DAMMIT ! (on the inside)
Listen, I'm not a believer or non-believer, I just don't know.
I lead in by saying, "God is different for everybody and not everybody believes in the same god or even that there is a god, which is ok. Daddy believes in God, but not how uncle Roland believes in God. To Daddy, God is a feeling you get when you connect to other people. When you talk to them or play with them on the swings. God is a feeling that you have when you are doing something you love or around people you love." She said, "What's love?"
"Love is a feeling you get when you're doing something that makes you happy or around people you care about and enjoy. There are different levels of love. Like, you love Spiderman but you love Mommy more right?" She said, "Yea, I love Mommy and I love Spiderman." I continued, "But if Spiderman was having a birthday party and Mommy was having a birthday party, which one would you go to?" Her little finger tapped her chin and she said, "Mommy and Spiderman have the same birthday?" After a long sigh I said, "Yes, now which one would you go to?"
"We should go to both, we could have one big party and Spiderman could come to Mommy's house and we could go to Chuck E. Cheese."
-DAMMIT! (out loud)
The next part of this story is second hand considering I was working or being "selfish" telling jokes at the time of the incident.
-Fast forward a couple of weeks after Bella dies. My four year old daughter visiting with her grandparents with her Momma on a Sunday, starts asking "Where's Bella?" My stupid brother-in-law opens his big mouth and starts in with, "Bella died and went to heaven." Of course that's not the end of it. Apparently from what my innocent baby girl recalled when I picked her from school the next day, "Bella is in heaven with the love of Jesus and God and she lives in a big mansion." And when she (my innocent baby girl) dies, "she's going to heaven to see Bella's mansion."-
The words choked me up when I heard this from my bright eyed littled girl. That idiot brother in-law robbed me of a moment with my little girl. Word of advice if a kid asks you a question about a subject that might change the way they see the world forever and you didnt help make them directly, tell them to ask their parents instead of taking it upon yourself to plant seeds of "wisdom" on your own. Of course that wasn't the end of it....
"Daddy what's Jesus?" "What's God?" "What's love?" These questions were pouring out of her face faster than the time she caught a stomach virus from school. She needed these questions answered as we made our way to happy hour (Sonic, relax.) I told her to lets get a drink first and I would tell her the answers to her questions. I figured I'd buy some time and maybe her attention span would help me out and she'd forget the whole subject.
We pulled into Sonic and ordered, "I'll take a strawberry banana shake and the lady will have a small banana cream shake, extra cherries please." My baby girl said, "While we wait daddy, can you tell me what God is?"
-DAMMIT ! (on the inside)
Listen, I'm not a believer or non-believer, I just don't know.
I lead in by saying, "God is different for everybody and not everybody believes in the same god or even that there is a god, which is ok. Daddy believes in God, but not how uncle Roland believes in God. To Daddy, God is a feeling you get when you connect to other people. When you talk to them or play with them on the swings. God is a feeling that you have when you are doing something you love or around people you love." She said, "What's love?"
"Love is a feeling you get when you're doing something that makes you happy or around people you care about and enjoy. There are different levels of love. Like, you love Spiderman but you love Mommy more right?" She said, "Yea, I love Mommy and I love Spiderman." I continued, "But if Spiderman was having a birthday party and Mommy was having a birthday party, which one would you go to?" Her little finger tapped her chin and she said, "Mommy and Spiderman have the same birthday?" After a long sigh I said, "Yes, now which one would you go to?"
"We should go to both, we could have one big party and Spiderman could come to Mommy's house and we could go to Chuck E. Cheese."
-DAMMIT! (out loud)
Monday, September 22, 2014
Time Out Already
Yup. It finally happened. The dirty laundry of the NFL is being aired out. Those women beating, child abusing, rapists are finally being acknowledged and justice will be served. Those entitled scumbags are finally having their asses held to the fire and will pay for their crimes against humanity.
Time Out, cant we just wait to see who makes it to the playoffs first before we start destorying people's fantasy teams. Its not like anybody died. So a couple of people got hurt and some kids got beat up, lets just hold off any punishment until the pro-bowl.
Sadly, this is how most of Americans think. The importance of football season in American culture has allowed murderers, drug users, child molesters, jaywalkers and rapists to play this sacred game. Our beloved Michael Irving is in the Hall of Fame for god's sake and he admitly was high on cocaine during every single Cowboys game. This is what we do. Society dictates what's right and wrong when there's millions of dollars at stake. Hell even Rice's new wife is saying how her unconscious behavior was just their way of expressing their love, after all Rice did drag her away instead of just leaving her there. She's not stupid. They both know they messed up chances for a rich life so they got married. That's love people!
Roger Goodell could cry blood and vow to cut his arms off if another NFL player even looks at a kid the wrong way, but honestly all Goodell sounds like is another person trying to keep his job. Another suit, who really could care less about the means just so long as it justifies the end. Now Goodell has to take time out of his day to apologize for other people knocking their wife out and locking kids in cars. You know the level of "give a fuckness" this Goodell has for murder (Ray Lewis) let alone some other black football player beating his fiance, now wife. He has to stoop to the level of apology just to keep his job.
Rice should not be allowed to play football for 2 reasons;
1. for beating his wife.
2. for fucking with a CEO's money.
The only people really upset about this domestic abuse epidemic in the NFL are the same people who watch the 'View'. Outraged "stay at home moms", which contribute next to nothing to society, except taking their little ones to football practice, and men with agendas. Men with agendas exploit terrible situations (9/11, Travon, Raven's season) to sway votes, promote T.V. shows, legalize or keep illegal certain marriages.
Real people only care what they care about. So send these assholes to counseling or ban them. Cut their heads off and make them say America sucks before you do it. Wait that's something else.
Time Out, cant we just wait to see who makes it to the playoffs first before we start destorying people's fantasy teams. Its not like anybody died. So a couple of people got hurt and some kids got beat up, lets just hold off any punishment until the pro-bowl.
Sadly, this is how most of Americans think. The importance of football season in American culture has allowed murderers, drug users, child molesters, jaywalkers and rapists to play this sacred game. Our beloved Michael Irving is in the Hall of Fame for god's sake and he admitly was high on cocaine during every single Cowboys game. This is what we do. Society dictates what's right and wrong when there's millions of dollars at stake. Hell even Rice's new wife is saying how her unconscious behavior was just their way of expressing their love, after all Rice did drag her away instead of just leaving her there. She's not stupid. They both know they messed up chances for a rich life so they got married. That's love people!
Roger Goodell could cry blood and vow to cut his arms off if another NFL player even looks at a kid the wrong way, but honestly all Goodell sounds like is another person trying to keep his job. Another suit, who really could care less about the means just so long as it justifies the end. Now Goodell has to take time out of his day to apologize for other people knocking their wife out and locking kids in cars. You know the level of "give a fuckness" this Goodell has for murder (Ray Lewis) let alone some other black football player beating his fiance, now wife. He has to stoop to the level of apology just to keep his job.
Rice should not be allowed to play football for 2 reasons;
1. for beating his wife.
2. for fucking with a CEO's money.
The only people really upset about this domestic abuse epidemic in the NFL are the same people who watch the 'View'. Outraged "stay at home moms", which contribute next to nothing to society, except taking their little ones to football practice, and men with agendas. Men with agendas exploit terrible situations (9/11, Travon, Raven's season) to sway votes, promote T.V. shows, legalize or keep illegal certain marriages.
Real people only care what they care about. So send these assholes to counseling or ban them. Cut their heads off and make them say America sucks before you do it. Wait that's something else.
Sunday, February 9, 2014
Sit Down Stupid
There's a difference between speaking passionately and speaking from an emotional stand point and the difference is intelligence. A lot of people can't tell the difference. So many stand up and support ridiculous causes when sometimes they need to be told, "Sit down, Stupid."
Obviously we all agree "dumb" people are neccessary in society. "Dumb" people make the world go 'round while "smart" people fight for power. All the people in between these two brackets get shafted and this is how the world has worked since the beginning. The trick "smart" people use to control the masses is acting passionate with fake emotions.
Emotions are instinctual and very easy to manipulate. People will validate your emotion if you have the same feeling even if you are a psycho. "Smart" people use this tool when they need you to get in line or perform insane acts, that normally, people would never do. "Dumb" people are motivated by emotion instead of rhyme and reason.
The "smart" person starts by making a suggestion and clearly has an agenda. The idea could be immoral and illegal and whatever else but if you add an emotion to the equation like empathy, sympathy, patriotism, "caring about the people who dont have a voice" phrases or any other bullshit notion, what they just did was create an emotion. From everyday people telling you how bad a person is in order to gain some sort of control to major organizations asking you to support their CEOs salary in the name of caring for others. "Smart" people give "dumb" people emotions. I would love to give names of organizations but "dumb" people would say I am insensitive and have no heart while they give away their money and good will for nonsense so I'll just break down the psychosis.
A "Smart" person will try to confuse you and wear a disguise of a passionate person. But you see, truly passionate people stir emotions rather than create. The passionate people bring up logic and fight half thought ideas with maturity. The passionate person whether dumb or smart has a purpose of righteousness that is not self serving. These people get into -so called- trouble a lot though depending on how they approach a situation. Each situation is different. Some approach with this "car accident" approach to shock you into remission of logical thought while others act as a guide. Sometimes a little bit of both is used and the person is brought down from emotional heights, back down to earth. They get in trouble by the "dumb" person re-establishing the argument of emotion which was originally seeded by the "smart" person. The ability to have something not feel right rather than realizing what's right is a powerful "dumb" habit that people should break.
Listen, everybody condemns a "rebel without a cause" but nobody confronts the "Rosa Parks without a cause" when they get on their emotional soap box and I think it's important we treat all horseshit that "dumb smart" people throw at us the same. So like my good friend Jay Whitecotton said to Brigitt Nielsen's stunt double, "Sit down, stupid."
Bam black history reference sucka
WWW.GACOMIC.COM
Obviously we all agree "dumb" people are neccessary in society. "Dumb" people make the world go 'round while "smart" people fight for power. All the people in between these two brackets get shafted and this is how the world has worked since the beginning. The trick "smart" people use to control the masses is acting passionate with fake emotions.
Emotions are instinctual and very easy to manipulate. People will validate your emotion if you have the same feeling even if you are a psycho. "Smart" people use this tool when they need you to get in line or perform insane acts, that normally, people would never do. "Dumb" people are motivated by emotion instead of rhyme and reason.
The "smart" person starts by making a suggestion and clearly has an agenda. The idea could be immoral and illegal and whatever else but if you add an emotion to the equation like empathy, sympathy, patriotism, "caring about the people who dont have a voice" phrases or any other bullshit notion, what they just did was create an emotion. From everyday people telling you how bad a person is in order to gain some sort of control to major organizations asking you to support their CEOs salary in the name of caring for others. "Smart" people give "dumb" people emotions. I would love to give names of organizations but "dumb" people would say I am insensitive and have no heart while they give away their money and good will for nonsense so I'll just break down the psychosis.
A "Smart" person will try to confuse you and wear a disguise of a passionate person. But you see, truly passionate people stir emotions rather than create. The passionate people bring up logic and fight half thought ideas with maturity. The passionate person whether dumb or smart has a purpose of righteousness that is not self serving. These people get into -so called- trouble a lot though depending on how they approach a situation. Each situation is different. Some approach with this "car accident" approach to shock you into remission of logical thought while others act as a guide. Sometimes a little bit of both is used and the person is brought down from emotional heights, back down to earth. They get in trouble by the "dumb" person re-establishing the argument of emotion which was originally seeded by the "smart" person. The ability to have something not feel right rather than realizing what's right is a powerful "dumb" habit that people should break.
Listen, everybody condemns a "rebel without a cause" but nobody confronts the "Rosa Parks without a cause" when they get on their emotional soap box and I think it's important we treat all horseshit that "dumb smart" people throw at us the same. So like my good friend Jay Whitecotton said to Brigitt Nielsen's stunt double, "Sit down, stupid."
Bam black history reference sucka
WWW.GACOMIC.COM
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Ever Perform At A Wake
On a Monday, I get a call from my friend asking if I could drive to a gig in McCallen, Tx on wednesday because of a last minute cancellation of one of the comics on the line-up. My friend put it more of as a favor, with gas, food, and not much, but some cash would be a trade for just company between friends. I was hesitant at first, because it's along way for a favor but I decided to go anyway out of "truck it". The tuesday before my friend's show we get word that one of our comic buddies has passed away.
The comic that passed away suddenly, was a local comedian from McCallen. The fallen, was Rey Lopez, a talented, young, and well loved person with potential beyond most comics. This was very sad news for the people that knew him, worked shows with him, but most of all his family. The wednesday show my friend was to headline was to be a tribute show after this untimely tragedy. So my friend Larry, being the good guy he is, asked if he should cancel due to the circumstances and whatever monies he was to get paid be donated to the family. Larry and Rey were friends and like most Valley comics have a good relationship with SA comics. He was told that it was ok to do the show because the tribute show was to follow Larry's show, atleast to my understanding. Plus on a side note, later Larry felt bad about even suggesting to cancel as it was the motto of our friend Rey, that "the show must go on". Also Larry's children liked christmas presents.
Fast forward to wednesday at the crack of 3pm. We begin our mini road trip for the show. The four hours were nothing special. Two friends bullshitting. Gas up, grub and cigarettes. We arrive an hour before the show starts to the theatre, which is the Historic Cine El Rey. Walking towards the theatre, over the marquee it says REY LOPEZ FOREVER.
Suddenly a wave of panic set in as we made our way to the entrance, atleast for me. There were people already there waiting for the show to start. Some were crying, which is very understandable, some were talking about Rey with smiles, and some were staring in the distance lost in deep thought. As Larry and I make our way past the bar into the seating area in the theatre, we meet the owner at his usual spot by the soundboard. I was very nervous as to what I figured was about to take place that night. Just then I look at Larry and I see a reflection of "oh shit nigga" written on his face.
As it gets closer to showtime, many people who loved Rey start to arrive. An array of comics, friends, and Rey's close family came to this special night. The more that people showed up the more Larry and I realized that despite trying to convince ourselves that this was to be treated like a normal show, that impossible notion and professionalism only went so far when the majority of people were sobbing and the air filled with tragedy.
-SHOWTIME-
The host Mario Salazar takes the stage and maybe does 5 minutes of, not matieral, but more of introducing the show and announcing the tribute show to follow. This was a smart move. Mean while, Larry and I are backstage waiting, pacing, and very nervous of what was about to unfold. Just then Mario brings up the first comic. The first comic, Jon Stringer, tries to tell stories of Rey with a cracked voice and tears pouring out of his face. Basically he cries for 10 minutes, which is understandable. Now, during this time, backstage, I turn to Larry and say, "Hey man, I'm not going up, Jesus Christ." Larry breaks character, which apparently has never happened before, takes his stupid glasses off, puts on his hoody, zips it up aggressively and says, "Fuck, I dont know if I can do this man." Larry carried on to say, "People are crying and shit, what the fuck man." I say, " So yeah um, I'll be in the car."
After a moment of working through nerves and acouple of "shits" and "fucks" being thrown at the floor, Larry puts on his glasses, takes off his hoody and trys to muster up some "I don't give a fuck" courage. After all, this is what we do. The wierd thing was Larry had performed at a funeral earlier in the year for our good comic friend, David, who was taken by diabetes. David wanted a show/roast at his funeral. For some reason this show was harder though, Larry said. Maybe it was the circumstances of Rey's death. He had just turned 23 two weeks before. Rey had just died the day before. Rey's parents and siblings were in the front row. The dark cloud of misery hanging over everybody's head that night was very potent and almost tangible.
Mario calls out Larry's stage name for his character, which is hilarious itself. Mario yells into the mic with, "Please everybody, put your hands together for JESUS "WHO FARTED" MENDOZA!" The unbelieveable moment when I see Larry walk on stage, with his t-shirt reading "who farted?", his glasses hanging off his nose, the obvious facial transformation, and the first words out of his mouth were, "Why is everybody so sad?", just about made me piss myself. So, Larry does about 20 minutes. He shits on Mario alot, laced with some ironic hacky jokes. He finishes and walks backstage where he immediately puked and shit at the same time. Joking.
Once again Mario's fat ass takes the stage, and before he brings me up, he decides to announce how I really didnt know Rey and he doesnt know why I was there, but anyway give it up folks. In retrospect, thats comedy gold. But at the moment when we exchanged mic and handshakes, I tell him, "so now we gotta fight."
I knew Rey through comedy. I knew him as a funny guy that didnt tell obvious fat jokes about his weight. I knew Rey as a jerk who would win competitions for comedy. I knew Rey, but Mario was right. I didnt belong there with all these people that knew him outside of comedy. The many people crying and laughing as they told stories of Rey, I didnt belong there. I did belong on the show. I belonged on the stage as a comic but the awful feeling I felt at that moment when I saw Rey's mom in the audience, was "I'm a phony." I started with calling Mario evil and it sucks evil lives forever and Rey is no longer here. Then I begin to pinch the bridge of my nose with frustration and from the back of the theatre I hear a person yell, "keep going man!" The guy that yelled out thought I was choked up but in reality I was extremely uncomfortable. I never sweat on stage no matter how long but I was slimey with the adreneline and regret.
Imagine having to tell jokes at a wake and there's over a hundred people watching you. Now imagine you're bombing so bad that a guy feels sorry enough for you, influenced under false pretenses, mind you because of the body language he is misinterpreting, to shout out, "keep going." NOW IMAGINE you have nothing and you panic and your first (real joke) is a cum joke and it gets half a laugh. I want to say I did my time but with that feeling, a minute felt like an hour. Normally I keep my own time but once I saw any light I said thank you and got off stage.
I hated what I did. I hated being there. I hated myself for being a phony. I hated that random guy for shouting out. I hated Larry for asking me to drive. I hated Rey for dying. I hated everything in that moment that night no matter how illogical it was.
Listen, the point of why I'm telling you this story of my life has nothing to do with comedy. It's about appreciating the moment and opportunity I was given that night. I didnt realize this until the end of Rey's tribute show that followed Larry's. The last person to take the stage that night was Rey's mom. She spoke candid about her son and appreciated all the love in the room that night. She was a real person who was experiencing a real loss and still managed to say a joke in her monologue. This woman prepared this with only a day, after her son dies. That's when I snapped. I realized the priviledge of being there. I wasnt around sad people mourning. I was around sad people celebrating an awesome person's life. Who the hell am I to be angry or selfish. I was lucky to be apart of such a beautiful moment. A moment that will never happen again.
My experience that night changed me. First, the "nigga I performed at a wake" mentality which is a morbid badge of comedy still lingers. Second, how weird Larry is because he donated the CDs he planned to sell for his show to the family. This gesture was for if anybody donates money to Rey's family, they get a free CD. Which I thought was gross because it's like promoting yourself at a funeral. It was funny though, especially on the ride back when Larry asked if that was wrong and I said, "Yup". Followed by Larry saying, "Really? Aww man."
Wrapping this up, I'm glad I was apart of the love and beauty that filled the room that night. I wouldn't trade that experience in comedy for anything. Rest in Peace Rey and thank you.
The comic that passed away suddenly, was a local comedian from McCallen. The fallen, was Rey Lopez, a talented, young, and well loved person with potential beyond most comics. This was very sad news for the people that knew him, worked shows with him, but most of all his family. The wednesday show my friend was to headline was to be a tribute show after this untimely tragedy. So my friend Larry, being the good guy he is, asked if he should cancel due to the circumstances and whatever monies he was to get paid be donated to the family. Larry and Rey were friends and like most Valley comics have a good relationship with SA comics. He was told that it was ok to do the show because the tribute show was to follow Larry's show, atleast to my understanding. Plus on a side note, later Larry felt bad about even suggesting to cancel as it was the motto of our friend Rey, that "the show must go on". Also Larry's children liked christmas presents.
Fast forward to wednesday at the crack of 3pm. We begin our mini road trip for the show. The four hours were nothing special. Two friends bullshitting. Gas up, grub and cigarettes. We arrive an hour before the show starts to the theatre, which is the Historic Cine El Rey. Walking towards the theatre, over the marquee it says REY LOPEZ FOREVER.
Suddenly a wave of panic set in as we made our way to the entrance, atleast for me. There were people already there waiting for the show to start. Some were crying, which is very understandable, some were talking about Rey with smiles, and some were staring in the distance lost in deep thought. As Larry and I make our way past the bar into the seating area in the theatre, we meet the owner at his usual spot by the soundboard. I was very nervous as to what I figured was about to take place that night. Just then I look at Larry and I see a reflection of "oh shit nigga" written on his face.
As it gets closer to showtime, many people who loved Rey start to arrive. An array of comics, friends, and Rey's close family came to this special night. The more that people showed up the more Larry and I realized that despite trying to convince ourselves that this was to be treated like a normal show, that impossible notion and professionalism only went so far when the majority of people were sobbing and the air filled with tragedy.
-SHOWTIME-
The host Mario Salazar takes the stage and maybe does 5 minutes of, not matieral, but more of introducing the show and announcing the tribute show to follow. This was a smart move. Mean while, Larry and I are backstage waiting, pacing, and very nervous of what was about to unfold. Just then Mario brings up the first comic. The first comic, Jon Stringer, tries to tell stories of Rey with a cracked voice and tears pouring out of his face. Basically he cries for 10 minutes, which is understandable. Now, during this time, backstage, I turn to Larry and say, "Hey man, I'm not going up, Jesus Christ." Larry breaks character, which apparently has never happened before, takes his stupid glasses off, puts on his hoody, zips it up aggressively and says, "Fuck, I dont know if I can do this man." Larry carried on to say, "People are crying and shit, what the fuck man." I say, " So yeah um, I'll be in the car."
After a moment of working through nerves and acouple of "shits" and "fucks" being thrown at the floor, Larry puts on his glasses, takes off his hoody and trys to muster up some "I don't give a fuck" courage. After all, this is what we do. The wierd thing was Larry had performed at a funeral earlier in the year for our good comic friend, David, who was taken by diabetes. David wanted a show/roast at his funeral. For some reason this show was harder though, Larry said. Maybe it was the circumstances of Rey's death. He had just turned 23 two weeks before. Rey had just died the day before. Rey's parents and siblings were in the front row. The dark cloud of misery hanging over everybody's head that night was very potent and almost tangible.
Mario calls out Larry's stage name for his character, which is hilarious itself. Mario yells into the mic with, "Please everybody, put your hands together for JESUS "WHO FARTED" MENDOZA!" The unbelieveable moment when I see Larry walk on stage, with his t-shirt reading "who farted?", his glasses hanging off his nose, the obvious facial transformation, and the first words out of his mouth were, "Why is everybody so sad?", just about made me piss myself. So, Larry does about 20 minutes. He shits on Mario alot, laced with some ironic hacky jokes. He finishes and walks backstage where he immediately puked and shit at the same time. Joking.
Once again Mario's fat ass takes the stage, and before he brings me up, he decides to announce how I really didnt know Rey and he doesnt know why I was there, but anyway give it up folks. In retrospect, thats comedy gold. But at the moment when we exchanged mic and handshakes, I tell him, "so now we gotta fight."
I knew Rey through comedy. I knew him as a funny guy that didnt tell obvious fat jokes about his weight. I knew Rey as a jerk who would win competitions for comedy. I knew Rey, but Mario was right. I didnt belong there with all these people that knew him outside of comedy. The many people crying and laughing as they told stories of Rey, I didnt belong there. I did belong on the show. I belonged on the stage as a comic but the awful feeling I felt at that moment when I saw Rey's mom in the audience, was "I'm a phony." I started with calling Mario evil and it sucks evil lives forever and Rey is no longer here. Then I begin to pinch the bridge of my nose with frustration and from the back of the theatre I hear a person yell, "keep going man!" The guy that yelled out thought I was choked up but in reality I was extremely uncomfortable. I never sweat on stage no matter how long but I was slimey with the adreneline and regret.
Imagine having to tell jokes at a wake and there's over a hundred people watching you. Now imagine you're bombing so bad that a guy feels sorry enough for you, influenced under false pretenses, mind you because of the body language he is misinterpreting, to shout out, "keep going." NOW IMAGINE you have nothing and you panic and your first (real joke) is a cum joke and it gets half a laugh. I want to say I did my time but with that feeling, a minute felt like an hour. Normally I keep my own time but once I saw any light I said thank you and got off stage.
I hated what I did. I hated being there. I hated myself for being a phony. I hated that random guy for shouting out. I hated Larry for asking me to drive. I hated Rey for dying. I hated everything in that moment that night no matter how illogical it was.
Listen, the point of why I'm telling you this story of my life has nothing to do with comedy. It's about appreciating the moment and opportunity I was given that night. I didnt realize this until the end of Rey's tribute show that followed Larry's. The last person to take the stage that night was Rey's mom. She spoke candid about her son and appreciated all the love in the room that night. She was a real person who was experiencing a real loss and still managed to say a joke in her monologue. This woman prepared this with only a day, after her son dies. That's when I snapped. I realized the priviledge of being there. I wasnt around sad people mourning. I was around sad people celebrating an awesome person's life. Who the hell am I to be angry or selfish. I was lucky to be apart of such a beautiful moment. A moment that will never happen again.
My experience that night changed me. First, the "nigga I performed at a wake" mentality which is a morbid badge of comedy still lingers. Second, how weird Larry is because he donated the CDs he planned to sell for his show to the family. This gesture was for if anybody donates money to Rey's family, they get a free CD. Which I thought was gross because it's like promoting yourself at a funeral. It was funny though, especially on the ride back when Larry asked if that was wrong and I said, "Yup". Followed by Larry saying, "Really? Aww man."
Wrapping this up, I'm glad I was apart of the love and beauty that filled the room that night. I wouldn't trade that experience in comedy for anything. Rest in Peace Rey and thank you.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Grumpy VS Bad Attitude
Look, I understand that having a bad attitude isn't desired in the work place or when you have to work together for a common goal but can there be a line drawn for grumpy people v.s. bad attitude. Not all grumpy people have bad attitudes. Most are good people that are capable of functioning in society just not at the "speed of nice" as others.
My "speed of nice" might not be at your pace but give me some time, I can catch up. Especially in the morning because I'm not the kind of person that talks at the same volume throughout the day. From 630am to 830am I think we should only communicate by whispering. Now, if you start with the afternoon voice and keep it all day, you probably think I have a bad attitude when I shh you and point at my watch that says it's only 645am. If I had a bad attitude I would have said, "Hey, lower your voice dummy, not everybody is fully awake this early." Then, I would have told people how much of a jerk you were for yelling so early, knowing you were just trying to be nice. That's a bad attitude for you.
The line of bad attitude and grumpiness is a thin one but I believe their is a line. Grumpiness comes to us all. Some people get grumpy if they haven't eaten, while others if they don't get their $10 coffee. That doesn't mean they have a bad attitude. Some people get grumpy because every day they contemplate, is my job even necessary before the sun comes up. All grumps are judged by people that say that person is not a team player or say that person is always in a bad mood.
Grumpy people love their job but sometimes not the people they work with. It's not a bad thing. Some people can't stand their own family. Doesn't mean they hate being apart of the family. Some people don't realize that if they weren't family, there wouldn't be a reason for them to share a meal or even know each other. Again I understand the need to get along in order to have a healthy work environment but some understanding on Mr. or Ms. "Let's give money to our Boss on Boss's Day" part is necessary. Listen, I'm not going to pitch in. That doesn't mean I have a bad attitude. I'm just grumpy. I can give a hand shake but that's about as far as somebody deserves for being a decent human-being to work under. A grumpy person doesn't want to exchange gifts on Christmas at work only to have a $5 limit that, nobody stuck to, except him, be thrown in his face. That doesn't mean they're a bad person. A grumpy person doesn't want to participate in a potluck every week. Lunch is a sacred time. Lunch is the only time they have away from you so they don't get a bad attitude.
Bad attitudes are poisons to the organization. They participate in everything. They sign up first and are the first person to talk bad on how poorly run the event is compared to how they would have ran it. Bad attitudes ruin things like potlucks by having crappy food and making everybody try it, with guilt. The bad attitudes make it a point on boss's day to bring up how small the raise was last year and how they aren't signing there name in the card because the boss sucks.
Bad attitudes sour grumpy people's good name. Please don't emotionally profile grumpy people and lump them into "that guy should just quit because he doesn't fit in here" category. Please don't emotionally discriminate. Next time you think someone has a bad attitude, take a step back and ask yourself, "am I too loud in the morning from 630am to 830am.
www.GAcomic.com
My "speed of nice" might not be at your pace but give me some time, I can catch up. Especially in the morning because I'm not the kind of person that talks at the same volume throughout the day. From 630am to 830am I think we should only communicate by whispering. Now, if you start with the afternoon voice and keep it all day, you probably think I have a bad attitude when I shh you and point at my watch that says it's only 645am. If I had a bad attitude I would have said, "Hey, lower your voice dummy, not everybody is fully awake this early." Then, I would have told people how much of a jerk you were for yelling so early, knowing you were just trying to be nice. That's a bad attitude for you.
The line of bad attitude and grumpiness is a thin one but I believe their is a line. Grumpiness comes to us all. Some people get grumpy if they haven't eaten, while others if they don't get their $10 coffee. That doesn't mean they have a bad attitude. Some people get grumpy because every day they contemplate, is my job even necessary before the sun comes up. All grumps are judged by people that say that person is not a team player or say that person is always in a bad mood.
Grumpy people love their job but sometimes not the people they work with. It's not a bad thing. Some people can't stand their own family. Doesn't mean they hate being apart of the family. Some people don't realize that if they weren't family, there wouldn't be a reason for them to share a meal or even know each other. Again I understand the need to get along in order to have a healthy work environment but some understanding on Mr. or Ms. "Let's give money to our Boss on Boss's Day" part is necessary. Listen, I'm not going to pitch in. That doesn't mean I have a bad attitude. I'm just grumpy. I can give a hand shake but that's about as far as somebody deserves for being a decent human-being to work under. A grumpy person doesn't want to exchange gifts on Christmas at work only to have a $5 limit that, nobody stuck to, except him, be thrown in his face. That doesn't mean they're a bad person. A grumpy person doesn't want to participate in a potluck every week. Lunch is a sacred time. Lunch is the only time they have away from you so they don't get a bad attitude.
Bad attitudes are poisons to the organization. They participate in everything. They sign up first and are the first person to talk bad on how poorly run the event is compared to how they would have ran it. Bad attitudes ruin things like potlucks by having crappy food and making everybody try it, with guilt. The bad attitudes make it a point on boss's day to bring up how small the raise was last year and how they aren't signing there name in the card because the boss sucks.
Bad attitudes sour grumpy people's good name. Please don't emotionally profile grumpy people and lump them into "that guy should just quit because he doesn't fit in here" category. Please don't emotionally discriminate. Next time you think someone has a bad attitude, take a step back and ask yourself, "am I too loud in the morning from 630am to 830am.
www.GAcomic.com
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Burning Money
There's a fine line between being forward and being sexually
aggressive. A man skates that line all the time, and in the end, the
woman likes it or is repulsed by it. A man skating that line is a must,
and all men hope for is that we aren't vilified if a woman isn't
interested. Rejection is something men have adapted to deal with.
Women rarely have to worry about being rejected in a direct
manner or handle the volume of rejects that a man handles daily. Women
aren't built for rejection. To reject a woman, especially if she
bluntly offers her vagina to a man, is like burning money.
We need money and to reject any amount of money no matter worth
is blasphemous, but that's if you're poor. Rich people burn money every
day because they have enough of it. Self respect is like emotional
money, and most women are rich compared to their sexual appetite which
differs from a man's self respect. Every now and then a woman's self
respect loses its value because the offers to fill her sexual appetite
run short. Like any person suffering starvation, they tend to take
matters into their own hands. Backlash can occur if a woman hasn't
estimated a man's wealth of self respect considering women have all but
cornered the market on self respect. The potato sack of rejection never
fits well on women.
Men are born into
this realm of desperation and from adolescence are taught that self
respect doesn't get you fed considering sexual appetite. Men have to
figure out self respect when it comes to relationships on our own as we
get older. Women are taught self respect out the womb and have this
emotional stiff arm if you aren't giving them what they want to see and
hear. Women have to teach themselves about their own sexual appetite as
they get older and have to be ok with losing a little self respect to
fulfill this hunger.
My thoughts on
this arose when I was approached by a sexually starved woman who did not
take into account of my wealth of self respect. The role reversal was;
a woman came at me with sexual aggression, so I emotionally stiff armed
her. The hunger inside this woman was so strong she flat out offers
her vagina as payment to fulfill her own sexual appetite. Now as a man,
my natural instinct was to accept the offer because I'm the one
normally wearing the metaphorical potato sack, but my sexual appetite is
already being fulfilled so I in turn burned money by denying this
woman. I wasted a beer. I threw food away and said fuck those starving
kids in Africa.
Instead of her
taking it like a man and just accepting that I wasn't interested, she
and her friend began to say that maybe I had a small penis, and that's
why I didn't want to have sex with her. I found this frustrating at
first and later on hilarious; because a hungry mouth is hungry no matter
how big it is, and I just wasn't. This refusal of responsibility on her
part that all men take into account is an awakening that some women
aren't ready for. Most women will blame the man for not wanting sex
with them and say things like a small penis is the cause but the fact
is; I'm emotionally rich and don't need your potato sack dummy.
First that logic of "something is wrong with you for not wanting
me" is an arrogance that most women have. Second it's a hilarious
notion that would look stupid on a man, as well. Picture a man being
rejected and then saying it's because your vaginas too small. As if
those are the only factors of why someone wouldn't be interested in
someone else.
WWW.GACOMIC.COM
*commas placed by Jessica Garcia*
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Im Only Helping You
Comedy shows are fun and unlike any other experience in the performing art category. The jokes, upsurd logic that is presented can carry a rhythm and a tone that the comedian puts countless hours behind. Music, poetry, dance and other performing arts share similar traits but stand-up comedy, on its own, is a different animal completely. Stand-up is a constant change of ideas presented with comedic timing and delivery. Most other forms of live entertainment are played or presented at you, where stand-up is all about the satisfaction of the audience. With stand up, gears can be switched if the audience isnt feeling the train of thought the comedian presents which is a huge difference than sitting through a movie you hate or listening to a crappy song until you hear the song you like. A constant battle between artistic integrity and doing your job of getting laughs is internally fought while a comic is on stage. AND YET SOME PEOPLE JUST TAKE THAT FOR GRANTED AND START ANSWERING RHETORICAL QUESTIONS OR THINK IT'S OK TO "HELP THE SHOW."
Hecklers. What can I say that hasnt already been said about dead babies. They stink. Hecklers are everywhere in our lives. The people that interrupt conversations to make a point nobody asked them to make about something off the topic. These self absorbed drones. These vile, sometimes racist, boring story telling, billigerent, unapologizing assholes ruin the laughs other people paid for. The other people, sure they didnt pay to see me but did pay to see PROFESSIONAL COMEDIANS tell jokes.
What really gets me angry are the people that use the safety of society. The confidence of some people when they cant be singled out is through the roof. If comics were selling jokes on the street, these people wouldnt say a word if being confronted one on one. But the illusion is "oh Im just speaking for the crowd". Sometimes I wish the rest of the audience would do what the people on those 9/11 flights should have done and over power these social terrorists. Social Terrorists. Yes that suits these unoriginals fine.
The truth is that stand-up comedy is an after thought for most people. Unlike most medias of entertainment, very few people really enjoy live comedy to their core. Plus anything live, people feel the risk. A risk of maybe these people I paid to be funny arent my kind of funny. I completely understand that logic. A movie they give you previews to hype it up. A band will let you listen to songs before you see them in concert. But a comedy show is a 4D experience because comics are a living, breathing entity feeding the energy of the room or devouring it down. BUT WHEN ANOTHER AUDIENCE MEMBER SHITS ON THE RISK THE REST OF YOU TOOK, WITH YOUR ONE LIFE, I WISH THE REST WOULD TELL THEM TO SHUT THE HELL UP. Again this is just a wish and the actual reality of a situation would be to just rise above it. But being mature, although not fun, is in the long run a better solution to handling jerks.
In closing, I understand that there will always be social terrorism. Some people cant respect the fact the comic on stage didnt just walk off the street but put years into their act. You social terrorists are not original by answering rhetorical questions because chances are some other delusional dick already anwered that same set up on the last show. Ive learned that fighting terrorism with terrorism only ruins it for the people trying to enjoy the show. So this whole thing was for nothing because nothing is going to change. Ive learned how this post is unoriginal. Life is empty means nothing. Bang!
www.gacomic.com
Hecklers. What can I say that hasnt already been said about dead babies. They stink. Hecklers are everywhere in our lives. The people that interrupt conversations to make a point nobody asked them to make about something off the topic. These self absorbed drones. These vile, sometimes racist, boring story telling, billigerent, unapologizing assholes ruin the laughs other people paid for. The other people, sure they didnt pay to see me but did pay to see PROFESSIONAL COMEDIANS tell jokes.
What really gets me angry are the people that use the safety of society. The confidence of some people when they cant be singled out is through the roof. If comics were selling jokes on the street, these people wouldnt say a word if being confronted one on one. But the illusion is "oh Im just speaking for the crowd". Sometimes I wish the rest of the audience would do what the people on those 9/11 flights should have done and over power these social terrorists. Social Terrorists. Yes that suits these unoriginals fine.
The truth is that stand-up comedy is an after thought for most people. Unlike most medias of entertainment, very few people really enjoy live comedy to their core. Plus anything live, people feel the risk. A risk of maybe these people I paid to be funny arent my kind of funny. I completely understand that logic. A movie they give you previews to hype it up. A band will let you listen to songs before you see them in concert. But a comedy show is a 4D experience because comics are a living, breathing entity feeding the energy of the room or devouring it down. BUT WHEN ANOTHER AUDIENCE MEMBER SHITS ON THE RISK THE REST OF YOU TOOK, WITH YOUR ONE LIFE, I WISH THE REST WOULD TELL THEM TO SHUT THE HELL UP. Again this is just a wish and the actual reality of a situation would be to just rise above it. But being mature, although not fun, is in the long run a better solution to handling jerks.
In closing, I understand that there will always be social terrorism. Some people cant respect the fact the comic on stage didnt just walk off the street but put years into their act. You social terrorists are not original by answering rhetorical questions because chances are some other delusional dick already anwered that same set up on the last show. Ive learned that fighting terrorism with terrorism only ruins it for the people trying to enjoy the show. So this whole thing was for nothing because nothing is going to change. Ive learned how this post is unoriginal. Life is empty means nothing. Bang!
www.gacomic.com
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Captain "Save A Country"
Issues concerning Syria with the civil dispute and the question of the Syrian government using excessive force against rebels is all over the media. Allegations of the Syrian Government using chemical agents to neutralize rebel forces has the U.S. government in an uproar. President Obama has stated that if Syria does not hand over chemical weapons to the U.N., the U.S. will start a military strike on Syria. These statements and support from the major players like Russia and China, "convinced" Syrian President Bashar al-Assad to agree to the terms of relinquishing and destroying the stock pile at the timeline set by the U.N.
With this matter, there is a pattern that I really don't understand. Maybe because I'm not a player in that game but why the hell does the U.S. always have be the first to intervene. I love the country I was born in despite its mistakes. The "freedoms" we experience on a daily basis is a luxury most of us take for granted, but this constant involvement of the U.S. is something that's a little embarrassing.
In this case my small mind can only relate the civil war of Syria with the average domestic violence of a crazy couple in your apartment building. Sure you hear that dude beating the hell out of that lady, but what do you think? "If he keeps beating her, she'll get tired of it and leave." So instead of calling the cops you just play the passive aggressive role of asking them to keep the noise down. What you don't do is arm the lady with a bat for next time they fight. Because if you do, you're only making the situation worse. If the lady doesn't beat him, he might kill her. Thus America aiding Syrian rebels only made the situation worse resulting in over 1400 deaths of the rebel force.
I see the point of disarming Syria from its chemical warfare tactics but did so many people have to die because of the so called "morality" that the U.S. expects but doesn't follow. Syrian officials might even face criminal charges in a world court because of those actions, as they should, but is the U.S. really the one to point out the Syrian mistakes after countless mistakes the U.S. has made over the last 12 years of invading countries based on lies?
I'm like you, I really don't care about what the world comes to, as long as it doesn't come to my door. The issue I have is that why can't our government let other countries work stuff out for themselves? Why do we feel the need to police the world when the U.N. (joke) already has that role. Ive heard alot of my friends say things like, "lets bomb them all" and I'm confused as to why should we even be there.
In my mind, America isn't liked by most of the world. Other countries take our culture as a novelty act and we could really give a shit but there's this pretentious part about it. Like we know we suck culturally but we still do nice things for other people. So the more countries we act like we're helping, we get a piece of what we used to be, back. Personally I don't care if we suck just so long as we aren't a sucker by being "Captain Save a Country."
gacomic.com
With this matter, there is a pattern that I really don't understand. Maybe because I'm not a player in that game but why the hell does the U.S. always have be the first to intervene. I love the country I was born in despite its mistakes. The "freedoms" we experience on a daily basis is a luxury most of us take for granted, but this constant involvement of the U.S. is something that's a little embarrassing.
In this case my small mind can only relate the civil war of Syria with the average domestic violence of a crazy couple in your apartment building. Sure you hear that dude beating the hell out of that lady, but what do you think? "If he keeps beating her, she'll get tired of it and leave." So instead of calling the cops you just play the passive aggressive role of asking them to keep the noise down. What you don't do is arm the lady with a bat for next time they fight. Because if you do, you're only making the situation worse. If the lady doesn't beat him, he might kill her. Thus America aiding Syrian rebels only made the situation worse resulting in over 1400 deaths of the rebel force.
I see the point of disarming Syria from its chemical warfare tactics but did so many people have to die because of the so called "morality" that the U.S. expects but doesn't follow. Syrian officials might even face criminal charges in a world court because of those actions, as they should, but is the U.S. really the one to point out the Syrian mistakes after countless mistakes the U.S. has made over the last 12 years of invading countries based on lies?
I'm like you, I really don't care about what the world comes to, as long as it doesn't come to my door. The issue I have is that why can't our government let other countries work stuff out for themselves? Why do we feel the need to police the world when the U.N. (joke) already has that role. Ive heard alot of my friends say things like, "lets bomb them all" and I'm confused as to why should we even be there.
In my mind, America isn't liked by most of the world. Other countries take our culture as a novelty act and we could really give a shit but there's this pretentious part about it. Like we know we suck culturally but we still do nice things for other people. So the more countries we act like we're helping, we get a piece of what we used to be, back. Personally I don't care if we suck just so long as we aren't a sucker by being "Captain Save a Country."
gacomic.com
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Facebook Witness Protection Program
The age of social media and instant communication has revolutionized our world in what we think is a positive but in reality we just advanced being a stalker or creep. The bonds we break in person also have to be broken in the cyber world. The "Blocks" and "Deletes" we go through can be just as devastating or even more so than the "look we gotta talk" speech and the person may not be ready to let go of all the 9 ways to spy on the person ending the relationship. Sometimes the jerks are ex-lovers of your new love trying to break you guys up. And you may not even know why they are contacting you.
Have You or a Fb friend changed their name and started going by a middle name? If so, You have just entered into what I call Facebook Witness Protection or FBWP for short. Sometimes measures have to be taken when a stalker wont stop the harrassment. Lets run down the steps of FBWP.
The first step is set your account to private. Next, block the parties in question. Now if this jerk is lazy, that normally stops the (take me back or Biatch you Effing him) messages. But if that doesnt work, then you have to move to Phase Two. Phase Two or "Name Change" is initiated when you start receiving messages from profiles with no mutual friends. Make no response to these falsehoods. The (perp), still determined, will be hunting with fake profiles in order to gain location of said "man you Effing" or maybe "why you wont come meet for a drink to just talk about what went wrong". It's also important when you change your name that you leave a post, while still under your real name saying, "some creep wont stop bothering me so I'm deactivating my account," to really throw them off your scent. The name change may be difficult to pull off considering that your friends and family may ask questions but for their safety and yours nothing can be disclosed. In fact cyber communication maybe out of the question for friends/family and you may have to see them in person.
There are some other precautions that go along with entering in the FBWP that must be followed. No "liking" any statuses for the fact, that lowlife maybe still scouring the web for any trace of you. This is where some people have a hard time. The procedure for "liking" statuses from now on is private messages. The new procedure for accepting a friend request is, first you meet in person, then you accept a request. Rather than just going through the suggestions, a face to face meet is crucial to your safety. Also any further attempts to be friended with no mutual friends is to be treated as a threat and automatically blocked.
People never think of the consequences of the bridge they burn. Somehow it never occurs to them the lengths people are willing to spy on peoples lives from a safe distance. The FBWP is real and can help you. Make these psychopaths resort to old fashion ways of stalking, like driving by your house at night or coincidentally running into you everywhere you go.
-Special thanks to Jen-
www.gacomic.com
Have You or a Fb friend changed their name and started going by a middle name? If so, You have just entered into what I call Facebook Witness Protection or FBWP for short. Sometimes measures have to be taken when a stalker wont stop the harrassment. Lets run down the steps of FBWP.
The first step is set your account to private. Next, block the parties in question. Now if this jerk is lazy, that normally stops the (take me back or Biatch you Effing him) messages. But if that doesnt work, then you have to move to Phase Two. Phase Two or "Name Change" is initiated when you start receiving messages from profiles with no mutual friends. Make no response to these falsehoods. The (perp), still determined, will be hunting with fake profiles in order to gain location of said "man you Effing" or maybe "why you wont come meet for a drink to just talk about what went wrong". It's also important when you change your name that you leave a post, while still under your real name saying, "some creep wont stop bothering me so I'm deactivating my account," to really throw them off your scent. The name change may be difficult to pull off considering that your friends and family may ask questions but for their safety and yours nothing can be disclosed. In fact cyber communication maybe out of the question for friends/family and you may have to see them in person.
There are some other precautions that go along with entering in the FBWP that must be followed. No "liking" any statuses for the fact, that lowlife maybe still scouring the web for any trace of you. This is where some people have a hard time. The procedure for "liking" statuses from now on is private messages. The new procedure for accepting a friend request is, first you meet in person, then you accept a request. Rather than just going through the suggestions, a face to face meet is crucial to your safety. Also any further attempts to be friended with no mutual friends is to be treated as a threat and automatically blocked.
People never think of the consequences of the bridge they burn. Somehow it never occurs to them the lengths people are willing to spy on peoples lives from a safe distance. The FBWP is real and can help you. Make these psychopaths resort to old fashion ways of stalking, like driving by your house at night or coincidentally running into you everywhere you go.
-Special thanks to Jen-
www.gacomic.com
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Men Dont Hunt Women!
This struggle for power and respect between men and women only becomes more apparent as I get older. The more women want to be independent the more rights men give them. Sounds like a sexist statement, but its a fact. In America there's never been a civil war or significant blood bath between men and women where women really had to literally fight for their rights. What happens is women will argue the hell out of something until men eventually cave due to the drought of sex and chaos in the home. Women are in power but don't know it, that's why men have tried to keep our thumb on them for so long.
I USED TO THINK men were better than women, because we conquered fire and the whole IPhone thing, but the fact is women are better at psychological warfare. The struggle for power starts when we first meet. Although the female existence is a complete lie, men have to accept. We HAVE to accept it. The lie starts out with women that can't remember their natural hair color, wear jelly pads in their bras, wear fake eye lashes and squeeze into spanx. I'm not saying all woman lie the same but if you own a pair of heels or wear make-up, then you're in this boat. As a man, we have to take you serious even though you look like a badly wrapped christmas present. As a man I have to like, love and get used to being lied to on a regular basis. That's a huge win for women considering we have no choice but to accept you as you are when looking in the bars and grocery stores.
I say looking for women and not hunting because let's face it, men don't hunt women, WOMEN HUNT MEN. That's another reason why women are better than men. Because they have men convinced that we should hunt and pursue them. Fact is, there are more women in this world than men. Why should men hunt if we are the ones going extinct. If men are outnumbered then a woman's selection is limited. How can men hunt if they are the rare species.
How do women hunt? Women hunt by waiting for the prey to come to them. Women are like deer feed. A buck doesn't know he's being judged when he approaches an oasis in the forest. He's too busy being magnificent and showing off his horns. He doesn't know that the vagina rifle is being loaded and a judgment of "can this dumb animal provide for a family of four" or "at least feed me for one night" is in play. All the buck knows is "dam that feed looks delicious." His goal is "I'll just have my fill, thank god for the opportunity, and move on hoping I find some more food." Men go out with a wish for sex and women go out with decision of sex.
(SIDE NOTE : if you're a woman and you're sick to your stomach of the men you keep attracting you're able to hunt better prey. You might have to go to a gym and get in shape because that's what it takes to be a better hunter. And by that I mean, that bad taste in your mouth from not being satisfied because you keep snagging squirrels and possums, thinking its going to sustain, is your lack of hunting skills. A Woman ultimately has the power on what goes into her body for nourishment.)
Men are too stupid to realize the power they have of how rare of a species they are and that's why men lose. Women are better because they make us believe that we have to be worthy enough to be at the dinner table as the main course, which is totally backwards. No other predator on the planet has a prey that volunteers. This new kind of predator is so arrogant that it will even tell the prey "not interested" which means, I'm not liking what you can offer to sustain me physically, emotionally, financially. Mean while the stupid turkey is saying how tasty his meat is and how he has all the fixings (i.e. house, car, career.)
WWW.GACOMIC.COM
I USED TO THINK men were better than women, because we conquered fire and the whole IPhone thing, but the fact is women are better at psychological warfare. The struggle for power starts when we first meet. Although the female existence is a complete lie, men have to accept. We HAVE to accept it. The lie starts out with women that can't remember their natural hair color, wear jelly pads in their bras, wear fake eye lashes and squeeze into spanx. I'm not saying all woman lie the same but if you own a pair of heels or wear make-up, then you're in this boat. As a man, we have to take you serious even though you look like a badly wrapped christmas present. As a man I have to like, love and get used to being lied to on a regular basis. That's a huge win for women considering we have no choice but to accept you as you are when looking in the bars and grocery stores.
I say looking for women and not hunting because let's face it, men don't hunt women, WOMEN HUNT MEN. That's another reason why women are better than men. Because they have men convinced that we should hunt and pursue them. Fact is, there are more women in this world than men. Why should men hunt if we are the ones going extinct. If men are outnumbered then a woman's selection is limited. How can men hunt if they are the rare species.
How do women hunt? Women hunt by waiting for the prey to come to them. Women are like deer feed. A buck doesn't know he's being judged when he approaches an oasis in the forest. He's too busy being magnificent and showing off his horns. He doesn't know that the vagina rifle is being loaded and a judgment of "can this dumb animal provide for a family of four" or "at least feed me for one night" is in play. All the buck knows is "dam that feed looks delicious." His goal is "I'll just have my fill, thank god for the opportunity, and move on hoping I find some more food." Men go out with a wish for sex and women go out with decision of sex.
(SIDE NOTE : if you're a woman and you're sick to your stomach of the men you keep attracting you're able to hunt better prey. You might have to go to a gym and get in shape because that's what it takes to be a better hunter. And by that I mean, that bad taste in your mouth from not being satisfied because you keep snagging squirrels and possums, thinking its going to sustain, is your lack of hunting skills. A Woman ultimately has the power on what goes into her body for nourishment.)
Men are too stupid to realize the power they have of how rare of a species they are and that's why men lose. Women are better because they make us believe that we have to be worthy enough to be at the dinner table as the main course, which is totally backwards. No other predator on the planet has a prey that volunteers. This new kind of predator is so arrogant that it will even tell the prey "not interested" which means, I'm not liking what you can offer to sustain me physically, emotionally, financially. Mean while the stupid turkey is saying how tasty his meat is and how he has all the fixings (i.e. house, car, career.)
WWW.GACOMIC.COM
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Why Do White Girl Teen Idols Always Go Slutty
ITs a fact that if you want to have longevity in "show business" you have to stay relevant. I don't think anyone who ever had a hit single or starred in a great TV series or even a great comedy special, just settled after that. The goal is FOREVER for everybody. The goal is Pryor, the goal is CHEERS, the goal is Marvin Gaye. This can be achieved sometimes by reinventing your image or adding another talent to your repertoire. We've seen this with many stars. Rappers/Singers who act or actors who produce a pop album. This new blurring the lines from singer to entertainer is nothing new or even frowned upon considering that the work to put into one is very difficult. But anyway you can stay relevant is the way to go.
My topic speaks for itself. I typed in "twerk" into YouTube (because I'm a scumbag) and what do I find? Miley Cyrus's music video WE CANT STOP. This example of a young white girl teen idol gone slutty is pretty awesome. Now don't get me wrong its ridiculous and her hair cut stinks and she keeps sticking out her tongue for some reason, but the ass shaking isn't bad. The humping of the bed needs work. When I saw this I wasn't turned on because ,lets face it, Miley Cyrus is awkward in this video. She doesn't make me believe her slutyness as much as Christina Aguilera did when she came out with her debut slutty video DIRRTY. Brittany Spears was even more believable with her crossover skank vids. They both made you believe that inner slut couldn't wait to come out. This Miley Cyrus Vid is embarrassing to the trend of "white girl teen idol turned bad girl who doesn't play by anybody's rules anymore".
Why do white girl teen idols always go slutty? Why not just come out a skank or stay the same like Kelly Clarkson. Why stray from the route you were going? You don't have to be a hoe bag for people to think you're an adult now. I know people change but, come on, from 0-60 just looks like you have something to prove. If its a phase then alright, I get it, you were told to be wholesome and told how to wear your hair. You were told what to say. Fine. But really, slut is the first image you go for when you finally get that freedom that success bestows upon you at a certain level.
Why not go deeper? Why not take a break and gain some life experience so you can write better songs? Assuming you write your own songs. Why not ask your record label you want to go the Alicia Keys route, stuff you can just listen to instead of shaking your ass all the time. People always want to take the easy road to forever.
I guess to wrap this bullshit up. If you're going to go the "I'm a bad girl now and I don't care who knows it" route, just make it believable. Make me feel like those guilty thoughts I had of the 15 year old wholesome persona was a fake because your inner "SKANKARELLA" couldn't wait to come out.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Can you just pretend to give a sh*t?
Listen, if you really don't care to call me and tell me a horrible story or talk about your day or even ask me a question of what's going on, can you please text like you give a shit. Me reading your shitty texts of misspelled words and unnecessary punctuation marks is a drag considering the text is one of the lowest forms of communication created. I'm sick of deciphering modern day hieroglyphics to the point I just copy and resend back.
People used to write letters not too long ago and when you received one you were happy that person took the time to go to the store, buy paper and pens, sit down, write their thoughts, seal it and send it. You felt good, the consideration and effort that person went through just to wait a week if you replied. Why do only prisoners still enjoy that past time? Then the telephone was invented, not as special as the letter, but it brought people together quicker incase of emergency. Then came the invention of computers and emails, and that's when everything started going to shit. And so this new half-ass language emerged and was created to express our wants and needs, our moods and thoughts, our ability to write or type or text as little as possible in order to get our point across.
This bullshit where people type things like "smh", "lmao", "stfu", (etc.) and the emoticon pictures to express how we feel, makes me sick. I think, what a non-caring jackass. If you can't even stand the sound of my voice for 2 minutes, at least show me the respect of complete words. Instead I get this "when r u soon troops comedy club" followed by "not soon, doin". Look you're already saving time by having a conversation that I can't interrupt. You're already cutting out the whole importance of my time because half the stuff I get could have waited until I saw you again in life. Jesus, can you just pretend to give a shit.
And if I hear another idiot talking in that language, I'm going to fucking lose my shit. No self respecting person sees something amazing or horrific and says OMG. You sound like a jerk. Stop being an asshole.
www.gacomic.com
People used to write letters not too long ago and when you received one you were happy that person took the time to go to the store, buy paper and pens, sit down, write their thoughts, seal it and send it. You felt good, the consideration and effort that person went through just to wait a week if you replied. Why do only prisoners still enjoy that past time? Then the telephone was invented, not as special as the letter, but it brought people together quicker incase of emergency. Then came the invention of computers and emails, and that's when everything started going to shit. And so this new half-ass language emerged and was created to express our wants and needs, our moods and thoughts, our ability to write or type or text as little as possible in order to get our point across.
This bullshit where people type things like "smh", "lmao", "stfu", (etc.) and the emoticon pictures to express how we feel, makes me sick. I think, what a non-caring jackass. If you can't even stand the sound of my voice for 2 minutes, at least show me the respect of complete words. Instead I get this "when r u soon troops comedy club" followed by "not soon, doin". Look you're already saving time by having a conversation that I can't interrupt. You're already cutting out the whole importance of my time because half the stuff I get could have waited until I saw you again in life. Jesus, can you just pretend to give a shit.
And if I hear another idiot talking in that language, I'm going to fucking lose my shit. No self respecting person sees something amazing or horrific and says OMG. You sound like a jerk. Stop being an asshole.
www.gacomic.com
Sunday, August 11, 2013
My Legs Fall Asleep
Boredom and loss of imagination has given us so many great things in this "wifi generation". The mighty internet of the 21st century is a spectacle of modern boredom at its best.
My boredom comes at times when its really important for me to pay attention to my tasks at hand. How many of us take our phones in the bathroom? I know I do. I sit there thinking I'm killing two birds with one dump, but in actuality I've gotten bored going to the bathroom? It hit me the other day, I've become a slave to thinking I'm supposed to be entertained every second of the day. Even before I sit down, I already have CNN or YouTube ready to surf. Why do I have to make my "dump time" interesting so much so that my legs fall asleep. The pins and needles in my legs and the odor of a stagnant pond are both unnecessary, but this void of substance needs fulfillment.
I see those commercials, "don't text and drive", and I laugh. It must suck to kill yourself and the last text is "ROTF". That's irony. My denial is I don't identify with those people but in fact I am those people. Even with the responsibility of a half ton carbon fiber and steel killing machine screaming at 80 mph down the highway, I fight the urge to update social networks. I hate a good stretch of highway or red light because my boredom takes over and then I hear that notification ringtone. I'm like a junkie fighting the itch of satisfaction received from one of my dumb friends liking my post. I know I shouldn't be bored while driving, with lives at stake, but this age of instant communication and -so called- entertainment is hard to kick when for 6 seconds I can watch some girl twerk on Vine.
This problem of no imagination and no motivation to create has run rampant throughout society. People can become rich off boredom. Talent is a thing for the dinosaurs. Six seconds is all it takes for stardom. The amount of disinterest in creating substance is a travesty of epidemic proportions which enables my boredom. The majority of this world could give a crap about context, as long as you entertain them while using the bathroom or while they wait for their white soy mocha grande. The over saturation of "entertainment" is boring in itself.
I try to stump YouTube because I'm bored with boredom. I typed "Shark VS German Shepard". Fifty-two videos popped up. We could point fingers and say it's society enabling or maybe it's the generation of non-imaginative jerks but lets be honest isn't this blog boring too.
www.gacomic.com
I see those commercials, "don't text and drive", and I laugh. It must suck to kill yourself and the last text is "ROTF". That's irony. My denial is I don't identify with those people but in fact I am those people. Even with the responsibility of a half ton carbon fiber and steel killing machine screaming at 80 mph down the highway, I fight the urge to update social networks. I hate a good stretch of highway or red light because my boredom takes over and then I hear that notification ringtone. I'm like a junkie fighting the itch of satisfaction received from one of my dumb friends liking my post. I know I shouldn't be bored while driving, with lives at stake, but this age of instant communication and -so called- entertainment is hard to kick when for 6 seconds I can watch some girl twerk on Vine.
This problem of no imagination and no motivation to create has run rampant throughout society. People can become rich off boredom. Talent is a thing for the dinosaurs. Six seconds is all it takes for stardom. The amount of disinterest in creating substance is a travesty of epidemic proportions which enables my boredom. The majority of this world could give a crap about context, as long as you entertain them while using the bathroom or while they wait for their white soy mocha grande. The over saturation of "entertainment" is boring in itself.
I try to stump YouTube because I'm bored with boredom. I typed "Shark VS German Shepard". Fifty-two videos popped up. We could point fingers and say it's society enabling or maybe it's the generation of non-imaginative jerks but lets be honest isn't this blog boring too.
www.gacomic.com
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