Awaking from a restful eleven and a half hours of sleep on a Saturday morning, I was grief stricten to realize that I had slept through a Friday night of rampant popularity, the likes of which have previously been unseen in quite sometime.
Invitations to sportsbars and pizza pig outs aside, it was time to begin my day. Starting with a excavation of my work pants in search of Burger King coupons and assorted loose change.
By noon a flurry of text message exchanges set in place plans for a trip to meet and greet with rising rap phenom J.Cole. The supposed next big thing, a lightskinned gangly protege of current hip hop mega star Jay-Z. My main focus was retrieving a photograph with the young star. Bait for luring co-workers by my desk at work, flaunting various impressive photographs with celebrities. An illusion that would lead cubicle dwelling types with the impression that outside of the office I actually lead quite the exciting life. J.Cole would be the center piece of this collection.
Sadly, mother nature and fate would have other plans on this day. By mid afternoon our scavenger hunt of hotels and tour buses was cut premature. The only option now was to seek shelter beneath an awning outside of the venue where a small crowd of J.Cole devotees had arrived FOUR HOURS IN ADVANCE!
Things were beginning to look grim on our part, the gaggle of scrawny pre-pubescent twelve year old girls were never going to allow us close enough access for autographs and photos upon the stars arrival.
As the rain cleared and the sun shined it dawned upon me that todays generation of kids are not only better looking then the previous one (mine or close to it) they are also much cleaner. Their hair is groomed immaculantly, their sneakers are spotless and their clothes although cheap looking are quite expensive. They are excessorized to a T even in a economy where their parental overlords are possibly struggling to find work or making ends meet on meger wages. The possibility of dripping a sweat appears to have never been a threat to these kids and if it had I imagine it would have been such a life shattering revolation that their worlds would have unraveled, leaving them huddled in a corner somewhere in the fetile position deep throating their baby smooth thumbs.
From out of this glob of hair gel and freshly unboxed Air Jordan sneakers arose a scuzzy ball of battered flesh so ghastly, so threatening to the mainstream way of life, likely the only way of life these kids knew, that he immediatly caught my attention.
This hideous creature, stinking of trash and carrying around a makeshift pole fitted with a hook on the tip, approached me with a friendly grin full of tooth decay and gingivitis. We exchanged pleasantries and small talk over the weather before delving into more serious subject matter such as the JFK assassination and our shared hatred for George W. Bush. Or, the "bitch boy" as my new found friend would repeatedly refer to him.
"The names Paco!"
Paco would go on to share with me tales of adventure that he experienced as a prisoner for twenty-eight years in the OHIO prison system. Claiming that after an altercation with the warden at one prison he was sent to "the hole" for a year and a half where he feasted upon generous helpings of Jack Daniels. The hole as he described it was roughly five-by-five, dark, filthy and if you didn't catch your meals before they were slopped on the floor then you were pretty much fucked.
His crime was double-attempted-homicide.
Before prison Paco did several years in Vietnam where he lost a brother and uncle who also served in his unit. He himself left Vietnam after taking no less then six bullets in various parts of his body. His SSDI payments were apparently brought to a screeching hault a few years ago thanks to budget cuts by then President George W Bush.
At 3 am every morning Paco can be found trolling the treacherous alley ways and dumpsters behind downtown bars where he collects aluminum cans.
"This is my job, man. One night some dude left a pack of sixteen Miller Genuine Drafts on a table, I didn't hesitate to crank those fuckers down!"
By Pacos own estimates he is one of roughly 30,000 homeless citizens who have made the sunwashed streets of St. Petersburg home.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Fear Of A Islamic Planet!
9-11-2001
I'll never forget the moment it happend.
Sitting in the back corner of my senior year economics class goofing around with my buddy Nick. Our teacher, an unappologetic capitalist with a thinning comb over hair cut and a face that looked uncomfortably like a cheap Hitler Halloween mask (Thus, why he was referred to as Rubber Face. A nickname I still claim to have originated, although the origins have and will continue to be debated), was yammering on as usual about remote Florida locales along treacherous stretch's of highway where he planned to invest and sell for a profit to developers.
Without warning a class mate, her name escapes me, barges in through the doorway tardy by about fifteen minutes with claims that a plane has just struck the World Trade Center in New York City. Rubber Face immediatly rushed to his computer, no doubt to check on his stocks. A girl sitting next to myself and Nick, a ditzy blonde with the IQ of a used condom said, "was it intentional?".
We looked at one another in disbelief that any person this stupid could have survived on this planet for as long as she had. Ofcourse it wasn't intentional, who would fly a plane purposely into a giant building?
Amazingly, I managed to sit through one more class without even the slightest of mention of what was happening in New York City with exception to murmers in the hallways. So, I didn't think to much about it and why would I have? I was a naive seventeen (a week before my eighteenth birthday) year old slacker with bad skin and a part time job at a grocery store, my main concern was graduating with a C average so my dad wouldn't kick my ass. Life continued as normal, although I was conscious that a major news story was developing.
In those days I would leave school around 11:30 - Noon each day because of the OJT Program. As I walked home I could sense that something had changed, cars were driving slower, the few that were actually on the roads and the city itself seemed have lost it's pulse.
When I finally found myself infront of a television screen I vividly remember Tom Brokaw on NBC and the horrific visions of a mass murder being broadcasted in real time for the whole planet to witness. Words were flying across the bottom of the screen with quotes and facts as cameras showed helpless souls launching themselves from the windows of a flaming skyscraper. The streets of lower Manhattan covered in clouds of dust and people in tears fearing for the safety of their loved ones. It was a miserable sight to behold and yet I couldn't look away, it was the greatest car crash in the history of the world and instead of casually strolling by with a curious eye we all stopped dead in our tracks and stared.
My attention sooned turned to the radio where I recall hearing that retarded "Proud To Be An American" song and blowhards demanding immediate carpet bombing of every city in the middle east.
In a instant the world had changed forever.
It's kind of crazy, even now as I write this my eyes tend to water a bit. The real tragedy of 9/11 isn't the dismantling of The World Trade Center, it's the monsters we have all become in the years to follow. Bitter partisianship, exploitation and a willingness to sacrifice the lives of others for the comfort of our own safety without ever blinking an eye.
I'll never forget the moment it happend.
Sitting in the back corner of my senior year economics class goofing around with my buddy Nick. Our teacher, an unappologetic capitalist with a thinning comb over hair cut and a face that looked uncomfortably like a cheap Hitler Halloween mask (Thus, why he was referred to as Rubber Face. A nickname I still claim to have originated, although the origins have and will continue to be debated), was yammering on as usual about remote Florida locales along treacherous stretch's of highway where he planned to invest and sell for a profit to developers.
Without warning a class mate, her name escapes me, barges in through the doorway tardy by about fifteen minutes with claims that a plane has just struck the World Trade Center in New York City. Rubber Face immediatly rushed to his computer, no doubt to check on his stocks. A girl sitting next to myself and Nick, a ditzy blonde with the IQ of a used condom said, "was it intentional?".
We looked at one another in disbelief that any person this stupid could have survived on this planet for as long as she had. Ofcourse it wasn't intentional, who would fly a plane purposely into a giant building?
Amazingly, I managed to sit through one more class without even the slightest of mention of what was happening in New York City with exception to murmers in the hallways. So, I didn't think to much about it and why would I have? I was a naive seventeen (a week before my eighteenth birthday) year old slacker with bad skin and a part time job at a grocery store, my main concern was graduating with a C average so my dad wouldn't kick my ass. Life continued as normal, although I was conscious that a major news story was developing.
In those days I would leave school around 11:30 - Noon each day because of the OJT Program. As I walked home I could sense that something had changed, cars were driving slower, the few that were actually on the roads and the city itself seemed have lost it's pulse.
When I finally found myself infront of a television screen I vividly remember Tom Brokaw on NBC and the horrific visions of a mass murder being broadcasted in real time for the whole planet to witness. Words were flying across the bottom of the screen with quotes and facts as cameras showed helpless souls launching themselves from the windows of a flaming skyscraper. The streets of lower Manhattan covered in clouds of dust and people in tears fearing for the safety of their loved ones. It was a miserable sight to behold and yet I couldn't look away, it was the greatest car crash in the history of the world and instead of casually strolling by with a curious eye we all stopped dead in our tracks and stared.
My attention sooned turned to the radio where I recall hearing that retarded "Proud To Be An American" song and blowhards demanding immediate carpet bombing of every city in the middle east.
In a instant the world had changed forever.
It's kind of crazy, even now as I write this my eyes tend to water a bit. The real tragedy of 9/11 isn't the dismantling of The World Trade Center, it's the monsters we have all become in the years to follow. Bitter partisianship, exploitation and a willingness to sacrifice the lives of others for the comfort of our own safety without ever blinking an eye.
The Internet Ruined The Sex Culture!
A few evenings ago as I sat around lurched over infront of my laptop, drooling to the site of a woman drilling herself into the shaft of a bedpost, it occured to me that the internet has completely ruined the sex culture in this country.
Back in the day lonely women desperate for love had no choice but to get out of the house and make themselves available, going to bars, etc. They were easy picking for the scoundrals of the time. Even those without agendas still had to get out of the house and therefore allow nature to take it's course if they ever planned to procreate with the opposite sex. Therefore a healthy and vital ecosystem existed on this planet for centuries, that is before the invention of the internet.
In the modern age it is almost taboo to meet somebody in a social setting. The fun of face to face interaction, learning somebodies behavior first hand and enjoying the simplistic mysteries of a first date seem to have gone the way of the dodo bird. These days our attractions are rooted in the salesman ship and self fetishizing of social networking and text messages.
Don't get me wrong, I've dabbled in the online dating scene here and there. It's a easy means of getting laid but the problem is that people with self esteem issues get a hold of a digital camera, some good lighting and allow their newfound celebrity status amongst the gaggles of their perverted fanbase to go to their head.
A chick that used to be a casual homebody, the type of woman that would be a good catch in a not so distant primitive past is now a devient with an addiction to jilling off over the phone and infront of web videos for strangers. A chick may boast of having had only a few sexual partners, but ask her how many dudes she has sent photos of her baby portal to and see if the layers of that wholesome church lady image doesn't shed away like the peels of an orange.
Capitalism is a strange beast, a system that thrives upon providing it's participants with options is not necassarily a bad thing, unless it is being utilized by a lonely species that since it's earliest beginnings of crawling out of the mud as a walking tadpole has been in search of communication with others of its own kind. The combination has resulted in the greatest technological arms race in the history of the world and amongst its best achievements is the ability for a man in Omaha, Nebraska to send a photo of his manhood to a woman in Tallahasee, Florida in a matter of seconds.
What I am getting at is that being a human being no longer seems good enough. Although still flesh and blood our lifestyles are becoming more and more roboticized and safe. The pay off of a sexual encounter much like everything else that was ever worth accomplishing is the adventure that takes place along the way. Looking for perfection on a website with a glossy profile is not human and worst of all it's boring.
Just saying...
Back in the day lonely women desperate for love had no choice but to get out of the house and make themselves available, going to bars, etc. They were easy picking for the scoundrals of the time. Even those without agendas still had to get out of the house and therefore allow nature to take it's course if they ever planned to procreate with the opposite sex. Therefore a healthy and vital ecosystem existed on this planet for centuries, that is before the invention of the internet.
In the modern age it is almost taboo to meet somebody in a social setting. The fun of face to face interaction, learning somebodies behavior first hand and enjoying the simplistic mysteries of a first date seem to have gone the way of the dodo bird. These days our attractions are rooted in the salesman ship and self fetishizing of social networking and text messages.
Don't get me wrong, I've dabbled in the online dating scene here and there. It's a easy means of getting laid but the problem is that people with self esteem issues get a hold of a digital camera, some good lighting and allow their newfound celebrity status amongst the gaggles of their perverted fanbase to go to their head.
A chick that used to be a casual homebody, the type of woman that would be a good catch in a not so distant primitive past is now a devient with an addiction to jilling off over the phone and infront of web videos for strangers. A chick may boast of having had only a few sexual partners, but ask her how many dudes she has sent photos of her baby portal to and see if the layers of that wholesome church lady image doesn't shed away like the peels of an orange.
Capitalism is a strange beast, a system that thrives upon providing it's participants with options is not necassarily a bad thing, unless it is being utilized by a lonely species that since it's earliest beginnings of crawling out of the mud as a walking tadpole has been in search of communication with others of its own kind. The combination has resulted in the greatest technological arms race in the history of the world and amongst its best achievements is the ability for a man in Omaha, Nebraska to send a photo of his manhood to a woman in Tallahasee, Florida in a matter of seconds.
What I am getting at is that being a human being no longer seems good enough. Although still flesh and blood our lifestyles are becoming more and more roboticized and safe. The pay off of a sexual encounter much like everything else that was ever worth accomplishing is the adventure that takes place along the way. Looking for perfection on a website with a glossy profile is not human and worst of all it's boring.
Just saying...
Monday, August 1, 2011
The Jacksonville Summit Part 8: Life, Love and Ilsa: She Wolf Of The SS!
I'm posted up on the hallway walls outside of the convention entrance, feeling a little creeperish. Still somewhat trashed from the previous nights hijinks, questioning in my own head the logic behind my current motives. That of working up the courage to talk to the shiniest bronzed skinned, natural fro wearing, cleavage packing female I have ever laid eyes upon. If only I had bumped into her fifteen-hours earlier in a poorly lit nightclub as opposed to this brightly lit hotel lobby.
Normally I would take a quick glance and go on about my business, but this broad was obviously in this hallway with a specific purpose. Considering the type of crowd to show up at this event it was highly unlikely that she was there to get her poster for House Of 1000 Corpses signed by Sid Haig. Na, she was anxiously waiting for Pam Grier. Who, judging by her appearance must have been a influence over her.
I took a deep breath, told my brain to shut-up and took a giant step forward towards the target in my crosshairs.
"John, you ready or what?" a voice shouted from the distance.
My focus was disrupted and the kind of woman I had waited twenty seven and a half years to baby-mama was gone, out of sight and probably out of my life forever.
Opportunity blown.
"Come on we're having dinner with Dyanne Thorne at Gene's Seafood", explained Ed Tucker.
"Dyanne Thorne huh", not a bad backup plan for the evening I thought to myself.
Allow me for the briefest of seconds to be sparingly honest. I've never been a huge fan of the Ilsa films. Not because they are bad or not something I'd be interested in viewing. On the contrary, Ilsa is right up my alley. The problem is that I have been putting off viewing them for some time in the not to distant future so that I have atleast some type of cinematic treats on reserve for a rainy day.
With that said, I have been a huge fan of the films trailers for years. I even recall an experience at Unique Videos "Cult-O-Ween" when a discussion amongst fans came to a screaching halt as a trailer for Ilsa: Harem of the Oil Shieks came on the TV.
Bronzed over beauties are a dime a dozen, but dinner with a legend such as Dyanne Thorne was an experience to rare to pass up.
As I entered the restaurant joined by the likes of Ed Tucker, Brandon Merkely and Jon Haughton, my partners in crime for the weekend. I realized we were also accompanied by a few of Ed's personal friends.
At first I viewed this as a possible threat to my personal satisfaction, boy was I wrong. Amongst this crew was a conservative looking family of fourish, the mother I'm assuming a virgin to such cinematic spectacles as the Ilsa films.
Jon Haughton along with Dyanne Thornes wonderfully pleasent husband Howard Maurer strolled to the table, wearing none other then a bright red t-shirt with a giant Ilsa on the front decked out in full Nazi garb.
I loved it, the mother of the family, an obvious Sarah Palin fan leaned cautiously into her husbands ear, her eyes a glaze. Distraught and in a panic she whispered, "Oh my, I think we may be in danger".
On any other that night that would have been enough to suffice my appetite for moments of the unique variety. Not on this night, one of the most special of any I have ever lived through was nothing more then the bite of a delicious appetizer.
As our gang settled in, myself along with Ed, Jon and Brandon were basically tucked into a corner of the table with Dyanne and Howard to ourselves. Both of whom were filled with all sorts of amazing tales of filmmaking and life in general.
**** The Previous Evening ****
My first night in Jacksonville, sprayed down with Roca Wear cologne, dressed to impress and packing a bottle of Hennessy Black, I strolled through the hotel hall on my way to share a drink and conversation with good friends and a cult film legend.
On my journey through the halls I encountered a petite little number decked out in firm fitting black leather.
"Ilsa, what's up" I shouted.
The woman turned to face me, "That's not my name!", Ms. Thorne proclaimed in a sassy fit.
I caught up to her, we exchanged pleasentries and introductions as I escorted her down the hall to an elevator and to a gig performing a wedding ceremony for a pair of die-hard fans.
On the way we discussed a few topics, but mainly her and her husband Howard Maurers careers performing wedding ceremonies in Vegas.
As we parted ways I promised that when the time comes for me to tie the knot, there was no other option I would settle for other then to be married by Ilsa.
She turned to face me with the warmest smile and said, "John, when that time comes she will be a very lucky woman".
**** Next Night @ Gene's Seafood ****
Overwhelmed by the quality of conversation being held at this dinner table, surrounded by fan boys with an encyclopedic knowledge of cinematic history, I couldn't help but shift my focus to the chemistry of Mr and Mrs Maurer.
Never in my life have I ever witnessed two people so obviously in love. These two cuddled and swooned at one another like a couple of pubescent kitty cats in love.
Besides meeting with legends and having an awesome weekend of fandom, I also had alterior motives of going wild in a strange city, getting fucked up and wrecklessly poon banging as many whores as I could get my hands on. I didn't want to just write a blog, I wanted to tell my fucking tales to the annoyed doctors at the damn health department Monday morning! My dick was like a kamikazi pilot with a death wish, it was all or nothing this weekend.
With that said, it's no secret that at this point in my life I have all but given up hope on true love. It's a myth, an urban legend but as I sit at this table staring at The Maurers I might as well have been slapped in the face by the Lochness Monsters tail or bitten on the throat by the Chupacabra!
My brain, temporarily rattled was jolted back to life by a question I feel honored to have been apart of answering.
"This may sound kind of stupid to you guys, but what is a grindhouse?" asked Mrs. Maurer.
Me and Brandonly Merkely turned to face each other in astonishment. Then the four of us eagerly talked over each other trying to answer her question, each with a different answer.
Here I was telling a legend of 42nd St, one of several female representatives of the grindhouse genre what she was apart of. Fucking amazing!
As we arrived back to the hotel our group became somewhat scattered for a brief moment and I somehow wound up alone strolling with Howard Maurer. I told him about my crazy experiences in Jacksonville and he shared a few experiences back. We had a few laughs and suddenly Mr. Maurer put his hand on my back and turned me towards his wife who was walking with the rest of the group.
In one of those rare, life changing moments Mr. Maurer told me something to the effect of, "You know, I been married for "x" amount of years to the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth, I could never do anything to ruin that." As an example of why he had given up partying.
I've heard this type of talk before but there was something very genuine and real in Mr. Maurers tone. When I looked at him I could see that in his heart of hearts this was a man who could not live without this woman next to him everyday for the rest of his life. His world obviously meant nothing without her and I believe that she felt that way about him in return.
We all met upstairs and settled into some couches to enjoy one anothers company a little while longer. A great deal of conversation was had and friendships were ceiled.
Normally I would take a quick glance and go on about my business, but this broad was obviously in this hallway with a specific purpose. Considering the type of crowd to show up at this event it was highly unlikely that she was there to get her poster for House Of 1000 Corpses signed by Sid Haig. Na, she was anxiously waiting for Pam Grier. Who, judging by her appearance must have been a influence over her.
I took a deep breath, told my brain to shut-up and took a giant step forward towards the target in my crosshairs.
"John, you ready or what?" a voice shouted from the distance.
My focus was disrupted and the kind of woman I had waited twenty seven and a half years to baby-mama was gone, out of sight and probably out of my life forever.
Opportunity blown.
"Come on we're having dinner with Dyanne Thorne at Gene's Seafood", explained Ed Tucker.
"Dyanne Thorne huh", not a bad backup plan for the evening I thought to myself.
Allow me for the briefest of seconds to be sparingly honest. I've never been a huge fan of the Ilsa films. Not because they are bad or not something I'd be interested in viewing. On the contrary, Ilsa is right up my alley. The problem is that I have been putting off viewing them for some time in the not to distant future so that I have atleast some type of cinematic treats on reserve for a rainy day.
With that said, I have been a huge fan of the films trailers for years. I even recall an experience at Unique Videos "Cult-O-Ween" when a discussion amongst fans came to a screaching halt as a trailer for Ilsa: Harem of the Oil Shieks came on the TV.
Bronzed over beauties are a dime a dozen, but dinner with a legend such as Dyanne Thorne was an experience to rare to pass up.
As I entered the restaurant joined by the likes of Ed Tucker, Brandon Merkely and Jon Haughton, my partners in crime for the weekend. I realized we were also accompanied by a few of Ed's personal friends.
At first I viewed this as a possible threat to my personal satisfaction, boy was I wrong. Amongst this crew was a conservative looking family of fourish, the mother I'm assuming a virgin to such cinematic spectacles as the Ilsa films.
Jon Haughton along with Dyanne Thornes wonderfully pleasent husband Howard Maurer strolled to the table, wearing none other then a bright red t-shirt with a giant Ilsa on the front decked out in full Nazi garb.
I loved it, the mother of the family, an obvious Sarah Palin fan leaned cautiously into her husbands ear, her eyes a glaze. Distraught and in a panic she whispered, "Oh my, I think we may be in danger".
On any other that night that would have been enough to suffice my appetite for moments of the unique variety. Not on this night, one of the most special of any I have ever lived through was nothing more then the bite of a delicious appetizer.
As our gang settled in, myself along with Ed, Jon and Brandon were basically tucked into a corner of the table with Dyanne and Howard to ourselves. Both of whom were filled with all sorts of amazing tales of filmmaking and life in general.
**** The Previous Evening ****
My first night in Jacksonville, sprayed down with Roca Wear cologne, dressed to impress and packing a bottle of Hennessy Black, I strolled through the hotel hall on my way to share a drink and conversation with good friends and a cult film legend.
On my journey through the halls I encountered a petite little number decked out in firm fitting black leather.
"Ilsa, what's up" I shouted.
The woman turned to face me, "That's not my name!", Ms. Thorne proclaimed in a sassy fit.
I caught up to her, we exchanged pleasentries and introductions as I escorted her down the hall to an elevator and to a gig performing a wedding ceremony for a pair of die-hard fans.
On the way we discussed a few topics, but mainly her and her husband Howard Maurers careers performing wedding ceremonies in Vegas.
As we parted ways I promised that when the time comes for me to tie the knot, there was no other option I would settle for other then to be married by Ilsa.
She turned to face me with the warmest smile and said, "John, when that time comes she will be a very lucky woman".
**** Next Night @ Gene's Seafood ****
Overwhelmed by the quality of conversation being held at this dinner table, surrounded by fan boys with an encyclopedic knowledge of cinematic history, I couldn't help but shift my focus to the chemistry of Mr and Mrs Maurer.
Never in my life have I ever witnessed two people so obviously in love. These two cuddled and swooned at one another like a couple of pubescent kitty cats in love.
Besides meeting with legends and having an awesome weekend of fandom, I also had alterior motives of going wild in a strange city, getting fucked up and wrecklessly poon banging as many whores as I could get my hands on. I didn't want to just write a blog, I wanted to tell my fucking tales to the annoyed doctors at the damn health department Monday morning! My dick was like a kamikazi pilot with a death wish, it was all or nothing this weekend.
With that said, it's no secret that at this point in my life I have all but given up hope on true love. It's a myth, an urban legend but as I sit at this table staring at The Maurers I might as well have been slapped in the face by the Lochness Monsters tail or bitten on the throat by the Chupacabra!
My brain, temporarily rattled was jolted back to life by a question I feel honored to have been apart of answering.
"This may sound kind of stupid to you guys, but what is a grindhouse?" asked Mrs. Maurer.
Me and Brandonly Merkely turned to face each other in astonishment. Then the four of us eagerly talked over each other trying to answer her question, each with a different answer.
Here I was telling a legend of 42nd St, one of several female representatives of the grindhouse genre what she was apart of. Fucking amazing!
As we arrived back to the hotel our group became somewhat scattered for a brief moment and I somehow wound up alone strolling with Howard Maurer. I told him about my crazy experiences in Jacksonville and he shared a few experiences back. We had a few laughs and suddenly Mr. Maurer put his hand on my back and turned me towards his wife who was walking with the rest of the group.
In one of those rare, life changing moments Mr. Maurer told me something to the effect of, "You know, I been married for "x" amount of years to the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth, I could never do anything to ruin that." As an example of why he had given up partying.
I've heard this type of talk before but there was something very genuine and real in Mr. Maurers tone. When I looked at him I could see that in his heart of hearts this was a man who could not live without this woman next to him everyday for the rest of his life. His world obviously meant nothing without her and I believe that she felt that way about him in return.
We all met upstairs and settled into some couches to enjoy one anothers company a little while longer. A great deal of conversation was had and friendships were ceiled.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Wanted: Overrated NBA Player Needed To Sell Used Cars
I didn't start out a Lebron hater. When I was in high school I enjoyed keeping up with his journal entries that he would publish for SLAM magazine about his summers palling around with Jay-Z and playing scrimmage pick-up games in Chicago with Jordan and other pro's. It was kind of cool to see this kid around my age succeeding.
I even watched his first ever professional game against the Sacramento Kings and cheered for him. He put on quite a show, his numbers were pretty good by anybodies standards let alone a kid just out of high school playing his first game in the NBA.
But then it all sort of started changing.
For me the crest broke on my Lebron James fandom when I heard him say during an interview that his ambitions where to be like Muhammed Ali. So here I am about to give this guy all the praise in the world thinking that the brother is about to say some profound shit, when he follows with, "I want to be a global marketing icon".
Now, call me crazy. But when I think of Muhammed Ali I think of him for his refusal to join the military and commitment to the Nation Of Islam at a time when it couldn't have been any more damaging to his image. Not for his loyalty to selling sneakers and car insurance. I also put Ali on a pedastal that very few can stand on, that of a great champion who was devoted first and foremost to being the best. It's guys like him who made pop culture in the United States the envy of the world and was not only a profound entertainer but a leader that any citizen regardless of class, gender, ethnicity could find inspiration from and apply the principles of hard work and achievement to their own lives.
Lebron James has virtually no redeemable qualities. He has achieved almost nothing because everything has been handed to him since day one. Yes, he wins games. Yes, he has alot of money. Yes, does this or that. But at the end of the day history will forget all of those things if the man retires from the NBA minus a handful of championship rings to accessorize with his classy wardrobe. And even then I have a hard time believing that he will retire with the same level of respect as the legendary players. The guys who were devoted day in and day out. Who never accepted failure as an option and took it personally. The kind of guys who could lead and win. Bird, Magic, Jordan, Kobe, these guys are legends. As of right now Lebron James despite all of the hype manufactured by apparell companies is not even close to being in the same category as these guys. Nobody is scared of him.
This offseason instead of practicing his dance moves, hosting events at trendy night clubs and getting tattoos, maybe he needs to put in a few extra hours of work each day to get to the level his talents demand of him.
Otherwise, he will go down as not only the most disappointing NBA star in history, but a guy who could have been a star during a time when the world needed one the most. Or, he can just keep getting wealthier. Whatever works for him.
I even watched his first ever professional game against the Sacramento Kings and cheered for him. He put on quite a show, his numbers were pretty good by anybodies standards let alone a kid just out of high school playing his first game in the NBA.
But then it all sort of started changing.
For me the crest broke on my Lebron James fandom when I heard him say during an interview that his ambitions where to be like Muhammed Ali. So here I am about to give this guy all the praise in the world thinking that the brother is about to say some profound shit, when he follows with, "I want to be a global marketing icon".
Now, call me crazy. But when I think of Muhammed Ali I think of him for his refusal to join the military and commitment to the Nation Of Islam at a time when it couldn't have been any more damaging to his image. Not for his loyalty to selling sneakers and car insurance. I also put Ali on a pedastal that very few can stand on, that of a great champion who was devoted first and foremost to being the best. It's guys like him who made pop culture in the United States the envy of the world and was not only a profound entertainer but a leader that any citizen regardless of class, gender, ethnicity could find inspiration from and apply the principles of hard work and achievement to their own lives.
Lebron James has virtually no redeemable qualities. He has achieved almost nothing because everything has been handed to him since day one. Yes, he wins games. Yes, he has alot of money. Yes, does this or that. But at the end of the day history will forget all of those things if the man retires from the NBA minus a handful of championship rings to accessorize with his classy wardrobe. And even then I have a hard time believing that he will retire with the same level of respect as the legendary players. The guys who were devoted day in and day out. Who never accepted failure as an option and took it personally. The kind of guys who could lead and win. Bird, Magic, Jordan, Kobe, these guys are legends. As of right now Lebron James despite all of the hype manufactured by apparell companies is not even close to being in the same category as these guys. Nobody is scared of him.
This offseason instead of practicing his dance moves, hosting events at trendy night clubs and getting tattoos, maybe he needs to put in a few extra hours of work each day to get to the level his talents demand of him.
Otherwise, he will go down as not only the most disappointing NBA star in history, but a guy who could have been a star during a time when the world needed one the most. Or, he can just keep getting wealthier. Whatever works for him.
Who or What is a Kanto?
"Ow-ange Chick-n lonch spech-ill fa-nine-nine($4.99) you tie sampa."
That was a pretty damn good piece of orange chicken, I thought to myself. My stomach twisting and turning anxiously with agreement.
Sold!
"I'll have one of those and a medium Cherry Coke with no ice please."
"If I order my drink with ice these clever Koreans may try to pull a fast one on me and fill that whole damn cup to the brim", I thought to myself. Leaving me with three-maybe-four gulps of foamy Cherry Coke to slurp down and a whole cup of ice for a whopping 1.85!
After waiting nearly five minutes behind somebodies soon to be dead grandfather, wondering how this corpse managed to escape from the confines of his nursing facility and venture to the mall, I was given my order. The elderly gentleman was still counting his change trying to pay the tiny korean girl at the counter.
-Five cents-
-Ten cents-
So on and so fourth.
I retired over to the quiet corner of the food court, a section away from the crowds and a good view of all of the scantily clad baby-mamas of drug dealers. The ones with nine kids tend to be the best kept and sleaziest.
After chowing down my delicious orange chicken, I caught the bus outside and headed to Williams Park with a few detours through some of the cities less desirable communities. Never one to pass up the opportunity to browse a good thrift store I stopped at the Central Ave Goodwill and like a punch to the throat I was attacked from within by something demonic. That delicious orange chicken from the mall wasn't agreeing with me. Maybe the Koreans were harboring some long held resentment over a war that happend decades before my birth and here I was now, the victim of some sort of pay-back through a orange chicken lunch special.
Not now, I kept reminding myself. The bathroom of the Goodwill is not the time nor the place. I caught the next bus to Williams Park, hoping to catch another bus that would deliver me to my doorstep in a hurry.
The next bus wouldn't be for another fourty-five minutes and the last possible option was to use the facilities at Williams Park. One night I wondered in there to find a half naked derelict undressing and piss all over the floors. No thank you. It's the kind of pulic restroom where vagrants go to smoke crack and fuck, it's dark and the lighting is some bright flourescent green color. It looks more like the setting for a Saw movie then a sterile place to take a shit.
The monster in my belly was growing meaner by the second.
I hightailed it in a jiffy to the nearest public restroom I could find, the one in the court yard at Baywalk. These days Baywalk is looking like one of those propped up ghost town sets they would use for old time western films. If the wind blows the place looks like it might fly off and the illusion that a poorly planned family friendly entertainment complex marketed towards the rich may be gone forever.
With only one business open besides the movie theater and virtually no Saturday afternoon foot traffic I decided that this was the ideal spot to exorcise this demon.
The bathroom at Baywalk isn't much better then the one in Williams Park. The floors are wet and covered in sand like the ones you find on a beach. The doors are stripped off of the handles, theres open wires and beer cans. Somebody had themselves a wild time in here the night before.
No sooner as I sat my naked ass down on the toilet seat, the entrance door swung open and some belching tub-o-lard came scuffling in. I imagined him as a unshaven mutanoid that farts at the dinner table or pee's in the family pool. The kind of guy who grabs the ass's of waitresses and stairs like a creep at his daughters friends. Whatever he was I needed him to leave the room asap so I could unload and get the hell out of that stink trap.
Here I was, my stomach burning and my bowels clinching, trying to remain as silent as a church mouse. The man finally left without washing his hands, ofcourse.
Just as I had assumed the coast was clear, some other smug Guy Harvey wearing sailor wanna-be came strolling into the stahl next to me. His hairy feet, unkept dirty toe nails and dollar store flip flops were a disturbing site.
All I wanted was to peacefully take a dump, how is it that the mens restroom at Baywalk can have more foot traffic then the entire rest of this empty complex has had in the last decade of operations? I hate eating infront of people, holding private phone calls infront of people and even worse using the restroom around other people.
Just as I had given up all hope for a moment of privacy, I looked up in prayer and was distracted by a air vent somebody had tagged with the word, "Kanto" on it. I imagined some angry youth who had taken to a life of crime and poverty on the mean streets of downtown St. Petersburg, who decided to lash out at the establishment, his drunken abusive father, George W Bush, former school teachers and the girl who dumped him to fuck some guy who looked like lame rapper OJ Da Juiceman the only way he knew how, by writing his name in pink paint pen on a air vent in the mens restroom at Baywalk. That'll learn'em.
With the room cleared out, I finished my business and booked.
That was a pretty damn good piece of orange chicken, I thought to myself. My stomach twisting and turning anxiously with agreement.
Sold!
"I'll have one of those and a medium Cherry Coke with no ice please."
"If I order my drink with ice these clever Koreans may try to pull a fast one on me and fill that whole damn cup to the brim", I thought to myself. Leaving me with three-maybe-four gulps of foamy Cherry Coke to slurp down and a whole cup of ice for a whopping 1.85!
After waiting nearly five minutes behind somebodies soon to be dead grandfather, wondering how this corpse managed to escape from the confines of his nursing facility and venture to the mall, I was given my order. The elderly gentleman was still counting his change trying to pay the tiny korean girl at the counter.
-Five cents-
-Ten cents-
So on and so fourth.
I retired over to the quiet corner of the food court, a section away from the crowds and a good view of all of the scantily clad baby-mamas of drug dealers. The ones with nine kids tend to be the best kept and sleaziest.
After chowing down my delicious orange chicken, I caught the bus outside and headed to Williams Park with a few detours through some of the cities less desirable communities. Never one to pass up the opportunity to browse a good thrift store I stopped at the Central Ave Goodwill and like a punch to the throat I was attacked from within by something demonic. That delicious orange chicken from the mall wasn't agreeing with me. Maybe the Koreans were harboring some long held resentment over a war that happend decades before my birth and here I was now, the victim of some sort of pay-back through a orange chicken lunch special.
Not now, I kept reminding myself. The bathroom of the Goodwill is not the time nor the place. I caught the next bus to Williams Park, hoping to catch another bus that would deliver me to my doorstep in a hurry.
The next bus wouldn't be for another fourty-five minutes and the last possible option was to use the facilities at Williams Park. One night I wondered in there to find a half naked derelict undressing and piss all over the floors. No thank you. It's the kind of pulic restroom where vagrants go to smoke crack and fuck, it's dark and the lighting is some bright flourescent green color. It looks more like the setting for a Saw movie then a sterile place to take a shit.
The monster in my belly was growing meaner by the second.
I hightailed it in a jiffy to the nearest public restroom I could find, the one in the court yard at Baywalk. These days Baywalk is looking like one of those propped up ghost town sets they would use for old time western films. If the wind blows the place looks like it might fly off and the illusion that a poorly planned family friendly entertainment complex marketed towards the rich may be gone forever.
With only one business open besides the movie theater and virtually no Saturday afternoon foot traffic I decided that this was the ideal spot to exorcise this demon.
The bathroom at Baywalk isn't much better then the one in Williams Park. The floors are wet and covered in sand like the ones you find on a beach. The doors are stripped off of the handles, theres open wires and beer cans. Somebody had themselves a wild time in here the night before.
No sooner as I sat my naked ass down on the toilet seat, the entrance door swung open and some belching tub-o-lard came scuffling in. I imagined him as a unshaven mutanoid that farts at the dinner table or pee's in the family pool. The kind of guy who grabs the ass's of waitresses and stairs like a creep at his daughters friends. Whatever he was I needed him to leave the room asap so I could unload and get the hell out of that stink trap.
Here I was, my stomach burning and my bowels clinching, trying to remain as silent as a church mouse. The man finally left without washing his hands, ofcourse.
Just as I had assumed the coast was clear, some other smug Guy Harvey wearing sailor wanna-be came strolling into the stahl next to me. His hairy feet, unkept dirty toe nails and dollar store flip flops were a disturbing site.
All I wanted was to peacefully take a dump, how is it that the mens restroom at Baywalk can have more foot traffic then the entire rest of this empty complex has had in the last decade of operations? I hate eating infront of people, holding private phone calls infront of people and even worse using the restroom around other people.
Just as I had given up all hope for a moment of privacy, I looked up in prayer and was distracted by a air vent somebody had tagged with the word, "Kanto" on it. I imagined some angry youth who had taken to a life of crime and poverty on the mean streets of downtown St. Petersburg, who decided to lash out at the establishment, his drunken abusive father, George W Bush, former school teachers and the girl who dumped him to fuck some guy who looked like lame rapper OJ Da Juiceman the only way he knew how, by writing his name in pink paint pen on a air vent in the mens restroom at Baywalk. That'll learn'em.
With the room cleared out, I finished my business and booked.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Lampin Goes...IN SEARCH OF!
Guitar legend.
Comic book super hero.
Literary genius.
International ladies man.
These are just a few of the titles given to local yokel and global internet phenomenon Nolan B. Canova who was reported missing roughly a month ago by fans of his online fanzine Crazedfanboy.com.
"He was a quiet boy, except when that filthy polock whore would come around! They'd stay holed up in that shack for days at a time just a hootin and a hollarin. One day the deputies had to beat the doors down and spray them out with fire hoses", claims 84 year old neighbor Marianne Hoover, who has lived next to Canova for nearly three decades.
Some have suggested that Canovas hearty appetite for cocaine binges and routy prostitutes are to blame for his disappearance. Others claim that he was secretly a worshipper of "Rahl 7", a satanic cult based in the belief that aliens visited the Britton Plaza in 1984 and prophesized to a popcorn vendor at the shopping centers theater the secrets of life and death.
So convenced was Canova that he denounced his Catholicism and gave up a lucrative career as a trial lawyer in favor of working as a clerk in and out of local shops where he could freely prosthelytize to the high volume of customers he mingled with on a regular basis.
"He was a good ol boy, one of us. But man, he could really wig you out if you came into one of his shops on a bad acid trip. This one time he started preaching some mumbo jumbo about hell really being outer space or something or another, and man, by the end of it I swear the taco on that Taco-Bell sign over there was comin over here to eat me! I woke up the next day naked in a dumpster snuggling with a blow up doll out in Plant City, still can't figure out how I got there or where the doll came from. Canova saw me about a week later, winked, and said Rahl Bless You, whatever the fuck that means!", says Joey Trippoli, friend and customer for over a decade.
While some argue that Canova's devotion to "Rahl 7" caused him to pack up and leave in favor of life at a mountainous combine retreat in Tennessee, others paint a much different picture.
Pamela Leung, who neighbors refer to as the "dumb polock whore" has known Canova for six years and has this to say about his disappearance and possible whereabouts.
"Rahl 7?", "Pshh, anybody that knew Canova knows that it was all just a gag to pick up lonely women, he didn't really believe any of that bullshit. What happend was one night we're all hangin out at his pad doing blow and guzzling Bacardi, next thing we know this fat bitch walks in the house. We didn't think anything of it. People would walk in all the time and we'd just keep on doing whatever. So anyways, this bitch walks over to the toilet, knocks out what we thought had to have been the meanest turd ever laid in the history of mankind. I mean, she's over there just a squintin and a squeezin, stompin her muddy boots on the tile. Finally she wipes off, get's up and leaves. We go over there because we have got to see what this monster looks like and what the hell is in there but a little damn baby squirmin around in the toilet water!"
According to Pamela the mystery woman was a former lover of Canovas who he had failed to recognize in his inebriated state of mind.
"Oh yeah, they were pretty hot and heavy at one time. But the craziest part was that she left a note behind at the door that said something to the effect of, watch the baby please I'm going to the bar, be back at 3 or something like that. He couldn't face the possibility of raising this womans baby and having to pay her child support so he just fled, simple as that."
When pressed about possible locations regarding Canovas current whereabouts Pamela could simply say, "Largo, yeah, definitly Largo. He loved the scene over there."
Lampin investigators followed a series of leads and picked up several clues that led to a dive bar that has witnessed a sudden surge in late night calls to the local sheriffs office.
This blurry photograph, is perhaps the closest our investigators could come to cracking the case.
If you or someone you know has any information leading up the whereabouts of Nolan B. Canova please contact Lampin immediatly, fans of Crazedfanboy.com are awaiting his return to relavency.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Jacksonville Summit Part 7: Black Magic Voodoo Chicks From Church Street
Despite the ritual of individualism and machismo that goes into a man's night out on the town, nothing is lonelier then the experience of waking up the next day by your cot damn self, clinging to a lifeless hotel pillow. You spend the whole night feeling empowered by your lack of attachments and the entire next morning resentful towards the lucky bastards waking up next to a person they love.
It's 9:30 am and I awake still in my street clothes, shoes on my feet, watch on my wrist and chain around my neck wondering how the fuck I wound up here alive.
After a few minutes of trying to gather my thoughts I stepped infront of the mirror and stared for a while. I'd always been told that my eyes were green but this was the first time I had ever noticed them.
My self worship was interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Room Service", the voice said from beyond the door.
If memory serves correctly the body attached to the voice was named April and she was a sexy paper thin little number, black, but more of a Teresa Graves then a Pam Grier.
One of the many things I appreciate about Hennessy is that the next day as opposed to being hung over with a splitting head ache, you awaken with an uncanny sense of clarity and confidence. All of the positive effects of being drunk but with none of the weaknesses.
With my nerves temporarily comatosed I found myself first thing in the morning picking up where I left off the night before, but instead of hitting on a wanna-be welfare queen in the cab I was flirting with the hotel help. April wasn't really having it and I wasn't trying to agressively push the issue so we just wound up having a few laughs and she was nice enough to point me in the direction of the local "hood" mall. Where she assured me that I would find what I was looking for.
So, I through on my grey, black and green Nike Dunks that had no business matching with the orange and blue New York Knicks hat I was wearing and set out by foot on a journey to find Regency Mall.
Just across the bridge I somehow wound up right back at the same stupid intersection where I left off the night before. There was a bus stop but for some reason in Jacksonville either all of the maps and schedules have been stolen or whoever runs the buses is just to cheap to post them.
When I asked an old man who looked like Al Jolson in blackface but minus any teeth where the schedule was he just laughed and mumbled something.
From out of nowhere this girl popped up from out of nowhere and said, "follow me if you're trying to go to the main station". Chick didn't have to ask me twice. Standing roughly five-foot-three with a flemsy anorexic frame that was anchored by a thick ass and some monster titties, she was a bangin redbone that seemed like some stereotypical gold digging stripper type from the ghetto cut straight out of an episode of the Jerry Springer Show. "Grab my shit, nigga" she demanded before we headed off.
We walked through the city chit-chatting about random subjects, mainly me trying my hardest to convence her into coming back to my hotel room for the afternoon as I carried a bag full of odds and ins, mainly a hair drier that kept slipping out.
"So, where's your girlfriend at?" she asked, "Oh, her, well, she died trying to treat polio patients on a missionary trip to the Amazon a few weeks ago. Terrible tragedy." I replied.
And...That's where things turned south.
"Was she black?", she asked. "Yeah, that's really the only type of chick I can get down with, why you ask?" I responded.
"I can tell, you're to much like a nigger. I don't like niggers. My baby ain't going to be born a black nigger, you're to black and will put a nigger baby inside of me. I want a real white boy that isn't a nigger and will give me an all white baby." She told me.
I scratched my head, paused, staired at her ass and titties again, then back at her eyes before she could catch me peaking. We continued walking. How the fuck was I supposed to respond to that?
"I'm thirty six years old and sexy as hell, I have really big titties." She told me. "Interesting, I didn't notice that until you mentioned it", was the only competent thing I could espouse in response to the bizarreness of the conversation I was currently holding.
"All these young boys keep trying to fuck me and put nigger babies in me, all I want is a real white boy that's not a nigger." Point taken. This was the one day in twenty seven years of my life where wearing an American Eagle outfit would have beneffited me. Not my style but damn would it have been worth it just to sell out one day for this chick.
"I was born cursed with this scar" she told me. I had seen a scar on her forward so I cleverly responded with, "Oh that thing on your forehead?", "No nigga, I mean this skin! Somebody put a voodoo curse on me as a baby and made me black with a mental illness!"
According to her, most people, especially black ones were cursed with blackness and mental illness as babies by those practicing voodoo.
As we approached the bus station things had gotten to weird, even by my standards.
"Well, hey, check it out. I'm going to go over here and check on what time this other bus leaves", I excused myself and boogied away as fast and as far as possible.
It's 9:30 am and I awake still in my street clothes, shoes on my feet, watch on my wrist and chain around my neck wondering how the fuck I wound up here alive.
After a few minutes of trying to gather my thoughts I stepped infront of the mirror and stared for a while. I'd always been told that my eyes were green but this was the first time I had ever noticed them.
My self worship was interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Room Service", the voice said from beyond the door.
If memory serves correctly the body attached to the voice was named April and she was a sexy paper thin little number, black, but more of a Teresa Graves then a Pam Grier.
One of the many things I appreciate about Hennessy is that the next day as opposed to being hung over with a splitting head ache, you awaken with an uncanny sense of clarity and confidence. All of the positive effects of being drunk but with none of the weaknesses.
With my nerves temporarily comatosed I found myself first thing in the morning picking up where I left off the night before, but instead of hitting on a wanna-be welfare queen in the cab I was flirting with the hotel help. April wasn't really having it and I wasn't trying to agressively push the issue so we just wound up having a few laughs and she was nice enough to point me in the direction of the local "hood" mall. Where she assured me that I would find what I was looking for.
So, I through on my grey, black and green Nike Dunks that had no business matching with the orange and blue New York Knicks hat I was wearing and set out by foot on a journey to find Regency Mall.
Just across the bridge I somehow wound up right back at the same stupid intersection where I left off the night before. There was a bus stop but for some reason in Jacksonville either all of the maps and schedules have been stolen or whoever runs the buses is just to cheap to post them.
When I asked an old man who looked like Al Jolson in blackface but minus any teeth where the schedule was he just laughed and mumbled something.
From out of nowhere this girl popped up from out of nowhere and said, "follow me if you're trying to go to the main station". Chick didn't have to ask me twice. Standing roughly five-foot-three with a flemsy anorexic frame that was anchored by a thick ass and some monster titties, she was a bangin redbone that seemed like some stereotypical gold digging stripper type from the ghetto cut straight out of an episode of the Jerry Springer Show. "Grab my shit, nigga" she demanded before we headed off.
We walked through the city chit-chatting about random subjects, mainly me trying my hardest to convence her into coming back to my hotel room for the afternoon as I carried a bag full of odds and ins, mainly a hair drier that kept slipping out.
"So, where's your girlfriend at?" she asked, "Oh, her, well, she died trying to treat polio patients on a missionary trip to the Amazon a few weeks ago. Terrible tragedy." I replied.
And...That's where things turned south.
"Was she black?", she asked. "Yeah, that's really the only type of chick I can get down with, why you ask?" I responded.
"I can tell, you're to much like a nigger. I don't like niggers. My baby ain't going to be born a black nigger, you're to black and will put a nigger baby inside of me. I want a real white boy that isn't a nigger and will give me an all white baby." She told me.
I scratched my head, paused, staired at her ass and titties again, then back at her eyes before she could catch me peaking. We continued walking. How the fuck was I supposed to respond to that?
"I'm thirty six years old and sexy as hell, I have really big titties." She told me. "Interesting, I didn't notice that until you mentioned it", was the only competent thing I could espouse in response to the bizarreness of the conversation I was currently holding.
"All these young boys keep trying to fuck me and put nigger babies in me, all I want is a real white boy that's not a nigger." Point taken. This was the one day in twenty seven years of my life where wearing an American Eagle outfit would have beneffited me. Not my style but damn would it have been worth it just to sell out one day for this chick.
"I was born cursed with this scar" she told me. I had seen a scar on her forward so I cleverly responded with, "Oh that thing on your forehead?", "No nigga, I mean this skin! Somebody put a voodoo curse on me as a baby and made me black with a mental illness!"
According to her, most people, especially black ones were cursed with blackness and mental illness as babies by those practicing voodoo.
As we approached the bus station things had gotten to weird, even by my standards.
"Well, hey, check it out. I'm going to go over here and check on what time this other bus leaves", I excused myself and boogied away as fast and as far as possible.
Monday, May 30, 2011
The Jacksonville Summit Part 6: The Rapture
How fitting that in the closing moments of May 20, 2011, minutes before the world was supposedly destined to succumb to the apacalypse, that I would find myself in the penthouse suite of a legend on a balcony overlooking the beautiful St. Johns River and a Jacksonville, Florida skyline now exploding with fireworks, drunk off my ass.
A far cry from the trailer park in Jacksonville, Illinois were I had began life. If this was to be the end, then I had accepted in my own mind that I had gone out on top. I was content with the satisfaction of knowing that even if for only the briefest of moments I had lived to see myself as something more then just a bitter under-achieving slacker.
With a few ticks on the clock remaining until Judgement Day I had managed to say some goodbyes to friends, call a cab, run back upstairs to put away my bottle (which I had been drinking strait from for the last few minutes), drenched myself in about ten sprays of Roca-Wear cologne and rush back downstairs to order another Hennessy and Coke from the bar in a to-go cup so I wouldn't miss my cab.
In the months prior to my trip I had researched the local nightlife and at the last minute had discovered a club not to far from my hotel called The Pearl that was hosting a, "Zombie Night". My kind of place.
Even better was that for a $10 admission fee I was given a wristband and told it was all I could drink. A challenge I was eager to accept.
I mean, I don't think this place knew what they were up against. In St. Pete my friends know how to play hide the bottle from John, because although I don't drink all that often, when I do I have no problem killing it as quickly as possible before anybody else even has the chance to catch a buzz off of that bitch. Given a little more time I might have even drank this establishment out of business single handedly.
As I inched my way to the front of the line at the bar, I had instinctually leaned over with a fist full of dollars, apparently a no-no in Jacksonville because the bartender began screaming, "get the fuck off of my goddamn bar, who the fuck do you think you are? You're making me nervous! What do you want?". The only coherent response I could give was a drunken smirk and a, "Coke and Hennessy please".
It was obvious at this point that I didn't like him and he didn't like me, "are you out of your fucking mind that isn't apart of the special? That shit is like $9 a shot!" he screamed. "I didn't ask you for your special, just give me my drink", I responded.
Not wanting to succumb to my request and allow me the satisfaction of looking like some type of high roller in a room packed to the brim with broke college kids, he grabbed a glass, scooped some ice and made me the strongest whiskey and Coke of my life! "Shut up and drink this" he said.
I went back to the bar four, maybe five more times that night and each drink was stronger then the last. I could see it in his eyes that he was recieving some type of sick gratification out of trying to kill me with alchohal poisoning, and I was recieving it right back by continuosly saying, "better luck next time, chump" everytime tossed a empty plastic cup on the dance floor.
In between stints at the bar and frequent trips to the restroom, I had managed to work my way around the room and make a few friends, but mostly enemies. One girl was nice enough tell me, "girls like guys with watches that tick" in reference to the dead battery in my Roca Wear watch. Another followed with, "black shirts are out of style", ouch.
But the cool thing about being drunk on Hennessy (I don't know about other shit cause I don't drink it) is that rejection eventually becomes a form of flattery, with great risk comes even greater rewards and although twenty bucked tooth heffers might try to break your ego down to the size of a needle tip, one broad will come along to make the whole night worth it.
Obliterated beyond recognition, I leaned against a piling near the dance floor and plotted my next move.
With no signs of the rapture haven taken place inside the club that night, the DJ through on REM's "It's The End Of The World As We Know It", and the entire room including myself went nuts! The sight of three hundred sweaty drunks, some in zombie make-up bouncing in sync with fists pumping towards the sky in celebration that we have narrowly survived the return of Christ is truly a scene to behold.
The scariest part of inebriation is the blacking out. I was snapped out of one such blackout by a tall, well proportioned black chick with a shaved head who was motioning me over to her. For some reason alot of black girls in Jacksonville have their heads shaved, either I don't get out enough in Tampa Bay or this is a regional trend that hasn't made it's way south yet.
"You're the cutest guy in this bar, you can have any girl you want, STOP TALKING TO MY GIRLFRIEND!" Needless to say I wasn't expecting that one. How I didn't fall onto the floor in a fit of laughter is beyond me, when I looked up to the site of her girlfriend, not only was I in a state of shock over how spectacular her smile was but that I had continued uncontrollably to keep trying to smooth talk her even after being politely asked not too.
As 2am crept closer, the crowds filed somberly out of the front door and just as I was about to call it a night, the sexiest blonde haired, green eyed she devil in all of hell approached me and initiated a conversation. About what I have no idea, but I somehow coherently gave her my phone number and vice versa.
Although still conscious inside of my head, I had no choice but to watch as my body moved foreward on it's own accord. Wherever it led me I was forced to follow.
Rather then calling a cab like I had originally planned, my feet decided they could take me back to the hotel safely and for a cheaper rate. I drifted through crowds, followed along sidewalks and eventually down an alley until I was completely alone in the middle of the city.
When I reached the corner of what I remember being Bay and Church St (?) I pulled out my cell phone and finally dialed the cab. The only response I can recall was an angry voice on the other end of the line saying, "sir, you keep calling and telling us you are in Orlando or Jacksonville or something, we cannot come and pick you up from St. Petersburg!", whoops.
A normal person might have freaked out at this point and panic'd. For me all of time had stopped at the corner of that intersection and I was completely at peace. The streets and buildings were a matted grey tone, the only movement came from the changing colors of stop lights.
Here I was the only man in the heart of the city, surrounded by skyscrapers and feeling as though I were the last man on earth. The whole world had turned quiet and black, as though everybody had floated up to heaven and didn't invite me.
From out of nowhere a cab, or what I thought at the time was a cab, came speeding from out of nowhere before spotting me and slamming on their breaks, screeching into the middle of the intersection.
Without hesitation I hopped in and before I knew it realized I was in a vehicle with a little black dude and a chick in the passengers seat. We talked, had a few laughs and the driver even told me that he was cousins with Fred Williamson, which I doubt.
At night all of Jacksonville feels as though it is highlighted by this neon blue light, especially on the bridges. It adds this futuristic feel to the city.
Next thing I remember I was standing near the entrance of the hotel, drunk as a skunk next to the cab holding this petite little black chick in a striped mini skirt by her ass cheeks.
Don't ask me how it got to that point because I am still trying myself to figure that one out, but I do recall saying, "aye, look sweety, you come up to my room and let me fuck you I promise that I'll pay you child support if anything happens". I think that might have been the selling point because after telling me to, "hang on a second", she went over to the cab and I remember her telling the dude to come pick her up in a hour or two.
When she came back over and wrapped her skinny little arms around me I remember pushing her away and saying, "look I have a confession to make", she looked at me puzzled and I followed up with, "I have the worlds smallest dick, I mean it's super small and you don't need to be fuckin around with somebody like me".
She pushed me off of her, looked me in the eyes and said, "baby I don't care about that". Which sucks for me cause I think I was counting on that line to get me out of the situation. I'm pretty sure this bitch was looking forward to that child support check showing up every month.
By the grace of god, I don't know how it happend but the next thing I can recall is her going back to the cab to tell the driver something, me saying, "fuck this I'm going to sleep", and waking up the next day with a story to tell wondering how the hell I competently made it back to room 418 alive.
A far cry from the trailer park in Jacksonville, Illinois were I had began life. If this was to be the end, then I had accepted in my own mind that I had gone out on top. I was content with the satisfaction of knowing that even if for only the briefest of moments I had lived to see myself as something more then just a bitter under-achieving slacker.
With a few ticks on the clock remaining until Judgement Day I had managed to say some goodbyes to friends, call a cab, run back upstairs to put away my bottle (which I had been drinking strait from for the last few minutes), drenched myself in about ten sprays of Roca-Wear cologne and rush back downstairs to order another Hennessy and Coke from the bar in a to-go cup so I wouldn't miss my cab.
In the months prior to my trip I had researched the local nightlife and at the last minute had discovered a club not to far from my hotel called The Pearl that was hosting a, "Zombie Night". My kind of place.
Even better was that for a $10 admission fee I was given a wristband and told it was all I could drink. A challenge I was eager to accept.
I mean, I don't think this place knew what they were up against. In St. Pete my friends know how to play hide the bottle from John, because although I don't drink all that often, when I do I have no problem killing it as quickly as possible before anybody else even has the chance to catch a buzz off of that bitch. Given a little more time I might have even drank this establishment out of business single handedly.
As I inched my way to the front of the line at the bar, I had instinctually leaned over with a fist full of dollars, apparently a no-no in Jacksonville because the bartender began screaming, "get the fuck off of my goddamn bar, who the fuck do you think you are? You're making me nervous! What do you want?". The only coherent response I could give was a drunken smirk and a, "Coke and Hennessy please".
It was obvious at this point that I didn't like him and he didn't like me, "are you out of your fucking mind that isn't apart of the special? That shit is like $9 a shot!" he screamed. "I didn't ask you for your special, just give me my drink", I responded.
Not wanting to succumb to my request and allow me the satisfaction of looking like some type of high roller in a room packed to the brim with broke college kids, he grabbed a glass, scooped some ice and made me the strongest whiskey and Coke of my life! "Shut up and drink this" he said.
I went back to the bar four, maybe five more times that night and each drink was stronger then the last. I could see it in his eyes that he was recieving some type of sick gratification out of trying to kill me with alchohal poisoning, and I was recieving it right back by continuosly saying, "better luck next time, chump" everytime tossed a empty plastic cup on the dance floor.
In between stints at the bar and frequent trips to the restroom, I had managed to work my way around the room and make a few friends, but mostly enemies. One girl was nice enough tell me, "girls like guys with watches that tick" in reference to the dead battery in my Roca Wear watch. Another followed with, "black shirts are out of style", ouch.
But the cool thing about being drunk on Hennessy (I don't know about other shit cause I don't drink it) is that rejection eventually becomes a form of flattery, with great risk comes even greater rewards and although twenty bucked tooth heffers might try to break your ego down to the size of a needle tip, one broad will come along to make the whole night worth it.
Obliterated beyond recognition, I leaned against a piling near the dance floor and plotted my next move.
With no signs of the rapture haven taken place inside the club that night, the DJ through on REM's "It's The End Of The World As We Know It", and the entire room including myself went nuts! The sight of three hundred sweaty drunks, some in zombie make-up bouncing in sync with fists pumping towards the sky in celebration that we have narrowly survived the return of Christ is truly a scene to behold.
The scariest part of inebriation is the blacking out. I was snapped out of one such blackout by a tall, well proportioned black chick with a shaved head who was motioning me over to her. For some reason alot of black girls in Jacksonville have their heads shaved, either I don't get out enough in Tampa Bay or this is a regional trend that hasn't made it's way south yet.
"You're the cutest guy in this bar, you can have any girl you want, STOP TALKING TO MY GIRLFRIEND!" Needless to say I wasn't expecting that one. How I didn't fall onto the floor in a fit of laughter is beyond me, when I looked up to the site of her girlfriend, not only was I in a state of shock over how spectacular her smile was but that I had continued uncontrollably to keep trying to smooth talk her even after being politely asked not too.
As 2am crept closer, the crowds filed somberly out of the front door and just as I was about to call it a night, the sexiest blonde haired, green eyed she devil in all of hell approached me and initiated a conversation. About what I have no idea, but I somehow coherently gave her my phone number and vice versa.
Although still conscious inside of my head, I had no choice but to watch as my body moved foreward on it's own accord. Wherever it led me I was forced to follow.
Rather then calling a cab like I had originally planned, my feet decided they could take me back to the hotel safely and for a cheaper rate. I drifted through crowds, followed along sidewalks and eventually down an alley until I was completely alone in the middle of the city.
When I reached the corner of what I remember being Bay and Church St (?) I pulled out my cell phone and finally dialed the cab. The only response I can recall was an angry voice on the other end of the line saying, "sir, you keep calling and telling us you are in Orlando or Jacksonville or something, we cannot come and pick you up from St. Petersburg!", whoops.
A normal person might have freaked out at this point and panic'd. For me all of time had stopped at the corner of that intersection and I was completely at peace. The streets and buildings were a matted grey tone, the only movement came from the changing colors of stop lights.
Here I was the only man in the heart of the city, surrounded by skyscrapers and feeling as though I were the last man on earth. The whole world had turned quiet and black, as though everybody had floated up to heaven and didn't invite me.
From out of nowhere a cab, or what I thought at the time was a cab, came speeding from out of nowhere before spotting me and slamming on their breaks, screeching into the middle of the intersection.
Without hesitation I hopped in and before I knew it realized I was in a vehicle with a little black dude and a chick in the passengers seat. We talked, had a few laughs and the driver even told me that he was cousins with Fred Williamson, which I doubt.
At night all of Jacksonville feels as though it is highlighted by this neon blue light, especially on the bridges. It adds this futuristic feel to the city.
Next thing I remember I was standing near the entrance of the hotel, drunk as a skunk next to the cab holding this petite little black chick in a striped mini skirt by her ass cheeks.
Don't ask me how it got to that point because I am still trying myself to figure that one out, but I do recall saying, "aye, look sweety, you come up to my room and let me fuck you I promise that I'll pay you child support if anything happens". I think that might have been the selling point because after telling me to, "hang on a second", she went over to the cab and I remember her telling the dude to come pick her up in a hour or two.
When she came back over and wrapped her skinny little arms around me I remember pushing her away and saying, "look I have a confession to make", she looked at me puzzled and I followed up with, "I have the worlds smallest dick, I mean it's super small and you don't need to be fuckin around with somebody like me".
She pushed me off of her, looked me in the eyes and said, "baby I don't care about that". Which sucks for me cause I think I was counting on that line to get me out of the situation. I'm pretty sure this bitch was looking forward to that child support check showing up every month.
By the grace of god, I don't know how it happend but the next thing I can recall is her going back to the cab to tell the driver something, me saying, "fuck this I'm going to sleep", and waking up the next day with a story to tell wondering how the hell I competently made it back to room 418 alive.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
The Jacksonville Summit Part 4: Cheeeez!
Allow me to say first of all that Jacksonville, Florida is a beautiful city to just stroll up upon in the middle of the day.
As soon as I stepped foot off of the poverty express and planted my beatup size 11 1/2 Nike Dunks on solid ground, I was greeted by none other then Jacksonvilles own resident cult film junky Ed Tucker who was kind enough to give me a lift to my room at the Wyndham.
After relaxing briefly and discussing everything from our expectations of the convention to the confusing dimensions of original theatrical posters. We eagerly rushed downstairs for a quick peak inside of the convention hall and wound up so overwhelmed by the greatness surrounding us that we decided to sneak in as much as we could before it was time to meet fellow fanboy Jon Haughton at the Amtrek Station.
Once inside I had reverted back in time to some toddler like mindset, waddeling around in a hurry eager to open presents on a Christmas morning.
"Look Ed, it's Sid Haig!, Look Ed, It's Fred Williamson!" I'd shout while tugging on Ed's arm while demanding he hault everything to snap my picture with them. It took Ed slapping me across the face with his polar bear sized mits and shouting, "gadzooks man, pull yourself together and quit acting like a little bitch. You're embaressing me!" to calm me down.
Ed is a pretty big dude with a presidential prescience, the kind of guy that grabs life by the short hairs and doesn't take any guff. A renegade of sorts. I could see it in his eyes that he was determined to not allow this once in a lifetime weekend to slip through his finger tips. He was going to make this the best gosh damn fanboy experience of his life or die trying and I was right there along side him ready for wherever this crazy journey would take me.
After collecting pictures from the likes of Sid Haig, Fred Williamson, Camille Keaton, John Amplas and Jim Kelly I browsed the room a bit and encountered a conversation taking place between the original hot punk chick, Mink Stole and Day Of The Deads Gary Klar over the crappiness of CGI and other anti-mainstream Hollywood retorict.
When the conversation ceased Mink Stole turned to face me and like some virginal fanboy fresh off of the banana boat the most creative conversation starter I could muster was, "wow your Mink Stole, I'm a huge fan, I just watched Desperate Living a few nights ago". Obviously a seasoned pro at handling overly anxious nerds such as myself she responded with, "oh yeah, there's alot of shouting in that movie, everybodies screaming. You should come by my table and talk to me whenever".
Thats when it occured to me that I really had nothing to talk to these guest about. Sure I was a big fan and had seen most if not all of their popular films. But truthfully everything I had ever wanted to know about them I have already learned off of the internet or in a magazine.
By the time I did get around to talking with Ms. Stole I had realized alot of the stuff she was telling me I had already heard in a interview done decades ago by John Waters. But none the less, how fucking cool was it that I was holding a conversation with her? Strangely, she is either nothing like the charectors she portrayed on screen or she grew out of that faze of her life a long time ago because she striked me as being, well, normal.
There wasn't really much selection in terms of collectables but I did notice a few cool t-shirts and some awesome og theatrical posters that I had determined I would size up later when I had more time.
I'm not going to front, I will admit to being a little star struck over being in the vacinity of so many actors who's work I have admired for so long and never thought I'd have the privaledge of meeting. The worst being when Jim "The Dragon" Kelly intiated a conversation with me regarding my shirt, which had a poster for the classic blaxploitation film The Mack on it. "Aiiight man, The Mack!" he said.
They must call him the dragon for a reason cause it felt like the man had just breathed fire upon me and I was nothing more then a standing statuete of ashes ready to float off into a trillion pieces if confronted by the slightest breeze. I just stood there doing a Terry Schiavo impersonation, the only thing my brain would allow me to do at that point and smiled for the camera.
I've been fortunate in my lifetime to have met many a famous person and the celebrity factor doesn't really get to me that much anymore. I guess maybe it was the fact that these were stars who don't get around this way very often, many of which I suspect will be in no condition sooner or later to make it out to these events at all shortly enough, giving the whole experience much more importance then that of just some convention.
At this point, roughly a half an hour into the Cult-Fiction Drive-In convention I can very easily say with no bullshit that this trip should have been any fanboys wet dream come to life.
With a day and a half left for me in Jacksonville and having already accomplished much of what I had came here for I had to wonder how things were possibly going to get any better after such an amazing start.
As soon as I stepped foot off of the poverty express and planted my beatup size 11 1/2 Nike Dunks on solid ground, I was greeted by none other then Jacksonvilles own resident cult film junky Ed Tucker who was kind enough to give me a lift to my room at the Wyndham.
After relaxing briefly and discussing everything from our expectations of the convention to the confusing dimensions of original theatrical posters. We eagerly rushed downstairs for a quick peak inside of the convention hall and wound up so overwhelmed by the greatness surrounding us that we decided to sneak in as much as we could before it was time to meet fellow fanboy Jon Haughton at the Amtrek Station.
Once inside I had reverted back in time to some toddler like mindset, waddeling around in a hurry eager to open presents on a Christmas morning.
"Look Ed, it's Sid Haig!, Look Ed, It's Fred Williamson!" I'd shout while tugging on Ed's arm while demanding he hault everything to snap my picture with them. It took Ed slapping me across the face with his polar bear sized mits and shouting, "gadzooks man, pull yourself together and quit acting like a little bitch. You're embaressing me!" to calm me down.
Ed is a pretty big dude with a presidential prescience, the kind of guy that grabs life by the short hairs and doesn't take any guff. A renegade of sorts. I could see it in his eyes that he was determined to not allow this once in a lifetime weekend to slip through his finger tips. He was going to make this the best gosh damn fanboy experience of his life or die trying and I was right there along side him ready for wherever this crazy journey would take me.
After collecting pictures from the likes of Sid Haig, Fred Williamson, Camille Keaton, John Amplas and Jim Kelly I browsed the room a bit and encountered a conversation taking place between the original hot punk chick, Mink Stole and Day Of The Deads Gary Klar over the crappiness of CGI and other anti-mainstream Hollywood retorict.
When the conversation ceased Mink Stole turned to face me and like some virginal fanboy fresh off of the banana boat the most creative conversation starter I could muster was, "wow your Mink Stole, I'm a huge fan, I just watched Desperate Living a few nights ago". Obviously a seasoned pro at handling overly anxious nerds such as myself she responded with, "oh yeah, there's alot of shouting in that movie, everybodies screaming. You should come by my table and talk to me whenever".
Thats when it occured to me that I really had nothing to talk to these guest about. Sure I was a big fan and had seen most if not all of their popular films. But truthfully everything I had ever wanted to know about them I have already learned off of the internet or in a magazine.
By the time I did get around to talking with Ms. Stole I had realized alot of the stuff she was telling me I had already heard in a interview done decades ago by John Waters. But none the less, how fucking cool was it that I was holding a conversation with her? Strangely, she is either nothing like the charectors she portrayed on screen or she grew out of that faze of her life a long time ago because she striked me as being, well, normal.
There wasn't really much selection in terms of collectables but I did notice a few cool t-shirts and some awesome og theatrical posters that I had determined I would size up later when I had more time.
I'm not going to front, I will admit to being a little star struck over being in the vacinity of so many actors who's work I have admired for so long and never thought I'd have the privaledge of meeting. The worst being when Jim "The Dragon" Kelly intiated a conversation with me regarding my shirt, which had a poster for the classic blaxploitation film The Mack on it. "Aiiight man, The Mack!" he said.
They must call him the dragon for a reason cause it felt like the man had just breathed fire upon me and I was nothing more then a standing statuete of ashes ready to float off into a trillion pieces if confronted by the slightest breeze. I just stood there doing a Terry Schiavo impersonation, the only thing my brain would allow me to do at that point and smiled for the camera.
I've been fortunate in my lifetime to have met many a famous person and the celebrity factor doesn't really get to me that much anymore. I guess maybe it was the fact that these were stars who don't get around this way very often, many of which I suspect will be in no condition sooner or later to make it out to these events at all shortly enough, giving the whole experience much more importance then that of just some convention.
At this point, roughly a half an hour into the Cult-Fiction Drive-In convention I can very easily say with no bullshit that this trip should have been any fanboys wet dream come to life.
With a day and a half left for me in Jacksonville and having already accomplished much of what I had came here for I had to wonder how things were possibly going to get any better after such an amazing start.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
The Jacksonville Summit Part 3: A Few Quick Detours
"I don't want you to change, all I want is for you to be normal".
It was nearly a year ago to the day, the third Friday in May that I met my ex girlfriend who at first sight I figured would be the last bitch I'd ever be trying to shove my dick inside.
With age and experience comes the ability to tell the difference between a cool ass chick and the bitch you trust enough to trap with a ring and a baby. Unfortunately she turned out to be a little more of the first one.
None the less I remember that weekend and the ensuing weeks and months of that relationship like the back of my honkey hands. Chick was supportive of my geekiness and from what I could tell, recognized it as a positive that she would not find elsewhere.
Thing is though, a person doesn't necassarily become like me overnight. There are alot of highs and lows along the way that causes a person to embrace and seek out alternative forms of entertainment and that is something I don't think she understood or related too.
The quarterback of a high school football team for example doesn't wake up one morning and discover that he is a fan of comic books and David Cronenberg films, because in all likelyhood he has so many yes men and popularity surrounding him already that he doesn't have the time or interest in doing anything besides whatever is currently cool.
On the flipside, even as a good ass basketball player I was never able to gain access to that lifestyle. There were alot of Saturday mornings watching anime and kung fu flicks, Saturday afternoons spent renting old videos and evenings dateless inside of dollar cinemas.
At twelve years old I remember my personal heros at the time being Dennis Rodman and Quentin Tarantino because they were both the "anti" of everything that was traditionally cool. I was a social outcast and for the most part I embraced that as best I could, realizing at an early age that no matter how cool by societal standards everybody else thought they were, it was not worth losing who I was as a individual to be apart of that.
Which brings me to this. After twenty-six years(at the time)of enduring bullying, hazing, taunting and teasing for being a tall, skinny, acne riddled asshole who kept it real no matter the cost.
No bitch.
And I mean no bitch.
I dont care if she did have beautiful skin, tattoos, a fat booty and nice wigs, is going to convence me that the time is ripe for changing who I am as a person to be "normal" just because I have gained access to roam freely through her vaginal walls.
Homegirl was cool, no doubt. And I've spent the last twelve months and some change wondering about the what-ifs and what-have-you's of what-could-have-been. Especially when I take into consideration that part of my attraction to her was that she was a fan of Coffy and the irony that almost a year to the day later I'd be by myself on a bus surrounded by drug addicts, drifters and crazies on my way to meet Pam Grier herself was not lost on me.
The world comes full circle and it spins mighty fast to get there. The third weekend in May of 2010 was a memorable one to say the least and my only real goal for the third weekend in May of 2011 was to top that by any means necassary.
Armed with a bottle of Hennessy Black and a pocket full of cash, with a few detours through Orlando, Daytona and St. Augustine it was only a matter of time until I got my chance.
It was nearly a year ago to the day, the third Friday in May that I met my ex girlfriend who at first sight I figured would be the last bitch I'd ever be trying to shove my dick inside.
With age and experience comes the ability to tell the difference between a cool ass chick and the bitch you trust enough to trap with a ring and a baby. Unfortunately she turned out to be a little more of the first one.
None the less I remember that weekend and the ensuing weeks and months of that relationship like the back of my honkey hands. Chick was supportive of my geekiness and from what I could tell, recognized it as a positive that she would not find elsewhere.
Thing is though, a person doesn't necassarily become like me overnight. There are alot of highs and lows along the way that causes a person to embrace and seek out alternative forms of entertainment and that is something I don't think she understood or related too.
The quarterback of a high school football team for example doesn't wake up one morning and discover that he is a fan of comic books and David Cronenberg films, because in all likelyhood he has so many yes men and popularity surrounding him already that he doesn't have the time or interest in doing anything besides whatever is currently cool.
On the flipside, even as a good ass basketball player I was never able to gain access to that lifestyle. There were alot of Saturday mornings watching anime and kung fu flicks, Saturday afternoons spent renting old videos and evenings dateless inside of dollar cinemas.
At twelve years old I remember my personal heros at the time being Dennis Rodman and Quentin Tarantino because they were both the "anti" of everything that was traditionally cool. I was a social outcast and for the most part I embraced that as best I could, realizing at an early age that no matter how cool by societal standards everybody else thought they were, it was not worth losing who I was as a individual to be apart of that.
Which brings me to this. After twenty-six years(at the time)of enduring bullying, hazing, taunting and teasing for being a tall, skinny, acne riddled asshole who kept it real no matter the cost.
No bitch.
And I mean no bitch.
I dont care if she did have beautiful skin, tattoos, a fat booty and nice wigs, is going to convence me that the time is ripe for changing who I am as a person to be "normal" just because I have gained access to roam freely through her vaginal walls.
Homegirl was cool, no doubt. And I've spent the last twelve months and some change wondering about the what-ifs and what-have-you's of what-could-have-been. Especially when I take into consideration that part of my attraction to her was that she was a fan of Coffy and the irony that almost a year to the day later I'd be by myself on a bus surrounded by drug addicts, drifters and crazies on my way to meet Pam Grier herself was not lost on me.
The world comes full circle and it spins mighty fast to get there. The third weekend in May of 2010 was a memorable one to say the least and my only real goal for the third weekend in May of 2011 was to top that by any means necassary.
Armed with a bottle of Hennessy Black and a pocket full of cash, with a few detours through Orlando, Daytona and St. Augustine it was only a matter of time until I got my chance.
The Jacksonville Summit Part 2: The Professional
Ofcourse, as luck would have it, the Shrek looking soul-brother I had just pissed off turned out to be none other then the bus driver. Which seems kind of crazy to me that not only would the lady at the counter be completely useless and void of any sort of customer service skills, but the bus driver, the guy I was depending upon to deliver me safely to Jacksonville, was also a miserable cocksucker that strutted around as though he were only making $4 an hour. Great.
Scared out of my mind at this point, hating myself over the possibility that I had made some idiotic mistake or misread the instructions on the original Greyhound paperwork, I shuttered to think how I was going to explain this one to my family. Especially my sister.
How would I sound on the phone trying to explain that a trip I had been planning for months on end was killed off pre-maturely with money flushed down some figurative tubes before it had even had a chance to get started. With several years of bad luck and poor decisions behind me, this moment seemed in my head as though it would be the one that would finally change things, cause people to look at me differently, etc. etc.
Luckily for me it was the exact opposite, by the time I had reached Clearwater my sister had called to check up on me and eagerly rushed to my defense against the evil Greyhound empire.
She made several phone calls, getting answers and pressing the issue so hard that by the time I did get to Tampa the manager in the corporate office was there waiting to shake my hand, offer an appology and lend me his personal assistance in resolving the matter.
Pretty impressive stuff, I mean, my sister is smart, super smart. She's like the Derrick Rose of brainiacs. Listening to her on the otherend of a three way call was like hearing, well, I dont know quite what to compare it to but it was pretty damn awesome. She had these nitwits tounge tied and flustered, they didn't know what to do and I could tell they were scared.
What I should have done before leaving the St. Pete station was say to the woman (if you want to call her that) at the counter, "bitch, aiight, you wanna get nuts? I'm calling in the big guns, yeah, I'm gonna call my sister! My sister is so bad, that by Monday morning she will have you selling Greyhound tickets to escimo's in Alaska, so dress warm".
At the ticket counter in the Tampa station the woman helping me on the computer had told me that the issue with my ticket wasn't that it was printed. It was that a schedule change had been made in the bus route and the computer system did not recognize it.
Whatever.
By this point I was ready to just file the damn complaint and move on with my trip to Jacksonville. The woman at the counter, who happened to be black of all things, seemed disinterested with my attempts to impress her with the information that I was traveling to meet none other then Pam Grier, Foxy Brown herself.
On the otherhand the the raggedy old white chain smoker I was trying to weisel a hand job out of turned out to be a big Pam Grier fan and recognized her instantly on the poster I was carrying around.
Now securely seated on this gigantic tin can of a cargo ship designed to transport poor people I was finally on my way to Jacksonville, eager to rendezvous with fellow fans and mingle with my hero's.
Scared out of my mind at this point, hating myself over the possibility that I had made some idiotic mistake or misread the instructions on the original Greyhound paperwork, I shuttered to think how I was going to explain this one to my family. Especially my sister.
How would I sound on the phone trying to explain that a trip I had been planning for months on end was killed off pre-maturely with money flushed down some figurative tubes before it had even had a chance to get started. With several years of bad luck and poor decisions behind me, this moment seemed in my head as though it would be the one that would finally change things, cause people to look at me differently, etc. etc.
Luckily for me it was the exact opposite, by the time I had reached Clearwater my sister had called to check up on me and eagerly rushed to my defense against the evil Greyhound empire.
She made several phone calls, getting answers and pressing the issue so hard that by the time I did get to Tampa the manager in the corporate office was there waiting to shake my hand, offer an appology and lend me his personal assistance in resolving the matter.
Pretty impressive stuff, I mean, my sister is smart, super smart. She's like the Derrick Rose of brainiacs. Listening to her on the otherend of a three way call was like hearing, well, I dont know quite what to compare it to but it was pretty damn awesome. She had these nitwits tounge tied and flustered, they didn't know what to do and I could tell they were scared.
What I should have done before leaving the St. Pete station was say to the woman (if you want to call her that) at the counter, "bitch, aiight, you wanna get nuts? I'm calling in the big guns, yeah, I'm gonna call my sister! My sister is so bad, that by Monday morning she will have you selling Greyhound tickets to escimo's in Alaska, so dress warm".
At the ticket counter in the Tampa station the woman helping me on the computer had told me that the issue with my ticket wasn't that it was printed. It was that a schedule change had been made in the bus route and the computer system did not recognize it.
Whatever.
By this point I was ready to just file the damn complaint and move on with my trip to Jacksonville. The woman at the counter, who happened to be black of all things, seemed disinterested with my attempts to impress her with the information that I was traveling to meet none other then Pam Grier, Foxy Brown herself.
On the otherhand the the raggedy old white chain smoker I was trying to weisel a hand job out of turned out to be a big Pam Grier fan and recognized her instantly on the poster I was carrying around.
Now securely seated on this gigantic tin can of a cargo ship designed to transport poor people I was finally on my way to Jacksonville, eager to rendezvous with fellow fans and mingle with my hero's.
The Jacksonville Summit Part 1: Da Funk Bus
Anticipation was high as I casually strode through the early morning streets of Downtown St. Petersburg, pre-dawn before the hordes of rotting vagrant flesh could awaken from their inebriated slumbers to grub some pocket change out of me.
The streets at this time of morning are so robust with the odor of the damned that city workers are assigned to come downtown and spray City Hall with a deoderizing foam to mask the stench.
A stench I bullied my way through to arrive an hour early for a 7:20 am meeting with the Greyhound Bus that was scheduled to pick me up and haul all 180lbs of magnificence known as John Miller up to the city of Jacksonville in north Florida where I would converge with other die-hard fans of cult / horror / grindhouse / drive-in / exploitation cinema for the first (and maybe last?)end all, be all of conventions for weirdos such as myself known as Cult-Fiction.
Arriving before the doors opened allowed me time to be talked at by a brother / sister combo that wreaked of unwashed clothing and beer cans after they have been mildewing in the summer heat for a few days. Apparently the pair were catching the bus for a trip up north to Daytona where they would give a final good bye to an old friend on her death bed due to cancer. Not that I particularly cared for their stories, a part of me was selfishly thinking to myself that if I sat next to this haggard old bag of wrinkly dried out skin that I may be able to negotiate a hand job or something out of her on the bus.
Unfortunately no such luck, before I knew it the doors had opened and the brother was requesting to the lady at the counter that he be seated next to his dear ol sister. He would be my first of several encounters with a cock blocker this trip.
Carrying a Tampa Bay Rays duffle bag around my neck, resting it along my chest and a black Jordan backpack on my back, while still carrying around two cardboard poster containers I made my way up to the front counter beaming with excitement over the possibilities that were to come over the next several days. "Here to pick up my ticket", I said with a rare smile.
As I leaned forward resting my elbows on the counter anxiously awaiting my tickets to print I noticed the biggest, ugliest, blackest son of a bitch I have ever laid eyes upon. The best description I can give is that he looked like the lost siamese twin of Charles S. Dutton, the guy who played Roc and the annoying preacher in Alien 3.
The woman working the counter that morning looked up at me with a straight face and said, "your ticket has already been printed". Taking this as some sort of correctable mistake I calmly asked this diarrhea faced whore for a quick resolution to arguably the stupidest fucking crisis I have ever been mixed up in. Especially after I flashed her my million dollar smile and said, "well, you see that is impossible, I don't even have a printer at home". Her response, "doesn't matter, your ticket has already been printed and I cannot give you another one".
After several exchanges of trying to understand the situation I realized that talking to this braindead twit was an excercise in futility of biblical proportions. I could barely barely get a blink out of this comatosed bitch let alone a straight answer. With the bus's departure minutes away I somehow managed to argue a 1-800 number out of the Terry Schiavo of customer service reps, which ofcourse only worked on CENTRAL TIME!.
When I heatedly asked the woman to speak to her superior she blinked at me one last time before I nervously shouted, "miss, what the fuck is it that you do around here? You have absolutely no answers to any of my questions, you refuse to be helpful in any way besides occassionally blinking to show me that you are atleast a notch above comatosed, I need to get on this damned bus, can you please print me another ticket or something! Anything?!?!"
She blinked at me again and before I knew it Charles S. Duttons ugly siamese twin decided to chime in with his two cents by telling me very boldly, "man, you need to chill the fuck out!".
I'm sorry, but the last thing I am wanting to hear minutes before a $80 round trip bus ticket slips through my fingers and causes me to miss out on the hotel I spent roughly $250 for the weekend to stay in, is the guy from Alien 3's brother boldly telling me I need to, "chill the fuck out".
That's right about the time I completely flipped a gasket to the point that I was ready to just say fuck it and spend my weekend in the 49th Street County Jail.
Without thinking I turned to Charles S. Duttons siamese twin and said, "excuse me motherfucker? How much did you spend this weekend on a hotel room in Jacksonville and a bus ticket to get there?" He calmly continued eating his scrambler bowl (a combination of grits and other assorted breakfast foods)as I ended with, "exactly, now shut the fuck up please unless you have a solution to offer".
Finally, from out of nowhere at the very last possible second the incredible blinking woman opened her mouth and recommended that I just get on the bus outside and go to the corporate office over in Tampa where they would find a way to resolve my issue. Which, logically, a somewhat coherent person would have offered that suggestion from the start instead of walking around for twenty minutes blinking and occassionally muttering on about how she could not give me any assistance. Dumb ass heffer.
The streets at this time of morning are so robust with the odor of the damned that city workers are assigned to come downtown and spray City Hall with a deoderizing foam to mask the stench.
A stench I bullied my way through to arrive an hour early for a 7:20 am meeting with the Greyhound Bus that was scheduled to pick me up and haul all 180lbs of magnificence known as John Miller up to the city of Jacksonville in north Florida where I would converge with other die-hard fans of cult / horror / grindhouse / drive-in / exploitation cinema for the first (and maybe last?)end all, be all of conventions for weirdos such as myself known as Cult-Fiction.
Arriving before the doors opened allowed me time to be talked at by a brother / sister combo that wreaked of unwashed clothing and beer cans after they have been mildewing in the summer heat for a few days. Apparently the pair were catching the bus for a trip up north to Daytona where they would give a final good bye to an old friend on her death bed due to cancer. Not that I particularly cared for their stories, a part of me was selfishly thinking to myself that if I sat next to this haggard old bag of wrinkly dried out skin that I may be able to negotiate a hand job or something out of her on the bus.
Unfortunately no such luck, before I knew it the doors had opened and the brother was requesting to the lady at the counter that he be seated next to his dear ol sister. He would be my first of several encounters with a cock blocker this trip.
Carrying a Tampa Bay Rays duffle bag around my neck, resting it along my chest and a black Jordan backpack on my back, while still carrying around two cardboard poster containers I made my way up to the front counter beaming with excitement over the possibilities that were to come over the next several days. "Here to pick up my ticket", I said with a rare smile.
As I leaned forward resting my elbows on the counter anxiously awaiting my tickets to print I noticed the biggest, ugliest, blackest son of a bitch I have ever laid eyes upon. The best description I can give is that he looked like the lost siamese twin of Charles S. Dutton, the guy who played Roc and the annoying preacher in Alien 3.
The woman working the counter that morning looked up at me with a straight face and said, "your ticket has already been printed". Taking this as some sort of correctable mistake I calmly asked this diarrhea faced whore for a quick resolution to arguably the stupidest fucking crisis I have ever been mixed up in. Especially after I flashed her my million dollar smile and said, "well, you see that is impossible, I don't even have a printer at home". Her response, "doesn't matter, your ticket has already been printed and I cannot give you another one".
After several exchanges of trying to understand the situation I realized that talking to this braindead twit was an excercise in futility of biblical proportions. I could barely barely get a blink out of this comatosed bitch let alone a straight answer. With the bus's departure minutes away I somehow managed to argue a 1-800 number out of the Terry Schiavo of customer service reps, which ofcourse only worked on CENTRAL TIME!.
When I heatedly asked the woman to speak to her superior she blinked at me one last time before I nervously shouted, "miss, what the fuck is it that you do around here? You have absolutely no answers to any of my questions, you refuse to be helpful in any way besides occassionally blinking to show me that you are atleast a notch above comatosed, I need to get on this damned bus, can you please print me another ticket or something! Anything?!?!"
She blinked at me again and before I knew it Charles S. Duttons ugly siamese twin decided to chime in with his two cents by telling me very boldly, "man, you need to chill the fuck out!".
I'm sorry, but the last thing I am wanting to hear minutes before a $80 round trip bus ticket slips through my fingers and causes me to miss out on the hotel I spent roughly $250 for the weekend to stay in, is the guy from Alien 3's brother boldly telling me I need to, "chill the fuck out".
That's right about the time I completely flipped a gasket to the point that I was ready to just say fuck it and spend my weekend in the 49th Street County Jail.
Without thinking I turned to Charles S. Duttons siamese twin and said, "excuse me motherfucker? How much did you spend this weekend on a hotel room in Jacksonville and a bus ticket to get there?" He calmly continued eating his scrambler bowl (a combination of grits and other assorted breakfast foods)as I ended with, "exactly, now shut the fuck up please unless you have a solution to offer".
Finally, from out of nowhere at the very last possible second the incredible blinking woman opened her mouth and recommended that I just get on the bus outside and go to the corporate office over in Tampa where they would find a way to resolve my issue. Which, logically, a somewhat coherent person would have offered that suggestion from the start instead of walking around for twenty minutes blinking and occassionally muttering on about how she could not give me any assistance. Dumb ass heffer.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Me x Barry White
This is something I have been avoiding for quite some time but I guess was ultimately inevitable.
For the first time in my 27 years on this planet I can honestly admit to being a Barry White fan. I've been a devout fan of 70's soul music since I was a child but Barry White always struck me as some cheesy 80's pop star that belonged in the center square of some lame game show.
The othernight though as I am sitting around the crib listening to elevator music on the radio, Barry Whites Never Gonna Give You Up started playing and my ears perked. Like a few other slow jams on this depressing excuse for an R&B / oldies station I was forced to re-evaluate my opinion of the man and his tunes.
Ever since I have been on some uncontrollable trip to listen to Never Gonna Give You Up repeatedly going on roughly three days straight. There's something about the bleakness of dark sounding love songs that appeals to me. Surprisingly the radio seems the best place to find them in abundance. Especially songs that have lost alot of their deepness because of how thin they have been stretched over a pop culture landscape that doesn't appreciate them.
I guess now that I have nothing but time in the evenings to sit around and analyze shit like this the songs have sort of slowed down for me and I'm finally able to give them a fair shake.
Anyways...
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
Lampin Gets Guest Contributor!!!
Good evening friends. By now many of you have had the fortunate experience of meeting me personally, while the rest of you may have only heard of me through legend and simply feel as though we have crossed paths before. Yes, I of course am John's much beloved and talked about infamous penis.
I come to you this evening inspired by recent events taking place in the fine state of Wisconsin (trust me, you don't even want to hear the cheesehead story) and have decided that not only am I going on a temporary labor strike, but to announce that I have also become a member of a local union that exist to protect hard working guys like me from unsavory characters like my boss.
The reality though, is that I enjoy my profession a great deal and take my craft very seriously. All I am asking for is that I am finally given proper safety equipment and to stop being exposed to hazardous environments. The hours suck, I am overworked and underpaid with very little time to rest in between brutally labor intensive shifts. I'd like some healthcare benefits and a little vacation time would be nice every now and again too.
Unfortunately my boss is a real jerk. The guy has very little regard for his own safety let alone mine. Do you have any idea what it's like being trapped down there all day? I'm the only guy on the planet who can be locked in the dark and still look and feel as though I have gotten a sun burn. This is fuckin bullshit.
For example, this is a recent exchange during a trip to the free clinic on a Monday morning after a wild weekend of hard boozing and beating up trim.
Time: 7 am
Location: Free Clinic.
A clearly hungover John limps to the back of an already long line full of impregnated skeezoids and baby mama's getting WIC. The young lady infront of him catches his eye.
John: Good morning.
Girl: Good morning.
John: So what are you in for this morning?
Girl: I'm here for my WIC check, get away from me you fucking creep!
The door opens and the line files into the initial waiting room. There's a lady handing out forms and paper work at the entrance.
John: Good morning, maam.
Lady: Oh, boy. Again?
John: Well, You know how it goes. It was first Friday.
Lady: Geez louis buddy. Just wait here a second.
John: It's ok I know the routine, just hand me the forms and I'll go have a seat.
Lady: No, no. Please, just wait here a second. Hang on.
The lady goes to her desk to make a phone call to the doctor.
Doctor: Hello, Dr. Miguel speaking.
Lady: Yes, Doctor Miguel, he's back!
Doctor: For the love of god, man. Please, hold for a minute.
The doctor proceeds to bow his head and mutter some sort of spanish prayer under his breath. Then grabs a stool and walks over to the cabinet. He pushes some boxes and supplies out of the way, reaches way to the back and pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniels. Takes a huge swig, shakes his head and walks back to the phone.
Doctor: Ok, send him back. I'm ready now.
Lady: Yes, sir.
Lady goes over to John.
Lady: The doctor will see you now, sir.
John: Sweet, a guy could get spoiled by such speedy service. Hope you guys work this quickly the next time I'm in here.
Lady: Good god! This isn't an express pass, sir.
John enters the room, he reaches out his hand to greet the doctor.
Doctor: Oh, umm, one second.
The doctor picks up a latex glove and places it over his hand before he shakes Johns hand.
Doctor: Ok, how can I help you this morning?
John: Well, (details are censored).
Doctor: Ouch, what happened to the last five packages of free condoms we gave you? Don't you ever get sick of coming into this dump?
John: Oh those, I trade them to cab drivers in exchange for rides to the bar.
Doctor: Sigh. Let me examine it.
John pulls down his pants.
John: Before you look, doc, keep in mind it's kind of cold outside today and I'm a little shy.
Doctor: This is quite unique to say the least, never seen one that looks like this before. Where the hell have you been shoving this thing? The reds, the blues, the swirls. It is all very avant garde. I don't know whether to treat it or frame it for the Smithsonian to hang up as a work of art.
End.
Now do you understand my plight? I am just a hard working guy wanting to do his job, but I can no longer work under such detrimental conditions. Until my demands are met I refuse to punch the clock and perform my duties.
I ask that all others in my situation or even those who simply sympathize, join me in this strike and immediately contact your local state representatives to demand that stricter rules and regulations are in place to protect our special interest.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Paying For Autographs?
It was roughly spring of '02 and I was eagerly awaiting graduation from high school. A friend of mine, who we will call "Kramer", had dropped out of high school and gotten mixed up with some college aged kids that were paying him to go around the country to hastle celebrities and athletes for their signatures.
One weekend he asked if I'd be interested in the possibility of meeting a then red-hot on the charts Ja Rule. I'm not going to go into heavy details on all of the goings on over the course of that weekend but I will say that by 4 a.m. on Sunday morning I was in a lavish hotel lobby standing next to a heavily inebriated Ja Rule having my picture taken. With one hell of an epic story to tell at school on Monday morning!
I knew at that moment, for me life as a fan would never again be the same. I now knew how to penetrate that invisible wall that exist between fan and celebrity. Whether it meant waiting in a dark alley behind a concert venue, standing on a sidewalk outside of a hotel, whatever. If I was a fan of your work and wanted a signature or a picture I could get it without breaking a sweat or my wallet. And the great thing is that most of the time the personality in question was eager to oblige with a smile and a "thank you for being a fan".
So, fast forward to the present. I'm a little older now and it's not quite as cool to be pushing slightly passed your mid 20s harassing celebrities. Although, there are exceptions, ofcourse.
Anyways, as I am planning a trip next month to Jacksonville, Florida for the Cult Fiction Drive-In convention for "legitimate" autographs I am blown away by the outlandish going price for the signatures of "celebrities" who have not been relative for atleast twenty years.
Not saying that a celebrity should not be compensated for their time. That's what I thought the whole appearance fee and free travel accomodations were for. Hell, I am not even opposed to them charging for a signature or a photograph. So long as it is within reason.
The guest list at this con has grown so impressive that the three or four signatures I had originally planned on budgeting for has grown to seven or eight. At an average of $20 a pop that is one hell of an expensive weekend. Especially when you tack in the cost of purchasing the memorabilia that you are asking them to bless with their John Hancocks. Even at around $10-$15 per signature that adds up quick. Not to mention the cost of admission just to go to the event.
As a fan it seems a tad insulting that personalities who would otherwise be working at a Wal-Mart and forgotten about have the nerve to price gauge the very people who have ressurected them from obscurity and keep their names afloat through fan sites, blogs, etc and only really want the opportunity to tell that person how much their work has meant to them. Fans of comics, horror, sci-fi and all things otherwise fantastic are unique because we never forget our heros. Unlike fans of other varieties who seem to have a more what have you done for me lately approach to fandom.
This is not to say that I am not going to still go to Jacksonville and have the time of my life come hell or high water. If worse comes to worse I got a $5 bill for every guest in attendence to snap a quick photo with me, if that isn't good enough then a free handshake and a, "you were awesome in **insert film**, thank you for the memories" will suffice. There should be plenty of vendors in the dealers section willing to take my money. If that isn't the case either then I have found a few bars and clubs in the area that I guarantee will be willing too!
I just can't bring myself to part ways with my hard earned money in exchange for a signature that is priced way beyond market value, especially when I have gotten things signed for free from names at the peak of their careers.
This may sound sort of pessimistic but I am just trying to get my complaints out of the way in advance so that I can give a less political or heavy handed account of my travels to the show when I get home.
One weekend he asked if I'd be interested in the possibility of meeting a then red-hot on the charts Ja Rule. I'm not going to go into heavy details on all of the goings on over the course of that weekend but I will say that by 4 a.m. on Sunday morning I was in a lavish hotel lobby standing next to a heavily inebriated Ja Rule having my picture taken. With one hell of an epic story to tell at school on Monday morning!
I knew at that moment, for me life as a fan would never again be the same. I now knew how to penetrate that invisible wall that exist between fan and celebrity. Whether it meant waiting in a dark alley behind a concert venue, standing on a sidewalk outside of a hotel, whatever. If I was a fan of your work and wanted a signature or a picture I could get it without breaking a sweat or my wallet. And the great thing is that most of the time the personality in question was eager to oblige with a smile and a "thank you for being a fan".
So, fast forward to the present. I'm a little older now and it's not quite as cool to be pushing slightly passed your mid 20s harassing celebrities. Although, there are exceptions, ofcourse.
Anyways, as I am planning a trip next month to Jacksonville, Florida for the Cult Fiction Drive-In convention for "legitimate" autographs I am blown away by the outlandish going price for the signatures of "celebrities" who have not been relative for atleast twenty years.
Not saying that a celebrity should not be compensated for their time. That's what I thought the whole appearance fee and free travel accomodations were for. Hell, I am not even opposed to them charging for a signature or a photograph. So long as it is within reason.
The guest list at this con has grown so impressive that the three or four signatures I had originally planned on budgeting for has grown to seven or eight. At an average of $20 a pop that is one hell of an expensive weekend. Especially when you tack in the cost of purchasing the memorabilia that you are asking them to bless with their John Hancocks. Even at around $10-$15 per signature that adds up quick. Not to mention the cost of admission just to go to the event.
As a fan it seems a tad insulting that personalities who would otherwise be working at a Wal-Mart and forgotten about have the nerve to price gauge the very people who have ressurected them from obscurity and keep their names afloat through fan sites, blogs, etc and only really want the opportunity to tell that person how much their work has meant to them. Fans of comics, horror, sci-fi and all things otherwise fantastic are unique because we never forget our heros. Unlike fans of other varieties who seem to have a more what have you done for me lately approach to fandom.
This is not to say that I am not going to still go to Jacksonville and have the time of my life come hell or high water. If worse comes to worse I got a $5 bill for every guest in attendence to snap a quick photo with me, if that isn't good enough then a free handshake and a, "you were awesome in **insert film**, thank you for the memories" will suffice. There should be plenty of vendors in the dealers section willing to take my money. If that isn't the case either then I have found a few bars and clubs in the area that I guarantee will be willing too!
I just can't bring myself to part ways with my hard earned money in exchange for a signature that is priced way beyond market value, especially when I have gotten things signed for free from names at the peak of their careers.
This may sound sort of pessimistic but I am just trying to get my complaints out of the way in advance so that I can give a less political or heavy handed account of my travels to the show when I get home.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Somebody Has To Dig Ditches
I just sat through the film "Waiting For Superman" and it caused me to reflect on how terrible my own experience of being funneled through America's public educational system was. Not to mention realizing just how awful many of my educators actually were.
As an adult in the workforce who is critiqued on a regular basis and always one bad decision or lay-off away from my next unemployment check, I find it ridiculously unfair that an educator can be horrifyingly bad at their craft and still recieve a somewhat decent salary along with a very generous benefits package.
Sure, there was the occassional good teacher and a few decent ones sprinkled throughout. But for the most part my twelve years were spent doing crossword puzzles and word searches. Or worse, simply copying notes off of a projector and being told to learn the material on my own. Besides mathematics, I can hardly recall a time in those twelve years when a text book was anything more then a weight in my backpack. That is ofcourse when a text book was available or not in such mangled conditions that it was virtually unreadable.
During the sixth grade I even had a math teacher who would spend the entire class period telling stories about his ex girlfriends, hijinks at high school jobs or griping about the intelligence gap between his American students and the class of foreign kids he'd teach during first period. Looking back on it, how were we ever supposed to catch up with those kids when we were busy being a test audience for his stand up comedy routine?
That is just the tip of the ice burg that doesn't even begin to cover the many teachers given cushy jobs based upon their value to various athletic programs. One of the worst teachers I ever had was a wrestling coach who taught drivers ed. His job mainly consisted of popping in a video and goofying around with his pal the varsity football coach who he shared a portable room with (At the time the school was being remodled and classrooms were forced into trailors). That same guy is now a big wig on the city council! He wasn't a real teacher, although he could put on his resume that he had been. His main claim to fame was that he was a decent wrestling coach. I can't even fathom being paid a middle class salary with benefits for doing virtually nothing beyond glorified baby sitting for eight hours a day.
As a matter of fact, I am wondering where the hell peoples parents were during all of this madness? If I had a child and they were coming home with folders filled with crossword puzzles and word searches I'd probably be at the school the next day demanding an explanation. Looking back on it now I have to wonder to myself if I ever really stood a chance.
That's not to say that I avoid all personal responsibility in the matter (my life's fine. I'm just saying), but from the time I entered pre-school my path was aimed in the direction of mediocracy. Kids like me who just hovered in between failing and excelling are just sort of tolerated and forgotten about. Come to think of it there were very few times I can ever remember being personally encouraged or congratulated for anything besides my jump shot.
Not trying to get to deep with all of this. Just thought I'd jot it all down while it was on my mind. It boggles my mind though, how in a country with an endless budget for warfare and imprisonment how the one system that should be the envy of the industrialized world can fail so miserably. Oh wait, maybe that does explain it.
As an adult in the workforce who is critiqued on a regular basis and always one bad decision or lay-off away from my next unemployment check, I find it ridiculously unfair that an educator can be horrifyingly bad at their craft and still recieve a somewhat decent salary along with a very generous benefits package.
Sure, there was the occassional good teacher and a few decent ones sprinkled throughout. But for the most part my twelve years were spent doing crossword puzzles and word searches. Or worse, simply copying notes off of a projector and being told to learn the material on my own. Besides mathematics, I can hardly recall a time in those twelve years when a text book was anything more then a weight in my backpack. That is ofcourse when a text book was available or not in such mangled conditions that it was virtually unreadable.
During the sixth grade I even had a math teacher who would spend the entire class period telling stories about his ex girlfriends, hijinks at high school jobs or griping about the intelligence gap between his American students and the class of foreign kids he'd teach during first period. Looking back on it, how were we ever supposed to catch up with those kids when we were busy being a test audience for his stand up comedy routine?
That is just the tip of the ice burg that doesn't even begin to cover the many teachers given cushy jobs based upon their value to various athletic programs. One of the worst teachers I ever had was a wrestling coach who taught drivers ed. His job mainly consisted of popping in a video and goofying around with his pal the varsity football coach who he shared a portable room with (At the time the school was being remodled and classrooms were forced into trailors). That same guy is now a big wig on the city council! He wasn't a real teacher, although he could put on his resume that he had been. His main claim to fame was that he was a decent wrestling coach. I can't even fathom being paid a middle class salary with benefits for doing virtually nothing beyond glorified baby sitting for eight hours a day.
As a matter of fact, I am wondering where the hell peoples parents were during all of this madness? If I had a child and they were coming home with folders filled with crossword puzzles and word searches I'd probably be at the school the next day demanding an explanation. Looking back on it now I have to wonder to myself if I ever really stood a chance.
That's not to say that I avoid all personal responsibility in the matter (my life's fine. I'm just saying), but from the time I entered pre-school my path was aimed in the direction of mediocracy. Kids like me who just hovered in between failing and excelling are just sort of tolerated and forgotten about. Come to think of it there were very few times I can ever remember being personally encouraged or congratulated for anything besides my jump shot.
Not trying to get to deep with all of this. Just thought I'd jot it all down while it was on my mind. It boggles my mind though, how in a country with an endless budget for warfare and imprisonment how the one system that should be the envy of the industrialized world can fail so miserably. Oh wait, maybe that does explain it.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Tampa Bay Comic Con! 2-20-11
Although always a big deal to local fans, it seemed as though this trip to the Tampa Bay Comic Con held more weight of importance then conventions of the past. I will go out on a limb here and suggest that it was thanks to a highly anticipated return to old stomping grounds at The Double Tree hotel in Tampa. An appropriate location thanks to it's centralized location to residents of both Pinellas and Hillsborough.
Don't get me wrong, I treasure the days of the cons short lived time at the Honeywell Minireg (is that even hows it's spelled?) location in Largo. Alot of purchases were handled in that building as well as alot of life long memories made. But nothing feels more at home then the conference room at The Double Tree. It's a completely seperate experience altogether.
With a reasonable admission fee of only $5 it's hard to debate the punch packed into this convention for the price, the fact that it's held right in my own back yard makes it all the more of a great deal.
There has been some discussion over the cons shrinking dimensions, booting local talent from the room just outside of the front door entrance in exchange for paying merchants with tables held inside of the conference hall. While I find it tragic that local talent isn't as properly showcased as it should be, I respect that this is still a capitalist economy and people don't hold events like this as a means charity. I give respect where respect is due and will boldly say that new ownership has breathed new life into this show.
There was a revitalized energy with a fresh and diverse variety of dealers. Along with something I had never seen at one of these shows, celebrity guest (well, celebrities to us.). The guys who drew Spider-Man and Captain America, plus an aging professional wrestler may not be George Romero or Spock but still considered a positive step in the right direction if you ask my opinion (which you may or may not have asked for but I'm giving it anyways, and yes I realize there have always been guest, these just seemed a little more interesting then usual).
I was a little disappointed by the almost total extinction of bootleg DVD titles at this show, but was more then impressed by the other deals available. Mainly posters and such. Two in particular I would have liked to purchase was a framed Ghostbusters theatrical poster and another framed Wizard magazine cover with Wolverine fighting that guy from GI Joe.
What I wound up leaving with was all the more special on a personal level. A dealer who claimed to have worked for Nike caught my attention with his pair of Freddy Kruger edition Nike Dunks that he was willing to part ways with for roughly $600. When I looked down at the floor to vomit some promotional concert posters caught my eye. They were special prints made up for local shows hosted by The Skate Park of Tampa. I inquired about the Ghostface Killah and Raekwon show held at The Ritz in Ybor and hosted by The Skate Park of Tampa (and sponsored by NIKE SB!), he thankfully had a few sheets left. He wanted $20, I offered him $12 and the deal was cemented. The sweetest purchase I have made at one of these shows, if not ever.
All in all a positive experience that I recommend to any and every fan in the Tampa Bay area.
Friday, February 25, 2011
What If....Nolan Canova Had His Dream Tampa Toy and Comic Con!
***Note*** To everybody name dropped in this blog post...I have said far worse to all of you and ya'll still love me...So take this with a grain of salt...PLEASE!
Sunday Feb. 20, 2011. A grisly afternoon of debauchery and inebriation the likes of which the city of Tampa had never before witnessed and shall likely never witness again.
The players. The Crazed Fanboys and The DOB's. Two clans of rival blog posters and 1,100 casualties caught in the crossfire.
This is my personal account of that day....
The morning started off simple enough. I awoke in the loving arms of a hung over beauty in a strange apartment in a strange part of town. As usual I quietly slung on my duds from the previous evening and slid a morning afterpill with a $20 bill next to her alarm clock on the nightstand with a note that read "thanks for the memories, babe". Then vanished forever into the ether of her imagination.
By the time I arrived home it was time to meet up with Chris Woods for a trip over to the Tampa Toy and Comic Con held at the now infamous Double Tree Hotel. If only we had known in advance the anarchy that awaited us.
Upon arrival we were immediatly greeted by a couple of suspicious charectors. Jason "The Shark" (who wears a T-shirt with a Jaws poster on the front as a deterent to any enemies who may try to get wise with him) and Laughin Lonnie (who never smiles, until its too late...For you!). They boasted to Chris and I about a stomp down they gave to a DOB member outside before chopping off his weiner, shoving it in his mouth and stuffing him in a dumpster. I'm not gonna lie, I was a little scared at this point and nearly wet myself. These are the types of guys that "dont fuck around" if you catch my drift.
The cool thing is the doorman was so terrified by the prescience of Crazed Fanboy members that he let us all in for free and told us, "the real show is upstairs in room 312, exclusive for VIP's such as you gentlemen". I don't know what was up there but one can imagine. These guys dont do anything unless it is in excess, it would have been instant death for that door man had a visit to room 312 been a disappointment.
We roamed the room for a few minutes before Chris spotted none other then Terence "The Tez Bomb" Nuzum, his current 'ol lady and none other then the don himself, Crazed Fanboy leader Nolan Canova. He doesn't have a nickname because his being is already so much larger then life that nobody dare offend by saying anything that may underwhelm his greatness. At this point I noticed Terence "The Tez Bomb" Nuzum shoveling novelty items into his pockets while his 'ol lady distracted the dealers. A terrible two-some if ever there were I tell ya what. Canova sat in the distance smiling with approval.
We made our way over towards the back of the room to exchange pleasantries with Canova, Nuzum and the 'ol lady. At this point I knew I was in over my head. Being a former Crazed Fanboy myself I knew their was a target on my back. Thankfully there are two ways of getting back into the good graces of this crew. Either kiss the ring or get the shit kicked out of you and have that ring shoved up your asshole. Scared to death, knees trembling I was in motion to lean down and kiss the ring. But just as I had started to move a choir of screams sucked the oxygen from the room (and the color from my skin I was so damn scared!).
Thirsty for vengeance over the savage death of a fellow colleague, DOB members including none other then Rob the "Bacteria Man" notorious for his vast knowledge of lethal pathogens and the HBIC Brandon "The Branjo" who's skill for playing his victims like a banjo is the subject of many a legendary story stormed the room with a small army of samarai sword weilding assassins.
It's difficult to explain what happend next, much of it is still a blur. What I could see through the sprays of blood and flying limbs was very little at best. I flipped over a table of bootleg hentai DVD's for protection from the chaos at hand. To the left of me was a bloodied severed head, probably a dealer, some poor son of a bitch trying to peddle a few comics to make extra cash to put food on his families table, a senseless tragedy. To the right, was none other then Laughin Lonnie, with a big bloodied smile on his face, gnarling the eyeball out of some poor saps face!
All I could hear was a bunch of back and fourth shouting over page hits and the content of computer cookies. Things were getting nuts.
As I cautiously peaked my head over the table I noticed the absense of Chris Woods from the brawl. At first I was concerned that he was possibly a casualty of the live-action blog madness at hand. Little did I know that Chris Woods has been living a lie this whole time.
Come to find out Chris Woods was none other then a android from the future sent back in time as a weapon to once and for all finish off first generation DOB members before they grew strong in numbers to overtake page hits from the Crazed Fanboys. Outside of the building his conservative looking Ford Explorer was quickly making its way towards the entrance of the building, where it would transform along with Chris into a gigantic steal fire breathing Tyranasaurus Rex. My mind was officially blown.
Things would only get nuttier from here. The Bacteria Man removed from his trench coat a small vile of powder, when approached by several Crazed Fanboys he began shouting from the tops of his lungs, "What? You want a piece, Fuckboys!" Then sprayed the contents of the vile into the air as it spread downward upon it's victims, eating away slowly at their flesh.
I looked around the once promising room of bargain deals on comic books and collectible items, now splattered in blood and guts. In one corner of the room was The Tez Bomb armed with a razor blade slicing up any and everybody who stood in the way of his madness, back to back with his 'ol lady who was armed with a sawed off shotgun blasting away at many a innocent by stander.
I peaked to the back of the room and spotted Canova shouting at a camera crew to document the days events, arguably for the purpose of adding the contents to his websites video archive. Diabolical bastard. A real life Schlock-O-Rama.
As the hotels foundation crumbled beneath the feet of the steal Tyranosauras fire breathing Chris Woods, I dodged flying knives, leaped over flaming corpses of melted bodies and ran away as fast and as far away as I could.
All I know is that as of Monday Feb. 21, 2011 both the Crazed Fanboy website and DOB had raving reviews of the convention both boasting of their respective successes for the day.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Reflecting on MLK Day
I like to celebrate MLK day by listening to nothing but Public Enemy's "By The Time I Get To Arizona" (which I guess is a little inappropriate considering what just happend in that state) for 24 hours straight.
When I'm not doing that I tend to reflect on the day itself. What it means, why we celebrate it and wonder if people in these harrowing times actually know or care anything about the man besides soundbytes from his "I Have A Dream Speech".
The reality of the day is that nobody really gives a flying fuck about Martin Luther King Jr. or his legacy. If we do then we have a pathetic way of showing it. Infact I am willing to bet that the modern world looks nothing as Dr. King would have envisioned it (Yeah I know the Boondocks already made a similar statement). This day really only exist as a means of giving the illusion that things have progressed.
Truth is (as I see it) black folks would have been better off in the long term by siding with a much more militant position as opposed to the movement that won out. By rushing into integration black folks were just sort of forced into adapting to a world that didn't work in their favor and from what I can tell taken advantage of by an opportunistic political/business establishment.
But I'm gonna shut up...I might get in trouble if I say anything more...
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Blast From The Past Collectibles Show!
- Me with Brooke McCarter of The Lost Boys fame and the upcoming The Uh-Oh Show!
- Me with THE KING OF B MOVIES! Joel D Wynkoop!
After a less then stimulating Friday evening of making small talk with hot lesbians (or she might have just told me she was a lesbian?) in the CD section of the Goodwill and meeting a guy on the bus outside of the Derby Lane dog track with a gambling addiction (and cocaine addiction) who had just lost all of his money playing cards, I was determined to make the most of my Saturday. Oh wait, after re-reading that my Friday night was actually pretty fucking awesome!
I awoke early on Saturday morning, ran downstairs and caught the bus downtown to The Satruday Morning Market which is actually a pretty nice weekly event in St. Petersburg. From there I hung out in Williams Park with the homeless and caught another bus which dragged me on a 20 minute detour through "the hood" to the Central Ave Goodwill (if you havnt noticed I have a thrift store addiction).
While on the bus I managed to weasal a ride from a friend to the Blast From The Past Collectibles Show being held at Clearwaters Ruth Eckard Hall. What a blessing that was, without a ride I would have had to of made two or three different bus changes. Not to mention Ruth Eckard Hall is damn near a mile off of the main street! But hell, it was something to do and sure as hell sounded like a better option then sitting at home watching pornography all day.
What I didn't quite expect was just how much of a "blast from the past" this afternoon would really be.
I had a suspicion that my old running mates from the PCR (Nolan's Pop Culture Review) would be in attendence but it was an experience that I was hoping to avoid. After a timultous year of decaying relationships and verbal back and fourths it had been close to 6 months since we had shared even the slightest bit of contact let alone being stuck in a confined space with one another. Had I had a little bit more of a warning I would have atleast downed a bottle of Night Train to subdue my nerves.
Anyways, after paying the outrageous $10 entrance fee (ok maybe thats not so bad) I had entered the building and was greeted by no more then maybe six dealers tables and virtually no crowd, with exception for PCR'rs.
It was a little annoying at first cause I really didn't want to have to spend my Saturday afternoon being stuck in a ackward situation, but it was worth it. I was thankful to be able to make peace with Chris Woods and congratulate Terence on finally getting a piece of trim, hopefully he understands now why the rest of us spend our free time chasing after it.
It occured to me as we were greeted by none other then former PCR contributor Andy Lalino that the real highlight of the show for fans should not have been Mary Anne from Giligans Island or the awesome toy collection upstairs. The real show was taking place on a uncomfortable bench between a nasty concession stand with week old hot dogs and a table full of bootleg DVD's. It was a mini re-union of sorts, a collection of colorful charectors that have made up one of the most unique stories the general public will probably never hear.
But I digress, much more was happening at the con. Per square inch I'd make the arguement that this show had more going on in six or seven dealers tables and celebrity appearances then the standard Tampa Comic Con (The Double Tree con). Every table had something I would have like to of bought. In the end I settled for a original theatrical poster of the film "Walking Tall" (I love that movie!), a paper weight with The Jaugernaut from X-Men (for a buck!) and a Bart Simpson Key Chain (also a buck!).
After wheeling and dealing I wound up upstairs in search of seeing my old pal Joel Wynkoop and meeting Brooke McCarter from The Lost Boys. Also upstairs were the daughter from "Lost In Space" and Dawn Welles aka Mary-Anne from Giligans Island. Who, btw...Is still smoking hot!
After some small talk with Wynkoop I was honored to have met and conversed a little with Brooke McCarter an actor from a movie that was so pivotal to my childhood. I'm pretty sure the first two films my father ever rented for me were Blood Sport and Nightmare On Elmstreet but somewhere shortly following that was The Lost Boys. It was a defining moment in my childhood (and life).
Brooke was also kind enough to give me a signed photo with all The Lost Boys on it. The picture itself is pretty damn sweet for a fan like me but the autograph makes it extra cool. I even talked him into signing one for my friend Mindy who sadly is a fan of the crappy sequals Warner Brothers throwed together to exploit the originals retro cult appeal. Hers reads "The original Lost Boys is the BEST!"
On a personal level this show was a blessing. The dealers selection and celebrity line up were great for such a small show. Hopefully the promotors will hold other events annually and get bigger with time.
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