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.
Monday, May 30, 2011
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.
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