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.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
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.
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