9-11-2001
I'll never forget the moment it happend.
Sitting in the back corner of my senior year economics class goofing around with my buddy Nick. Our teacher, an unappologetic capitalist with a thinning comb over hair cut and a face that looked uncomfortably like a cheap Hitler Halloween mask (Thus, why he was referred to as Rubber Face. A nickname I still claim to have originated, although the origins have and will continue to be debated), was yammering on as usual about remote Florida locales along treacherous stretch's of highway where he planned to invest and sell for a profit to developers.
Without warning a class mate, her name escapes me, barges in through the doorway tardy by about fifteen minutes with claims that a plane has just struck the World Trade Center in New York City. Rubber Face immediatly rushed to his computer, no doubt to check on his stocks. A girl sitting next to myself and Nick, a ditzy blonde with the IQ of a used condom said, "was it intentional?".
We looked at one another in disbelief that any person this stupid could have survived on this planet for as long as she had. Ofcourse it wasn't intentional, who would fly a plane purposely into a giant building?
Amazingly, I managed to sit through one more class without even the slightest of mention of what was happening in New York City with exception to murmers in the hallways. So, I didn't think to much about it and why would I have? I was a naive seventeen (a week before my eighteenth birthday) year old slacker with bad skin and a part time job at a grocery store, my main concern was graduating with a C average so my dad wouldn't kick my ass. Life continued as normal, although I was conscious that a major news story was developing.
In those days I would leave school around 11:30 - Noon each day because of the OJT Program. As I walked home I could sense that something had changed, cars were driving slower, the few that were actually on the roads and the city itself seemed have lost it's pulse.
When I finally found myself infront of a television screen I vividly remember Tom Brokaw on NBC and the horrific visions of a mass murder being broadcasted in real time for the whole planet to witness. Words were flying across the bottom of the screen with quotes and facts as cameras showed helpless souls launching themselves from the windows of a flaming skyscraper. The streets of lower Manhattan covered in clouds of dust and people in tears fearing for the safety of their loved ones. It was a miserable sight to behold and yet I couldn't look away, it was the greatest car crash in the history of the world and instead of casually strolling by with a curious eye we all stopped dead in our tracks and stared.
My attention sooned turned to the radio where I recall hearing that retarded "Proud To Be An American" song and blowhards demanding immediate carpet bombing of every city in the middle east.
In a instant the world had changed forever.
It's kind of crazy, even now as I write this my eyes tend to water a bit. The real tragedy of 9/11 isn't the dismantling of The World Trade Center, it's the monsters we have all become in the years to follow. Bitter partisianship, exploitation and a willingness to sacrifice the lives of others for the comfort of our own safety without ever blinking an eye.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
The Internet Ruined The Sex Culture!
A few evenings ago as I sat around lurched over infront of my laptop, drooling to the site of a woman drilling herself into the shaft of a bedpost, it occured to me that the internet has completely ruined the sex culture in this country.
Back in the day lonely women desperate for love had no choice but to get out of the house and make themselves available, going to bars, etc. They were easy picking for the scoundrals of the time. Even those without agendas still had to get out of the house and therefore allow nature to take it's course if they ever planned to procreate with the opposite sex. Therefore a healthy and vital ecosystem existed on this planet for centuries, that is before the invention of the internet.
In the modern age it is almost taboo to meet somebody in a social setting. The fun of face to face interaction, learning somebodies behavior first hand and enjoying the simplistic mysteries of a first date seem to have gone the way of the dodo bird. These days our attractions are rooted in the salesman ship and self fetishizing of social networking and text messages.
Don't get me wrong, I've dabbled in the online dating scene here and there. It's a easy means of getting laid but the problem is that people with self esteem issues get a hold of a digital camera, some good lighting and allow their newfound celebrity status amongst the gaggles of their perverted fanbase to go to their head.
A chick that used to be a casual homebody, the type of woman that would be a good catch in a not so distant primitive past is now a devient with an addiction to jilling off over the phone and infront of web videos for strangers. A chick may boast of having had only a few sexual partners, but ask her how many dudes she has sent photos of her baby portal to and see if the layers of that wholesome church lady image doesn't shed away like the peels of an orange.
Capitalism is a strange beast, a system that thrives upon providing it's participants with options is not necassarily a bad thing, unless it is being utilized by a lonely species that since it's earliest beginnings of crawling out of the mud as a walking tadpole has been in search of communication with others of its own kind. The combination has resulted in the greatest technological arms race in the history of the world and amongst its best achievements is the ability for a man in Omaha, Nebraska to send a photo of his manhood to a woman in Tallahasee, Florida in a matter of seconds.
What I am getting at is that being a human being no longer seems good enough. Although still flesh and blood our lifestyles are becoming more and more roboticized and safe. The pay off of a sexual encounter much like everything else that was ever worth accomplishing is the adventure that takes place along the way. Looking for perfection on a website with a glossy profile is not human and worst of all it's boring.
Just saying...
Back in the day lonely women desperate for love had no choice but to get out of the house and make themselves available, going to bars, etc. They were easy picking for the scoundrals of the time. Even those without agendas still had to get out of the house and therefore allow nature to take it's course if they ever planned to procreate with the opposite sex. Therefore a healthy and vital ecosystem existed on this planet for centuries, that is before the invention of the internet.
In the modern age it is almost taboo to meet somebody in a social setting. The fun of face to face interaction, learning somebodies behavior first hand and enjoying the simplistic mysteries of a first date seem to have gone the way of the dodo bird. These days our attractions are rooted in the salesman ship and self fetishizing of social networking and text messages.
Don't get me wrong, I've dabbled in the online dating scene here and there. It's a easy means of getting laid but the problem is that people with self esteem issues get a hold of a digital camera, some good lighting and allow their newfound celebrity status amongst the gaggles of their perverted fanbase to go to their head.
A chick that used to be a casual homebody, the type of woman that would be a good catch in a not so distant primitive past is now a devient with an addiction to jilling off over the phone and infront of web videos for strangers. A chick may boast of having had only a few sexual partners, but ask her how many dudes she has sent photos of her baby portal to and see if the layers of that wholesome church lady image doesn't shed away like the peels of an orange.
Capitalism is a strange beast, a system that thrives upon providing it's participants with options is not necassarily a bad thing, unless it is being utilized by a lonely species that since it's earliest beginnings of crawling out of the mud as a walking tadpole has been in search of communication with others of its own kind. The combination has resulted in the greatest technological arms race in the history of the world and amongst its best achievements is the ability for a man in Omaha, Nebraska to send a photo of his manhood to a woman in Tallahasee, Florida in a matter of seconds.
What I am getting at is that being a human being no longer seems good enough. Although still flesh and blood our lifestyles are becoming more and more roboticized and safe. The pay off of a sexual encounter much like everything else that was ever worth accomplishing is the adventure that takes place along the way. Looking for perfection on a website with a glossy profile is not human and worst of all it's boring.
Just saying...
Monday, August 1, 2011
The Jacksonville Summit Part 8: Life, Love and Ilsa: She Wolf Of The SS!
I'm posted up on the hallway walls outside of the convention entrance, feeling a little creeperish. Still somewhat trashed from the previous nights hijinks, questioning in my own head the logic behind my current motives. That of working up the courage to talk to the shiniest bronzed skinned, natural fro wearing, cleavage packing female I have ever laid eyes upon. If only I had bumped into her fifteen-hours earlier in a poorly lit nightclub as opposed to this brightly lit hotel lobby.
Normally I would take a quick glance and go on about my business, but this broad was obviously in this hallway with a specific purpose. Considering the type of crowd to show up at this event it was highly unlikely that she was there to get her poster for House Of 1000 Corpses signed by Sid Haig. Na, she was anxiously waiting for Pam Grier. Who, judging by her appearance must have been a influence over her.
I took a deep breath, told my brain to shut-up and took a giant step forward towards the target in my crosshairs.
"John, you ready or what?" a voice shouted from the distance.
My focus was disrupted and the kind of woman I had waited twenty seven and a half years to baby-mama was gone, out of sight and probably out of my life forever.
Opportunity blown.
"Come on we're having dinner with Dyanne Thorne at Gene's Seafood", explained Ed Tucker.
"Dyanne Thorne huh", not a bad backup plan for the evening I thought to myself.
Allow me for the briefest of seconds to be sparingly honest. I've never been a huge fan of the Ilsa films. Not because they are bad or not something I'd be interested in viewing. On the contrary, Ilsa is right up my alley. The problem is that I have been putting off viewing them for some time in the not to distant future so that I have atleast some type of cinematic treats on reserve for a rainy day.
With that said, I have been a huge fan of the films trailers for years. I even recall an experience at Unique Videos "Cult-O-Ween" when a discussion amongst fans came to a screaching halt as a trailer for Ilsa: Harem of the Oil Shieks came on the TV.
Bronzed over beauties are a dime a dozen, but dinner with a legend such as Dyanne Thorne was an experience to rare to pass up.
As I entered the restaurant joined by the likes of Ed Tucker, Brandon Merkely and Jon Haughton, my partners in crime for the weekend. I realized we were also accompanied by a few of Ed's personal friends.
At first I viewed this as a possible threat to my personal satisfaction, boy was I wrong. Amongst this crew was a conservative looking family of fourish, the mother I'm assuming a virgin to such cinematic spectacles as the Ilsa films.
Jon Haughton along with Dyanne Thornes wonderfully pleasent husband Howard Maurer strolled to the table, wearing none other then a bright red t-shirt with a giant Ilsa on the front decked out in full Nazi garb.
I loved it, the mother of the family, an obvious Sarah Palin fan leaned cautiously into her husbands ear, her eyes a glaze. Distraught and in a panic she whispered, "Oh my, I think we may be in danger".
On any other that night that would have been enough to suffice my appetite for moments of the unique variety. Not on this night, one of the most special of any I have ever lived through was nothing more then the bite of a delicious appetizer.
As our gang settled in, myself along with Ed, Jon and Brandon were basically tucked into a corner of the table with Dyanne and Howard to ourselves. Both of whom were filled with all sorts of amazing tales of filmmaking and life in general.
**** The Previous Evening ****
My first night in Jacksonville, sprayed down with Roca Wear cologne, dressed to impress and packing a bottle of Hennessy Black, I strolled through the hotel hall on my way to share a drink and conversation with good friends and a cult film legend.
On my journey through the halls I encountered a petite little number decked out in firm fitting black leather.
"Ilsa, what's up" I shouted.
The woman turned to face me, "That's not my name!", Ms. Thorne proclaimed in a sassy fit.
I caught up to her, we exchanged pleasentries and introductions as I escorted her down the hall to an elevator and to a gig performing a wedding ceremony for a pair of die-hard fans.
On the way we discussed a few topics, but mainly her and her husband Howard Maurers careers performing wedding ceremonies in Vegas.
As we parted ways I promised that when the time comes for me to tie the knot, there was no other option I would settle for other then to be married by Ilsa.
She turned to face me with the warmest smile and said, "John, when that time comes she will be a very lucky woman".
**** Next Night @ Gene's Seafood ****
Overwhelmed by the quality of conversation being held at this dinner table, surrounded by fan boys with an encyclopedic knowledge of cinematic history, I couldn't help but shift my focus to the chemistry of Mr and Mrs Maurer.
Never in my life have I ever witnessed two people so obviously in love. These two cuddled and swooned at one another like a couple of pubescent kitty cats in love.
Besides meeting with legends and having an awesome weekend of fandom, I also had alterior motives of going wild in a strange city, getting fucked up and wrecklessly poon banging as many whores as I could get my hands on. I didn't want to just write a blog, I wanted to tell my fucking tales to the annoyed doctors at the damn health department Monday morning! My dick was like a kamikazi pilot with a death wish, it was all or nothing this weekend.
With that said, it's no secret that at this point in my life I have all but given up hope on true love. It's a myth, an urban legend but as I sit at this table staring at The Maurers I might as well have been slapped in the face by the Lochness Monsters tail or bitten on the throat by the Chupacabra!
My brain, temporarily rattled was jolted back to life by a question I feel honored to have been apart of answering.
"This may sound kind of stupid to you guys, but what is a grindhouse?" asked Mrs. Maurer.
Me and Brandonly Merkely turned to face each other in astonishment. Then the four of us eagerly talked over each other trying to answer her question, each with a different answer.
Here I was telling a legend of 42nd St, one of several female representatives of the grindhouse genre what she was apart of. Fucking amazing!
As we arrived back to the hotel our group became somewhat scattered for a brief moment and I somehow wound up alone strolling with Howard Maurer. I told him about my crazy experiences in Jacksonville and he shared a few experiences back. We had a few laughs and suddenly Mr. Maurer put his hand on my back and turned me towards his wife who was walking with the rest of the group.
In one of those rare, life changing moments Mr. Maurer told me something to the effect of, "You know, I been married for "x" amount of years to the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth, I could never do anything to ruin that." As an example of why he had given up partying.
I've heard this type of talk before but there was something very genuine and real in Mr. Maurers tone. When I looked at him I could see that in his heart of hearts this was a man who could not live without this woman next to him everyday for the rest of his life. His world obviously meant nothing without her and I believe that she felt that way about him in return.
We all met upstairs and settled into some couches to enjoy one anothers company a little while longer. A great deal of conversation was had and friendships were ceiled.
Normally I would take a quick glance and go on about my business, but this broad was obviously in this hallway with a specific purpose. Considering the type of crowd to show up at this event it was highly unlikely that she was there to get her poster for House Of 1000 Corpses signed by Sid Haig. Na, she was anxiously waiting for Pam Grier. Who, judging by her appearance must have been a influence over her.
I took a deep breath, told my brain to shut-up and took a giant step forward towards the target in my crosshairs.
"John, you ready or what?" a voice shouted from the distance.
My focus was disrupted and the kind of woman I had waited twenty seven and a half years to baby-mama was gone, out of sight and probably out of my life forever.
Opportunity blown.
"Come on we're having dinner with Dyanne Thorne at Gene's Seafood", explained Ed Tucker.
"Dyanne Thorne huh", not a bad backup plan for the evening I thought to myself.
Allow me for the briefest of seconds to be sparingly honest. I've never been a huge fan of the Ilsa films. Not because they are bad or not something I'd be interested in viewing. On the contrary, Ilsa is right up my alley. The problem is that I have been putting off viewing them for some time in the not to distant future so that I have atleast some type of cinematic treats on reserve for a rainy day.
With that said, I have been a huge fan of the films trailers for years. I even recall an experience at Unique Videos "Cult-O-Ween" when a discussion amongst fans came to a screaching halt as a trailer for Ilsa: Harem of the Oil Shieks came on the TV.
Bronzed over beauties are a dime a dozen, but dinner with a legend such as Dyanne Thorne was an experience to rare to pass up.
As I entered the restaurant joined by the likes of Ed Tucker, Brandon Merkely and Jon Haughton, my partners in crime for the weekend. I realized we were also accompanied by a few of Ed's personal friends.
At first I viewed this as a possible threat to my personal satisfaction, boy was I wrong. Amongst this crew was a conservative looking family of fourish, the mother I'm assuming a virgin to such cinematic spectacles as the Ilsa films.
Jon Haughton along with Dyanne Thornes wonderfully pleasent husband Howard Maurer strolled to the table, wearing none other then a bright red t-shirt with a giant Ilsa on the front decked out in full Nazi garb.
I loved it, the mother of the family, an obvious Sarah Palin fan leaned cautiously into her husbands ear, her eyes a glaze. Distraught and in a panic she whispered, "Oh my, I think we may be in danger".
On any other that night that would have been enough to suffice my appetite for moments of the unique variety. Not on this night, one of the most special of any I have ever lived through was nothing more then the bite of a delicious appetizer.
As our gang settled in, myself along with Ed, Jon and Brandon were basically tucked into a corner of the table with Dyanne and Howard to ourselves. Both of whom were filled with all sorts of amazing tales of filmmaking and life in general.
**** The Previous Evening ****
My first night in Jacksonville, sprayed down with Roca Wear cologne, dressed to impress and packing a bottle of Hennessy Black, I strolled through the hotel hall on my way to share a drink and conversation with good friends and a cult film legend.
On my journey through the halls I encountered a petite little number decked out in firm fitting black leather.
"Ilsa, what's up" I shouted.
The woman turned to face me, "That's not my name!", Ms. Thorne proclaimed in a sassy fit.
I caught up to her, we exchanged pleasentries and introductions as I escorted her down the hall to an elevator and to a gig performing a wedding ceremony for a pair of die-hard fans.
On the way we discussed a few topics, but mainly her and her husband Howard Maurers careers performing wedding ceremonies in Vegas.
As we parted ways I promised that when the time comes for me to tie the knot, there was no other option I would settle for other then to be married by Ilsa.
She turned to face me with the warmest smile and said, "John, when that time comes she will be a very lucky woman".
**** Next Night @ Gene's Seafood ****
Overwhelmed by the quality of conversation being held at this dinner table, surrounded by fan boys with an encyclopedic knowledge of cinematic history, I couldn't help but shift my focus to the chemistry of Mr and Mrs Maurer.
Never in my life have I ever witnessed two people so obviously in love. These two cuddled and swooned at one another like a couple of pubescent kitty cats in love.
Besides meeting with legends and having an awesome weekend of fandom, I also had alterior motives of going wild in a strange city, getting fucked up and wrecklessly poon banging as many whores as I could get my hands on. I didn't want to just write a blog, I wanted to tell my fucking tales to the annoyed doctors at the damn health department Monday morning! My dick was like a kamikazi pilot with a death wish, it was all or nothing this weekend.
With that said, it's no secret that at this point in my life I have all but given up hope on true love. It's a myth, an urban legend but as I sit at this table staring at The Maurers I might as well have been slapped in the face by the Lochness Monsters tail or bitten on the throat by the Chupacabra!
My brain, temporarily rattled was jolted back to life by a question I feel honored to have been apart of answering.
"This may sound kind of stupid to you guys, but what is a grindhouse?" asked Mrs. Maurer.
Me and Brandonly Merkely turned to face each other in astonishment. Then the four of us eagerly talked over each other trying to answer her question, each with a different answer.
Here I was telling a legend of 42nd St, one of several female representatives of the grindhouse genre what she was apart of. Fucking amazing!
As we arrived back to the hotel our group became somewhat scattered for a brief moment and I somehow wound up alone strolling with Howard Maurer. I told him about my crazy experiences in Jacksonville and he shared a few experiences back. We had a few laughs and suddenly Mr. Maurer put his hand on my back and turned me towards his wife who was walking with the rest of the group.
In one of those rare, life changing moments Mr. Maurer told me something to the effect of, "You know, I been married for "x" amount of years to the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth, I could never do anything to ruin that." As an example of why he had given up partying.
I've heard this type of talk before but there was something very genuine and real in Mr. Maurers tone. When I looked at him I could see that in his heart of hearts this was a man who could not live without this woman next to him everyday for the rest of his life. His world obviously meant nothing without her and I believe that she felt that way about him in return.
We all met upstairs and settled into some couches to enjoy one anothers company a little while longer. A great deal of conversation was had and friendships were ceiled.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Wanted: Overrated NBA Player Needed To Sell Used Cars
I didn't start out a Lebron hater. When I was in high school I enjoyed keeping up with his journal entries that he would publish for SLAM magazine about his summers palling around with Jay-Z and playing scrimmage pick-up games in Chicago with Jordan and other pro's. It was kind of cool to see this kid around my age succeeding.
I even watched his first ever professional game against the Sacramento Kings and cheered for him. He put on quite a show, his numbers were pretty good by anybodies standards let alone a kid just out of high school playing his first game in the NBA.
But then it all sort of started changing.
For me the crest broke on my Lebron James fandom when I heard him say during an interview that his ambitions where to be like Muhammed Ali. So here I am about to give this guy all the praise in the world thinking that the brother is about to say some profound shit, when he follows with, "I want to be a global marketing icon".
Now, call me crazy. But when I think of Muhammed Ali I think of him for his refusal to join the military and commitment to the Nation Of Islam at a time when it couldn't have been any more damaging to his image. Not for his loyalty to selling sneakers and car insurance. I also put Ali on a pedastal that very few can stand on, that of a great champion who was devoted first and foremost to being the best. It's guys like him who made pop culture in the United States the envy of the world and was not only a profound entertainer but a leader that any citizen regardless of class, gender, ethnicity could find inspiration from and apply the principles of hard work and achievement to their own lives.
Lebron James has virtually no redeemable qualities. He has achieved almost nothing because everything has been handed to him since day one. Yes, he wins games. Yes, he has alot of money. Yes, does this or that. But at the end of the day history will forget all of those things if the man retires from the NBA minus a handful of championship rings to accessorize with his classy wardrobe. And even then I have a hard time believing that he will retire with the same level of respect as the legendary players. The guys who were devoted day in and day out. Who never accepted failure as an option and took it personally. The kind of guys who could lead and win. Bird, Magic, Jordan, Kobe, these guys are legends. As of right now Lebron James despite all of the hype manufactured by apparell companies is not even close to being in the same category as these guys. Nobody is scared of him.
This offseason instead of practicing his dance moves, hosting events at trendy night clubs and getting tattoos, maybe he needs to put in a few extra hours of work each day to get to the level his talents demand of him.
Otherwise, he will go down as not only the most disappointing NBA star in history, but a guy who could have been a star during a time when the world needed one the most. Or, he can just keep getting wealthier. Whatever works for him.
I even watched his first ever professional game against the Sacramento Kings and cheered for him. He put on quite a show, his numbers were pretty good by anybodies standards let alone a kid just out of high school playing his first game in the NBA.
But then it all sort of started changing.
For me the crest broke on my Lebron James fandom when I heard him say during an interview that his ambitions where to be like Muhammed Ali. So here I am about to give this guy all the praise in the world thinking that the brother is about to say some profound shit, when he follows with, "I want to be a global marketing icon".
Now, call me crazy. But when I think of Muhammed Ali I think of him for his refusal to join the military and commitment to the Nation Of Islam at a time when it couldn't have been any more damaging to his image. Not for his loyalty to selling sneakers and car insurance. I also put Ali on a pedastal that very few can stand on, that of a great champion who was devoted first and foremost to being the best. It's guys like him who made pop culture in the United States the envy of the world and was not only a profound entertainer but a leader that any citizen regardless of class, gender, ethnicity could find inspiration from and apply the principles of hard work and achievement to their own lives.
Lebron James has virtually no redeemable qualities. He has achieved almost nothing because everything has been handed to him since day one. Yes, he wins games. Yes, he has alot of money. Yes, does this or that. But at the end of the day history will forget all of those things if the man retires from the NBA minus a handful of championship rings to accessorize with his classy wardrobe. And even then I have a hard time believing that he will retire with the same level of respect as the legendary players. The guys who were devoted day in and day out. Who never accepted failure as an option and took it personally. The kind of guys who could lead and win. Bird, Magic, Jordan, Kobe, these guys are legends. As of right now Lebron James despite all of the hype manufactured by apparell companies is not even close to being in the same category as these guys. Nobody is scared of him.
This offseason instead of practicing his dance moves, hosting events at trendy night clubs and getting tattoos, maybe he needs to put in a few extra hours of work each day to get to the level his talents demand of him.
Otherwise, he will go down as not only the most disappointing NBA star in history, but a guy who could have been a star during a time when the world needed one the most. Or, he can just keep getting wealthier. Whatever works for him.
Who or What is a Kanto?
"Ow-ange Chick-n lonch spech-ill fa-nine-nine($4.99) you tie sampa."
That was a pretty damn good piece of orange chicken, I thought to myself. My stomach twisting and turning anxiously with agreement.
Sold!
"I'll have one of those and a medium Cherry Coke with no ice please."
"If I order my drink with ice these clever Koreans may try to pull a fast one on me and fill that whole damn cup to the brim", I thought to myself. Leaving me with three-maybe-four gulps of foamy Cherry Coke to slurp down and a whole cup of ice for a whopping 1.85!
After waiting nearly five minutes behind somebodies soon to be dead grandfather, wondering how this corpse managed to escape from the confines of his nursing facility and venture to the mall, I was given my order. The elderly gentleman was still counting his change trying to pay the tiny korean girl at the counter.
-Five cents-
-Ten cents-
So on and so fourth.
I retired over to the quiet corner of the food court, a section away from the crowds and a good view of all of the scantily clad baby-mamas of drug dealers. The ones with nine kids tend to be the best kept and sleaziest.
After chowing down my delicious orange chicken, I caught the bus outside and headed to Williams Park with a few detours through some of the cities less desirable communities. Never one to pass up the opportunity to browse a good thrift store I stopped at the Central Ave Goodwill and like a punch to the throat I was attacked from within by something demonic. That delicious orange chicken from the mall wasn't agreeing with me. Maybe the Koreans were harboring some long held resentment over a war that happend decades before my birth and here I was now, the victim of some sort of pay-back through a orange chicken lunch special.
Not now, I kept reminding myself. The bathroom of the Goodwill is not the time nor the place. I caught the next bus to Williams Park, hoping to catch another bus that would deliver me to my doorstep in a hurry.
The next bus wouldn't be for another fourty-five minutes and the last possible option was to use the facilities at Williams Park. One night I wondered in there to find a half naked derelict undressing and piss all over the floors. No thank you. It's the kind of pulic restroom where vagrants go to smoke crack and fuck, it's dark and the lighting is some bright flourescent green color. It looks more like the setting for a Saw movie then a sterile place to take a shit.
The monster in my belly was growing meaner by the second.
I hightailed it in a jiffy to the nearest public restroom I could find, the one in the court yard at Baywalk. These days Baywalk is looking like one of those propped up ghost town sets they would use for old time western films. If the wind blows the place looks like it might fly off and the illusion that a poorly planned family friendly entertainment complex marketed towards the rich may be gone forever.
With only one business open besides the movie theater and virtually no Saturday afternoon foot traffic I decided that this was the ideal spot to exorcise this demon.
The bathroom at Baywalk isn't much better then the one in Williams Park. The floors are wet and covered in sand like the ones you find on a beach. The doors are stripped off of the handles, theres open wires and beer cans. Somebody had themselves a wild time in here the night before.
No sooner as I sat my naked ass down on the toilet seat, the entrance door swung open and some belching tub-o-lard came scuffling in. I imagined him as a unshaven mutanoid that farts at the dinner table or pee's in the family pool. The kind of guy who grabs the ass's of waitresses and stairs like a creep at his daughters friends. Whatever he was I needed him to leave the room asap so I could unload and get the hell out of that stink trap.
Here I was, my stomach burning and my bowels clinching, trying to remain as silent as a church mouse. The man finally left without washing his hands, ofcourse.
Just as I had assumed the coast was clear, some other smug Guy Harvey wearing sailor wanna-be came strolling into the stahl next to me. His hairy feet, unkept dirty toe nails and dollar store flip flops were a disturbing site.
All I wanted was to peacefully take a dump, how is it that the mens restroom at Baywalk can have more foot traffic then the entire rest of this empty complex has had in the last decade of operations? I hate eating infront of people, holding private phone calls infront of people and even worse using the restroom around other people.
Just as I had given up all hope for a moment of privacy, I looked up in prayer and was distracted by a air vent somebody had tagged with the word, "Kanto" on it. I imagined some angry youth who had taken to a life of crime and poverty on the mean streets of downtown St. Petersburg, who decided to lash out at the establishment, his drunken abusive father, George W Bush, former school teachers and the girl who dumped him to fuck some guy who looked like lame rapper OJ Da Juiceman the only way he knew how, by writing his name in pink paint pen on a air vent in the mens restroom at Baywalk. That'll learn'em.
With the room cleared out, I finished my business and booked.
That was a pretty damn good piece of orange chicken, I thought to myself. My stomach twisting and turning anxiously with agreement.
Sold!
"I'll have one of those and a medium Cherry Coke with no ice please."
"If I order my drink with ice these clever Koreans may try to pull a fast one on me and fill that whole damn cup to the brim", I thought to myself. Leaving me with three-maybe-four gulps of foamy Cherry Coke to slurp down and a whole cup of ice for a whopping 1.85!
After waiting nearly five minutes behind somebodies soon to be dead grandfather, wondering how this corpse managed to escape from the confines of his nursing facility and venture to the mall, I was given my order. The elderly gentleman was still counting his change trying to pay the tiny korean girl at the counter.
-Five cents-
-Ten cents-
So on and so fourth.
I retired over to the quiet corner of the food court, a section away from the crowds and a good view of all of the scantily clad baby-mamas of drug dealers. The ones with nine kids tend to be the best kept and sleaziest.
After chowing down my delicious orange chicken, I caught the bus outside and headed to Williams Park with a few detours through some of the cities less desirable communities. Never one to pass up the opportunity to browse a good thrift store I stopped at the Central Ave Goodwill and like a punch to the throat I was attacked from within by something demonic. That delicious orange chicken from the mall wasn't agreeing with me. Maybe the Koreans were harboring some long held resentment over a war that happend decades before my birth and here I was now, the victim of some sort of pay-back through a orange chicken lunch special.
Not now, I kept reminding myself. The bathroom of the Goodwill is not the time nor the place. I caught the next bus to Williams Park, hoping to catch another bus that would deliver me to my doorstep in a hurry.
The next bus wouldn't be for another fourty-five minutes and the last possible option was to use the facilities at Williams Park. One night I wondered in there to find a half naked derelict undressing and piss all over the floors. No thank you. It's the kind of pulic restroom where vagrants go to smoke crack and fuck, it's dark and the lighting is some bright flourescent green color. It looks more like the setting for a Saw movie then a sterile place to take a shit.
The monster in my belly was growing meaner by the second.
I hightailed it in a jiffy to the nearest public restroom I could find, the one in the court yard at Baywalk. These days Baywalk is looking like one of those propped up ghost town sets they would use for old time western films. If the wind blows the place looks like it might fly off and the illusion that a poorly planned family friendly entertainment complex marketed towards the rich may be gone forever.
With only one business open besides the movie theater and virtually no Saturday afternoon foot traffic I decided that this was the ideal spot to exorcise this demon.
The bathroom at Baywalk isn't much better then the one in Williams Park. The floors are wet and covered in sand like the ones you find on a beach. The doors are stripped off of the handles, theres open wires and beer cans. Somebody had themselves a wild time in here the night before.
No sooner as I sat my naked ass down on the toilet seat, the entrance door swung open and some belching tub-o-lard came scuffling in. I imagined him as a unshaven mutanoid that farts at the dinner table or pee's in the family pool. The kind of guy who grabs the ass's of waitresses and stairs like a creep at his daughters friends. Whatever he was I needed him to leave the room asap so I could unload and get the hell out of that stink trap.
Here I was, my stomach burning and my bowels clinching, trying to remain as silent as a church mouse. The man finally left without washing his hands, ofcourse.
Just as I had assumed the coast was clear, some other smug Guy Harvey wearing sailor wanna-be came strolling into the stahl next to me. His hairy feet, unkept dirty toe nails and dollar store flip flops were a disturbing site.
All I wanted was to peacefully take a dump, how is it that the mens restroom at Baywalk can have more foot traffic then the entire rest of this empty complex has had in the last decade of operations? I hate eating infront of people, holding private phone calls infront of people and even worse using the restroom around other people.
Just as I had given up all hope for a moment of privacy, I looked up in prayer and was distracted by a air vent somebody had tagged with the word, "Kanto" on it. I imagined some angry youth who had taken to a life of crime and poverty on the mean streets of downtown St. Petersburg, who decided to lash out at the establishment, his drunken abusive father, George W Bush, former school teachers and the girl who dumped him to fuck some guy who looked like lame rapper OJ Da Juiceman the only way he knew how, by writing his name in pink paint pen on a air vent in the mens restroom at Baywalk. That'll learn'em.
With the room cleared out, I finished my business and booked.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Lampin Goes...IN SEARCH OF!
Guitar legend.
Comic book super hero.
Literary genius.
International ladies man.
These are just a few of the titles given to local yokel and global internet phenomenon Nolan B. Canova who was reported missing roughly a month ago by fans of his online fanzine Crazedfanboy.com.
"He was a quiet boy, except when that filthy polock whore would come around! They'd stay holed up in that shack for days at a time just a hootin and a hollarin. One day the deputies had to beat the doors down and spray them out with fire hoses", claims 84 year old neighbor Marianne Hoover, who has lived next to Canova for nearly three decades.
Some have suggested that Canovas hearty appetite for cocaine binges and routy prostitutes are to blame for his disappearance. Others claim that he was secretly a worshipper of "Rahl 7", a satanic cult based in the belief that aliens visited the Britton Plaza in 1984 and prophesized to a popcorn vendor at the shopping centers theater the secrets of life and death.
So convenced was Canova that he denounced his Catholicism and gave up a lucrative career as a trial lawyer in favor of working as a clerk in and out of local shops where he could freely prosthelytize to the high volume of customers he mingled with on a regular basis.
"He was a good ol boy, one of us. But man, he could really wig you out if you came into one of his shops on a bad acid trip. This one time he started preaching some mumbo jumbo about hell really being outer space or something or another, and man, by the end of it I swear the taco on that Taco-Bell sign over there was comin over here to eat me! I woke up the next day naked in a dumpster snuggling with a blow up doll out in Plant City, still can't figure out how I got there or where the doll came from. Canova saw me about a week later, winked, and said Rahl Bless You, whatever the fuck that means!", says Joey Trippoli, friend and customer for over a decade.
While some argue that Canova's devotion to "Rahl 7" caused him to pack up and leave in favor of life at a mountainous combine retreat in Tennessee, others paint a much different picture.
Pamela Leung, who neighbors refer to as the "dumb polock whore" has known Canova for six years and has this to say about his disappearance and possible whereabouts.
"Rahl 7?", "Pshh, anybody that knew Canova knows that it was all just a gag to pick up lonely women, he didn't really believe any of that bullshit. What happend was one night we're all hangin out at his pad doing blow and guzzling Bacardi, next thing we know this fat bitch walks in the house. We didn't think anything of it. People would walk in all the time and we'd just keep on doing whatever. So anyways, this bitch walks over to the toilet, knocks out what we thought had to have been the meanest turd ever laid in the history of mankind. I mean, she's over there just a squintin and a squeezin, stompin her muddy boots on the tile. Finally she wipes off, get's up and leaves. We go over there because we have got to see what this monster looks like and what the hell is in there but a little damn baby squirmin around in the toilet water!"
According to Pamela the mystery woman was a former lover of Canovas who he had failed to recognize in his inebriated state of mind.
"Oh yeah, they were pretty hot and heavy at one time. But the craziest part was that she left a note behind at the door that said something to the effect of, watch the baby please I'm going to the bar, be back at 3 or something like that. He couldn't face the possibility of raising this womans baby and having to pay her child support so he just fled, simple as that."
When pressed about possible locations regarding Canovas current whereabouts Pamela could simply say, "Largo, yeah, definitly Largo. He loved the scene over there."
Lampin investigators followed a series of leads and picked up several clues that led to a dive bar that has witnessed a sudden surge in late night calls to the local sheriffs office.
This blurry photograph, is perhaps the closest our investigators could come to cracking the case.
If you or someone you know has any information leading up the whereabouts of Nolan B. Canova please contact Lampin immediatly, fans of Crazedfanboy.com are awaiting his return to relavency.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Jacksonville Summit Part 7: Black Magic Voodoo Chicks From Church Street
Despite the ritual of individualism and machismo that goes into a man's night out on the town, nothing is lonelier then the experience of waking up the next day by your cot damn self, clinging to a lifeless hotel pillow. You spend the whole night feeling empowered by your lack of attachments and the entire next morning resentful towards the lucky bastards waking up next to a person they love.
It's 9:30 am and I awake still in my street clothes, shoes on my feet, watch on my wrist and chain around my neck wondering how the fuck I wound up here alive.
After a few minutes of trying to gather my thoughts I stepped infront of the mirror and stared for a while. I'd always been told that my eyes were green but this was the first time I had ever noticed them.
My self worship was interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Room Service", the voice said from beyond the door.
If memory serves correctly the body attached to the voice was named April and she was a sexy paper thin little number, black, but more of a Teresa Graves then a Pam Grier.
One of the many things I appreciate about Hennessy is that the next day as opposed to being hung over with a splitting head ache, you awaken with an uncanny sense of clarity and confidence. All of the positive effects of being drunk but with none of the weaknesses.
With my nerves temporarily comatosed I found myself first thing in the morning picking up where I left off the night before, but instead of hitting on a wanna-be welfare queen in the cab I was flirting with the hotel help. April wasn't really having it and I wasn't trying to agressively push the issue so we just wound up having a few laughs and she was nice enough to point me in the direction of the local "hood" mall. Where she assured me that I would find what I was looking for.
So, I through on my grey, black and green Nike Dunks that had no business matching with the orange and blue New York Knicks hat I was wearing and set out by foot on a journey to find Regency Mall.
Just across the bridge I somehow wound up right back at the same stupid intersection where I left off the night before. There was a bus stop but for some reason in Jacksonville either all of the maps and schedules have been stolen or whoever runs the buses is just to cheap to post them.
When I asked an old man who looked like Al Jolson in blackface but minus any teeth where the schedule was he just laughed and mumbled something.
From out of nowhere this girl popped up from out of nowhere and said, "follow me if you're trying to go to the main station". Chick didn't have to ask me twice. Standing roughly five-foot-three with a flemsy anorexic frame that was anchored by a thick ass and some monster titties, she was a bangin redbone that seemed like some stereotypical gold digging stripper type from the ghetto cut straight out of an episode of the Jerry Springer Show. "Grab my shit, nigga" she demanded before we headed off.
We walked through the city chit-chatting about random subjects, mainly me trying my hardest to convence her into coming back to my hotel room for the afternoon as I carried a bag full of odds and ins, mainly a hair drier that kept slipping out.
"So, where's your girlfriend at?" she asked, "Oh, her, well, she died trying to treat polio patients on a missionary trip to the Amazon a few weeks ago. Terrible tragedy." I replied.
And...That's where things turned south.
"Was she black?", she asked. "Yeah, that's really the only type of chick I can get down with, why you ask?" I responded.
"I can tell, you're to much like a nigger. I don't like niggers. My baby ain't going to be born a black nigger, you're to black and will put a nigger baby inside of me. I want a real white boy that isn't a nigger and will give me an all white baby." She told me.
I scratched my head, paused, staired at her ass and titties again, then back at her eyes before she could catch me peaking. We continued walking. How the fuck was I supposed to respond to that?
"I'm thirty six years old and sexy as hell, I have really big titties." She told me. "Interesting, I didn't notice that until you mentioned it", was the only competent thing I could espouse in response to the bizarreness of the conversation I was currently holding.
"All these young boys keep trying to fuck me and put nigger babies in me, all I want is a real white boy that's not a nigger." Point taken. This was the one day in twenty seven years of my life where wearing an American Eagle outfit would have beneffited me. Not my style but damn would it have been worth it just to sell out one day for this chick.
"I was born cursed with this scar" she told me. I had seen a scar on her forward so I cleverly responded with, "Oh that thing on your forehead?", "No nigga, I mean this skin! Somebody put a voodoo curse on me as a baby and made me black with a mental illness!"
According to her, most people, especially black ones were cursed with blackness and mental illness as babies by those practicing voodoo.
As we approached the bus station things had gotten to weird, even by my standards.
"Well, hey, check it out. I'm going to go over here and check on what time this other bus leaves", I excused myself and boogied away as fast and as far as possible.
It's 9:30 am and I awake still in my street clothes, shoes on my feet, watch on my wrist and chain around my neck wondering how the fuck I wound up here alive.
After a few minutes of trying to gather my thoughts I stepped infront of the mirror and stared for a while. I'd always been told that my eyes were green but this was the first time I had ever noticed them.
My self worship was interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Room Service", the voice said from beyond the door.
If memory serves correctly the body attached to the voice was named April and she was a sexy paper thin little number, black, but more of a Teresa Graves then a Pam Grier.
One of the many things I appreciate about Hennessy is that the next day as opposed to being hung over with a splitting head ache, you awaken with an uncanny sense of clarity and confidence. All of the positive effects of being drunk but with none of the weaknesses.
With my nerves temporarily comatosed I found myself first thing in the morning picking up where I left off the night before, but instead of hitting on a wanna-be welfare queen in the cab I was flirting with the hotel help. April wasn't really having it and I wasn't trying to agressively push the issue so we just wound up having a few laughs and she was nice enough to point me in the direction of the local "hood" mall. Where she assured me that I would find what I was looking for.
So, I through on my grey, black and green Nike Dunks that had no business matching with the orange and blue New York Knicks hat I was wearing and set out by foot on a journey to find Regency Mall.
Just across the bridge I somehow wound up right back at the same stupid intersection where I left off the night before. There was a bus stop but for some reason in Jacksonville either all of the maps and schedules have been stolen or whoever runs the buses is just to cheap to post them.
When I asked an old man who looked like Al Jolson in blackface but minus any teeth where the schedule was he just laughed and mumbled something.
From out of nowhere this girl popped up from out of nowhere and said, "follow me if you're trying to go to the main station". Chick didn't have to ask me twice. Standing roughly five-foot-three with a flemsy anorexic frame that was anchored by a thick ass and some monster titties, she was a bangin redbone that seemed like some stereotypical gold digging stripper type from the ghetto cut straight out of an episode of the Jerry Springer Show. "Grab my shit, nigga" she demanded before we headed off.
We walked through the city chit-chatting about random subjects, mainly me trying my hardest to convence her into coming back to my hotel room for the afternoon as I carried a bag full of odds and ins, mainly a hair drier that kept slipping out.
"So, where's your girlfriend at?" she asked, "Oh, her, well, she died trying to treat polio patients on a missionary trip to the Amazon a few weeks ago. Terrible tragedy." I replied.
And...That's where things turned south.
"Was she black?", she asked. "Yeah, that's really the only type of chick I can get down with, why you ask?" I responded.
"I can tell, you're to much like a nigger. I don't like niggers. My baby ain't going to be born a black nigger, you're to black and will put a nigger baby inside of me. I want a real white boy that isn't a nigger and will give me an all white baby." She told me.
I scratched my head, paused, staired at her ass and titties again, then back at her eyes before she could catch me peaking. We continued walking. How the fuck was I supposed to respond to that?
"I'm thirty six years old and sexy as hell, I have really big titties." She told me. "Interesting, I didn't notice that until you mentioned it", was the only competent thing I could espouse in response to the bizarreness of the conversation I was currently holding.
"All these young boys keep trying to fuck me and put nigger babies in me, all I want is a real white boy that's not a nigger." Point taken. This was the one day in twenty seven years of my life where wearing an American Eagle outfit would have beneffited me. Not my style but damn would it have been worth it just to sell out one day for this chick.
"I was born cursed with this scar" she told me. I had seen a scar on her forward so I cleverly responded with, "Oh that thing on your forehead?", "No nigga, I mean this skin! Somebody put a voodoo curse on me as a baby and made me black with a mental illness!"
According to her, most people, especially black ones were cursed with blackness and mental illness as babies by those practicing voodoo.
As we approached the bus station things had gotten to weird, even by my standards.
"Well, hey, check it out. I'm going to go over here and check on what time this other bus leaves", I excused myself and boogied away as fast and as far as possible.
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