Friday, December 27, 2002

Hiding. 12.27.02

I have been in a silo. On a desert island. Stuck in the muck. Deep in my basement. Rolling with the homies. Okay, I have been sleeping and playing video games and sitting on my ass. And I am going to do it some more. Once I feel a little better. Hopefully there will be more entries before the New Year's bonanza. Unitl then, chew on this cake:

From the EURweb:

SNOOP BOWL GOES WELL Doggy done did it now.

We just know they were having themselves a good ol' fashioned time down at the inaugural Snoop Bowl last week. MTV reports WC shouted from the sidelines: "The police is gettin' their ass whooped. Finally, y'all on the other end of the stick."

Snoop Dogg, who has certainly clashed with authorities a few times over the years, settled the score last Thursday at Long Beach City College's Veteran Stadium, where his All-Stars beat the Inland Empire Police Department Enforcers 33 to 21. And the D-O-Double-G left the game a hero, not only for organizing the event, but for scoring six of the Snoop Dogg All-Stars' points and entertaining players on both teams with his touchdown dance.

"It was a tight dance, I'll give him that," said Levi Baker, a lineman for the Enforcers. After catching a slant in the center of the end zone, Snoop got down on his knees, put his hands behind his head as his teammates "frisked" him and then motioned as though he were being handcuffed.

"It's all out of love," said WC, the self-proclaimed Ghetto Heisman winner who performed at halftime. "All the funds are going to charity, and I'm loving it. Everybody's supporting the community. A lot of kids are out here. It's great."


November is official Hip-Hop month for NY State. According to reports out of, the New York State Senate recently passed the Hip-Hop History Month resolution, proclaiming November the official month to celebrate Hip-Hop history in the state of New York. The bill was sponsored by State Senator Pedro Espada, Jr. and had Zulu Nation founder Afrika Bambaataa as a powerful backer. It was passed by both the Democrats and Republicans.
Fringists vs Populists 12.27.02

I never knew that Robbin Crosby died of AIDS, around the same time that Dee Dee Ramone died of smack. As a slightly abashed Ratt fan, that is of some interest. Read about the different coverage of their deaths, from the NY Times Magazine article.

Tuesday, December 17, 2002

The Fabulous Mobile Experiment 12.17.02

Crushed to the side of a two-seater Jamaica Bus careening over asphalt bridges and apartment complex-neighborhoods on my way home. It's 5.00 pm and the bus is packed. I have not slept much, my hip hurts, and I am tired of looking at statistical output. The woman next to me has a sizeable bag bouncing off of my knee. Some child is talking incessantly in a language somewhere between human and Teletubby.

And I hear it. The cell phone is equipped to ring in a tune that I would say is Gilligan's Island, but I know what the owner is going after.

The Big Tymers' "Hood Rich." Which sums it up; he begins to talk in top volume about somebody getting "the papers," all while looking up from under his low-slung winter hat at the people staring at him. Ignoring the fact that we don't need to hear someone else's conversation. But when you're hood rich, you don't need courtesy.
Showed You Stars You Never Could See 12.17.02

Me, my big ass pimple, and my overweening vanity stepped out last night, courtesy of the pimpin’ styles of Arroz the Rice-A-Homie. I walked out of a statistics test with my head in the air and some funk on my feet. Checked my shirt to see that it was properly out of my pants, my cuffs undone, my eyes almost covered by the floppy grey hat. Shoes mad shiny. The weight of statistics translated into a trickling sarcasm.

Hell yeah. I was straight. Time for the yearly 40 Acres premiere party.

This one was for the movie “25th Hour,” starring Ed Norton. And if it wasn’t for that blamed Stats test I would have been up in that piece watching the movie too. Now, the thing is, I don’t consider myself a fame whore. I don’t usually go around drooling and fawning because someone is on television or on the silver screen. There are a few people who come off as the cutest, though, and some of them were striding out of the Ziegfeld Theatre at 10.30 pm last night. I watched them come out as I applied vaseline to my lips and held my coat tight to my chest.

Al Roker isn’t the cutest but that’s funny as hell. The woman who plays Lila on the TV show “Angel” was all over the premiere and the party. Dave Chapelle, Lisa Ling (yumm…), Ed, Selma Hayek, Rosario Dawson (again, yumm...), Philip Seymour Hoffman, Annabella Skinny-orria, Tony Siragusa and two of his chins.

Et cetera. Looking back on those cheap thrills, I was much more elated by the food/ likker/ bad music that covered the museum in Chelsea where this event was held. So much freestyle, so out of time. But I let the l’il freak out the box a bit, thanks to Kiri and Imana and Brandon and John and Tara and of course, the Rice-A-Homie and the Flower Girl. The floor was slippery and the slide steps were working; the knees and hamstrings held up; it was on like Donkey Kong.

We rode back to Bklyn in a cab, rehashing the movie and the night, with a lot of love in the cab. Even the driver was a good guy, chillin', chatting with us, almost pulling the Flower Girl along before she stepped inside.... It was funny at the time.

It’s too bad I got to be up in this computer lab working on statistical output very, very, very slowly.

Monday, December 16, 2002

Wit's Beginning? 12.16.02

So, it is almost New Year's. High time for us to get our plans in order. Time to think about people we'd like to kiss at midnight. And other people we'd like to recline with in a "I did what/who on New Year's?" A time to end the night singing Hall & Oates or Squeeze or "Total Eclipse of the Heart" at top volume while human flotsam lie prone about our beer-soaked feet.


This is also the time of year where (instead of studying for my statistics final) I am making pancakes and thinking of lists I could make, best of the year, top tens of the year, that sort of thing. Now, I know you people out there. Y'all are mad crafty, crazy witty, just itching to give some input. Am I right? Don't even contradict me to be funny. Please. I'll come right through that computer screen with my kilt + sandals + porn star bib and show you the business!

So look out for some lists in the next two weeks. If there is a list you'd like to see, email me at
The Knuckle and The Hammer 12.15.02

I suppose topics for today could involve the brutality of man. Religious responsibility and Boston’s ex-Cardinal Law. Or the ridiculousness of the transit strike.

I was going to step away from all three topics and scribble something inconsequential. Like something about that ridiculous yammer mouthed young lady from last night’s Schmarley gathering.

I should have been sleeping instead of listening to someone talk in a high pitch about:
* some British boy,
* the wonder of the bar Down the Hatch,
* some other things I was trying hard not to pollute my virgin ears with.
I should have been sleeping instead of listening to the new Ghostface album in Arroz’ whip late last night, before I realized I was real drunk and had slept three hours the night before.

I was glad for the ride home. It’s a long and rolling journey between there and here. Up and around Queens or down and around Brooklyn, through suburban lengths lined by lights. I slept in my home but I am still tired; but I was awake enough to see the counter press conferences by Bloomberg/ Pataki and then by Transit Workers‘ Union President Roger Toussaint.

I was impressed with this press conference for a couple of reasons. The blatant hypocrisy of having given the firemen a 15% raise and then offering other essential workers of the city, of a service more of us use and a service we use more often, nothing. Though fire protection is essential, so is transit.

Bloomberg/ Pataki gave us reasons to believe that the union is doing bad things, and it is illegal to use your employee leverage-- withholding your work product-- ask for concessions from your management. The duo told us that we are in this together.

According to Patakaerg, the MTA is working in “good faith” to present a reasonable offer with an understanding that there is a tight fiscal environment. Bloomberg told us that we’re just going to have to ride our bikes, and that maybe people will die (thanks for the throwaway comment, Mike! This is due to the traffic congestion. By the way.), all in that pleasantly nasal voice and through the gritted teeth.

Amazing. In contrast, I was seduced by TWU’s president. Toussaint, in the face of disparaging, dirty-underwear-in-face commentary from our Governor and our mayor, in the face of public loathing (we really cannot handle getting around the city without subways), stood tall. In a gentle Trinidadian accent, he delivered his speech. Measured tones. Confidence. One simple expression.

He calmly explained a few things that I had not even heard. Their concerns for safety issues. The fact that the MTA has not opened their books to either the union or the city comptroller. The prescription benefits the TWU workers lose when they retire. The mention that their workers are disciplined at higher rates than comparable organizations (other city units?) across the nation.

Again, it was not even the fact. It was the feeling. These come off like simple requests-- for honesty, for good faith, for some sense of equality. For a measure of decent benefits. A request for transparency. The good faith that the MTA speaks about was questioned-- knowing the contract would be up at the end of the year, why wait until after the elections to start with the offers?

The way Toussaint spoke, he won me over. It is not the evil man who is taking away our subways. Really, the evil men who are taking our subways might be our elected officials; might be their appointed leaders; might be the insistence on not stepping into the fray. Though they step in enough to mention with a wagging fatherly finger that strikes are illegal, children! So exactly what’s illegal or bad faith for the other side?

While we are, as Mayor Bloomberg warbles “go to sleep, preparing for the worst,” and as he sleeps and prepares to be filmed on his bicycle (Mayor, will you subsidize my new vehicle?) let’s hope there is no strike and if there is one… it is short and deals are made before we have our inter-city wrestle fest in cars, and on buses, on commuter vans, and on our new bikes… in the snow.

Friday, December 13, 2002

Northern Neighbors 12.13.02

I do believe our Toronto neighbors are getting a little too into this "Bush is a Moron" thing. They probably believe that if they yell about his stupidity long and loud enough Americans will listen. Like we listen to Canadians except when they're being dry and funny. Please. Even then we're not paying that much attention. Quick-- name me the capital of Toronto. Ha! It's a city, there is not a capital of a city, silly! Name the province Toronto is in. Too slow, it's Ontario.

Ah, Toronto, home of a huge Caribana festival, my dear uncle and aunt, and suspiciously clean streets... here is one more article from the Star. Thanks to "yallgonmakeme losemymind jones," on the defamation of the character of morons everywhere:

Nov. 26, 2002. 01:00 AM- Bush fails to meet moron criteria


The debate over whether George W. Bush is a moron continues to sputter.
Morons are outraged at being lumped in with the U.S. president.
Americans,meanwhile, are mildly amused that it has taken Canadians so long
to discover the obvious.

The controversy exploded last week when Francoise Ducros, an adviser to
Prime Minister Jean Chrétien, was overheard at a NATO meeting in Prague
saying,"What a moron," apparently about Bush.

Morons say this is an outlandish slur. "We're nice people," explained one.

"We don't threaten other countries or use the courts to steal
elections.George W. Bush may be a dangerous lunatic. But he's no moron."

Chrétien seems to agree. "He's not a moron at all," the Prime Minister told
reporters on Thursday, referring to Bush.

Still, the opposition parties are not content. The Canadian Alliance argues
that if Bush discovers he is a moron, this could affect Canada-U.S.

Chrétien, however, says there is nothing to worry about. Bush, he said,
doesn't read Canadian newspapers. Or any newspapers, for that matter.

According to the International Dictionary of Medicine and Biology, most
morons are "educable and do not require institutionalization but need some
supervision in working at some simple job by which they can become
self-sustaining members of society."

Some have argued that this definition fits Bush to a tee. In most
matters,they note, he is carefully supervised by Vice President Dick Cheney,
Defence Secretary Donald Rumsfeld and Attorney General John Ashcroft.

Cheney and Rumsfeld run Bush's wars while Ashcroft stifles domestic
opposition. At home in the White House, first lady Laura Bush is chargedwith
watching over the president.

"Since the president's inauguration, he's only been left unsupervised
once--towatch a football game on television," recalled one expert. "And look
whathappened. He fell off the couch, choked on a pretzel and hurt his head."

While the Canadian media have gone gaga over the Bush-is-moron story,
Americans seem to have taken it in their stride. "Once again, Canadians have
discovered the obvious," editorialized the Wall Street Journal dismissively.
"Duh, Canada" riposted the New York Post.

In a lengthy analysis, the New York Times pointed out that Americans
havelong made a practice of electing dead people to the Senate and morons
tothe presidency.

"This kind of flexibility is what makes U.S. democracy so vital," the Times
went on. "Why should the Senate be denied the wisdom of those who have
passed on? Why should the presidency be the preserve of the mentally
Upright 12.13.02

Yes, it's Friday the 13th. Why isn't there a new Jason movie?

For those of you who have emailed to ask how I am, my legs are mostly fine; I have done a lot of walking recently and I might almost be up to running and swimming which would make me happy and less tense.

Thursday, December 12, 2002

From the Toronto Star on the Dubya 12.12.02

*thanks to the dark-haired jlf in chi-town*

Taken from the Toronto Star; written by Murray Whyte; title- "Bush anything but moronic, according to author"; maybe you can still see the Nov. 28 article.

Bush anything but moronic, according to author; Dark overtones in his malapropisms


When Mark Crispin Miller first set out to write Dyslexicon: Observations on a National Disorder, about the ever-growing catalogue of President George W. Bush's verbal gaffes, he meant it for a laugh. But what he came to realize wasn't entirely amusing.

Since the 2000 presidential campaign, Miller has been compiling his own collection of Bush-isms, which have revealed, he says, a disquieting truth about what lurks behind the cock-eyed leer of the leader of the free world. He's not a moron at all — on that point, Miller and Prime Minister Jean Chrétien agree.

But according to Miller, he's no friend.

"I did initially intend it to be a funny book. But that was before I had a chance to read through all the transcripts," Miller, an American author and a professor of culture and communication at New York University, said recently in Toronto.

"Bush is not an imbecile. He's not a puppet. I think that Bush is a sociopathic personality. I think he's incapable of empathy. He has an inordinate sense of his own entitlement, and he's a very skilled manipulator. And in all the snickering about his alleged idiocy, this is what a lot of people miss."

Miller's judgment, that the president might suffer from a bona fide personality disorder, almost makes one long for the less menacing notion currently making the rounds: that the White House's current occupant is, in fact, simply an idiot.

If only. Miller's rendering of the president is bleaker than that. In studying Bush's various adventures in oration, he started to see a pattern emerging.

"He has no trouble speaking off the cuff when he's speaking punitively, when he's talking about violence, when he's talking about revenge.

"When he struts and thumps his chest, his syntax and grammar are fine," Miller said.

"It's only when he leaps into the wild blue yonder of compassion, or idealism, or altruism, that he makes these hilarious mistakes."

While Miller's book has been praised for its "eloquence" and "playful use of language," it has enraged Bush supporters.

Bush's ascent in the eyes of many Americans — his approval rating hovers at near 80 percent — was the direct result of tough talk following the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks. In those speeches, Bush stumbled not at all; his language of retribution was clear.

It was a sharp contrast to the pre-9/11 George W. Bush. Even before the Supreme Court in 2001 had to intervene and rule on recounts in Florida after a contentious presidential election, a corps of journalists were salivating at the prospect: a bafflingly inarticulate man in a position of power not seen since vice-president Dan Quayle rode shotgun on George H.W. Bush's one term in office.

But equating Bush's malapropisms with Quayle's inability to spell "potato" is a dangerous assumption, Miller says.

At a public address in Nashville, Tenn., in September, Bush provided one of his most memorable stumbles. Trying to give strength to his case that Saddam Hussein had already deceived the West concerning his store of weapons, Bush was scripted to offer an old saying: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. What came out was the following:

"Fool me once, shame ... shame on ... you." Long, uncomfortable pause. "Fool me — can't get fooled again!"

Played for laughs everywhere, Miller saw a darkness underlying the gaffe.

"There's an episode of Happy Days, where The Fonz has to say, `I'm sorry' and can't do it. Same thing," Miller said.

"What's revealing about this is that Bush could not say, `Shame on me' to save his life. That's a completely alien idea to him. This is a guy who is absolutely proud of his own inflexibility and rectitude."

If what Miller says is true — and it would take more than just observations to prove it — then Bush has achieved an astounding goal.

By stumbling blithely along, he has been able to push his image as "just folks" — a normal guy who screws up just like the rest of us.

This, in fact, is a central cog in his image-making machine, Miller says: Portraying the wealthy scion of one of America's most powerful families as a regular, imperfect Joe.

But the depiction, Miller says, is also remarkable for what it hides — imperfect, yes, but also detached, wealthy and unable to identify with the "folks" he's been designed to appeal to.

An example, Miller says, surfaced early in his presidential tenure.

"I know how hard it is to put food on your family," Bush was quoted as saying.

"That wasn't because he's so stupid that he doesn't know how to say, `Put food on your family's table' — it's because he doesn't care about people who can't put food on the table," Miller says.

So, when Bush is envisioning "a foreign-handed foreign policy," or observes on some point that "it's not the way that America is all about," Miller contends it's because he can't keep his focus on things that mean nothing to him.

"When he tries to talk about what this country stands for, or about democracy, he can't do it," he said.

This, then, is why he's so closely watched by his handlers, Miller says — not because he'll say something stupid, but because he'll overindulge in the language of violence and punishment at which he excels.

"He's a very angry guy, a hostile guy. He's much like Nixon. So they're very, very careful to choreograph every move he makes. They don't want him anywhere near protestors, because he would lose his temper."

Miller, without question, is a man with a mission — and laughter isn't it.

"I call him the feel bad president, because he's all about punishment and death," he said. "It would be a grave mistake to just play him for laughs."

Wednesday, December 11, 2002

Night of the Crips Part 3- Excuse me Lady, I Saw You Beatboxing for Lou Rawls... 12.11.02

So, I am on my way to the hospital at this point. Tired, having swum and changed only to have my knee lock up, I am on the way to the NYU ER.

I am in a wheelchair. It is dark, and cold, and I would rather be home, watching Smallville and drooling over Allison Mack-- I mean, the storytelling. Pico is in some pain, but it is not so bad when I do not actually try to stretch my leg.

Inside the ER, it doesn't look too busy. I talk to the triage nurse, take my spot. Chill out. I have no book and no music but I find a copy of the NY Post. Kids come in after me. A couple more NYU students-- basketball ankle injury, a girl who doesn't look to well, and her dandy ass Stern boyfriend.

A woman rolls in with her well-dressed, gray-suit husband. She is wearing pajamas and a fur coat. Dragging two large shopping bags. Hair dishevelled. Eyes crazy, red, teary. She's loud from the moment she walks in. She sits near me.

She tells me some things-- such as "I'm the town drunk of Freehold, NJ." And "There's a court case against me there." And "this coat? I got it for free. But the people I got it from won't let me come into the office anymore; they say I use their phone too much and disrupt their blah blah blah, bastards." And, "I know Fabio. You know he's to WalMart what Joan Collins is to K-Mart." (I didn't know Joan Collins was ANYTHING to K-Mart.) And, "I think I am having an asthmatic attack. Also, I just turned diabetic. That's why I have this bag full of cookies and sweets (drool) do you want one?" And "do you want anything? My husband is going out to get blah blah blah."

[--I declined--]

She goes in before me. As do some more critical cases. That's fine. What is not fine is that I came in at a little before nine, and I was whisked in during a compelling Blind Date episode in the 12.00 hour. I hate it when things get in the way of Blind Date.

But I hope to get my leg working again. I realized I had an urge to lighten my liquid load. Now, I never realized how damned difficult this is when you can't use a leg. There was gripping, and stretching, and ambling and all that. I felt like such an invalid. It was so much work I did consider giving my pants a stain Tide couldn't remove. Only for a moment.

Back in my wheelchair, a doctor tries to move my leg. That was blindingly unpleasant. I cursed like the posessed. But not like the woman from Freehold. She had been shouting loud enough for us to hear outside of the ER. About the service and how important she is. And something something something. Security had been going in and out to calm her down; I came out of the bathroom and I swear to God she was on the floor, talking on the phone and coloring in a book.

Theyprep me to go up for an X-ray-- offering me Tylenol + Codeine and a Percoset for my pain. I jump at this. Kids in high school would love this stuff in their cereal!

But it doesn't do a thing for my pain. I am disappointed. Maybe if I took three of each I'd be flying something fierce. I go upstairs. The X-ray is taken from one position because I can't open my leg. That's a worry. It's better than the next doc who is really into trying to get these muscles moving. He determines that it is a muscle problem, nothing ripped. And my hamstrings are basically pulled taut (which I can feel). But that does not mean I can move them by force of will. Pain.

Downstairs, another doctor is like, you were going to discharge him? And moves me to a bed, where the nicest man-nurse from Britain and I strike up a conversation. While he pastes heart-monitoring squares on my chest, sticks an IV in my arm, watches me grimace in pain as I try to find a position that does not put pressure on my leg. Good times! the doctor returns, works on my leg a little. Decides to hit me with the morphine drip and some jacked-up muscle relaxer. So I will be sedated "but awake," he tells me.

Three hours later, my leg could move, mostly. They worked on stretching the hammy and loosening the muscles and I was ASLEEP the whole time. A little trippy.

I was ready to go. So I left a few hours later, after realizing that walking was not going to work; that I really had no comfort with crutches; that I was freaked out since I had never been injured before; that my leg actually hurt; but I had a prescription for muscle relaxers and some high-grade pain relief.

As an afterword, once I got the prescription filled, I said "this muscle relaxer doesn't makle me sleepy like the warning say-zzzxzxzxxxx" then it was three hours later. I fell asleep on couches, I fell asleep eating, I fell asleep trying to stretch. I pulled a Cory! I slept for like two days.

Tuesday, December 10, 2002

12.10.02 Things to Do While Your Subways Are Striking...

Catalogue your CD's.
Wonder what's going on in the world around you.
Smoke reefer.

A transit strike? That's ridiculous. The funny thing is that it's ridiculous to have a transit strike, but before that, it's ridiculous to offer transit workers a chance to pay more towards their pensions... reducing their take-home pay? It's one thing to tell people there are no raises (though there is that "cost-of-living" thing) available-- it comes to be expected, after all, that you are asked to wait for a little for a raise (that never actually comes). But it's another thing to essentially ask for a give back. Why not just ask them to work gratis through the Christmas season? You know, for the kids? Then extend the Christmas season until about next Christmas? That's a good idea too!

We're adaptable here in New York. We'll be fine. Right, Arroz? Those inter-Brooklyn trips will be a real blast!! I mean, imagine-- sans a car, we can all get our exercise, something our president and our Surgeon General would certainly approve of. And then, if it's a little far, and we're not near the Long island Rail Road (like I am-- how's that feel, y'all suckers!! I'll be lucky to get intimate with people from Babylon instead of people from Forest Hills!), we can follow mayor Mike's suggestion and ride our bikes!

I, personally, was a little perturbed about this suggestion. I defend Mayor Mike sometimes to my brother who I think would like to see him "removed," but this-- who says that? It sounded like "let 'em eat cake" 200 years after the fact. But, then I thought about it-- and even though I did hurt my knee, and I am working up to regular physical activity, like walking distances, biking is not so bad. If I don't have my knee lock up, or my hamstrings get all funky on me, I can get some good exercise, arrive at school good and sweaty, and experience riding in NYC traffic! I've ridden in Chicago traffic, and St. Louis traffic, so I must be ready for this one!

And Mayor Mike must have thought about that suggestion a lot. He says he'll ride his bike too! Really! It'll be great. We'll ride together in our heavy black coats. People will hit ice slicks and slip in fits of asphalt comedy. People will stop and wheeze in turns of gotham drama. Have you ever run or rode your bike in sub-freezing weather? Or sub 20 degree weather? We'll be a cool tough-guy gang!

Do we get tax credits for lost wages?

Do we get reimbursed for those exorbitant LIRR fees? $5.75 during rush hour, Mayor Mike. Maybe if I had the money, I'd take the LIRR on the regular.

Now, if we pick up a Mets Motel (I'm sorry, they changed their name-- the Metro Motel) prostitute to fulfill our 4-person in the car quota, will the rules on solicitation be eased? I mean, say, I pick up a consenting adult (or a consenting near-adult-- it happens sometimes! I swear, officer, I couldn't tell through the pigtails) and I take her to Manhattan, and we just happen to [--HAY-HAY-HAY!--] in the backseat of a car, like adults sometimes do. But I also pay her for going out of her way and assisting me in fulfilling car pool requirements. That's not illegal, is it?

Friday, December 06, 2002

What The? 12.6.02

How the hell did the Mets get Tom Glavine to sign?!
After the Leg Is Gone 12.6.02

My manegement project has fallen by the wayside. I mean, like, it's done. Decent. We could have been better. But at least I didn't drop my pants as an ice breaker.

Let's go back to the night of the crips. Last time, we had this:

I was working with my management group. I stood to put something in the trash. Most of me was cool with that but a twinge on the left side of my knee was a dissenter.

I had been sitting in one position for a while; i should have been moving my legs. I had been swimming for a few weeks, getting back into shape. Swimming hard. Feeling the benefits.

Then the library closed where I was typing.

for a soundtrack use these interim tunes:

Danny Elfman's Evil Theme from Nightmare Before Christmas
The Isley Brothers' Hurry Up And Wait
50 Cent's Wangsta
Earth, Wind, And Fire's After the Love is Gone
Riyuichi Sakamoto's Grief (Amon Tobin rmx)
Nine Inch Nails' Down In It
Neil Young's Theme from Dead Man
N.O.R.E's Nothin'

Back to the crips. I'm up in the Tisch building with my non-man-titties and all, and we end our meeting. I start to walk upstairs but my left knee is still balking at me like "Na-na-na-naaaah!," since I let my knee listen to that f---ing genius N.O.R.E. But my knee wasn't pissy drunk like that. "If you can't understand it, write that shit down... and FIGURE IT OUT WHEN YOU GET HOME!!" -Redman

I reach the pool with a gangsta lean and it's all gravy, I stretch that twinge till it backs up off of me, take my shower, and I'm in the pool, swimming hard. I did a lot more laps than usual, and I went pretty hard. I felt very good, like all the training was helping, like the four days I took off of swimming helped too. I stretched once or twice in the pool (legs up to the bar underneath the starting blocks, reach-- yeah, I'm flexible. Yeah, I learned it at the club, wise-ass.) in between sets. Came out.

Went to shower. I decided then that I would have to include this bit in a blog (having no idea what the rest of the night had in store for me). I was reminded of my blog on the 15th where I made mention of the best term for the male genetalia-- junk. I was in a junkyard. Five men had come out of the sauna and it is customary for those men to shower. Nekkid. I won't say whether I felt shamed or elated or anything like that-- but it's a little worrisome showering in a corner while five other men shower too. Very "don't drop the soa-oh-oh." A lot of hair on these fellas too. Yeah, I said it. Just to demistify things.

Worst of all, they were taking cold showers. So I could feel it when the guy who came next to me turned his on. It was cold just being nearby. So I took a hotter shower.

In situations where a man is surrounded, in a junkyard, a man prefers not to hear socializing and talking. That just makes it seem like it's less wierd. But they're all chatting like it's totally chill. For me, it has nothing to do with a fear of man-spears. I just don't find myself in such situations all the time. I need to be more open-minded, right? As long as I'm not open-assed it's all good.

I shudder to think about the junkyard. Back at my locker, securing my very own junk in my pants, then moving on to the shirt, some baby oil to keep my skin moist, and moving on to the shoes--

Something happened on the way to the shoes. Mind you, I was supposed to meet Arroz for some chillin and drinking, and then down to see friend Ruby spin her things. Her things being CD's. Fucking perverts. But I wasn't thinking about that anymore because my eyes were blazed up with pain. My leg went into a locked position like it was trying to find its way back into a womb i never had.





I tried. But the pain was unbelievable when I tried to move it. I used my hands to massage and groove it. I took my eyes and looked down at my shoes 'em. Couldn't figure out the pain it was more than a bruise 'em.

There was a fellow who had put himself in crash position to my right. He had an ice pack over a face obviously in pain. He had crossed my path once in the locker room, staring at his face in the mirror as if to figure out who he was. He turned to me, hesitantly. Do you need me to get some... help?

Uhm... I think you'd better. Thank-- acch-- you.

Minutes later a member of the Coles sports center staff was down there, gauging the extent of my injury. My leg wasn't moving. He thought I might have torn something. I thought I might have lost it right there and screamed but I was working to stay awake against the pain of trying to move the leg at all, put on my shoes, figure out what the fuck was happening to me.

I was told my options and chose to go to the NYU emergeny room, because, you know, my leg didn't work. And I needed it for stuff like walking and chasing rainbows. While I was waiting I spoke to the guy with ice over his face. He had broken his nose playing basketball, of course. He was trying to determine if his nose had changed orientation. It had. I told I hoped they didn't have to re-break his nose as he feared a doctor would.

But there I was, being helped into a wheelchair, and I still had my cellie so I called Arroz (I ain't coming. Situations is all fucked up, yo. Nah, you don't got to come guns blazin' into the drop, dear friend, don't get it twisted) and my brother, Brother-man (Tell moms I won't be home tonight. Nah, I ain't get nobody pregnant nor did I gaffle no punks and get hauled off to cell block A). And I waited. And waited. I admit, I was watching some of the pick up games and admiring the women coming from the aerobics class. I might have been in pain but I wasn't in THAT much pain.

Finally, a member of the transportation staff came with a van and we worked my ass into that van. The driver was a Jamaican man and he talked about his longtime practicing of martial arts; and how he has had knees locked up.

"You think I tore something?"
"Don't even say that. I had my knee lock up on me once. It was just a muscle strain."
"How long -ow- does it take to straighten out?"
"Depends? How long?"
"Like a rough estimate."
"Took me three days once."

I was like, nah, they had best be giving me some muscle relaxers, high grade painkillers, and a bag of Humboldt County's finest all rolled up for use, cause I ain't with that pain, kid.

We approached the hospital in minutes and soon... I would experience the Emergency Room as if it were for the very first time. Okay, I AM an ER virgin. Tune in-- later, or tomorrow, depending on this blasted homework.

Thursday, December 05, 2002

Night of the Crips 12.5.02

Okay, back to the cripple night. Quicker than you'd like, I know, this has never happened to me before. When people say that, are they also including their experiences with the magazines and videos they buy in the brown paper bags? I wonder. Cause it's never happened to me before.

Neither had the night of the crips. But baby, but I'll do the best I can in describing it to you.

There is the most not-quite-cute couple in front of me. They are very bony-chinned and sharp-nosed and thin-lipped, I can evaluate that much. Sorry, I had to point that out, because for God's sake, I think they're technically necking. Their necks are twisting together. This is straight wierd.

But I'll rewind this trick capsule about two weeks or so to my Tuesday. November 19th. I was working with my management group, we were haggling about this or that. I stood to put something in the trash. Most of me was cool with that but a twinge on the left side of my knee was a dissenter. It was all like, youse a bitch, n***a. Now, I dont' tolerate that kind of backtalk from my joints and muscles so i was like, don't make me come back there and whup up on ya.

I had been sitting in one position for a while and I thought, oh, I should have been moving my legs or something. Whatever. I had been swimming for a few weeks, getting back into shape. swimming hard. Feeling the benefits. For anyone who has seen me topless (yeah. At the club, wise ass.) I was getting "muscle" and "increased definition." The cool thing about swimming is that it doesn't give you man-titties.

What the rass? The liberry closing? Summabitch. I'll take you back to the crips in a couple of hours. Wish me and my legs luck in the slipping snow.
What University is About... 12.5.02

This is the way it should be. Walking to class in a falling down snowstorm. Slipping in the snow, looking at kids just waiting for enough snow for an impromptu snowfight before class. NYU kids, y'all must have had it lovely in January of '94 and Jan of '96. I am sure there are other snowfalls (there was an April one I'd heard about) but those are the two I experience.

In 1994, in high school. After about ten days of ice storms and n'or'easters, with the trees dangling icicles, shimmering in the light; with students and teachers alternately staying home, meaning a month of not-quite-class; after telling my mother that I have the agility of a panther, and that I never never slip,

there I go falling on my ass and sliding most of the way down the driveway and almost into the street. I made a good toboggan.

In 1996, the classic Skalars/ Bigger Thomas/ In-Steps/ Scofflaws show at the Wetlands also featured a foot of snow-- but the brave came out. And the brave, including my high school friends, leaped and jumped over snowdrifts and tossed snowballs at each other, since it took an hour to walk a few blocks.

The night of the crips is soon to return.

Wednesday, December 04, 2002

Night of the Crips 12.4.02

This covers the events of Tuesday, November 19th, 2002.

An important date, wherein our hero Pico struts his stuff at night, experiences high-grade pain, meets crazies in the ER, and emerges into the morning light.

I have been suggested not to force it. But I have to force it. This tale needs an enema. Or a banana and coffee and some McDonald's. Squeeze it, squeeze it...

Tomorrow-- night of the crips redux.
Pride and Pomp 12.4.02

While listening to Elvis' "In the Ghetto," courtesy of M. Silver, I noted that, since there are a couple of new readers, this is the best archive so far.

Tuesday, December 03, 2002

Jade 12.3.02

My lord, the most adorable curly-haired woman is sitting behind me in this computer lab. I mention that because this place is empty, the streets are lonely, the event line a/k/a the home phone ain’t ringing in repeat and echo.

We are in the hibernation period—the wintry time when you, and I, and our friends start thinking that it’s a great time to stay in and watch the latest J-Lo movie wherein she plays an Italian woman with a father from the old country. Or Scary Movie for the fourth time, because you just got digital cable (the wonders of living at home—thanks, papa!). Or questionably “cool” drug movies with Jared Leto and Selma Blair and John C McGinley with shoulderblade-length braids talking about weed in Sacramento. And I just found out they were going cross-country to attend a vigil for Kurt Cobain... hmm...

It is that cold outside. The conversion from cold weather night to heated bar, with the requisite dump-of-coat in a corner, with sweater atop, with hat and gloves and scarf adorning that mass, seems less appealing with every degree the windchill drops.

Meanwhile, I am worrying about a management project. One where I feel like I am not doing enough. In part, it’s because there isn’t anything to do. In part because, honestly, management innovation doesn’t stir my coffee cup on the regular. As a side bar, this does.

I stay up and worry about these things, about pulling my weight.

When I forget the important things—to think about the effects of Jim Thome on the NL East baseball hierarchy; to admire beautiful women in public, preferably with my tongue out cause chicks love that shit; to do some editing on my novel; to live more like a dirtball; to relax, because eventually, you’ve done everything you can do and you can’t press more and get a return out of it.

Maybe I don’t worry enough, hmm?

I promise sports talk and political talk, soon.

I'll leave you with a classic Robbie Williams quote, what a scamp that fellow is!! "the reason i'm doing you is 'cause your friend said no," from Forever Texas.