Tales of a messed up existence Part IV (The final chapter?)

I had just gotten dissed by my Miami Stripper. I spent all of my money I had earned working at McDonalds on lap dances and overpriced sodas and she walked away from me because her trick told her he didn’t want all three of us hanging out together. I stumbled down 42 street towards the train-station feeling at once dejected and rejected when I bumped into a guy on the street chanting,

'Girls..Girls'.

Seeing me hesitate his eyes excitedly met mine as he turned to face me and continued "Hey you looking for some girls?"

My heavy heart still couldn’t overcome my raging hormones at the time. "Yea sure" I said.

"Ok walk this way."

We headed around the corner to 43rd street, him an older Black man in his 40's who spoke just as fast as he walked. As he scanned the streets in a hyperactive fashion he explained the rules of the operation. I buzz the hotel and ask for room 16. Once upstairs I am entitled to one drink before I choose which girl I wanted of which they had Black, Spanish and Asian. I couldn’t bring any weapons upstairs nor could I use any sexual devices on the women such as dildos, anal beads or butt plugs. I would be searched before let inside. Cost of admission was 50 dollars.

Feeling bad for wasting his time, I explained to him that I only had 17 dollars, of which a dollar fifty of that was already allocated towards my transportation back home.

"Hmmm" he said "I like you..let me see what we can work out."

He led me over to a phone booth which an associate of his had converted into an office. I watched him explain my situation to this gentlemen who nodded and grunted between sips of his coffee and peered over at me from under his Kangol hat and dark glasses. Finally he took a scrap of paper from out of his pocket, scribbled something on it and handed it back over to the first guy who then walked back over to me. I was told that everything was cool and they would let me in for 17 dollars. All I had to do was hand the hotel clerk the scrap of paper his associate wrote on. Without hesitating I forked over my money and grasped the golden-hooker-ticket he held out before me, already mesmerized with the idea of loosing my virginity.

He led me to the hotel; a seedy looking one nighter practically in the heart of Times Square. Before I could turn around to thank him he was gone. Undaunted I walked up to the door and rang the buzzer, holding the scrap of paper up at the clerk so as to validate why a 17 year old would be buzzing the bell to a short stay hotel. Once inside I eagerly and nervously shoved the slip of paper through the partitioned glass and waited for him to point me in the direction I should go. Instead he gave me a blank look and passed me back the paper.

"Umm..I was looking for room 16" I said, just in case he couldn’t read the slip of paper.

The clerk by this time had resumed reading his magazine. "I don’t know what you are talking about." he says indifferently as I slowly realize I had just been hustled.

I stormed out of the hotel swearing my revenge on those who had taken advantage of my innocence and horniness. Not only had I been embarrassed, but I was still a virgin who now didn’t have any money to take the train back home. Things only got better when I got a ticket for jumping the turnstile.

Eight years later, I'm partying at the new China Club on 47th street and 8th avenue. It was a Thursday after work party and I had been there since 6pm sucking down half price margaritas and full price Long Island Ice Teas. I stumbled out of the club after midnight completely intoxicated, almost on the verge of getting the spins and emptying the content of my stomach. As I headed down 8th avenue towards the train with the cool air sobering me up slightly, I heard a voice from my past seemingly out of nowhere;

'Girls..Girls'

I drunkenly turned towards the voice and saw what appeared to be a disheveled 65 year old black man smoking a cigarette and looking at me like the mark he thought that I was. I had swore since getting ripped off years back that given the chance to confront the people that hustle unsuspecting Johns out of their hard earned prostitution funds, I would do so and make amends. It didn't matter that he wasn't the original guy that took advantage of me years before.

"Yea sure..where they at?" I replied.

He asked me to follow him towards 9th avenue while he repeated the spiel I had heard 8 years and lots of innocence prior. I nodded and grunted while we turned left and right on the chilly midtown streets while in my head I plotted what I would do once he tried to complete the ruse and ask me for money. In my drunken state though, I had no real plan nor an inkling of an idea as to what I was going to do. Part of me envisioned that when confronted with someone who revealed that he knew the scheme, he would beg for my forgiveness, hand over whatever monies I had been swindled out of and confess to harboring a lifetime of guilt for his unscrupulous ways.

We reached a townhouse on 10th avenue and walked in, heading up two darkened flights of stairs. On the second floor he asked me for the agreed upon money for access to the Brothel which he implied was in one of the apartments in the building.

At that point, my non plan swung into action. "Wheeeres mah money yo??" I slurred as I turned to confront him.

"You stole mah monnnney!" I continued while I attempted to grab him by the shoulders.

The man, probably a life time criminal who spent more time in Jail and on the streets than I had been alive seemed surprised at first. I really didn’t expect the old man to fight back though. With the pen that he used to write up the phony entrance ticket he began fending me off with several moves to my face and neck. I was grazed twice with the pen-point which startled and offered me the first inebriated realization of the night:

'He's not intimidated by me'

With my hand, I felt the side of my neck which was scratched and slightly bleeding. I was lucky my windpipe wasn’t punctured by this elderly pen wielding thug. As I'm feeling my abrasion and just about to come to my senses I was hit with my second inebriated realization of the night:

'This old man has a pretty good right hook'

He struck me flush in the side of my face which knocked me back against the wall and nearly put me on my ass. With surprising agility he took off downstairs while I struggled to gain my senses and follow him. I tripped my way down two flights and burst through the door holding the side of my face just as a police van pulled up outside of the apartment.

"Heeey..gett him" I yelled at the cops. "He stole mah monney when I wassss 17" I slurred.

The officer took one look at me with ink covering both my neck and swollen face, in a wrinkled suit stinking of alcohol and said "Get out of here before we arrest YOU."

Feeling defeated I slowly walked to the train station still rubbing my face from the shot I took from this senior citizen. I realized how dangerous my actions were becoming and how lucky I was that all I received was a swollen ink stained cheek and a bruised ego. Turning the corner I was about to enter the train station when I heard that all familiar cry;

'Girls..Girls'

Just trying to kill time before I leave work

I'm really hoping that my son is not a dummy. He seems very alert for a month old, but I don't think alertness is the best barometer of how much intelligence a baby possesses. I'm not looking for nor do I expect a genius. Just please don't be an idiot.

I was lucky enough to be born with an average amount of intelligence. I'm smart enough to know that I'm stupid in relation to the people out there with real brains. I was bussed to white schools up until the 7th grade and was in the top class during my Caucasian tenure. In the 8th grade I went to school in the 'hood' where again I was placed in the top class there. I was feeling pretty confident about my scholastic abilities until I was completely blown out the water by those kids who had been preparing to be engineers, doctors and scientists since the 4th grade. But Math was never my thing and this class was primarily focused on Math and Science. We had back-to-back-back periods of science twice a week with the portly, bespectacled Mr. Holler. He was the only geek teacher that I know of to have 13 year old groupies fighting over who would get to carry his bunsen burners after class.

I was an English fan, probably because my mother taught me to read when I was three. She enrolled me in this program at Queens college for pre-schoolers who were early learners. We played games that involved reading and spelling, made rock-candy and learned how to count. An ongoing project that we had involved writing letters to a "buddy" in the class, and leaving them in his or her cubby. Every day I would get a letter from my buddy which was filled with kiddie affirmations about how "nice" I was or how good a friend I had become.

Initially I never wrote any letters to my buddy. Towards the end of the semester, Jonathon tearfully approached the teacher with his mother explaining that he had never received a letter from me. The teacher pulled me aside along with my mother to ask why I hadn't completed the assignment by writing to my assigned buddy. It was at this point I had to make one of the hardest admissions in my short life. While I could read..I didn't know how to write. I was three years old...and partially illiterate. My secret would have been safe if Jonathon had not been such a cry-baby. My mother upon finding this out apologized to the teacher and Jonathans mother. When we got home we immediately got to work on a buddy letter for Jonathon to leave in his cubby. I believe it went something like this:

Dear Jonathan. You are my friend. I like you very much. From Lawrence.

Looking back if I had the chance to pen another letter, it would go something like this.

Dear Jonathan. You are a snitch. Watch your back during nap-time bitch. Pay-back is a motha. From Lawrence.

Last comic standing

So the Last Comic Standing audition is taking place in New York City at Caroline's as I write this. I debated calling out sick from work and standing online with the rest of those jackasses for a shot at national exposure and a bonified TV credit. With the birth of my son and me about to be laid off from work at the end of the month I was even more inclined to swallow what little pride I had remaining and completely expose myself and my image to the whims of the all powerful reality TV show editors. In the end I chose to take my ass to work.

I know some of the people that did choose to brave the cold and wait online and I sincerely wish them the best of luck. I think that amongst the toxic waste floating in this massive sewage system we call the NY comedy scene, there is a strong contingent of undiscovered talent that truly deserves the opportunity to take their careers to the next level. But for every gem there are scores of worthless pieces of granite taking up space and operating under the delusion that someone will be willing to pay money for what amounts to be a plain old rock. I don't know how it was in the 80's during the golden age of comedy but nowadays it seems rare to come across individuals that take comedy serious as an art, and really want to take the time to improve their craft. Instead, every open micer with 7 minutes of bullshit observations and 2 minutes of cringe like humor thinks they should be on the fast track to a development deal. Show Business has an open check book for the right people but like Todd Lynn says, when it comes to the industry they don't know shit, but they done seen everything. I've just begun to scratch the surface of who I want to be onstage and I'll be damned if I'm going to showcase my burgeoning abilities to any decision makers while I'm still in the early stage of the evolution of my comedic voice.

Comedy now has more opportunities than ever before yet that still doesn't mean we all should jump on each boat sailing out the harbor for the sake of exposure. All exposure isn't good as I'm sure no one in their right mind wishes to be exposed to HIV. I was having an discussion with a fellow comic who I think is everything you should aspire to be as a comic, funny, provocative and unique. We were debating the merits of the litany of comics appearing on VH1 commenting on pop culture on the many shows they have dedicated to dumbing down the American population.

"Dude..if you get the chance to get on 'Best Week Ever' don't be stupid..take it. Its a credit and it will get you road work" he says.

While I don't doubt that, that's not the path I want to take; appearing on some bubble-gum TV show as a brainless talking head who drops funny little quips on what Lindsey Lohans dog ate for breakfast. There have been some really funny and talented comics that have appeared on these shows and honestly every time I see one of them I want to smack my dick against the TV monitor as I'm so disgusted with what they are doing. I'm not in none of their shoes and when push comes to shove you have to pay your bills. Realistically if I was in a bad position and offered the chance I'd have to suck it up, lube my butt-hole for the rape I'm to receive and show my face on one of those shows. But what happened to being so funny, so original, so dedicated to the art of comedy that a couple of hundred bucks to quip about Trumps hair piece just doesn't seem like a viable career move? Leaving Sals Comedy hole last night a few comics and myself were walking in front of a young couple who just left the Comedy Cellar.

Says Girl to Boy: Yea I think that last guy was on Best Week Ever.

Boy to Girl: What show is that?

Girl to Boy: You know that show on VHI where they put all those dumb comics on to talk about stupid stuff you see on TV.

Tales of a messed up existance Part III

While I consider myself to be 100% Heterosexual, over the course of my lifetime I have encountered several experiences of a gay nature. The following is a full accounting of my gayness. Some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent...and the guilty.

4 Years old--I grew up with two sisters, four aunts and four female cousins. Being surrounded by estrogen 24 hours a day eventually began to take a toll on my young impressionable mind. In a brief moment of weakness I picked up my sisters Barbie doll and learned how to braid hair. My father upon seeing this immediately sprung into action and purchased a full set of Tonka trucks and GI Joe action figures while introducing me to my male cousins on his side of the family. But the damage had already been inflicted with the repercussions to be felt for years to come.

9 Years old--At the time my mother was still picking out my clothes to wear to school, most of which were of the second, third or fourth hand nature. One morning I awoke to a blinding yellow light coming from the top of my dresser. In an act of unspeakable evil, my mother had decided that I would be wearing skin tight, bright yellow corduroys to school that day. Hours of protesting, feigning illness and going into convulsions were all for naught. I was sent to school and forced to endure 6 hours of non-stop insults, snaps and ranks from the entire school. I nearly developed a urinary tract infection as I did not get out of my seat once the entire day to go the bathroom.

At one point my best friend at the time pulled me aside and told me "You know...you look really gay in those pants"

While I really didn’t know what being gay meant, I was fully aware of the horrible fabric wrapping itself around my young legs. Once I got home I immediately changed clothes and buried the pants in the backyard garden before my mother got home from work.

15 Years old--I was living a few blocks away from the playground when one day on my way to play Basketball, a van pulled up beside me. A young Indian looking gentleman leans out and asked me for directions to Astoria Blvd. After telling him, he casually asked where I was going and if I wanted a ride. Without hesitation I jumped in the van. He started asking me some general questions as we headed to the Basketball courts.

How old was I?

What school did I go to?

How big was my penis?

The final questions signaled to me that it was time to go, so directing him to the corner I jumped out and ran the rest of the way to the park.

16 Years old--I was on my way to school when I felt someone come up behind me. Turning around, I saw a tall thin black man in his 40`s wearing a tweed trench coat. He asked me for the time and after I told him he responded with "You ever been shot before nigga?"
An object protruded from behind his coat that was clearly his finger in the shape of a gun. Thinking that he was kidding I laughed and started to resume walking to the train station. He whirled around grabbed me by the arm and started to drag me towards an empty ally all the while pointing his finger gun at me.

I yelled at the top of my lungs "Get the F*CK up off of me!!" while I fought back resisting being pulled into the ally. He suddenly let go, gave me smile and took off in the opposite direction.

19 Years old--Late one night I was coming out the Columbian brothel house when I spotted a familiar face from the neighborhood sitting inside his car. I didn’t know him by name, but he was one of the people you see in the neighborhood from time to time and say what’s up to. He motioned me over and asked about the girls in the Brothel. I told him that they were decent, cheap and generally odor free. He then asked if I wanted to get some weed and 40`s and cruise around looking for girls. I was in his car before he finished his sentence.

We went to the weed spot and copped a 20 bag of some potent Jamaican Marijuana. After getting two 40`s of Old English he convinced me to go upstairs to his apartment while we smoked and drank instead of taking a chance by partaking in his car. He had a small one bedroom apartment that was clean and sparsely furnished. He sat down on the couch while I sat on one of the chairs at the dining room table. We cracked the beer and began telling college stories of all the women we had banged in college. At one point after smoking a blunt he asked if I wanted to see his bedroom. While I thought the request was weird, I declined and thought nothing of it.

A 40 OZ and two blunts later I’m sufficiently high and drunk and ready to go. I’m catching a weird vibe from this guy and in my altered state felt it better to be outside at the time. Seeing I was ready to leave he said that he would drive me as soon as he finished his beer. With that he turns and asked me how tall I was.

"6-1" I respond.

"Nah.." He says incredulously. "Stand up"

I stand up and so does he. Moving closer he brings his shoulder to mine in an effort to compare height. While he’s positioning himself I feel his hand tweak my Johnson. I push him in the chest and back up in a state of weed induced heterosexual panic.

"What the F*CK are you doing??" I yelled.

"No???" He asked me, as if to say "What are you saying...you dont want to F*ck me?

"Hell No" I respond while I reach for my jacket and make my way out of the apartment. My dramatic exit is then nullified when I have to ask for his assistance with the complicated apartment lock he had on the door.

26 Years old--I had just broken up with my girlfriend and was feeling very depressed. I was on the crowded F train heading to school when I felt someone grab my crotch. Looking up I saw a sceevy looking white guy in a business suit reading the NYtimes. Figuring it was just incidental contact caused by everyone being so pressed up against each other, I shifted around in an effort to better protect my private parts from accidental groping. Right before the next stop I felt the hand again this time in a way that was clearly no accident. Bubbling over with rage from being molested and dumped on the same day I went for his throat with one hand while punching him in his face with my other.

"Man I’ll KILL you...you fu*ckin sick fu*ck!!" I screamed as he tried to make his way out the door.

The other passengers seeing what looked to be an unprovoked attack on a white man by some black guy intervened and pulled me off of him while he ran out the station. Before they called the cops I took off not wanting to get arrested for assault, or having to explain getting violated by some random white guy.

According to a friend of mine, five gay experiences fully qualifies you to be homosexual. I’ve had six, so apparently I am gay on paper. While I don’t have sex with other guys, work-out or dress well, don’t say anything if you see me marching in the gay parade braiding the hair on a Barbie doll. Its all about gay-on paper-pride y`all.