Code of Conduct

2008-09-12T10:54:00.000-07:00

Heres my boy

Casino Royale

2006-11-14T07:10:00.000-08:00

This past Friday found me on a bus heading up to Connecticut with Mr and Mrs. Mike Britt to open up for him at the Mohegan Sun. It all felt surreal..getting my 25 minutes together..talking with Mike..the Indian guy sitting on the bus in front of me slamming his seat into my knees. Barely a half an hour on the road and I'm trying to hold myself back from killing this dickhead who either doesn't realize or care that he's got the knees of 6' 2" Black man directly behind him soon to be implanted in his asshole. But I don't want to mess up this trip and my money by getting arrested while still in New York, so I continue to play Grand Theft Auto while commenting on how badly I want to choke the daylights out of this guy in front of his ugly ass wife. He eventually gives up and changes seats and the rest of the trip to Connecticut is uneventful save for when the battery to my PSP eventually died.

We get to Connecticut and go through the check in process. Mohegan sun is a beautiful, opulent place made even more so by the fact that smoking is not only allowed by practically encouraged there. All around us I hear the sounds of winning and loosing, and smell the smoke of tobacco in the air..my kind of place. A lady at the concierge desk brings us into a back office where we check in. One of the staff members remembers Mike from a previous show and offers us a few glasses of sparkling champagne before we head up to our rooms. In the elevator we see a picture of Mike Britt with the information for tonight's show. It appears that Lionel Richie is also playing at the Casino that night, albeit for much more than what they are asking for the comedy show.

After dropping off our luggage we collect our meal and drink vouchers and look to get something to eat. Its only about 630, and we have almost five hours before showtime. We checked the menus at a few places including one Chinese restaurant, but when we saw that General Tso's chicken was 25 dollars and knowing we could get that in the hood for 6.95 with a soda, we decided to go cheap. We settled on a Native American themed restaurant that served Pizza, sandwiches and quasi traditional Native American food with funny names like the "Dances with Wolves" Burger. I figured they should take the names all the way and include items like a "Gin and genocide" or the "Small-pox Salad". Whatever.

We eat and then gambled for about a half-hour. I lost twenty bucks on the slots and went up to my room. I'm not a gambler at all as the whole thing felt like I should have just crumpled up a twenty and thrown it on the floor instead of being teased at the slot machine. It was 11'o clock before I knew it and time to head down to the showroom. The room was huge, seating about 300 with comfortable lounge chairs surrounding a massive stage. We went in through a side door and chilled in the backstage area where they had drinks, sandwiches and couches set up for us. A full bathroom was also included with a shower although I cant imagine why anyone would need to shower minutes before stage time.

The stage manager comes out and introduces himself to us. He asks me to write down my into which was completely unnecessary as I don't have any credits, plugs or anything else worthwhile mentioning. I went with the generic "plays clubs and colleges" bullshit and waited for the "voice of god' to introduce me.

I came out to a full room which was very diverse. I felt dwarfed by the stage and smothered under the house lights that were beaming on me. We didn't do a sound check so the Mic amplified my voice a little too much causing me to step back about 3 feet from the Microphone so as not to shatter anyone's eardrums.

"I know what some of you are thinking...wait is this the Lionel Richie show??" I got the laughs I needed and just jumped into my material. I hadn't been on stage for a few days so I didn't feel comfortable improv-ing right away. It felt strange going right into material with no MC or warm up comic before me but minutes into my set things started clicking, I got comfortable and they started dropping applause breaks. Right at the point when I started to really feel myself I look down into the front row and notice a women passed out on her table. Putting your audience to sleep is great for your ego and your crowd work so I spent a little time ragging on her before going back to the jokes. I closed strong and on a nasty joke which felt good and introduced Mike to the crowd who absolutely killed. At the end I got to sign the wall of fame in the backstage area and although I wrote something hacky and cheesy it still felt good to see my name next to the likes of Bill Burr, Tony Wood and Judah Freidlander.

We ended up chilling after the show with a group of people who caught our act and loved us. They bought us drinks the whole night, which in Connecticut means until 130 when they have last call and bring in the State Police to shut the place down. Back up to the room for two hours before catching the 5am Greyhound back to New York.

Mike Britt is not only an amazing comic, but all around cool as shit guy. It meant a lot to me for him to invite me to do this and it felt good to deliver. It was one of those moments where I got to take time to slow down from all the hustling, complaining and stressing to reflect on the progress I've made over the past few years. Yeah I got a long ways to go, and lots to improve on but as of last Friday I felt things starting to click. Could just be my knees.

Birth plus 8 months

2006-10-31T12:21:00.000-08:00

My son is getting so big. At eight months he really resembles a little boy instead of a little baby. I look at pictures taken from when he was just born in amazement of how small and fragile he looks compared to the mini-4X4 he resembles now. He does this thing now where he pulls himself up by my headboard on the bed and while holding onto it with two hands, repeatedly bangs it against the wall. Anybody who hears it probably thinks I’m having deranged, cocaine fueled sex with a hooker in the basement. He’s incredibly strong for a toddler as I’ve been bruised numerous times by the uncontrollable flailing of his little baby paws. I’m really trying to get on his good side now because I’m pretty sure sometime next decade he will clearly be able to whop my ass.

The best part of having a kid is seeing him smile. He was sick a few weeks ago and incredibly grouchy, which sucked. Not to mention he infected me with his demon baby germs and got me sick. I don’t know what it is but babies carry more germs and infections than a South African tranny. Whatever they have, you can be sure they will pass it onto you in ten-fold which was why I was hacking up my lungs and could barely swallow for about a week. But the smile is back and even though I’m really struggling right now because of this random joining of DNA, everything melts away when he looks at me with that beam of his. It took me a while, but I finally understand the whole baby thing as far as why people really get psychotic when it comes to their kids. I could never imagine my life without him at this point and if someone were to cause him harm I’d do nothing less than eat, digest and shit that person out.

I’m still not good with all the baby care like feeding, changing and clothing him. The last time I tried to put on his pajamas we broke into an all out wrestling match where I could barely pin his ass to the bed. And for those worried about hurting his little 8month body, you’d be surprised to know that babies are surprisingly durable, especially my favorite two-toothed psycho. I’d like to take a bigger role in the minutia of taking care of him, but honestly I’d rather smoke a blunt and play playstation than to deal with an underdeveloped human being. I don’t have the patience for all that is required so I usually end up with him having half the diaper off his ass, food down his chest and his clothes on backwards. Funny...thats pretty much how I look leaving the house every morning.

Whats wrong with Isreal, Lebanon and the rest of the world?

2006-07-17T06:57:00.000-07:00

I spent the weekend hosting at Sal’s comedy hole, (http://salscomedyhole.com/) while lots of people in Gaza, Israel and Lebanon spent their weekends huddled in bomb shelters, hospitals or relief centers. It’s really easy to complain about life when you have a semblance of normalcy that allows you to bitch and moan about the small stuff we all take for granted. Friday saw me arguing with Mike Yard another comic from Brooklyn, which amused everyone around us as one usually does not witness to Black guys arguing about Israel and U.S foreign policy. I usually don't like expressing my views in public on issues of international politics because of how uninformed the average American Citizen is on these issues. Lucky for me Mike knew what he was talking about, and the few shots of Jaeger I had done did not seriously impair my ability to formulate a coherent argument.

For the record, I truly believe that peace will never come to the Middle East unless there is a partial scale nuclear war or an independence day like extra-terrestrial invasion that forces the human race to cooperate on a scale never before seen. That entire region is fucked and if the world’s economy wasn’t so dependant on oil I'd seriously advocate wiping it and nearly everyone in it off the map so as not to drag slackers like myself down into their psychotic abyss. This is not to say that I put the blame entirely on the shoulders of the Arabs and Muslims. It’s easy to condemn a people and a region when those people and the region are vastly different than us in how they look and how they pray, and far easier to sympathize with the western acting Israelis as their society closely mirrors ours. It’s the attitudes of the Israelis and the American media which sickens me just as much if not more as the legions of suicide bombers, for their one sidedness, their bias and unabashed hypocrisy.

Why is it that it’s kidnapping when Hammas or Hezbolla abducts armed soldiers who are participating in a conflict, but not when Israel locks up Arab citizens including women and children in its jails? Justified or not, calling it a kidnapping elicits images of shadowy armed thugs operating without morals or limitations, while an arrest is seen as a justified action.

Why is it wrong for Iran and Syria to assist Hammas and Hezbolla? It’s repeated so often in the news along with warnings for them to stop that it’s assumed that their assistance amounts to a crime. But it goes without saying that the U.S can and does offer all types of aid to Israel including financial, material and military support. Can you imagine the news reports if Iran gave Hammas hundreds of bunker busting bombs as the US did Israel last year?

Why is the onus on Lebanon to implement the UN Security council resolution to disarm Hezbolla but Israel can completely ignore resolutions directed at them regarding the treatment of Palestinians?

These are just some of the instances of double standards and hypocrisy surrounding this story. I'm just too tired high and lazy to go into further detail. For now I'm just going to be thankful I can go to the store, eat some dead baby chickens and pork, smoke a blunt while not worrying about a missile or a suicide bomber fucking up my week. God bless America, Canada and everywhere else white people live.

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

2006-03-22T09:37:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-16T13:37:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-07T09:51:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-01T09:36:00.000-08:00

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.

Homeland N Security

2006-02-27T13:15:00.000-08:00

I currently work in Jersey City New Jersey for a financial company. To get to New Jersey I have to take the PATH train which is the main conduit connecting Manhattan to the cities of Hoboken, Newark and Journal Square. PATH, which is a subsidiary of the Port Authority of NY/NJ, recently announced that security spending will reach a record 616 million dollars in 2006. These funds will be used for new security initiatives as well as for enhancements for all of the Port Authority facilities including closed -circuit television monitoring systems, random baggage checks and enhanced surveillance systems. Recently PATH announced a new initiative in cooperation with the U.S Department of Homeland Security specifically for the Exchange Place Station to take place from February 6 though March 1st.

My station is Exchange Place. Exchange Place is the first station you encounter upon entering NJ if you are taking the World Trade Center PATH line. I was on one of the last trains to exit the World Trade Center on 9/11, and today upon entering NYC from the PATH one literally circles the epicenter of ground-zero before pulling into the station. Over the past few weeks I've noticed a lot of activity at Exchange Place when coming into and leaving work. Certain sections of the station have been cordoned off forcing commuters to use designated entrances when coming or going. There have been throngs of law enforcement individuals, PATH representatives, serious looking people with Department of Homeland Security blazers and clipboards as well as the news media. They set up conveyer belts right by the turnstiles, as well as other various security apparatuses for people to walk through. Mini-offices have sprung up in the back complete with cubicles for privacy. More recently, signs have been posted throughout the station notifying the commuters of the various activities taking place.

DHS will conduct a pilot test to evaluate the effectiveness of certain explosives detection systems designed specifically for the protection of rail rapid-transit passengers. Accordingly, Exchange Place passengers and their carry on baggage may be subject to this security inspection. Passengers who do not agree to such inspection will not be allowed to enter the PATH system at Exchange Place and must exit this station.

Exchange Place always had police officers with a K9 team stationed inside to perform random baggage checks on the commuters entering the PATH. While I always considered this to be intrusive and not-necessary I never had any real issues with the idea of increased security. On Friday as I walked through the turnstile it appeared as if the newest initiative was in full effect. Commuters were being directed to place their belonging on the conveyer belt for scanning. Several officials from the Department of Homeland Security blocked the immediate entrance to the station below, directing us to walk through the scanning devices. Police officers and other official looking people stood ominously in the back inspecting the scene. I walked through the turnstile and attempted to circumvent the scanning devices everyone else was walking through. My path was blocked by a Hispanic gentleman who firmly suggested that I walk through the device.

"Please step around this way sir" He said with a Mexican accent.

Excuse me? I replied. I really didn’t understand him.

"Again...Please step around this way sir" This time in an even firmer tone. He pointed to the section where other DHS employees were busy violating other commuter’s civil rights.

"No" I replied. "I don’t want to"

"Then you must leave the station"

"Fine" I said "But I want a refund"

He motioned over towards the back and called over a Police Officer. The Officer escorted me towards a PATH employee who took down my information and told me I would be receiving my refund in the mail within a few weeks. With that, the officer told me that I couldn’t use the station for the rest of the day.

Now Exchange Place is a station with several different entrances and exits dispersed in close proximity to one another. After leaving the main entrance I simply walked across the street to the adjoining entrance which is operational but rarely used. The station was void of Homeland security and law enforcement officials so feeling pretty smart I high stepped it through the turnstile. As soon as I was about to enter the elevator to take me to the platform below I heard a loud authoritative voice from behind me.

"Stop right there...DO NOT GET ON THAT ELEVATOR!!!"

Turning around I saw the officer that originally had escorted me out the station. Motioning me over to him, I exited the station for the second time to the curious looks of the commuters heading home.

"Didn’t we tell you that you couldn’t use the Exchange Place station" He asked

"I didn’t realize that this was the same station" I responded barely able to contain the guilt in my voice.

"I think you're playing games...come with me"

He took me back into the station through a doorway, down some stairs into a corridor past the platform in a section of the train-station I had no idea existed. On the way, he spoke briefly into his radio communication device informing someone of something I assumed was related to me. We walked into a non-descript room with a desk, two chairs and a light bulb. Motioning me over to one side of the desk he instructed me to sit down. Shortly after the original Mexican who blocked my path entered the room and closed the door. I swallowed the ball of saliva in my throat and noticed its decent into the pit of my stomach was the only sound I heard.

The officer asked where I was from. After telling him Brooklyn, he asked for my ID. Handing it over to him I realized that my license said Long Island. The Homeland Security guy never took his eyes off of me.

I was grilled for the next 10-15 minutes. As far as I know I didn’t receive any sedatives, truth telling serum nor was I tortured to my knowledge, unless you count being subjected to the questioning of this incompetent government agency.

"Why did you lie about where you lived?"

I just moved.

"What are you doing in New Jersey?"

I work here

"How long have you worked here?"

8 years

"Where do you work?"

TD WATERHOUSE

"Didn’t you know the two stations were connected?"

I didn’t know I couldn’t use both of them

"Have you ever been arrested before?"

Ummm no...I mean yes

"For what"

Ummmm I tried to pick up a Hooker. You can read all about it in my blog

"Your what??"

Blog...nothing,nevermind.

"How come you didn’t want to go through the security section?"

The police officer had been asking all of the questions up until that last one. The Department of Homeland Security official looked up from his clip-board to ask me the final one. Taking a second to gather my thoughts I told them that I thought the whole thing was a waste of time and money and wasn’t going to help make any of us safer. Feeling satisfied with my answer they returned my license, walked me back upstairs and escorted me out of the station. I was warned that if I tried to enter the station again later that day I would be arrested for trespassing. I ended up having to walk 8 blocks to Grove Street in order for me to get on the PATH and go home.

I don’t regret busting their balls and if they try to check me I'll do the same thing again. The PATH spent 616 million dollars on a system that can be completely circumvented just by walking 8 blocks to another station. Our country has decided to waste millions of dollars while forcing its citizens to endure all types of inconveniences which really do very little towards preventing the next terrorist attack. I'm sorry but I'd be more inclined to open up a dialogue with those who have grievances and wish to attack our country, than to try ridiculous preventive measures like the one described above that could be outsmarted by the average 8 year old. Really, what retarded terrorist decides that he's going to try to walk through a station teeming with electronic surveillance and security personal, with 80 tons of explosives and electronic timers strapped to his body? Even upon acting suspiciously, I was simply led to an interrogation room and asked a serious of stupid questions without once being tackled; strip searched and mildly interrogated for information about possible Al Queda connections. Anyone who decides not to enter an area after seeing the security devices in place should be anally probed on the spot and tortured for information about terrorist affiliates. And how can anyone have any faith in the Department of Homeland security when clearly some random Mexican still working on getting his work visa is at the helm. If a Government department can't even vet out the illegals working for them, how can they hope to prevent a future terrorist attack? Walking away I was frustrated, angry but more than anything else relieved they didn’t find the weed I had socked away in my jacket.

four hours till quitting time

2006-02-24T09:22:00.000-08:00

When Al Green had a scalding pot of hot grits plastered all over his back he underwent a remarkable transformation. Hot grits have been known to do that. Speaking about the incident later he commented "I felt my soul and my heart converging from the champagne and the wine and the women" May have been the hot grits talking, and while this statement makes less sense than an African immigrant with a stutter I do understand his perspective.

My life changed dramatically when I first saw Miami Vice. When it debuted on Friday night the show became a defining moment for me. Many of my friends wanted to be Crocket or Tubbs...while I just wanted to be one of the bad guys. I didn’t want to be one of those bad guys that killed people, rather one of the bad guys who drank all night, partied with women and spent their days relaxing on luxury boats. I was attracted to the night life. After Miami Vice went off, I would lie and bed and fantasize about what was happening in Times Square at the time. I thought about the parties, the drug deals and the hookers and pimps that roamed the streets late at night when everyone else had headed off to bed. Years later, I'm still attracted to the night life. I love hanging out, drinking up and talking to woman. At least I used to.

My plate of hot grits has been the birth of my son. I spent yesterday in bed with him just staring at his remarkable face without the desire in me to go hang out. Instead of downing shots of Jaeger I'm cradling him in my arms feeding him a bottle. Instead of smoking a blunt outside I'm changing a diaper. They say kids change you, and finally I understand how. I've been resisting the urge to mature for so long it’s quite stunning when you’re forced to take an accounting of your actions because someone else is actually dependent on you. His life has crystallized many things for me and at once caused a conflict to stir deep inside my consciousness. Comedy or kid?

I don’t know if I can do comedy anymore. I don’t know if I want to. Comedy has been my first love since before I started doing it. I relayed on comedy to get me through awkward situations and tough times. Its help me sleep with women. It’s made deep friendships for me. It’s saved me from putting a bullet in my brain. When I started doing comedy, while it was a new experience to get onstage, it felt as if I had actualized a dream I had been training for my entire life. Up until Feb 13, it’s been comedy or death for me. But introducing my son to the world has changed a lot for me. My happiness is not tied into egocentric illusions of making strangers laugh, rather seeing him smile. Comedy has kept me alive for the past 2 and 1/2 years, and now I feel like it may be killing me. The drinking, the staying out late the unending scouring of my brain for the next bit. I do things that make me happy. And for such a long time connecting with the audience made me happy. Writing an original bit made me happy. But with the over saturation of comedy taking place in society now, I feel as if I'm part of the problem and not the solution. I'm just one in a sea of heads looking for some faint sign that we're unique and worthy of 10 minutes of individualized attention from a group of people. I don’t need this shit any more. My son makes me happy. I'll see how I feel next week...I'm getting season one of Miami Vice on DVD.

In the news..

2006-02-23T09:13:00.000-08:00

What’s the going rate for a dead cop on the open market? Apparently its fifty million dollars. That’s how much Officer Hernandez’s mother is asking from the city in her wrongful death suit. Officer Hernandez is the NYC officer who after a night of drinking was beaten in a Bronx White Castle and then later shot and killed by another officer in a case of mistaken identity. Moments before his death, Officer Hernandez held his police issued 9mm weapon against the temple of an innocent bystander in a drunken daze, mistaking this person for one of the assailants that had so brazenly kicked his ass with the aroma of grilled onions and burgers wafting in the air.

While I sympathize deeply for this woman’s loss as his death was one of the more tragic events to take place in the New York City area over the past 10 years, I just can not understand the rationale behind this lawsuit. I can think of 100 things the city could do with 50 million of the tax payer’s money, and no where on this list is an entry for paying off Eric Hernandez’s grieving mother. Here we have a 48 year old woman who still has not grasped the concept of personal accountability blaming the shooting officer and ultimately the city for the death of her son. It sometimes feels as if everyone in this country is waiting to hit the lawsuit lottery where they are merely litigation away from becoming a multimillionaire. Will fifty million dollars really provide a sense of closure and adequately comfort her for this incredible loss, or does she have her eye on the new Hummer and some beachfront property? I’m sure if she hired the right people she could instead parlay this tragedy into a book and movie deal while drying her tears with 200 dollar linen handkerchiefs on Oprah’s couch, and save the taxpayers of NY a heckuva lot of money.

Police officers have been using deadly force for years; shooting kids, applying stun grenades to the homes of senior citizens; choking those who commit civil disobediences. At no time did this mother take up a position advocating the rights of citizens or disapproving departmental procedures when it comes to applying deadly force in various circumstances. I’m sure if the situation were reversed and it was her son staring at a drunken, belligerent suspect holding a gun she would have admonished him for not emptying his clip and asking questions later.

If she’s looking for someone to blame in this unfortunate tragedy, look no further as I have done all the finger pointing for her.

Officer Hernandez-No drunken 24 year old needs to be running around New York City with a loaded weapon. Most 24 year olds still can not hold their liquor, let alone remember to follow departmental procedures after downing shots of tequila. Any question as to his sense of judgment at the time was made clear by his decision to go to a Bronx White Castle at 4o’clock in the morning. I’m not saying you asked for it but damn…who does that?

The Four Thugs-It takes four toughs from the Bronx to take down one guy and then once the beating is over, he still has the capacity to stumble outside and draw his weapon? What kind of beat down is that? Had they applied a proper Bronx beating on this guy, he never would have made it out the White Castle without the assistance of EMT.

White Castle-Probably the party most responsible for everything. Those burgers are so good people are willing to forgo their personal safety just to satisfy their irrational cravings. Not only that, people are willing to commit assault should they feel their place in line threatened by anyone else. What’s sad is the beat-down the officer received was probably less damaging than what four of those grease burgers collectively did to his internal organs.

His fathers balls-Clearly at blame for this whole mess. Had he not produced the sperm that ultimately fertilized his mothers egg, he would not have been born, become a cop, gotten drunk, gotten the munchies, gotten his ass kicked and then gotten shot. I say screw everything and haul his nuts into court.

Here's a tip

2006-02-21T11:46:00.000-08:00

I was reading some of the awful posts below that I had been trying to pass off as writing. I think I was half-way done before I mentally threw-up. I don’t know what made me, or anyone for that matter think that people actually give a flying fart about our random musings on the world around us. I certainly could care less about the crap I write let alone whatever drivel some random stranger takes the time to jot down.

But that’s our job as humans...inflate our own egos to the point of delusion. Its amazing how many people have placed an incredibly unrealistic high value on their own self worth when in all actuality, I wouldn’t even spend 5 bucks on a hit man to end their miserable existence. Whatever...we all suck.

Still reading?? Pathetic.

So the baby comes home today and I already had a fight with Mom. I want to have a say in important issues in the baby's life like let’s say CIRCUMCISION, and I feel like I'm already being left out. While I was home she and the doctor decided to prune my son’s penis without my input which probably left me only slightly less pissed off than him after said procedure. Sorry ladies, I just do not feel that as a woman you have the right and/or jurisdiction to embark on a decision of that nature. I'm just not buying the whole 'easily infected' argument she was trying to force feed me like the vapid, group-think human being that she is. Lots of little boys go un-cut and as nasty as little boys are, if this argument held any water there would be an adolescent circumcision epidemic in this country. Every 11 year old male has dug in his nose, scratched his ass, played in the mud and then touched his penis at one time or another. Amazingly we've all lived to be nasty another day which just goes to show you how resilient our genetalia is. Pre-historic un-circumcised man roamed the earth for millions of years in all of his un-cut greatness with the penis never evolving to address the so-called bacteria problem. It wasn’t until pre-historic woman evolved and started forming social groups with other women where they would discuss the penis, that it was determined that maybe the whole turtleneck look is unattractive and maybe we should butcher the most sensitive part on a mans body for the sake of cosmetics.

Basically my son was mutilated because a bunch of superficial women decided that it looks better that way. This was one of the arguments I was hearing from these shallow bitches who were trying to convince me to sexually torture my son.

"Oh I would never suck an uncircumcised dick...That's nasty. "

Here let me do you favor and stick my circumcised one in your mouth. And save the Biblical arguments for someone else because if I'm praying to a God that controls the universe but somehow cares about what happens to my foreskin, then please show me the path to atheism. People believe whatever crap is spoon fed to them by someone who they think is in a position of authority. These same shallow bitches probably sit on the board of Amnesty international and petition the United States to open its doors to African girls in danger of getting their clit snipped. Meanwhile the fate of my boy’s manhood has largely been determined by one of these period having estrogen-Nazis. I would say God help us, but apparently he’s a little busy keeping track of what going on with the tips of our penises.

Open letter to my newborn son

2006-02-15T11:14:00.000-08:00

Seeing you come into the world was the most amazing experience I have ever lived through. That one instance encapsulated so many dreams and hopes that I have for you and for the future.

I hope that big head of yours rounds out. Right now you are looking like Stewey from Family Guy, and that's not a good look to start off life with.

I hope your mother’s vagina snaps back into place. Really, at one point it was like a game in the delivery room of "guess what we WON'T put up her coochie?" Hooks, tubes, fists, suction devices...a list of things that make me feel even more inadequate in the bed. Then your big head gets wrenched from out of there followed by a massive trail of cellular shit. Welcome to the world kid...BUT LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO MY VAGINA!!

Speaking of which, I'm hoping YOU like vaginas. Now if you like penises I'll love you just the same. It’s just always been my dream to go to a strip club in the Bronx with my son on his 21st Birthday and get lap dances side by side...together. Keep that dream alive son.

I hope child support never becomes an issue. I'm just not good with court dates.

I hope you don’t grow up and try some Menendez brothers crap with me. Yes, I know you're black...shit like that usually doesnt happen with us. Except in the case of Marvin Gaye...and the FATHER lived. Remember that.

Most importantly I hope I become a father you are proud of. I'm not going to get it right all the time and I know you won't either. Just work with me kid...I know I can find a "dummies' book somewhere for this shit.

When I was 17 Part I

2006-02-06T10:34:00.000-08:00

I worked at McDonalds when I was in High School. A fast food job was the last place you wanted to work at back then as it was less embarrassing to be unemployed and broke than flipping burgers for minimum wage. While working there I made some great friends including my best friend at the time Jonathan. Jonathan was a gangly awkward kid with an offbeat sense of humor who looked high all the time, even though he never smoked weed a day in his life. His nickname in the hood was ‘spliff’. I remember spending so much time in the kitchen scoping out the cute girls in the dining room, stealing Chicken Mcnuggets or throwing food at one another when we should have been making BigMacs and Quarter-Pounders. We were alike in so many ways. We had a similar sense of humor and outlook on life. We spent hours walking home together just talking although we both lived not longer than 10 minutes from the store. After a few months there, a young big breasted Puerto Rican named Arlene joined the staff and sent my hormone raging body into a flutter. We ate together on lunch breaks, flirted over the condiment stand and made out in the changing room downstairs. For Valentines Day, I decided to do the most romantic thing I could think of for the women that captured my heart. I would have a local DJ create a slow-jam mix tape for her.

Johnny Wishbone was the hottest DJ in the neighborhood at that time. Because Jonathan was good friends with Johnny, I had him ask him to make me a romantic mix tape that would melt the heart of my Puerto Rican love goddess. After hearing the tape I wanted her to get buck naked, cook me a plate of Arroz con Pollo and feed me while I played video games. Late one afternoon Jonathan came back to McDonalds with the finished product. Excited, I ran downstairs to the break room to listen to the compilation of love songs which I was sure would contribute to me loosing my virginity. But instead of being wowed, I heard what I thought was a product I could have made myself taping late night 'quiet storm' sessions off the radio. Disgusted I ran back upstairs and tossed the tape at Jonathan.

“If Johnny thinks I’m going to pay him for this crap he’s CRAZY”

Now Johnny was not exactly someone from the neighborhood that you really wanted to challenge. Besides knowing all the unsavory characters in the neighborhood, he was 6-5, 250 lbs with numerous knuckle scars. Realizing the potentially life threatening error of my ways, I called Jonathan minutes after I got home and told him that I would indeed pay for the tape next week after I got paid.

That Friday was payday. Another friend of mine named Joseph was working that day as well as Arlene. Joseph and I planned on cashing our checks and going to the local club to hang out. At 9:00 o’clock I punched out and ran downstairs to change out of my greasy burger smelling uniform and into my jeans and sneakers which were suitable for a teenaged night on the town. When we got back upstairs another co-worker, Lavanno was by the counter getting his check with a friend I didn't know named Craig. Craig looking dirty and unkempt stayed to himself while Lavanno, Joseph and I cracked jokes as our manager cashed our checks. Just then, Jonathan and Johnny Wishbone walked in.

I felt my blood run cold as Johnny Wishbone strode over to where I was standing with a not so pleasant look plastered to his face. Jonathan awkwardly trailed behind him still looking high as ever.

“Yo Larry” Johnny Wishbone starts. “I hear you said my tape was garbage and that you aint paying me”

I immediately look over at Jonathan who won’t meet my gaze.

“That aint true man” I reply. I’m a little scared at this point. Johnny Wishbone is with someone else from the hood, Joe Willoby known for his short temper and quick fists. From out the corner of my eye, Craig shuffles over to the group watching us intently.

“I was planning on paying you next week. Aint that what I told you Jonathan?” I ask

Jonathan is barely acknowledging me at this point. I don’t know why he came back or why he told Johnny what I said. I do know I just want to walk away from this with my dignity and/or teeth intact.

‘Is that what he said?’ Johnny asks Jonathan with a hint of aggravation.

‘Yeah’ Jonathan responds.

Arlene is watching the scene unfold. In the back Lavanno and Joe Willoby are engaged in a conversation that doesn’t seem altogether pleasant. Johnny Wishbone gives me a pound, and Jonathan a half playful half serious smack across the back of his head for wasting his time. He motions to leave with Willoby who by this time has clearly established that he does not like Lavanno. The three of them, Jonothan, Joe Willoby and Johnny Wishbone walk out of the door with Lavonno and Craig behind them. Me and Joe follow.

We get outside and the trio of Jonathan, Joe Willoby and Johnny Wishbone jump into a mustard colored sedan, blast the stereo and start to pull out of the driveway. Joe Willoby is driving and in a half playful, half serious gesture makes a slight motion over to where Lavonno and Craig are standing as if he was about to hit them with the car. As they continue down the driveway and wait to pull out into the oncoming traffic on the Avenue, I see Craig pull out a gun.
I had turned and went back into McDonalds when I heard the gunshot.

Joseph came back in after me with a look of bewilderment on his face. At this point we were both in a state of panic and shock as we really didn’t have a good grasp on what was going on. All I knew was I saw a gun, heard a shot and as far as I was concerned Johnny Wishbone could be waiting for us outside to exact his revenge on being shot at by who he may have perceived as being a friend of mine.

Joe and I stood by the counter for a few minutes to collect our thoughts. We decided to just go to the club as was our original plan and just figure everything out later. From our collective point of view, whatever beef was taking place did not involve us in the least. As we made a move to step through the doors of McDonalds, we found ourselves face to face with three 9M semi-automatic revolvers.

"POLICE!!! ON THE GROUND NOW!!!!!"

"But we didn’t do any...."

"ON THE FUCKIN GROUND BEFORE I BLOW YOUR HEAD OFF!!!"

Me and Joe both dropped to the ground in McDonalds, in front of our all co-workers, supervisors..in front of Arlene, in front of a packed Friday night lobby. Face down on the tiles that I had swept and mopped hours before, I was searched, handcuffed and forced to lean on the same counter I had leaned on minutes prior when flirting with Arlene. Cops swarmed the place. There were detectives and uniformed officers all over taking statements, searching for evidence and rolling out yellow caution tape. Leaning against the counter I turned to ask the officer who had so politely introduced me to his gun what was going on.

"Shut up before I stick you head in that fry vat" was his response.

While all of this was prior Rodney King we still knew about people that were interrogated by the cops who left in a lot more pain than when they went in. With the last bit of teenaged bravado I could muster, I meekly mouthed the following words to my manager at the time.

'Call my mother'

We were led outside and into separate squad cars. As the officer forced my head down in order for me to enter, I caught a glimpse of Johnny Wishbone in another car parked next to the one I was getting into. He simply shook his head as our eyes met.

I was taken to the 113 Precinct in Queens and led upstairs to an interrogation room. I was introduced to a blond burly Detective in his mid 30's who would take my statement. Following the code of the street, I said nothing. I told them that Joe and I were going to pick up our checks and go to the club. A bunch of guys came in who I didn’t know and started beefing outside. From there I didn’t know what happened. Hours went by with me under the illusion that I could still make it to the club. I remember staring at the large clock on the wall as the minutes ticked by thinking that I still had a slight chance of making it out in time to dance with a hottie.

Every time the detective came back he had more information. He would ask me about the tape. He would ask me about Johnny Wishbone. He knew I knew more. I didn’t know who was talking but I really didn’t care. All I knew I was too smart for them and I was going to beat this. At one point he slammed his hand on the desk and asked me if I knew what "Acting in Concert" was. I didn’t. He was only too happy to tell me that I could be convicted of a crime just by me being there. "What crime?" I asked figuring he was playing some good cop, bad cop game and was unprepared to deal with a wily 17 year old who was wise to the world.

"Homicide" he replied

"Homicide??" What are you crazy?

The officer briefly left me alone to think about what just transpired. He came back and showed me a picture of Jonathon.

"Do you know him" He asked me.

'Yea that’s Jonathon' I replied feeling a little less sure about myself.

'He just died from a gunshot wound to the head. If we don’t get some answers from you, you're going to be booked for second degree murder'

My head was reeling as I stared at Jonathans HS graduation picture. He couldn’t be dead; he was barely 19 years old. He was a good kid. He was harmless. He was my friend. Just then the door opened and my mother walked in. Seeing her concerned but visibly angry face caused all composure to wash away from me as I broke down and started to cry with the detective still holding Jonathans picture inches from my streaming tears. Not known to me at the time, the police should not have interviewed a minor without the presence of a lawyer or a parent in the same room. But that was irrelevant at the time as I told them everything I knew up until the point that I heard the shot that took the life of my friend.

I ended up having to testify for the grand jury against Craig, who pulled the fatal trigger. Craig was a 15 year old drug dealer at the time who by now has been released from the youthful detention center he was sentenced to. Lavanno was forced to testify at the trial and later had to move to Florida because of the threats he was receiving from Craig’s crew for testifying. He is now an ordained minister.

I got fired from McDonalds, dumped by Arlene and never did get that tape that caused so much trouble. I never went to Jonathan’s funeral because I didn’t want to face his parents or the likes of Johnny Wishbone and Joe Willoby. He was my friend and his life was cut short in part due to ignorance, due to immuturity..due to myself. It’s been a long time but I never have gotten over Jonathan or gotten over the fact that my actions led to the death of someone so young and on the cusp of life. As the world takes me on her travels I think back on all the things that Jonathan never got a chance to experience; love, heartbreak, hangovers, hookers, extacy, great loss. As corny as it sounds I sometimes feel as if I have to live for two people and experience life for someone who missed his chance at doing so. So on the days when I'm doing double shots of Tequila at the bar, instead of looking at me like the lush that I am, remember one of those is for Jonathan.

Tales of a messed up existance Part II

2006-02-01T07:59:00.000-08:00

My uncle hit the lottery when I was 10 years old. Walking away with a few million he and my two cousins moved out of the projects in Brooklyn and into a huge house in West Bubble-fudge. Once he moved out there he got remarried..to a crack-head. While spending time in jail for drunk-driving, his crack-head wife introduced one of my cousins to the drug and got my other cousin pistol whipped before kicking him out the house. From that point on she was queen of her own crack-castle, probably the nicest crack-house in America and the only one I know of to have its own landscapers. My Uncle later got out of jail, divorced this woman and presumably got an exterminator to rid the house of all its crack-head pests. With that he turned the house over to my family.

Moving out to suburbia was not an easy transition for me. I was used to trains, hanging out in the park and random acts of violence being available right outside my door. I was not prepared for crickets, starlit skies and strip-malls. One weekend shortly after moving to Bubble-fudge, me and cousin `pistol whipped' were on our way to catch the bus. Bopping our heads to the music blasting out of my cousin`s radio we unknowingly cut through a police precinct parking lot..while sipping on our 40oz malt liquor bottles. Seemingly out of nowhere an officer blocks our path and asks for ID. Figuring that he just wanted to make sure that we were of drinking age, I proudly showed him my recently christened ID that displayed my 21 year old birthday, and took a swig of my beer. He immediately confiscated our beer and ushered us into the police station. I was pretty ignorant to the idea that drinking in public was prohibited. In my old neighborhood we drank on the corner, at the park and on the trains. It didn`t seem like it was illegal, it felt practically encouraged. I had no idea that things worked very differently in West Bubble-fudge.

We say on a holding bench in the precinct while the arresting officer did the paperwork all the while my 21 year old intoxicated mind was working itself up into a fury over the indignity of having my drink taken and us being issued a summons.

`This is ridiculous..my uncles a judge..you haven`t heard the last of this`

The officer continued with his paperwork barely acknowledging me with a grunt.
`
You think you can do this and get away with this..this aint right` I continued.

I look over to my right and see my cousin and a handcuffed perp both shaking there heads. Looked like encouragement at the time.

`You know what..this is why people..` And I was going to say shoot cops. But something..a slight sliver of common sense, a thin iota of maturity took control of my mouth and changed the words that were about to fall out.

`..dont like you`

`THAT`S IT!!!! NOW I`ve HAD IT` The guy who was being held on I`m sure a more serious charge than drinking shook his head saying `You done did it now`
Slamming his hand on the desk the officer jumped up and handcuffed both me and my cousin to the wall.

`If I hear another word from you, you`ll be locked up for a month!` he growled.

It was all sirs and thank yous from that point on out of me.

A month later Im walking around the rough side of West Bubble-fudge trying to score some weed. When I turn the corner I see a lovely young lady in skin tight daisy duke shorts and a half shirt casually strolling down the street. Already an expert in the hooker walk, I couldn`t just continue my weed pursuit without at least trying to get a back alley blow-job while the stench of urine wafts about us.

`Hey..whats up` I say

`Whats up with you baby? Time is money` She replies

`Ummm ok..can we do something?`

`Well what do you want?`

`Umm…a blowjob?` I stammer.

`Well how much you paying me?` She responds.

`40 dollars?` I asked.

`Fine..make a left at the corner and go up the street. I`ll meet you there`

I walk around the corner while she trails behind me. As soon as I get on the block I`m approached by two uniformed officers who arrest me on the spot for solicitation of prostitution. Ten minutes later Im back in the same precinct being interviewed by the same cop albeit this time for a different charge. After dispensing with the pleasantries he told me that bail was set at 100 dollars and if I had that I could be released on my own recognizes. Lucky for me I had 99 dollars and a buck in change which saved me the humilation of having to call my mother to bail her son out of jail on a hooker charge.

I managed to make it to my first court date with regards to the public consumption of alcohol. After paying a small fine I was able to put that case behind me and worry about the upcoming court date for my most recent and proudest charge. My cousin had his original court date postponed which coincidentally fell on my subsequent court date. When the time actually came, I had a very important job interview in the city and decided to skip court and just deal with the consequences later. My cousin had surgery on that day and had my alcoholic, crack-head marrying Uncle come to court to inform the judge. I later found out that when my cousin`s case was called, my Uncle approached the bench and without a hint of reservation as is so often found in an alcoholic, pleaded his son`s case and mine as well since he knew we were both caught together. The judge agreed to drop the charges for both of us. My Uncle stumbled back to his seat to await his own docket number being called stemming from a different drunk driving charge he was facing. After a lunch break the judge resumed calling case numbers and came upon mine for the solicitation charge. After calling my name and with no one answering he was about to issue a warrant for my arrest when my Uncle drunkenly stormed the bench and unleashed a tirade saying that the judge promised to drop the charges for both my cousin and myself.

Alternately looking at my drunken Uncle and the prostitution change the judge slowly asked `I agreed to drop this??`

`Yesssssir urrrr honor` my uncle affirmed.

`So be it..case dismissed` And with just that bit of indifference, my arrest was expunged and my record wiped clean.

Tales of a messed up existance Part I

2006-01-25T16:24:00.000-08:00

I was hanging out at this club in the Times Square area. The girl/guy ratio was absurd approximately 10:1. Most of the women at the party were gorgeous, thin, successful and slightly pretentious. The ratio however emboldened me to do things I would never have done in normal circumstances. I would walk up to some females, look them in the eye and say `why don`t you buy me a drink`. Others I would introduce myself to and tell them right away I had money for a cab, a queen size bed at home and 100 mil of Viagra. I didn`t care about rejection that night, as the lack of males in the room created an environment ridiculously in my favor.

A few hours and many drinks (snuck in) later I left the club to face my queen size bed alone. The best I could look forward to was an hour long, Viagra induced masturbation session to some brand new porn obtained from one of the last remaining adult bookstores around the forty deuce. Before Disney,Applebees and Hello Kitty, 42nd street was a haven for raunchy uncensored sex, the center of the world for debauchery be it live, in print or on the big screen. My 17th year saw most of my McDonalds wages spent on lap dances from a 24 year old Miami transplant with an amazing body and a killer coke habit in one of the seedier places around the Ave. Years later I`m stumbling around the area bumping into Manhattan hipsters, Midwestern family tourists and the occasional hooker who at this point has become something of a relic in the neighborhood.

`Hey baby..wanna date` she says to me her fake chinchilla draped over a skin tight hot pink one piece. She shuffles me into a doorway on Eighth Avenue while aggressively propositioning me.

`No..I`m good` I reply as I feel her hands move up my thigh. She starts to fondle my intoxicated member which passed out three drinks and four dance floor rejections ago.

`Come on baby..You fine..Let me get some of this`

Undeterred I again decline and pull myself away from this prostitutes spell. I am focused on porn and thinking about `Little White Chicks and Monster Black D*cks #13.` Leaving her to her own devices I find my way to the video store, locate my purchase and prepare to pay for it and jump on the train. That`s when I realize that my money was gone. Whenever you loose money, it usually takes a few minutes for the realization to actually click after you search your pockets multiple times. This time however, I immediately knew that the hooker who was feeling me up in the corner was merely distracting me so that she could pick my pockets.

Bubbling over with anger, I raced down the street to find her as I started to sober up. Spotting her on the corner I went up to her and asked for my money back. I told her I knew what she did, and all I wanted was what she took from me with no hard feelings. She denied taking anything, and barely admitted that the above exchange took place. I was at a loss. School teaches you many things but not important life lessons like how to successfully confront a prostitute. Angry and still drunk I wanted my money back, but short of physically assaulting her I didn`t know what to do. That`s when I saw her approach another potential trick/mark out the corner of my eye.

Springing into action I walked over to them and screamed out to the guy `watch out..shes a pickpocket and a theif..stay away from her!` The guy bent a hasty retreat while checking for his wallet. Figuring that if I couldn`t get my funds back I would at least make sure that she didn`t make any money for the rest of the night. I spent the next few hours following her up and down 42nd street yelling out to all her potential customers what they were dealing with. After a few hours of this harassment, she eventually gave up working for the night, jumped in a cab and went her way. Feeling vindicated, I was able to buy my porn and smile all the way home.

Dunk this

2006-01-20T11:36:00.000-08:00

Antonio Davis was suspended for five games for going into the stands during a game, and Peter Vecsey is upset about this. Peter Vecsey who gets his paychecks signed by the NY Post, an unabashedly biased cheerleader for the neo conservative movement, has the nerve to attempt to speak with some kind of moral authority.
Everyone I know from the right and left complains about the media. It`s either permeated with leftist elitism, financed by a Pro-Zionist cabel or supporting the Military Industrial Complex. When however are we going to take sports journalists to task for their unqualified blow-hard opinions and the shameless hyping of bullsh*t stories. Not only did we have to watch the replay over and over of Antonio Davis jumping in the stands, but we have to listen to guys who never actually played an iota of professional sports except for perhaps that one game of T-Ball back when they were 3. Who is Peter Vecsey to say `Did Antonio consider anybody but himself and his family before taking his misguided tour?` Who was he supposed to consider when witnessing what may be someone getting physical with your wife? He obviously knew the consequences of his actions but did what he thought was necessary in this particular situation. Right or wrong, he is a man first and a basketball player second. I`m sure if I slapped around Peters wife at the offices of the NYpost, he would have no qualms about jumping over a desk to confront me, assuming he actually possesses the nuts to do so.
What kills me is people still think blacks are being sensitive when we complain about how racism is still prevalent in society. Theres this attitude amongst the sports writers, the fans and the NBA that these guys are nothing but million dollar niggers who should jump and do their bidding because they are getting paid to play basketball. It`s a feeling that percolates below every argument and complaint about the NBA; `they should dress up`, `they should raise the league age`, `we`re not going to tolerate them jumping in the stands` Meanwhile you have golf and tennis kids turning pro at 16, the 04 RedSox being celebrated for being bums and Olympic skiers bragging about competing drunk.
It seems that when you give a kid out the ghetto a million dollar contract it gives everyone involved a strange sense of entitlement over that person. And while we are attacking the players relentlessly, maybe some more attention should be turned towards the behavior of these fans. Granted the league does take action when a fan steps over the line, but maybe guys like Peter Vescey should devote a few articles on them instead of the million dollar niggers that keep him employed.

Great interview with Patton Oswalt

2006-01-03T12:29:00.000-08:00

Heres my favorite quote. Its funny because I was in a dinner over the weekend telling someone the same thing.

`I`m not doing stand-up so that I can start doing movies or TV shows and never have to do stand-up anymore. I do movies and TV shows and write things so that I have more free time to do stand-up. Or I`m trying to increase my exposure so that I can do more stand-up. Everything is so that I can do stand-up; it`s not the other way around. And I know a lot of people that are doing stand-up so that they can get out of stand-up.

If you want to be an actor, go be an actor. Quit taking up stage time.` End quote.

The rest of the article is linked on shecky.com