As the flood of emotions and memories that always mark the coming of the 2nd week of September are once again in full swing, TV networks have broken out their footage of the screams, explosions, and dust covered phantoms wandering a crippled Downtown. Everybody will always have their own version of “where they were” and most will solemnly pay homage to heroes whether they wore helmets and boots, badges, or shirts and ties.
The who, what, where, when, and why regarding that dark day in September are well known but there is a part of the story that few know. It is the stories of the families that somehow managed to survive the aftermath of the atrocity and engaged in the torturous waiting game to receive word about their missing loved ones. Although many never received word at all, for my family the process lasted 19 agonizing days. This is a glimpse into that process and some of the unlikely ways we managed to cope with it.
If there is any way to call my family blessed in regards to the tragedy, it was that we were fortunate to have an unbelievable support system. In the hours after the towers fell, people began showing up at our home and in large part, with the exception of to shower and (sometimes) sleep, didn’t leave for a month. This group included family members, neighbors, and long time family friends. In terms of my sisters and me, a similar wave of friends came. Most were friends since grade school but a few were more casual acquaintances that before long became something much more.
These friends of ours became our constant companions. So much so that most, in the short term, completely ditched school and became permanent residents of our couches and bedroom floors. We talked together, sat silent together, ate together, hoped together, and certainly cried together. They came to support us but also because of their own personal relationships with my parents. It the interaction among us “kids” that brings us to the night Eddie Murphy saved our lives.
We tried as best we could to keep our minds off of things but it was mostly a losing battle. Even when we did sleep, we still spent the days emotionally drained and physically exhausted. One day, sometime within the first week (the actual timeline remains a blur), when we were continuing the routine of small talking and trying in vain to believe the whole thing wasn’t happening, one of these friends took the opportunity to stand up and say” We can’t do this anymore…I’ll be back in a bit,” and left the room,” No one knew what his plan was but we were too tired to ask.
A couple hours later he returned carrying an unmarked video tape sporting a shit eating grin. He handed me the tape and just as I was about to make a joke about this being no time for bootleg porn and declared “We are watching this tonight…all of us” I asked him what it was and he then asked me if I knew who Eddie Murphy was. I scoffed and said of course. He said “but have you ever seen his stand-up?” A bunch of us said no and my friend chuckled to himself, happy that he was the only one who knew what we were in for.
After that evening’s buffet style meal (if there is a silver lining to any tragedy it is that there is always a shitload of food), we gathered in my room and within a minute or two what seemed like 50 but was probably closer to 10-15 of us were crammed into my room and the friend who had unofficial become the MC for the viewing pushed in the tape and before it disappeared into the VCR I read the word “Delirious” written in black Sharpie on the tape label.
It was about then that something amazing happened. From the moment the young Eddie Murphy strode onto the stage wearing that red orange jumpsuit that looked like you could plug it into a wall socket and spoke we did something we weren’t sure was possible anymore; we laughed……hard. For the next hour plus we listened to the comic’s musings on the sexual habits of Mr. T and Ralph Cramden, ice cream, and family BBO’s with Bigfoot in complete hysterics.
The most unexpectedly profound moment for me came when I caught my youngest sister Cody out of the corner of my eye. She was crying but not in the way we had become all too familiar with, she was nearly curled up into a ball holding her sides and crying from laughter. It was then that I realized somewhere in my brain that somehow we were going to make it. Our emotion was just as intense but we had found a way to transfer it into another form and achieve a different yet equally important release.
Eddie Murphy’s “Delirious” remains uproariously funny regardless of where or how you saw it for the 1st time but for those of us who were in the room that night it remains something different. I have seen said special at least a dozen times since then but whenever I watch it with someone from that room, at some point there is a look and nod exchanged almost as a way of saying “we’re still here,”
To this day,
I swear that I have never laughed longer and harder than I did that night. It was that rediscovery of the ability to laugh and to be with friends that allows me to write this with a broad smile on my face nearly 9 years later. Most of the friends who were part of this story and the countless others from the period remind close but even among those that inevitably I have grown apart from the bond of having “been there” together never wanes. It is because of these people, and Eddie Murphy, that I am still here. Whatever life throws at you; don’t ever forget how to laugh because it may save your life
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Thoughts on the Ground Zero Mosque, Patriotism, and Other Concepts
For the last couple of months, the big socio-political issue captivating the nation from the media and blogosphere to the President (who has better things to do) is the proposed building of an Islamic center in the shadow of where the World Trade Center once stood. I have delayed composing my own opinions on this proposal not because I did not know what those opinions were but rather; I struggled to find the language to properly express them. For me, and I hope for many others, contemplating this mosque goes well beyond the idea of a building and as such the task of finding the proper words to contribute to this discussion should not be taken lightly.
The first of the many issues being raised and debated is whether such a mosque has the very right to exist in such a place. The answer to this is not a matter of opinion but one of law and by extension speaks to the very fabric of the American society. The First Amendment, among other things, guarantees the freedom to practice one’s religion without persecution. While the Constitution is certainly an imperfect document, its basic tenets have served us well enough for nearly 250 years and so the answer to whether this mosque has the right to exist can be nothing but a resounding yes.
Those who honestly believe the mosque can be opposed on Constitutional grounds are troubling but more troubling is how the mosque debates seem to seek to demonize the very notion of having an opinion. While the mosque has the right to be built, citizens also have the right to express their opinions on the merits of having that mosque in its proposed location as well as the various other issues surrounding it. There are plenty of sound reasons for thinking that a mosque near the World Trade Center is a good or bad idea and the current trend to frame every “good” or “bad” into a marker of morality or of patriotism is alarming.
Attempts to define patriotism or to determine who has it have existed for centuries and in turn remains a concept too large to be flushed out here. Instead all I can do is put forth what I think the duty of a “true” patriot is in debates such as this. A patriot should not be required to have or believe that devotion to one’s national concepts derives from having the “correct” opinion nor should merely having any opinion be the grounds for claiming patriotism. It is my strong belief that it is the duty of the patriot, in times of national debate, to put forth an educated opinion. “Educated” as used here goes beyond the notion of classrooms and seeks to connote the type of opinion based the knowledge of the “real” issues at hand rather then to back an opinion up on things like “just because”, Racism, White Guilt, Political bias, God or any other “knee jerk” label. Know where your opinions are derived from and seek to understand the derivation of the opposing opinion. The quest to get someone to change their opinion pales in comparison to being able to stand behind your own. There is no greater position in a debate then to have either literally or figuratively read the same books your opponent has.
Now that I have spoken briefly about my personal philosophy on having opinions, I return to discussing the various opinions I have on the issues related to this mosque building proposal. While I believe wholeheartedly in the mosque’s right to exist, the notion of opening it on September 11th 2011 (whether this is a real notion or media creation) should be dropped. As a 9/11 family member, my thoughts on commemorating the anniversary have long been conflicted. I believe it is important for the city and the nation to remember the lives of those murdered on that sadly ironic beautiful morning but another part of me has always struggled with the grief of me and the rest of my family never being truly private. Ultimately, while I understand the nation at large perhaps wanting to use the day to promote togetherness and healing, I think, in New York at least, the focus should not be on the philosophical bridges we can build but on the buildings that burned. Of course the philosophical and political impact of 9/11 continues to evolve, but the bleak reality and fact of what happened that morning in Lower Manhattan, Washington D.C., and Shanksville is that nearly 3,000 people were executed for committing the unspeakable crimes of going to work or boarding an airplane and should remain the rightful focus on that day.
When (like it or not there probably is no "if") this Islamic Center and mosque are built the organizers of its programs and services must also be realistic about the fact that their funds and affiliates will be scrutinized. The fact is that a lot of funding for Islamic programs in America comes from our shady “ally” Saudi Arabia whose state mandated Wahabbi sect of Islam is an ideological cousin to the Jihadhi-Salafist philosophies promoted by Bin Laden and his associates and there have been a number of cases of Islamic centers laundering terrorist money (often unknowingly).
Let me be very clear, I am not suggesting, nor is there any evidence that those behind or who would worship in this center are in any way connected to terrorist groups, but it’s location does make it an ideal target to be exploited by those groups into something it does not represent (as is suggested by yesterday’s public expressions of “support” for the project by Hamas) and thus it is right to demand that the people behind the project are properly vetted. I know many people will view this opinion as clear support of racial and religious profiling and provisions of the supposedly evil Patriot Act concocted by Bush and Cheney. While I concede it is not exactly the warmest and fuzziest aspect of national security, this type of monitoring has been taking place for decades. In addition one must not dismiss such policies as anti-Islamic as these policies are enacted against Christian establishments with potential neo-nazi/Christian Identity influences or violent Jewish groups. To expect all facets of National Security to be transparent is both unrealistic and naive, no matter what you call your God.
The first of the many issues being raised and debated is whether such a mosque has the very right to exist in such a place. The answer to this is not a matter of opinion but one of law and by extension speaks to the very fabric of the American society. The First Amendment, among other things, guarantees the freedom to practice one’s religion without persecution. While the Constitution is certainly an imperfect document, its basic tenets have served us well enough for nearly 250 years and so the answer to whether this mosque has the right to exist can be nothing but a resounding yes.
Those who honestly believe the mosque can be opposed on Constitutional grounds are troubling but more troubling is how the mosque debates seem to seek to demonize the very notion of having an opinion. While the mosque has the right to be built, citizens also have the right to express their opinions on the merits of having that mosque in its proposed location as well as the various other issues surrounding it. There are plenty of sound reasons for thinking that a mosque near the World Trade Center is a good or bad idea and the current trend to frame every “good” or “bad” into a marker of morality or of patriotism is alarming.
Attempts to define patriotism or to determine who has it have existed for centuries and in turn remains a concept too large to be flushed out here. Instead all I can do is put forth what I think the duty of a “true” patriot is in debates such as this. A patriot should not be required to have or believe that devotion to one’s national concepts derives from having the “correct” opinion nor should merely having any opinion be the grounds for claiming patriotism. It is my strong belief that it is the duty of the patriot, in times of national debate, to put forth an educated opinion. “Educated” as used here goes beyond the notion of classrooms and seeks to connote the type of opinion based the knowledge of the “real” issues at hand rather then to back an opinion up on things like “just because”, Racism, White Guilt, Political bias, God or any other “knee jerk” label. Know where your opinions are derived from and seek to understand the derivation of the opposing opinion. The quest to get someone to change their opinion pales in comparison to being able to stand behind your own. There is no greater position in a debate then to have either literally or figuratively read the same books your opponent has.
Now that I have spoken briefly about my personal philosophy on having opinions, I return to discussing the various opinions I have on the issues related to this mosque building proposal. While I believe wholeheartedly in the mosque’s right to exist, the notion of opening it on September 11th 2011 (whether this is a real notion or media creation) should be dropped. As a 9/11 family member, my thoughts on commemorating the anniversary have long been conflicted. I believe it is important for the city and the nation to remember the lives of those murdered on that sadly ironic beautiful morning but another part of me has always struggled with the grief of me and the rest of my family never being truly private. Ultimately, while I understand the nation at large perhaps wanting to use the day to promote togetherness and healing, I think, in New York at least, the focus should not be on the philosophical bridges we can build but on the buildings that burned. Of course the philosophical and political impact of 9/11 continues to evolve, but the bleak reality and fact of what happened that morning in Lower Manhattan, Washington D.C., and Shanksville is that nearly 3,000 people were executed for committing the unspeakable crimes of going to work or boarding an airplane and should remain the rightful focus on that day.
When (like it or not there probably is no "if") this Islamic Center and mosque are built the organizers of its programs and services must also be realistic about the fact that their funds and affiliates will be scrutinized. The fact is that a lot of funding for Islamic programs in America comes from our shady “ally” Saudi Arabia whose state mandated Wahabbi sect of Islam is an ideological cousin to the Jihadhi-Salafist philosophies promoted by Bin Laden and his associates and there have been a number of cases of Islamic centers laundering terrorist money (often unknowingly).
Let me be very clear, I am not suggesting, nor is there any evidence that those behind or who would worship in this center are in any way connected to terrorist groups, but it’s location does make it an ideal target to be exploited by those groups into something it does not represent (as is suggested by yesterday’s public expressions of “support” for the project by Hamas) and thus it is right to demand that the people behind the project are properly vetted. I know many people will view this opinion as clear support of racial and religious profiling and provisions of the supposedly evil Patriot Act concocted by Bush and Cheney. While I concede it is not exactly the warmest and fuzziest aspect of national security, this type of monitoring has been taking place for decades. In addition one must not dismiss such policies as anti-Islamic as these policies are enacted against Christian establishments with potential neo-nazi/Christian Identity influences or violent Jewish groups. To expect all facets of National Security to be transparent is both unrealistic and naive, no matter what you call your God.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Why the World Cup Makes Me Wish I Wasn’t American
It has been said that “patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel,” I suppose this has merit if you consider some of the things that have been done in the name of patriotism, but if that is indeed the reason behind such a statement than patriotism could easily be substituted with a word like greed, religion, or even love.
However you prefer to define patriotism, a big component of any definition is love of country. I love my country as much as anyone but watching the World Cup makes me wish I wasn’t American. The truth is that America is not and probably never will be a soccer (which from here on will be properly referred to as “football”) country and frankly I wish that it was. This wish however has little to do with the game itself. Football is often referred to as “the beautiful game” and over the last couple of years as I’ve grown into more of a fan there are definitely some unique things to love about the game but a simple enjoyment of any game or type of sporting contest merely comes down to personal preference. The bottom line is that there is no objective way to determine whether football, or any other sport, is “better” than another in and of itself. The World Cup makes me I wasn’t American because I envy the national passion it inspires in other countries.
Even if it is only for one month every 4 years, the World Cup (at least in appearances) invokes positive national fervor that we, as Americans, generally cannot relate to. This not to say that we Americans are not passionate, because Lord knows we are, but the reality is that sport does not bring us together as football does in most (if not all) other lands. In the rest of the world, when a country’s team takes the pitch for a Cup match, all other activities in said country virtually stop. Millions of eyes become glued to TV’s and radios and (to semi-borrow the slogan of this year’s tournament itself) “one game means everything,” Shops, stores, and businesses often close so that people have two hours to focus entirely on the match. I even read once that the Catholic Church in Brazil decreed that all churches within that country are open for prayer during the half-time of Brazil’s matches. Granted, to some people this notion seems utterly kooky, but as any rabid sports fan can tell you, the kooky things we do to ensure a victory is what makes being a fan so great.
The fact that this year’s Cup is taking place in South Africa brings the unifying power of football into even greater focus. Unless you’ve been living in a hole for the past several decades, you know that the racial and economic troubles of the Republic of South Africa have been well documented and unfortunately persist to this day. These problems do not cease when the South Africans play but they do seem to take a back seat for a few hours. To me, the most enduring and powerful image from the Cup coverage so far came during the very first match. During the South Africa-Mexico match, when South Africa scored, the camera cut to the crowd to show world renowned humanitarian Bishop Desmond Tutu literally dancing in the aisles with his country folk while he was decked out (again literally) from head to toe in South African colors. If that doesn’t make you smile and even choke up, check your pulse because you might be dead.
Again, when I say that the World Cup makes me wish I was from another country it is not meant to be some philosophical criticism of the ole US of A but just as a lament that my two passions for my country and for sport don’t intersect often enough. The Olympics are probably as close as we come but given that there are so many different sports encompassed within it never quite feels truly unified in the sense of one game or one sport meaning everything.
When it comes to football, we may be getting there. For Saturday’s match with England, I attempted to go to a bar because watching sports is generally more fun around other people. When I got there things were so crowded that I could not get in. I was encouraged by this but the cynic in me thinks the crowd was a combination of general interest, novelty of the first game, and that it was a Saturday. The draw with the Limey’s is good for the team (even if it was the result of shoddy goal keeping) but if and when the US team crashes and burns general interest in soccer within this country will once again plummet. Alas there is probably little hope that Americans will stop going to work and stay home to root for Landon and the boys, but one can dream and/or paint themselves in full body red, white, and blue in the meantime.
However you prefer to define patriotism, a big component of any definition is love of country. I love my country as much as anyone but watching the World Cup makes me wish I wasn’t American. The truth is that America is not and probably never will be a soccer (which from here on will be properly referred to as “football”) country and frankly I wish that it was. This wish however has little to do with the game itself. Football is often referred to as “the beautiful game” and over the last couple of years as I’ve grown into more of a fan there are definitely some unique things to love about the game but a simple enjoyment of any game or type of sporting contest merely comes down to personal preference. The bottom line is that there is no objective way to determine whether football, or any other sport, is “better” than another in and of itself. The World Cup makes me I wasn’t American because I envy the national passion it inspires in other countries.
Even if it is only for one month every 4 years, the World Cup (at least in appearances) invokes positive national fervor that we, as Americans, generally cannot relate to. This not to say that we Americans are not passionate, because Lord knows we are, but the reality is that sport does not bring us together as football does in most (if not all) other lands. In the rest of the world, when a country’s team takes the pitch for a Cup match, all other activities in said country virtually stop. Millions of eyes become glued to TV’s and radios and (to semi-borrow the slogan of this year’s tournament itself) “one game means everything,” Shops, stores, and businesses often close so that people have two hours to focus entirely on the match. I even read once that the Catholic Church in Brazil decreed that all churches within that country are open for prayer during the half-time of Brazil’s matches. Granted, to some people this notion seems utterly kooky, but as any rabid sports fan can tell you, the kooky things we do to ensure a victory is what makes being a fan so great.
The fact that this year’s Cup is taking place in South Africa brings the unifying power of football into even greater focus. Unless you’ve been living in a hole for the past several decades, you know that the racial and economic troubles of the Republic of South Africa have been well documented and unfortunately persist to this day. These problems do not cease when the South Africans play but they do seem to take a back seat for a few hours. To me, the most enduring and powerful image from the Cup coverage so far came during the very first match. During the South Africa-Mexico match, when South Africa scored, the camera cut to the crowd to show world renowned humanitarian Bishop Desmond Tutu literally dancing in the aisles with his country folk while he was decked out (again literally) from head to toe in South African colors. If that doesn’t make you smile and even choke up, check your pulse because you might be dead.
Again, when I say that the World Cup makes me wish I was from another country it is not meant to be some philosophical criticism of the ole US of A but just as a lament that my two passions for my country and for sport don’t intersect often enough. The Olympics are probably as close as we come but given that there are so many different sports encompassed within it never quite feels truly unified in the sense of one game or one sport meaning everything.
When it comes to football, we may be getting there. For Saturday’s match with England, I attempted to go to a bar because watching sports is generally more fun around other people. When I got there things were so crowded that I could not get in. I was encouraged by this but the cynic in me thinks the crowd was a combination of general interest, novelty of the first game, and that it was a Saturday. The draw with the Limey’s is good for the team (even if it was the result of shoddy goal keeping) but if and when the US team crashes and burns general interest in soccer within this country will once again plummet. Alas there is probably little hope that Americans will stop going to work and stay home to root for Landon and the boys, but one can dream and/or paint themselves in full body red, white, and blue in the meantime.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Playboy and John Mayer
So I mentioned recently that I was awaiting the arrival of the newest issue Playboy magazine for the articles and this is proof I wasn’t kidding. Now don’t misunderstand me I am not claiming to be Holier (hornier?) Than Thou and making some moral claim that I ignore the pictures in said magazine (hell, I’m “reading” it after dark on Valentine’s Day, need I say more?) merely that many of the non-naked components are quite good and I actually do “read” it monthly. My praise for these non-naked components doesn’t however include when women gracing the cover do not appear in the buff within Mr. Hugh M. Hefner’s glossy pages, TALKING TO YOU OLIVIA MUNN.
My tendency to present Playboy as a legit magazine comes from the fact that I discovered it later in life than most. You see, my dad was a Penthouse man (I include this for the chuckle of the few that know the adventure behind me finding this out), so at the time when I needed to discover all the parts of a woman while simultaneously having no idea what do with them, there was Penthouse. Aside from the occasional flip through, I only became completely familiar with Playboy 2 years ago when I decided; spur of the moment, to become a subscriber. I did this primarily because it struck me as some necessary rite of passage into manhood, or, as some way to become Hugh Hefner by osmosis. The closest I have gotten here is a love for old movies and the fact that I am never properly dressed around the house.
Once you subscribe, due to repetition and almost by accident, you begin to realize there are actually words on the pages not containing fake breasts and heavily air brushed bodies. When you start to read them out of mere curiosity, you may discover they are not half bad. For the true crime buff, there is almost always some “investigative” piece around drug or some other form of smuggling. For the fictionally inclined, they often run (sometimes exclusive) content from well known’s like Dennis Lehane, Elmore Lenard, Stephen King and even legends like Kurt Vonnegut, Norman Mailer (posthumously with those two), and Valdimir Nabokov for God’s Sake. There is the pop culture stuff too, for me film writer Stephen Rebello is one of only two out there (Peter Travers of Rolling Stone being the other) whose reviews are worth the paper they are printed on. Most importantly there is the Playboy Interview which is probably it’s most famous fully clothed feature (for you political history folks, think Jimmy Carter) and it is this month’s interviewee that brings me to the second part of this editorial missive.
For the record, I have never liked John Mayer (with the one caveat being that his Your Body is a Wonderland and the Plain White T’s Hey There Delilah are two songs I wish I wrote so I would never have to worry about getting laid), he always struck me as goofball with stupid hair that while possessing some musical talent is not nearly as high up on the cool meter as someone like Jack White. That said however I will not use this space to comment on what this interview says about the state of race in America but rather as an example of the common American tragedy that occurs when someone who is not funny, makes an attempt to be so and fails… miserably. The ironic good news is that it makes the whole thing hilarious for the rest of us.
Surprisingly, most of the interview was actually fairly interesting; while he talked way too much about his masturbation habits (I suppose appropriately for the magazine of record) he did have some interesting things to say about his love for music and his motivations for making it, but soon after he proved he had the social IQ of Sarah Palin. Most people over the age of 4 understand that, if you are white, the road to becoming a social pariah starts with the phrase “Black People Love Me,” But without fail that is exactly what John Oscar Mayer Weiner declares to us all. Jesus Man, c’mon, I have black friends, most of us outside of Michael Richards do, but that doesn’t give me the right to declare myself to be in Bill Clinton territory. Listen Wonder Bread, black people deserve the right to decide when you’re more than the guy that they pick my in the car so the cops leave them alone. Just because Jay-Z thinks your music is not bad doesn’t make you James Brown.
As to offer further proof he has no idea people actually publish interviews, he continues to elaborate that people think he has a “hood pass” because of his music’s acceptance in the African American community. My man, you could have stopped there, we all know what “hood pass” means. Nope he keeps going, sees the cliff coming and steps on the gas, clarifying for us all that “hood pass” should really be called a “nigger pass,” I swear I don’t think this guy has ever left the house. BARACK OBAMA IS BARELY BLACK ENOUGH TO USE THE WORD, so unless you’re talking about Terrell Owens (I made a few calls to check this) just don’t use it knucklehead. The man didn’t even have the decency to put an “a” on the end of the word, everyone knows that would have made it ok, silly bastard.
Lastly he‘s says the thing that I have no choice but to quote in full, when asked “do black women throw themselves at him,?” Booker T. Washington responds, still without a hint of awareness…
“I don’t think I open myself to it. My dick is sort of like a white supremacist. I’ve got a Benetton heart and a fuckin’ David Duke cock. I am going to start dating separately from my dick,”
CLUNK……….shit sorry I just felt out of my chair from laughing again. First off, if you don’t know who David Duke is, look it up, because it really helps capture the utterly bizarre nature of this statement. I don’t even know where to start. I’m not quite sure I even know what it means. I’ve heard things like “it’s the way I was raised,” but “Only my penis is racist,? You have to admit it’s so dumb it’s almost genius, the scariest part to me is that I have this feeling he had thought of that answer in the past “Hmmmmmmmm if my dick was a person who would it be,?........I GOT IT, DAVID DUKE!!! (By the way, my penis is Ron Howard) I really don’t even think David Duke could have come up with that. This guy is John Rocker with a guitar pick. Then again without people like him with there would be less to write about, so in some perverse way, those of us with twisted senses of humor need Goobers like him
In the end, no I don’t think John Mayer is racist, just perhaps the stupidest son-of-bitch ever to date Jennifer Aniston. The funny thing is he did inspire some racist thought in me, when I began writing this last night I was listening to Jimi Hendrix and the song “Bold as Love,” came on and I remembered then that John Mayer covered that song and my immediate thought was “who let this fucking Honky near this song,? In fact the world would be a better place if we could bring Jimi back long enough to impale Johnnie with the flaming Monterrey Pop guitar topping it off by saying (with a smoothness only Jimi could) “Here’s your hood pass my man,”
That’s it for now, headed uptown to shoot dice and drink malt liquor
My tendency to present Playboy as a legit magazine comes from the fact that I discovered it later in life than most. You see, my dad was a Penthouse man (I include this for the chuckle of the few that know the adventure behind me finding this out), so at the time when I needed to discover all the parts of a woman while simultaneously having no idea what do with them, there was Penthouse. Aside from the occasional flip through, I only became completely familiar with Playboy 2 years ago when I decided; spur of the moment, to become a subscriber. I did this primarily because it struck me as some necessary rite of passage into manhood, or, as some way to become Hugh Hefner by osmosis. The closest I have gotten here is a love for old movies and the fact that I am never properly dressed around the house.
Once you subscribe, due to repetition and almost by accident, you begin to realize there are actually words on the pages not containing fake breasts and heavily air brushed bodies. When you start to read them out of mere curiosity, you may discover they are not half bad. For the true crime buff, there is almost always some “investigative” piece around drug or some other form of smuggling. For the fictionally inclined, they often run (sometimes exclusive) content from well known’s like Dennis Lehane, Elmore Lenard, Stephen King and even legends like Kurt Vonnegut, Norman Mailer (posthumously with those two), and Valdimir Nabokov for God’s Sake. There is the pop culture stuff too, for me film writer Stephen Rebello is one of only two out there (Peter Travers of Rolling Stone being the other) whose reviews are worth the paper they are printed on. Most importantly there is the Playboy Interview which is probably it’s most famous fully clothed feature (for you political history folks, think Jimmy Carter) and it is this month’s interviewee that brings me to the second part of this editorial missive.
For the record, I have never liked John Mayer (with the one caveat being that his Your Body is a Wonderland and the Plain White T’s Hey There Delilah are two songs I wish I wrote so I would never have to worry about getting laid), he always struck me as goofball with stupid hair that while possessing some musical talent is not nearly as high up on the cool meter as someone like Jack White. That said however I will not use this space to comment on what this interview says about the state of race in America but rather as an example of the common American tragedy that occurs when someone who is not funny, makes an attempt to be so and fails… miserably. The ironic good news is that it makes the whole thing hilarious for the rest of us.
Surprisingly, most of the interview was actually fairly interesting; while he talked way too much about his masturbation habits (I suppose appropriately for the magazine of record) he did have some interesting things to say about his love for music and his motivations for making it, but soon after he proved he had the social IQ of Sarah Palin. Most people over the age of 4 understand that, if you are white, the road to becoming a social pariah starts with the phrase “Black People Love Me,” But without fail that is exactly what John Oscar Mayer Weiner declares to us all. Jesus Man, c’mon, I have black friends, most of us outside of Michael Richards do, but that doesn’t give me the right to declare myself to be in Bill Clinton territory. Listen Wonder Bread, black people deserve the right to decide when you’re more than the guy that they pick my in the car so the cops leave them alone. Just because Jay-Z thinks your music is not bad doesn’t make you James Brown.
As to offer further proof he has no idea people actually publish interviews, he continues to elaborate that people think he has a “hood pass” because of his music’s acceptance in the African American community. My man, you could have stopped there, we all know what “hood pass” means. Nope he keeps going, sees the cliff coming and steps on the gas, clarifying for us all that “hood pass” should really be called a “nigger pass,” I swear I don’t think this guy has ever left the house. BARACK OBAMA IS BARELY BLACK ENOUGH TO USE THE WORD, so unless you’re talking about Terrell Owens (I made a few calls to check this) just don’t use it knucklehead. The man didn’t even have the decency to put an “a” on the end of the word, everyone knows that would have made it ok, silly bastard.
Lastly he‘s says the thing that I have no choice but to quote in full, when asked “do black women throw themselves at him,?” Booker T. Washington responds, still without a hint of awareness…
“I don’t think I open myself to it. My dick is sort of like a white supremacist. I’ve got a Benetton heart and a fuckin’ David Duke cock. I am going to start dating separately from my dick,”
CLUNK……….shit sorry I just felt out of my chair from laughing again. First off, if you don’t know who David Duke is, look it up, because it really helps capture the utterly bizarre nature of this statement. I don’t even know where to start. I’m not quite sure I even know what it means. I’ve heard things like “it’s the way I was raised,” but “Only my penis is racist,? You have to admit it’s so dumb it’s almost genius, the scariest part to me is that I have this feeling he had thought of that answer in the past “Hmmmmmmmm if my dick was a person who would it be,?........I GOT IT, DAVID DUKE!!! (By the way, my penis is Ron Howard) I really don’t even think David Duke could have come up with that. This guy is John Rocker with a guitar pick. Then again without people like him with there would be less to write about, so in some perverse way, those of us with twisted senses of humor need Goobers like him
In the end, no I don’t think John Mayer is racist, just perhaps the stupidest son-of-bitch ever to date Jennifer Aniston. The funny thing is he did inspire some racist thought in me, when I began writing this last night I was listening to Jimi Hendrix and the song “Bold as Love,” came on and I remembered then that John Mayer covered that song and my immediate thought was “who let this fucking Honky near this song,? In fact the world would be a better place if we could bring Jimi back long enough to impale Johnnie with the flaming Monterrey Pop guitar topping it off by saying (with a smoothness only Jimi could) “Here’s your hood pass my man,”
That’s it for now, headed uptown to shoot dice and drink malt liquor
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Porno for Broke
So I'm broke...whats worse is that I am also pretty much unemployed. I have been trying to do something about this but who would have thought that a 26 year old white male with a near masters degree in psychology is completely unemployable. So goes with the mental health fields it would appear. It seems they either want a Masters degree or like 45 years of experience with a specific treatment population. And when I say specific I mean specific, like "people with bi-polar disorder , born on Tuesday's, possessing two left feet," Translation, I'm still here looking at any classified I can find as all positive opinions I had of myself go down the toilet.
While my grip on reality and bankroll continue to dwindle, I have survived by writing little gems like this or on the Patron Saint of all unemployed film buffs...Netflix. That's right, when I realized there is only a certain amount of booze one can drink before it causes health and legal problems, I entered into a monogamous relationship with my little red envelopes (well if you wanna get technical, most of them come from the online device I have that allows me to watch them directly on my TV, but fuck off because the sentence worked better with "little red envelopes,"). For several weeks now I have lived a life reminiscent of Howard Hughes as seen in "The Aviator" (well if Howard Hughes had been broke)...Sitting in my apartment with the lights off, watching films....naked.
It's not just films, I also delve into TV shows when it suits my mood. When I am not fantasizing about actually being one of my TV heroes like Don Draper or Hank Moody, I am trying to catch up on the 5th Season of Lost before the new one begins.
My marathon naked movies sessions have not been completely counter productive however. For one I have now accrued knowledge of enough movies lines to never have to utter an original sentences ever again. Second, it has allowed to me forge a solution to my money and employment problems. Porn. You see during one of my recent my film sessions I re-watched Paul Thomas Anderson's "Boogie Nights"... and at some point when I got "Motorin" out of my head it hit me: whether the economy is good or bad, people will continue to do two things: Get fucked up and get fucked. I can't mix a drink for shit so that leaves the sex business. At first I thought about prostituting myself or starring in porn myself, but I quickly realized that would likely lead to nationwide outbreaks of hysterical blindness so I have decided to stick to my truer talent; the written word. Think about it, somebody's gottta write those things, why not me? How hard can it be? Observe
WARNING THE FOLLOWING SCENE CONTAINS SEXUAL CONTENT... ALBEIT FOR COMEDIC PURPOSES. IF YOU FIND SUCH THINGS OFFENSIVE.......STOP READING
While my grip on reality and bankroll continue to dwindle, I have survived by writing little gems like this or on the Patron Saint of all unemployed film buffs...Netflix. That's right, when I realized there is only a certain amount of booze one can drink before it causes health and legal problems, I entered into a monogamous relationship with my little red envelopes (well if you wanna get technical, most of them come from the online device I have that allows me to watch them directly on my TV, but fuck off because the sentence worked better with "little red envelopes,"). For several weeks now I have lived a life reminiscent of Howard Hughes as seen in "The Aviator" (well if Howard Hughes had been broke)...Sitting in my apartment with the lights off, watching films....naked.
It's not just films, I also delve into TV shows when it suits my mood. When I am not fantasizing about actually being one of my TV heroes like Don Draper or Hank Moody, I am trying to catch up on the 5th Season of Lost before the new one begins.
My marathon naked movies sessions have not been completely counter productive however. For one I have now accrued knowledge of enough movies lines to never have to utter an original sentences ever again. Second, it has allowed to me forge a solution to my money and employment problems. Porn. You see during one of my recent my film sessions I re-watched Paul Thomas Anderson's "Boogie Nights"... and at some point when I got "Motorin" out of my head it hit me: whether the economy is good or bad, people will continue to do two things: Get fucked up and get fucked. I can't mix a drink for shit so that leaves the sex business. At first I thought about prostituting myself or starring in porn myself, but I quickly realized that would likely lead to nationwide outbreaks of hysterical blindness so I have decided to stick to my truer talent; the written word. Think about it, somebody's gottta write those things, why not me? How hard can it be? Observe
WARNING THE FOLLOWING SCENE CONTAINS SEXUAL CONTENT... ALBEIT FOR COMEDIC PURPOSES. IF YOU FIND SUCH THINGS OFFENSIVE.......STOP READING
Miami Ice
Scene opens on a beach house in Miami, the camera spans through the front door to reveal the lady of the house sitting in the kitchen she is fanning herself with Oriental style fan, she is wearing a robe but it is open to reveal her body
Woman: Ughhh I hate Miami in the Summer.......it's soooooooo Hoooooooot, I wish I had some way to cool down
The woman eyes the refrigerator on the other side of the room, suddenly her face seems to suggest she has an idea, she glides over the refrigerator seductively, she hits the button on the door and two ice cubes fall into her hands, she giggles, leans back against the table and begins to rub the Ice on her nipples
This continues for 12-14 minutes (various moans are uttered)
Suddenly the ice cubes fall from her chest to the floor breaking into many small pieces
Woman: Uh Nooooo (she pouts and sighs deeply)
The Woman again hits the button on the fridge, nothing happens, she presses it repeatedly, still nothing, the she opens the ice compartment, it is empty
Woman: Oh dammit, I just filled this thing...it must be broken I should call a repair man
She returns to the table and flips open to a phone book, various explicit ads for escort services are visible, after a moment she finds what she is looking for and dials her cell phone
Voice on Phone: Big Dick's Refrigerator and Heating Repair
Woman (flustered and breathless): Hello, my Ice Machine is broken, I need you to send someone right away, I am so very hot
Voice on Phone: Certainly Ma'am I'll send my biggest err I mean best man over immediately
The scene returns to the outside of the home. A repair van pulls up to the house. A very muscular repair man steps from the van and walks toward the door. various long tools hang from his belt. Before he can knock on the door, it opens
Woman: Oh my goodness, I'm sooo glad to see you
Cut to the repair man standing in front of the fridge looking inside tinkering
Repair Man: Well it would appear that either your pipes need to be cleaned or you even need to a new pump, if that's the case it is expensive
Repair man closes the fridge as he says this. As the door closes, the woman is seen behind the door, her robe has again fallen to reveal her breasts
Woman: Oh Dear oh much will it cost me?
Repair Man (Staring at her breasts): Well I suppose I could give you a pump for free,
The two lock eyes intensely, various sex acts take place through the house
Scene
See that wasn't so hard (ha unintentional pun). That right there (once you factor in position changes) is like 47 minutes of a skin picture. It may not all that original but it's just off the top of my head. Like it matter's anyway. In the end I'm not broke anymore and plenty of other people have relieved some tension.
Dare I say it's.......Gold
See you at the AVN awards kids....and remember that's what she said
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)