miami.
the land down under.
dolphins get their ass kicked by riggins and the washington redskins.
discovering HBO. they all laughed.
dave and the white boy in the grove, acting stupid. mad fun, though.
annette was so cute, but i was not that miami nigga.
coral gables senior high.
that fuckin school bus.
slipping notes in that girl's locker. forget her name, but her black hair i remember well.
english teacher, mrs. miller. very cool. fun class. felt good. like i belonged.
also mr. rinaldi. italiano. say it like i'm acting in a play.
quit baseball.
fuckin' quitter.
so lonely.
always so lonely.
no friends for how long?
six fuckin' months. six of them shits with nobody to talk to.
china.
rhymed at that xmas party. instantly pop.
this shit is like a fuckin movie: cut school and hit the beach.
nel. bust his ass, work and school.
art class. didn't learn shit, but had fun.
skate and oz. RIP elf. the crew.
video powerhouse. burger time champ. eury rocked galaga. had her name up a long time.
lisa. fuckin' bitch. me, the nice guy. too nice.
ivy. another bitch. me, still the nice guy.
wendy. you guessed it.
wow. miami wasn't good to me in the romance dept. :)
liz. emotional. you're a follower. cried when she said it.
randy betrayed me. don't matter now.
ronald. from LA. funny-ass cat. mad jokes. sporty shorty. what happened to him?
what happened to nelson? cool mu'fucka, never did me no wrong.
kv. juice. ad. the crew. kv fell asleep. again. duck sauce in his hair, shaved the moustache.
the nova. ten mufuckas in the nova. fucked up springs.
the van. jingle bells.
broke.
always broke.
broke in that house. took the blender, fuck it.
mask cars after school. what fun.
left on a friday, came back on sunday. no beef, just questions. some dad, but i wasn't complaining.
miami beach. 81 st. south beach was the pits.
skate parked cars at the carrillon (?)
tk, i'm turning into a tree. mo and george. manhattans. got in at 15. lil' nigga. couldn't pull the girls tho. :)
beethoven, the hick. crazy mu'fucka.
allegro.
castle park.
the beat.
and then the summer ended...
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Nobody Cares
The old-heads on Sheridan Avenue said that all the time. Usually while cryin’ in their fifths of Night Train. Since they ranked about as low on the neighborhood totem pole as you could get before landing on top of the dope fiends, I never really paid attention.
As I got older, I began to hear other folks sayin’ it, too. Higher-ups, from the butcher who ran numbers out the back of his shop to the cats who somehow managed to pull up in gleaming Caddys and Ninety-Eights despite not knowing one word of English.
The landlord said it whenever he’d have to hear my mother’s complaints about broken elevators and tepid water during his monthly trek to our building. The cops said it that time they came and cracked heads out in front of Manolo’s bodega. My fifth grade teacher said it to another teacher once while talkin’ about the kids in her class.
And then one day, I heard my pops say it.
Whoa.
Here was a guy who worked, I mean, bust ass like a slave so moms could cook steak every now and then. Doin’ it since he was 12. Seven to 5, six days a week, not counting the side hustles. A cabinet here, some drywall there and hands like concrete blocks. You ever been smacked with a concrete block? He lived his whole life showing how much he cared.
He said it in response to one of my usual arguments against having to take the trash all the way down to the garbage cans in the alley. I’m sayin’, it was dark as hell down there, and the lights in the stairwell never worked. What with the damn dogs always waitin’ till I was almost down the steps to start barkin’ and scarin’ the shit outta me, and the older kids cursin’ me out for false-alarmin’ ’em into puttin’ out their funny-smelling cigarettes, the place was dangerous turf.
Wasn’t fair, I said, subjecting a little kid to that kind of treatment.
“Nobody cares,” he said.
“What if something happens to me? What if one of them dogs gets loose and comes after me? You see the teeth on them dogs?”
Same answer.
“What if one of them teenagers gets really mad at me for interrupting whatever it is they do down there? Or worse, makes me do it?”
Silence.
And so it went, my argument out the window, and the trash to the alley. My father had a way of winning debates with few words—those hands spoke real loud when they needed to—but I never forgot what he said.
Not when the dogs made me jump out of my skin. Or when them teenagers chased me back up the stairs.
I didn't forget it when moms made us kids go with her that time she found pops at her friend’s apartment building on the other side of the Bronx at 2 o’clock in morning.
Or when pops started to come home from work, eat dinner without a word and go out again until we were all asleep.
And not when he used his concrete blocks to give me a hug before leaving home after he and moms argued for the last time.
Gotta give it to him, though. He talked tough, but he lived by those words. Workin’ day in, day out, and even after he left, he’d still come around, give us money, buy us stuff.
He cared. He always did. I could tell he hated to be away. But he’d never complain. Kinda like he knew better. Like bitchin’ about it wouldn’t buy any more steaks than an honest day’s hustle. And if sharp-dressin’ Cadillac cats and cops with attitude didn’t complain, he sure as hell wasn’t sittin’ low enough on the totem pole to start.
**originally published (minus modifications and updated info) a long-ass time ago, at a plantation, far, far away...**
As I got older, I began to hear other folks sayin’ it, too. Higher-ups, from the butcher who ran numbers out the back of his shop to the cats who somehow managed to pull up in gleaming Caddys and Ninety-Eights despite not knowing one word of English.
The landlord said it whenever he’d have to hear my mother’s complaints about broken elevators and tepid water during his monthly trek to our building. The cops said it that time they came and cracked heads out in front of Manolo’s bodega. My fifth grade teacher said it to another teacher once while talkin’ about the kids in her class.
And then one day, I heard my pops say it.
Whoa.
Here was a guy who worked, I mean, bust ass like a slave so moms could cook steak every now and then. Doin’ it since he was 12. Seven to 5, six days a week, not counting the side hustles. A cabinet here, some drywall there and hands like concrete blocks. You ever been smacked with a concrete block? He lived his whole life showing how much he cared.
He said it in response to one of my usual arguments against having to take the trash all the way down to the garbage cans in the alley. I’m sayin’, it was dark as hell down there, and the lights in the stairwell never worked. What with the damn dogs always waitin’ till I was almost down the steps to start barkin’ and scarin’ the shit outta me, and the older kids cursin’ me out for false-alarmin’ ’em into puttin’ out their funny-smelling cigarettes, the place was dangerous turf.
Wasn’t fair, I said, subjecting a little kid to that kind of treatment.
“Nobody cares,” he said.
“What if something happens to me? What if one of them dogs gets loose and comes after me? You see the teeth on them dogs?”
Same answer.
“What if one of them teenagers gets really mad at me for interrupting whatever it is they do down there? Or worse, makes me do it?”
Silence.
And so it went, my argument out the window, and the trash to the alley. My father had a way of winning debates with few words—those hands spoke real loud when they needed to—but I never forgot what he said.
Not when the dogs made me jump out of my skin. Or when them teenagers chased me back up the stairs.
I didn't forget it when moms made us kids go with her that time she found pops at her friend’s apartment building on the other side of the Bronx at 2 o’clock in morning.
Or when pops started to come home from work, eat dinner without a word and go out again until we were all asleep.
And not when he used his concrete blocks to give me a hug before leaving home after he and moms argued for the last time.
Gotta give it to him, though. He talked tough, but he lived by those words. Workin’ day in, day out, and even after he left, he’d still come around, give us money, buy us stuff.
He cared. He always did. I could tell he hated to be away. But he’d never complain. Kinda like he knew better. Like bitchin’ about it wouldn’t buy any more steaks than an honest day’s hustle. And if sharp-dressin’ Cadillac cats and cops with attitude didn’t complain, he sure as hell wasn’t sittin’ low enough on the totem pole to start.
**originally published (minus modifications and updated info) a long-ass time ago, at a plantation, far, far away...**
Summer Blockbuster
Reminisce with me. Last time we kicked it, I was gassin’ you up on the joys of summatime. Some of you might have interpreted it as me complaining about a life wasted. Not really the case. Or maybe it was. Regardless, consider this diatribe the counterpoint, the latest whatever in my never-ending thirst for an eternal summer.
When I think of June, July and August, a long-ass movie plays in my head. Been through a few calendars now, so I’ve racked up ’nuff memories to fill a screenplay (hint!). For example, there were those summers when the older kids (some in their 20s and 30s, I suspect) would crank the fire pumps open and set off a block party, damn near. Couldn’t make it to the swimming pool? Open up la pompa, and hear the action: Kids laughing; teenage chicks screaming from involuntarily joining the wet-T shirt contests; empty soup cans being scraped on the wet sidewalks (don’t know? ask somebody); and the naively cocky chump or two, cursin’ us out after we’d promise not to spray his car when he drove by.
One summer, me and Lou would live, eat, breathe, and of course, play baseball like we were tryin’ out for the Yankees. Sheeeit, in our minds, we were the Yankees! Now-ow-ow…batting-ing-ing…Reggie-ee-ee…Jackson-son-son… All day, e’yday, it was Taft school yard, Claremont or Crotona, gettin’ our Pro Keds plenty dusty.
Then there was that summer when I went to live with my aunt in Douglas projects in Manhattan, and spent my days learnin’ how to play b-ball with my cousins. I never did get a handle, but that summer gave me my first hands-on experience with weed, wine and women (well, more like girls, but I’d lose the alliteration).
Another summer I spent with my pops down in Miami, way before South Beach became SoBe and the winos and dopefiends (pre-crack, those days) strutted their stuff up and down Ocean Drive. Talk about a flick! Picture Boyz N Da Hood meets Fast Times At Ridgemont High. Also rocked a coupla shows at long-gone spots like Video Powerhouse and The Beat, and learned invaluable lessons from hangin’ around with Skate, T.K. and other older dudes (even if they were only like 19 or so).
The summer I first Peter Panned it down to Philly, me and m’mans Boo, Kadism, Baby Rock, MA, Spel, Kape, Far, Karaz and a whole army of others went on all-out missions to bomb the shit outta the City of Brotherly Love. If we weren’t breathin’ fumes in what little bit of subway tunnels Philly has, we were walkin’ long-ass bus routes and scalin’ walls like Spider-Man, gettin’ up like they was givin’ away prizes for the most hits. (They were; ask the Anti-Graffiti Network).
And then I grew up.
And all of a sudden-like, summatime, though still fun, got a lot more serious, too. G-stacks-wrapped-in-rubber-bands-serious. She-ain’t-my-girl-but-now-she’s-pregnant-serious. You-have-the-right-to-remain-silent-serious. Most of all, dead serious.
Lotta money in those summers, when we gave up baseball in empty lots and Hot-Peas-And-Butter, and started playin’ big-boy games with big-boy toys. Lotta BMs, Ninjas and 4-wheelers. Lotta fun.
Lotta heat, too. And R.I.P. murals and young girls’ bellies popped up a lot faster than a mufucka’s self-esteem.
Yep, one long-ass movie, whenever I think of summer. And with Summatime 2005 very soon upon us, new scenes are being shot even as you read this. Don’t play too much baseball nowadays, but I am teachin’ my lil’ man how to win the triple crown. Still ain’t got ball handle, but I got a nephew who runs me into the ground whenever I try to D-up on him. As for my adventures in Miami, well, it’s been a minute, but whenever I do get to make my rounds again, wifey demands wingman status or I don’t even get on the plane, dig me?
Good thing I copped an extra roll of film…
**originally published (minus modifications and updated info) a long-ass time ago, at a plantation, far, far away...**
When I think of June, July and August, a long-ass movie plays in my head. Been through a few calendars now, so I’ve racked up ’nuff memories to fill a screenplay (hint!). For example, there were those summers when the older kids (some in their 20s and 30s, I suspect) would crank the fire pumps open and set off a block party, damn near. Couldn’t make it to the swimming pool? Open up la pompa, and hear the action: Kids laughing; teenage chicks screaming from involuntarily joining the wet-T shirt contests; empty soup cans being scraped on the wet sidewalks (don’t know? ask somebody); and the naively cocky chump or two, cursin’ us out after we’d promise not to spray his car when he drove by.
One summer, me and Lou would live, eat, breathe, and of course, play baseball like we were tryin’ out for the Yankees. Sheeeit, in our minds, we were the Yankees! Now-ow-ow…batting-ing-ing…Reggie-ee-ee…Jackson-son-son… All day, e’yday, it was Taft school yard, Claremont or Crotona, gettin’ our Pro Keds plenty dusty.
Then there was that summer when I went to live with my aunt in Douglas projects in Manhattan, and spent my days learnin’ how to play b-ball with my cousins. I never did get a handle, but that summer gave me my first hands-on experience with weed, wine and women (well, more like girls, but I’d lose the alliteration).
Another summer I spent with my pops down in Miami, way before South Beach became SoBe and the winos and dopefiends (pre-crack, those days) strutted their stuff up and down Ocean Drive. Talk about a flick! Picture Boyz N Da Hood meets Fast Times At Ridgemont High. Also rocked a coupla shows at long-gone spots like Video Powerhouse and The Beat, and learned invaluable lessons from hangin’ around with Skate, T.K. and other older dudes (even if they were only like 19 or so).
The summer I first Peter Panned it down to Philly, me and m’mans Boo, Kadism, Baby Rock, MA, Spel, Kape, Far, Karaz and a whole army of others went on all-out missions to bomb the shit outta the City of Brotherly Love. If we weren’t breathin’ fumes in what little bit of subway tunnels Philly has, we were walkin’ long-ass bus routes and scalin’ walls like Spider-Man, gettin’ up like they was givin’ away prizes for the most hits. (They were; ask the Anti-Graffiti Network).
And then I grew up.
And all of a sudden-like, summatime, though still fun, got a lot more serious, too. G-stacks-wrapped-in-rubber-bands-serious. She-ain’t-my-girl-but-now-she’s-pregnant-serious. You-have-the-right-to-remain-silent-serious. Most of all, dead serious.
Lotta money in those summers, when we gave up baseball in empty lots and Hot-Peas-And-Butter, and started playin’ big-boy games with big-boy toys. Lotta BMs, Ninjas and 4-wheelers. Lotta fun.
Lotta heat, too. And R.I.P. murals and young girls’ bellies popped up a lot faster than a mufucka’s self-esteem.
Yep, one long-ass movie, whenever I think of summer. And with Summatime 2005 very soon upon us, new scenes are being shot even as you read this. Don’t play too much baseball nowadays, but I am teachin’ my lil’ man how to win the triple crown. Still ain’t got ball handle, but I got a nephew who runs me into the ground whenever I try to D-up on him. As for my adventures in Miami, well, it’s been a minute, but whenever I do get to make my rounds again, wifey demands wingman status or I don’t even get on the plane, dig me?
Good thing I copped an extra roll of film…
**originally published (minus modifications and updated info) a long-ass time ago, at a plantation, far, far away...**
Glory Days
There has to be something wrong with me if I can get nostalgic about a time when all I did was get nostalgic about times previous to that one.
Follow along, it’ll make sense…
The Summer of ’95: I couldn’t down two screwdrivers without getting all teary-eyed and shit, crying about a life that—at the time—I really didn’t know that I never really had. Most of the time I wailed about missing my moms, but somewhere down a back staircase in my mind I knew that what I was really complaining about was my own fucked up decision-making.
You know what I mean. Those little decisions that don’t mean shit at the time, but can wreck your whole chassis a couple years later. Shit like I better pull out before I cum, but gottdamn this pussy is good and next thing you know, you’re registering at Toys R Us. Or everybody’s favorite: I’ll just sell a few bricks to get caught up on my bills, then I’ll quit. That’s a popular one in the TV room.
Yeah, meng, those minor little decisions that turn out to be not so minor and nowhere as little after all. They call it the Butterfly Effect, I think. Anyway, that.
I was just bitchin’ about the fact that (steeeerike!) I’ve swung at some pretty bad pitches in my at-bat here on Mother Earth’s dusty sandlot. And that summer, me being fresh on the bricks after a nickel in the feds, that long, hot summer felt like I finally got the chance to sit back and admire my handiwork.
I was not impressed.
Follow along, it’ll make sense…
The Summer of ’95: I couldn’t down two screwdrivers without getting all teary-eyed and shit, crying about a life that—at the time—I really didn’t know that I never really had. Most of the time I wailed about missing my moms, but somewhere down a back staircase in my mind I knew that what I was really complaining about was my own fucked up decision-making.
You know what I mean. Those little decisions that don’t mean shit at the time, but can wreck your whole chassis a couple years later. Shit like I better pull out before I cum, but gottdamn this pussy is good and next thing you know, you’re registering at Toys R Us. Or everybody’s favorite: I’ll just sell a few bricks to get caught up on my bills, then I’ll quit. That’s a popular one in the TV room.
Yeah, meng, those minor little decisions that turn out to be not so minor and nowhere as little after all. They call it the Butterfly Effect, I think. Anyway, that.
I was just bitchin’ about the fact that (steeeerike!) I’ve swung at some pretty bad pitches in my at-bat here on Mother Earth’s dusty sandlot. And that summer, me being fresh on the bricks after a nickel in the feds, that long, hot summer felt like I finally got the chance to sit back and admire my handiwork.
I was not impressed.
Re: verse
Hmmm... Didn't realize these posts are gonna pop up anti-chronologically. (Made that shit up, in case you didn't notice).
Anyway, so now you know. If you're as interested in digging a little bit into how my brain-cells do their thing, read the verses from bottom to top. (Not line by line, but you knew that. Right...?)
That said...
Anyway, so now you know. If you're as interested in digging a little bit into how my brain-cells do their thing, read the verses from bottom to top. (Not line by line, but you knew that. Right...?)
That said...
Excuses, excuses...
A month already?! Shazam...!
Reminds me of my journal-keeping habits.
What a month it has been.
R.I.P. Eddie-Ed aka Chick-Chick. We'll miss you, cuz.
Same to you, Just-O. Rest easy, pop. You left a legacy.
Sigh...
Been kinda busy with real life to drop anything in here.
Nevertheless, here I is right now.
As per my convo with Boots, this seems the ideal place to keep some of my favorite run-off-at-the-mouths from my days at the old plantation. Why not? Nobody reads magazines from four and five years back, let alone remembers editorials. (And who reads those anyway?!)
So...
I'll set it off with a couple of ice-breakers, just to set the tone. Or something like that.
Enjoy.
Reminds me of my journal-keeping habits.
What a month it has been.
R.I.P. Eddie-Ed aka Chick-Chick. We'll miss you, cuz.
Same to you, Just-O. Rest easy, pop. You left a legacy.
Sigh...
Been kinda busy with real life to drop anything in here.
Nevertheless, here I is right now.
As per my convo with Boots, this seems the ideal place to keep some of my favorite run-off-at-the-mouths from my days at the old plantation. Why not? Nobody reads magazines from four and five years back, let alone remembers editorials. (And who reads those anyway?!)
So...
I'll set it off with a couple of ice-breakers, just to set the tone. Or something like that.
Enjoy.
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