Daydream Believer

I guess the best way to put it would be to say that my mind is trying to kill me.

Thought that'd get your attention.

I miss my children.

Just looking at their pics, as I'm doing right now, hurts.

And as much as I don't want to "make that call," for reasons that might be obvious to anyone who knows how painful those calls can be, I sometimes just want to hear their voices.

The baby never wastes her opportunity to run down her latest grievance, as if Daddy's close enough to help make things better.

"I've got a boo-boo!" becomes an emergency if I don't give her the response she wants to hear.

And my lil' man, well, true to his oft-stated desire to be "an actor," getting on the phone with me is his chance to clown around, make funny voices and generally act up.

I barked at him last night, like the selfish piece of shit I can be sometimes. No excuse, but I know why I did it. I felt like a crumb, even as I snapped. I was just in one of my moods (they tend to be "the norm" these days) and I only wanted to have a conversation with him.

But that's what he wanted to do too, in his own, eight-year old way. Only I'm too caught up in my own tiny, insignificant world that I only realized that after I got off the phone.

Dumbest smart nigga I know, that's me.

Sometimes, I convince myself that they're busy, doing their respective things (the baby running around, acting grown or buggin' her brother for attention; and lil' man playing a video game or buggin' his mom for attention too).

I tell myself that they're aiight. And that if they wanted to speak with me, they'd ask their mother to call me.

Right?

So I satisfy myself with a quick look at their pics. My favorite one was taken last summer. Lil man has his hands around his baby sis, and they're both smiling. Kinda like they're telling me not to worry, that everything's gonna be aiight.

All signs point to this "new life" that I keep harping about, this rebirth, this bullshit that I've been telling any and everyone who'll listen, being real. Y'know? That circumstances being what they are, I'm now in the ideal position to make "my dreams come true."

But my mind, she won't let me rest, man. Because as much as those dreams center around writing and producing and telling stories, they've always included family.

I used to believe those daydreams.

Tough-guy wisdom, especially the kind cultivated in the Bronx, says to man-up, choke in that pain, and say, "fuck it." Who needs family? Who needs anyone? All other people do is cause me pain, anyway.

Right?

...

I miss my babies, man.

I'm early...

'Bout a week or so.
Just wanted to say, "Happy Birthday."
Wait. I remember your English... :)

So... mejor dicho: "Feliz Cumpleaños."
Estamos sanos. Y si no, estaremos.

Nos criaste bien.

Te quiero.

Bendicion.

Karma, Chameleon!

A coupla weeks ago, during a break in the action around here, I browsed through my modest lil’ flick roster and popped in Carlito’s Way.

Despite the sappy love story (hard core Boricua cat from El Barrio gets wide open on some white stripper chick? Gimme a breeeeeeak…), most connoisseurs of top-choice cinema will agree that the flick belongs in any self-respecting movie head’s library, and that Pacino, though not a Puerto Rock, did his thing kinda nicely (even with the chopped up Spanish).

Like any flick with exponential repeat value, Carlito’s Way offers something new at every viewing:

First time I caught it was in a TV room while wearing Dickies with numbers on ‘em. The message I and most of my fellow audience members got from it back then was that falling in love with a stripper will fuck ya mind up but good, leaving you susceptible to all types of mishaps.

Caught it again some time later within a cipher of disgruntled street vets down on their economic luck, and the message became “Man, shit ain’t the same no mo’. These youngbucks done fucked the game all up…”

Another peep and I found myself reminiscing about the time my pops owned a social club/pool hall underneath our building on Hoe Avenue (which got me to thinking that maybe the ol’ man had a little bit more hustle goin’ on than his carpentry gig).

And now this latest screening left me thinking about the scene where Carlito and his lawyer Kleinfeld (played by Sean Penn, who shoulda got the Oscar for that shit!) have just returned from their fateful boat ride on the East River…

Kleinfeld, the attorney with the Ivy League plaques on his wall, has decided to go mano-a-mano with some family-type guys with last names that end in vowels. Only problem, with that particular breed of human, it’s more like, cañon-a-coete.

So Carlito, the war-weary O.G., advises: “You ain’t a lawyer no more, Dave; you a ‘gangsta’ now. You on the other side. Whole new ball game. You can’t learn about it in school. And you can’t get a late start.”

Kinda the same with hip-hop, no? Bottom line is, you gotta live this shit to be this shit. Coppin’ and listening to every CD in the history of Rap is a good start, but that alone won’t do it. Runnin’ to Macy’s for the latest in “urban wear” will help you dress the part, but that alone won’t do it. That’s too easy. And—at the risk of sounding like one of those disgruntled vets mentioned above—paying dues still counts.

Not to say that late-comers aren’t welcome; just give respect where it’s been earned. For too many, hip-hop is an Akademiks shirt or a Nelly album or a fresh pair of Tims. A product. A costume they can rock at will.

Thus, it’s maaad easy to disguise themselves as someone they’re not. “Industry” folk do it all the time. From dick-riding A&Rs, who seem more concerned with catching residue pussy from their signees, to cock-blockin’ publicists, who’re just happy to be SpongeBobbin' at all the parties.

Rappers? They do it all the time. Label execs do it even more. Same with magazine people (with exceptions; they know who they are). As for MTVBETVH1, shit, TV and Hollywood made it a science before any of our parents were a tickle in our grandparents’ nether-parts.

But like the weeds that push through cracks in the sidewalk, the truth always finds a way. Certain heads will stand out. And though most people think they do, the ones who really do don’t even realize it. And if they do, you’d never hear it from them.

--Save your questions, and jot this down instead: If you have to ask, well, 1+1 is always 2, young Stan--

So, yeah, Carlito had his Kleinfeld, and we’ve got a couple million cardboard cut-outs running amok, shootin’ their mouths off a lot more than they’ve ever shot anything else. Fortunately, we learned from Carlito’s Way. And next time Kleinfeld wants to write checks he ain’t built to cash, we’re lettin’ Benny Blanco be the collections man.

In a minute…

**originally published (minus a nip here, a tuck there) a long-ass time ago, while on the plantation, far, far away… and trust me when I say to those of you who’ve followed the saga all these years, the crystal-ball ironies of this mini-diatribe are not lost on me.**