Thursday, October 12, 2006

DUCK TALES

Have you ever fucked a dog in space, because I’m pretty sure I did last weekend. Oh my, did the shit pop. Now I would need parchment and lamb’s blood, uncut marble and graver’s tools to describe with any fealty the new millennial lip that was popping off these last few days, so bear with me, while I do what I can with this turd font they pop on blogspot. My story about LA still needs to be told and I will most certainly tell it—but I first need to relate a few scenes from this past weekend when Stuntman and Captain Raj Entouraj visited me in Oxford, Mississippi and helped me discover that inside my pants and inside my panties there lives a goddamn duck. That’s right. Quackity quack, my people.
I don’t even know where to begin so I’m gonna ride bulletpoints:

(a) Raj spending much of Friday night chatting with a little tic-tac Cynthia who really liked dinosaurs. She goes, “I like stegosauruses the most, but triceratops are kind of jump off.” Him going, “Does that mean we’re gonna f?” And her going, “Um, no. Just dinosaurs.”
(b) Us realizing that the hair exposed when the first buttons of a shirt are opened should heretofore be referred to as the “prayer rug,” and when referred to as such needs to be grazed by a nearby friend while he chants an offensive mock Arab prayer. The mock prayer needs to be offensive or else the whole thing is fucked.
(c) Raj explaining the above to a hot tic-tac maria by first pointing at my beard saying, “that’s his prayer mat,” at my prayer rug saying, “there’s his prayer rug,” and pointing at my loin scene, saying, “greet the prayer thug.”
(d) Us all in suits at a rat bar and someone asking me what we were celebrating and me saying, “My vasectomy. Cocktail?”
(e) Stuntman recounting the time he got Greg Louganis’s autograph. “I was eight, and he looked at me and said, ‘You’re gonna be really hot when you’re twenty-five,’ and I said, ‘I know. But can we fuck now?’”
(f) Us finding a sick oak tree to sit under while we texted everyone we know: “We want to fuck a person.”
(g) Riding dirty in the corner of a bar and greeting every crew of ladies that passed with the sal: “We’re perverts. Rape us.”
(h) Someone inviting me to a wedding next week and me saying, “I’d love to stroll but I’m working with NASA on a project to organize the first gay marriage on the moon.”
(i) A long-haired rat at a party telling Stuntman, “Yeah, I’m from Seattle,” and Stuntman saying, “Oh god. I had a love affair with Seattle. Was there for just two days visiting a buddy of mine. It was pretty chilly—unseasonably cold, sideways rain in early April. My buddy just wanted to lay low watch a movie, and I was like, ‘Give me your windbreaker and your rain shoes and tell me the fastest way to the Pacific ocean.’ And I drove to the Pacific ocean and drank whiskey on the beach in slanting rain.” And the long-haired rat says, “Is that it?” And Stuntman says, “Yeah.” And the longhaired rat says, “Cool,” and it was pretty much respect, except Stuntman has never been to Seattle.
(j) Me telling this dude named Landon (a predatory homosexual) that Stuntman was a shier homosexual and Landon then rubbing Stuntman’s prayer rug and asking if he can sit on it and face Mecca and Stuntman thinking about for a second before saying, “Of course.”
(k) Raj seeing a really hot chicita and saying, “Jesus. I want to hit her with my car.” Then me saying, “I want to see her naked. On a trampoline. In my house. On the moon.” Then Stuntman saying, “Absolutely, and then you and I will fuck.” And Raj saying, “Can I come, too?” And Stuntman saying, “Of course, I keep a vagina in my asshole for occasions just like this.” And all of us slapping hands. And then Stuntman saying, “This has been the best day in my life since that time my testes descended from my heart.”
(l) Rolling into a kegger at 4am, greeted by an omnivorous bisexual named Douglas, who’s wearing amulets and a velvet blazer like it’s that Led Zeppelin movie Song Remains the Same. And us asking, “Is this where you live?” and him saying, “No, this is just where I keep my chaise.” “Your what?” we said. “My chaise lounge,” he said. The he said, “Let’s do this Veuve.”
(m) Raj seeing a ridiculous tic-tac maria and saying, “I want to put my duck in her pond, and nine months later, have a goose together. It’s called duck, duck goose.” And me saying, “Duck tales,” and Stuntman without telling anyone, after we were all asleep, renting and watching and really enjoying the Mighty Ducks.
(n) An orange sorority person at a rat shack party giving me abrasive attitude. I was just trying to be a statesman—to promote respect on a grassroots level, to mend and quack—and she goes, “Why are you here? Bounce out now.” And I go, “Is it that you want to brush my tooth?” And she goes, “No. Leave.” And I go, “You’ve got a surly attitude, and we need to find out where it originates from because it’s now my problem.” She goes, “Huh, big man?” And I go, “Quackity quack…don’t ever talk back.”
(o) Raj continuing text message courtship with a chicita for hours upon hours and me eventually saying, “Just write, ‘Less texting more sexing,’” and he did and it was good and within seconds she responded: “Oh my god. You are gay.”
(p) Us witnessing so many MILFS that all we could do was slap hands and comment on how MILF-y it was. “Actually this is the MILF-iest it’s ever been,” Stuntman noted. And Raj was sucking his thumb and humming, “My MILFshake brings all the ducks to the pond.”
(q) Me throwing an impromptu party on Sunday night calling people and saying: “I’m not gonna lie to you and pretend that I have enough liquor for everyone but if you bring some, you will be able to trash my house.”
(r) Me inviting a bunch of drunkards at the bar to my crib and telling them that transportation’s not an issue because I own a minivan then leading them half a mile to my two-door 1989 Toyota Celica and saying, “Get in,” and one of the drunkards going, “That’s not a minivan,” and me saying, “Quackity quack…get in the goddamn car.”
(s) That party happening and my house getting trashed. Broken glass on the porch, dustpan in the sink, ash in the nose, Stuntman getting launched into a bookshelf and then claiming he had a “bruised eye.” And Raj saying, “Stop complaining or I’ll shit my pants,” and Stuntman saying, “I’m not complaining, I’m bragging.”

Friday, September 01, 2006

MALIBU SYNAGOGUES AND SPANDEX MARIAS, OR A LOT OF BONKERS SHIT POPPED OFF WHEN I JOURNEYED TO LA. LAST SUMMER (PART 1)

Like many men before me in the history of this beauteous nation, where the tic-tac marias are free to rock tank tops and the TiVO's so legit, when I was down and out for cash last summer, I headed west. My man Casio's got a spot in L.A and wanted me and him to get our heads together and make some money with Steve Guttenberg in the script game. Casio's been holding the L.A. scene down for years, making deep inroads with some of the whackest white men on the planet. "Boss Hogg on candy" is what he said in the telegram. I had no clue what that meant.
Of course I was reluctant. Last time I set foot on Cali soil I started a cult that resulted in the pregnancies of three Republican congresswomen, not to mention the release of some truly rad seals from the San Diego zoo. Shit was bad. I had SDPD on my apple ass for months until my lawyer called and got very Talmud on his Blackberry. Yeah. However cool you think it would be to have your own cult, its less cool than that.
But I needed money, so I worked my Dell and next thing I knew I was doing fierce donut out of LAX in Casio's tricked-out 2005 Honda Accord. He's got a GPS Magellan system off the leash, and the inside of the vehicle was smelling like the latest, crispest catalogue from the Sharper Image. So little time had passed, so many cool new odors were already being created. Me and Casio kept slapping five, just to get the hands numb. I said, "Lets do this."
He said, "Boss Hogg on candy."
Casio's perfected the art of repetition. Dude's bonkers. He'll repeat the shit out of something till you want to strangle him, then repeat it uno mas till all you can do is thank him (wildly). There was a three month spell where the only thing he said was, "Tell your friend I'm no coyote." I'd say, "Casio, lunch?" He'd say, "Tell your friend I'm no coyote." It's something that Tommy Lee Jones says in The Missing, a Ron Howard movie many many people disrespected. I once heard him talking to his grandmother on the phone and she said, "Casio, we miss you," and he said, "Tell your friend I'm no coyote."
But homeboy had moved on. As I soon discovered, he had two new phrases between which he solidly oscillated. The first was "Utter celebration of total mediocrity," pretty apt slogan, I must say, in the land of Malibu synagogues and spandex marias. At huge billboards of Jimmy Kimmel, at dudes in berets on bar stools, at a singer we met who said her demo was "a mix of Paris Hilton and Paris Hilton's sex tape", Casio said: "Utter celebration of total mediocrity." The other motto he was tasting, as I had already learned, was "Boss Hogg on candy," something the rapper Mike Jones rocks on the single "Still Tippin'," a radio anthem of trueblue respect Casio was getting pretty fairly seriously into, the kind of new millennial cash-hop you admire to the most distant realms of respect and understand not at all.
We were meeting Guttenberg that afternoon. Casio briefed me in the Honda.
I said, "What's the deal?"
He said, "Total celebration of utter mediocrity."
I said, "Guttenberg wants to reclaim the throne?"
He said, "He thinks it's 1986 part 2."
"Je-sus."
"He's got some ideas. We'll listen," Casio said.
"Are we all straight?" I asked.
"Word."
Last time I'd seen Gute was at a roof party in Chelsea, where I'd made the mistake of dissing John Mayer. What can I say, when I'm liquored up and the outlook's grim in the Middle East I have a bad habit of doing my Jar Jar Binks and/or dissing the f out of John Mayer. That night I was doing both, which means you should be pretty psyched you weren't there. I was rolling around the party going, "Meesa no like Mayer--Mayer's guitar so frumpy! How is guitar get so frumpy?" That last part was a rhetorical question, but Guttenberg didn't understand that. He entered my face, with supreme aggression. As I found out, he had not only devoted much of his recent adult life to memorizing Room For Squares, but had devoted much of his forearm to a tattoo of Mayers grill, looking emotionally pure and sex-ready. I know, because he was showing me and all of the roof and all of the surrounding buildings the tattoo saying, "His guitar's no frumpy! You kidding me, Binks?" It took the intercession of a hottie marriage counselor who happened to be at the party that evening for us to ride copacetic.
"It's all good now. I told him the past is the past," Casio said now. "He said he wants to get paid."
"Everyone gets paid," I said with a deep sickening irony, because no on really gets paid, except for people like Martin Luther King, Jr. and Jesus of Nazareth.
Then Casio laid it all on the line on a sick left turn off the freeway into Santa Monica.

Guttenberg holds court at the oldest Au Bon Pan in Santa Monica, where the homeless dice and as long as you're stowing blade, nine out of ten times, it's one love. You can find Gute in the back in a baseball cap and shades like he's hiding from something. And there he was, Gute to the core: in a White Sox hat, picking the s out of a gnarly club sand.
"Gutentag," I said.
"Hey, man. How's it going?" We slapped hands pretty hard and then kind of held it like we were dads. Gutes smiled. One thing you gotta give Gutes: the guy can smile. His whole pink face opens it up and suddenly it gets G-rated. Hes always rocked it like that. I've heard him relate some of the most heinous tales of Police Academy druglove you'll ever hear, but with such smile that all you can think about is his pink face ripping it up, being Gute-y. One time he itemized a four hour experience he had dropping cunnilingus on a sizeable fanlady outside a Red Lobster, but with such a smile and in a manner so sweet I had to run off and call my grandmams just to tell her something cuddle cuddle.
We ordered major Fiji water and got into it. Casio was wearing Raybans that were his new religion. I was rocking my white linen suit, what I always wear when I need money. It reminds the world that people like Mark Twain used to exist, that there used to be principles and real wars and people who lived for something other than cash, so they might as well give me some now.
I said, "Gute, lets get something popping off for the upcoming fiscal shit."
He was like, "Cool, baby."
"We need the kind of ideas," I said, "that make people like me richer people."
"Cool, baby."
"We'll get so many tans after we get a good idea," Casio said.
You could see Gute's mouth water. Sometimes a donkey needs a carrot, and sometimes Gute needs a tan.
"Tans?" he said.
"We'll get sick tans then got to the most public restaurant on Rodeo Drive and do simul-crane kicks," I said.
"Well, we might as well go now then," he said, motioning to the Pan-Asian waitress. "Cause I've got the picture.
"Boss Hogg on Candy?" Casio inquired.
"Tell me this isnt a million dollar idea," he said. "I play a black cop in a mostly white suburb of Connecticut that's riddled with gang crime."
"Respect?" I said.
"And one day I fall in love with a mulatto gardener."
"True?"
"Except her husband is a billionaire who hates me."
"Real?"
"And it ends up being very sad because I kill her husband and then go to Mexico where I'm elected emperor."
"One dub?"
"But the power corrupts me and I end up killing millions of innocent Mexicans. Then there's a coup detat and I'm murdered. They put my head on a stake."
"Then?"
"We get Philip Glass to do the score."
"Then?"
"Credits roll." He said, "The end." He smiled as only Gutes can: the face that launched a thousand respects.
I said, "It's too bad Kubricks dead."
He said, "I know, right!"
And I said, "Sarcasm was the lip that they gave me."
He said, "Huh? Yeah!"
"The idea," I said, "is a terrible idea."
"What?"
"Idea's toilet," Casio said.
"You got something better?"
"Yeah," I said. "You play Steve Gutenberg. You hang at the Au Bon Pan where the homeless dice. You smile and try to get paid."
"You're supposed to write what I tell you to write." He looked at Casio. "That's the deal. I thought you explained this to this guy."
Casio said, "Steve, its--things are--its very Boss Hogg. He said, "The thing is--we're talking about--candy."
"I'm the guy with the big pink dick here," Gute said. "Now you write up the script thing and I think we can sell it."
"Idea's turd, though," Casio said.
"Listen. You write this script and Ill pay you guys" --he was smiling like our President when he gets his paws on the shiny treat--"Two hundred dollars." He took a second to let this sink in. "Yknow the Citibank near my house in Malibu? Yeah, listen to this. I go there and put my plastic rectangle in the special machine and it makes this chuggachuggachugga sound, right? Then it prints out--you won't believe this--it prints green cash bucks from a secret dollar house inside the bank! Now, Ill take out two hundred bucks and give it to you dudes, if you just draft this thing. The title's ready." He motioned his hands in such a way as to help us envision a marquee. "It's called: Black Policecop in Whitetown Who Became--Surprise!--Kingman of Other Place!"
Casio said, "Holidae Inn."
I thought about this in for a second. I used my whole white suit to think about this.
"All right?" he said. "Now where are we getting brown? I want to get tanned, and do those rad simul-crane kicks."
That's when I stood up and said, "F you, s that, and gd this whole cunting milieu." I added, "Two hundie my undies," and threw my water over Gutenberg, who kept smiling.
Casio said, "Yeah," and me and him bounced like two bouncy balls back to the Honda.
If I ever find my daughter in Portland Im gonna deliver her this wisdom: "Half of life you ask yourself why you are in the place you are, with the people you're with, and the reason is always the same: I need to get paid." Then I'm gonna say: "Your mother and I loved each other furiously for twenty minutes and never talked again. These are the miracles of this world."
This was lame, but that's what LA is: lame white people with huge pink dinks laughing at you. It's a big pink nasty place but we've got friends all up in it, and we were gonna sniff cash. I wasn't rolling back to Manhattan without green money. Manhattan these days is just money in the form of white people going in and out bars getting each others digits on their celly, and I wanted to get back in the mix. Hell, it's easy to get paid in LA. You just need to find the right kind of nothing. You give someone nothing in a way they want it, and they'll pay you out the wang. We had many friends to call, many scenes to investigate.
When we got back in the Honda, I said, "This suit's not coming off till we get paid."
Casio said, "Of course not."
Then we drove to Venice Beach and got tattoos of the Chinese symbols for "bank note" and "peace on Earth."

TO BE CONTINUED...

Sunday, May 29, 2005

THE RETURN OF STUNTMAN, AND INTRODUCING REX JUSTY!

By god, the scene was rocked. So hard, we thought about tying the knot. I mean, that giant knot up in the sky. “Look at it this way,” Stuntman reasoned on the drive back. “We’ve pimped it so hard this trip, it’s hard to conceive of us ever reaching this level of pimp-glory again. I say end it on a high note. Let’s hold hands [and die].”
This driving up Highway 61.
Just then Rex started doing his “orangutan on meth” which is way off chain. He huffed and puffed around the back of the Celica like he was gonna blow a house down. Instead he blew a vein in his forehead. Then he started his “I’m not okay” sound. We almost lost it. It went on for minutes. Then, just like that, everyone got paid. That’s Stuntman’s new motto. He perfected it the night before at the roulette table. He’d put everything on black, say, “Everyone gets paid,” and double his money.
“Interesting,” I said. “Everyone gets paid? Is it a fact you’re stating, as in everyone gets paid in this life and the next? Or a wish, a deferral, as in, ‘Let us hope we may one day live in a world where everyone, even the dog-beaten impoverished, get paid?'”
He said, “Everyone gets paid,” then slapped my mouth. Then he said, “Watch this,” laid it all on black, and lost: “Achem. Paid.”
It was like that Zen koan where the guy asked the master what nirvana looked like, and the master cut his toes off, and he was immediately enlightened. Stuntman’s turned some kind of corner. Maybe it leads nowhere. His mind is the inside of a whistle. (That night I lost rock paper scissors and had to share a bed with him. In his sleep, I heard him whispering, “Sweet disaster. Let me taste thee once again…Paid, paid, paid.”)
Where were we? Grand Casino, Tunica, Mississippi.
Sometimes I wish Keats were around so he’d write an ode on casinos. It’s like visiting the last idea a civilization can have—okay second to last: the one that comes right before ruin. The whole neon spread’s constructed on manmade surfaces over lake and swampland. It came up to greet us out of the night-nothing in the Celica. Stuntman said, “Holy club! Beautiful shrine of lost money!”
We gambled until our eyes were dead.
A horrific sound through the hotel wall woke us in the morning: a dude performing a duet with the cancer in his throat. It sounded like real sickness. When he was awake enough to get out of bed, Justy stood next to the door and started coughing back. Mock cough. Cough revenge.
This seemed courageous.
“You show ‘em!” Me and Stuntman cooed.

See, we’d been rocking a strict diet of red bull and rye whiskey for three days and couldn’t feel our own faces. Literally. Rex had asked me to feel his for him and describe it right before beddy-bye. He was in his Pj’s and everything. It was like telling a little ghost story.
“Is it all fancy, and special?” He asked, my palm all over his grill.
“Nah. Nah.”
“Gross, mangly?”
“Nixay.”
“So?”
“It feels like a face, bro. Skin-style.”
He smiled with mucho satisfaction: “Worms will eat it.”
That was on Friday night, day before we left for Tunica. We’d been investigating scenes in Oxford, MS, college town where shit usually pops. And nine of out ten times, it’s in the off direction. We happened on a bar called the Longshot: legit spot with a rich sorority meets gitty-up-redneck tip. A kind of hesitant respect—bordering on contempt— played in the air, and Stuntman was befriending assholes like whoa. Stuntman’s an asshole magnet. They love him. I have a theory about why. It’s like this: If the world's best and brightest assholes put their minds together to construct a robot that would be better and brighter than they at being an asshole, and that robot—as it only could—slayed its creators, outdid them, in order to bring asshole-dom to a sphere heretofore unprecedented: well, long story short, that robot would be Stuntman.
“So you got liquored last night,” one of the congregated douchebags was inquiring.
“That’s right, Honus. Wink, wink. What’s up, Atkins!”
Meanwhile, Rex had told a girl at the bar he loved her.
“Isn’t that sweet?” She said. “Love you too, honey.”
“Don’t honey me! Rex-y love you,” he screamed before stomping out. We later found him on the street in a heart-to-heart with a homeless dude. That’s one of Justy’s oldest moves: roll outside and commune with a bum. Though as Stuntman and I edged closer, we realized this was no soiree. Rex and the homeless bro were bartering. I’m talking negotiations. Nasdaq scenes. “Shiny for biggy!” Rex insisted. The homeless dude held out. He kept shaking his Rip Van beard. “I said, shiny for biggy!”
We later found out Rex was hoping to trade a big piece of lint in his pocket for a lustrous, but less hefty one in the bum’s. All Rex would say about it at the time was “That guy was an asshole.”
Later that night we ended up rolling to this frat party run by rich Texans. They were a tad standoffish ‘til I dissed John Mayer, then it was all love. It was like a password. We could say anything.
The Texans were drawing maps of their dad’s ranches and telling racist jokes that were way too clever for this world. The house was giant. There was absolutely no furniture in it, but that didn’t matter. Nobody intended on doing any living there.
Stuntman immediately befriended. “Wink wink Sebastian,” he said to one dude at the counter. “Wink wink Horace” to some other homo.
One of these days they have to put Stuntman somewhere where the stakes are monstrously high and give him a gun.
Anyway, we ended up stealing the Texan’s plasma and dragging it back to the homeless dude as an offering in exchange for the shiny lint. He was reluctant but gave in. We could see why Rex wanted the thing. It didn’t have Abe Lincoln’s face on it or anything, but it was special. No doubt. It felt like a glimpse of the new. We pretended it was a piece of stardust, a glint of a moon rock. I’m not kidding. We played with it all night like we’d just learned to imagine. In the morning we couldn’t find it, though, among the bottles, ashtrays, and forgetting.
The loss rattled Rex.
“Where is it,” he kept saying, fumbling around the air mattress. He asked me to feel his face again, and I did.
“So?” He said.
“Nothing.” Maybe it was my hand. I couldn’t feel anything.
“Where is it, where is it, where is it,” he said.
Losses can be unsettling.

…But I forgot the whole point of the story. After a few more hours of driving away from the casino all of sudden this huge mean filthy cloud swallowed the sky and drenched the windshield in rain. I couldn’t see a thing. Trucks mocked me with their speed. Stuntman and Rex were asleep and conversing. Winds bullied the Celica. I was driving. I saw hazard lights in front of me but no car. There was nothing else to see. We made it out okay. That terrible cloud had an end. For a second it looked like curtains. I just hope the feeling of actually dying doesn’t resemble that feeling when your being overly nervous and think you’re dying.

Thursday, April 07, 2005

A HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

One of my student’s wrote this a long time ago when I was teaching out West. I gave her an A and a slap on the mouth. I’m a sick teacher. For real. I cultivate brains.


A HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
By Jervette Jay

Christopher Columbus was a man who thought the world was flat, and at the end of it there were brown people who gave you money. Like all great Americans, he was half right. (Okay, I guess he wasn’t American, but he discovered the place. Or maybe he didn’t. When you first get to college, they give you a bumper sticker that says, “If millions of Indians already lived there, how could Columbus have discovered America?” Then they give you a thumbs up and a bong. But I don’t get it. I mean, everyone knows bumper stickers stopped changing the world in 1969 when that giant meteor killed all the hippies. Hippies were cool, but they weren’t pragmatic. That’s why they eventually lost to the yuppies in a little game called “natural selection.” ☺ ) The world wasn’t flat, but there were brown people on the other side, and yup, they gave money like whoa. For the brown people it was like everyday was Christmas (which hadn’t been invented yet since the Jew God had yet to impregnate the Mary’s Jesus Womb). They were also into getting killed—or so Columbus thought. In his diaries he wrote, “The savages are like animals with human faces. I am like an animal with a human gun. That is why we are godly, and they are fiercely stupidy. Our translators tells us that they only have one word: ‘Touché.” Whatever we say, they nod and say ‘Touché.’ The other day Francisco Santo de La Minis asked them: “You savagey-barbariods really like getting beaten, broken, and treated like horse turd. Don’t you?’ And the savage said, ‘Touché.’ We cannot tell how deeply they mock us.” Yeah, the jury’s still out on Columbus.
The next important group of people to ship off to America was a crew called the Puritans. They were sick of being treated like brown people in the Old World for worshipping a wrong God, so they fled to America where they could mock actual brown people before killing them. Y’know, they wanted to exercise their “freedom.” (Freedom is an important concept to us Americans. All Americans want to be free to worship their God. But because everyone has their own God, and a lot of the Gods don’t really get along, things can get sticky. De Tocqueville wrote a book about this, which the board game “Monopoly” is based on. Basically, he thought if you bought someone’s God, you should get ownership of their freedom etc, etc.) The most important Puritan was John Winthrop, who gave the speech saying he wanted to create a “City on a Hill.” He said, “When you kill someone, the second they die they turn evil. That’s just how it works. I don’t make up God’s thoughts, guys, I just read them aloud. Here’s the dilly-pop: It’s necessary for some people to burn in hell, so others can enjoy the great food and music in heaven. But don’t worry: Everyone you know is going to heaven. Everyone you don’t know is going to hell. Pretty cool, I know.” That’s why they thought all the brown people were bad news: ‘cause no one knew their dilly-pop. William Bradford, another famous Puritan, wrote, “We love it here. It’s dark and foresty and shitty weather all the livelong day! The brown people are strange, though: ergo, evil. They’re always saying, ‘touché,’ and it gets to be irksome. Even when you’re killing them, they look at you with their hurt, exotic eyes and say ‘touché.’ Really haunting stuff.”
Were the Puritans assholes? It’s tough to say. I mean, people are of their own times. What could they do? Go on the Internet and google the words “Puritans” AND “how we were the grandest of suck-tards.” Fat chance! Computers weren’t invented until1910 when a certain someone named Bill Gates did LSD the Maharishi. Today, that certain someone is the wealthiest pedophile on the planet.
Soon after the advent of the Puritans, slaves started being traded to America. Slaves really got the short end of the stick. Imagine getting taken from your family, put in the bowels of a ship, and sent off to America to have your face dissed and body owned by a fat white man. The worst slaves owners were fat, had bullshit attitudes, and frequented McDonalds. These are facts. Worst of all, most people thought slavery was one love. Yeah, and they continued to until Frederick Douglass, Harriet Beatrice Stowe, and Steven Spielberg put their heads together and made a little film called Amistad. (That was four months after Spielberg won an Oscar for ending the holocaust. My friend Ingbert knows the guy who cued the “finish it up” music before Spielberg had finished his acceptance speech, and confirmed he’s a major asshole.) The rest, as they say, is history. Within days, the Civil War had begun. Abraham Lincoln invited Douglass, Stowe, and Spielberg to the White House and famously quipped, “So you’re the little trio that made the sucky-fuck film that started this bullshit scenario.”
People think the Civil War was about slavery but that was only a part of it. There were a lot of other factors. Like global affairs and the value of the dollar. Plus, the people in the north worshipped homosexuality. The people in the south, on the other hand, owned guns and respected God. People in the North thought being ironic made you moral, and that being cool was tantamount to being ethical. Southerners believed being kind to white people and owning human grill was the real jump-off. You can read historical accounts from both sides and hear their arguments. Both have their point of views, which means neither is incorrect. We learned that in philosophy. A point of view can’t be “incorrect,” only evil.
Anyway, long story short, big turd hit huge fan. It was like color war except everyone died and very, very few people got paid. Robert E. Lee was the master of the confederates. Walt Whitman, on the other hand, was a vegetarian homosexual who broke all the rules of poetry, then led the Yankees into battle. Three things America never would have without Walt Whitman are raves, candy corn, and marijuana (Whitman also invented the gravity bong and was the first Hippie, see first parenthesis. I should add here that because so many groups in America’s past hated brown people, there were also a lot of white groups that wanted to be brown people. Roger Williams was a Puritan who founded the colony of Rhode Island where Jews, gay people, and pagans could live evilly in peace. Later, there was Walt Whitman, Timothy Leary, the Beats, Noam Chomsky, and Dave Matthews. These people listen to jazz mostly, call each other “cats,” and are scared of war. Howard Zinn and Ben Affleck have written many fascinating pamphlets on the subject.) Anyway, the North won the war.
After that everything was relatively chill until “Vietnam.” “Vietnam” is a really freaky movie based on a psychedelic trip Francis Ford Coppola had when he was scouting locations in South East Asia. It’s such an intense film a lot of people lost their shit when they saw it and soon after, got their cousins and their cousins’ friends to protest it. Nixon was President at the time and he thought it should be kept in theaters. He gave a famous ‘checkers speech,’ where he said, “Since when is America afraid of its own entertainment. Answer: ‘never.’ We must watch this movie, we must live this movie, we must breath this movie. Next, these long-haired weirdoes are going to want to get rid of even simpler games like chess and checkers. Lest they’ve forgotten: Having fun at any and usually all costs is the quintessence of the American mandate!” Nixon’s trademark was to get all sweaty and lie. He once won a contest for having the clammiest palms in California. He was still a great man, though. As Thomas Jefferson said, “Being a suck-tard doesn’t change the fact that you’re human, except in the cases of women and brown people who are cool only in manners befitting the sub-human and silly-grilled.” DNA has since proven that Jefferson fornicated with a black man.

Friday, January 14, 2005

YOU CAN HATE ME NOW

When I was young, my great-grandfather Shlomo sat me down and explained what Anti-Semitism is. “Player-hating,” he said. “Plain and simp. If anyone ever calls you a “dirty Jew” or a “kike-fart,” tell them to ‘hate the game, not the playa.’ If they ask you what the game is, poke them in the eye and run the other way.” Yup. Granddaddy Shlomo kept it pretty real. On Friday nights he used to get liquored out the a-hole and deny the existence of God. That’s how he pimped it, and we all gave it respect. That’s something else he taught us: “Everyone pimps it as they see fit to pimp it. Some people pimp it by not pimping it. The world is a giant mystery presided over by a yawning void. Don’t forget it, my children.”
I never thought I’d have to heed his words ‘til I went to a frat party in college where they had a Jew piñata. You could tell it was semitic from the hook nose and devastating undercarriage. Everyone was laughing and pointing, like “Jews all funny when they get hit with stick,” so I pissed on their Dockers and rolled out the backdoor. Then I got a bullhorn, crouched on roof like gargoyle, and boomed, “And thus the shoes of sinful goyem get drenched in urine!” Gentiles sure are funny when they’re pissed off. Their faces hit the hue of their pink polo shirts, then the tears start. Uh-huh. It’s rad.
What can I tell you. People are ignorant. They don’t realize shit. When Jay-Z raps, “I didn’t invent the game/I just rolled the dice trying to get some change,” few people realize it’s an allusion to a speech given by David Ben-Gurion, the first Prime Minister of Israel. The rest of it goes,

Must get that paper,
In this country our jump-off
Hitler player haters
Got it twisted, couldn’t floss

I can count one finger how many people know that speech. And, yeah, it’s my middle finger. My bird digit.
Years after the piñata incident, I had my second wake-up call attending a hipster political meeting on the Lower East Side. Don’t ask me why I rolled. I guess I wanted to do something that felt as just as insults do when they’re deserved and flying off my lip. Anyway, wild scene. The sangria was flowing and peeps wore pins that were private jokes. Everyone sat in these plastic fold-up chairs and delivered their thoughts with severe melodrama. Mad peaceful, all of them, but more than peaceful, passive-aggressive, I mean vigorously, like out the a-wad. It took forty minutes to decide who would take the minutes, but once we hit the subject of the Middle East, everyone coalesced. At first they said, “Israel’s violations of International Standards are appalling.” Then they said, “Sharon’s a monster.” Then they said, “God, I mean the dude’s Jewish.” Then, “I don’t care what people say, there’s more to making a race cool than just having horns and a bullshit attitude!” A dude with an earring in his eyelid summed it all up, “Conclusion, y’all: Hitler sucked. But so do Jews.” Then they all sang “Kumbaya {hate the Jews remix}.”
I said, “That’s cool. Hate the Jew. But without us, you wouldn’t have shrinks, commies, or the a-bomb!”
The one with the pierced lid tried to get all leader-y. “Exactly!” He screamed. “QED, fucker. You semites think—”
I’m just guessing here but he probably would’ve finished that sentence if I hadn’t grabbed his nuts like a cherry and twisted as hard as I goddamn could. That’s a trick Raj Entouraj taught me back in Cali and it comes in handy. (Pun most certainly intended, ladies).
“Help your boy out,” I said, then flashed the peace sign. Before rolling out, I added: “We’re like roaches, bitches. Never dying!”
It’s true. Us Jews are like the original rough riders. Sharon’s gotta get a little more DMX in his geezer limp to make true dilly more apparent. It’s like that really cool DMX song where he screams, “I’m not a nice person!” in a mean-ass voice. Okay, he has six songs where he says that, but each time it gets a little more special, and my dreams get a little brighter.
After that LES incident, I went home and put on the Eminem Show. Few people realize that Em’s a big-time Jew. When he says, “…the most hated of those that say they get hated on,” he’s talking Jew plight. I mean, who’s hated more than Jews? Okay, black people. And Arabs. But other than them, who? Yeah, okay: brown people, anyone remotely brownish or adobe-hued. But, seriously, I think gentiles are pissed because all they get for having slimjim penis is blonde hair and blue blood. No doubt it’s a whack trade-off. They also don’t dig on Israelis. They think all Jews are like that one Israeli who pissed on their head at the top bunk of that hostel in Madrid when he was liquored out the a-hole. What can I say. I met that guy, too. His name’s Ingbert.
A couple nights after the LES debacle, I was treating some of my homeless buddies to cocktails down on the Bowery. I’m charitable like that. After all they’re just like you and me. Universal are their needs. All they really want is a warm spot to pour a cold one and reminisce about ‘Nam with the voices in their head. Plus, they work verbiage like few I know. Seriously, ‘phrenics sans roof pop some gnarly lip. Take my boy Mikey. He sleeps in a shopping kart, smells like dog feces, and just opines. We’re sitting there drinking a St. Pauli Girl, and he goes, “Welcome to the currency of the rat. Beer is the urine of politicians bottled for the thirsts of damaged sons.”
Mikey’s the kind of guy where if you cry after he says something like that, he’ll weep with you. But if you laugh, he’ll guffaw hard. This time I just patted his back and let it go.
We were shooting the shit about Tiger Woods when a dapper tic-tac Maria strolled in and made her way to the back of the bar.
“’Scuzie, boys,” I said. When I arrived at the plush booth, I found her admirably alone and cleared my throat like a bugle. “May I?”
Oh, I mayed, and yes, we chilled. Banter was lobbed and returned and thoroughly respected. She sipped Sapphire ‘tinis and let me eat the olives. She was the kind of rare bird who never gives up on poise even when sneezing or talking about armpit farts—a darling combo of all that’s evolved and all that will never be in humans. Her earrings and pearl necklaces looked like they’d grown right out of her fair, freckled skin. We talked about a lot of shit. We talked about the subtlety of sophistication. How the true kind can sometimes, from the surface, resemble the most savage barbarism. Then the subject turned to socio-politics.
“Like, Iran.” I was saying. “What the fuck?”
“God, the Middle East is a world of shit. If it weren’t for Israel, this life would be a better place.”
I didn’t miss a beat. “How so?”
“Well,” she leaned in. “Y’know, Jews like to get Jew-y. It’s just one of their things. They take money, power, and then they take your nuclear bombs.”
I said, “Do they?”
She nodded and gave me a sexy look.
“Hold that thought,” I said.
She bit her lower-lip and nodded it up.
“On second thought, honey, why don’t you hate game and not playa.”
“What game?” she said, startled.
Her eyes were dark, and wonderfully made-up, so I couldn’t bring myself to heed Shlomo’s advise. Yes, indeed. The beauty of a shiksa woman is inhuman and undeniable. It has authority. I pictured old Granddaddy getting liquored and quoting the Talmud. He used to say, “They hate us ‘not only cause their God was Jewish, but because the people who killed their God were Jewish. Jews all around. Jews to my left, Jews to my right.” Then he would embark upon his “Jews all around. Jews to my left, Jews to my right” jig, which was free-wheeling, fearless, and all around awesome. Something to behold.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I got confused.”
“No problem,” she said.
Right before I told Fuzzy the Bartender to buy everyone four shots of the most expensive vodka on her tab, I went up to Mikey, put my arm around his shit-smelling shoulder and asked:
“What’s the word on Jews? You trust ‘em?”
“Of course not,” he said. “They’re people.”


Sunday, December 19, 2004

DON'T EVER DO THE DEW OR, HOW I GOT OUT OF THE ADVERTISING GAME

As some of you may know, I used to work in advertisement. Yeah, shit was rad as hell. I had a corner office and everything. Peeps I didn't know would slap my back, take my fist, lift it up, and we'd all sing songs. It was like a commercial, which is what I used to tell the interns: “If you want to write commercials, you need to live one.” Then I'd say, “Go fetch me a Mountain Dew or I'll eat your balls.” In those days I was slurpin' Dew pretty seriously. Changed my whole sphere, then it changed the color of my urine. One day that shit's gonna be illegal. That's the day it's all gonna change.
I was in at the ground floor of some major shit. I helped come up with that Master Card campaign, where they list the prices of a lot of things and then name some unquantifiable human experience and say “priceless.” The boss said, “It's brilliant. We pretend to show people what's really important, so they'll purchase our bullshit plastic toysies.” Everyone clapped it up and popped bottles of champagne. As an activity, celebrating is less fun than talking shit to the interns, so Roger called in a newbie and slapped his mouth while Ethel put on some disco. Everyone was hooting. All that hooting and dancing-it was like the glory days of Arsenio with a postmillennial, post-Backstreet vibe sprinkled on top.
Boss exclaimed, “For success labored long days everyone has!”
Outside of hawking wares, the only thing Boss had any passion for was the wisdom of Yoda. Yeah, it was fucked. He had a photo on his desk of his own grill superimposed on Yoda's body floating before the misty jungles of the Degaba System. He had the thing taken at his son's bar mitzvah and pointed it out to all the new employees like he was taking them to see the idol of Vishnu. He didn't make you bow or anything-just exude reverence and thank him. When he got especially liquored out the a-hole at holiday mixers, dude went ape shit on the English language. I mean, Yoda-style ape shit, inverting syntax like it was choose your own adventure. You could never tell if it was the lamest thing ever, or just something that was slightly lame.
“Success labored for long everyone has!” He shouted again, standing on the boardroom table now.
Rodge came over to me and whispered, “Watching your boss make a fool of himself. Priceless.” Rodge's the jokester in the office. He's the best.
I didn't laugh, though. See, I had a different view of the ad. Instead of “priceless,” I thought it should say “never!” and be taken over by a solemn graphic of a middle finger slowly imposed on the screen. I hit pause on the company stereo, called the intern out of the room, and announced my objection.
My boss looked at me like I'd suggested we let a pack of wild coyotes fuck our wives, then eat our wallets. “You tell it like it is,” he said. “In advertisement, we tell it like it isn't.”
“Wrong. Advertisement is telling how it isn't in a way that it is.”
“No, that's art.” He said. His face looked like a tie you forget ever seeing. Or like an actor you almost recognize.
“You have no vision,” I said.
“I'll put your balls in my mouth,” he said.
“You can't fool me. That's a metaphor.”
That's the day I got fired. My problem's this: I'm too ahead of my times. In advertisement, you have to be like two weeks ahead of the times, and I'm a good eight or nine. Sometimes I feel like Marty McFly in Back to the Future 2, except there aren't any of those hovercraft skateboards, which-I think we can all agree-sucks more than a little.
At that point, I was pretty hot to prove my boss wrong. Proving bosses wrong is more fun than celebrating but less fun than slapping intern's mouths. That's just a known fact.
So I got work writing commercials in Europe. Talk about ahead of its time! They don't fuck around with their advertising in Europe. You want a goat to fuck a supermodel to sell a diaper, and boom, it happens! You want a T-Rex to help blind women across the street to sell cologne, and it's on like donkey kong! You want two monkeys to launch nuclear warheads at a country, then hump the mushroom cloud to sell dog food, and fuck yeah, it's yours! Europeans are smart like that. They gave up on making sense a long time ago. Peep their game shows and feel my flow. Us Americans think we're hot shit 'cause we can take assholes no one's ever heard of, marry them on TV, and turn them into famous assholes. Meanwhile, Europeans have midgets eat each other while topless girls watch and do sexy dances. Yeah, and all the dudes have mustaches. Even the hosts. Seriously, it's ill. Nothing in the states can touch it. Fox is the most progressively European of the American televisual entertainments, but it's still eons away. We're like the Gauls to their Romans, albeit towards the end of the Empire, when people used to vomit on purpose and eat it again.
It's crazy how quickly my vibe was felt in the old world. My first ad was for BMW, and it blew up sky-high. Here it is: A guy's peeling through the desert in a BMW and stops at the one light for miles, where another guy happens to be waiting in another brand of car. They exchange a look of mutual respect, and the guy in the other car goes:
“Nice dick.”
“Thanks,” the BMW driver says. “It's my car.”
Then he drives off. Then the BMW logo comes up, and underneath it says, “BMW. 'Cause it's also your penis.”
That ad really struck a nerve. I mean, shit was bananas. All of sudden Euro-trash douchelicks from Milan to Paris were calling their trucks their “peewees” and everyone gave it respect. It was like that Budweiser “whassup” fad, except dudes were saying “my dick” and everyone got paid. Strangers skipped in the streets. Granddaddies hugged. A psychologist in London proved repeated screenings of the ad boosted pre-adolescents' self-esteem. Pretty heady stuff. I mean, going from being fired to being king pimp isn't nothing. I was sippin' Dew 'round the clock, prank calling my old boss, and slapping intern face like it was end of days. But you can't lounge on a hit in the ad world, so we got acrackin'.
Hell, the follow-up was even more jump-off than the original: An ad of a guy and a girl leaving a restaurant after what by all indications has been a successful date. The guy's got his jacket over his shoulder and clicks the lights on his BMW, and tells her,
“This car is my penis. Impressive, no?”
“Not as impressive as mine,” she says, then clicks her nicer, cooler BMW right next to it. Then she looks in the camera and says with extreme sobriety: “My car is my penis.” Then the guy's eyes get all bulgy, like his pupils just popped wood.
The next week we got a call from a women's activist group protesting the ad with fairly sizeable beef. I invited them into the office to talk. There were two of them.
They said, “For the record women don't want to have penises.”
“I know that. The ad's ironic, laying bare the chauvinism usually obscured in such ads. You should respect the honesty.”
“You're a pussy and liar.”
“Word,” I said. Then I got on the intercom and beckoned Fredo. Fredo's the intern. He's small and tractable. He closed the door behind him and looked to the carpet. Not knowing the French for “purple nurple,” I assured them both: “He tasty for abuse.”
They looked stunned, but after a while we all got into it. Nothing brings disparate groups together like the mutual humiliation of an intern. Well, nothing except watching a man, whose imbibed enough Mountain Dew to kill a small country, urinate a neon blue stream all over his own desk. Which is something I did. They were all kind of stunned. You're not better than me.
At this point my life really was a commercial. Homeless chicks gave me pounds. I got respect from all across the land. Given my rep as the originator of the “BMW Penis ad,” I could get away with saying “my dick” as a response to nearly any question, or sentiment, and peeps dug it. I was untouchable. I blew money like chunks. Yeah, it was Miller Time in my soul. I delivered impromptu and completely fabricated world histories to black-tie crowds listening with bated breath. I'd say, “JFK referred to the nuclear silos as his 'penis retaliation.' Yeah little known fact.” Then I'd say, “Any true history of Civilization would have to start with the history of advertising and PR. Columbus coming to the New World was PR. The space program was PR. The soul of all the best discoveries is PR. In fact, based on cave drawings recently uncovered in East Asia, the inventor of the wheel seems to have been sentient chihuahua, whose ancestors-one can only assume-went on to found Taco Bell. Hot damn, the world is mind boggling!” Everyone oohed and ahhed. Then I'd say, “Guess what? Penis!” And they clapped it up like they'd seen a fresh-ass magic trick.
But here's the thing-little secret, okay: It's lonely at the top. Like, K-2, whistling wind lonely. Here I was: a megaton capitalist guru with a king kong MOJO poppin' off the spigot like whoa, and yet I felt smaller than the tiniest intern. I stopped taking calls, drank Dew like virgin blood, read The Communist Manifesto. Goddamn, this Marx could write! I wept over the paperback, feeling small and explainable. Nothing, especially not your achievements, belongs to you.
Sensing something was up, Fredo shuffled into my office one day, head bowed.
“What is it?!” I demanded.
“Was wondering if boss wanted to put the future of my gonads in jeopardy this afternoon?”
“Not today, Fredo,” I said. “Not today.”
High on Dew at 3am, I called ex-boss from the office.
“Who is this?” He said.
I whimpered over the line.
“Expert?”
“Who else.”
“I heard you're big in the old world. Damn, those Euros have queer sensibilities,” he said.
“Why to him I despise most do I run in my hour of pain?”
“You've got too much head and heart for this game, boy. Figure it out.”
“My urine's day-glo,” I said.
“Je¬-sus. Listen. You started this, you gotta end it. Go all the way. Finish the job.”
“You're right.”
“Job you must the finish you must you must!” was what he was saying when I hung up.
That night I came up with my final BMW ad. Here it is: A bald thirty-something trudges down-facedly over to a salesman at a BMW outlet, muttering “I can really use this car.” Then salesman goes. “Let me see.” The guy drops his pants; the salesman takes a peek, smirks, and says “Sure can.” Then the logo and the slogan, “BMW. 'Cause your dick can't hang.”
It was on TV a week later, all the major stations from Berlin to Belfast. The phones were ringing off the hook. BMW sales went threw the roof. Interns I'd never met were lining up outside my office to be whipped and belittled. The women's activist group called. They said, “Abusing your intern was good fun, and that blue urine was startling, but this new ad's really great! Stick to your guns!” People wore shirts that said “My dick can't hang” and, one assumes, walked around in those shirts when doing things like living their lives and being in public.
No matter how idiotic you aspire to be the world outpaces you.
I liquidated all my assets, put half in a suitcase, gave it to Fredo, hugged him, and got the fuck out of Europe. Halfway out the door, I had to warn him. “Irony is like Frankenstein,” I said. “You father the thing, but then it grows a brain and does what it wants.” He was crying, the poor bastard. I said, “Remember, Fredo. In this world you don't have a soul 'til you sell it.” I left again. Halfway down the block, I ran up the stairs, yanked the briefcase out of his hand, slapped his mouth, and got out of there. As Ex-Boss always said, “Speaking louder than words actions always must.” It was a bullshit motto for a man who wrote slogans, but it was true as all hell.


Tuesday, November 16, 2004

I'VE CO-WRITTEN R-KELLY'S BIGGEST HIT SINGLES

It all started that night I got it liquored the a-hole with R-Kelly at a warehouse event on the South Side. Solid scene: tic-tac Marias, high off the courvoisier drip, shakin' hip like woah with blackjack games poppin' off everywhere. I mean, everywhere. A no bullshit doo rag ethos kept any would-be haters in line and I was havin' a ball, soakin' up the vibe, talkin' smack like it was one love. Shit was fun, then we got into Kelly's car. As he put the key into the ignition, I had one of my Eureka moments.
“Kelly, chill.” I said.
“How so?”
“When you put the key in there it's like you're inserting your wang-nozzle into a prize-hole.”
We slapped hands really hard.
Right then, he started singing, “When I insert the key into the ignition, the former acts as an anatomical homologue for my erect penis which is just as desirous to enter the ignition's correspondent in your, hopefully moist, vaginaaaa….”
“Nah, man. Too much.”
“True.”
It took us all night, talking Kant, pissing on chicks, but we finally got it in its best formulation. The one you hear on the radio. That's right: “Ignition (Remix).”
Then months later we're at the San Diego Zoo. Me and Kelly both love zoos. I think it's 'cause you can point at animals in cages. And you can be drunk when you do that. We had on matching yellow-jacket doo rags, hitting up Kelly's flask of rum on a why-not tip. We were laughing it up, checking out the reptiles, and flipping the bird all the live long day. Whenever we saw a kid, we popped him the bird. Kids love that shit. I don't care what you say: Kids will always be more entertained by a flipped bird than any videogame they invent. Unless of course they invent a game where you can pop finger while killing a hooker. That would be ill.
We walked past the primate section and noticed two gorillas get mixed-up in some light petting. Kelly's a big fan of sex, so we stopped and took digital photogs. As we were walking away, I had one of those Eureka moments.
“Kelly. That gorilla shit could be a song.”
He got all excited and started improvising lyrics, “The other day I saw this gorilla touch on is female companion and I was reminded of my ineluctable desire to insert my male genitalia in your-peek-a-boo!- vagaaaaaaaania, my darling.”
“Not quite.”
“So close, so far.”
We spent all afternoon in the zoo laboring over those lyrics. We talked shop. We argued. We kissed (with tongue). It took awhile, but we got what we needed: Like two gorillas in the jungle making loooooove…It was perfect. Kelly put it best that sunset, studying the sun recline behind the hill overlooking the petting zoo: “Melding the atavistic primacy of “two gorillas” with the euphemistic romanticism of “making love” is gonna score us some major pussy! Damn we're good.”
The slap of hands we mutually created was the loudest one in the history of the state of California. It was incredible.
We split ways for a while. Kelly had some legal trouble. I laid low, then he called me nearly a year go, panicked, saying he had to prepare for an imminent collabo with Twista.
“What should I sing about?” He asked.
“Sex.”
“What facet?”
“The cool parts.”
“I dig it.”
“Make it an anthem to girls who get freaky.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I heard him getting all excited over the phone. “Like, like I appreciate the ladies with the affable vaginas not just for the jiggy that commences but for guaranteeing my seedling's continued prosperity, the biggest pimps being those who flourish on a Darwinian leveeeeel, my ladies…”
I took the next flight to Chicago and booked it to Kelly's crib. We got serious (e.g. ordered Vietnamese food). We whipped out the Ti-86 and started graphing shit. We argued. We hugged. We watched porn-like all D-A-Y. This went on for weeks. For metric inspiration, Kelly read Beowulf in the original. His Old English is off the chain. After it was all said and done, we'd gotten it: This is for the chicks that be ridin'/the ones that like to keep the dick up inside them… Kelly said, “I feel the way the Lord and Savior must've felt after saying 'Let there be light,' except I'm saying, 'Let there be pussy,' and I see it, and it's there, and it's good.”
I cried on his shoulder. And yeah, after wiping my eyes, we slapped hands, but softly this time, gently. Not even a full-on slap really. More like an E.T. finger union but with full palm. That's how real pimps roll.
Well, anyway, you can imagine my surprise when I saw Kelly on BET months later claiming he's illiterate and makes up his lyrics by himself-two things I know to be lies. I mean, I wasn't expecting a check, just some goddamn respect. I was gonna call his peeps and smoke him out, but then figured forget it. Let him come to me.
Of course he didn't, though, and it all came to a head when I ran into him at Usher's b-day shindig at the Rainbow Room in NYC. It had a twenty's theme. Flapper costumes and cigars like woah. Everyone looked bored and rich, like they wanted you to want to be them. It was awesome: Blackberries going off like fireflies, Diddy in the mix, being loud and awesome. He rolls with a bullhorn and just says shit. I gave jigga an ET hand slap than sidled over to wish Usher a merry b-spot on the dance floor. He was undergoing some kind of boogie woogie exorcism.
“14,” I said. “Big year. Big responsibilities.”
He said, “Nah, man. I'm 26.”
I pointed my finger at him like a gun, pulled the thumb trigger, and started laughing. He got all dimply and did the same thing right back. Then he did a pirouette. You don't make it as far as he has without knowing how to follow directions.
I proceeded to get liquored out the a-hole and was telling a caterer about my years in Ecuador, when I recognized a voice lifting above all others, suggesting a melody, carrying like an angel of lust, a voice only one man on this planet has been blessed with: Kelly.
“Perdon,” I said, martini in hand, and there he was, just behind me, regaling a group of businessman as only Kelly can:
“So I graphed the third derivative of the integral, urinated on my niece, and just wrote the damn thing.”
He was in charm mode. They were all guffawing and smoking fat cigars. Hand slaps were hard and occurring.
“I pulled The Faerie Queen from my bookshelf and I just-”
“Don't you mean we,” I said.
His visible look of shock, when turning around and seeing me there, was tempered a bit by the robin hood eye mask.
“Gentleman,” he said. “Meet The Expert.”
They acknowledged me with grumbles and nodding heads, cigars gritted between teeth.
“Hey fellas. Nice dicks in your faces-I mean, cigars. Sorry,” I said. “Homos one and all?”
They consulted each other's confusion.
“You guys'll never pull off a smooth, low-pro ET handslap. You don't have the goddamn 'jones for it.”
Maybe I was drunk.
“Expert,” Kelly said. “I know what this is about.”
“Go piss on Usher's dimple. It's innocent enough.”
The rest is a blur. Security was summoned. I remember saying I pitied anyone who had to piss on beauty to appreciate it. Then I proceeded to urinate everywhere, saying people pissed in the twenties, too, so what the fuck. I said being rich didn't make you cool it just gave you access to the capital necessary to make you cool. I dissed Diddy's bullhorn and implied his penis had the shape and size of a slimjim. Everyone acted real glad when they dragged me out of there, but I knew I'd gotten through. I saw them shivering on the inside. Especially Kelly. I wanted to exaggerate how far I'd fallen to give him something to think about.
When I came home, that voice was on my answering machine, singing: “Sometimes I wish you had a vaginaaaaa, so I could express with my penis what my words can't say right now to this maaaaaaachine…”
People call him a master of Eros, but no one has a greater purchase on poignancy than R-Kelly. We're back in touch, working on a track called “If My Mouth Were a Penis and Your Ear a Vagina, I'd Give This Love Its Just Expression…”


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