Saturday, December 14, 2013

The end of our Careers + modeling (egendes, SOL Volume I) Feb. 94

The end of our career’s “Other kids will think I’m corny but fuck them clowns.” JQ

Teammates. That was my mother and I to a tee. We’d often forget we were our family. She was my mother and I was her son. And Brooke was her daughter my hero and sister. And maybe the Big Guy was right within the same vein of Rollie, “that’s all you need. And then you have your own family make your own family instead of making excuses.” And it had been a rough ten years for my mother. And she had the biggest heart of us all. And that’s not how dollars are dolled out. And there in lay to a certain degree my deep respect for the US Dollar. I had a crew and there in line the almighty respect I had for all of them. And there were soldiers, students, good kids, tough kids, crazy kids, blue bloods, oxford kids, middle of the middle kids, black kids, white kids, east, west of the far corners of the world Madison MA had it all. And I was fascinated by it. My family in a sense had always been what your now reading on your screen. My adventure. And at some point life kicks in. And that was now. And I was the sole remaining element to make good on our story our truest friends and alley porch smokers, Ativan advisors, lost girls - only the lonely. The only people that ever came through (love) and that winter, the promise, passion, crucible moment that I’d always advertised and dreamed about crushed under the might of the almighty, “story.” No B on the Spanish T.

And on this Monday morning in the heart of the worst in the winter of my senior forever anticipated year of high school @ Madison we’d been hit hard by life. And I was sad. All until finding again and again at these moments, that, well, throwing it all away is easy actually enjoyable task. And it confirmed to me that I was crazy and I liked that too. Because outside of my coaches, homeboys and few other receptions I saw frauds. Living it fucking up. And I hated it. And I found that I didn’t share their ideals their passions or beliefs. And those were the kernels. It just never really sat. I had a “voice” and I was up in the sir how I wanted it to shake. Saying fuck it and I don’t give a fuck was my everything and without a doubt I knew in the mirror, I was nothing. And it was had troubling. I was a kid and by default stuff would happen around me. And it will always remain precious time both in memories and scholastic sacrifice in this modern world yto08uth will forever inherent, US youth. There are alternatives to fighting as OB-1 quoted as well as alternatives 2 intelligence. And that word is intelligence.

And my promise was being threatened everyday. And I’d never not find love from my family which doctors insisted were never a family, friends, companions, buddies, homey’s whatever you want to call it but not family.” Why do you think the term “fam” soared in hip hop, trended undyingly like a true mother fucker for a decade plus, why?

Lost in my own plight to varying degrees was of course the family I had in front of me. My mother my sister and my girlfriend. And it wasn’t ADD. I just did basically whatever the fuck I wanted to wherever I felt like it. And the troops had worn thin. And it was in this spirit one wintery Monday morning that my brief modeling career at the heist of my mother was launched.

7:00AM. “ma, ma, what? What time is it? Who died? What hospital?”

“No, no shh, shh, mamas baby, no one died, would you stop it, I have pretty awesome news for you this morning, and your going to love it. Still want to try and get another thirty mi8nutes?” She knew me the best. I popped up like a breakfast treat. “OK, What?” “Well for starters you have the day off, no school bunky!” “What!” I flashed my super bowl face, what!” And I emotionally hedged instantly well versed in the lifestyle and language. “Ma, is this court related, are you kidding me? I didn’t do it. Whatever it is? Jesus age Christmas, I’m going back top sleep.” One of the things I’d taken for the Big Guy was no longer swearing. I called them “Disney swears.” The Big Guy never used foul language. He was a Jimmity Crickets guy and I loved it. And fearing nothing good, new then collapsing not falling back into my sheets, I’m out.

“No, no no silly, Carl wake up please. We have a big day.”” Thinking to myself, what’s this we shit I def do not know what’s going on. “What do you mean we have a big day?” And my heart sank. I could tell like she could tell when she or me was up to something. But it was my teammate. And there was no panic. My mother had great ideas. She loved dancing to the 50’s. Loved the Jackson 5 and always rolled the dice in my defense sprinkled over various administrations. Subsequently I was never held back and didn’t have AIDS (1983 – Lawnmower story).

I rode with my mama. And no one in Madison did that. Lamont did that with Flo. And I did that. And that wasn’t black or white. Mom’s are moms however we saw each other across the street so it didn’t matter what was said. It only mattered that we could see. It only mattered no matter what happened to either of us we’d do everything in our arsenal to make sure we’d be OK. And that’s what was processed. Life’s only occasionally dressed up.

And for my mother, at seventeen I was a last gasp of maybe. Of hope of dreams, riches and a real family for all of us. “OK, well what’s going on?” “OK, so I sent your head shots, I’ve heard some mothers taling about this on the Sally Jenniungs show….” And within her fix quick miracles that never work for anyone she continued, “we have to meet your maybe your maybe agent Downtown crossing at1!” And all’s I could think was, Downtown crossing? And then I got excited. This meant my mother would have to drive on the highway. And I foolishly believed I with happy Saturday morning spirit could conquer something as severe as real panic attacks. I’d always believe it was just energy positive energy or a lack there of that prevented her from driving on highways. And I then got excited for something much more important in my personal universe than another day off from high school.

Monday, December 09, 2013

Just Another Manic Monday Wish it Were A Sunday - Jan 94 (thepits)

Skeetah’s Problems:

Skeetah Cote was perhaps the funniest, most unique kid I knew. And it came with a price. And I moved further away from what I long established was his own ticking time bomb of non sense. And it was tough. He was the poor kid in a rich town. He was forever over compensating and getting caught for dumb shit. And his actions after Santo’s death had warranted some courage on his end approaching this manioc Monday morning ion the throng of my senior year of high school. After all I’d always love him. But like Lando said to Han in cloud city, “got problems of my own.” And when he went down he was taking anyone around him with. A chip on the shoulder can accelerate the “I don’t give a fuck” mode to undesirable levels.

My boy C’s torture was almost as bad as my sisters accident. And I could now see, plainly, the other side to all of this. And it was a good play. And it felt right. But the past, what a mother fucker the past can be. It never goes away. And at some point always has to be dealt with. And better decision making lessened such ills. Among the many revelations of that week was I’d gone too far, too reckless with it all. I’d taken basic precautions I felt any idiot would do. And after three and a half years I’d established I was one pretty smart kid watching so many fall off and get caught on the dumbest off shit with serious repercussions. Kids are so fucking dumb.

But I’d had too much past involved with too many things. And I could never say no. I’d experience the stress that creates jumpers. And breathe it out and pray breathe it out and pray. I’d pray for guidance and better decision making. I’d pray for my sister, Des’ brother in prison, Joe’s brother in prison, Lamont’s brother in prison, I’d pray for my grandfather and my sister. I’d pray for my parents and my crew. I’d pray for the composure to say no, to not let these circumstances catch me an addiction. I’d pray for Hank, Black, black people in general, the poor. And I’d pray for me. I’d pray for me because that’s what my mom told me I should pray for. And god dam it I did. I didn’t want to ruin my life. I wanted to be something, something inspiring, something big. And like so often in life my realizations may have come a dollar short, day late.

And so it was with great hesitation I agreed to a five minute meeting with Skeet who I knew was in some shit trying to avoid. My “script” had gone fire alarm tilt and being in the center of just about all it, I was running for the witness protection program. Basketball kept me strong but we had lost again, fuck! We’d won a fourth and fifth straight and then lost on the road. Madison Minutemen never lost forever in our league and now twice which equaled the regular season loss total of my prior two years. It destroyed us despite the fact our crowds never wavered. We were good. We were in the hunt we were Madison however our Achilles heel was clearly our center. And was now exposed. We’d struggle with teams sporting 6-5 plus centers. I’d put up sold #’s starting every game along with Magic our mothers found happiness and the increasing number of college coaches courting our hardwood prowess.

And then there was this…>

Monday morning (1/10/94) and before the first bell of the day rings, Skeetah tells me, “Dude, I need a five minute meeting pronto.” Skeet had one of the most memorable voices in Madison. And he said dude after every adjective. Skeetah had got really bad really quickly in just the past month. That alone was saying something.

In the thick of my universe I pretended not to notice his sharp decline. He was in ACE with me hanging with ACE kids every school night drinking with low-level drug dealers from other towns. “Ok come over here.” And we scurry into a corner his face was pale white. I didn’t want to do it. I knew it. I didn’t know the details but I knew. He was in a lot of trouble. And these were my days. It wasn’t regular. “Dude, dude, I fucked up bad this time.” Unable to fathom what that entails coming from him I say “yeah” unenthusiastically. “Yeah dude, you think I’m fucking joking?” I was now pissed. “Skeetah what happened you mindless fuck! Tell me and I can try to help.” “I don’t know dude.” I settled him down, “tell me what happened.” “OK, dude, every night, I mean kid I’ve getting housed dude every night. I mean fucking shit housed, dude” “OK Steve great, get to the point.” “OK, well every night before I go home there’s this house, a rich house and I’ve chucked a rock threw the window, you know before I go home a nightcap dude.” “Yeah you know what I’m talking about, well anyway dude, oh Jesus. OK well me and Stanger our coming back loaded from Gallows” “I hate that kid.” Gallow was a dirty ACE kid who didn’t brush his teeth a real butthead northeast redneck from money. The ACE staff had OK’d me wrestling him anytime I felt. “I know dude, but anyway, it was real bad out there last night dude, I mean I was wasted.” “Yeah bad storm, OK, so what happened, you broke another window.” “Yeah but dude not any window, the only one left, all week I’ve hit this house. Anyway I get out of the car, and run up to the last window half cock eyed and smash the last window, but dude, the son was waiting up for me kid! Je e e e e e e e e sus!” “What?” “Yeah dude, so I turn to jet and slip dude on his front step kid.” “Sooooooooo what happened?” Now he’s got me hooked. “I mean I got up dude but he was hot on my tail kid, I was screaming Stanga, Stanga start that shit. So I dive into shotgun dude, Stanga’s trying to get us in gear and the fucking guy, the son, he jumped on the hood of the car as where trying to get out of there. So Stanga finally gets us into first and” “Wait, what were you doing?” “What was I doing?” “Yeah.” “What do you think I was doing?” “I don’t know” “I was blasting him with the windshield wipa fluid!” “Oh yeah of course.” “Yeah so anyway we get to third and bang we finally got traction dude it’s snowing like a blizzard, and this maniacs still hanging on the hood wipa fluid and Stanga’s swearving, so Stanga just out of the blue hits the brakes and the guy goes flying off the hood.” “And then what?” I ask mortified “I don’t know he hit a pole and we left him there in the side of the road layen there.” “Jesus fucking Christ Skeetah Cote “What the fuck am I going to do Carl? Should I run?” It was a crazy question and one that had been asked of me last year in ACE by another student in a crazy situation. My circuits crashed. We all had to come clean. “I mean dude this guy might be dead for Christ sakes, I just went through this with Brooke, with the guy in the apartment, thank god, but that is a ridiculous story.” He looked down disappointed, “I know dude.” I saw a tear. It shook me. “Dude.” And before it could get any further I hugged him. “Shhh, listen, we’ll all live, listen closely buddy, it was smart you came to me, this is your move.” I wanted to get him a hide out. “Honestly, I’d go up and tell the Big Guy, better than running, and he likes you, he’s the only one that could help you. ” And it was true the Big Guy had helped ACE kids in the courts when they had come clean. I’d seen it, he knew the judges and the PO’s running ACE all of those years he definitely had connections at Concord court. “Plus man, you’re a wreck lately, what the fuck happened to you?” “I don’t know dude, your right, I gotta come clean.” He’d been drinking at school and been suicidal in general. And in our lives myself and my sisters he was one of many. “Tell the Big Guy, the son will ID your car which is already on their list. They’ll hear a blue Acura and you’ll be the first one they come looking to talk with.” “Dude are you fucking kidding me!” “Be honest with the Big Guy, cry and show immense remorse, question everything, I’ve been doing it for years, this will make you less fucked.” “Your right dude, I love you kid.” “I love you too man, handle that, crazy shit, just do it and slow it down for a second take the lumps, the Big Guy has love for you, Coach Sullivan too. I know.”

And I went through my next two mainstream majors with Magic happy to be there. Every announcement or distraction I thought was about me. Finally fourth period I was up in ACE for the next couple of hours. I was anxious to get up there support Skeetah and see how he did. Walking down the long ACE corridor I heard laughing, which stopped as soon as everyone saw me. Steve wasn’t present. The before lunch crowd was silent. The Big Guy was shaking his head about to blow. It became relatively obvious my dude had not followed my instructions. “I’d be careful if I were you, Mr. Speech maker.” My face goes Red Sox, “what?” This was a nightmare, “What happened? Did Steve come up here and tell you guys anything?” Everyone cracks up. Coach Sullivan falls over, my eye brows invert, “Where is he right nhow?” And then the Big Guy without hesitation looked me dead in the eye and dropped a classic to howls, “He’s singing like a Canary.” “What?” “Down at the police station right now.” “HOLY shit, I’m sorry shoot, scoot, shit, man, dam you know what I mean, what did he tell you?” I fired off in rapid succession. He re capped what happened. Everyone in the room couldn’t be happier because this was the Big Guy at his best. I wasn’t overtly enthusiastic to listen to a song I missed on rewind but then again I had no choice.

The Big Guy began his warm up the crowd says, “can you believe that just happened in Consumer Education Coach Gibbs?” And then looks at me “so what do you know?” It was my coach and teacher and he had asked for an answer. He’d ask to spill my cookies. “Well I know that Steve, um, had a guy jump on his car after he threw a rock through this guys house window last night, he’d been throwing rocks through this guys windows all week starting Monday. I guess last night the son stayed up.” And now I was in my element alive feeding what would become an all time ACE story. “So you boy Skeet rocked the window the kid flew out of the house, Eh he was yelling Stanga Stanga get us out of here!” I bust my ACE respected Steve Lee impersonation. He slammed the breaks and this guy flew off the car, I told him to come up here and confess to the whole thing, I said it was over. You were the only one that could help him. He was crying, did he not do that?”

There’s a moment of silence before a thunderous laugh. The Big Guy screams, “that’s what happened! “Yeah what happened up here?” I ask now hyper with a smile on my face. “Well for starters, “ The Big Guy picks up, “He didn’t do that.” “You mean didn’t confess to that like he promised he would.” Chuckles “No.” He then dips his chin and without speaking shakes it once again back and forth slowly, “he didn’t do that?” “No, and then, were sitten in consumer ed talking about Belmont and the police squad cars and a detective come driving in to the parking lot. And I notice it, and jokingly, at first, (winks at Sully) I ask Steve, and Jason and Lagrel, if it’s for them, I mean this is ACE.” Digesting I say, “yeah” And then I look back out, and the police are parked right around Steve’s car, and IU say.” Pausing for effect and changing his tone, “Hey Steve, isn’t that your car. And you know him he’s saying, no dude, no dude, that ain’t my car (in the famed Stevie Lee voice screech). You know so I’m trying to get back to class” The Big Guy along with everyone else starts laughing again so I let out a chortle as the Big Guy continues, “But I can’t! I like can’t stop turning my head back out the window, it’s like a Soap Opera (everyone’s laughing) all of a sudden the detective pulls up in a red Cadillac” the master story teller continues, “And this guy is in like a suit looken at this car!” I laugh a bit more hardy as the Big Guy says, “And I look at him and say, hey Steve, I mean are you sure that’s not your car, the blue one? It looks like your car. And you know him, he’s saying no dude no dude.” I finally say, “wow” “Anyway, then another car comes and we’re like all looking out the window Steve is sitting in the back and I say, (changes his tone) Hey Steve, I don’t know if it’s your car or not but they are opening it up? Finally he capitulates and in a state of fear and denial says, “it looks like it coach.” And emphatically shaking his head with certainty adds, “but it ain’t mine.”

“Ok well why do you think their looking through it, and you know him, he was like I have no idea dude, right Sully?” The Big Guy validates, “Cahl, “ He starts chorling, “a hundred percent accurate. Dude!” I’m mesmerized, “So then what happened?” The Big Guy laughs, “And then he’s like just sweating waiting for the bell, I ask him again, hey Steve, what did you do last night? Theirs like a detective picking your lock” “Nothing but I was with Stanger.” “And then he left. Just walked out.” My hearts in my stomach for what seemed like the umpteenth time during my high school career. Feeling it very appropriate and deadly curious I harmonize an, “ahhhhhh” before picking up, “Well” “And how do you know about it?” “Because!” I speak louder than usual “I hope your not involved in this” and before I can retort, “you should probably run too.” A light chuckle amongst the faithful, “Hey, first of all. This was big and I had nothing to do with this.” THIS WAS ace, THE STAGE FOR SO MUCH OF MY HIGH SCHOOL HAPPINESS. I repeat, “nothing and secondly, it’s an unbelievable story,”

Everyone in ACE was giddy cause on those grounds it was all about the story. It’s where my skill was crafted most carefully, tactfully learning the fine art of telling an unbelievable story from the master daily in his den. “Spill it.” The Big Guy decrees just as anxious as everyone to hear this after that. “OK first off Steve approaches me before first block, shook.” Everyone is laughing already and I knew from jump it was an instant classic. In the halls of ace, the delinquents, coaches, couches and basketball they had seen their fair terrain of legendary material. Some much of it spun from the Big Guy’s cosmic imagination. “How shook?” Big Guy needs an instant context. “The worst I’ve ever seen, and not to sensationalize, but when you hear this story, the kid is white as a ghost and sweating.” “Did he kill someone?” Coach Sullivan asks an appropriate question, “No,” then remembering “actually maybe.” “What?!” Coach Gibbs and Steve Thompson jump as ACE had always had the craziest stories. “Well I don’t know but basically he comes up to me like he’s about to run, you know?” And as educators in their classes and in this program you knew exactly what that meant. “Wow” “yeah so the guy jumps on the hood, Stanger is trying to get the car in gear in the blizzard and I ask Steve what he was doing at that point (doing his famous voice) YO Carl WHAT THE FUCK YOU THINK I WAS DOING? I WAS FUCKING BLASTING HIM WITH THE WIPA FLUID, BLASTEN EM WITH THE WIPA FLUID!”

This sent the timeless ACE staff of teachers, students and coaches into full throttle hysterics. Everyone at once was attempting to say, “Blasten em with the wipa fluid.” And knowing when to pause for effect while telling a story, I do, but not too long to dry up the honed attention my voice is casting upon the hoops hardened lot. “So he finally gets this thing into third, punches it and right as he does slams on the brakes and the guy goes flying off into a tree, they looked back, he didn’t move and then took off leaving him there. And that’s it, you know, I heard that this morning and told him at this point on that triple probation and everything else he’d have to come clean. We all know now he didn’t.” A few minutes of content silence pass before the master of my then universe the Big Guy utters perhaps his most famous phrase. In his trademark dead panned uninhibited tone he said only, “Singen like a Canary.” “Excuse me?” I had no idea what this very bright man was talking about, I questioned his timing. “Um coach what’d you mean? Singing like a Canary?” And the Big Guy had heard enough at this point, “ yup I’d go down there and tell Stanger, Steve is down at the police station right now giving him up.” “What?” I’m almost mad. “Yup, you heard me, I’d be worried about you too.” What!” Now I’m pissed, “I wasn’t with him.” “So what? Are you sayen you’ve never done anything illegal with Chris your whole life.” “Yes, maybe, no, what’s your point?” “He’s making deals singing like a Canary” “hey if you stole something from Candy Castle with him in the 6th grade, you’ll probably get a call.” The color flushed from my face the Big Guy made a good point who knew who he’d give up to save his ass at this point.

Stunned “I get to go.” And the staff laughs again appreciative of their front row seats for our everyday soap opera. Walking down the ACE hall into the main buildings general population I can faintly hear Big Guy whaling, “Eh Stanger is the first guy you gotta find, eh Sully, he’s given everyone up for anything, singen like a Canary.” Their laughter is all’s I can hear as I race to find Stanger. I hate it when the Big Guy says stuff like he’s been saying. First Hank and now Skeet shot they both fell off. One came from no money and the other hailed from more money than anyone knew what to do with. Therefore, money doesn’t make things right. It doesn’t build character and it doesn’t make or break children. I had much on my mind and memory that morning but one thing was clear I had to find Stanger. I’d surprisingly had quite an a affection for Stanger now that I had thought on it coming out of the ACE program after Skeet’s jolting non confession on my personal scream sheet. Chris had fished Stanger from relative unknown high school obscurity and landed him in a spot light he was ready to accommodate in any fashion to keep his shine. I could look past the fact that his race up the social ladder of a game I now controlled was due to the very aspects that helped me and my small band of rebels destroy in the first place. It didn’t matter to me anymore, I’d seen Astori for what it was, and now in crunch time I was racing to preserve myself. Stanger was straight up, but he was caught up, and the fact that he lived in housing far below the regular way means of Astori also guided me to his cause that morning. The bottom line was that I had known Steve Lee allot longer than he and in far more intimate way as it pertained to tight situations with your ass on the line. The Big Guy was right, Steve as always was out for himself, and I didn’t blame him, his life is a roller coaster. I’d never forget my mom cleaning those bathrooms with a bad back for peanuts. Finally a little before noon I spot Stanger chilling in G house rough house, “Stanger!” I call out a few feet in front of him. Stanger a straight shady soldier gave me always the respect I’d now grown accustomed too.

“Mr. Paradise, what’s up baby, how you living kid, I know you good, right, right.” A pound and hug. “You know what’s up, what are you doing right now.” Dispensing with the pleasantries I needed to get right to the point. “Nothing just hanging out. What’s up, you want to go smoke a little something-something?” His face reveals that devious glow of a smile that protrudes off adolescent lips when they know they are forever doing things they are not supposed to be doing. “Fuck that shit.” The last thing I needed at this point was more of an anxiety attack which under these circumstances some cheap weed would definitely spring. “Nah, get your car, I know about last night.” “What, what do you mean kid?” “Stanger I know, look Steve told me, his car has been towed, I told him to confess up in ACE to Coach Farias, he didn’t, he’s at the police station right now, I gotta talk to you.” And that was enough for him. “OK, let’s go, I’ll yank the Jetta around right now. We’ll hit up the Mc. D’s in Waltham.” “Bet.”

And the quick jaunt to our favorite fast food hut was much more relaxed THAN I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE, Stanger was at relative ease. He kept saying, “Man that sucks for him, I have no idea why he was doing that. I mean I had nothing to do with it. If they towed his car, he’s probably going to get screwed.” He just didn’t get it. One of the perks of juvenile delinquency was an early appreciation of how cops worked and you’d better become familiar with if you hoped to survive in a shady world. First and foremost as learned Freshman year on the bike path with Henry was guilt by association. And if there was one thing that the Big Guy in our struggles of what I needed to do to get out and at least give myself the opportunity to be successful was simply this: it’s all about the company that you keep. He saw my unabated and sometimes blind faith I gave to my friends. After so many of these stories to him this was my biggest problem above all else. “Stanger, you ever heard about Guilt by Association?” “Yeah, maybe, I don’t know, but I didn’t do anything, I didn’t even know he was going to do it, I was trying to get a lift home.” “that’s what I’m saying son. It doesn’t matter! You were there that makes you apart of it.” “Yeah but who would know that? He knows I’m on probation. It was him being crazy” “That’s what I’m telling you Stanger, Coach Farias told me he’s at the Police Station right now singing like a Canary.” “Carl, thanks for the heads up.” He says putting his now trademark sunglasses back on, Steve would never do that to me. He’s my best friend and I had nothing to do with that shit bro. You sure you don’t want to get high?” “yeah I’m sure, a-ight, well put it this way, I’m worried he’s going to drop dimes on me, you know the police have all sorts of open investigations, on going shit, I’m just saying if I’m freaking out on some stale shit, you should watch your back..” Stanger just laughs as we shut the door and get out of the car. “You a paranoid mutha fucka Carl dam!” He said with a big smile and genuine laugh of an old friend. “I love you kid, you know that, you’re a legend, but the day I get in trouble for minding my business just sitting in a car, I’m not sweating that.” And walking back into the main hall as a bell rings instantaneously populating our “main” area, familiar faces emerge. Spotting Magic and Monster I inch just far away from Stanger to see what I don’t want to see. What appears to me a sea of blue uniforms walking straight towards us diligently.

Fuck

I think to myself before ducking down behind Monster and my girl E Double. “Dude what the fuck did you do bro?” Monster knows it’s always something and doesn’t break the human body shield / cover he’s now become a small part of. I was officially paranoid. “Oh shit dude cops are coming, Carl sweety, are you OK.” E Double asks, “Yeah, just stand just like that for a second here. I’m fine” “What’s going on?” I ask as I hear Monster laugh, “Holy shit, Stanger!” he screams as Stanger looks back and see’s the cops. He’s immune from the anxiety that put me on his needs and simply nods and smiles to the approaching officers. Quickly in front of a great deal of high school students in the main hall of the main BUILDING HE WAS THROWN AGAINST THE WALL AND HANDCUFFED. He’s screaming, “I didn’t do anything!” And is efficiently whisked away. I quickly spring up and a floored Monster asks, “Dude what the fuck was that?” “Yo I’ll explain LATER, ACTUALLY COME WITH ME YO upstairs.” “Let’s go!” He follows me as a jolt towards the ACE program, bursting in as the pizzas arrive for lunch everyone stops. “What’s the latest?” The Big Guy asks “They just cuffed Stanger.” I take a deep breath before finishing. “In the main hall, in front of everyone.” My panic is lost on all most importantly a now really confused Monster as they all begin laughing hysterically. “It’s not funny!” I protest. The Big Guy would volley back his mantra on this one in his most deliberate of tones. “Singing like a Canary.” Fuck. “Hey Monster!” the Big Guy bellows, “Hey you better run for it, your boy Steve Lee is down at the police station cutting deals, tell the Young Guns to run for the hills! If you stole a penny chocolate from Candy castle four years ago he’s giving you up right now.” Coach Sullivan was laughing so hard it appeared this could be the funniest story he’s ever heard. “That’s one.” He spits laugh to drive his point ruffling his lips and making a noise like a starting moped. “Hey Cahl it’ll be a miracle if you get out of here.” “Thanks coach.” “Hey I hope your not next.” I needed the final bell to ring.

Next Chap pre view

January 24th, 1994 Miserable Season My senior year and basketball was almost over. We were good but not great, we had lost four games already and the Globe had yet to tank us anywhere close in the coveted scholastic top twenty. 12-4, not too bad, but for us, not even close to where we thought we’d be. And we were close to mailing it in. Butting heads with the Big Guy all season long we were babies. We cut corners and now without Santo and Stretch our weaknesses as individual players were highlighted and expose. I couldn’t go right, Magic couldn’t score and Goldy couldn’t play any defense. But mostly it was sad, and it wasn’t sad because Stretch’s knee buckled or Santo passed away. Something that I once cared about more than anything in the world, my rock, Rollie I was now indifferent towards. We would still qualify for the state tournament but in Madison and for this once thought of “special” class it had been for all of us a very disappointing season. The best teams continually smoked us. I was tired.

It sucks so badly. It sucks that the good teams inhale us. It sucks that I have to shake their hands after the game. It sucks that I have to be around the Big Guy all day after a loss. It sucks that we’re not being profiled in papers. It sucks that Paul got ripped, Carmine got ganked and it sucks about Stretch, Stretch and what happened to my mother as a kid, fuckers.

All of my own turmoil has seeped into our miserable senior year season. Stretch had become sullen not even making it to road games making only an occasional appearance at our home games to support our once magical goal of winning the state title. The Big Guy was equally frustrated and seemed willing to break us for greater lessons he believed were out there. Last week he benched Magic in favor of an untested freshman just to fuck with him. He’d threaten us each all year with players he’d admonish and ultimately weren’t that good. He believed the Young Guns living in the capitol city of excuse land would use the plethora of unfortunate happenings as an excuse to not strive for greatness. And it wasn’t true. Sometimes the added “push” rather than a much needed “pat” backfires. Mike, the point guard the Big Guy named Magic in the fourth grade, was benched for a freshmen that probably looked up to him. It was crushing thing to do to your senior point guard. Mike because he tried out and made the Metro Bay State gold medal hoop team that past summer was getting more college attention that any of us. And the benching mind fucked him and suddenly a kid that shot over 100K free throws at Hayden over the past eight years couldn’t make half. It was astonishing, the mental, Magic shooting 43% from the free throw line, really? On the floor we all lived in fear. The Big Guy would tell us, “you can shoot anytime you want, from anywhere, but if it doesn’t go in, I might take you out.” For some reason, as a shooter, and without our frontcourt our shots were selfish. We were going backwards.

almost there :) .......

Sunday, December 08, 2013

Jan 11th 1994 Collapse of an Empire - SOL, Volume 1, Legendes (your are not a Jedi knight yet)

My act had cleaned up after three straight victories. My daytime polish and the positive attention that came with it had outweighed the bad and my belief in it. I was truly astonished. And it seemed after three victories and one loss to last years state champion there existed a mystique. A flow of good energy and positive people that had created a powerful suction to the subterfuge that engulfed so many of these ridiculous situations I found engulfed in graying the hair on my balls. I loved the embassoador, the politician I could finally understand Magic’s passion for it all. Who would ever want to repeat whatever the hell I’d just done here over the last three and half years. And despite the loss of Santo, Stretch and all that other shit, the Young Guns, Yoda, widening his eyes at the swamp watching what we can pull off here. I’m turning it all around. A good legend.

I’d come back from suspension, ad we’d won three in a row. In the real world my stock was up post Santo’s death. Happy times in the ACE program were here again. And I was playing the role, rocking sweaters, less of my sister’s jewelry. I was focused and smart with my time. Things were good but I was far from and not a Jedi yet.

“What happened to your arm?” “What happened to your main stream classes” “Why do you think your black?” ”How’s your sister?” “Did she really skate with Nancy Kerrigan?” “How’s your mother?” “What are you doing for money?” “Your not black dude” “Is it true you survived a shark attack?” “What medication are you on other than Ritalin?” “And your mother while we’re at it” “I saw you play basketball” “Your very good, why don’t you come to Norwich carl?” “What are you doing tonight?” “Have you ever smoked crack?” “Everyone knows you, you know that right?” “you’re a fraud!” “you’re a funny kid” “Dude, give me one more week” “Carl!” “Hey – you can’t fly with the eagles and walk with the turkey’s” “You get a C just for showing up” “Legend!” “Loser” “Hi.” “I’ve loved what I’ve seen lately, you might get out of this thing yet, you might be OK.” “Dude, I was blasting him with the windshield wiper fluid” “you’re the worst.” “Wiga”

Staring at my four-cornered room I was worried about my gambling business. Shit had become sloppy Deny, deny, deny, that’s me, what the fuck were you thinking Goldy? It was late in the night and tonight and I’ve just endured the latest in a long line of another one of “those” stories. You know the stories. The take away my legs and enter me in the high jump stories. I always felt better when I cried so why not do it? I was unable at that point to simply get away. OK, god, dear god, I just want Mrs. D to hear good things about me. There’s an escape.

The Smoking Gun:

I hadn’t even asked my boy C about the #’s over the last week. I was out but still couldn’t let go. I’d built something and for better or for worse something profitable stood. I saw gambling for what it was, Wall St. And ever since Eddie Murphy gave me the original tip that clarity only exemplified itself. I had at Des’s discretion over the past few years read any book I could get my hands on about Wall St. and then not so very away but instantly revered gilded decade of the go go 80’s. And they were all the same. It was a game. And it was about perception managing risk deceiving customers and doing whatever it took to gain that pearly, almighty, “edge.” I rarely viewed what I did as illegal. I’d buy the line that these were for the most part youth but that didn’t sinister it to a degree I gave a fuck ever.

What I saw in Madison most clearly against the forces I faced was a massive hypocrisy. And I wouldn’t be trapped. I’d be a broker one day, a trader and this was simply the minor league of training. And I was taking all necessary steps. My Uncle Clay worked everyday of that erect decade. He dated Hollywood royalty headlining himself as one of many the new stars of the day, young Wall St. attorneys and traders. Money made me not give a fuck backwards. Not listen. I was and had always been a businessman. But that was all bull shit. I was nothing more than a punk existing in a chimerical land of my own wit and belief. I was scared. I was insecure. And the thing of the whole thing was, I wasn’t angry anymore. And outside of being to ever really effect change over racist souls in my dearest United States I only had the man in the mirror to figure out, deal with and perhaps change.

I’d love the last few weeks. I loved the good vibes. I loved the extra step, thought or action that helped another person. I’d always had this in me in varying capacities. And even in that vein it was so much more than what I saw from my fellow peers, adults and humans around me. I was alive and intent on changing on how I behaved and where I directed my energies. But I still couldn’t let go entirely of that little bookshop I started four years ago that fall passing out football cards to my peers and teachers. I knew in my heart of all hearts my particular graduation growth whatever you wanted to call it I had to let it all go. And trust a system I suspected of treason itself. Let it all go, trust the Big Guy my coaches and respected counselors I admired that preached the path. I was a dumb kid. And no matter the signs, sirens or hospital beds still after all of this wanted his cake and eat it too. I was you see, still very much smarter than everyone. What a joke. The bottom line was I was still collecting ends from my boy C therefore I was still involved no matter how I conned myself. I was still very much still involved. And it hung like a cloud over every gigantic stride I’d made over the past three weeks and to a greater degree three and a half years.

The Collapse of an Empire: My worst fear had always been an employee would somehow through some crazy small town situation find themselves in the presence of the guy whose name you can’t mention and explode the whole thing.

And those worst fears were realized one afternoon in the Hayden weight room from my prized Sophomore officials Dylan and Lael. They were bench pressing was how I heard it. “it’s kind of fucked up about Kilgore’s chain.” “You heard he melted it down at Astori coin the next day right? “What a dick?” “yeah I know, seven, eight, nice, one more dude, one more.” “You know a bet he doesn’t even put in bets with that guy he tells us about.” “Yeah wouldn’t be surprising. I heard the guy whose name no one ever mentions or whatever the case is a boxer named Orlando.” “Well guys making some money off high school kids.”

Being the calm and cool Italian boxer slash straight hustler that he was and is he said nothing. Why would he? No he just started whaling on the bag a little harder computing callous calculations plotting his next move banging the big bag. He would never let them know he was right there. He let the glacier really sink its jaws into my personal titanic. Of course I didn’t know any of this until two AM tonight, after another disturbing beep and call from Enrico. E told me the story about the conversation the guy whose name we’re not supposed to mention overheard. “Fuck.” “And they got him?” “yup” “And they got all of our money?” “yup, and you set up your boy C with a call, and they scoped?” “yup.” “Fuck” “Pretty much.” Enrico said almost enjoying this before adding, “if it wasn’t for me it would’ve been you.” Enrico and the guy whose name we can’t mention were supposedly cousins. I was being beeped. “I gotta break, this is my boy C, did they beat him up?” And E just laughed, “yeah.” bitch ass curtain

Clicked back over

“C? I know buddy, I know, I heard, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry come over, no, come over.” I saw headlights masquerading their way down dog wood lane. I walked down the driveway and he rolled his widow down in his crown Vic, “Yo park at the bottom of Barrymeade and we’ll go up to Sugar Ray’s.” He simply nodded his head, he was hurt and it stabbed me with guilt. “Paul.” And I embrace a kid that had stood tall next to me since the third grade. We both cry. I can’t believe it. The two worlds had touched. Walking up the wooden ladder in my next store neighbor’s Mercedes and Porsche garage it would take more than “a minute” to slice through all the huffing and puffing. I had never seen my 3rd grade pal in such dire straights, we had been through some shit and I was terribly concerned. After I used every therapist skill that I had acquired over the past decade to settle him down we talked. Gradually I heard the whole horror story. Carmine called Paul, he was a partner of ours, Paul knew we had sold a portion of the business to Carmine. Paul knew I had tried to shield Carmine time and again from the eventual METCO attack that befell him. My boy C knew the credit cards, the straps, the basement, pounds of weed and Vegas calls, Enrico had a piece in it all. The call was legit. And so when Enrico told my boy C per me to get all cash and meet behind the CVS in the center he thought it was legit. A car pulled up and he was snatched and brought into Grimly’s former city of Medford. And then like Frank Letardo (Soprano’s) appearing to whack his gay brother in law, the Guy whose man we can’t mention slowly appeared from the shadows. Paul began screaming mouth duck taped tight as a virgin’s cat. They tied him up, beat him up and stripped him down. “I can’t fucking believe it. We gotta cease and desist all operations.” “What does that even mean?” Paul asks as he positions the napkin he had in his nose. “Just end it, don’t even tell anyone, it’s over. We can’t retaliate on this, I gotta watch my ass.” “Yeah they mentioned you were next?” “great well whatever I’m not going anywhere alone.” “You shouldn’t but I’m not walking away.” “no?” I asked astonished what was it going to take? “No way after that shit, I figure in the time left in school and with baseball in the spring we can make almost 10K back if we get everyone working again and handle it like a business like we did.” “No way, look I love you, get home, shower, sleep some of it out, I’ll call carmine and make sure through that mutha fucka your safe now.” “OK, thanks.”

To see things happen like this to my inner circle was truly the worst possible occurrence. Soon my best boy C would leave and we’d attempt to somewhat pick up some of the pieces of all of this tomorrow. I was bugging downstairs until about five in the morning and my X-wing is about to crash for the first time ever on my kitchen floor. That will be a great place for my mother to find me in the morning I’d think to myself sarcastically. This I was sure was no way to live. In the morning it was back to high school, bruised and battered we staggered along the day. I was in no condition for school or basketball that week. The craziest thing to me was knowing how I felt in my chest and realizing that Mr. catch me if you can was responsible for all of it, me. This was a desperate hour and if Sunday scared the shit out me out and put me on the defensive Thursday’s article in the high school paper freaked me out. “All eyes on me.” TuPac. The school paper published basically this “expose” exposing this a gambling ring valued in the thousands of dollars taking place at the high school. My mother would say, “Carl, oh my god look what you’ve done. It seems like something you’d do.” Being dead on, I’d freak and snap back, “Ma! There are twelve hundred other kids at that high school, you see one crazy story in the paper about gambling at the high school and as always you just blame me!” “How’d you know it was gambling?” “Lucky guess.” “It think it’s you.” “What are you going to call the police?” “Never are you kidden me, just be careful if Bob found out your finished. He’s your only hope.” “I know.” And she was right. And the next day I told my boy C I was done. And he was too. I told him to tell everyone. He said, "No way!" And I said, "it's over." The end brings more of a relief than the ends ever did.

Monday, November 25, 2013

January 09th, nineteen ninety four

Jesus Shook I sauntered through the school halls slowly and never went anywhere along anymore. I’d spend time with my girlfriend, Muffin. I was a psychotic teenager that needed to be loved to side step my delusions. And it was Muffin that took the stress away. And why I didn’t share every second with her nurturing funfest was lost on me in my current swamp of anxiety. I’d finally become mad at myself. It scared me. This was my own personal deny, deny, deny armor at stake. Maybe I was wrong the whole time about everything. And maybe just maybe the Big Guy was right too. It’s all on me always forever, do I want to be a player? A positive force in the universe. maybe that’s what a legend is. Give it all back and never look?

Too much that was a system crasher and we were 3-1 right behind Cape Lake. I snapped back into the present into character. I’ll never take that mutha fucken Ritalin bitch

The bottom line was that out of the ashes we were three and one. And winning cures everything and I mean everything. Big wins big teams I had a lot to block out. And the low profile made things good quick, I hadn’t even spoken to my boy C once about the business. And Muffin, man she catapulted my confidence watching me throw it all off with a strong. And power my team to victory across the board. It was a drug like. I felt angels, Jesus, the dude I was told to pray to up on it. It so much better than whatever I was doing. And Muffin had seen it first hand out and about around town with me. “You can’t make this stuff up.” I shake my head smiling remembering the time I asked her to take me to the black park at Oak Bluffs, MV to watch me do my pick up thing. But Jesus to the C three weeks of doing the right thing and I was a hand shaker like Magic. Wherever I went. It was the best. It gave the Big Guy indigestion.

Fact was our three and one start after our deflating and opening night debacle amazed the detractors. I had muffin, my sister was alive, I’d just met Mrs. D a new angel, I knew from the tap of her introducing herself to me. Man she cooler than a fan Lynx was taking me to lunch every Sunday. And was rolling. And positive. And suddenly I had it seemed a tremendous amount of support. I could do it, as the troubled yet prodigal son of the ACE program once referred to by Steve Gibbs, coach Gibbs older brother and founder of Hoop Mountain, “A true throw back.”

The Big Guy would verbally remit, after a quick laugh, “Hey Red, throw back, you mean throw away” Always the comedian this sparked a round of hearty laughter from the other coaches up in the ACE program before “Red” finished his thoughts as I sat there on the bench, off the couch at the doughnut table with a smile on my face. “No, I’m serious, I don’t know what type of college player he could be (this was my Junior year) but he’s that classic throw back kid.”

The Big Guy needs this “Hey Red, you got two seconds to explain that, I mean the kids a trouble maker, and we’re up here trying to save his life, and your up here kissen his cookies.” Steve “Red” Gibbs laughs to himself with a grand smile, “I’m just saying Bob he’s the kind of kid that wakes up in the morning and runs downstairs to grab the morning paper and check the box scores.” And the Big Guy unimpressed would say reply shaking his head with certainty, “Big deal everyone did that.” But the Big Guy loved me perhaps more than most he was much more than a basketball coach to me someone I greatly admired. Compliments from him came with a bit more of a price.

But those hard to come by compliments from Coach Throbashke had come through with us sitting at three and one. I was convinced in game 1 that the ceremony before took the wind out of us. Our three straight wins had all come on the road, and in all three I spent most of the games on the floor and shined through in hostile environments. On pure energy alone I raised everyone’s game in the face of our domestic attrition. The Big Guy was thrilled, “unbelievable.” In three games I’d put forth enough heart, effort, statistics and ultimately wins to begin receiving letters from more than a few college coaches. My mother and I loved it. “We have to call your Uncle Clayt he’ll love this.” My mother would say after my sixth letter from St. Joseph’s in Maine came through.

Game 2: At Wakefield.

The high school of the famous Plansky brothers, Mark Plansky had went to Villanova and played for Rollie. The name of the ball in Madison our best friend, the guy you could leave out in the cold all winter only to have him bounce right back to you in the spring when you needed a friend.

This was game two, and their point guard was supposed all-star already being hailed as a big time point guard although young.

Walking out of the gym with my bag and get up, there is a mob scene and real hoods from Wakefield waiting to “get me.” “Hey what’s that all about?” The Big Guy would ask stepping out their back exit and towards our bus, “Sore losers or something, thugs, they came at all of us.”

“Hey you played great tonight, proud of you, OK, hey natives are getting restless, let’s get out of here!” He slaps me on the butt and we quickly get on the bus. Pulling out of Wakefield high a few rocks were thrown but no windows were broken and we escaped, 1-1 baby. The next morning in ACE over doughnuts the Big Guy asked, “Hey, why’d you chuck that three at the end without getting into the offense with only a couple minutes to go.” “I was feeling streaky.” “It wasn’t a good shot, you wanted to break twenty.” “What?” I said smiling fully aware that I had nineteen points and wanted to splash through 20 for the first time in my career with a three bomb.

“It wasn’t a good shot.” And the Big Guy repeated it. And it wasn’t. But at three and one I’d put impressive stat lines together. And to finish off our latest road victory the Big Guy called my number out of bounds play for an isolation three and swish. Sealed the deal. He told me he knew I was going to hit the shot, that’s why he called it. And he smacked me on the head while walking with my ACE teachers / basketball coaches in the snow, “Go ahead.” And that meant I was released. I could join the celebration. And walking onto the bus home. “Our league fellas our league!” Had to scream that shit again.

Getting into the locker room and that feeling is why you play sports, better than sex, drugs and videotape. The Big Guy after wrapping up his post game speech, proud of our 3 straight victories on the road opened the doors and screamed “reporters, coaches and parents. Hey it’s unbelievable we got college coaches out here that want to talk to Magic and Cahl.” He laughed to himself truly perplexed but also an ode to self for never ending hilarious stuff he could never make sense of, “college coaches outside waiting to talk to these guys” finishing only with his patented “unbelievable.” One of those coaches, Coach O’Connell was from Curry College. The college Mrs D told me she sat on the board of after that first scrimmage when the Big Guy lifted my suspension a day early.

Monday, November 18, 2013

The Dom Dom's

One day last fall the Turkish Tom Cruise slash business partner down here in DC spotaneously said "Dom" on accident. It killed me and was meant to be Dam. it's since involved. And thanks to my other running mate here the illustrious Vincent Chase, we developed the Dom Dom's something you don't want to ctach. And this was my saturday morning. Much love to Biz markie, the 80's and the vapors.

below featuring Slick Rick, Snoop and BIG

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Lex. Senior Night 2012. so much was lost. Thanks Ms. Martin, school Committee and principal. Shame.

but everyone plays, no one pays besides the kids. nice example America. And they finish in last place, how the might have fallen

Friday, November 08, 2013

Union Arts DC come be a part of.




http://www.youtube.com/v/PEM7caqnEyY?autohide=1&version=3&attribution_tag=_Ddyr745G_Rgqu0zbhD0uA&feature=share&autoplay=1&autohide=1&showinfo=1

Tuesday, November 05, 2013

Today's DC Protest (World Bank)

EVERY DAY WITHOUT FAIL. 



http://www.youtube.com/v/06qvTdFw5-A?version=3&autohide=1&autohide=1&autoplay=1&attribution_tag=OkxLbfTNGhjUOXdIdcG5kw&showinfo=1&feature=share

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

The Wolf of Wall Street Official Trailer #2 (2013) - Leonardo DiCaprio M...

Pretty sure I know what I'm doing Christmas afternoon (matinee)

Thursday, October 17, 2013

Uncle Charlie (+playlist)

[Frightening Airplane Meltdown] # Woman Freaks Out on Airplane To Tampa



OK, let me say this, at this point in my career (if I ever saw journey, shoot me) there are very few things worthy of a night in the clink, punching this bitch out cold in the nose makes the cut in a run away.  She get's into a nice rhythem towards the end and blows the stand when she tosses in the "don't fucking touch me."  In all honesty sans the knock out blow I'd get the pillow out stuff her face, put her in the headlock and noogy it out of her -  I mean, that should be legal, right, especially these days, right?  what would a son of Liberty do?

Thursday, October 10, 2013

Michael Vick at Virginia Tech - SC Throwback Thursday

An Interpretive Dance For My Boss Set To Kanye West's Gone

The Eve Of Day 1 , Senior Year. + My First Bong Hit, Spray Painting. Sep 94 (Legendes, Sons Of Liberty, Volume I)

In summers closing families returned and seniors left for college. It was a crazy fucking thought. The latter because everyone it seemed had a beach house in Madison. Summer homes, I’d shake my head forever focused on the fact this was another conversation my inner city black brethren simply were not apart of.

I’m all smiles and cannot be stopped. I love you Matt.

Walking home “stupid fuck” was my only remorse in regards to Dylan’s debt. He knew I could pay any goon to collect that for $40 and he was on the hook. I fell asleep and woke around four in the afternoon. Tomorrow was a big day and we needed to find the perfect thing to footnote. We drummed up a classic roster, Magic, Me, Monster, Hatty and TR and of course his beloved “Peace Van.” It would be the first night I ever took a bong hit and it was a disaster. It seemed like a great plan. Carmine even lent me his choice glass bong to commemorate the occasion.

I feel asleep and awoke a few hours later and prepared to be scooped by TR Ludwig and the Peace Van. I had placed Carmine’s prized glass bong in Hatty’s trunk and I was hoping they coordinated. “Carl!” The phone was ringing and I confirmed with Hatty my ready status and the fact he had the bong. “Beaver! Of course I have the bong you just gave it to me yesterday” “Yeah well I have ADD, forget allot of shit.” “I know you do.” Carmine was proud to see me as a senior and thought Bong hits at our old middle school was the prefect way to document are one and only 1st day of high school. The only problem was we were violating so many of our golden rules we worked so hard being bad through the years to come up with it made no sense. TR’s “Peace van” was a monstrosity of a vehicle from the early 70’s. It was perfect for us, it had a couple rag tag couches in the back even an old sink, as long as Tick drove we could get fired up all night back in the peace. And fastly there arrived, it was going to be a fast year I thought. “Be home before midnight! School night!” “OK Ma! Love you.” It was great I didn’t even have to lie. “Well good evening Mr. Easton.” “Good evening Mr. Easton.” All patrons of the peace surrender there congenial welcome. I could smell the marijuana from my driveway.

Better leave before my ma smells this peace

Once seated I see Monster already “chalking” bong hits with Hatty, “Let’ S get Magic and take this to Clarke.” “Hit this beaver!” Hatty loved calling me beaver. It stemmed from an oldnick name I gave little Mario in the 1st Super Mario brothers which we like all American youth boy / girl at that time crushed relentlessly. I liked being the smaller more agile Mario, whom I called “little beaver.” Hence Hatty’s address. “Hit it now dude.” Monster the ultimate in high school druggies pronounces to me, the king of peer pressure in a dark voice with smoke it appeared coming out of his ears. Hatty was impressed. “The kid doesn’t stop, he’s already taking six bing bongs! Beaver your up! Come on come on come on.” He’s stuffing the bong in my face. Hatty and Monster were the hockey players of the group. “I’ll wait for Mike and the school.” Of course one of our cardinal rules was “never smoke or drink at schools in Lexington.” Fuzz was always in the mix. “Gentlemen.” Magic says professionally as he enters the back of our beloved Peace Van. And soon we were on our way, “Senior year gentlemen.” We heard from our pilot Tr “Tick” Ludwig to a canvass of smiles and endless possibilities. TR was a six four size 12.5 legit Lacrosse player. It was his hoops ,which he once played but under the Big Guy’s iron curtain. He’d rather not deal with it and picked up something new that became his passion and ticket to college of his choice.

Girls, parties, legendary status, fights, book making, the funeral home, football, money, hoops, loot and ACE. God dam I’m going to murder this year Although if this was any indication senior year could be a disaster see our luck had changed April 3rd, 1993 on a cosmic level. And tonight would start outside of “Goldy’s” shot another reminder that our luck is nowhere what it used to be. Santo I reckoned couldn’t help us with the bad shit only the Holy. “I’d rather be lucky than good.” Yogi Berra We park the peace van in the parking lot and walk up to the front of me and Magic’s famous middle school, Clarke. “Dam we ran stunts here.” I charm to Magic this was our happy spot. “I remember my first day of 6th grade I was in a study hall with Kevin Nolen, I looked at some of the racks also in that study and just thought to myself, fuck I’m in junior high.” He says it like Jerry Rice reflecting on his induction to Canton football hall of fame. And I get it. I think Mike was also apprehensive about the bong hit but we both realized especially with these guys we must. “I’m not going to lie the thing scares me.” I confide to Magic soft enough so Monster, Hatty or Tick the diplomat couldn’t hear. “We’ll be fine.” I could tell he was anxious to get this over with. We walk up the steps, pack the bong and commence one after the other. Mike goes last before me and struggled, coughed crazy and went blotchy. OK now I’m freaking out

Hatty assist Monster in a “double light” as everyone is giving me an array of instructions and information. “Pull harder beaver!” “Pull hard dude” Monster “That a boy.” TR smiling proudly like the emperor when he gets Luke pissed. I can still hear Michael coughing behind me. Finally it’s pulled and my timing is off “More, more!!” Everyone urges. I run out of breath and repeat what Magic just did worse. A little something comes up, I go down and have never been that high that quick. I panic when I’m dizzy. Everyone’s laughing as me and Magic try to get through our first bong hit.

Fucken Monster with the double lighter Jesus Christ

I hear the bubbles go again Monster what’s another, sickening. Suddenly we hear a police siren and a bright light is flashed as everyone falls to the ground to join me and Mike. “”Fuck I’m pretty sure that’s the cops.” Monster states the obvious, I’m just trying to breathe. “Oh my god, we’re in a ton of trouble.” I hear TR bug. Monster does the Vietnam crawl over to me. My equal partner in lack of caring he whispered, “let’s fucking break, get yourself up and follow me, you lead actually.” And I knew he was right. And like that I manage to my feet and we blot out from behind our brick hiding spot. “Freeze!” Freeze means run in another 101 “staying out of trouble.” We dashed in the back woods and a couple piglets chased as we could heat the pitter-patter of their ensuing steps. Once in the woods we’d be tough to catch but we’d also eventually have to come out. Ten minutes later it appeared we dusted them deep in the shitty woods.

All was dark and the sky sounded like a grump. Finally a huge crack is heard and the skies start pouring leaded rain heavily down on our heads. Jurassic Park rain big leafs everywhere and bug sounds. We’re cold and scared and far from out of this. “We’re dead” “No we’re not buddy.” “I don’t know how to get the fuck out of here!” I was out of it. I was having a breakdown thinking about what was happening to my sneakers. The fear had erased some of the high with me and the fear I think made Monster worse. We’ve begun to reason that once we ran we exposed everyone. Only thoughts of the worst kind are entering my psychic domain. The domino effect of panic but Brian I thought was right. “They got arrested. The cops busted them.” He’s beginning to make sense. “They’re all high with pot with Cane’s new glass bong spilling their cookies. They’re down at the station right now squealing on us!” Monster agrees and starts to violently panic walking back and forth with his hands covering his ears growling.

“They gave us up I’m sure of it.” I know it to be true, we’re drenched, still Portland (high) and it was cold. I fall down crying fearing that we’re never going to escape this wretched forest. I’m not doing well. Monster walks up to my chest and grabs my hair “OK, dude we’re going to die.”

An hour later the rains dim in their ferocity and we see a back yard play set! Finally and when we do get out of the woods we realize how close we are to where we were. “I think we’re just out of it.” “Yeah.” Monster says objectionably and with effect. During this time Brian had shared his life story with me. His general pessimism for earth and the amazing fear he has of his father one break down at a time. Once we found the street we’d walk and jump into the bushes anytime we sensed headlights. At that point we figured there was a warrant out for our arrests. The cops that stayed must’ve captured the bong and found our guys all cramped behind the brick wall. Making it back to the roof of our beloved Dunkin Doughout’s, which was easy to get onto in those days I hailed the YG ghetto bird call. “Gah, Gah, Gah!” Soon I hear Tick giving it back. They found us. They were all right. “All the cops chased after me and Monster?” “That’s right” TR says with the grace of god. “Beaver classic move classic move!” Hatty is excited and Magic hours later still looks out of it. It would be our first of man y more to come through the years. “Where’s the bong.” Monster the weed machine asks. “Left it at the school, we had to dude, we just ran to the peace van when we had the chance.” We decided to go back to the school another “no-no.” And as luck would have it there she was. “Wow.” It’s like TR was just blasted out of earths orbit. Hatty insists we smoke what’s remaining and back fully activated we decide our luck is back and spray paint welcoming notes to our crew on the high schools south wall and field house. We loved to spray paint the field house great visibility.

It might have been a great idea maybe even classic. It wasn’t however much fun. When the music’s over, turn off the lights and then go to fucking bed, the day before my senior year in the books.

Wednesday, October 09, 2013

LH02162007A01 8BURLINGTON (+playlist) Home is Home , sigh WONDERFUL B Ball 4 life !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I m so good off the cuff (+playlist) - #1st Round draft pick on conversational, free with style rap

THE FREESTYLE MY GREATEST, "TRICK".  AND LIKE ANYTHING ELSE IT ONLY COMES WITH "PRACTICE" WHICH CONFUSES SOME.  PUT ME HEAD TO HEAD WITH ANYONE, OFF THE CUFF AND I WIN, VERY FEW THAT KEEP IT HONEST VERY FEW THAT COULD WIN.  NOTE:  YOUR FAVORITE RAPPERS, MOST OF THEM CANNOT DO THIS.  THIS IS MY JQ BEAT BOX.  THE BREAK DANCING, CARD TRICKS AND IMPERSONATIONS WORK, WIN AND STORE MY BIN OF WEAPONS A BIT MORE LOADED, CACHE THAN MOST.  HOLLA.  much love to jq's beat box series, doing the same with the freestyle.  MAYBE IT'S JUST SO THESE KIDS, LAME BRAINED, ZOO ANIMALS CAN UNDERSTAND THE DIFFERENCE.  RIP, #SRC - WORK IS WORK WHATEVER THAT IS U MUST DO.  And it allows me to get away with all my bullshit. work Bitch.  Hobbies r hobbies uh, and, Brintney is back !!!!!!!!  Much love to Smiiten Salon out da blue












Tuesday, October 08, 2013

Friday, October 04, 2013

Thursday, October 03, 2013

Freestyle Friday on a Thursday. And. we're. Baaaaaaaack



Brownie Points






Girl fight

Ok, a couple things, one the Micheal Bivins of the video, i.e. the "talker" is something else, if you didn't know of course World star was behind this video, well, now you know,you know. 2) There should be some sort of penalty if men stand around and watch, and film this horrific shit laughing , letting it happen.

I quote Edmund Burke when I say, "The definition of evil is being idle watching it occur." or some shit like that, but come on! way too much of this shit lately. My dad always told me to stay out of that shit, but then how the hell am I going to be a Son of Liberty? I ask. The kicker for me was listening to this jackass, in between World stars throw in a, "Yo, I think she dead, I think she dead." GTFOOMFWTS. < That is my phrase all year, 2013, = getthefuckoutofmyfacewiththatshit. Fucker. Anyway quite a brawl, geussing venue is Waffle House as usual, and probably dowhn siouth, grain a truth to every, nahwhadimeanyah?

Chuck P.

Wednesday, October 02, 2013

# 1 Song In The Country, Dream Lover. Chapter. Labor day weekend 93, “Don’t let school get in the way of your education.” Mark Twain

Mariah Carey had done it again with yet another #1 smash, Dream Lover. I dreamed of rescuing Mariah, the "screecher" buxom, slinky hard bodied angel from that pariah at Sony. She was the only girl I was intersted in seconds after another rendezvous with the massager. it all started with a groin injury before a soccer game back in the dark days of seventh grade.

August 31st, 1993: The end of a long summer that had suddently gone faster being reborn collectively with my Young Guns post, "the shot." Yet and still I wondered what I’d learned certain the events since this past April 3rd, 1993 had changed the scope of my character in a measurable and not a negligible way. The sadness of my mother’s abandonment fueled with the anger of my father’s side of our family disappearing along with him had seemed to abate. I was thankful. My tractor lawnmower accident just two days after my seventh birthday shimmied a natural chip all children of the world seem to carry at some point on their shoulder. I had a heart. Great. But the anger at the establishment, the emotional bend I channeled into the lives of the white and wealthy to never forget their good fortune held me at bay. And kept my own fortune in jeopardy. I’d along with my sister ran with the older Less than Zero crowd in an increasing fashion whose fashion it had become to throw it all away. I’d ask Jesus, why on this earth that felt so good. And same with the Roxbury projects, Jesus, my sister still wants to know that one. Am I really black? Trapped inside this here gorgeous American face and body? It’s a curse. I want to be ugly, and black and from the projects. I say this, I ask this in wisdom, as it is my heart.

My chief business partner in all things shady, the Black Knight had been expelled. And he’d quickly gone from the green pastures of Madison MA quietly pushing “Urb” in Madison High school dodging the Omni- presence of our house administrator Mr. Robinson to the concrete jungle of his real neighborhood slanging “rocks” packing a “Rosco” along with his Tims or jellies and of course baggy jeans. It was a .38 his strap. I knew because I sold it to him last fall brand new. “Out the box?” I remembered Blacks low muffled voice turn falsetto asking a statement when he saw what I could deliver anytime via Enrico via the guys whose name we can’t mention 2 him. The Gun thing, I’m so sorry Jesus.

The price for something like that back then, $250 clean + all-in, to the kid that would now use something like that in it's most dangerous usage. $250 all-in to the endangered species I cared the most about, the American young black male. The Boston black teenager, so many of my dear friends but not like Black that was my family, and now I was scared to even page him. I was scared of what I knew he’d become and there was no conversation, it was obvious. What have I learned? I’d ask Santo in prayer, my compass to honesty and compassion. I prayed because my mother prayed. I prayed because it gave my mother someone when there was no one to call, no bloodlines, no aunts, uncles, cousins and of course parents. I’d joke to Jesus, the man I was taught would listen, “even if you don’t exist we’ve had some great conversations.” And prayer is therapy regardless of it’s form, manner or higher being of choice, for me anyway, it’s the place where I listened. I listened to my heart, turned off my brain and more often than not during these nightly sessions begged for forgiveness. My brain outfoxed my heart constantly leading my sister’s current boyfriend slash brother to me and father to us all to tell my mother candidly over a summer ale, “Gayle, your son has a very hard time distinguishing right from wrong.” My mother would add, “And a warped sense of money.” To which any member of the Less than zero crew that populated my backyard BBQ’s raced to answer, “we all do Gayle” so matter of fact.

I was seated firmly on our back decks padded, plastic furniture courtesy of my mother’s greatest insurance scam. I stared intently at our neatly manicured lawn either my mother or I kept up, the pink rhododendrons, the ample tree and the high green hedge we used to determine home runs like so many Red Sox fans claiming to have a green monster in their own back yard. I could turn my head and see my neighbors barn turned garage and the top floor I’d call Sugar Ray’s. I’d remember fondly the parties of Porsche and Brooke of my junior high and freshman year lore. They called it Cannabis Castle. They even grew a plant. And that was the difference, I chuckled. My sisters grew weed, smoked butts and played classic rock as the sun rose. I called our former clubhouse, Club Sugar Ray’s. I charged ten bucks for an hour to have sex with your girlfriend in Junior High. I played Paula Abdul and brought milkshakes included with the fee. I cracked a smile. “Mommies baby!” My mother strolled out from the kitchen smoking her token Carlton 120 clutching her Diet Coke, her trigger. “Why are you laughing?” My mother always happy I was home with plans to stay in and barbeque with the Lost Boys, the Less than Zero crew or my own gang UNLV which everyone now knew primarily as the Young Guns. Goldy’s “shot’ our summer ring and of course Santo's death had made us the only thing I ever wanted to be.

And for that I was thankful, I’d won but that wasn’t it, I hadn’t lost. Winning was great but not everything. And as for my own thanks for what I had set out to accomplish, well it was as warped as all that surrounded everywhere I looked. Good was basketball, good was my mother, my sister our bond good was the family I’d set out to find in the form of the Young Guns good was the crews and boyfriends of my sister and their friends that would drop it all for me if I paged 9’s. Good was my heart, my accident, my prayer and my Godfather. I loved goodness. I loathed the itch and the launch pad my own dysfunctional experiences could regenerate at a minutes notice. And wrapping up another summer in Madison, I was ready for my senior year. But yet and still deep in my grilled thoughts I pondered, what had I really learned? I was a legend that found my own family after my birthright was taken away. So I was cocky, and calmer than I had been which isn’t very calm. My long awaited senior year was here. The script was in tact. A few bumps along the way I’d concede as my sister and Des arrived along with magic with the beer and ribs and Zinfandel for my mother, the lady that needed the company and allowed this safe house to exist.

‘Magic!” I announced like Norm entering Cheers loud and every single time. “Yo Pat’s pre season tonight!” We embraced knowing we were summer league champions, kid stars, now local legends known to all, but that summer night more than anything we were pumped for our woeful New England Patriot’s. They were a disgrace, mismanaged and a laughing stock on a myriad of myopic and down right filthy levels. But they were ours. And I had a revelation, “I just decided next year, senior year I’m playing football.” “Nice! Do it, seriously C.” Magic was visibly pumped. Ears went up, “what?” I heard my sister Brooke ask like she heard I won a 20K scratch ticket. And suddenly the room was mine. I thought wow, this football thing has some legs. I hadn’t played since the 8th grade, ashamed in quick reflection over the pussy I was. Excited because I still had a year. “It’s going to be great year Magic.” “State champs.” “Magic and the Dream.” I smiled wryly. And tackled Scully as he arrived before he could hug my mother and pay respects for the, like I said “safe house.” “Who wants a Klonapin?” Brett screams out loud as my mother explodes in laughter and protocol that stated she was mortified someone would make such a request yet allowing it to occur. “I’ll take one, repression is underrated.” I looked at Magic with a dribble in my stomach, man my sister cracked me up.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee - Chris Rock: Kids Need Bullying (Full Edition)

Boy have I had it. The bailout's, blues, fair play and the bullies. Since when is life fair? And who is so naive and emblematic to ever suggest such a notion? In being so fair are we truly being unfair to our kids (I was channeling my inner Carrie Bradshaw on that 1)? And the answer is yes. Yes, yes, yes. Only through loss will you learn a great lesson! Come on! What's with our country? It reminds me of my favorite youtube piece and now book and movie, Christian The Lion. Are you familiar with the story of Christian the Lion? Adopted by young art dealers, Christian the Lion who grew up in London in a department store? His parents were jailed up and somehow Christian , back in the 70's made his way onto the trading floor of legendary department store Harrod's. Oh the 70's. He was the subject of my favorite documentary of all time. And these men, fathered, loved Christian with all of their heart. More than they loved themselves. And Christian was paraded around London becoming an icon onto himself. And he loved his two dads.

But soon the New Zealand born duo realized as Christian grew and grew they could no longer stay in London. And what to do. It was a daunting task. And they knew what was right, they couldn't bring themselves to give Christian to a zoo, admonish his joy and subject him to the very conditions they were so proud to have helped free the young Lion from in the first place. Oh What to do. The circumstance weighed on the wealthy young art dealers. They'd salvaged a big yard in the back of a church but soon he outgrew that. The plight of flight back into jail, a pattern that had dogged his royal bloodlines for generations was increasingly seen as their only option. Until one day, i love that shit, i love those (ADD) 3 words, until one day.... all day every time. It implies change which is the only truth in life outside of, wait, ok, drinking is the opposite of trying, confidence is everything and you can't touch other people without their consent. Anyway, until one day a couple walked into Harrods. And couldn't believe their eyes. They adored Christian, and just happened to be the married stars of a hit, big screen documentary entitled, Born Free. And it charted the path of a caged Lion being re introduced to the wild. And it was their lucky break. And they formed their team, gathered their famed Lion whisperer (George seen in the vid) and attempted to repeat history. And it wasn't easy. And I urge all GDD to check that shit out. My intent on clawing back Christians story were those first years in the wild. And boy were they tough, unnatural always is. His paws were too sensitive, he couldn't fight or hunt and it would take diligence on all parts and a few small miracles to pull it off. We never knew how long he lasted, but we did know he found his lioness and made his den. Discovered life all anyone person or animal can ask for in our short stint.

And that ladies and ladies reminds me so much of this trophy and or millennials last couple generations and their kids. I for one will not stand for it quietly. These are our sons and American daughters, and we are not preparing them for the wild. And it's selfish. Check out the CNBC Power lunch crew talking about "Heliparents" and fast forward to the 10:20 mark of coffee with comedians. Seinfield and Chris Rock both deliver nuclear quotes as relates. Rock: "There's a way to get in the game." (10:10 mark) Strong implied ration. And then Seinfeld, "everytime I look at those skateboarders I think to myself they'll be all right." Smart. He's right. Hit me with anything as always blind or with some heavies.

And the Full Ending

Boss Meet The Parents + Chris Rock encourages Bullying over coffee with Seinfeld and Christian The Lion.

Boy have I had it. The bailout's, blues, fair play and the bullies. Since when is life fair? And who is so naive and emblematic to ever suggest such a notion? In being so fair are we truly being unfair to our kids (I was channeling my inner Carrie Bradshaw on that 1)? And the answer is yes. Yes, yes, yes. Only through loss will you learn a great lesson! Come on! What's with our country? It reminds me of my favorite youtube piece and now book and movie, Christian The Lion. Are you familiar with the story of Christian the Lion? Adopted by young art dealers, Christian the Lion who grew up in London in a department store? His parents were jailed up and somehow Christian , back in the 70's made his way onto the trading floor of legendary department store Harrod's. Oh the 70's. He was the subject of my favorite documentary of all time. And these men, fathered, loved Christian with all of their heart. More than they loved themselves. And Christian was paraded around London becoming an icon onto himself. And he loved his two dads.

But soon the New Zealand born duo realized as Christian grew and grew they could no longer stay in London. And what to do. It was a daunting task. And they knew what was right, they couldn't bring themselves to give Christian to a zoo, admonish his joy and subject him to the very conditions they were so proud to have helped free the young Lion from in the first place. Oh What to do. The circumstance weighed on the wealthy young art dealers. They'd salvaged a big yard in the back of a church but soon he outgrew that. The plight of flight back into jail, a pattern that had dogged his royal bloodlines for generations was increasingly seen as their only option. Until one day, i love that shit, i love those (ADD) 3 words, until one day.... all day every time. It implies change which is the only truth in life outside of, wait, ok, drinking is the opposite of trying, confidence is everything and you can't touch other people without their consent. Anyway, until one day a couple walked into Harrods. And couldn't believe their eyes. They adored Christian, and just happened to be the married stars of a hit, big screen documentary entitled, Born Free. And it charted the path of a caged Lion being re introduced to the wild. And it was their lucky break. And they formed their team, gathered their famed Lion whisperer (George seen in the vid) and attempted to repeat history. And it wasn't easy. And I urge all GDD to check that shit out. My intent on clawing back Christians story were those first years in the wild. And boy were they tough, unnatural always is. His paws were too sensitive, he couldn't fight or hunt and it would take diligence on all parts and a few small miracles to pull it off. We never knew how long he lasted, but we did know he found his lioness and made his den. Discovered life all anyone person or animal can ask for in our short stint.

And that ladies and ladies reminds me so much of this trophy and or millennials last couple generations and their kids. I for one will not stand for it quietly. These are our sons and American daughters, and we are not preparing them for the wild. And it's selfish. Check out the CNBC Power lunch crew talking about "Heliparents" and fast forward to the 10:20 mark of coffee with comedians. Seinfield and Chris Rock both deliver nuclear quotes as relates. Rock: "There's a way to get in the game." (10:10 mark) Strong implied ration. And then Seinfeld, "everytime I look at those skateboarders I think to myself they'll be all right." Smart. He's right. Hit me with anything as always blind or with some heavies.

And the Full Ending

Tuesday, September 03, 2013

Q Brothers discuss The Benefits of Green Smoothies + Vitamix!



The Q brothers, this time, oldest brother TQ and youngest JQ get into Green smoothies.  Summer and myself are on year 1 of our Vitamix.  It's expensive and worth it, just think of all the unhealthy slash dumb shit you spend your money on.  Get Liven :)!!

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

August 17th, 1993 - Champions. The next morning. "Enjoy it while it lasts kid cause it never does." Lou - Wall St.

Last night, shit. It all made sense. I was never alone the entire time. That changes everything most importantly me. I love you mom and last night on the center courts heavenly surface we were both reminded of our blessings. Thank you Jesus, I was in fact given a sign, all of us were.

It was one of those mornings that no matter how hung over you were you woke up fresh. The fact you woke up, tomorrow, cemented the pinch, awake, alive. I sprung out of bed without the assistance of an alarm clock hidden benefit of ADHD #13 We were champions. The hung over incurred by a long session drinking, smoking with my team and our brain trust at our old elementary school went too fast. The best of the best, times, they always travel at warp speed.

“Om my god. You and your friends are something else kid. Champions, we'll have to tell your godfather, he's needs some good news. he's not doing so well these days." "I know the headaches. I haven't spoke to him in two years." My Uncle Clayt's stunning collapse from Wall St. his ilness and beloved wifes abandoment of him when he was sick, taking his daughter was something I couldn't handle. And I loved therapy. But that was too much. My only true hero. The guy that loved me the most. The western PA born, Brown, UVA, blue blood, he made it big, all my dreams, my godfather yet he too sufferred from our curse. My hedge and security net against all was not immune. Michael Milken's right hand man my Godfather went down like so many with the decade, never to comeback. I was sure of it. My godfather. I took a deep breath exhaling my cheeks, my old trick that always kick saved my waterfall of emotions. I have no one. ADD benefit XIV, change the record.

"Mama's baby boy. I know, I know. But Santo, wow, that shot, holy toledo.” I loved it, interviews all day starting with the shower and my mother over breakfast. Negative thoughts there would be none. I threw on a shirt and tie, note: Santo always wore a shirt and tie on championship Friday at the Big Guy’s summer camps. Odes were our thing. New traditions, loyalty and armbands all over our bodies. “I love you so fucking much, mwah!” A hug and kiss, and I peddled my old Mongoose through the neighborhood to Hayden.

It was an astonishing site to see 90% of the campers wearing black armbands on their calves. This caused a slight crash to the Big Guy’s system, “Jimmity Crickets, are these guys going to be like remembered? Their not even that good!” He pondered out loud to Coach Sullivan tapping his foot furiosly, letting us have our moment. When Goldy arrived the camp went crazy, he shared his most recent story of driving past the courts this morning en route to Hayden camp, seeing kids at the courts before 9AM now trying to mimic the miracle so many bore witness to just twelve hours ago. I was now convinced something was in the water here in Madison MA. Too many things, secrets and “situations.” My life was and had always been highly abnormal. My team of rug rats won another camp title that Friday my second that summer. The Big Guy loaded my teams and I swept bragging right’s, so many perks from the close bond we’d quickly form this past fall in the once unknown dungeon, wonderful world of the ACE program.

That afternoon I found some “beats” and (Portland trail) BLAZED and drank until I passed out, Hatty, Monster, Scully, Gold, Tick some beats it was wonderful. Monster like many an older past graduate delivered the insidious often mentioned insights that life went downhill with age and responsibility. I laughed questioning my instinct. That would suck. The Young Guns championship should not have been acme rather an warm up before our senior year. Another basketball title, college offers, parties and happiness. But it wouldn’t play out like that. Life never did. And I could never figure it out. And would have bet my life if you told me, that moment would in the short term prove to be with extreme prejudice, it, for us. I'd bet my life. No fucking way dumb ass.

But it was Madison our surroundings were sparkling and coated the cold reality of how vulnerable everyone around my family would always be. It took less than a week for the championship veeneer to wear off and tragedy to once again hit so close to home. To such a young man. My sisters ex-boyfriend. “Frankie! Oh my god! Brook, I’m so sorry.” I thunder bolted back into my kitchen, a Boston Garden of historic melt downs. I could only imagine. I knew that shriek. “Yo what the fuck happened to him?” I talked as quick as I was. Brook seemed not even there even though I was looking right at her beautiful face structured similarly to my own. The one thing we got, high cheek bones. “Holy fucking shit.” Frankie, the last brick house in our neighborhood before Hayden. One of three brothers manning the famed Zamboni at the ice rink of lower Hayden where my sister starred, Frankie, the good kid that loved my sister. The relationship we all loved torn apart by the drugs and dropouts from the guys of 1988. Brooke was culpable. And so was I. It was another one I blocked out. My sister. Frankie never got over that. They were suppossed to be his friends. It was only a few months ago their relationship had ended, before Santo i thought, Brook gone crazy, I'd tell Magic. I couldn't remember myself. Our own timeline of incidents now, even in the short run. The fact stood, it happened.

I remembered the last time I saw him, just last week. We remained cordial even though my sister played rip chord with his heart strings he said "what's up." I was on my way to Hayden. I felt bad, uncomfortable, unaware if I should apoligize on behalf of my sister, sure as hell she'd been in the same position countless times with her younger brother. And they weren't apologies rather plea's. The phrase "I don't give a fuck" was real, it protected me from all however unaware I was piling up an obscene case along with my sister of post traumatic syndrome. It got me through the days. It was my Zanex. A drug I took to be cool. My hyper activity could out leg it. I'd smoke weed and become hyper. I was beg to believe what the psychiatrist's said. What my mother begged with me to comprehend, science, neurons my own limitations and chemical imbalances. I was too naked in family. I was too angry at the white establishment and their willful blindness to the sad legacy of slavery. Unaware of their own limitation and fortuioity that I believed

Word was Frankie had tanked on his motorcycle with the son of the owner of our local Gas station up the street ironically where Brooke’s first relationship started years ago with a generational age divide for the ages.

Frankie was in an accident. And he was in a coma. And it was over. And to this day remains in a vegetated state. My sister would soon coin the phrase, “repression is underrated.” The track was fast, and it was possible, even easy to simply forget and drink. Drink away the pain. The Black Knight, I missed him, he’d been expelled, I’d only spoke to him once since. I re called his older brother, a vegetable in a wheel chair he used to talk to me about him. The star of his family through a straw and a technological break through was finally able to construct a digital sentence to his younger brother black for the first time since his “incident.” “Yo, push me out the fucken window.” And he never did. And Black was fifteen. And this was our life. The hood was crazy. And this town was fucking nuts. Frankie died for all intensive purposes. A part of the Hayden family and my sisters first boyfriend we all adored for all intensive purposes was gone forever. My mentor DES was shattered he loved Frankie, in a sense already lost a brother and had to feel bad about the fact that he was now the one alive, in love with my sister. It hurt us all. And my kitchen and back yard grill and wiffle ball field became a sad place in that last week of August before my senior year. My sister was off to UMASS Amherst in the fall.

I began to buy into the “pill” thing with a little conviction. The dark times you see were only just beginning.