Thursday, April 25, 2013

2006. 11th TB Classic. Lex-Vegas. Young Guns. YG Foundation. Good Guys

Thursday, April 18, 2013

April 5th 1992. Finally it was Friday........ (Burial) Sons of Liberty Volume I, Legendes. #22YG

Finally it was Friday. It had been a long week. I was tired. Today was the burial, Santo’s final act. I’d had a slight incident the night before attending the fourth and final wake. It was nothing. However the Big Guy screamed at me, the one thing I was trying to avoid. “Eh! What the hell are you doing? Your acting like a banana head!” And I wasn’t. I’d simply left. That and laid down on my back on the funeral homes side and watched the stars. It was peaceful. And lasted like any7 moment of tranquility in my life for a fleeting few seconds. “Yo C. Get up. The Big Guy wants to see you.” Jesus fucking Christ.

Stretch also had an incident already this morning mild in comparison in his Godzilla get away moment at Tuesday nights opening wake. I’d told him, “just be careful buddy, you might end up in a straight jacket.” “I don’t fucking care.”

“Yeah me either dawg, but I don’t want the straight jacket.” I was tired of the rituals. The cameras. The curtains. I’d remember Hatty and Monster arguing before Santo’s passing who was poorer. It was emphatic. Rich kids wanting to be poor. It was the single most retarded thing I’d ever heard in my life. “But Brian think of your land and wardrobe. You dads car!” “Dude are you kidding me, two words, Lake House.” Magic and I caught the Bart eyes. By Friday I was becoming negative. Remembering negative things. They’d live in my memory when things weren’t occurring around me.

Church service and burial

It was another glorious bright sunny day we didn’t have to be in school for. The church service was slated to start at 10 am. I’d already been in the middle of an explosion earlier regarding Magic and Pallbearer selection. Magic justifiably angry left out of the pallbearers. I tried to explain to him that Santo’s dad was never the most inclusive and “you’re an adopted black Jew. Come on.” It didn’t go over well. And I never said that although it’s true. It was Magic and because of that I was able to do a mature thing and think how I’d feel. I wouldn’t let that happen. It was clear we were getting rolled all over the place at this point on this thing and enough was enough. “Hold on Mike.” And I walked away.

The church was standing room only. It was a huge show, at that point. At grace chapel and just before 10AM Magic was included with the pallbearers. The body was still at the funeral home. It was now us, and the family as the Big Guy and a few aunt’s and uncles had left. “Boys.” Santo’s dad let us know we could go in and have a last moment. The casket was still opened. It would be the last time I’d see his face. I went first. “OK.” I had my Young Guns uniform like almost every YG pallbearer seemed to be carrying as well. I threw my shorts and #10 tank in their along with an almost three inch herringbone chain I’d bartered with Beef in ACE for a gun I had laying around Sugar Rays. If I didn’t like the weed game back in 9th grade, I hated the strap scene talking broker this year of 1993. I needed a G for the one I wanted downtown. Beef and I after our fourth lunch detention sitting up in ACE by ourselves worked something out. It was five hundred dollars. The chain I always wanted.

I was smart enough to not wear it. Knowing myself I was forcing it. And body language and my own risks. It was stupid regardless how good it made me feel. Picking on rich bully’s did too! I didn’t need that. But I had the chain and had decided the night Santo died I’d throw it in his casket. It was because of a story magic told me about Eton’s death back in the 3rd grade. We were still in separate elementary schools but everyone remembered Eton. His brother was part of the sacred 88 class. A legend and division 1scholarship athlete I’d never forget the story those Bride boys told me. His brother Eric standing at Eton’s casket had torn off a sick 88 dope gold chain. A chain people knew about, remembered so it had to be dope. Eton would’ve been a YG. Tragedy had struck our class and crew long before this. And unlike Super Bowls it gets old, quick.

And I was like every other kid I’d thought that since driving to the safe house that first fateful night. I’d pull the Eric Chrichlow and rip the chain off my neck at the casket a defining moment and dumb idea. And I never broke out the chain. Just stored it like that gun I knew I DID NOT need at Sugar Rays next store, the clubhouse. But I brought it today. And the bag of stuff I intended to leave in Santo’s casket to stay with him throughout the next thousand years or so until a nuke decimated the “crude matter” of a vehicle that brought so many people together, he was only 16, he would’ve thought. He’d never be forgotten. We’d never know then how rare like our friendships one life could be.

I threw my YG shit in the casket. It was our team. Just a summer league team, on paper. But to us, it was like being artists and the owners of our own label and we were twelve talented rappers from Manhattan. It was everything. And we were so good. Together we were so dam good. And it hurt. I loved hitting leadoff. I put the herringbone in there. I Laid my YG shit and said some corny wanna be gangster shit and kissed my man on those cold dead lips. After all I was in a thousand dollar Armani suit I borrowed from Enrico. My partner coveting that shade. The Italian. If anyone had a thousand dollr suit. But this was Madison everyone did. Des, Lynx, many kids wearing suits way too expensive.

The family files in once we’re all accounted for and situated for our first real responsibilities besides not killing anyone through this entire ordeal. They looked tired, carrying a look that a loving family that had lost a son of liberty would always resemble in my mind. All of this was obvious and that alone sickened my sedated stomach.

Yo Jesus I wanted to tell Santo’s mom that for the rest of my life I will do anything for her including assault people she’s frustrated with

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Double Edge Shaving 101 with JQ + TQ. Very Helpful. I suck @ shaving

La Viva Merz!



‘Othello: The Remix’ Will Keep On Bringing That Dope Shakespeare Rap - UPDATE - WORD OF MOUTH * QUALITY SELLS!

I don't even know what else to say at this point. Check out the rad Chi mag article here regarding the play's extension which JQ predicted to me a year ago anyway. It's kind of like getting back to the Super Bowl. Your happy just getting there once, much less winning. But now it seems we're back at the Super Bowl. Lightning struck again. I especially love the guy interviewed here, the forced seriousness as opossed to surface tension of comedic slants. I loved that. Hip Hop is Jazz and it's blues, it's not rock and roll. It was organic, the assumption Othello, the remix would score big with audiences. Their first tragedy, rapping is the blues, at it's core, core, the message.

I'm pissed the Lex-Vegas rock star Amanda palmer did not go to attend when she was there in Scotland while it ran. We tweeted and tweeted. Look, I love you + your success but you were never bullied, but whatever it takes, your helping kids, read here. http://www.salon.com/2013/01/07/even_a_rocker_can_be_bullied/

IN fact the witch spells and curses concoted at your 4000 Square Foot mansion directed towards freedom fighters such as myself might be construed as the very definition of terrorism. Now maybe I'm peeved, you missed a great show in Scotland. One tweet fans out to millions of your disciples, bigger point is you would've dug it.

Our theatre teacher in high school, his name was mr. Bogart, this is true, this is lex-Vegas after all we're talking about. He saw the film via the the "Space" filmed at the globe. The penultimate triumph talking theatres for theatre. The Wrigley excuse me, Fenway park of theatre, a shrine more than a venue. Rich in European history. Listen closely ghosts of past will listen in your ear. Mr. Bogart loved it.

What's important is the art. What's important is doing what you love. What's important is making a great piece of theatre. And what's hip hop is they bring their crew always and forever along for the ride. And the crew packs crazy skills deftly on display all day. Bars and brunches and re-caps remain the best stuff.

So Mr. Paradise what have we learned today?

Never forgot your progress every little inch moves closer to your goal that way you'll never start over truth be told be mindful of your progerss, and chip, chip away, time demands so much from us these days

Mr. Collins, Rosenthal & Collins scored his first multi million dollar year well after he turned 40 in his march toawrds a 1/4 billion. And there are no short cuts. The Q brothers are a brand. A household name in Chicago like the Boston kitchens I intro'd the lad to 17 years back. The point is the run's been amazing. And continues. And will always. It's important to always follow your heart. Trite and cliche? Simplfied and stupid? Perhaps. But what do i give a fuck? The brain can be quite the pickle. Knowledge and wisdom learn to seperate those, and when, why to apply, and strong you will grow, harping on the words of this GDD Yoda like flow. Here's the article. Please note I'll be in Chicago carrying this gorrilla April 26th - 29th.

Chicago Mag

Since its debut last summer at the Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre in London, Othello: The Remix has been trotting around the world (to Germany, then Scotland). In mid-March, it finally arrived back at Chicago Shakespeare Theatre, where the show was developed.

The hip-hop remake of Othello (the one about the Moor who does a world of hurt to the people he loves thanks to the scheming of his underling Iago) is the third time the talented Q Brothers—Gregory and Jeffrey Qaiyum, also known as GQ and JQ—have done a commercially produced “add-rap-tation” (their term) of a work by the dopest MC of the Elizabethan Age. The Bomb-itty of Errors came first in 1998; Funk It Up About Nothin’ followed, to great acclaim again, in 2008.

At the fun party after the press opening, Criss Henderson, the theatre’s executive director, mused about whether this show would find its audience here. The biggest challenge, he said, was that people who love Shakespeare won’t want to see a hip-hop version of anything the bard wrote, and the crowd who follows hip-hop won’t be interested in having it applied to Shakespeare. (I thought the big problem attracting the non-gray-hairs to the show would be Navy Pier’s remote location and its annoyingly expensive parking lot.)

But then, glowing reviews rolled in—the Chicago Tribune’s Chris Jones called it their “best yet” and the Sun-Times’s Hedy Weiss proclaimed it “brilliant.” A hit was born! On Wednesday, CST announced that the show would extend seven weeks through June 15. Henderson’s not wrong to be circumspect—hip-hop Shakespeare, let’s face it, does occupy the tiny sliver between two overlapping circles in a Venn diagram that itself is a speck in the entertainment universe. It also sounds like something extremely nerdy high-schoolers would do. His wondering about whether Othello: The Remix would make the jump from ultraniche theatre to traction with a wider audience may owe to the fact that Q Brothers’ 2008 show, also produced by CST, got great reviews but didn’t sell out or extend.

So what went right this time? Henderson, who gamely chatted with me over the phone on Wednesday, the day CST announced its extension, has some theories:

1) It’s a great show, and quality sells.

This is true: The show is worth seeing simply to witness the enormity of the creative undertaking here. The Q Brothers do not lamely put Shakespearean language to a beat. They use the original play as a structural foundation, then write all new words and compose DJ-assisted tracks to animate them. It helps immensely that they—with two other talented actor-rappers, Postell Pringle and Jackson Doran—act and dance well, are hilarious, and somehow pull off this show without looking foolish or making the audience feel like parents at a rave.

Henderson notes that the show does a nice job on the dramaturgical front, too. “Taking on a tragedy was good idea—it helps the show to have to deal with seriousness,” he says. “You can delve into depth of character, as opposed to the surface tension of the comedies. There’s also a social relevance—Othello is still a pretty timely play.”

2) It’s cheap.

The lowest price ticket, $20, is available (online at chicagoshakes.com) to anyone under 35. No gimmicks, except that you may buy only two tickets per production. Actually, this offer is good for any show at the CST.

3) Word of mouth really works.

According to Henderson, people who have never seen a show at CST account for more than half of the Othello tickets sold so far. His sense from eyeballing these audiences is that the show is attracting “hipsters” (he himself cringed at the term even though he used it) who have come for a bona fide cultural event as opposed to an obligatory-feeling night at the theatre.

He chalks this up, somewhat, to CST’s shrewd move of first presenting the show overseas as a festival piece—short engagements to foreign theatre lovers, who, I’m guessing, must have eaten up the audacious American-ness of the whole thing. That early buzz translated into three solid weeks of pre-show coverage from the local media when Othello returned to its artistic home.

“It takes about five to six weeks. That’s when word of mouth really starts to work for you,” Henderson says. “Chicago is a word-of-mouth town.”

Through June 15 at Chicago Shakespeare Theater, Navy Pier, 800 E. Grand Ave., chicagoshakes.com, 312-595-5600. $20 to $35

Friday, April 12, 2013

Havard Rugland - Awesome Football Kicker. 2013 in the building. + This Springs Anthem. X-Tina, Rap and Ah-ha?? H-Awesome. Spring's Song aka Suzy Q. 2013

And the Detroit Lions signed him.  File this under, no fucking way.  If this guy chokes even an average chip early, if he in fact wins a spot, you begin to really question.  How long must have this taken this guy?  About as long as it takes for me to finish a documentary.


Obviously there are camera tricks here.  Your not naive to think we're living in a democracy?  Just remember the full court Lebron swishes, and Blair Witch.

we'll c ya.

CP

Fri DAY

I leave you with this, the jam of the spring.  If your not banging this in the ride you are nuts.  Thank you Ms. Christina and Pitbull for the seasonal anthem that always seals the deal for America.   Stand up Springle, it's your track, !  Great time of year spring on the east, mwah :):)$$$$





Thursday, April 11, 2013

Mariners Fan Catches Foul Ball in Beer - GorilladunkDaily - sickness clip of the day

2 Words, AH... DOOM !




and hun guns it, love this guy....

Cherry Bombs 2013 - Flowers for sale, less money, pink, pink, pink, pink, pink ! They've All xcome 2 Look 4 America. :):):)



I biked all year long.  Basically that means all winter long.  So, like Eagon, the candy bar and Ghostbusters, I, I earned it.  This is tricky, biking, early DC, they expect 2 million visitors for their cherry blossom festivals.  Cherry Blossoms, how grill is that name? I mean next to furry soft or gucci, gucci, C-rat and your host, CP, it's the illest of the grillest

It's the first time in a decade the cherry tree's blossomed in line with the parade they piled trillions into.  Now remember, we at GDD LOVE seuqestration.  And because we need real estate.  The boom, bigger Gov't and free money has caused my little district and favored arlington to creep up on some Manhatten prices kids !  But these CB's, like shooting stars, here for just a minute, always have to peep.  It's one of those things on that life list, in my estimation.  Here's some buns footage, too early, but you can get the idea.  I'd say you have an asian for every white person.  A bike for every three walkers, and fanny packs everywehere you look circa magic 1991-present.



The most wonderful time of the year !   Still headed west north of 40 mr. east, it's on. .  Hahahahah -

Also GDD rumor of the day.  Kimye , Kayne to name his baby boy, Easton.  Smart.  And RIP.  Freddy ball games dear mother, great run, we know your in heaven smiling down.  Thanks for a great son.

Monday, April 08, 2013

The Next Day

We smoked one-hitters, we drank beers, ate well, grilled. We played wiffle ball and everyone was welcome. And that was my house a happy, free and safe place. No one mentioned Santo or any other tragedy anyone on that deck was currently in the midst of for that matter. The Next Day:

School was an afterthought for the next couple of days. All’s we could do was accept cold realities as we girded ourselves for the motions. Today was the first of a three part series of wakes at the town’s funeral home I was all ready far too familiar with. The wakes ultimately lead to the burial of Matthew Jonathan Santosusso. The only good point in my mind was that I loved the temptations. Santo had struck a chord. It was so much more than us. In fact the school, and powers beyond our control entrusted with the production of this Church Service, three wakes and burial colluded to keep us as far away as possible. We were cut out of anything spoken but nonetheless had front pew seats next to the family at the church service and later at the burial, fucken curtains

We were pissed at the snubs. I was silently enraged. This thing had become colossal and the politics of sympathy were in full swing. It drew a greater divide in my distrust of the entire thing. The first wake was slated to start around 2PM on a school Wed. What strikes me in reflection is how a schedule driven town stopped all scheduling to revolve around this grief that had re-entered Candy Land itself, Madison MA for the first time since 77, sixteen years (the last time a teenager died at LHS). It was Thursday at noon, and that was it, everything else stopped. I was again in the center of attention, be careful what you wish for doesn’t begin to describe the haunting irony boomeranging back.

And like the tough times of past, darling occasions regardless of court appearances I had a deep set of friends and there was universal truth in math. It was polarizing. The field was now level. It would stitch us together. The love we had then was strong and we thought like many kids and clicks it would last forever. Ironically it did. Meeting up with Magic, Monster, Mr. Fullerton, Spec, Diamond, Friday Night and the rest of the basketball team slash what friends I had remaining we were ready to “roll” through the inaugural wake. Dressed in oxford white shirts, and cotton “sock” ties, penny loafers and khaki’s we walked from school to the funeral home as one. We wouldn’t be the first ones to arrive or the last, I was scared to see Santo resolute and frightening. I took focused deep breaths naming all of the people whose name I knew that began with the letter “G.”

Approaching the funeral homes cadaverous climate with all my crew not a word was muttered. Not a movie was quoted. Game faces. I couldn’t look up. Once at the funeral home the “viewing” line stands as long as bread lines in the pits of communist Russia, longer. All, all coming to pay there respects to our lost family. I turn to Magic and we both say concurrently albeit soft as Downey for some ungodly reason, “mine would’ve been bigger.” Challenge. The line at the funeral home stretched beyond it’s real estate and curled to the corner of Mass Ave, endless faces that Santo’s passing had checked reality for. Kevin, aka, Mr. Friday Night begins to lose it, we watch startled and scared, Spec quickly to the best of his ability calms his brother down as we continue our march in April with downed, dead heads. Mr. Friday Night is not supposed to lose it was all I kept thinking. We’d been motioned as a group to the front.

Line cutting privilege here represented a non-fortuitous adolescent plight rather than an edge. All’s I ever wanted in life was cut the line, I never stopped bragging about how often Des did it, and with such a shift in the galaxy’s crust, the irony’s came strong and steadily. All eyes remain defensively open as we languidly pace past the three and a half-hour waiting line to the front. We enter the Funeral Home’s gateway or atrium with humbled ignorance flat in the air and sadness hanging in our hearts. Brett was the first to greet us, somber and professional running the show that his parents long ago started, a multi million-dollar funeral business. Brett didn’t look good but then again he was taking anti depressants and smiles were not in the job description. Brett was the heir to the funeral home. The maturity he exuded during holy sanctimonious moments of peril was meticulous and garnered a certain type of respect that was unfounded outside of funeral home culture.

His countenance surrounding comas and processions led one to believe this was a man, years ahead of his age, he’s deliberate, he’s calculated, he’s smart, he’s blonde, definitely rich he was a scratch golfer. He like my mentor and sister’s boyfriend Des had dropped out of high school only never to return. A slam-dunk was just the opposite for the Madison brat pack of the 80’s existing now in the early 90’s and forever going forward as challenged. Brett was well versed on the manners and sport of the very well off. The customs, built in racial subterfuge, a required and rarely revealed outside of your bestest financial benefactors was a trait necessary, if you wanted in. Shaking Brett’s hand and moving beyond his fat under chin symbolized that we had now moved inside the “realm.” I couldn’t walk. With a thousand guests behind us, panic has glued our loafers to the spot we can’t seem to move past. Jesus. Brett devotionally peered down and handed the keys to his upstairs residential space. Bottom line without a question Brett had a Zanex up there. And we were on the same page. One thing those guys always had were pills, they almost always had Zanex, Klonapin and on occasion Valium which incidentally had gone out of style but was my favorite.

Brett continued to serve the rolling assembly as my front door excitement was easily concealed by a vast nothingness encapsulating all of my breath. Brett continues, “Pay your respects first though.” I agree and he hands over the keys to his money upstairs apartment that lay vertically above the funeral homes showing area. Great break for this squad needed a team timeout after we, you know. The entire basketball team was shuffled to the front of the line closet to his open casket. In the most serious of my Madison climates all eyes were peeled on me as I approached the casket. Just like I always wanted it, from day one dysfunctional outlets usually included the kids you broke bread with together, today was no exception and together we stood. It was haunting, this lung drop irony where like so many close to a suicide or a child’s death everyone at some point thinks it was their fault. Santo was gone, a price for my arrogance? If ever there was a time in my life where I immediately wanted to cease speaking with Jesus, this was it, like all of these moments in life, this numbness of mind made most of it hard to believe. Medication in a pill-crazed town was readily available to all of us, mostly because I was shady as fuck. I was sixteen and now possessed the prowess to string together a string of numbers on a pay phone and acquire anything, stomp out any curiosity. I was still sixteen. And for myself, Santo, my boy C, Hank, E Double, we all had birthdays in late May – August, we were the youngest. Santo was in August, like the recently expelled Hank, the youngest of the Young Guns. And Santo sadly the best all around athlete we had. The last time I saw him he was dunking at will in the field house, in khaki’s. Kid was cool as fuck. I shifted a lung, blocked out a tear, not here, nah.

That he was one of us, and that’s all I lived for, would make all of us according to the Madison public officials dangerous, and they were right. Looking at the outpouring of town support only made it more factual and I was on my last heels of denial. A kick save to an immediate breakdown, seeing Santo dead in the casket jumpstarted everything I was fighting to keep in. But I couldn’t lose it, not now. I wouldn’t let anyone see that from me, not here, suddenly Magic senses a disturbance in the force, turns around and calms me. “It’s just a free throw” I nodded my head regaining composure. Magic like a point guard, a leader steps up to the casket and down on bended knees says good by to his guy, it broke my heart. As Magic paid his respects, he broke down, and was comforted by both mother and pops, I lost it. I couldn’t handle this, clutching my Young Gun tang top, I lose it before even stepping towards the casket. I was up and it was too much. I lost it, I rallied, bent down, trying to behave as I had seen others, it couldn’t be me. And wasn’t that the strangest thing. He looked great, like a million bucks, hard not to think his eyes were suddenly going to pop open in the latest and biggest practical joke of his to date instant hall of fame. But the line was long so many were behind and everything was gone. I had to get up, I had to move on, walking to the family killed me worse. I was hugged. I was comforted. I was told it was OK. The three people we should be strongly consoling were holding us firm and telling me “it’s going to be OK. He loved being a Young Gun.”

I held Matt’s father Nick until ushers assisted in my “moving on.” Santo’s father was the hardest part. Santo’s father’s own antics and competitive gene in town that made him an outcast in his own right always found a fan in me. I knew had bad the old man wanted it. It was my dream too. It’s why this was so unfathomable. Baseball hadn’t even started yet. Santo was dead. It’s all over. For everyone, and for the dad, his old man, I knew intimately and without the guards of candor to understand their like of one another. And it killed me. Swallowing my throat trying to move on, holding his loving mother, his older sister just a couple years older, it was hell.

Filing slowly, finally out of the Funeral home, the sun was shining, shaking what seamed like endless hands mixed with many hugs we’d accomplished phase I. “Nice work.” Magic and I handled our always obligatory handshake / compliment whenever we were involved in good camera work. With touchiness at still gout sensitive levels I suddenly remembered Brett had given us the keys to his upstairs apartment. “Brett gave me the keys to the pad, side entrance.” “Well let’s go.” Magic and I quickly follow through on the hashed out plan. “Yo” Magic gives, the “yo” THE NOD AND Big Guy like whistle, and the fellas follow. Walking up to the centrally aired upstairs funeral home suite at least I felt cool. Sitting on the white leather couches was me, Magic, Spec, Mr. Fullerton, Monster, and Freddy and it was grand. We were there but we weren’t we could see they couldn’t , we were safe they were them. We were going to have a shot of Vodka. We could witness, re cap and avoid exposure to the many enduring social missteps a crowd this size almost always guaranteed. Peering out of the apartment it was astonishing, Madison MA it felt like a storybook. And this was the saddest chapter. Matt’s death, Santo. It hit everyone. And every face burger that I ever grilled I looked out at. They couldn’t see me. I knew that many would ask many. As many always had. And it wasn’t a complaint, a worry or rumor but a heartfelt interest. In some ways we were the performers, the troublemakers, the comedians, athletes and head cases. The breakfast club all tied up in one. I shook my head like a canister and poured out those thoughts, “Fuck I need a new cane.” I stood up and changed the subject. “Des what’s up baby!” I delivered, crisp, synchronized dap trying to change the energy rescuing my mind from itself.

“What are we going to do?” I asked exhausted from the question I needed an answer to right now, tomorrow and forever. “I have no idea, stay up here for a week?” Magic responded. I only knew the more this “stuff” went on the sadder I got. “Holy Shit!” All attention was silently converted towards the window. If Magic said it, (say this like Vadar) there’d be no false alarm. Something was happening. We just didn’t “jump” anymore at sixteen a terrible seasoning to our aging red blood, bones and meat. Oh shit, ZILLA And it was Stretch. He’d just drove over, peeled out, in teenage cry, the circular and gardened center patch to the funeral homes front entrance. Quickly dusting out in a smoke he nearly hits part of the suited visitors still standing in line outside to pay their respects. “Jesus Christ” Magic says shaking his head Being sums of a greater whole part we begin cursing Stretch for being “fucking retarded” before we broke out the level and shifted it’s lay a bit more towards Stretch’s line on the graph. We all fell silent in guilt’s stranglehold. Stretch spent the last moments of my Santo’s life holding him in his wide reaching arms. I’m such a fuck head, fuck nut, fucking prick, fuck-faced faggot. Jesus. Please. You up there? Help me make a good decision take a good action here. Fuck, Stretch, I can’t miss that. I a shook my head, grabbed Magic “he should be with us.” “Your right.” “what a zilla.” Mr. Fullerton says loudly as we all nod in agreement. “We can’t let him slip.” I stated aware of how slippery shit had become. I felt a fool. Police chased, sirens sounded, soared! Whispers, ears, the funk, Santo pretty punk, so far from a Stretch slam dunk he’s been here less than a year. A family needed. I wasn’t a curtain or a font. However harking to an opposite side of the mind, I was running a family. And what we just witnessed Stretch do was no good. Not the action, but the place, timing, the whispers, the ears. I knew. And never in my life felt so vulnerable.

Stretch’s reckless driving at the very worst possible time caught him an around the clock police tail for the rest of the school year, wherever he drove they would be there. This would keep me out of his dope ride for the duration of our time on that plot of land and point on time graph. I knew early he was a zilla. I’d seen him freak out and loved it. It was perfect. He was our center and naturally Santo hated him at first and they’d fall in love later. It was the nature of almost every loving relationship I’d form. I had a script. But it wasn’t being filmed it was a notion helping out my character assignation.

Assisting my acting that allowed me to block out everything going on around me and flex back to my check bones. “He’s officially nuts.” Magic delivers something in the name of that being said. “We all are, it’s pretty fucking cool!” Monster says rubbing his hands and doing the “Jack” thing with his eyebrows, Monster loved it. Anything associated with destruction made him happy. And he hated isolation. His biggest fear he found safety in numbers, destruction, and unbridled cavalier acts, together maybe we as acts, we weren’t so, “nuts.” We were a family. And no one realized it. They knew now.

i can write !!!!!!

Shakespeare shake up: 'Othello: The Remix' - Arts & Life - The DePaulia - The student newspaper of DePaul University

Shakespeare shake up: 'Othello: The Remix' - Arts & Life - The DePaulia - The student newspaper of DePaul University

"The Q brothers are indisputable Shakespearean masterminds"  Nuff said. 

GREAT REVIEW. My team heads out last week of April.

proper.

Friday, April 05, 2013

Now I lay me down to sleep my boy is gone and I’m here to weep....................... Boys Don't Cry III (Legendes, Sons Of Liberty Volume I) April 7th, 1993

Cause that’s the word I long to hear and why you took a young bright boy I’m still not clear But love I will shit, still and forever cause things in life, shit can only get better In my heart you’ll eternally remain until we dance again in heavenly rain Good night my lord Amen, amen Don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again. I miss you Matt, already

Back 2 school: Monday soon awoke without thought or promise. Rolling out of bed all’s I wanted was a bowl of Fruity Pebbles and a Swedish fish containing the vile #5 red die I’d been banned via Pink Milk in C house drinking on school grounds via old notes via a long ago hospital's liner notes on "the dream." The longest weekend in history was finally over. I had crawled back in bed after the mornings first reel of reminding thoughts, “I don’t give a fuck” it’s the only thing as usual that I can say. The sun was shining brightly through my bedrooms window. It was obvious today's forecast broke winters stubborn last bones, finally. “Breakfest is ready with your cranberry, orange juice, water, coffee, two egg's, toast and the sports section.” “Comen!” I hated coffee and for the life of me couldn’t figure out what the conspiracy (adults) saw in it. Magic’s horn in the driveway had alerted my mother to begin her day's closing statements, "stay calm Carl please." "I got you." And what a good example or lift I had walking out of the house always aware that my mothers back story next to mine was the difference between real and not. Seeing Mike, thinking of adults, questions and traveling to a school that no longer had Santo in it, that good feeling was wrangled out of me in an instant. Opening Magic’s shotgun door, I plucked down exhaling deeply,

“what up” “good morning” “good morning to you” “School will be a joke ” “Mike, I just got in this car so my mother won’t worry, I’m not going to class, fuck school. I want to find Monster, I want to get high.” Monster the inadvertent catalyst last year in the demise of my short lived marijuana peddling. Monster, the lovable weed head had illicted some enterprising thoughts, I figured it would work, it didn't. Monster, a self proclaimed "social butterfly" smoked what was suppossed to be dealt resulting in loss, my loss. Selling weed was too risky, margins too thin, it wasn't for me. I'd teamed with my boy C to make markets in sports however in the wake of Santo's passing my last, inexorable, mental defense mechanism, designed to prevent exorbiant use of drugs had been expelled. I'd give in. I wasn't special nor different. "Fuck school Mike." Calling Magic, "Mike" was serious business from me.

“Agreed but 1st of all we’re already late, secondly we have Math together with Gralla, you realize it’s ten AM.” Silence persisted what was a very quick ride to high school. And as we took the turn into our student parking lot the massive field house was always the first thing to catch your eye. Today we were doubly “aware” as our spray paint had more than tripled in size in the Asian trading hours or overnight. Crew after crew old and present had dipped to pay their respects after our lead. It was in a word, glorious. “Holy shit.” Magic “Dude.” The one word in white vernacular that always explained anything and everything. We parked. I opened the door, stepping out of Magic's moms whip. We took one look into our respective classes and headed straight towards the SAC. Class was not happening, I couldn’t. “Gentlemen welcome.” “Mr. Robinson I’ll gorilla snap if I have to sit in class.” “ Your early Mr. Easton, come in Mike, sit down gentlemen I’m about to make class optional for everyone in school over the next two days. You have to stay on school grounds unless you have open campus, which you Carl don’t” “I know” “so don’t leave school grounds, I’m so sorry guys, we’ll be here if you ever need us, “Carl, just go through the motions, have you seen the Big Guy yet?” “nah” “No, well go see him, just stay calm.” “I will” “OK well I’ll see you around, if I see your sister I’ll tell her your OK.” “Thanks, let’s go Mike.” “bet” Walking out I ponder that both my mother and now Mr. Savage told me to jus “go through the motions.” I never thought I’d hear that. Quickly finding Mr. Fullerton and Monster we get in the car and eject ourselves off campus. Dejected we drove around until Mcdonald’s was open for lunch. “One of life’s last remaining pleasure” echoed the Monster. “Pass the joint pal.”

Finally arriving back to school it was hot. I sat transfixed watching the twelve foot high snow bunker gradually melt. It was our first gorgeous day in six months but none of us commented on it. What seemed like the entire school filled out the graphite of our student parking lot, kids shouldn’t even have cars. And under the graffiti laced tribute of the field house we sat in the student parking lot mourning in the burning sun. There wasn’t any real noise just soft exchange. I sat on the curb next to a few of my top dawgs, I couldn’t even tell you who they were except Magic and Monster. I helicoptered my white T-shirt around my head. It was tranquil and I closed my sober eyes, faded away finding in the finally bright sun, solace in the calmness of my own breath and thoughts of basketball, Santo, best teammate, so much to claw back on. My pinch became a twine, mood lightning struck, a manic minute I was now pondering the unfairness of it all. The stone cold reality of it all, this was really happening, I remember always having to remind myself of that in the early days. The sun having finally emerged from a long new England hibernation warmed my face. I’d again found a momentary solace. It didn’t last. My mother had assured me for us it never ever would. And silence once golden was broekn, the air had been contaminated. I heard an all too familar rattling voice, then voices, louder, buzzing, true teenage fervor meant something was about to jump off in seconds. Disgruntled not surprised I saw Skeetah, one of my own, fuck me

"You know who your fucking with kid!" Here we go. This couldn’t happen. His track record, his, his, shrieking tone along with a complete lack of awareness meant I’d police the shit. We grew up together. He knew Santo. Skeetah used to be a Young Gun. I watched Hank slip, and they expelled my ACE 1, 2 Black Knight. Leaving Magic and Monster after I heard Monster of all people chime, "Just leave it alone dude, he's an idiot." I couldn't. I was watching Skeetah, all dysfunction and no bite play out the saddest of complexities at our worst hour. “No fucking way.” I got up possessed and walked the ten yards required to be in the center of this pile of shit. Already heads had turned. Skeetah carried an array of complexes and my immunity vanished watching him air out his dirty laundry that afternoon. “Kid you have no idea what I'll do kid, to you and your house, and your family dude. Say something, I’ll fucken KO your ass right now kid.” I was enraged. I needn't not the slightest details in this latest skirmish to understand the reciever of his hallowed, hallow and at times hilarious gangster claims did nothing wrong at all. I saw Skeetah. I knew why he felt strong. I didn’t like his back. And I'd never forgive his timing. His "back" a recent transplant, drug dealer in the ACE program from a neighboring city kids called "Paps." He had a scarred, mangled face that looked like a rat, splinter. He’d been dating Natasha, the female me, my truest friend since the third grade, she just didn't play basketball. I was none to pleased. Skeetha was doing it to get under my skin. Santo had been dead a weekend. “Skeetah!” He heard my voice and went after the younger chap. Now thrust into intervention I grabbed Skeetah as he begun screaming a tether ball of shallow threats and guarantees of what would have just happened if I wasn’t there. Now diffusing the situation our action fell into the traditional suburban holy rite of “hold me back kid!” Like anythihng would happen, Pap's presented a reality that it just might.

“Skeetah!” Whispering and trying to play it cool was not going to work in this situation. Skeetah annoyed was trying to fidget slap me, “Ya!” I pushed him back growing increasingly hostile. I saw Skeetah make the face of all faces to his new best friend. I felt nauseated. “Yo Carl" The inevitable was rolling. Pap's called me out. "Step back, this don’t concern you kid.” he was clam in his direction, unfluttered he flickered his wrist, “Step.” In some ways he'd been the scariest kid at our high school over the past year. I was from Madison and he was from Watershed, it was that simple, reputations didn't factor into it. Skeetah gravitated to anything new especially drug dealers in the “life.” Skeetah's latest ally thought I was a fraud. I thought he was peaking. Both Natasha and Skeetah rejoiced regailing stories of his mob ties and minor league herion trafficking. "Dude his stories kill yours." Skeetah had a knack for constantly sharing this thought. Paps relationship with Natasha was painful. Paps presence represented a real hooligan connected to killers in a life of hard narcotics. And so we just kind of silently did our thing judging silently until today. I took great offense to the notion that this "don't concern you." Skeetah sensing complete combustion back peddled. “Yo but C this kid is a fucking punk dude!” The squeal of a lifetime Skeetah screams over my shoulder, “he’s out of line and he has been for a while! Your dead fool dead!” I’d seen enough. Not today. I was crazy too.

“Skeet back the fuck up, stop it, just stop it.” I said defusing the stupidity besides the fact I knew Andy a year younger was a great kid and would straight up whoop Skeetah’s scrony ass in the rarely held, fair fight. And then it came again, Paps. “Yo Carl, I said step back kid this don’t concern you. LET THAT GO, STEP ASIDE.” “Chill out pal.” Bart Eyes delivered as my heart rate sky rocketed. Turning my parental attention to one of my own, Skeetah there it was all on the line. “Skeetah are you serious? Look at me are you serious?” “you don’t fucking talk to him like that kid fucken be careful kid.” He pushed my buttons. This a kid I’d backed up my whole life. “You need to get off that guys nuts first of all.” And Skeetah started laughing ala Casino, Ginger to her husband thinking she had protection. “Dude you can't talk to me like that with him right there kid, you better be careful C." I’m not going to tell you again, don’t talk any shit about him kid.” I’d never been angrier. Skeetah a tired attempt of what had now amounted to a threat towards me. “STOP RIGHT THERE.” Paps wanted the floor. Heads had swollen in numbers added ambitiously. Paps aware maybe for a moment backs off slightly in rhetoric realizing what’s at stake, he’s drunk and we’re both on probation. “Yo, I think you need to chill out my man and recognize who your talking too, walk the fuck back.” Nope. This was our day after all. “fuck that.” Shaking my head. As I finish my last quote I peer around and suddenly realize there are more than a few people observing our exchange, the crowd, the stage, the pride and now silence galvanized every student out in our parking lot that April afternoon.

“What are you all jacked about? Dude, I've had friends die, people die, you fucking get over it. It happens you get over it.” “What? (accosting) what the fuck did you just say to me?” “You heard me.” “This is my school. kid.” I exaggerrted my last word knowing that was his favorite thing to say. It felt like kickoff. No pads or scoreboards. Within seconds we’re toe to toe and raised our fists as he spat on the ground. A true setting for a high school fight formed as a gigantic student body encircled us. Silence was the only thing audible. Usually people are loud and rowdy during school ground fights, but not today. You could hear a pin drop. We circled each other with impetuous eyes casing one another, I wanted to box. My scrap was about to get tested. I jumped on my heels. My anger quickly becomes sadness and fear needing Santo back, but that couldn’t happen. A true setting for a classic high school fight. Finally we engaged out of the restlessness anticipation a crowd of high school spectators eagerly invigorates.

Pap came out swinging I jerked my head and was hit but barely another swing, I’m ready, I ducked, he missed my face. He put his shoulder into his waist in attempts of tackling him to the ground like Dick Butkus. As I try to violently snap him on his back he catches himself with his hand on the concrete and twirls his way out of my hold and lands his first head shot. I’d felt little. We both regain our balance. I wanted to box. I shook my head. I bouned on the balls on my feet raising my fists. I couldn't go to the ground. Paps swung for the fences. I instinctively ducked and if touched by an angel a landed a punishing right hook squarely in his nose. He went down. Nasal vessels popped, blood spurged. and he was out. My one Tyson moment he was KO’d in the student parking lot. Enormous “ooohhs” and the gentle sigh of a hundred nervous breaths exhaled in the breeze. He was hurt and bloody and I was now filled with a dark energy about to experience an episode. I became disgusted that one of ours, Skeetah, fuck. In one false sweep eagling my Edisons across the lot of asphalt I hated everything I saw. I hated after school specials. I hated that kids had a right to feel however they wanted to. I hated white people. I hated pictures. I hated curtains. I hated god. I hated glass mansions. And so begin a very public relapse into dysfunction. I jumped on the trunk of a parked Nissan after pushing away a girlfriend of my sisters to the ground. There was silence. It was a stage all my own. A chance to express everything I ever wanted to say to my entire student body. How stupid we all were. How guaranteed there lives were. How much I’d lost. How fake I’d found their sentiments. A forum to express everything I ever wanted to say beyond what peple heard and chose to see. “Faggots! That fucken kid was like a brother to me! Fuck all of you!" And down hand crafted sullenly streams I jumped off the car and began smashing car windshields with my fist, one touch. My scar troughed right arm was again bleeding. I loved blood and at that moment wanted more of it to be shed. All of a sudden my boy C and Scully try to scurry me off school grounds because they know it’s just a matter of time before authorities arrive. A hundred people just saw me smash the back windshield of an innocent person’s car. Attention had been on fire for a minute, teachers, toy cops were crossing outer peripherals. It was time to break.

Trying to make our way through the crowd when suddenly a tempered and suddenly alive Pap was back. He couldn’t go out like that. “Ok, OK you got me the first time let’s go.” My boy C had grabbed coach Sullivan out of the field house. Before another rumble in the jungle is set off Coach shoved Paps to the ground grabbed me and says, “OK pick a friend and let’s go.” Coach Sullivan scurrying me bleeding down the main hall en route to the nurse’s office. I cued my rock. Jesus if you remember my best friend died on Saturday night. If you forgot this then send me your address and I can overnight you some quick release Ritalin , help Coach Sullivan was money in the clutch. He’d been rushed out of his mid-day hoop’s workout to once again try and get me out of a huge mess. I’m dead and he knew it. Santo was gone and he’s never coming back to our script, painful reality. Hobbling towards the nurse’s office Coach looks down at my re opened scar. I was bleeding profusely, I’m having a hard time breathing this was a true breakdown. Coach evaluates my condition, looks down at the mangled condition of my war tired right arm and says, “We’ll be OK, so come on, settle down and lets get out of here back way.”

The drive was silent, fucken Santo dumb ass not fair. Coach Sullivan had known Santo as long as I had. As we approach Nevaton High there are still fresh tears bubbling in my eye’s corners. Coach finally breaks the silence “I’m canceling my freshmen baseball practice today, it will probably take five minutes.” “You coach freshmen baseball?” “No Cahl, I’m just saying it to confuse you.” My eyes look at each other, “Hey, yes, coach freshmen, two grand, it’s OK.” “Look I have to leave you guys in the gym, can you handle that?” Paul intercedes “we’re straight.” Coach commands us to sit down as he’ll be right back. My heart was still racing Kentucky Derby. “What’s up with that fucking kid to tell me to get over it? What the fuck?” “Dude our Skeetah was retarded too.” Suddenly a heavy trough of Needham football players strolled into the gym with a couple of girls which caused an instinctive smile. The football player asked us a question or my boy C all charged up from my knockout popped up and agitated. “Just keep walken pal. Nothing to see.” I was bloodied and the whole thing looked shady. It wasn’t our high school. And C’s lobbying fell on deaf ears as another mob of kids approached us inside their after school home basketball gym. My boy C threw the first punch, all hell broke loose and I was getting pummeled. “Hey!!” Coach finally rips me from the floor and is angry. “Can’t you do anything right?” The tirade quickly runs its course. Coach looks into my eyes and remembers. He loved Santo too, since he was a small boy, just like all of us Young Guns. Coach helped in the development of his hoops game since he was in the fifth grade. Ten minutes later we leave bloodied but not beaten. I look good, rugged and swollen. As I’m helped to the car the cute blonde that had originally encouraged me to hit that fool due to the stunning cuteness of her face was still standing by the door alone and appeared worried. I smiled at her exposing both of my bright dimples. She runs up to Coach, “Coach Sullivan! Coach is he OK, can I help?” “Felicia, no, thanks just, just, can you just leave.” He saw the confusion in her eyes.

“Look I’m sorry, I’ll explain all of this to you some other time. I’m sure these guys appreciate your concern but he’s going to need allot more than that..” As I’m placed in the car I make sure only I stay locked on that Felecia, “jeez how nice” I’d think to myself like how the Big Guy would say it. Both major papers in Boston that frightful school morning had published articles in the Sports sections about Matt’s fatal car accident. Once we’re back inside the car everything seemed to be spinning. I couldn’t put my finger on it but for some reason it was this moment that scared me to know end. It was clear Coach Sullivan had come to my rescue. “I don’t give a fuck.” I whispered to Paul he loved all of today’s fist fight’s and outcomes.

My shirt had been ripped again and my sagging jeans were drooling down my hardened thighs. The car stopped in front of an empty basketball court. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Coach gets out of the car pops the trunk and says, “get out.” No one has spoken since we left that “other” high school. It’s hot the climate like everything else in life had flipped when once again I was home, I was on an empty basketball court with a ball Coach and my Boy C. Paul and I had shorts on underneath our baggy jeans. Coach Sullivan had been in shorts all day. You never knew when a game would break out and besides I’d been playing this game every single day for my entire life. I now had a focus, Coach Sullivan was hungry, eager to get me on the court, break me down and toss me around and most importantly win the game of “New York” 21 that was about to drop. Coach Sullivan was the best player I’d ever played against, he was my barometer, I knew since a young age if I could take him, even be as good as the legend and last player to win a MVP of the state title in Astori, then I did it. But fleeting was the thought, my only focus was Stan (the rim) and my beloved Rollie (basketball), and like a curtain call he was rolled on the defrosted asphalt.

Hours later.

This game that we played would become my single greatest therapy session in a life of them. And not a word was said. Finally with the sun all but set, and the overall series score knotted at two a piece between me and Coach Sullivan, it ended. My boy C had destroyed what would become a very swollen ankle. He was down for the count but tough about it, reckless abandonment of athletic d├ęcor typically left some one hurt, ands that’s how games in YG world typically ended. I went home exhausted, my fear was tempered, and I was much more ready for tomorrow than I’d have been if the latter was a remnant of my wild imagination that had never occurred. A quiet yet triumphant victory, coming home my mother informed me warmly that Coach Farias had called. The story went instant viral my mother said he was proud that I had prevailed in the fistfight. The Big Guy, a minority and city guy in breed just wanted the kids from Madison to be tough. And word was out, revenge and retaliation. The Big Guy having been responsible for Pap in ACE knew that he was capable of all sorts of things.

“Big Guy thinks it would be better if you stayed with him tonight, just for the night in case, they come to get you.” It made my mother feel so good that he had called, “It’s OK, we’ll be OK.” Constructive channels for energy to flow are one of life’s most important rivers. A white boy speaks of rivers imagine that? (Langston Hughes) On the way home I I’d felt better, the poison in my mind had been extracted. And coach Sullivan wasn’t a paid therapist. He was a basketball player, a coach, and he’d accomplished what so many now and through the years failed to accomplish, prevent disaster. Sure I always got away but there was a reason I was conned into therapy in the third grade. I just didn’t buy it. The usual therapists were such a joke to me. The books, the questions the long recorded meltdown of failing to make a connection. ACE therapy we all might have been better off just wrestling for the hour. I’d tell them in our post session faculty - follow up that the Big Guy allowed me to sit on. “OK well, Chris, I think we’ve learned again that you should refrain from asking Cuzzerrie any questions ever again.” I’d eye the Big Guy, flip my paws up in line with my eyebrows and flutter words directly to the Big Guy at the head of our long lunch table, “it’s inappropriate, no need to repeat it or give him the opportunity to ask a question coming from a therapist. It’ll go a long way.” “OK, so don’t ask Cuzzerrie any questions, what else we got.” I personally loved the idea the pro bono shrinks had about the follow up meeting each week. Besides ACE, the Big Guy loved a good re cap. And now I did too. “Cahl’s going to be sitting in with us.” And that was it. I missed the first one but the Big Guy had heard in the inaugural re cap that I’d grabbed the rutter and de fused the awkward silence when Cuzzirrie asked the first question of the season. It was his turn in the announce yourself day 1 of group therapy your name where you from and if they, the therapist got lucky, you’d even throw in a hobby. A wet dream would be what “we” were hoping to “accomplish” in ACE therapy. Once a week, Tuesday at ten, I got out of main-stream math, I felt blessed and per custom thanked Jesus. And as Steve’s turn rotated to his lap, he asked in his burly, blue collared life and Boston accent, “Yeah forget about my name for a second pal we all know each other around here” He was hyper now, foot tapping with a grand fat smile “I a got a question for you. Do you have a hard time concealing the fact you’re a fag? What’s up with the earring in the right lob gay lawd.” He laughed, the comedian, we all lost it with him. You just couldn’t help it, it was, too, good.

I remember thinking to myself as soon as Cuzzierre started speaking, this therapist has no idea this kid is in here for blowing up a car, his science teachers. No more mainstream for my man. Now be slick, be smart and set the bar low, now instead of chemistry you had ACE therapy with me. One of my same grade hero’s we were binded only through detention, benches and now ACE. And I was a homy first. I watched the degree get in the way during ACE therapy, every week every Tuesday. I constantly bailed out the pro bono PHD’s that graced us from my sisters and my biggest fear, one day I’d be filed simply under crazy and sent there. “I’d die first.” “I know C.” And this was before Point Break. But our therapists came from Mcclean hospital. Girl Interuppted. The real deal coo coo’s nest. Nothing terrified me more than a straight jacket being drugged locked in a hospital. I’d done my time there and never ever wanted to go back. I never thought about it repression is underrated, my sister and I would explain when asked the secret to it all.

Forget ACE, my sister, Brooke knew kids in her grade, her close friends, two words you never want to hear, black or white jail or rehab, “ sent away. ” Rich kids, drugs, molestation, unfounded mania, Mcclean’s hospital, that’s what the loon meant to my sister and I. Those were the facts. And Madison high school had a little bit of everything. It’s lax regulation of white high school students dressed preppy, my ultimate cover + booming teenage economy guaranteed extreme antics. White and black kids, blue and white collar, the crimes, consent and cement that kept you above it all. It was a true picture of America. Be careful what you wish for. I was built for it. And I was in shock, again. I’d been bloodied and spotlighted, the one, one lesson the Big Guy had begun hammering into me after his delight over my role in the follow up therapy sessions. I was his boy, a favorite I’d take the perks. I was chasing legendary status. But for me, now crashed with the loss of a loved one, it was to this day the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. Coach Sullivan. We just played basketball J #teachers. Back to school the next day, and I was still alive, I awoke in bed and could feel the cold face of an old rusted switch blade that I had retrieved (that I kept in Porsche’s and Mercedes barn yard which was of course my washed up after hours brother club sugar rays.) just in case. The phone hadn’t rung, and there had been no attack as of yet to myself nor on our abode.