Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Thursday, October 17, 2013
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?
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Thursday, October 10, 2013
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
Thursday, October 03, 2013
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?
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.