Friday, December 04, 2015


Jump March 2nd – June 1st. 1992 A season that had begun with rehabilitation of my fractured left ankle had come full circle. I loved playing JV for Coach Sullivan, I loved the cup of tea with varsity and I looked forward to the upcoming summer league. I cherished falling in love for the very first time. The end of the season brought a welcome end to all responsibility, I can officially fall apart. I’d been expunging much of my time available kicking out with Mattie. My rap career had been on the sidelines as all of my thoughts revolved around “muffin.” On that note I informed my father through a translator that I would be working this summer on a shortened schedule downtown in the mailroom. I couldn’t again fulfill the grueling ten week, forty hours schedule and commute last years “opportunity” commanded. However even my lust for my new love couldn’t sideline or take away from the time that I spent with my crew. In other news I’d begun smoking pot occasionally with Tick, Monster and Sully and although I didn’t think I’d gotten high yet (due to my not inhaling) I always pretended to be higher than the Chrysler building. I just wanted the fruits of pot acceptance without actually opening the gates. I felt that with the magnitude of legendary status I was pursuing I had to pretend to puff, at least a bit yo. Seeing it so much from all angles as a Hayden after hour’s kid, it had to be in the script. Also in heightened news us the Young Gun’s had begun to grow, inches not weed. For Mike and I, we went from 5-5 to 5-8. Goldy was stuck at 5-8 since the eighth grade. Santo, Jells, Sully, Spec and Tick all had eclipsed the holy six-foot mark and were not done. This comforted us all greatly keeping us all on that coveted “track.” For height is as important to the game of basketball as Alan Greenspan once was to the world at large. I’m a Republican G so once I like started smoking pot I decided, why not sell it? I was no stranger to seeing my shadow so I called Black Knight. I bought my first ounce off the red line stop Broadway in South Boston. Black and I met a block away from Whitey Bulger’s most famous bar front the Triple O’s. All’s I wanted to do was hang out with black people, talk about rap and this wasn’t the place to do it. “Southie” was the cornerstone of fear, road block to racial progress. After all if your poor and white in Boston in America, white is really all you have to hold onto. And they did. Southie was a quick drop a halfway point for us. South Boston, Saturday, the Black Knight didn’t give a fuck. The Black Knight moved me my first ounce for a hundred fifty bucks, I sold eight “eighths” within a week to dirty white kids for thirty bucks a piece but didn’t much care for this hustle. This was right before the 2nd renaissance of weed in America (See Dr. Dre the Chronic) where dirt ounces would drop far below a hundred lizard backs in all cities across the country. We just weren’t there yet even so simply wasn’t my thing. Yo Ninety bucks profit a week? Plus I’m taking all this fucking risk carrying illegal shit on me, fuck that! I tried to get Monster involved, he blew it. “Your supposed to sell, not smoke it, all you fucking moron.” “Never give me drugs.” “You said, you could move, never mind.” Gambling I perceived as a much more lucrative racket with the comparable risk far less minimal. I did however enjoy rapping about it. Consequently I continued to sell lightly throughout the coming summer. I’d stick to the football rackets in the fall. The Black Knight had begun pushing crack out in these sticks. Black said there was a market for everything in Madison, agreed. The Black Knight and I simply stopped attending the majority of spring classes to kick out, peep the times, markets and teenage females. In Madison most mainstream seniors were allowed to leave school eight weeks prior to the rest of the student body being dismissed, fucking liberals. And Mattie as a graduating senior was free from her daily class regiment much earlier in the spring than my sophomore class. This inaugural spring of real love had strengthened an already deep resolve towards my lackadaisical attitude towards attending class. And it came back to bite me tough yo, I done did it now C. Another middle of the afternoon on a school day at Mattie’s house in the middle of the day drinking one of her father’s Samuel Adam’s Lager. I was elated when she suggested I drink a few. The two Zanex I had taken earlier in the day made my buzz that much more enjoyable, god I want her naked. Originally I was only going to take one Zanex, which I was now freely taking from my mother’s abundant supply until I remembered that I had a 38 pistol tucked inside a secret pocket of my Adidas duffel bag that I brought into her house with my gym shoes, thus a brother had to pop a two lot. I could make the same profit selling a new .38 to Black in a half hour then dealing with a zip or Z or whatever the heel the curtains came up new to refer to an ounce as. I tell Muffin a few stories about the war from time to time. Rubbing the back of my neck where all stress settled I began to cry, broken hearted. “What’s wrong Cha wee?” I felt so relaxed and this is when rationalizations however charming faded away. “You can tell me anything you know.” “I know.” I was so lucky to have this person in my life. A short chuckle ensued that underpinned years of internal baggage. I told her everything, which meant I shared a few dark things. I could never tell her everything. I didn’t have the energy. I was writing more. Falling into Mattie’s protectionist arms I cried like a freak until I fell asleep exhausted from the disclosure. Upon my arrival back into the live and cognizant world Mattie was still rubbing my head peering into my own collective soul with altruistic eyes a warm gaze on a gorgeous May afternoon. “You are so cute.” She pinched my cheeks talked like a baby, fit right in. “Hi Chawee” I never felt so secure. “We’ll get through all of this.” And I nodded with the cleansed sense of perfection. “Come with me.” And as we walked into the upstairs of a very Christian home my heart was beating with wild anticipation. As the slinky “Muffin” lay me down on her bed I was near faint status, all in, lights out. She kissed me on the mouth, neck and chest. Due to my present condition I was forced and fortunate to recall an emergency early massager lesson. I was close to tilt and did not want to release before my pants had come off. I went right back to the first lesson I derived to combat the inevitable gush of wonderment that precludes complete and sudden indifference. I just pretended Madison was actually my scotch-drinking racist Grandmother. This always delayed the inevitable. Muffin a nurturing spirit by design quieted me while placing both of my arms up vertically behind my head and began to peck my six pack and then (drum roll please, I’m serious this time!) unzipped my baggy blue jeans. I was about to receive my first blowjob. Minutes later I could see what all the hype was about, I can’t wait to call Uncle Clayt, I wanted to teach the world to sing! “I’m not going back to school this afternoon.” There was no way, what I needed was another one of her father’s Samuel Adam’s Lager. “OK but are you sure that’s a good idea, you won’t get suspended or anything will you?” “Nah.” And I burst into dance. Seeing my exuberance while skipping around her top floor in the full nude Mattie asked me why I had never rapped for her. She said that she loved to sing but got nervous to perform in front of others. Of course we already knew that from watching her sing the Star Spangled Banner at a basketball game this past Valentine’s Day while still seeing that “other” guy away at a good college somewhere in CT. I was in heaven and nestled next to her on her childhood mattress and poked my mouth close to her ear. I loved an audience. “OK, check it, only fifteen and life’s been hard my minds been marred and my hearts been scarred one too many times enough is enough no I’m not rough but circumstances made me tough and as the days turn and the years go by in a blink of an eye my childhood slipped by and now I’ve grown up into a hectic state decisions to make walls to shape and stress is building up and I don’t know if I can take it there’s too many folks that just don’t want to see me make it in a hazy state with a ton of weight sitten on my chest if I rest I’m second best so I shed a tear and move on I gotta stay long man I gotta stay strong cause there’s gotta to be more than life than I’ve seen passed the baseheads, crack pipes and dope fiends refuse to lose and end up like that die of crack and your labeled as a stat.” And I pulled back, just a taste and took a deep breath. “Wow, better than the crap on the radio, that’s really good, you wrote that?” I loved that question and these were how many of my afternoons would play out that spring especially in the vortex of her senior year and the pedestrian nature of our grass roots love and free time together. Even when she thought I was going back to school / class I would hide in the woods, thank Jesus and think about how lucky I was to meet Mattie. With Mattie all of my love poured out quickly. It was a dream come true, a vision materialized. What blew me away to the outer rims of our and any galaxy was the reality of losing my virginity was now real. The Young Guns like, Mom, Parker most of the Madison general public were blown away that I had a girlfriend of this age and decorum. And that attention paradoxically settled me down it didn’t however help me attend high school classes. May 31st. Nothing ever just goes away. Yesterday is today is tomorrow is now. Karma is always watching and actions have long lasting consequences I’ll Be There June 3rd, 1992 and the summah Physical scuffles are a natural extension of youthful development. Brawls, Mallholand falls, knife calls at suburban malls, scratches, eye patches, scrapes, eye rakes, kicks, quick flicks to sensitive dicks, headlocks, electric shocks and right hooks for kids that don’t pay book, deep breath. Dam, elbow drops, coronary pops and sprints from cops all fall under the giant insular cover of adolescents experiencing life through a fucked up suburban lineage of detached cats that never gave a fuck. This institution is such a disgrace that my fight be never ending. Yo the teachers are one thing, my mother is another and even these idiotic police officers are just about barely tolerable with my most intent focus. Yo it’s my classmates that unnerve me 2 no end. Not really my same grade peers for I got most of them in check. Yo it’s these older morons B. Even given my isolationist policy upper classman never left me alone. My father once told me in Junior High that the one common thread binding all successful people was a strong vocabulary. Yo Jesus, what should I do? Again I’m asking for your guidance father. If you don’t help me soon I’m thinking of changing my will to Allah. Start rapping with him and compare results although I did slip out of that red paint thing. So should I act white, get a braided belt, drop acid and talk about Led Zeppelin? Try to be individual in the country of individuality and you just see what kind of friction you scamper across. I’m a trash talken, lyrical shocken, Adidas jocken thug life gangster that likes his bad news on the fly, guy The ability to speak is why I’m a gem, dam dad. Pink milk or not, summer was a very hyper, wet diaper foot tapping experience for me. Casting out the dark metaphors of old man winter and catapulting into the calming warmth of this new young air was appetizing. Anytime anything was too perfect for me there were issues. Anytime it leaned lopsided on the terrible tip, I rally. The whole question surrounding my High School career was, “can he survive the summer?” In the summer trite classes become dreadfully painful. This new weather bred worse behavior and put the risk reward system of class versus detention further out of whack. Couple that with the love of my Muffin and an ever-increasing swarm of bandits, sophomore summer and viscerally in my gut I knew new heights were barking just around the bend. The crew never deviated from each other much to this day. My multi-racial teen super group “Smooth Adolescents” had been demoralized ever since we did the Windsor School (all girls) Christmas dance. My voice kept cracking during my power ballads. MC Porn was in attendance informing me afterwards he wanted to record, “lick my balls and suck my dick” tellen me not to sing on the demo. I hesitantly concurred. I of course would hesitantly from time to time attend the Madison mega parties that my girlfriend Mattie threw. Here it gave racist hockey players, past drunks and the “would be” seniors an opportunity, to try and convince me I was white. Once again I had immunity from beat downs. Everyone loved my girlfriend. “Dude what the fuck are you thinking? What is this? Why do you talk like you’re from the south? Why don’t you just like settle done bra, you could actually be cool.” “Relax” “Why do you have to be a punk?” I’d utilize the breath trick, so hard not to say fuck you and smile. “I mean your sister fucken rocks man.” God I hated white vernacular. “Dude you’re not black, you have blue eyes, you’re white. I think you need to hear that bro, seriously, you are not black dude.” This was the usual protocol. My response was always the same, “it’s not what you’re on the outside, its what you are on the inside.” Mattie at her parties would always rush to my security whenever she was forced to leave me for even the slightest of seconds paralyzed by the public. Sometimes depending on the size of the party a true legend of the past that had sacrificed much would grace us with their presence. Muffin always kept one eye on me and one eye on the foundation of the house to make sure it wasn’t collapsing. I’d always smile and say, “I’m cool muffin.” The good parties were always overflowing and Mattie only threw good parties, they called her the Glenda the good witch, fuck college. The much-anticipated 10th grade vs. senior fight never happened all in once and for all at Lincoln Field the old town dump like I had envisioned. But it slowly had unfolded over a string of events without closure from the major players at the root of the emotion. I’d apparently started a rumble months ago that recently had come to fruition where Freddy my gonzo aka adopted Korean Jew rap financer was cut on the neck and the ear. We’d retaliated big black and deep the flowing morning. I’d forgotten all about it. My immunity frustrated the segment most obsessed with seeing me bleed for unlawful social behavior and hatred of his race. I always seemed to get away, barely. Even the beat down of Grimly sent as a warning. He was hospitalized. He was on crutches. It was emotional. There would be vengeance. I’d get creative. It was weeks after his mother passed away of cancer. The white seniors high on PCP jumped us all after the year ending ceremony for all athletes at the high school. And at my girlfriends (Big Boobs) parties in the spring of 92 these characters and their followers were regulars. And the truce there was delicate only out of respect for Mattie, seeing me there, alone and vulnerable with the “other” guys drinking heavily teased their burning desire to hospitalize me. I’d hold on to one of those .38’s. Stash it at Carlo’s. I was taking it all in, these parties I thought about what my friends were up to, what I was missing. Yo I can only imagine what the Young Guns are doing right at this moment, oh Muffin At her house I found structure, safety and stock market conversation with her father. With Mattie the source of all of my panic and anger up until that point rested. When I laid back in her arms after yet another “incident” she popped her scrumptious neck kisses and strong hand rubs over defeated shoulders. She made me feel for the first time in life, at peace, yo I thanked the mutha fucker Jesus I’m fifteen and madly in love. I was for the first time in my life content. I felt guilty about it. The Exam Scam: And never was my fortuity over the last five months more evident than the widely discussed and punishable 10th grade “exam scam.” The possession of answers ahead of the year’s final exams a few of my closest friends had come into possession of and they got caught. And it went deep. The story saturated the towns never ending gossip wire, was addressed at the school committee’s town meeting and been the subject of at least one editorial in the town’s weekly paper. Our next store neighbor and future school committee member was as outraged about us as we were regarding her mothering skill. Jelly was involved and stemmed from a widely prominent local family, “he better still not be accepted to Harvard.” We’d quickly learn that in Madison Hills cheating on SAT’S and or heavily weighted final exams was the single worst thing in the world you can do. I was outraged. I can’t believe these people! It seemed white world was content to live completely oblivious of the real problems destroying our country and earth. This only strengthened my no listen resolve tilt, curtains, all of them. My boy C of course had conned a janitor into borrowing a master key after hours. We loved the janitors and my boy C’s strong blue-collar work cemented the cool with. He gave a taste to any UNLV member attending the same classes with him that semester. And they were photocopied and returned to no one’s notice. And they had them all. And they nailed it. Idiots. You never get 100%. And yes the hoop players, Sully, Goldie, Jelly, Santo and then the fellas, Freddy, my boy C, Pos, Herby, a few others all went down. And their universal denial after an uncorroborated leak mitigated what could’ve been worse. The punishment was still however the maximum Mr. Robinson was able to levy. It was outrageous. There summers were ruined before they’d even begun lucky they weren’t kicked out of school, i.e. lucky to be white, and Asian. “I’m so proud of you for not being involved in this, the whole meeting I sat just waiting, listening, I knew your name would eventually come up and you know what it didn’t, I couldn’t believe it Charlie, I still can’t!” “Well believe it Mr. Robinson, I didn’t have any classes with my boy C!” He patted my shoulder. It felt good to not lie be apart of below average classes. As always we both had to get back to deal with other major dilemmas on our schedules. Disappearing Credits: And just as quick as we thought my good luck might have translated more to a behavior then a trend Mr. Robinson delivered life-changing news regarding my academia. Apparently you did have to attend class in high school in order to stay. I don’t give a fuck The meeting was the latest reminder that my family was thin. It had been almost two years since my last super meeting complete with a nurse and therapist. To have to walk into your son’s school, which is the most important thing for him in his life “supposedly,” and to have to sit down with teachers, again and listen to them tell you what a derangement her only son is, well, it hurt and rises like water to the forefront your own faults and anxieties. The fact of the matter was a new enemy awoke. This new enemy goes went the name of academic credits or in my case lack thereof. Apparently every time you skipped the same “major class” more than five times you lost one credit towards graduation. I wasn’t aware of this clause regarding my degree. This isn’t even that big a deal because this only applied to English, Math, Science and History. The other sixty percent of your time was spent in Study Halls (excuse me while I laugh) Gym, and your own “electives.” So it’s just that a brother wasn’t hip to the fact that you lost a credit every-time you skipped a major five times. During my literal absence from school grounds during spring I had amassed a net loss of twenty-three credits, “fucking cocksuckers!” I screamed while being informed that you needed eighty-eight to graduate. I’m a freshman again, a year younger than Mercedes class, NO! This is worse than the 8th grade, at least that was just a year, holy fuck. “Can I see some sort of” Cut off, prepared, Mr. Robinson the consummate professional threw a screen print out at me. “Your back to being a freshmen, you graduate in 96 if you make some serious changes, today.” This is how the meeting started off driving my mother immediately in tears. I was angered that they had done this to her. After that graceful opening I glanced a glare to my left and noticed that both the Big Guy and Coach Sullivan had walked inconspicuously inside the principals conference room seating themselves. What the Big Guy and Coach Sullivan did with their time, besides instruct championship basketball was run the ACE program, alternative choice education. The program was secluded away from the rest of the population. The kids who inhabited this program you heard about and rarely if ever saw throughout the day. I never get caught for anything. I’m black, I never get caught for anything, I’m black. I kept repeating to myself to anchor my emotions and not fall apart. But yep the credits, you can’t not go to class sport And then with a fast tapping foot, I swallowed my throat unable to block out he fact the Big Guy was actually here and this wasn’t junior high. “Sorry Sir” and at that point all other forces in the room go deaf. All realize they have no place or power in a discussion between the Big Guy and one of his players. Just by his presence, tone and role I knew my life was once again on the line. Everyone including Mr. Savage excuse me Mr. Robinson felt bad for me when they see the condition of my mother, she even asked Mr. Robinson if she could smoke a cigarette. Her request was declined and I whispered gently, “see what I mean.” To her annoyed response of “shut up Charlie dear god.” The Big Guy had seen enough. “Yo” he said one word with such austerity, I froze death. The air was thick and the tension could be sliced, diced and cooked. My mother had also frozen. I bit my inner gum and tell myself, not here pal, not here and reverted to my breath trick. Mr. Robinson sympathizes when he sees in real time that I might be destroying the only thing that I had going for me everyone else was rendered insignificant regardless of title. This was a discussion between The Big Guy and his player. “Acting like a jokah.” He shakes his head. I bowed mine in disgrace barely mumbling “Yo I ah missed a lot of classes in the spring sir.” Trying to eke out some sort of albeit weak justification I rally to share and impulsively explain. “It’s not my fault, I’m in love!” It was never my fault or my mothers. It was quite a conspiracy. He had a knee jerk laugh not to be helped before discipline settled. “Shows over, you’re coming to ACE and you should be grateful for that, one screw up and you’re done.” This last statement bit, sending me into a soft never-ending depression forcing me to name all the people whose names begins with the D. My mother began hysterically crying having a panic attack. Sitting next to her, hearing my hero was just too much and finally I avalanched along anxiety’s lines or in this case abject sadness, sorry ma, Jesus I fucking suck, sorry, sorry. From what she heard the ACE program was the very worst place in school for the very worst kids. For her this was just too much. She’d never go to Stop & Shop in town again. My hero was beaten all alone, the source of all of my anger and resentment, what happened to her I’m perpetuating her gloom, her pain, sorrow and defensive deflector shields. I folded my hands to pray silently. Coach Sullivan handed my mother a tissue as she reached for her medication. Looking up all mugs of judicious teachers, therapists, it wasn’t empathy for they couldn’t relate. Settling through my breath trick I grabbed my mother’s hand underneath the table. After the meeting a few concessions had been made. Driving home my mother’s sole words were, “I’ll never be able to show my face in Stop and Shop again, thanks.” “Ma” I’ll be shopping for groceries in upstate New York by the time you’re done.” My sister didn’t return until Saturday morning. She walked down the cul-de-sac alone. She didn’t look good. My mother, worried sick, resolved the lord upon her arrival. I was crushed filled with inexplicable sadness. She had been at the funeral home last night. When pressed she’d told me she Brett had dropped her off at the foot of the street. I ran to Sugar Ray’s and cried. Frankie found out. His older brother was there. Daniel Boone was there. They were flirting. Brett made sure she stayed. She never seemed the same after that. She’d never tell me she was drugged and raped. Frankie broke up with her the next day thinking she cheated on him. He came to Hayden that night looking for Brett as Boone was closing up, Magic and I were hanging as custom. “What a pussy,” is all we could say unaware of what had happened except Frankie wanted a word outside. “Dude come on, hang out Mr. Boone!” The 6-3 blonde heir to the funeral home begged. He was scared shitless of Frankie. Magic and I had never witnessed such cowardice. “Brett, I gotta lock up.” Frankie tired of waiting eventually smashed up his luxury 40K infinity pretty good. Brett hid in a closet. Brett would’ve been an 87 guy and therefore six years the senior of my sister. I’ll never know why she didn’t tell me. Why it took twenty years. I’d be in jail. Nothing spoke more to white privilege more than rape. My sister. I died. We’d kill him. They would’ve lost everything. He got away. The bastard. I never knew more important the gang more important Spec. This wasn’t grabbing an ass on the bike path. My mother was sexually assaulted when she was a child. The men that extorted her caretakers store she was raised above. It birthed her panic attacks, hanging out her bedroom window in the middle of the night. Blocked out the darkest corners. She could only remember the windows, her prayers and never being able to be intimate with men again. It was all so twisted, so dense, what happened to her, to us, I could never, tell, talk or explain how that felt. I never had the urge. Baby Got Back “As I stepped out from the darkness of the movie theatre into the bright sunlight.” Pony Boy Curtis The first week of summer started off with the Big Guy’s summer camp. Camp gave me a chance to show off after all I was once them. And you’d never let a come up, come up on your watch. This wasn’t social. It was our craft. And we loved it. We loved the competition. I wanted to play in front of the Big Guy against anyone in the country. I was going to be six feet. I was benching the plates. I was fast, quick and shot 90% from the line. I was a Madison Minuteman. The next in line of the classic chest 2 chest full court pressing championship black guards, my class was stacked. I took charges. The Minutemen hadn’t lost since Rollie got there so many years ago. You just had to get in, stay and survive. We wanted the best. The Big Guy gave it to us. The best basketball family a kid on the east coast of America in the 1980’s could ever dream of. And it was right there. But you had to pay the price. I was built to win and these afternoon scrimmages would cement the fact I would start at the two, Magic the point our senior year after Eric Slaughter and David graduated. We’d locked those backcourt slots in pole position ever since the third grade. And every night in the 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th grade we’d practice perfect until we couldn’t and then we’d watched the night games until Hayden closed. And every night we waited to be drafted. Displaying our skills on the sidelines making a pitch to players giving us a shot. But guys wanted to stay on and viewed Magic and at five foot one, one hundred pounds soaked as liabilities. Until one day. And that night the guy whose name we can’t mention, gold gloved, local boxing legend took us both on amused we’d waited every night all fall and all of last year for a shot. And I never missed. That night, I never missed. And we never left. And every day every scrimmage every stop every shot I’d never give an inch anywhere all the time basketball was mine and before YG the only family I ever had. So it was my mother’s too, Man, we still need a center, perfect practice Also this summer brought season 2 of the Young Guns, summer league everyone was excited for that. It had become a social event for our following. We expected even bigger crowds this summer with Magic finally joining us. Magic was the rare ADD patient with patience. He tempered our chaos with equal and appropriate distribution. The vertical inches we had recently grown did not however reflect growing life maturation. For our first game I wore a wristband on my calf years ahead of seeing anyone on TV rock something like that. 2 dope, if you’re going to win, might as well look slick The Young Guns seemed a national draw (on a town level) eclipsing the bulging assemblies of the prior summer. Realizing for the first time collectively that our combined forces activated a Cajun hot show of theatrics simply upped the talking and wristbands. As the most insecure kid in the history of the planet the Young Guns vaporized that and with their support, loyalty and gang participation we played a reckless strand of fast break, full press all game run, rebel type freewheeling game of freedom. I held down how I saw it, the “electric” two guard spot. Myself, Magic, Goldie, Santo and Jelly. 6-2, 6-3 upfront, we still need a center. The Big Guy always of course was a staple at the lighted courts on the small hills only bench summer nights to watch us play. In Madison basketball was thriving Tuesdays and Thursday in the summertime at the center courts. You could see the varsity’s home gym over the horizon as the past and present collided for bragging rights. The summer of 92, the Young Guns appeared to have a different attitude from the first jump ball, focused and much angrier. We’d been unleashed. We were suddenly faster and quicker than everyone else, which significantly enhanced our holistic style of play we’d branded through our years of sweat, camaraderie and desire. We were the reason dozens of slinky pieces of high school homework were down at the “courts.” This had never, ever been the case and everyone in the league appreciated this. Close to a pay phone it was a scene within a scene. Coach Sullivan even told me, “this could be your coming out party” after one particular shock stomp our constitution is simple, run, gun, talk-shit and press. By the time it had reached August we were making a deep run in the playoffs. And it was not without notice. We’d be expected to contribute heavily next year. This was the preface. Our growth sport allowed us to ascend past the marginalized stars of the past that despite drug problems still controlled us the preceding summer. And another year of practice and our first commitment in the weight room allowed us to compete with college captains of the past that hadn’t marginalized themselves one way or the other. Our playoff run was affirmation in the belief we were a strong class and the tradition would live on. And slowly with each win towards the end of the summer more and more YG began wearing black armbands on their calves, my idea. End of the Road August 12th, 1992 “Cause basketball courts in the summer got girls there.” Fresh Prince The Summer League Finals, 9:07 PM: Young Guns vs. Sphex We were coming of age here. We’d surprised twice in the playoffs landing in the finals. I’d caught fire. We all had. And that night was a scene. It was fair to wonder exactly who the fuck we all were, these Young Guns. The old timers had never witnessed so many young people congregating at a summer league game. Our opponent Sphex was a college team littered with playmakers and past legends. They even had Smudge last seasons hero and his older brother. The Big Guy sitting atop of the courts small hill on his own public bench looked disgusted. He didn’t appear thrilled with all of the attention us trouble makers were receiving. In the opening three huddles we’d been screaming “Our way, our way, our way!” It was game time and I needed to get angry. Daniel Boone loomed large at every game on our run to the finals. I could feel the tickle of his American Express card from the bench. Boone was fast becoming a great mentor that loved sports scams. “It’s our time down here yo.” I could just hear Mikey from the Goonies saying that over and over inside my head. Boone with Parker now curiously laughing congenially by his side was fast became the center of our “Oz.” Boone was there to pick up the Brett / Frankie pieces. They were now together. Boone was the man of our house now. It made my mother crazy. We’d still take the company. Boy did he have stories. All I wanted were stories. To hear, tell, experience and build, my legend, here. But there were steady fits, “I heard his brother is a criminal, the father is crazy, the brother just get out of the hospital.” “Not what I heard.” I knew he was shady by then. I loved it. Boone had informed Magic and I, win or lose he’ll take us to Legal Seafood’s. And even though Magic always told me the system would eventually catch up 2 Boone and his brothers, he was no stranger to accepting a free shady perk. The game? Anticlimactic we lost to a much stronger club. We were a year away. I was a double, double guy. Santo erupted and I thought, maybe we don’t need a big man. He’s a zilla I love it. We vowed after the final horn, “next year we’re stronger, we win that game. Bring it in.” Until we did those guys would always “have us.” After the game Mike and I pushed our Legal’s dinner back. In fact there were several people that wanted to take us to dinner. Instead we headed to the back of our old elementary school, Bridge. After the game the team and a very handpicked select group of family were invited to join the “Firm” behind the school by the old reservoir for a night of forty’s, weed smoking and rap rhyming. The highlight of my summer during my first blaze with Santo, the star of the night deferred some lime my way. He pulled me aside, shaking my arms, “Charlie you played fucking great tonight. We’re going to be good. You can shut down anyone. You hit big 3’s. We can win something” It meant something. Santo after all was the first of us called to varsity. He smoked weed and practiced in argyle socks. He loved to fight. He loved to take charges. He was UNLV. He was a Young Gun captain. Coming up with that a great year slept. All in all to me, what I knew, I thought sophomore year had gone great. Everything was sort of on track. I had three major new characters in the heart of my script, Muffin, Daniel Boone and now the Big Guy, double down. Yo I have a hot girlfriend with big boobs and I only went to court twice this past year. And just like that I was half way through high school. The Big Guy said all season, “it goes quick.” And as yet another “first day” loomed I prayed for my mother. And she prayed for me. I prayed for basketball. And she prayed for me. And she prayed and she prayed. I asked black Jesus every night not to leave me. It was only in those moments all life washed away the mascara of my clown suit, my defensives like my mothers were our survival kit and if you gave an inch we’d be swallowed – she was right, there was no one to catch us. And I’d cry and I’d cry in my star wars sheets, clutching the stuffed animals, my first gang my mother and sister always found it odd I slept with eight stuffed animals. I never did quite understand why my mother was turned away at her own father’s funeral. Why he left his newborn daughter girl at the hospital. Why people closet to us always walked away. I couldn’t let myself ever go down that dark road of thoughts. That montage, a sniper, the Korean war, drafted, no glory, a boxer, janitor, home, love, wife, gone, birth, daughter, death, can’t handle, bills, reality, love lost, wife, home, my mother, he can’t, she stays, unclaimed, claimed, Jenny, old women, candy store, open windows, breath, anxiety, men, swindlers, violations, panic, faded, boundaries, holidays, her dad right down the street, Jenny’s death, on your own, eighteen, $1200, no family only pariahs, survival, sailing camp, the cape, my dad, almost, us, one present, maybe hard knock life fuck if I knew. And the worst part of it all, there was no one left to come back on, nothing, nothing made me run more suicides (when no one was watching) than my mother’s battle with panic and depression. The big P & D is a tough one. I was forever thankful for my lawnmower accident, the heart that it gave me. I’d be one evil prick without it I often surmised. I thanked Jesus for my roommate in intensive care. I thanked him for the snapping clarity of something so colossal so earth defying it could only be felt, and I loved that feeling of having a heart. Anything to shore up how far I know I’d go to make a bully, random rich white person or anyone that asked kindly to inflict suffering upon especially my crew. And it laughed. And it soothed. And it was exciting to not give a fuck. But that was the human brain and it’s timeless match against the human heart. Alone I needed that fuel. Now on top I needed it more. Meanwhile my best friend, companion, compass and tears, my own human heart was right inside of me the whole time. And those flashes, those heartfelt sequences, sights, handicap kids, aging widows, time bomb juveniles, forever, knowledge vs. wisdom, now, it moved me. And gave me confidence. I wouldn’t accept the labels “professionals” put on me. I was everything that couldn’t be taught. I was a leader. People were calling me a legend although I still didn’t know what it entailed. Junior Year, I was alive and nothing in the whole wide world was going to stop me from reversing our fortunes. Nothing else mattered. I knew I was smart. I knew I was crazy. It was already happening. I could build the family and nothing meager would ever threaten us again. We had to win a title. Our lives depended on it. Tomorrow was my first day of my junior year, upper class status. I just want to look good.

Sunday, November 22, 2015

Who Killed Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls? Interview with Detective Greg...

wow, well 20 years later, there it is, most tragic story of my generations come up, dam.  RI Pac, love u duu sorry BIG simply caught up, Puf dude, man, hindsight brother

Saturday, November 21, 2015

Curtain s Keep The Water In

It s the opposite of touch how you might feel in a crunch. The FOMO of politics, the life of peer preessure the dynamics of junior high the power to posses, obsess and stress is pliable and in play. You will say nothing only migrate with simulate looking folk amongst the coffins of the masses better than most still you american asses - enough with our sons for they are black and curtains keep the water from getting out. A Curtain dresses up your window sill so pretty to see and metaphorically rationalize life as you want to see

Friday, October 23, 2015

One More Try, March 27th, 1991

Busing in Boston was complicated. As complicated as the American race divide it sought to address. Boston was known as a racist town. A place for decades black athletes willfully avoided. Magic and I picked up on the subtle hints which once identified seemed obvious even egregious. After that the racism was everywhere often undetected or personally rationalized as something only a race baiting lunatic would twist. It all became known as a character we referred to as Boston Bob. Sports radio was our very first clue. The white baseball players of the Boston Red Sox always played the game, “the way it was intended.” And the black stars regardless of their triumphs in something as unambiguous as winning, losing, batting average and E.R.A. never grasped the “fundamentals.” It was comical. 1965 was the first year of my beloved METCO program in Madison the longest running desegregation program in the country changed my childhood. 1965 also brought future NBA star Ronald Lee along with Rollie to my father’s hometown thus consecrating, my everything. City stars and their coaches now came to Madison to see what the hype was about. “Niggers in Madison Hills, I seen it all” the racism in line with hurdles trailblazers most always leap. The year prior the US Senate finally passed the Civil Rights Act. In Massachusetts this gave life to passage of the Racial Imbalance Act. A decade later this led to forced busing inside the blue collared hub of the bean akin to a re-shuffling of the deck. To bring into balance Boston public school’s racial inequality a parentage of whites were bused to black neighborhoods and vice versa. This also exposed Boston’s thick color divide. Roxbury the Harlem of Boston, blacks bused into Whitey Bulger’s, “Southie” sparked violence and outrage. The civil rights marches of the 60’s shifted their attention in the 70’s to Boston. The author of the legislation resided like many notables throughout the state’s history in Madison. He was grilled for the perception of introducing such a bill that had unsettled the entire town never himself having to deal with it. See it face first. In Madison, years before the forced city busing and integration of city public schools, Madison’s METCO had been in place. However the whites stayed were we were. It was a one way thing much different than the bi-racial busing that ignited the violence that had become a national story in the hub’s more depressed sections. The reaction had been what you’d expect. Whitey Bulger had blown up the Brookline House in Brookline MA where John F Kennedy was born. The city became a war zone leaving deep scars molding the national perception of Boston us untenable for African American pro athletes. A sad commentary of the grounds of the 54th regiment, underground railroads and shot heard round the world. In 1988, the forced busing was suspended as legislators concluded the schools had been gainfully integrated. The city hadn’t changed and the same problems we’re dealing with again today nationwide persisted. There were small gains and in my world a couple of unintended side effects, one was Mike “Magic” Wholman and the other was Donnie Whalberg and The New Kids on the Block. One was my best friend, the other my local idol. It was now the off season my first spring in high school and I still hadn’t been laid. This didn’t bode well for my rap career. To make matters worse the furthest I’d danced was with an exchange student one could argue I’d “pimped” which did bode well for my rap career. I showed off for attention that scared me once I got it. I just needed love and wanted Felecia. It’s what I dreamed about going back to my strong attachment to ABC’s, General Hospital a virtual launch pad for musical male pop acts. I called the 900 # cliff hung on Friday afternoons from our neighbors, Porsche and Mercedes when they weren’t home and denied it. I taped the episodes of VHS especially when Frisco disappeared only to come back and see Felecia marry Coltan who was being brain washed by the gangster Domino via a crooked ice cream man with wind chimes. I’d never been so emotionally engaged in anything to this day. Felecia was an Aztec princess, blonde, blue eyed, racked, I thought if I could act like Frisco or Donnie I could get a Felecia. That and I knew it would probably require some prayer. Fuck I can’t sing. My first song, “Keeping it Together” in the seventh grade didn’t go so hot. My voice was cracking for my rap / candy teenage ballads chorus. I couldn’t hit notes after my voice changed. The lesson cost Dog, $150 from his father’s chimney stash. His nightly drinking had gotten so bad he never noticed. Keepen it together Any kind of weather We will be together Our love will last forever Keepen it together My father dubbed it, the laugh heard round the world. It was brutal however there were lessons in risk. Besides little boy bands were everywhere, why not me? This was another ethos of the Big Guy’s brand, “someone’s gotta be #1, might as well be us.” Over my first high school winter on Saturday’s after basketball, I dropped the R & B and went rap releasing a cocky single called, “Charlie P is back” which jacked the beat and style of Heavy D’s, ‘We Got Our Own Thang,’ I recorded it at Sugar Ray’s saving Dog the family theft and reminiscing on the grounds of his lost virginity of which I took a fee and provided a milkshake. We dubbed and distributed twenty-five tapes. It made small enough rounds that Dog would begin coming up to me for the real reason a couple slackers might want to take a shot at musical pursuits. “Charlie, OK are you fucking ready for this?” I was. He was hyper. I made him hyper. He had issues. So did I, so did Monster, so did Herbie. Dog and I spent most nights in the 8th grade on the phone discussing our popularity. Our psychosis had finally paid off. Dog was tall, Irish, big hands he was surprisingly quite a basketball player. A key contributor our deep bench our freshman year. Dog whose first cousin was a former Madison basketball captain had an innate sense and soft touch you didn’t expect from such a lunatic. He only lasted half the season. He was simply not coachable. Dog rarely served detentions leading our grade in the stay away game of suspensions toeing a fine line of permanent expulsion from paradise. “OK, are you fucking ready?” He loved to do this. “Fucken tell me retard” “OK, OK, OK, Jesus, this is insane, OK Debbie Carmichael ” Racing through words and convulsions he would repeat the girls name slow, methodically. I replied “OK.” “Dude, she loves Charlie P is back, she said.” And he’d begin cracking up, “She said you’re the best looking guy in the grade dude!” And he’d scream, jump up in the corner as if it was truly the dumbest thing in the world he’d ever heard. My one client at Sugar Ray’s had been laid years ago. I’d turned lobster red knowing I’d have to muster something otherwise he’d never shut up, “I mean can you believe that, I mean you’re a good looking guy but you have big ears, braces. You spent most of your junior high career in a resource room with retards. You’re a fucking nut bag. You’re on medication. How do these girls not know this?” “OK!” He would never stop if I hadn’t hit the “OK” my old resource room buddy from the Warner Zone. A ¼ of the trouble I got into in Junior High was simply to make him laugh. “What else?” “She wants us to go over her house after school with Coleen and Amy, she wants to have sex with you.” “What?” I was floored. “She said you ready for this? She said and I quote, you have to break it in at some point. Why not this afternoon?” “What?” I was scared. “We could market you dude to a whole new audience. You’re insane Charlie. You are a sick, sick maniac. They’ve never seen anything like you dude!” When you’re in resource rooms together before high school most of your secrets are somehow unearthed from simply snooping files of your fellow inmates often medicated, alone and bored. Anyway now that I had become solely a rapper I was happier. But just like my gang before one thing loomed over everything, I need a handle. The verses rapped well Dog applauded the new stuff but I was stuck with Chucky P. “I think its fine dude.” “Stop yo Dog would you please, for once! OK, now leave me alone, I gotta get this.” Rap made wealthy suburban white folk just a little bit nervous. And hence more accepting of the property taxes they’d annually endure and complain less about. Young black teenagers running around with guns in big gold chains screaming, “Fuck the Police” on a light day fueled white fright. It forever cracked me up and kept me coming back for more. Racial profiling was in full swing in Madison this even included white kid’s that thought they were black. They had the Hubble telescope on me. Rap was stereotyped with such a knee jerk institutionalized reaction rooted in fear it was hard as a kid not to become obsessive about being intensely apart of it. It was a movement that swept me off my feet at ground level and unlocked another crucial, positive second outlet. My hero in rap already was TuPac Shakur. Herby and I skipped class, ran to the mall on the MadPress to Sam Goody the day that Tupacolypse Now hit store shelves. It was that purple tape that spoke to me differently than any MC had to date. Dan Quayle had already thrust Mr. Shakur into the national debate with the age-old accusation his music forced some kid to kill some cop. I’d often bring Lamont to steal tapes in one quick minute revealing everything that was wrong with this country. Lamont “Spec” would simply walk in I’d laugh tucking in my shirt as all eyes and security followed him around making my “lift” quick, painless and above all, free. Tues: Jesus you put a black man in a white kids’s body. Wed: Kase Coolan was a C house regular card playing detention brother I went to John Adams Junior High with. A couple years older we went back. Kas was from the same neighborhood in Dorchester as Lamont. He always had something up his sleeve. More con than correctional he was already hustling corporations, tech savvy he also carried the very best connection a sixteen-year old black Boston kid could have at that time. Last year his older brother, one quiet day while selling shoes downtown earned a life altering gig on the spot. The agent was a female. And her name was Mary. The gig was DJ for an emerging rapper named Markey Mark. They were from the white / black sections of Dorchester which was Boston’s Brooklyn. No one had ever heard of this guy named Mark Walhberg but we loved the New Kids especially Donnie. I’d prayed to Jesus for him to manage me. And the musical scene of Boston, my tastes, adoration, skills and soul all tied up neatly into this very moment in time. “Candy Girl” I rifled fast response to the common uncomfortable question posed to teens in crowds. The very first time I heard it in second grade at the roller rink, it captured my soul, Roxbury’s own New Edition. And part of forced busing was taking young Donnie from working class, racist ass Dorchester into Boston’s Harlem, Roxbury from Jimmy Page to George Clinton every day for school. And like Lamont Slaughter for me, the moves, style and inner city flowed from his lips into my hips. I’d imagine Donnie had experienced something similar. We’d listened to Mark’s demo for a full year before anything hit. They were catching momentum locally. Kas and I went to Whalom Park (have a Whale of a time!) and caught what I was told was his first live appearance. In fact not one song out of the fifteen on the demo we had appeared on the Music on the People released just six months later. He knew I rapped always into something approached me that afternoon as we had conjured more than a couple cons together. “Paradise look I know you got ADD an all but listen. The New Kids on the Block son?” Says this sarcastically like everything is of unspoken understanding. “Yo there’s already three separate bidders for the rights to Mark’s first album. They ain’t never even released nothen yet son, feel me?” Kas spoke years ahead of dope language that got fire ingraining itself into mainstream America of ahead of the curve cats. He was something else. And according to Mr. Robinson’s MAC was in the #4 spot edging one spot higher than me on the most detentions in 90-91 so far in the high school. “Word? That’s me, gotta hear my new shit” “Dam Dice, you a crazy little fuck. I’ll squeeze ya! Who copped you yo first Walkman?” “You, you’re the man Kase – I’ll battle the rap too, one on one anywhere take me there, tellen you, ask Black an them. Yo I know that I got the dope lyrics I’ve just been searching for the non Casio SK-1 beats.” (Hit it Roofus) “OK, Charlie, look I know you got that ADD an all but listen. You know how big the New Kids on the Block are son?” “I know” “Yo that’s what I’m sayen, it doesn’t matter. There are already three separate bidders for the rights to Mark’s first album. They’ve never even released nothen. I got Donnie’s beeper and car phone number right here, see this?” “Dam.” Is all one hundred and twenty five pounds of me could muster. Donnie Wahlberg, I just couldn’t believe it, the bad boy and first member of the New Kids, the blonde one. He’d been writing an album for his younger brother I’d just learn of. And Kas wasn’t no liar. I knew it to be true. I knew it didn’t matter if this Mark was talented or not, his older brother was a Beatle for Christ sakes. “True, yo C rap something now hurry up though I gotta a bitch?” “Hell 2 the yeah - check it, 1 sec, 1sec, ok, yo - a 2-$mooth an adolescent so let me begin a smooth righteous style that will make you grin. Fully equipped while exercising the mind 2-Smooth is a drug that you can prescribe, keep relaxing with the man of the hour, I don’t learn lessons but I learned to fight the power maken an impact with my smooth young mob and now steps forth a boy to do a man’s job.” “Oh shit nigga, so what you callen yourself? “2-smooth, with a dollar sign you know.” “Yes!” Kas proclaimed. I jumped into his arms. “OK, just relax, everyone calm down, stop by tomorrow and we’ll put summen down.” I hated the Boston accent in the blue-collar white world but cherished it out of Michael Bivins and black Boston besides in Madison Hills no local kids spoke with a true Boston accent. It wasn’t until years later with the release of Good Will Hunting we saw it occur everywhere. It was an identity of cool now that the Oscar spotlighted an area none of them had ever traveled too (Southie guy). Kase, “I’ve reserved the music Mac lab for an hour, this computer shit in here is crazy. I can’t believe nobody uses the shit. I ca lay fortah eight tracks digitally son.” The next afternoon we walked our path to the school’s studio following our detention. We clap hands upon my entrance, hugged, show time, Kase asks, “you ready I’m a cue this joh?” “Yeah yo, yeah. I’m good to go, yo.” It was a verse I’d been working on my last two classes making it personal. “Drop that shit yo.” Kase aka MC Porno throws a disk in and I begin to speak after I let the beat loop itself a few times. ‘Trapped in isolation, scalen walls that I created far away from a society that I manipulated, lies in seclusion to you it’s an illusion to me it’s a young mind full of confusion. Can’t gaze upon that cat cause I’ll start to cry. I drink myself dizzy tryen to figure out why? Why this boy, yo he did the things he did. And why is he labeled a lost cause when this kid is just a boy. Had a good mom, a good box on his shoulders had an imagination that could’ve moved boulders now all of this thinken got me drinken a 40 ounce of brew only if I knew what I know now back then” And just like that the Don King smile out of Hasan thinking we might have something. “The GREAT WHITE HYPE!” He shouted. The truth was that my lyrics jumped off since I went solo. I had finally conceded the obvious fact that I couldn’t sing, like Willard in Footloose couldn’t dance, at all. I loved the name, the gang, the flow, it was all coming fast, I leaked the Kase / DJ T, Markey Mark thing via Dog to everyone and soon I received my first solo gigs which was a great reason to rock a bandana. I was back on with Jesus. My titled track and name of the album was going to be, @-$mooth an adolescent. I’d battle anyone that wanted to rap, the bigger the audience the better, the blacker the rapper the better as no white kids ever stepped to me. “Oh shot what else, you got, need a front and back son, I’m slide 48 to this!” “Well, it’s just a chorus.” I unfolded the crumpled yellow paper in my shorts pockets underneath my jeans from yesterday’s detention, “Let’s sing to you a crystal song of fucked kids that got along put up inside their screwed up heads dam this couch feels great on meds, you fuck me up!” “My dude!” I hit a one off worm into a tight backspin to celebrate our opportunity. It was all happening. I loved rap.

Wednesday, October 07, 2015

The Claudettes: NO HOTEL (EPK)

My Boy Ig" aka Johnny Iguana from JQ's old mash up Them Vs. Them, the years he went rock star, a total lost gem of dozens of classics is here in DC with his new shit.  check it out, the venue has the best short ribs in the city, great music, compelling story, stay original !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  SAVE THE MUSIC, always

Friday, August 28, 2015

Patriot's Day

Monday April 19th, 1991 This biggest day of the year in Madison, MA hands down was Patriot’s Day. A Monday morning in which Madison kids got up earlier than even Christmas, for just as long a residential birthright. The towns fabled “Battle Green” had long been a symbolic landmark for politicians, protests and of course the 1775 re-enactment. As children we’d set our clocks to 4AM and race atop Belfrey Hill for a chance to pull the rope, ring the old bell inside the old wooden protective barn that legend said sounded in warning rather than sermon reminder in the early dawn of April 19th, 1775. The original tower had been destroyed and moved over the years its latest reproduction sat atop its original site and was still a hundred years old, ancient in American dog years of earth history. The hill itself held sight lines served for joint smoking teenage high ground with a wholly American view of old Madison Hills and the overpaid police to protect it. The Bell’s pointed, steel, protective gate was a somewhat tricky climb. And inside its wooden womb the yearbook of Madison’s teenage past was carved clandestinely, the sons of these sons of this thing called liberty etched at the very least inside one fucking dope teenage spot to carefully light some weed. As kids we’d rung the bell and then headed to the Pancake Breakfast a few of the many cobble stoned, Protestant churches provided. There were no less than a dozen places to worship of all religions and appetites inside Madison’s borders. From there you’d jock for position amongst the TV vans and ten thousand people on hand to watch the re-enactment and witness the shot heard round the world every year at 4:45AM. Porsche and Mercedes father was a Minuteman. The local news was always there. The Big Guy was always there. It was like watching the Washington generals playing the globetrotters, every year we lost. The lobster backs slaughtering our townsmen. The empire we were the militia. The right to bear arms sadly lost in translation through the oft neglected lenses of the inner city we saw clearly via the METCO program. We stood up to a bully. The star wars of it all somehow welded into my subconscious. It was American for me to break stuff here. A Red Sox game, town parade, Boston marathon and the holy April vacation followed. The day itself was a statewide work holiday. The centers movie theatre played 25 cents, Disney cartoon flicks with a revolutionary twist all day. And all of it was so different from where my brothers in the city commuted hours from every day for almost of their lives. There were no parades on their streets. Only neglect. Patriot’s day, in closing was utter delight of a day here in Madison, I want to ruin it. Now that we were in high school there were a few things a teenager could do. The first, attend the parade and meet some friends like Halloween the reenactment had become silly outside of the diehards whose early rise was an inconvenience. There was homework to do, colleges to attend, sleep had a premium and I was offseason. The more daring play for the courageous, teenage, looser screw was Grey Nuns. The Grey Nuns old brick mansion sat atop of ten sprawling acres a refuge from police on Patriot’s day. The childhood house of a former commodities trader whose son would soon come into our lives, there was a museum of some sorts on the grounds as well as this immunity inside the namesake from police this real estate provided on Patriot’s day. It had become ground zero of the Hell’s Angel’s for years. And the true white zilla of Madison, the teenage crazy had feasted along with this gang for years. It was the very last place I’d ever want to go. No one had a beeper there. Jimmy White held court setting up a personal Keg before the first shot, secluded, protected, a legend with the best plans, girls, drugs, navigational abilities within this one day cult partying with a national biker gang. Those were in the in’s, the days, Patriot’s day, the 4th, Friday night, Wed AM, Jimmy White the latest, #1 legend presiding over a town fought for amongst the elite was actually his, this year, and the adults willfully blind never knew the darker corners of this majestic town. Parker and Porsche, neighbors, sisters in some respects had been excited about this for months, year two for them so far from the docks of normal. You could never find a college party as wild as this besides acid freaked me out and there were no black kids there, fuck that. The party would end permanently the next year with two heroin overdoses / deaths more blood on the original dirt roads of American liberty. I guess it made sense, America. I couldn’t wait to die. I hated my life my sister did too confused what made us so horrible. I’d sacrifice everything now, win a state championship or die trying exposing everything and everyone in my destructive path. And then there were our plans. I woke up at 1:30 AM sneaking out of my window holding my breath, praying to Jesus dressed in my sister’s black figure skating spandex the goal was not to get caught. My Boy C picked me up at the head of my street on his BMX and standing up peddled us both to the rendezvous. “Dice, let’s, what the fuck are we doing anyway?” My Boy C had purchased a football card from me every week they had been offered. I was saddened more people didn’t play the Madison game. I had a dream to bring back big time high school gambling on its own events. I was a hypocrite. On one hand basketball was holy and on the other I wanted to fix a high school football game. I’d imagine myself starting at corner, taking the action, making the points work, getting other’s involved. “Hanging out, I love being up this early, you gotta get me that fifty before.” “I know, I know, Friday, I’ll buy the beers for Thursday.” My Boy C was part of my early test market this spring for NBA spot bets. My early impression was more lucrative than NFL. It was every night, impossible to handicap but since we were all shit heads kid none of that mattered sans collections. “Dude I had to pay the guy whose name we can’t mention or this whole thing stops.” “I know dude, relax” “Just bike” We’d met DOG and Skeetah both demonstrative in their demerits growing up with parental alcoholism were there on time anxious to break windows. Dog was in jeans and a polo shirt. Skeetah uniformed the all black I’d requested. “Dude, I’m gonna fuck air out this dump, my freakazoid, u undastand dude?” Skeet’s voice cracked a laugh off the first syllable.” Hearing him call Madison Hills a dump alone warranted a chuckle. Dog carried a clearer composition of the classic powder keg. Silent until he went blank in the eyes. Pos and Hank showed next, all black spandex ready to cause damage. Freddy our adopted Jewish, Korean was there with his neighbor Monster. The shortest kids in the crew, we’d call Freddy, Gonzo. We were fairly certain his father had molested him for years in his younger years. After all no one was that weird. Soon the Madison Hill preppies, Fitz, Santo, Sully, and Tick would arrive. “Let’s bring it in.” To hear our cry, to act malicious our mission was so simple, so stupid, parochial, yes, but such a rush, and together it cemented everything. There were twelve of us and we’d run the Victorian Hills breaking windows for an hour before seeking an outfit change in hiding heading towards our strong alibi. 1:00PM: Tossed from party, a gathering of Madison Hill’s curtains, break house windows. 1:03PM: BREAK WINDOWS of entire street, run. 1:15PM: I shoved the older brother down for absolutely no reason what so ever. Admirably his younger brother took a swing at me, dawgs swarm, gang leader, Kicking his kidneys thinking of spray paint I was laughing uncontrollably with Monster, Herby, Goldie, Sully, my boy C and Skeetah until my sneaker got scratched. “This is a brand new insert for my Sky Jackers dumb ass! Watch what your doen.” Tuesday: Day drinking, first time, fabulous, Bud Light cans. 6PM: Liz’s, class president’s freshmen party. 10PM: Santo eats cat food our power forward. 10:15PM, “Get it out of my hair Sully!” We fall into the door in laughter eavesdropping. 12PM: The house was leveled 1AM: Santo’s dad is on roof. 2AM: Police arrive. Hold our ground 3AM: White kids in dirty clothes watch the Wall, take acid. Stories were the benchmark as to how classic and parties undoubtedly I figured could take the legend into a movie. Wed, 10AM: Wiffle ball, break windows. 2PM: Hayden Thursday: 2AM: Gonzo sleeps on public bench with me. 4PM: Fitz Party, purple passion guzzle, joy riding, Fitz’s party, too much Purple Passion, mat5ched my shoes. 9PM: Violently sick, Fitzy pissed, vomit everywhere. His house. Parker’s boyfriend called to retrieve my corpse By the time it was Friday I wanted April vacation to end, almost. After my puke fest in Fitz’s younger brothers Lego buckets we fielded our own “fire” in the woods. Tick and I planned it all even driving for the first time ever in Gonzo’s parents car completely out to lunch never noticed. Gonzo was my man solely based on the fact he joined me sleeping on a center bench Wed evening. We both just couldn’t go home. I remember the joy TR and I had watching everyone enjoy the fire. We threw a fire. It was empowering our self-containment, twenty-two people showed. My boy C manned it, lit his smoke off the fire and we had hot dogs on sticks as my boy C’s older brothers brought the bud cases. “This is awesome.” Tick brought marshmallows and I like everyone present was in love. It felt like a family these guys, finally. “Beer, fire, hot dogs dude, all we need kid” Skeetah was overheard after taking credit for the entire event. “And girls buddy,” Monster shouted loudly listening keenly to Skeetah’s mythical recreations. “All we need, their here” I state the obvious “Not for me dude, I’m mush, I’ll never get laid unless I pay, look at me” “True dude.”” We’d never be bullied. Self-sufficient, needing nothing but our loyalty. Back in school was refreshing and I was ready for the feature length to begin filming once again. Mon: Back to school was a vacation. I enjoyed the structure. Our week fueled chat. I denied everything. And it never stopped. The ball was in motion. How long could you stay? Tuesday: Window breaking at school during hours. Wed: I quickly concluded I couldn’t be caught, not in Madison not me. And even though I’d just been barred from my record sixth restaurant, that was different Wed: Systematically myself Santo and Jelly were called out of last class summoned to the ACE Program to see the Big Guy. For Jelly it was an honors class. Panic struck, the Big Guy? I was trying to think which law-breaking item from last week this could be about. The wide spread panic amongst us that existed proved once again that not one of us was impervious to his imperious ways. As we head down the long shadowed hallway known as the ACE program neither of us had a clue. “Yo, just deny everything, yo.” I break the silence. The Big Guy ran a program called ACE (alternative choice education) it’s a program for kids facing issues with issues that prevented them from being around the main stream of regular students. “Kids that suck at life” is what Monster used to say. Madison never had a varsity basketball player that was actually in the ACE program. The path itself to ACE was scary. Stepping into the Big Guy’s office down the long dark insulated corridor we were all nervous and I wished I had a Zanex. This wasn’t summer camp and we weren’t eight years old. The Big Guy, a Bobby Knight clone sat down and said, “take a seat drunks.” Santo snapped his head towards me as Jell’s simply stared at the floor. My jaw dropped, drunks. Looking around his office at the bright orange couches, the colored TV and empty doughnut boxes I became frightened. “A yo I’m hearing rumors about you guys pounding the booze already, partying, I talk to the cops, they say you guys think your big shots.” A shattering thing to hear from him as a moment of silence was needed to calm him own anger sprouted from our presence. He took another deep breath and then started laughing. All lay silent as morning’s battlefield when Santo and I begin fighting back tears. Jells, holding onto his ivy league mental strength was trying to control our emotions. Finally the Big Guy has seen enough and the serious moment true to our nature becomes a bit less dense. “Jesus Christ, Gibbsy look at this guy?” Instantly I rally and cover up what was in one fast second a horrible moment. I dry up and jolt a quick look at Santo and Jelly who were looking at me pungently. Looking back at the floor like a captive marine I had to check the crew and let em know shit was in control. All of this surreal behavior caused the Big Guy to pop a quick whoopey cushion out of his mouth and say, “everybody’s right these guys are jokes!” And feeling the tide roll into heaven I break a game show host smile, “That’s not funny, that’s not funny,” Yo be like Tom Scott, be like Tom Scott, Toms a big man on campus, act like him” I hoped him didn’t see my eyes roll asking me to mirror a SAC mainstay, “I think you guys can help us next year.” My eyes enlarged. I was never shocked. “But if you guys are big shots, partying, getting into trouble you’re not going to ever play for me.” I raise my hand. “Shut-up Charlie, you think I want to listen to anything you have to say?” “Sorry” “Get out of here, if you have a problem own up to it. Have a nice day.” I was elated walking out of his chambers all of us were. Forget the party the Big Guy just told us, in not so many words, that we would play varsity next year. Back to school on Monday and no phone calls meant all in all we escaped April vacation without a scratch only some barfing. I’ve Been Thinking About You April 26th, 1991 “Do you know what this is going to cost this town!?” Marco Tuesday morning I awoke to my dad’s hands around my neck screaming as my mother stood at a safe distance unable to deal with whatever this might be on her own.. “Damn, what yo, what you!” I try to muster up a response, I can’t breathe familiar scene nonetheless. “Keep your hands off him!” My mother’s deafening volume obviously lacks the resolve in my father’s eyes to reverse the thumb pressure he was applying to the center of my Adam’s apple. “Charlie!” a bursting scream that reeked years of fuck’s sake. “Charlie Peter!” “Dad!” “What the hell did you do last Monday morning?” In his pupil I could see the yellow stain on his eye caused by the harrowing pain that intrudes his life via me every now and then. This for me was the scary of the scary from jump. Cause when it came down to it whatever little highlight we might have danced with it was still a great house in Madison and my fly ass room was headquarters for team me. Seeing the seriousness in my father’s face who I swear to god is a mellow guy ignites the worst possible panic attack. “I went to the parade like I told you. I was home for suppa.” I’m nervous and now all of the coolness of living a life straight outta Compton wasn’t evident. Before he could reply I said a quick prayer to Jesus, lawns, mom massages, grades, classical musical, whatever, help! “That’s it smart guy? That’s all you have to tell me Mr. Gang leader know it all. This one isn’t funny bucko! Not this time this one is not funny.” Once conscious long enough without being bombarded physically I again pondered to precisely recall which one of the many injustices of that past week this could be in reference to. After all some were more serious than others and I couldn’t figure it out. I plainly asked with folded out hands, “who called?” “A detective called Charlie. Not a cop, a detective Charlie, tinted windows Bunkie, not a good sign. The detective is a guy I went to high school with for Christ sakes.” Shaking his head, oozing disbelief, he softly repeated. “He’s a detective which tells me your worse than ever. Congratulations, you’ve hit the big leagues!” “What the hell are they blaming me for now?” I’m baffled but my dad doesn’t buy it. “Charlie they wouldn’t even go into it over the phone. Let’s go bunk. He wants to see us now. Back to the god dam police station, again, Jesus!” In the car I’m reviewing in my head the variety of odd things that occurred this past week. I bet this has to do with the window breaking Patriots day? No way, I was in all black no one’s crazy enough to give me up. I wonder if it’s the betting? Or maybe the knife Herby put to that kids neck last week at the mall for a dollar on a dare, jeez. I really felt like a gang member that night. The gang’s motto was appropriately “deny, deny, and deny.” I believe I coined it one afternoon high on pink milk after Yo MTV Raps. We had to always be there for each other when it counted and simply remember one thing collectively, deny, deny, deny and freeze means run. All of that being said this was as stressful as it got. Sunday Night Police Station eight o’clock being uprooted from the cozy confides of a Celtics game, I had interest. Who sold me out? How will I come back on dude? Why am I retarded? Why am I retarded? Coach Farias just told us to stay out of trouble As I entered the police station I read a recent posted bulletin that stated they’d recently made the stations windows bulletproof. Good-idea seeing all the bullets racing past us I bugged. The lobby read like a “who’s who?” of Madison’s most wanted. Usually I was always the headlining act in any school line up but not tonight. Seeing my company for this latest “incident” frays my father’s last nerve. I move to motion and feel it necessary to remind him, “in this country dad you’re innocent until your proven guilty” “Zip it mouth!” He rifled back. Going on purely facial expressions it appears a decent percentage of police present were amused to see the “punk” in the middle of yet another horrible situation. I was summoned and followed as if sleepwalking this tyrannical procession up two flights of stairs and into my biggest moment of this recent strange twist of events, interrogation. Grabbing my arm as if it’s some sort of grip test for a traveling carnival strong man he doesn’t usher me into the usual questioning room. I’m taken to the top floor of the station into what appears to be an attic. In the far top right corner there’s a cobweb a midnight setting, a hot, bright, flickering light and this one recently pledged mahogany wooden chair. The light had no shade and definitely hurts young eyes that were forced to remain clockwork open. The room with the exception of the light was dark. “Hey Charlie good to see you it’s been a while.” The detective was dressed in a navy blue suit. I was concerned the police could be framing me. Madison in all of its glory ran on gossip and tabloids and labels and they labeled kids they framed. It was a set up. This setting was out of a comic book. “Listen kid just tell me what you did. I went to high school with your father. I can help, but I need you” I stopped listening same shit. Playing captain smooth made me nervous. “I went to the parade with some friends. I was home for dinner.” “Parade what about a Leslie Berg party, hmm? You there with your terrorists.” ”What?” “What?” “It wasn’t me?” “What wasn’t you?” I won’t fall for that, “Whatever your accusing me of.” There was a deep long breath from the detective who changed posture and demeanor. “You were saying that I was at some party at Leslie’s house. I would never go over there. She’s a nerd yo.” “Yeah well OK then maybe this rings a bell wise guy. Patriots day before the battle, you played a game with a little red paint.” Taking a few seconds to let it sink before his blast, “and you have no idea the trouble your in.” My dad shoots me a sideways look. “What?” I screamed this like Princess Leia when she learns it’s her planet that’s getting blown up in episode IV. “Charlie I’m sure you know because you did, but you and your friends through red paint all over captain John Parker, you did it but we know you didn’t act alone, listen Charlie I’m here to help you, I know you weren’t even the ring leader look we know Skeetah Lee was there.” Seemed from his pitch that this was just a formality and seeing my life as such a trivialization life fight emergency alerts sound off inside my head. I turn to my last remaining life raft, “dad I swear to god I didn’t do anything like that. This is crazy yo and this guy is so sure of it! It’s nuts!” The officer interrupts a conversation between me and my dad. “an American national landmark had its entire body draped in red paint. It’s not coming off. Do you know what this little stunt is going to cost this town! And all the yellow ribbons, we know you had help.” My dad and me after already devastating charges both quickly charge up and shoot off a sideways look at each other. Yellow Ribbons were on every single telephone pole in Madison and come to think about it on Patriots day I did notice they all had some red paint on them. Fuck I’m on probation. The officer was getting a little loud a little ahead of himself he claimed there were eye witnesses accounts of us out and about. “Make a deal now son, we can put in a good word if you cooperate.” “What! Dad!” My dad also thinking this guy needs to settle down pipes up, “OK officer enough thank you I got it from here. Settle down Charlie this isn’t funny. OK I’ll take him home and see what he knows. Have a nice night.” “Call us in the morning Charlie.” “will do” Walking out of the police station I love my father. Being attuned to my dad’s unwavering respect for the law, ethics especially as a standing example before them I felt closer to him just witnessing what I’ve been screaming. There is an Madison conspiracy against me. A quick break from the moors that molded the old man turns violent as soon as we exit the front door of fuzz central. Out of the police station, whack, whack, whack, whack! “Did you do it, did you do it did you do it?” Finally I snap seconds outside of the station and scream and nuclear I want to die right here vocals, “FUCKING NO JESUS FUCKING CHRIST FUCK FUCK I DIDN’T!” My dad sensing volatility, “OK, hey would you just relax. Jesus Christ, why are you screaming like that, why? Give me a headache!” “Dad a witness isn’t a witness anyway if they don’t fucking come out.” Before the next syllable can escape the cherry of my lip I’m upended across the head with another warning shot. “OK, A-GHT, dam.” “just ZIP IT MOUTH!” Now he’s raised his voice and I know for some reason I’ve just kicked him off the cliff. At the end of the day he could still beat the shit out of me. I feel good because I swore to god that it was crazy that I didn’t do anything to break (cross toes) the law that day. It felt good for three reasons, 1) I knew I was right 2) My dad believed me, 3) I knew I didn’t throw Red Paint on my man Captain John! My mother sits at the table shaking alone smoking her token Carlton 120 available in 4 only four stores across the country. Her life has been one bombshell after the next. For her panic was warranted and when re-enforced ninety percent of your moments over the course of the life time everything was a time bomb. As my dad and I entered the front patio that led to our front door and the kitchen we both instinctively looked at each and understood the silent plan. Door opens. “Hi mom.” “hi mom.” We both have the same opening statements. Our calm countenance does nothing to promote a casual environment for this discussion. She puts her cigarette and butts it in the ashtray placing her diet coke on the table, “Well what the hell happened?” A serious look directed at both of us. Fuck this is what I’m thinking before I’m sidetracked. Looking at our kitchen table I think only about the volume of times my dad had made me sit at the table, look at healthy food I’d never eat for hours. I couldn’t leave the table unless I ate and once he realized I’d sit there all night the bargains came out. “OK Bunkie – I’ll give you a quarter, a game of Pac-man if you take one bight. Just one bite.” I was just grossed out by everything that wasn’t Fruity Pebbles so the bribes came. “I just can’t, I just can’t do it.” “Come on bunky why are you such a baby?” ”Why are you such a dumbass”? WHACK – time and time again trying to get me to try vegetables for years when I was carrying the candy monkey on my back. Now being in our current minefield I had jurisdiction he had to honor at that moment. He couldn’t pass this one off to me. Of course fire creates fire and voice tones just like they teach you in sales reflect one another. Just my mother’s volume has tacked decimals into his opening diatribe. “Relax Lilly OK he’s not in trouble they thought he did something he didn’t do that’s it, OK?” Nice job I thought the old man did until my mom drops back into her seat at the kitchen table and her face has gone psycho shower. Her now albino hands cover a frosted face as she says in sheer terror, “Oh my god it’s not the red paint is it?” we look at each other and her direct hit left us befuddled. “Oh my god I just heard about it on the news, I told you dad this kid is a lunatic!” Expanding his checks and hastily blowing his wind is symbolic of everything he’s been holding in. “This one’s serious. He says He didn’t do it I believed him but now I have no idea.” My mother picking up her lighter picks up her butt and relights what’s left of her last cigarette. “I hope he’s telling the truth because the detective thinks if it is him and he doesn’t cooperate then he’ll probably get sent to the department of youth services.” “Oh Charlie you better get down there and cooperate. “Ma it wasn’t me these people are crazy! I told you ma that they want to pin shit on me! My mother goes Young & The Restless whaling at a never heard hitherto volume sings her smash hit, “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Falling to her knees balling and screamed “what the hell is wrong with you, sociopath!” I snap back a disgusted “word up.” “Get the hell out of here.” My father’s shoving me in the back means I’ve be ejected from every place in the world except my bedroom. Moments later I walk up to my room and softly cry before falling asleep. Awaking hours later I think myself to be in a distant place. Although I soon realize that I’m in my house, I have school tomorrow and again facing federal charge. Not a great string of thoughts, my mother was of course situated in the kitchen, which made a Zanex smuggle impossible. I was in a real tight jam so I said a prayer to Jesus. I asked him to help me. Jesus was always my last resort. I tell him I’m all alone and confused. I also tell him that if he exists than he must know that I’m in a tough spot because tough spots is the only time, well. My prayer begins with my hands folded together in a manner that I fancy a good Christian boy would hold them during prayer or how I like to call it ‘favor asking.’ “Jesus, I wouldn’t ask for favors if I didn’t really need them badly. I guess I’m not even worried about myself. Please just protect my friends and oh help my stomach ache. But real quickly if you can make these charges disappear I promise on the world that I’ll be good from now on. A whole new me.” My mother entered my room. She sees me crying ever so slightly, deep in prayer. It is here that she received a rare affirmation that I’m in fact a good kid. I wonder if bad people pray to Jesus? We talk like a mom and son for once and in the end she believes me. I finally admitted that I might have been out causing mischief that morning but I wasn’t the one they were blaming for red paint on the statue and yellow ribbons all over town. “They called me a communist.” My eyes swelled with tears. We hugged. After she left the room I was relaxed. I cradle both of my hands and say “thank Jesus, look dude if you do exist thanks again and congratulations on all of the attention.” By Wednesday I was still riding the high that my mother believed me for once. Strolling home out of season seems to be one thing after the other. We had just finished up a nature wedge on a younger kid that walked past us on the bike path that I used to play soccer with. As I’m strutting home thinking about whether this guy Markey Mark will really sell a million records I notice a detailed cranberry Lincoln parked in my driveway. There was a man on a stepladder in the front of my house carefully examining my shutter’s surrounding trim, performing what almost appeared like some sort of surgery on my wooded accessory. I live in a dark brown house with shutters and as my mother runs out of the house crying I’m thinking to myself, “what now?” Apparently this guy stuck to my shutter has been gathering samples of the paint for the detective. Numbers, multiple equations and life odds raced across my brain. I was unable to fathom neither comprehend the fact that I had nothing to do with this. My brain as it sometimes does when faced with such immeasurable calculations switches its concern to containing the panic attack that such thoughts inevitably provoke. Baffled I saunter up to my room to gaze over my trophies and await any breaking news. Forty-five minutes later a middle aged police officer enters my room with a hardened look, an explanation and I’m scurried back to the police station. The paint for some “tough test” reason just happened to be an exact match. “Yep my luck” and instantly I see my mother in the shadow of the arresting officer regretting the one time she believed in me. Total eclipse of the heart. “Liar, liar, liar!” She’s hitting me and screaming as I was being pulled away. “Thanks a lot Jesus. I knew you were a fraud!” As I begin to cry in the car on the way to the station the driver looks back and says “You shouldn’t have done this Charlie Paradise. Didn’t get away this time did ya? What a waste of a name. You’ve just disgraced your country your probably a communist. I’m sorry for your mother. Cry all you want. It ain’t going to help you now.” I really lose it after the communist jab and scream back through a river of red eyes and broken vocal chords “I’m a capitalist!” As I was rushed to the station the detective had a victorious look on his face. “I wish you’d given me some names. I wish you did three days ago. I knew it was you, I knew it the whole time.” I, crying the whole time jolt an exhaustive classic “I’m just a kid!” As I’m booked formally and a court date is set some twin chinned copper cops me a cop lift home. “You know once again you guys have made a fucking mistake.” He’s ignoring me, which infuriates my restless energy tenfold. “You guys, you guys are all going to be sorry. I’m going to be a famous rap star. Did you know that one sport? I’m going to make millions of dollars and buy weak-minded suckers like you? You hear me?” The cop remains silent, which was making me clinically unable to deal with my mind or find breath. I’m dropped off at home and when nobody in my kitchen makes eye contact with me I lethargically limp upstairs to pray (just in case.) Throw the Hail Mary out to you Hail Mary. My mom simply didn’t have it in them to believe me one last time and can only cry, headed back upstairs to my room, hugging my teddy bear, going back to the table with Jesus, I’m so selfish.

Sunday, June 14, 2015

Episode #3 (part ½ of II) dipshit and Jeffey

The shit head camera guy was in Washington DC attending an Oyster Riot at the oldest bar in Washington DC, Old Ebbitt’s grill when his alert eyes saw the call he was resting for. “Excuse me Kyle” There was no Kyle in the group but it rhymed with “dial” which rhymed and should’ve be the name of the riot. He was a one armed local rapper that sold money. The consummate yuck artist of quick comedy he’d forever get away with if only for his dysfunctional heart and knack for risk taking when something WAY out of line had to be done. This made him electric an exciting addition to any assembly. (Phone Ring is last song from Star Wars, the wedding joint) “Jeffey, talk 2 me, you should see this fucken sleigh ride I’m attending” “rat, shhhh” Jeffrey knew the importance of cutting dipshit off in the name of one life. “Shut the fuck up, this is the call you’ve been waiting for all night.” “OK, how’s Pierce?” Settled he squirts out the question weighing down on his sporadic thoughts. The footage rested on that one question. “Dude” It was the tone, the tenor the gift “oh word?” His instrument of a voice went lower as the line drew itself to the most powerful word in the group’s dialect, “legendary” “OK, OK” Dude It just meant same and same for them meant perfect. The fact of the matter it was the single best report he could’ve received. Dipshit was hyper active to begin with. He also was self possessed most around him in any capacity reclined to the “crazy” theory either that or an alcoholic bully. Dude. Dipshit’s problem had become something he couldn’t stop. He’d done it again and this time the stories were opening Yoda’s eyes. No one can fuck with me. He’d thought of his life as a book anyway ever since losing the arm and the Larry Bird visit. JQ was just Jesus. And all the pain, the suffering, the uncertainity had disappeared. And he was heading back to his first cousin, Chicago first thing in the morning. Dude. It was his saying that about the in season trip the Miners had just strewn together the 30th birthday of the subject Mr. Shithead had been aimlessly following around with a camera for three years. And dipshit had all access a hustler with a crew that survived and someway’s thrived larger than most sans NFL center Ryan Hartwell. Ryan had a story to tell and was a natural in front of the camera. There were three centers prior to his Blackstown arrival in the hall of Fame. This wasn’t like other jobs. The organizations and barriers to film were all but removed the years before. He trusted a couple guys that could work a system. But now Ryan was in Blackstown, playing for the Minors, everything was different, starting with the SB twice winning youngest ever QB Pierce Meridian. The $100 million Nike man. (kid) “yeah, I don’t know dude, he might be off it, I’m not asking him.” “What abut if JQ, does it, fun footage, we gotta get you guys coming off the plane.” “JQ? Will he do it? Yeah that’ll be cool” JQ caught his attention, it was the first story dip shit had told Ryan visiting his 30,000 square foot mansion in Carolina. There were life sized paintings of him, movie theatre’s, mindful mushrooms, fluorescent chronic, wide arcade and of course full court run in the pool. He’d been depressed with injury after signing at the time one of the richest contracts ever for center in the AFL. It’s weird to be so young and get 30 million dollars to play the sport you love. He’d had everything and nothing all at the same time. “So what do you think c-rat?” Ryan had heard enough people in DC where he met this retard who’d helped procure a job in foreign currency for his childhood blood brother, the “weed guy” in dipshits first band since the smooth Adolescents. And the c-rat story was a classic a Chicago classic. And it were these stories and spit that had brought him to this table with an interest, camera and dream. The first story he told at that house in the big house, the NFL was JQ, dude…. It was better than c-rat, then he met en, and that was a rap. For all his brain fog this camera fuck tard had a family, sons of liberty, JQ at the airport with the camera was the green light he needed to really get into this already crazy ass situation. He had to call him back. And as unearthed his cell from the pocket of his beige khacki’s in the spirit of the event said loudly to his circle, “Hey guys, go fuck yourself” And he walked away to laughter everything was working as he contemplated flipping over a servers full trey, why not? I’d probably be given a purple heart. “Ryan, what’s up baby” The center had called. The footage was up in the air. “But how will he get past security? It’s tight, and small place.” “We’ll handle it” And he had done just that up to now. The truth was fuck face had absolutely no idea how they would skirt security. And that was the least of his worries, JQ needed a camera, dipshit aka half-way, needed a flight and Xanex. Dipshit knew that Jeffey the tallest person that ever lived could get by security. That was the Magic. And it was nothing but heart, smiles, sheer talent, multiple TV appearences and of course the old once in a lifetime smile. Above all of that not, nothingness was an ability to listen above their stories, wit sand, crowd savings presence on alert 5 inside a hectic schedule. The dipshit, had taken that from his borderline personality mother, it had made him sick, his sister, I hate you don’t leave me, he’d already died in hell, twice. It was simple trick lost in universal love these two spawned anytime they got together with strangers. It was a rare gift, sons of Liberty reappearing non ironically here again in America, the point was on that weekend for those two guys, this was the AFL, Ohio Miners, the players, the o-line and QB; everyone had a story, that was the table. No one knew that crazy weekend of course they’d win the SB, again. JQ signed, The game is now on he thought to himself, and dip shit went back to his circle which were all buzzing about his life, the call he had been peppering prior on behalf of a hard to conceal fidget from an otherwise jumpy guy. And it was a good crew. A long way from his old visits to the hospital psych ward besides the long held secret truth of rich white people, they weren’t that interesting anyway. And this was the Oyster riot. “Where is everyone staying in Chicago, wow, the Miners” “Trump’s new building, everyone has a suite on the 30th, Pierce, Ryan was telling me has a PH, on the cuff from the Don himself, top floor, 65, half the fucking floor, plus these guys are zillas in the Led Zepplen sense.” “What do you mean by that sport?” “What do I mean by that? They don’t give a fuck, they drink like it’s the 1970’s and don’t apologize for shit.” “Wow” “OMG, that’s like so crazy” “crazy, I’m so excited and got 2 go, love u all, big group hug, thanks” Part of the SOL was never be an asshole a lesson learned long ago. And dawn, yawned for the “dials” and the sun rose from the east a flight was boarded and the camera guy who knew nothing about cameras or doc movie making two years into this project hopped a flight to activate his young Jedi JQ and celebrate his only doc movie client’s / partner 30th b-day stealing Chi-town in what seemed like a Manhattan minute. Dip shit landed, high, confused needing to call Keebs for a quick lesson on how to buy another $800 camera on credit to use. JQ handled the night before and being a legend back in his hometown was busy until 4pm we’re they re – activate for the night, clubs and ensuing shit show.

Thursday, June 11, 2015

“On The Line” coming soon……

The flow of the game up's downs, side projects, life, love making a difference SO......

In the wake of our Uncle Rollie interview chipping away at our own labor of love Move the Tape extremely comfortable calling Coach Mass Uncle Rollie FYI, comes On The Line, where sacrifice begins, the Movie. It’s essentially the story of Lexington METCO a god send, note 2, YG Foundation: Fellow directors should consider any loose change we have in the coffer to help closing costs on this film.

And like all independently financed first time filmmakers, the making of the movie is a short film in itself. In my mind and this has never wavered since I was in the sixth grade, it’s the most important issue in our country’s flourishing or floundering future. This is America, we’re sons of liberty and this is shit we’re supposed to be doing,. Above all else it’s a powerful story. The men behind it, involved and interviewed, so excited to meet some of these guys. Magic and I as 5th graders could name every Lexington Captain since 78. So I knew Mike Mascol Cecil Cox, Tyrone Lockhart, Gene Mewbourn of our world and we could go on and on..... I knew the names, and to meet, be apart and hear their stories is something I’m looking forward to greatly.

Mr. Michael Mascol (Captain LHS basketball 1983, METCO, BC, point man behind the film) told me he thought we did it better, the early 80’s was not as harmonious as the perception he held of our time. And while I believe this most assuredly to be true, the fact is, when I tickled it, the thought, it became apparent we’ve stalled, there's in argument to be had in some cases, we've moved backwards. And that can’t happen. And people are struggling. And here comes a story an honest discusiioon and discovery on race. A true story. A good story. A needed inclusion.

And you look around, it's scary, seems like 1968 out here at times, riots, the fear, anger, same old issues, my sister told me the other day, I didn’t realize how important METCO was until I went to college.

And it’s true, and then the work force, client’s, it becomes more and more as you grow into an adult, hopefully climb a ladder and see for yourself what it is.

My statement on METCO since high school had been, it does more for Lexington kids. If I had been stuck around all white people for my entire childhood I would not be here right now. And zero of the amazing shit would’ve NEVER happened. FACT

Plus it shocked me, just having a host family, my parents, great people, but it was hard, at first for them to have brothers for the city sleep over, at first, he's a son now and forever, just that first get So METCO the movie filming a week from Friday, Roxbury, Mattapan, Dorchester and Cary Libray that Sat there’s a panel discussion in Lexington. All invited come join, tell your story, METCO the movie rub shoulders with legends and put it down for METCO the movie.

On The Line, special thanks to Mr. Michael Mascol, Sean Padian, the entire On The Line team that’s making this a reality. You guys in Karma will get back everything and offer of what you put in ☺ Throw in a DJ Premier ill scratch hook, LHS METCO, like Biggie Smalls, is the illest.

CALLING: come out! YES WE CAN Carl, Once again, thank you for expressing interest in joining the discussion panel for the upcoming documentary, On The Line. We are looking at a tentative film date of June 20th, 9am-4pm, with filming to be conducted at Lexington High School. Please let me know if that date is clear on your calendar and we will plan accordingly. In addition to yourself, I’d like to determine if the Metco family you are connected with are free that weekend as well. Here is the general filming breakdown we hope to follow: Friday, June 19th 9am to 2pm Film former & current Metco students boarding an empty bus at designated bus stops along Mattapan, Dorchester and Roxbury bus routes, including interactive dialogue while on the bus and exiting the bus at Lexington High School. This group of 6-10 former & current students would then get back on the bus for return transportation back to Boston. Saturday, June 20st, 9am – 4pm From 9am-12pm, Film discussion panel of former Lexington Students, host family parents and teachers as they reflect on their METCO experience from a suburban perspective. LUNCH From 1pm-4pm, Film a Merged discussion panel of Lexington Residents and Metco students combined to collaborate on their experience back then and today. We are very excited to have you join the group and hope to make this a great opportunity of reflection for all involved. Let me know if you have any questions. Respectfully, Sean Padian LEV Media Group, LLC 781-472-0537 __________________________________________ The documentary film production, On The Line, Where Sacrifice Begins hopes to capture a time and place when many made sacrifices for our advancement. OTL examines the METCO integration experience through the lens of native Boston minority students who attended public school in the affluent suburb of Lexington, MA, along with counter-responses from suburban students directly impacted by the program. - Capturing viewpoints of historians, founders, polarizing activists, teachers, parents and champions of the movement. A collective group boldly committed to a cause greater than themselves. The civil rights movement is often taught as a Southern phenomenon. Yet, the struggle for racial justice occurred all over the country, especially in Northern cities. This documentary reflects back on the civil rights movement in the North: the conflict over how to resolve racial segregation in Boston's public schools in the 1960s and 1970s. the context and decisions that resulted in court-ordered busing, rather than on the violence and tension that followed busing. Investigating the years prior to court-ordered busing helps us better understand current debates about segregation in public schools. Nearly 50 years later, the same conditions that led to racially imbalanced schools in the 1960s and 1970s, namely residential segregation, exist in most American cities and suburbs. Furthermore, many of the strategies suggested by educators, parents, and activists in the 1960s are being proposed today. The participants in this documentary reflect on their early educational journey by sharing firsthand opinions about their individual and collective experiences. As the United States becomes an increasingly racially diverse nation, it is particularly relevant for students to think about how people from different backgrounds build relationships based on mutual respect and shared understandings, and the role of schools in this endeavor. In our increasingly multiracial, multiethnic and metalinguistic nation, it is more crucial than ever that we continue to develop and promote working models of educational institutions that approximate the larger society students will someday join. . . . More than ever, social science research offers powerful evidence of the strong benefits of diversity for students, communities, and a democratic society. Similarly, research has also long demonstrated the detrimental effects of segregation and its ever-present attendant, concentrated poverty, in our public schools on educational opportunity, race relations, and the psychological development of young people. Carl E. Easton Commonwealth Foreign Exchange, Inc. 1747 Pennsylvania Ave, N.W. Suite 850 Washington DC 20006 Sales Trader Direct: 202.955.7174 Fax: 202.280.1441