Friday, January 30, 2015
Feb 25th The awakening “Charlie, listen to my idea, OK, it's the year is 2095 and the whole world is gay.”
Back Cover - Insert, Book. A Son of Liberty, volume I, "Legendes" the adventures of Charlie Peter Paradise
Thursday, January 29, 2015
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
can I get a...... h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-hollA
What up Gorillas? happy new Year. Well it's certainly been a long journey with the memoir. I started in the summer of 2000 down here on the Han solo tip. Armed with no friends in DC, a 12 pack of bud cans with some bud I wrote, inspired actually every night, 2200 pages came out of me, the story was there but it was very rough in another language written in solely the first person.
So I had a story to tell. I couldn't write but I could tell a story, believed in my merits and self reality against the many tales I'd heard. And my story was important, for race, class, disability, litigation, public education, prescriptions, laws, and how we operate, for the US for Lexington, what I had lost, endured along with my mother and sister, no one cared, and we lost a ton, our youth, adding scars, broken "things", the three of us had been collectively abused in a variety of ways for as long as I could remember. There was a story, I was a high school legend, I made my family, formed my gang, and laid everything on the line a modern day teenager could ever imagine. Fuck yeah I had a story to tell, sports, music, the 1%, the hood, meriam Hill, resource room, molestation, book making, hard work, wisdom vs. knowledge. I had a story I had the characters, it all actually happened.
So off to jay then my sister for final edits and polish, I managed to get it down to 445 pages, LOL, big book, so much happened out of the norm, my own inspiring, cautionary story that continues to this day, quite simply, no one has stories like mine. I'll be posting on Amazon, digital publish and make some hard copies that will win which I'll later include with my next finish project the basketball, Lexington doc which plays Field of Dreams to this books, eight men out.
And trading blogs, YG foundation, Wig project, Preem updates, and book II A Son of Liberty, II "Outcry" (the Chicago Years) will all get run this year on GDD. I've crushed trading the UXXY, option on the VIX, low gas got us into DAl options at underlying 23 bucks, money, sports, projects, ownership. Love u all - bout to go down -
Deleted scene from original draft (2002) “So are you going to play space planet?” Rattled back into reality “Yeah I’m gonna, I might play Pop Warner still though.” ”people will laugh at you though?” ”But I’ll score more touchdowns.” “Good point.” Danny and I had played electric football since we were little kids, my inner circle same grade hoops circle but like me and Magic the die hardest of all enemies when it came to internal sports competition. Everyone wanted to be the best out of us. Danny was always bitter in the back of his head the recognition annoyed him, he thought he was better. The recognition that both Mike and I received by Hayden through Astori spat obtusely from its boiling derivation, and to some like Danny it was annoying. Always being above any measuring stick on all and working as hard as we did it was a known fact to us that the best of our group was going to make it pretty big. A true panacea to panic and pills my peeps and emotions for all of them ran steep, deep and my loyalty to them was to me the meaning of life. “This place isn’t that great for the amount you guys talk about it. Where are your rooms anyway?” “That’s gay.” Mike leaps in with an immediate response to this threat. Beyond that though we’re both in disbelief he used the gay line that hating older chumps use on it. Mike timed his response to snap because we expected Danny to come stronger than cliché. “Danny your just jealous cause you can’t stay out late, you can’t hang with the legends.” “Believe me Matt your not a legend.” Danny upping the anti. “I will be though. You have to go home and eat busted dinner now and me and Mike get to stay and eat candy bars and shoot hoops.” Trying to engage without unnesassry full blown verbal assault to kill. “What do I care?” danny says this cocky so its very non chalent, “I have a hoop in my house.” “good point.” Suddenly Fullerton on back from “squirting a one” was making a strong point. He did have a ten foot hoop real court in his house, upstairs in the loft. It was the shit but I still hated anyone with money somewhat even if they were my best friend. If verbal engagement was war amongst us which it clearly was than everyday we’d try to hit each others weak points with bombs, all to be the best. He was also pissed because he had gotten so good and still only limited chatter about him being the best. We always let him know he wasn’t on our level. In this crew bragging rights were king and the best at basketball supplied you big stomp. Stanly Fullerton in quasi the same vein was highly educated, photographic, tall, handsome and extremely well spoken for a twelve year old. He was super witty in a dry casual way that was always relative. An accepted Astori pedigree allowed Stanley to succeed in finding a vast audience of friends that made him the elected president of our whole seventh grades class. “Mr. Fullerton” as we refer to him as is the coolest kid around. Corruptible but cool, understandable but flawed so simple but an onion at heart he’s always chill “presidential” demeanor only flips like a light switch when he plays baseball, basketball or lacrosse. Then he becomes a wild beast the perfect guy you want to go to war with. We were all psychotic but I was the leader. I always preyed on Stanley’s weaknesses and itched at his dark sides that I learned very quickly he loved to have scratched. He needed to break free and still in Junior High he’s still holding it together. Coach Sullivan once told me at summer camp last year that he knew me and Fullerton were the “Big Guns” socially at our junior high school. I got goose bumps. “So you excited for next year?” Fullerton attempting to make sweet talk on which was obviously my territory I remembered immediately the bad. “Shut up Mr. Fullerton.” In a tone of disgust I flip. You could’ve been the first client at Sugar Rays and you blew it.” I was looking to expand my clientele past my only customer Monster but Fullerton as we’d say “buckled.” And I was pissed not only because of the lost “scratch” but I was dying to corrupt my friends and get them as dirty as me. Obviously Stanley as president and reigning present day cover shot of Astori A+ kids was a bit of a harder sell on the gangster shit. The paper in Astori loved the preppy photos of the rich white family with straight teeth or braces (at least you were on the right track.) These weekly photos typically celebrating the most garbage things always captured to me the pulse of life in Astori. It was all a fabrication, a façade, a photo stripped of life just a picture that looked great on paper and to the outsider that might happen to peak judging by this photo if you live here your family can look like this too! Knowing the depths of the maggots that lurked beneath the maggots here in Astori and pictures became frightening as the sick irony would always make me laugh. The pictures in the paper were always the very best. Mr. Fullerton wearing a polo golf shirt at Hayden like Danny had played all afternoon in junior gym and as we’re girding to break back home and reality. Fullerton sitting next to Danny Studwell quickly makes light looking at Danny but speaking to us all about what an unbelievable freshman year high school basketball squad we’re going to be. “We most certainly will destroy teams.” Fullerton only a young teen for some reason talks like he’s sixty but he’s dope and a strange sort of way, highly coordinated. “You’ll never get in tonight Matt.” Danny hating on me like that fool Jimmy earlier. Lucky his last vocal chord didn’t muster a big chunk of objective reality or I would have smacked him in the face or said something vilely disgusting about his mother. “Yeah you’re probably right.” I blow it off with a clam reserve that I trick people with. Before Danny Studwell jettisoned himself off the bleachers to catch his ride home from Fullerton’s mom he looked up, pointed and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, that kid is fucking nasty.” “Five-Thousand.” Rick Mckeag was a thick monstrous bike rider that probably had ties to the heroin trade and if you saw him on the street you would never believe he could ball. His graceful touch belied an incredible hulk monster that could bang with anything and anybody Hayden’s nightly roster had to throw at him. Years later he would be paralyzed in a motor accident. As always you had the usual hand of former AHS varsity players that attended college locally and would come down on these nights before their own season to tune up and at the same time respect the institution and town that propelled them to success on the local college circuit. Then were as always the thugs, fools that eschewed any inherent talent they had at the game of basketball for a different what they must have felt more important high school existence. I always looked up to those dudes. “Fuck a football team.” Notorious B.I.G. Bitches, hustling, money the hoods were many, John and Charlie “Chuck” Squires, Rob Callahan, Cleveland Callous his brother Tony, Craig Casady, Scot Capece of course the locally famed and feared guy whose name you couldn’t mention. John and Charlie had been rumored to be involved in everything most recently a gun running scandal that started off with starter pistols and firmly made their way into heavier chrome. Rob Callahan in some ways really reminded me of and me and there in lies probably why he hated me so much. He was a common criminal, a thief and hustler. I once over heard my childhood idol (Sean Matthews) that stayed with Rob when he couldn’t get back to Boston tell a small elite Hayden group that Robs downfall would be not respecting the city, thinking he could mettle the hustle there the way he did in Astori. He said sooner or later he would be “checked” and probably “rubbed” out. Rob was currently illegally in Hayden due to a pending rape allegation that was charged against him by a female employee Carol that I had grown up around and loved. Of course she was much older too. I know because it was me that had to run out and get him the nights Carol worked. I had to let him know she left. Like I said it was my cab stand. Rob through the years of me not respecting him at all and reminding him of himself by the way I talked, rapped and dribbled had chased me out but never beat the fuck out of me. It was my royal claim to fame, I had never been beaten up. Rob did however once throw my head through gyms main doors upper glass torso. I had “pantsed” him in the middle of a game. My head was fucked up. It would’ve gotten worse but Jeff the senior director at Hayden once again like Superman came to my aid and saved my life. “That’s two you owe me junior.” Han Solo. “Yo Matt don’t come near me tonight. I’m not in the mood for your two year old bull shit.” Rob always wore a Kangol and his game was definitely more style than substance. He played with a beeper clipped to his longer jean shorts and secretly I would tell Mike Masters that I wanted to kill Rob Callahan. But there were also highlights decorated like Macys Christmas lights maintaining the levity of which star dust can gather. Hayden was my real home and I wish I had a bedroom there. There just were not many minutes in a week that we were not in Hayden’s divine presence. Soaking it all up but most importantly striving to be the best at a game so many played and respected. It was what we lived for, fostered and found our true identity through. Of course there was always a side show and with this maze of craze focused players that respected the circus existed everywhere. It always annoyed me that if play got rough, and big late crucial game calls came into question the real athletes had to back down to the grimy nature of the kid across from him who truly didn’t give a fuck and would risk it all right there just to have his way this night on a particular call just to “rep” he got the best of a varsity player. Of course in my age group I did the exact same thing but was that player. Of course the true stars like Lloyd Mumford always got there way because no one from Astori of any bend wanted to jeopardize their status with the coolest brother around. After watching the action go by, jawing silently to get a chance we break and head towards the office. That’s where we find Bart Graff and Jeff. Bart as a football star was given the “best ever” award and it pretty much summed him up. He was famous and even had his own football commercial in high school. He even dated Amiee Mann from Til Tuesday who later scored as the enormously gratifying Magnolia soundtrack, they met while she worked at New Bury Comincs on Newbury street in Boston. Bart was straight up Hayden coached us in the Hayden tournament and registered Llyod Mumford tilt type of respect. We got to kick it with him all of the time, hanging out on the regular with your idol whose even better in person was the best. With Jeff our surrogate father and Scott “Caps” the biggest bookie in Astori chilling in the office it was time to head into the kitchen of our home which was really the gym office at Hayden “No luck fellas.” Bart asked immediately knowing that we’ve been dying to get on forever. “No luck.” “I’m going to go back out there in a sec though.” “I know there a bunch of suckers out there tonight someone has got to let us on!” Jeff gets involved, “You guys are better than most of those hacks out there. Just remember your going to be better than all of them.” “Is everybody going to be here Saturday morning?” As our idol and father nodded accordingly we’re satisfied and back off to the killing grounds. “What do you think Chief?” Mark Brenchek aka “Bummer” loved basketball so much and in conjunction of like Makie and I living at Hayden had perfected some pretty amazing things. For example, Bummer and Haydens serendipitous drafts mastered the behind the back right handed shot. So much so that he drilled the lay up, dotted key, free throw line at a very young age. Now at forty and still in the same routine he’d matered the now three point line (1988 introduced into high school basketball nationally) and as fabled would have it the half court line. Like three point contests Hayden had “racks” of basketballs AND Bummer when he felt like it much tob our delioght on a lazy afternoon would jedi like walk out, pull the rack to the half stripe, miss his first thyree and always bury his next five or sox sometimes ru8nning the table. It was just ridiculous and that was the Magic Dream of Hayden because no matter how much we wanted it to be it would never be and was actually so far away from reality. In addition Bummer at Hayden was the pop frenzied “game room’s” biggest star. His other interest besides banking in half court heaves behind the bank and sinking fifty straight free throws was Haydens teen lit arcade arena. Only in Astori at the height and the American arcade apex could you have at private playhouse exclusively dideciated to Astori a gaming center that contained seven banging stand up machines on rotation on the top forty on the music tip, I,.e they were rotated depending on. The game room had a buddha doll Table soccer full feature table, ping pong, candy, soda, benches, fights, the works. Bummer simply dominated whatever arcade of the month machine he chose to conquer. His “gaming” ability had became fabled. Years ago I once watched Bummer or how the legends called him “the Chief” play a game of Burger Time from quarter of six at night past nine Hayden official closing time and by that time all of Hayden had tuned it. Kids would always surround Bummer when he went 3 to 5:45PM Sunday on one silver quarter. The echoes of sideline conversation remain gambling, sports, fights, pot use, cars, parking lot, high school gossip and of course Astori legend conversation which was discussed much the way barber shops around the world forever argue about sport icons, who was the best ever type banter. All of this occurring or not occurring as I dribble by myself waiting patiently for a shot in the big game that I still had never been invited to enjoy. The game in progress suddenly ended as the “point” man on the squad got hot and that was it. I noticed the guy whose name I can’t mention had come up from the weight room and was next in line unchallenged to get “next.” He was an accomplished boxer but also dabbled in everything shady that was bought or sold in Astori. This contra band contrast between born hustler and golden glove boxer gave him the respect almost of a pillar at Hayden but not quite. He always supported myself and Mike and one of his admitted favorite conversations like countless others was who was going to better in high school. Tonight only one of his sidekicks were present and he was in the market for two to run. Watching him go over and run through the many available players in attendance it was the kind of dialogue that I imagine fund managers wax as they dissect and discuss the best play for their client’s dollars. Scouring the edges of all wanting the run eye contact is made a smile is born and I nearly wet myself. I noticed his partner in crime, sport and life at the same time walking towards Mike and then it hit me. This was my chance. My time, effort, resolve, wit and loveable nature and just showing up, (that’s a big one) had all colluded to make this happen. We were selected to run with a team comprised with the imitable guy whose name I can’t mention, a member of his posse and us. “Do your thing little men!” Clapping to himself its apparent that he is already getting a kick out of his team selection amongst the backdrop of the many vocal chords that could be heard laughing calling our team a stupid joke. This strengthened my focus and will and Hayden my home had become my theatre which will always keep me coming back. It could happen to us. Walking into the center of court one I wheel dap to various off court potential participants as I can here jokers on the sideline talking about me and Mike, and I smirked that private stroke of affection you get when as captian ADD you get mad attention. I was glad Mike and I were paired up together and not on our usual separate teams. “Who do you think is better, Mike or Matt?” Hiding under the bleachers and listen to dudes dissecting the question was awesome! Anyway completely in tune with the status we have at Hayden as eleven years old molds us to the part. Ready to take that torch early we are the only thing we ever wanted to be, the next hot generation of varsity basketball in Astori. Mike is black, adopted and Jewish although purely listening to our vernacular one might think this was the other way around. Audiences watching us frolic would look straight confused constantly switching their heads back and forth between the two of us. The fact that we got each others skin color is an unbelievable coincidence. “Yo Matt come back and get this.” And so it begun and dam if we weren’t ready what happened over the next hour made it a movie, to me. The competitive synergy of Mike and me competing against each other on the same team in front of this small poignant audience pushed us to our best. This was our biggest stage yet. By the end it was destiny, the dust settled but the astonishment had not. After our first round hoisting of a quality opponent through our air bombs it was clear Mike and I could run on the big court. It’s the night I figured out why I never missed, I have to tell Barbara. My biggest handicap as God will play had become my biggest asset, again. My right hand though demoralized and retarded was still my shooting hand. I had only one tendon and it allowed me to bend my wrist. With my one tendon though and the one available motion it offered I would snap my wrist in exactly the same fashion unequivocally every time, ice, money and grand. My wrist now gave me confidence that I could pull from anywhere anytime. Mike raised his play and our tenacious defense, dives and hustle prompted many an enthusiastic supporter. The gyms office came barreling out for our last two games when they heard what was going on. It was a special family moment. At the end of the night, five games in a row, I felt cocky. I glanced over and witness Mike talking to a few former varsity players that arrived towards the end. They were giving him props and watching Mike I see a politician and a bright future. This moment stamped in gold was our calling, right there, our legacy in motion, go. Scott Arch a close confident, solid baller and top dude of ours rolled up. We seldomly would see kids in Junior High with us at these late school night hours. Scott Arch was aspiring young legend we respected and broke bread with. A year older we saw eye to eye on a great many plays stemming from safe illegal rackets, dunk contests, new trends, slinky chicks and top clowns at Hayden. “Yeah fellas, that was NBA, fantastic!” We both see Scott and abdicate our current circles due to excitement that one of our own actually bore witness to the wet sickness just displayed. Getting up with each other just like it was supposed to occur Scott said, “yo, check it – I got it.” “What up what up, spit it out son!” I just can’t take it. Pointing first at Mike and then at me off the cuff he proclaimed “Your Magic and your the Dream.” Re-write this whole thing, make it real, O just playing off something or Arch in this case that the Big Guy had called me and Magic, and that is why it’s so important, might to time to reel back a lil, def time, this was the first night people really started calling us something the Big Guy had mentioned. The guy whose name we can’t mention heard it instantly and strutted shoulder shaking on over with the confidence and giddiness boxing triumphs and pure quickness gives a young hoodlum with a thousand dollar smile. The guy whose name we can’t mention humbly took credit for putting us on and at the same time gave props as we killed it. Some many moments later the gyms massive lights begun their seven and a half minute shut down period and just like that it was time to go. Every night at Hayden I never wanted to go home. Home sucked and the gym was my ticket, my domain and the place that made me so much better. Tonight I especially didn’t want to leave. Home was worse than usual and Hayden was the best it had ever been. I declined multiple rides home which of course was undoubtedly the coolest social aspect of Hayden, riding in cars with high school kids. There was always a bit of a novelty of being the last kid to leave the gym. If I didn’t make it it certainly wasn’t going to be because I was a kid that didn’t work hard enough, a soft kid that wanted to leave the gym early. At Hayden after the lights went out there was always one soft spotlight in the far right corner that always stayed on. I would feel like an actor and in the quiet sanctuary of another night in the books I would stand there before making my exit and dreams would flash by me as well as friends lost and the overall tough nature of life. Right there in Hayden just me my ball and that spotlight. Of course I had to swish a free throw before I could leave. Walking home always made me feel tough. I cried the whole way home before eventually falling asleep right when I hit my covers fully clothed, I was going to be a basketball star in Astori. ============================================================================= A few days later at Hayden and with a new nickname I once again bump into the Guy whose name you can’t mention. “What’s up yo?” “I mean, you” Shaking his head like it’s a martini shaker containing thoughts needed to be poured but first properly mixed finally shakes it out. “What the hell are you always doing here kid, what the fuck you trying to be?” For me it’s the simplest question ever and subsequently rifle retort. “Basketball player, man, ball, ball, ball, ball, ball, I’m going to be one of those all times joints.” “Yeah well you gotta be tough, gotta have lift after six PM, plus you so dam skinny. Here you want to be the best? OK, come down to the weight room everyday at five and see me, OK? Like Rocky and shit I’ll teach you about the best shit little G.” A smug excitable grin composes the composure of my facial semblance. Walking away like Tarzan I can hear him beating his wind pipes as he laughingly shouts “The Dream!” It sounded like he was standing on his toes. And meet him I did. For almost two months every day. I never questioned what lurked beneath I was just ecstatic that this local legend buzzing with charm and magnetism wanted me to meet him in the weight room! To be the best, who doesn’t require training like that? More exciting was that I would meet him in the modern day spanking new weight room which they tore the bowling alley up for, if you under fourteen you were never granted access to. Now like Goodfellas, “they knew I was with someone.” Of course within the meat of my second week it all ended abruptly when Graces husband Joe acting on a rumor headed downstairs to the weight room and caught me there working out on the big bag with my mentor of the month. “Joe come on, you know me, Joe! I know he’s young and it’s against the rules but I’m just trying to toughen him up, you know he’s going to be big time, he’s hungry, he’s going to represent Hayden.” Joe Burns was not interested in any of this. Maybe on some occasions turning a blind eye but he was no irrelevant. He knew what went on in that weight room. The fact of the matter was that he was still there until six o’clock and any violation that occurred on his watch would be noticed and acted upon accordingly and in accordance with founding Hayden by laws. Dragging my eighty pound frame by one arm up the stairs back to normalcy I hear a faint but ever so definable shout “we’ll see you kid, stay hungry ya hear, stay hungry du!” Walking behind Joe back up the stairs my mood is a wash as I know it’s all over. “What in the dickens were you down there Matt? You know that only tenth graders our allowed to be in the weight room.” As my sneakers click in cadenced rhythm sputtering up the stairs powered by Mr. Straight we arrive at peak. I stand upright and next to the back side of Hayden’s back desk following Mr. Burns lead to a halt. “Grace did you know Matt’s been hanging out down in the weight room with the high school kids?” Just that sole statement right there presented everything intriguing about my personal dichotomy. It’s something that was always dastardly two sided for me. My dysfunctional background was certainly the backbone of my manically unique personal conflict. The straights knew of it because not only did they have to deal with me everyday but they saw my mother often and were therefore aware of her depression. Invariably a heightened interest and quick investigation made them “in the know” vaguely but vastly aware of some subtle obstacles I might be facing. It’s a double edged sword, a minor blessing and a fault in the fact that it makes people like the straights drawn to ones cause. But on the flip your fertile fodder for every dark cloud that chooses to rain close to an already stormy atmosphere. “You know Matt, I don’t want to have to call your mother. The stink bomb a couple of months ago, I’ve heard smaller kids complain about shower room torture. Forcible de-clothing, robbery, beatings, fix it now, don’t put me in a bad position.” “I know your going to be great. And if it’s just are little secret between us for now well that’s the way it has to be.” Smiling I hug her and head for the door, unable to stay there another minute I run home and tell my mother I got a ride home with Mike’s mom. I told her I had a great day at both school and Hayden. “But I didn’t see any lights? Oh another night of sitting by the phone terrified.” Past the point of caring she can see that I’m not worried about any consequence that may evolve from my muted response. “Your going to hell Matt.” “Whatever!” Slamming my door my father is home but like a tired war general only responds to major explosions and swears. Sometimes various acts of home avoidance cause my dad to fall asleep at his work desk. He gets to sleep at his desk just like I always had wished I could sleep in the Hayden gym bleachers. Of course as a kid you believe it until one day you look back and it all clicks. The next day I was back in Junior high. =======================================================================