There is a type of person you know and dislike. Similar to a snob, but not snobby in the traditional sense of Lexus or Rolex's. The type of person who has chosen one particular aspect of life and become an expert; most often either in fine food, movies, or music. Whatever you want to call these braggarts, they exist and labor tirelessly to spoil your enjoyment.
Perhaps one overhears you casually mention your favorite food is curry, and swiftly rushes in to inform you about their semester abroad in Mumbai, and that you've never had real curry, just an American bastardation of the dish.
Maybe you tell one of these folks that you really liked Dogma, only to be informed that Kevin Smith movies are derivative of the German Impressionist films of the early seventies, overly reliant on ambrosial dialogue between underdeveloped characters and lacking in plot.
God forbid you happen to enjoy the same music as one of these folks, let's say the band Rancid. They'll look troubled for a second, but quickly regain their composure, cast you off as a parvenu, and let you know that yes, they do like Rancid, but they only like their old stuff.
Yep, these folks are out there, and it's not just you, everyone hates them. At least I hate them, or hated them, before I joined goodreads.com and realized I was ONE OF THEM. No, I may not wax philosophical about carpaccio or dismiss post-1983 Dead shows as nothing but Santa Claus on heroin, but apparently when it comes to books I'm just as bad. Only, before goodreads.com, I had no medium for my obnoxious inclinations.
(Sure, there was that one time in college I cursed a girl out for mixing up Tom Wolfe with Thomas Wolfe, but I chalk that up to drunkeness rather than literary snobitude. Like the time I mistook a homeless man for Method Man and challenged him to a freestyle rap contest, the T. Wolfe incident resides on a long list titled "things that never could have happened without the game Power Hour.")
If you're unfamiliar with the website (www.goodreads.com), more or less you just create a giant list of your favorite books and rate them on a five-point scale, leaving a brief comment if you're so inclined. There's a social aspect to the site as well, as you compile a list of friends, although I suspect the site is geared more towards revealing the literary tastes of your current friends than fostering new friendships based on shared taste. I established my goodreads friends by letting the site sift through my gmail contacts for potential members, mostly coworkers from a job I left a year ago in order to come back to school.
The next step, for me anyway, was indignation. Comparing these friends ratings with my own, my first thought was "jesus, this site is letting people play tennis without a net." Carlos gave 5 stars to Angels and Demons but slammed Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being with 3. Samantha loved Confessions of a Shopaholic but finds Cormac McCarthy "too boring". It wasn't just the obvious ones that got me, but even lesser offenses, like Brent awarding 5 stars to The Catcher in the Rye but only 4 to Franny and Zooey.
As I read on, my blood pressure skyrocketed and I found myself having horribe thoughts about these people. I caught myself composing hostile emails in my head, suggesting that the makers of goodreads add an SAT score to user's profile or require everyone who rates Don Delillo to have at least an M.A.
I don't want to have thoughts like these. In the world outside literature, I like and respect these folks for their wit and competence. And of course I hate the snobs and faux-savants who ruin my meal or movie, so why should books be any different?
For me, books are important, something to be taken seriously. My pie in the sky dream is to publish a novel of great importance, the kind of book a lonely but literate 14 year-old reads and thinks "wow, I'm not the only sentient being on this planet." So when an author attempts a work like this and succeeds, I respect the hell out of them. Conversely, when some blowhard writes a bestseller about sexy vampires, I curse them for using up the paper that might have held the next Look Homeward, Angel.
Still, there's not accounting for taste, and it's the asshole who keeps people from enjoying things they really like. I don't want some creep with a culinary school diploma behind me snickering everytime I order at a restaurant, and I'm sure my friends don't need me blasting every opinion they have about a book. (Hell, at least they're reading.) I've thought it over, and I'm deleting my account.
Good reads? I say, good riddance.
lunes, 8 de junio de 2009
jueves, 4 de junio de 2009
The Worst Party Ever
The worst party ever was a fraternity party, with a "Dukes of Hazard" theme. Though I never watched the show, I was a marginal member of the fraternity and decided to attend. Parked in front of the house was an orange 1960 something Dodge Charger with a rebel flag painted on the roof. Bails of hay were strewn about for decoration. Inside the house, a local band earned their $300 covering the likes of Skynyrd, the Allman Brothers, Alabama, The Marshall Tucker Band, etc.
I dressed like Boss Hog, in a cheap oversized white suit from Goodwill. It wasn't a good look for me. The costume looked more like a cross between a hobo and a waiter at a fancy restaurant than anything from the TV show.
I considered myself a "marginal" member of the fraternity because it was April, and almost graduation time. By this point my collegiate concerns centered on dwindling job prospects and an intense fear of moving back with my parents. I'd reread the "Bell Jar" over Christmas Break and thought total psychological disentegration was a very real possibility if I didn't have an income and apartment come May 1st.
My point being, I stayed away from the keggers for the most part, except that every couple of weeks the pressure got to me and I'd head over for a rager. The Dukes party felt like one of those nights. Hobo-waiter Boss Hog was going to get tabernacled.
In terms of party-layout, there was a great hall on the first floor where the band was playing. Also on the first floor was a kitchen with a liquor bar manned by pledges. The second and third floors consisted of bedrooms, in a party sense these were mainly used for casual sex and the discrete ingestion of hard drugs. I went to the bar for a jack and coke, regarded the freshmen writhing to some Hank Jr. song in the great hall, and decided to head upstairs.
I found some friends passing around a j-bird by the stairwell on the third floor. This party is going to be alright, I thought to myself. I took a couple tugs off the spliff and asked my friend Travis how his job prospects were coming along. T-bone was a business major and destined to do a lot better on the outside than me. I doubt he'd read the Bell Jar.
Before he could answer I wave of nausea washed over me, and I was forced to grab the rail of the stairwell for support.
"You ok, Moe?" Travis asked. "It's a little early for the spins."
I wasn't ok. I ran into one of the bathrooms. I puked my guts out. After washing my face, I looked inside my plastic cup. It was about half-empty. Two tugs off a joint and half a jack and coke. Travis was right, it was too early for the spins. As would soon become clear, something was terribly wrong with me.
By the time I left the bathroom, my friends had dispersed from the stairwell. I attempted to rejoin the party, but only made down one flight of stairs before I had to run into the second-floor bathroom and puke again. A bunch of dudes wearing overalls pointed and laughed at me puking.
"Rookie!" They yelled. "It's only 9:30."
I didn't know what to do. I could hardly stand without getting terribly dizzy. Remembering that my friend Brad was out of town, I crawled back up to the third floor and holed up in his bedroom. I could hear the party thumping under me as I filled his trashcan with vomit.
After about 30 minutes of this, Travis knocked on the door. He'd been looking for me. T-bone asked if I'd had any of the cookies the Ladies of Omega-Moo had dropped off the week before.
"Those fat bitches left us some cookies and an invitation to some pancake dinner," he said. "Ben ate some and got sick as shit. Food poisoning. He had to go the hospital, and the nurses put some rod up his asshole."
I couldn't recall if I'd eaten a cookie, but I remembered Ben's story. I couldn't stop thinking about having some medical instrument rammed up my anus.
"Need me to take you to the hospital Moe?"
"No, thanks."
(A few weeks later we learned that I didn't have food poisoning, and we'd carelessly blamed the ladies of Omega-Mu for nothing. Some kind of vicious norovirus was tearing through campus. Worse, in my opinion, than any swine flu or chicken cold reported by some worry-wart newscaster.)
Brad saved my life that night, as I managed to find a case of some of knock-off sports drink in his room (not Gatorade or it's bastard cousin Powerade, but some other shit, Squencher maybe). While the party went on below me, I drank bottle after bottle of sports drink, puked it up, then rinsed and repeated.
A couple times I got the undeniable feeling that the demons were trying to escape through the other end, and sprinted to the bathroom to piss out of my butt. The runs drippin'. On the fraternity's third floor were two bathrooms: a single serving toilet and sink; and a big, multi-stall affair with showers and mirrors. The first two times with the runs I got lucky and found the single unnoccupied.
The third time I was not so blessed. There'd been girls voices outside the door and, even though I really had to go, I held out as long as humanly possible waiting for them to leave. When they finally did, I sprinted to the single but it was lock. My butt cheeks were clenched and giving way every second. I ran back around the hall into the big bathroom, where I found the three girls adjusting make-up in the mirror and gossiping. I knew one of them, not well, but well enough to be embarrassed.
In that big bathroom there were three toilet stalls. Only one, the farthest from the sinks, had a door. Occupied. With no choice, about to soil my white, Boss Hog suit pants, I ran into one of the doorless stalls, dropped drawers and blew ass. The girls stared at me with a combination of horror and mirth. Before too long, I got dizzy and had to flip around and vomit into the shitty toilet. This dance continued for another 5-10 minutes until it was all out. Thankfully, by this point the ladies had left.
I stayed in that room all night, vomiting. I stunk the place up. Nonetheless, at one point an innebriated couple crashed through the door and flopped onto the bed. The room smelled worse than a hog farm on a warm, windless day. I yelled at them to leave. The dude, who was trying to unhook the girls bra over her shirt, gave me a hand signal like "hang on bro." I stood up to physically remove them, got dizzy and passed out on the floor. When I came to they were gone. I sincerely hope they both contracted my norovirus, and maybe an STD to boot.
Around six in the morning, I stopped feeling nauseated and decided to make a run for it. I felt as though someone had turned me inside out, used me as a punching bag, and then turned me right side in again. Hobbling out the door, I passed a couple younger fraternity members sitting on the front bench and polishing off the last of the keg.
"Party of the year, Moses", they called out. "Party of the year."
Party of the year, indeed. I was ready to graduate.
I dressed like Boss Hog, in a cheap oversized white suit from Goodwill. It wasn't a good look for me. The costume looked more like a cross between a hobo and a waiter at a fancy restaurant than anything from the TV show.
I considered myself a "marginal" member of the fraternity because it was April, and almost graduation time. By this point my collegiate concerns centered on dwindling job prospects and an intense fear of moving back with my parents. I'd reread the "Bell Jar" over Christmas Break and thought total psychological disentegration was a very real possibility if I didn't have an income and apartment come May 1st.
My point being, I stayed away from the keggers for the most part, except that every couple of weeks the pressure got to me and I'd head over for a rager. The Dukes party felt like one of those nights. Hobo-waiter Boss Hog was going to get tabernacled.
In terms of party-layout, there was a great hall on the first floor where the band was playing. Also on the first floor was a kitchen with a liquor bar manned by pledges. The second and third floors consisted of bedrooms, in a party sense these were mainly used for casual sex and the discrete ingestion of hard drugs. I went to the bar for a jack and coke, regarded the freshmen writhing to some Hank Jr. song in the great hall, and decided to head upstairs.
I found some friends passing around a j-bird by the stairwell on the third floor. This party is going to be alright, I thought to myself. I took a couple tugs off the spliff and asked my friend Travis how his job prospects were coming along. T-bone was a business major and destined to do a lot better on the outside than me. I doubt he'd read the Bell Jar.
Before he could answer I wave of nausea washed over me, and I was forced to grab the rail of the stairwell for support.
"You ok, Moe?" Travis asked. "It's a little early for the spins."
I wasn't ok. I ran into one of the bathrooms. I puked my guts out. After washing my face, I looked inside my plastic cup. It was about half-empty. Two tugs off a joint and half a jack and coke. Travis was right, it was too early for the spins. As would soon become clear, something was terribly wrong with me.
By the time I left the bathroom, my friends had dispersed from the stairwell. I attempted to rejoin the party, but only made down one flight of stairs before I had to run into the second-floor bathroom and puke again. A bunch of dudes wearing overalls pointed and laughed at me puking.
"Rookie!" They yelled. "It's only 9:30."
I didn't know what to do. I could hardly stand without getting terribly dizzy. Remembering that my friend Brad was out of town, I crawled back up to the third floor and holed up in his bedroom. I could hear the party thumping under me as I filled his trashcan with vomit.
After about 30 minutes of this, Travis knocked on the door. He'd been looking for me. T-bone asked if I'd had any of the cookies the Ladies of Omega-Moo had dropped off the week before.
"Those fat bitches left us some cookies and an invitation to some pancake dinner," he said. "Ben ate some and got sick as shit. Food poisoning. He had to go the hospital, and the nurses put some rod up his asshole."
I couldn't recall if I'd eaten a cookie, but I remembered Ben's story. I couldn't stop thinking about having some medical instrument rammed up my anus.
"Need me to take you to the hospital Moe?"
"No, thanks."
(A few weeks later we learned that I didn't have food poisoning, and we'd carelessly blamed the ladies of Omega-Mu for nothing. Some kind of vicious norovirus was tearing through campus. Worse, in my opinion, than any swine flu or chicken cold reported by some worry-wart newscaster.)
Brad saved my life that night, as I managed to find a case of some of knock-off sports drink in his room (not Gatorade or it's bastard cousin Powerade, but some other shit, Squencher maybe). While the party went on below me, I drank bottle after bottle of sports drink, puked it up, then rinsed and repeated.
A couple times I got the undeniable feeling that the demons were trying to escape through the other end, and sprinted to the bathroom to piss out of my butt. The runs drippin'. On the fraternity's third floor were two bathrooms: a single serving toilet and sink; and a big, multi-stall affair with showers and mirrors. The first two times with the runs I got lucky and found the single unnoccupied.
The third time I was not so blessed. There'd been girls voices outside the door and, even though I really had to go, I held out as long as humanly possible waiting for them to leave. When they finally did, I sprinted to the single but it was lock. My butt cheeks were clenched and giving way every second. I ran back around the hall into the big bathroom, where I found the three girls adjusting make-up in the mirror and gossiping. I knew one of them, not well, but well enough to be embarrassed.
In that big bathroom there were three toilet stalls. Only one, the farthest from the sinks, had a door. Occupied. With no choice, about to soil my white, Boss Hog suit pants, I ran into one of the doorless stalls, dropped drawers and blew ass. The girls stared at me with a combination of horror and mirth. Before too long, I got dizzy and had to flip around and vomit into the shitty toilet. This dance continued for another 5-10 minutes until it was all out. Thankfully, by this point the ladies had left.
I stayed in that room all night, vomiting. I stunk the place up. Nonetheless, at one point an innebriated couple crashed through the door and flopped onto the bed. The room smelled worse than a hog farm on a warm, windless day. I yelled at them to leave. The dude, who was trying to unhook the girls bra over her shirt, gave me a hand signal like "hang on bro." I stood up to physically remove them, got dizzy and passed out on the floor. When I came to they were gone. I sincerely hope they both contracted my norovirus, and maybe an STD to boot.
Around six in the morning, I stopped feeling nauseated and decided to make a run for it. I felt as though someone had turned me inside out, used me as a punching bag, and then turned me right side in again. Hobbling out the door, I passed a couple younger fraternity members sitting on the front bench and polishing off the last of the keg.
"Party of the year, Moses", they called out. "Party of the year."
Party of the year, indeed. I was ready to graduate.
miércoles, 3 de junio de 2009
Give Michael Vick His Job BacK
Next month, upon his release from federal prison, the suits at the NFL will have to decide whether Michael Vick should be allowed to play professional football again. I say, give the man his job back.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not apologizing or downplaying what he did. I love dogs, even when they keep you up all night with their scratching or smell like a clam bake, and abhor those who would treat them inhumanely. Nor am I particularly a Vick fan. In general, I prefer college football and ignore the NFL unless the Dolphins are playing.
My argument for reinstating Vick has little to do with dogs or football. I want to give Michael Vick a chance because he's not the only one being released from prison this year. Vick is in a graduating class of almost half a million, and all these folks deserve a shot at a succesful life on the outside.
Among this huge graduating class, I would guess that Vick's experience is representative for approximately zero of them. Few are wealthy, famous, or skilled in such a lucrative field. Many have been raped, mistreated, or contracted life-threatening illness while in jail. Statistically speaking, over two thirds of them will be back in prison before the next presidential election. Of course, most have had their voting rights revoked anyway.
Somewhere along the way in this American experiment, we stopped caring that people had payed their debt to society in prison. In our current mindset, someone charged once with a crime is guilty for life. And these kinds of beliefs have an insidious way of manifesting themselves. They are self-fulfilling prophecies. We fail to give those released from prison a chance, and they fail to prove us wrong.
These folks know what we think about them. They hear it every time they try to get a job or an apartment, only to rebuked upon the results of a background check. With few allies and fewer options, most make the pathetic choice to reoffend.
I know many will disagree with my argument to let Vick play again. They'll say that playing in the NFL is a privelege, and that he's no longer worthy. Well, it may be a privelege, but so are many jobs. These days,it's a privege to just have a job. And playing football is Vick's job. Hell, it's what he studied in college.
So I say it's your lucky day, Michael Vick. Lets make an example of you just one more time. Not for the kids, or the Virginia rednecks raising fighting dogs, but for the graduating prison class of 2009. Lets let these folks know that they still have a chance.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not apologizing or downplaying what he did. I love dogs, even when they keep you up all night with their scratching or smell like a clam bake, and abhor those who would treat them inhumanely. Nor am I particularly a Vick fan. In general, I prefer college football and ignore the NFL unless the Dolphins are playing.
My argument for reinstating Vick has little to do with dogs or football. I want to give Michael Vick a chance because he's not the only one being released from prison this year. Vick is in a graduating class of almost half a million, and all these folks deserve a shot at a succesful life on the outside.
Among this huge graduating class, I would guess that Vick's experience is representative for approximately zero of them. Few are wealthy, famous, or skilled in such a lucrative field. Many have been raped, mistreated, or contracted life-threatening illness while in jail. Statistically speaking, over two thirds of them will be back in prison before the next presidential election. Of course, most have had their voting rights revoked anyway.
Somewhere along the way in this American experiment, we stopped caring that people had payed their debt to society in prison. In our current mindset, someone charged once with a crime is guilty for life. And these kinds of beliefs have an insidious way of manifesting themselves. They are self-fulfilling prophecies. We fail to give those released from prison a chance, and they fail to prove us wrong.
These folks know what we think about them. They hear it every time they try to get a job or an apartment, only to rebuked upon the results of a background check. With few allies and fewer options, most make the pathetic choice to reoffend.
I know many will disagree with my argument to let Vick play again. They'll say that playing in the NFL is a privelege, and that he's no longer worthy. Well, it may be a privelege, but so are many jobs. These days,it's a privege to just have a job. And playing football is Vick's job. Hell, it's what he studied in college.
So I say it's your lucky day, Michael Vick. Lets make an example of you just one more time. Not for the kids, or the Virginia rednecks raising fighting dogs, but for the graduating prison class of 2009. Lets let these folks know that they still have a chance.
lunes, 1 de junio de 2009
Latisse Eyelash Medicine & Everything Wrong About America
The FDA has approved the new eyelash enhancing drug Latisse, by Allergan, makers of that life saving wonderdrug Botox. Last night, I saw a commercial for the stuff. Side effects include redness, eye irritation, discomfort, blurred vision, blindness, and thicker, fuller eyelashes. Oh wait, that last one is the intended effect.
I hate to say it, but every so often I see a product like this and think: this is why terrorists hate us. Can you blame them? While Americans are taking to the street donning colonial garb to protest tax hikes to pay for universal health coverage, we're throwing our lettuce down and risking permanent darkness for longer lashes. Are these even desirable? Granted, I'm not a woman, but as a man I must note that I've never sat around with the guys and talked about how hot Cindy's eyelashes looked last night.
Also, I hate to beat a dead horse, but the next thought that came to mind (after the "Jesus I hope Al-Queda doesn't see this commercial" reaction) was why this country allows people to risk their organs to look like Brooke Shields but arrests marijuana smokers, even those using the herb medicinally. If pot is illegal, then Latisse should be illegal.
Oh and these things should be prohibited too:
(Disclaimer, I don't actually think all these things should be illegal, just that they are more harmful than marijuana.)
-Cosmetic Surgery, unless you are horribly disfigured. Poor Kanye lost his mama.
-Alcohol: 75,000 deaths per year.
-Kobe Bryant: Cockier than Ron Jeremy.
-Tobacco: Only beneficial use is as a laxative.
-Dane Cook. Seriously, yelling something doesn't make it a joke. This asshole has a whole comedy routine about Burger King.
-Combination Pizza Hut & Taco Bells: For once in your life, make a damn decision! Do you want tacos or pizza for dinner? I loved the Das Racist song though.
-SUV'S: Bad for the environment, and being driven by people who like Dane Cook. If you get into an accident with an SUV, chances of injury increase dramatically, unless of course you're also driving an SUV.
-Those Ed Hardy T-Shirts: Tramp stamps for men.
-Harry Potter: Godless witchcraft and sorcery.
-Gossip Girl: Godless bitchcraft.
-Cold Cuts: Cold and slimey.
I hate to say it, but every so often I see a product like this and think: this is why terrorists hate us. Can you blame them? While Americans are taking to the street donning colonial garb to protest tax hikes to pay for universal health coverage, we're throwing our lettuce down and risking permanent darkness for longer lashes. Are these even desirable? Granted, I'm not a woman, but as a man I must note that I've never sat around with the guys and talked about how hot Cindy's eyelashes looked last night.
Also, I hate to beat a dead horse, but the next thought that came to mind (after the "Jesus I hope Al-Queda doesn't see this commercial" reaction) was why this country allows people to risk their organs to look like Brooke Shields but arrests marijuana smokers, even those using the herb medicinally. If pot is illegal, then Latisse should be illegal.
Oh and these things should be prohibited too:
(Disclaimer, I don't actually think all these things should be illegal, just that they are more harmful than marijuana.)
-Cosmetic Surgery, unless you are horribly disfigured. Poor Kanye lost his mama.
-Alcohol: 75,000 deaths per year.
-Kobe Bryant: Cockier than Ron Jeremy.
-Tobacco: Only beneficial use is as a laxative.
-Dane Cook. Seriously, yelling something doesn't make it a joke. This asshole has a whole comedy routine about Burger King.
-Combination Pizza Hut & Taco Bells: For once in your life, make a damn decision! Do you want tacos or pizza for dinner? I loved the Das Racist song though.
-SUV'S: Bad for the environment, and being driven by people who like Dane Cook. If you get into an accident with an SUV, chances of injury increase dramatically, unless of course you're also driving an SUV.
-Those Ed Hardy T-Shirts: Tramp stamps for men.
-Harry Potter: Godless witchcraft and sorcery.
-Gossip Girl: Godless bitchcraft.
-Cold Cuts: Cold and slimey.
domingo, 31 de mayo de 2009
Nas 2012: Imagine That
Are you a progressive democrat regretting all your hard work in the 2008 campaign? Angry that Obama betrayed the left from Iraq to marijuana reform to torture photos and transparency? If so, it's time to imagine a candidate that will go in raw and tell his right wing detractos to hate him now instead spewing a bunch of garbage about compromise and bipartisanship; to imagine the first black president, for real.
It's time for Nas.
The Platform: God's Son Speaks Out
On Drug Laws
"Imagine smokin' weed in the streets without cops harrassing..."
Instead of misleading our bong toting citizens with a bunch of campaign talk all like "of course I inhaled", Nas promises to put his Philly where his mouth is and legalize the blunts. Finally, imagine a president who gets it, who blows "trees for breakfast."
On Prison Reform
"I'd open every cell in Attica, send 'em to Africa."
With one brave stroke, President Nas will simultaneously solve the problems of American prison overcrowding, and African underpopulation.
On The Economy
"Gimme one shot, I'll turn trife life to lavish..."
Instead of falling short with a boring stimulus bill full of highways, biways, and pork projects, Nas will send people to work putting together benz stretches. With Nastradumus at the helm, it won't be long before all Americans are tricking six digits on kicks and still holdin'
On Guantanamo Detainess
"Political prisoners set free, stress free, no work release purple M3's and jet-ski's."
If the notion of terrorists detainees set free makes you uncomfortable, just remember that President Nas has promised purple (BMW) M3's and jet-ski's in the same sentence.
On Women's Rights
"It sound foul, but every girl I meet will go downtown"
Controversial, but he should win Clinton supporters with this stance.
On Family Values
"More conscious of the way we raise our daughters."
See also, Women's Rights
On Housing & Urban Development
"The Villa house is for the crew, how we do."
On Transparency
"Open they eyes to the lies history's told foul"
No more hidden memos, deceptions or lies. President Nas invited you to imagine law with no undercovers.
On Culture
"Imagine everybody flashing, fashion
Designer clothes, lacing your click up with diamond vogues"
Forger Michelle and all her frumpy mom sweaters from J Crew. America's first real black president has style. Read Nas' lips: "And when I dress, it's nothing less than Guess."
On Diplomacy
"Trips to Paris, I civilized every savage"
On Race Relations
"The way to be, paradise like relaxing black, latino and anglo-saxon
Armani exchange the reins
Cash, Lost Tribe of Shabazz, free at last
Brand new whips to crash then we laugh in the iller path"
On The American Dream
"Cause you could have all the chips, be poor or rich
Still nobody want a nigga having shit
If I ruled the world and everything in it, sky's the limit
I push a Q-45 Infinit"
No more disowning the truthtellers, the Rev. Wrights. President Nas tells it like it is.
On Political Appointments
"I make Coretta Scott-King mayor the cities and reverse themes to Willies"
Forget tired old appointments like Leon Pannetta and that player hate Tim Geithner, let's get Coretta Scott-King in the house.
Of course, Pres. Nas would also have members of the Wu-Tang Clan in his cabinet.
Heard Enough? If not, check out Illmatic. But don't wait too long, it's time to get this campaign underway.
"Better find out before your time's out, what the fuck??"
NAS 2012"Imagine that, if you(r vote) could be mine, we'd both shine."
"I love em love em baby..."
viernes, 29 de mayo de 2009
An Open Letter to Mike Tyson
Iron Mike,
My sincerest condolences for the tragic loss of your daughter Exodus on Tuesday. I was saddened by the news. Though I'm not qualified to hold this opinion, I think you are probably a good and loving father, and loved in return.
Growing up, you were my favorite boxer. Truthfully, I wasn't really a fan of the sport; but I was a fan of yours. I liked watching your fights to try to discern the meaning of your tattoos. You made me dust off the Britannica and look up names like Mao Zedong and Arthur Ashe.
I liked your story, that you'd grown up poor and alone on the mean streets of Bed-Stuy and had to fight your way out.
Some of my friends used to make fun of your voice, but I thought it was cool. I liked the dichotomous pairing of the small voice with the big punch. I doubt they would have poked fun if you were around. I speak softly, and though I've never punched anyone, growing up I liked to think I packed the same firepower (perhaps intellectually or rhetorically).
Mostly, I liked your post fight rants. Watching you speak always carried the possibility that you would launch into an intense lyrical trash talk about your next opponent; often these were as laden with historical allusions as your body art. You were the original battle rapper, with an emphasis on battle.
This is a dumb gag, but, I had an older brother named Alex. Whenever my mother would call for him by his full name, I would wait for him to respond before interrupting in my best Tysonesque falsetto:
"You think you Alexander? I'm Alexander!"
Of course, like all boys who grew up when I did, I loved Mike Tyson's Punch Out on Nintendo.
As I progressed into my teenage years you continued to guide me towards the experience of new art and culture through your involvement, such as the James Toback film "Black & White" or the rapper Canibus. While your contemporary star athletes were pushing McDonalds and Nike, you lent your presence to projects of substance and intellectual rigor.
We met once. I doubt you would remember. It was the late 90's and I was in high school. I've never much cared for autographs or meeting celebrities, but we literally ran into eachother walking down the street in Miami. It's always stuck in my head.
I remember that, even though you'd walked down red carpets in Armani and prison halls in starchy jumpsuits, that day you were just walking down the street like a normal person. I do recall that you were wearing a platinum chain. I think it said "Mike 2000".
I was with my buddy Alfred, and you had two friends with you whose names I didn't learn. I remember how friendly you were. After we recognized you and introduced ourselves, your friends looked bored and walked off to talk with some girls. But you stuck around and spent a few minutes with us.
I can't recall what we talked about, only that you took the time to answer all our questions and asked us questions in return. I remember that you kept calling me "player."
Through all the less than stellar press coverage you've gotten since, that day is usually that first thing that comes to mind when I hear your name. I've always considered it a rule that, no matter what nasty things you may hear about someone, if they treat you respectfully then thats how they should be treated in return. I'll bet that most of the people who have really met Mike Tyson hold him in much higher regard than those who have merely read the news stories.
Speaking of those news stories, Mike. I recently read a quote somewhere where you said you think your life has been a joke. I hope you don't really feel that way. I'm sure that the tragic loss of Exodus has you re-examining, and that this process can be excruciatingly tough.
Perhaps you're not Alexander after all, but Job, and your life until now has been a test of your loyalty that will pay off in blessed latter days.
Hang in there player,
Moses M.
My sincerest condolences for the tragic loss of your daughter Exodus on Tuesday. I was saddened by the news. Though I'm not qualified to hold this opinion, I think you are probably a good and loving father, and loved in return.
Growing up, you were my favorite boxer. Truthfully, I wasn't really a fan of the sport; but I was a fan of yours. I liked watching your fights to try to discern the meaning of your tattoos. You made me dust off the Britannica and look up names like Mao Zedong and Arthur Ashe.
I liked your story, that you'd grown up poor and alone on the mean streets of Bed-Stuy and had to fight your way out.
Some of my friends used to make fun of your voice, but I thought it was cool. I liked the dichotomous pairing of the small voice with the big punch. I doubt they would have poked fun if you were around. I speak softly, and though I've never punched anyone, growing up I liked to think I packed the same firepower (perhaps intellectually or rhetorically).
Mostly, I liked your post fight rants. Watching you speak always carried the possibility that you would launch into an intense lyrical trash talk about your next opponent; often these were as laden with historical allusions as your body art. You were the original battle rapper, with an emphasis on battle.
This is a dumb gag, but, I had an older brother named Alex. Whenever my mother would call for him by his full name, I would wait for him to respond before interrupting in my best Tysonesque falsetto:
"You think you Alexander? I'm Alexander!"
Of course, like all boys who grew up when I did, I loved Mike Tyson's Punch Out on Nintendo.
As I progressed into my teenage years you continued to guide me towards the experience of new art and culture through your involvement, such as the James Toback film "Black & White" or the rapper Canibus. While your contemporary star athletes were pushing McDonalds and Nike, you lent your presence to projects of substance and intellectual rigor.
We met once. I doubt you would remember. It was the late 90's and I was in high school. I've never much cared for autographs or meeting celebrities, but we literally ran into eachother walking down the street in Miami. It's always stuck in my head.
I remember that, even though you'd walked down red carpets in Armani and prison halls in starchy jumpsuits, that day you were just walking down the street like a normal person. I do recall that you were wearing a platinum chain. I think it said "Mike 2000".
I was with my buddy Alfred, and you had two friends with you whose names I didn't learn. I remember how friendly you were. After we recognized you and introduced ourselves, your friends looked bored and walked off to talk with some girls. But you stuck around and spent a few minutes with us.
I can't recall what we talked about, only that you took the time to answer all our questions and asked us questions in return. I remember that you kept calling me "player."
Through all the less than stellar press coverage you've gotten since, that day is usually that first thing that comes to mind when I hear your name. I've always considered it a rule that, no matter what nasty things you may hear about someone, if they treat you respectfully then thats how they should be treated in return. I'll bet that most of the people who have really met Mike Tyson hold him in much higher regard than those who have merely read the news stories.
Speaking of those news stories, Mike. I recently read a quote somewhere where you said you think your life has been a joke. I hope you don't really feel that way. I'm sure that the tragic loss of Exodus has you re-examining, and that this process can be excruciatingly tough.
Perhaps you're not Alexander after all, but Job, and your life until now has been a test of your loyalty that will pay off in blessed latter days.
Hang in there player,
Moses M.
Lord, Deliver Me!
A couple weeks into my second semester of college, I realized that the $200 my parents wired into my bank account every month just wasn't cutting it. My appetite for weed, pokey sticks, Shafer light, and 3am chicken & cheese biscuits far exceeded my budget. It was time to get a job.
The problem was, I was 18, unqualifed and barely motivated in a town that was flush with 20,000 others just like, all demanding $15 an hour to do a half-ass job. So I bullshitted up the resume, made an inventory of my resources, and browsed the classifieds. I'd worked a couple part-time jobs in high school for friends of family- references, check. I was literate- but so were all the other college assholes. And I owned a car- a mid 1990's two door Ford Explorer that smelled of rotten spicy chicken sandwiches and swisher sweets.
I'll spare you the details of all the fruitlessly faxed resumes and applications filed. I've developed a theory about getting jobs (at least non-career type jobs), and in this case my theory proved correct. The theory posits: One either gets a job because you know someone at the company, or you walk in and they hire you on the spot. My high school jobs were the former; my stint at Domino's began as the latter.
Maybe it was that college hoops were in full swing and the Heels game that night was making everyone hungry for pie. When I walked into the store, workers were milling about in a hundred different directions and shouting at each other. I waited my turn in line, and was almost too embarrased once I got to the front to inquire about a job. I almost just inquired about a large pepperoni.
Here's how my interview went:
Domino's: (yelling at me across the counter while making pie) Got a car?
Me: Yeah
Domino's: Got a license?
Me: Uh, yeah.
Domino's: Come back on Monday at noon and you're hired.
So I came back on Monday. It was that easy. For my first night at work, I actually shadowed another driver. That is: we both rode together in his car, and both strolled up to the front door and gave people their pizza. You've never seen confusion until you see the face of someone who has opened their front door to discover two delivery men holding their pie.
"I ain't tipping both of you."
My mentor driver's name was Frank and he was racist. All night he kept telling me I'd "learn real fast about people around here." As in, who tips and who doesn't. He really had his pizza prejudice down to a science. Frank attempted to predict the amount of his tip based on the toppings ordered. Apparently banana peppers were not a good omen.
For the shadow night, and the first two nights of delivering on my own Kenny managed the store; he was the same guy who'd so briefly interviewed me. Kenny was a pretty good manager- he mostly just told me what to deliver and when to leave. The other drivers (Frank included) were not so easy to deal with. From what I could discern, I was the only driver there who wasn't a "lifer", my unspoken term for a man who has decided to make delivering pizzas his career. The lifers disliked me.
From my very start, they criticized. First problem was my car. All the lifers drove tiny little hatchbacks that got 45 mpg's well before anything called a hybrid existed. Also, they knew their town like the back of their wrinkly, tattoed hands, and constantly bickered about the fastest routes. If you've ever worked at a Domino's, you know that you check your delivery out on a computer, and when you return the computer logs the amount of time you spent on the run, displaying it on the screen for all to see.
A typical critique from the lifers went like this:
"13 minutes? Where'd you go? 1450 Knollwood?"
"Boy, what street did you take? Don't tell me you took Franklin? Jesus."
"What kind of mileage you get in that truck? 13? 14? I'll bet you don't get inch more than 15."
"Franklin to Knollwood on 15 mpg's! Christ, just throw that money away son."
The worst of the lifers was the Captain. That was his name. Captain. I swear to God; it said so on his nametag. The Captain had decided that, in addition to being a lifer driver, he was also some sort of unofficial assistant manager. He would take the iniative to dress me down for an errant shirttail, uneven visor, saggy pants, etc... I hated the Captain.
Once, and only once, I made the mistake of coming to work high. I figured it would help pass the time; that I'd have a rowdy time driving around town listening to some tunes and delivering pies, even if that Heat Wave bag turned my Explorer into a big fuel-inefficient sauna. As I mentioned, this was a mistake.
It started to go wrong on my very first run, when I walked out the door without putting the pizza into the heat wave bag. Captain caught me before I got in the car, and called me into the store. He interrogated me in front of everyone, asking me what I'd forgotten on this run. Was it a 2 liter diet coke? No. Some wings? No. And on and on until I realized what I'd missed.
Then, when I finally got into the car to make the delivery, "Wish you were here" by Pink Floyd was playing on the radio. I started jamming out and singing to myself, and got so distracted I ended up driving home instead of to the delivery address. I parked my car (with the pizza inside), walked up three flights of stairs, plopped down on the couch in full uniform, and turned on the TV. It took my roommate asking "dude, aren't you supposed to be at work?" for me to remember the pies in my car and the clock ticking on the Domino's computer.
By the time I made the delivery and got back, it had been almost 30 minutes. Captain was pissed. As Kenny wasn't there that night, Captain had assumed the mantle of control and was working as the manager and not a driver. He suspended me from driving for the rest of the night, meaning I'd only make $5 an hour for the rest of my shift. Worse, I'd never actually learned to do anything inside the store and he spent the rest of the night painstakingly describing all the in-store tasks.
Unlike your Mom & Pop pizza places, Domino's doesn't slide the pie into a brick oven. Instead, everything goes through this hot conveyor belt. This is noteworthy for two reasons. First, it means every item on Domino's menu has the exact same cooking time and temperature. In my estimation, wings require just a little more oven time than pie. Order at your own risk. Second, it means that if no one is ready to receive it at the ass end of the conveyor, your food falls on the ground. At our store, this food usually was dusted off and put right back in the box.
Despite the Captain's watchful eye, several pies hit the ground that night.
Luckily, we missed eachother for a couple weeks after that. I never got high before work again, and Kenny and I got along well. March madness was in full swing, people were ordering pies, and I was making money. For a few weeks, the job worked out real well.
But, on a Friday night in early April the Captain and I ended up back on the same shift. God, he was being a dick. Every run I made was scrutinized for time & route. He took issue with the amount of powdered sugar I shook on the cinna-sticks, the sauce on the wings. It was an awful night. At one point, the asshole even quietly walked up behing and pantsed me. "Too baggy Mendoza!" he explained to the grinning cadre of lifers.
By 10pm or so, I'd had enough. I was making a run far from the store, by the campus fraternity houses and I could hear other students partying, drinking and having fun. I could hear girls' voices. I decided to head back and ask Kenny if I could be cut for the night. About a mile from the store, I ended up side by side with the Captain at a red light. He was heading back to the store after a run in his Hyundai, a little electric blue ultra -efficient whip. We glanced at eachother, and I decided it was on.
When the light turned green, the Captain turned right. He was surely planning to execute one of his trademark supersecret routes that got him back to the store in record time. I was having none of it, and decided to beat him my way. He would twist around little side streets; I would race right through downtown traffic. I pushed down the peddle, weaved through cars, shot through yellow lights. For a five light stretch, the lord was on my side. Nothing but green.
Finally, stopped at a red right outside the store, I saw the Captain pull back onto the street a few cars behind me. I'd done it, I'd beat the asshole. I checked my rearview, he was staring at me fuming. I couldn't wait to stroll into the store and enter my code into the computer, then ask him what streets he'd taken. He was looking at me from his car; I winked. Still looking in the mirror, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the Volvo in front of me had released it's brake lights and was moving forward. I put the Explorer in gear and hit the gas all while staring at the Captain.
About 10 seconds later I slammed into the Volvo, who'd only pulled head to try and make a right. The light had still been red. My hood was slightly crumpled and emitting smoke. The Volvo driver was a heavyset woman in her 40's or 50's. She was apparently ok, as she's gotten out of her car and was approaching me yelling something unintelligible.
As the light finally turned green, the Captain eased around our accident and pulled into the Domino's parking lot. I watched, sweat pouring down my face from that damn patented heat wave bag, as he strolled into the store counting his tips and checked his run into the computer.
The problem was, I was 18, unqualifed and barely motivated in a town that was flush with 20,000 others just like, all demanding $15 an hour to do a half-ass job. So I bullshitted up the resume, made an inventory of my resources, and browsed the classifieds. I'd worked a couple part-time jobs in high school for friends of family- references, check. I was literate- but so were all the other college assholes. And I owned a car- a mid 1990's two door Ford Explorer that smelled of rotten spicy chicken sandwiches and swisher sweets.
I'll spare you the details of all the fruitlessly faxed resumes and applications filed. I've developed a theory about getting jobs (at least non-career type jobs), and in this case my theory proved correct. The theory posits: One either gets a job because you know someone at the company, or you walk in and they hire you on the spot. My high school jobs were the former; my stint at Domino's began as the latter.
Maybe it was that college hoops were in full swing and the Heels game that night was making everyone hungry for pie. When I walked into the store, workers were milling about in a hundred different directions and shouting at each other. I waited my turn in line, and was almost too embarrased once I got to the front to inquire about a job. I almost just inquired about a large pepperoni.
Here's how my interview went:
Domino's: (yelling at me across the counter while making pie) Got a car?
Me: Yeah
Domino's: Got a license?
Me: Uh, yeah.
Domino's: Come back on Monday at noon and you're hired.
So I came back on Monday. It was that easy. For my first night at work, I actually shadowed another driver. That is: we both rode together in his car, and both strolled up to the front door and gave people their pizza. You've never seen confusion until you see the face of someone who has opened their front door to discover two delivery men holding their pie.
"I ain't tipping both of you."
My mentor driver's name was Frank and he was racist. All night he kept telling me I'd "learn real fast about people around here." As in, who tips and who doesn't. He really had his pizza prejudice down to a science. Frank attempted to predict the amount of his tip based on the toppings ordered. Apparently banana peppers were not a good omen.
For the shadow night, and the first two nights of delivering on my own Kenny managed the store; he was the same guy who'd so briefly interviewed me. Kenny was a pretty good manager- he mostly just told me what to deliver and when to leave. The other drivers (Frank included) were not so easy to deal with. From what I could discern, I was the only driver there who wasn't a "lifer", my unspoken term for a man who has decided to make delivering pizzas his career. The lifers disliked me.
From my very start, they criticized. First problem was my car. All the lifers drove tiny little hatchbacks that got 45 mpg's well before anything called a hybrid existed. Also, they knew their town like the back of their wrinkly, tattoed hands, and constantly bickered about the fastest routes. If you've ever worked at a Domino's, you know that you check your delivery out on a computer, and when you return the computer logs the amount of time you spent on the run, displaying it on the screen for all to see.
A typical critique from the lifers went like this:
"13 minutes? Where'd you go? 1450 Knollwood?"
"Boy, what street did you take? Don't tell me you took Franklin? Jesus."
"What kind of mileage you get in that truck? 13? 14? I'll bet you don't get inch more than 15."
"Franklin to Knollwood on 15 mpg's! Christ, just throw that money away son."
The worst of the lifers was the Captain. That was his name. Captain. I swear to God; it said so on his nametag. The Captain had decided that, in addition to being a lifer driver, he was also some sort of unofficial assistant manager. He would take the iniative to dress me down for an errant shirttail, uneven visor, saggy pants, etc... I hated the Captain.
Once, and only once, I made the mistake of coming to work high. I figured it would help pass the time; that I'd have a rowdy time driving around town listening to some tunes and delivering pies, even if that Heat Wave bag turned my Explorer into a big fuel-inefficient sauna. As I mentioned, this was a mistake.
It started to go wrong on my very first run, when I walked out the door without putting the pizza into the heat wave bag. Captain caught me before I got in the car, and called me into the store. He interrogated me in front of everyone, asking me what I'd forgotten on this run. Was it a 2 liter diet coke? No. Some wings? No. And on and on until I realized what I'd missed.
Then, when I finally got into the car to make the delivery, "Wish you were here" by Pink Floyd was playing on the radio. I started jamming out and singing to myself, and got so distracted I ended up driving home instead of to the delivery address. I parked my car (with the pizza inside), walked up three flights of stairs, plopped down on the couch in full uniform, and turned on the TV. It took my roommate asking "dude, aren't you supposed to be at work?" for me to remember the pies in my car and the clock ticking on the Domino's computer.
By the time I made the delivery and got back, it had been almost 30 minutes. Captain was pissed. As Kenny wasn't there that night, Captain had assumed the mantle of control and was working as the manager and not a driver. He suspended me from driving for the rest of the night, meaning I'd only make $5 an hour for the rest of my shift. Worse, I'd never actually learned to do anything inside the store and he spent the rest of the night painstakingly describing all the in-store tasks.
Unlike your Mom & Pop pizza places, Domino's doesn't slide the pie into a brick oven. Instead, everything goes through this hot conveyor belt. This is noteworthy for two reasons. First, it means every item on Domino's menu has the exact same cooking time and temperature. In my estimation, wings require just a little more oven time than pie. Order at your own risk. Second, it means that if no one is ready to receive it at the ass end of the conveyor, your food falls on the ground. At our store, this food usually was dusted off and put right back in the box.
Despite the Captain's watchful eye, several pies hit the ground that night.
Luckily, we missed eachother for a couple weeks after that. I never got high before work again, and Kenny and I got along well. March madness was in full swing, people were ordering pies, and I was making money. For a few weeks, the job worked out real well.
But, on a Friday night in early April the Captain and I ended up back on the same shift. God, he was being a dick. Every run I made was scrutinized for time & route. He took issue with the amount of powdered sugar I shook on the cinna-sticks, the sauce on the wings. It was an awful night. At one point, the asshole even quietly walked up behing and pantsed me. "Too baggy Mendoza!" he explained to the grinning cadre of lifers.
By 10pm or so, I'd had enough. I was making a run far from the store, by the campus fraternity houses and I could hear other students partying, drinking and having fun. I could hear girls' voices. I decided to head back and ask Kenny if I could be cut for the night. About a mile from the store, I ended up side by side with the Captain at a red light. He was heading back to the store after a run in his Hyundai, a little electric blue ultra -efficient whip. We glanced at eachother, and I decided it was on.
When the light turned green, the Captain turned right. He was surely planning to execute one of his trademark supersecret routes that got him back to the store in record time. I was having none of it, and decided to beat him my way. He would twist around little side streets; I would race right through downtown traffic. I pushed down the peddle, weaved through cars, shot through yellow lights. For a five light stretch, the lord was on my side. Nothing but green.
Finally, stopped at a red right outside the store, I saw the Captain pull back onto the street a few cars behind me. I'd done it, I'd beat the asshole. I checked my rearview, he was staring at me fuming. I couldn't wait to stroll into the store and enter my code into the computer, then ask him what streets he'd taken. He was looking at me from his car; I winked. Still looking in the mirror, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the Volvo in front of me had released it's brake lights and was moving forward. I put the Explorer in gear and hit the gas all while staring at the Captain.
About 10 seconds later I slammed into the Volvo, who'd only pulled head to try and make a right. The light had still been red. My hood was slightly crumpled and emitting smoke. The Volvo driver was a heavyset woman in her 40's or 50's. She was apparently ok, as she's gotten out of her car and was approaching me yelling something unintelligible.
As the light finally turned green, the Captain eased around our accident and pulled into the Domino's parking lot. I watched, sweat pouring down my face from that damn patented heat wave bag, as he strolled into the store counting his tips and checked his run into the computer.
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