My walk from home to work, from Avenue C and 4th Street to 5th Avenue just below 23rd, takes a little more than a half an hour. It can be a real bitch of a walk, especially on a cold day like today. There’s no subway that helps to cut down the travel time in any substantial way, so I’m stuck hoofing it twice a day, every day, unless I spring for a cab, which I’ve done like… once, maybe. Continue reading
The black people won’t stop coming. One after the other I kill them. I dole out a torrent of hyper-accurate punches, kicks and head-butts. I take blow after blow in return – to my face, body, kidneys and spleen – but in the end I vanquish the mother-fuckers. I’m the one left standing atop my assailant’s corpse. Still, there’s always another black man behind the one I’ve just bested.
You can read part one of this entry here.
I come to sitting on the living room couch. It’s time to leave for work. Despite the clouds outside the tall windows and high ceilings in the loft allow for plenty of ambient light. It’s almost too bright. The apartment is disgusting. You can clearly see a sheen of dirt on the hardwood floors. My rush is over. Not that it was all that much of a rush to begin with. I’m in maintenance mode. I shot just about a half a bag of dope a couple of hours ago. Which is really not very much, but it’s the state of the state these days. It beats withdrawal.
“What we doin’?” The 9-year-old Zachariah asks as he gets in the front seat of my Honda Civic. He confidently pulls the seat belt across his thin frame and secures the buckle. He awaits his answer. Zachariah is black. He’s got close-cropped hair with a little boy’s rat-tail – where he hasn’t allowed the hair to be trimmed in some time – it sticks out at the base of his skull. He’s wearing black jeans and some cute black Vans knock off sneakers. He’s a handsome kid. In contrast I’m a 42-year-old white guy. We are as unlikely a pair as you will find anywhere. Continue reading
I’ve made a couple of videos for a new humor site called http://www.slaptv.com
This newest video is a fake infomercial for a product that helps protect boobs during an earthquake. The product is called “Shaker Shapers.” I hope you’ll take a minute to check out the video.
This morning – today is the 23rd of December – I sleep till eleven. I don’t have to be at work till 3:00 this afternoon. The best part of my day is when I get high – about 2 minutes after I wake up – given that the rest of the day will be downhill from there, I sleep as late as possible. When I finally do make the decision to get up I sit squarely in front of the assortment of paraphernalia that I pre-arranged on my nightstand last night. It’s cold here in my basement level, windowless bedroom, but I’m so focused on the task at hand that I hardly notice. I take a razor blade and slit the piece of tape holding together the heroin glassine and unfold it to reveal the silhouette of the powder inside, a pinky finger high and an inch across. It’s my last bag of dope. Continue reading
“Hey let me see that thing?” the big kid named Digga asks Will. “I was thinking about gettin’ one a ‘dem. I want to see how it goes.”
Will looks over at me, with his new crew cut he looks so young and innocent, like a lamb I think, you know – a sheep – I know it sounds kind of weird but it’s what I think for some reason. I know that doesn’t make any sense.
I shake my head, no. It’s a bullshit question. A fake question. Digga just wants to grab the skateboard.
“We gotta get going. We’re late,” I say to him. Answering on Will’s behalf.
I knew it was a bad idea to be skating over here by the gym. It’s pretty clear this is these townie kids’ territory, judging by the number of Southie types that are hanging around. Fuck, what were we thinking? We’re new at this school so I don’t entirely know the lay of the land yet, but I heard about these kids. They call them Point kids because they live in housing projects over in a neighborhood called the point. They are like a tamer version of Southie kids. Continue reading