Archive for December, 2009

A Space In The Clouds

Thursday, December 31st, 2009

moonshot

I was walking in Central Park with Abandon for our nightly Central Park walk which we both look forward to, her to enjoy running wildly with reckless abandon and hassle a few raccoons and me because I’m a nature boy and find it very peaceful to walk in nature, even nature in “The Cement Jungle” (but one who likes gadgets and Internet service, so Walden Pond is out for me!)

I got to my tree friend by the lake and I did our usual greeting of sharing a few “HA” breaths together, a Hawaiian tradition taught to me by my friend Kumu John Lake, and then standing with my back against him and looking up at his branches and the sky beyond them. Abandon usually explores on her own, sometimes hassling the ducks by the bridge, and then usually comes and sits down somewhere near me, seeming to keep guard but I know that my sweet vegan dog is really just checking the terrain for small animals to kill.

Often on this walk, I listen to a talk by Osho on CD and tonight was no exception.  Also common is that my CD player (yes, old technology. I still have a Walkman as well, bitches!) indicates that the battery is low and stops playing. When I get home and check the battery on that $5 tester I got from Radio Shack, the needle will always go into the green “GOOD” section and I am forced to come up with a “spiritual” explanation, like, “Probably at that time the Universe wanted me to explore the beauty in the silence.” Inevitably, I use the same battery next walk and it works for a half-hour or so and then cuts out on me again, usually right when Osho starts to drop a bomb like, “So the meaning of life is—”

Leaning against my tree looking up at the solid gray cloudy sky, I asked Osho something in frustration and it wasn’t about the battery situation if you were worried. I said, “You said on the CD tonight, before the battery indicated low and stopped playing yet again on that damn CD player,” (okay, maybe I did mention the battery situation) “that when one finds a living guru their search is over, that they don’t need to seek any more methods or techniques or teachers. Well, I found you but you’re dead. So where the hell does that leave me?”

Before he responded in words, he responded in imagery. Just then a small hole in the solid gray sky passed overhead, revealing the full moon shining brightly in all her glory. And as soon as it opened, it had past and the moon, too, disappeared into the grayness.

“Truth is always there inside of you. It has only been covered by the clouds of ignorance in the form of beliefs that hide it from view. You don’t have to do anything in order to see it clearly. You don’t have to do any special ritual or mantra or perform any austerity in order to add more light to the Truth. You just have to remove the clouds and it shines brightly for all to see.”

“So are you saying that I don’t need a living guru?” I asked.

“Many people have lived 30, 50, 70 years and are still not alive. A guru is alive by the life he brings. He doesn’t just sing when there is a song to sing. He sings life. He doesn’t just dance when the music is playing. He dances life. So if you want a guru, one with a body or one without will serve you just fine. But you don’t need a guru, living or dead. You just need to remove the clouds and sing and dance life.”

I left my tree friend, thanking him for his support and friendship. I called Abandon from her explorations under the bridge where I couldn’t tell what exactly was going on besides a lot of frantic quacking. We walked the rest of our walk in silence—and not just because of the damn CD player.

It’s New Year’s Eve. I received an email from a girl with whom I did a production of “West Side Story” many ages ago. She used to send printed out letters to everyone on her list (pre-email) that would have me in stitches. Not because she was funny. She wasn’t. But because they were loaded with the most inane collection of boredom one could imagine. “Uncle Jed fell off his rocking chair today. Luckily his overalls hooked onto the chair and softened his fall so he didn’t break a hip.”

So I received an email from her today, the first I’ve heard from her in about a year or two. Apparently it was her “Year in Review 2009!” edition. She started out writing:

Happy New Year to all! As I look back, 2009 wasn’t all that bad (I know many are happy for it to end!)

This raises a bunch of stupidity flags in my head, including the fact that like Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the Immaculate Conception, Mother’s and Father’s and Valentine’s Day and the concept of time itself, celebrating the end or beginning of the year is equally made-up. But reading how “many are happy for it to end!” had me pulling off my flags and looking for Uncle Jed to beat up with the posts.

This isn’t like Friday, where in our society that made-up a 5-day work week, you have a couple of days off from your indentured servitude to get totally sloshed out of your mind in order to try and forget the misery that you call your life. God’s cleaning lady Consuela doesn’t come in for a special day of “slate cleaning” on January 1st. It’s not over, jackass, and won’t be until they lower you into the ground. And event then it won’t be over. Come Monday your life is still here with all its challenges—only now you will have a few more ridiculous “resolutions” to soon enough add to your list of failures.

I would like to give you some brilliant thought for the New Year. Something like, “Keep it real but keep it fun, too.” But we don’t need anymore useless aphorisms that taste as sweet as sugar but are as poisonous as Aspartame.

Osho said, “Don’t be a Christian. Don’t be a Muslim. Don’t be a Hindu. Be yourself.” By “yourself” he didn’t mean the insecure, arrogant ego you walk around with mistaking is you. He meant “your Self,” the real essence that lies beyond the clouds of beliefs and insecurities and self-aggrandizing.

How’s that for a New Year’s un-resolution:

Stop believing in clouds and let your moon shine brightly.

Most of you in the New Year’s will probably just commit to more diets to break and disciplines to make you feel guilty about—more things to supposedly make you “better” [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOIOOhbNYMc]. That is revolutionary thinking. But it is not the thinking of a rebel. A rebel knows that there is nothing better than what is and it’s only by seeing it clearly that perfection is experienced and not just dreamed about.

My wish for all of you in the New Year is to drop being a follower; to drop being a believer; to drop being even a revolutionary. And to become a rebel, one who is willing to drop everything he has accumulated, and to just be yourself. This commitment to join the Rebel-ution will start to create a space in the clouds where you will get a hint of the beauty of Truth.

This rebel yogi is growing tired of kissing himself each year when the ball drops. But he certainly would choose that over kissing a cloud.

“Truth is. And you are full of it.”

—Osho

“Shit is. And you are full of it.”

—Swami X

Posted in Self-Reflection | 2 Comments »

DON’T FORGET TO READ THE “PAGES”!

Wednesday, December 30th, 2009

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As my loyal readers know, there are times I can be a bit, shall we say, “long-winded,” usually due to a bad combination of foods fermenting in my stomach. When I have a real bad case of, shall we say, “diarrhea of the mouth,” often due to giving a rim job to my partner right after a night of All-You-Can-Eat Mexican food, instead of posting it under “POSTS,” I post it under “PAGES.”

Unfortunately, with the same frustration that “Bones” the doctor from the original Star Trek used to get when Captain Kirk asked him to do something outside of his expertise, “Dammit Jim, I am a creative, not a technician!” I don’t know how to let viewers who are not signed-up to “Enlightening Nonsense” and just pop in when they want to without any love or loyalty like a pecker does a Glory Hole, know when I post a new PAGE how to find it besides having you scroll through the list at the right of the posts and see if there is anything that tickles your fancy, and by “fancy” I mean ass.

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Check out some of the latest PAGES, such as “The Da Swami Code” where I break down for all the self-proclaimed experts on me the secret code in my writing to transform you from a total idiot to an idiot with a sense of humor. Read, “Being In The Moment,” where I call Eckhart Tolle a sell-out who just wrote his book to get laid and what “being in the moment” really entails as an individual and as a society. Read, “A Christmas Without Jesus,” a piece written on Christmas Day where I talk about Muslims and Jews and only mention Christians when referring to pedophile priests. Or check out my latest PAGE posting or, uh, posting that’s a PAGE, called “A Second-Hand Emotion” where I write about love and how for most it is nothing more than a Tina Turner song.

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My book The 10 Commandments of Dog Training is making its way to the desk of two different big publishers who I think I’ll let fight it out like Michael Vick’s dogs. I’ve also had one of the two people who have read it give me great editing advice that I will implement in the third draft (the other person was my mother who ripped her shirt and exclaimed, “I have no son!”) And I have a great photographer who is committed to the project as well. You can read the Introduction for a teaser [http://rebelyogi.com/the-10-commandments-of-dog-training-introduction.html].

The way things stand now, the second book will be Why I Hate Yoga and will have funny stories from the yoga world as well as yoga philosophy as translated through a rebel yogi. You can read “Practicing Yoga Is A Waste Of Time” [http://rebelyogi.com/practicing-yoga-is-a-waste-of-time] for a taste.

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The third book scheduled is Rawful Behavior: Inside The Cult of Raw Foodism, an investigative report where I will break open this dangerous cult like Geraldo Rivera breaks open a 6-pack and a case of moustache wax. This exposé will break my cover like Dick Cheney did CIA agent Valerie Plume and therefore guarantee me the status of persona non grata in this fruity cult. Read “A Threesome Spoiled,” the piece that, unbeknownst to me at the time, had me removed for two weeks from the Presenter line-up at the Raw Spirit Festival in D.C. [http://rebelyogi.com/a-threesome-spoiled].

The fourth book will be Autobiography of a Jackass. God was wanting to write his own unauthorized biography about me called Even I Make Mistakes! but I told him, “Look, who listens to you anyway?” He agreed and let me write my own story. Truthfully, he’s still stuck in “Thou art” language and his writing is a bit dry. This did inspire another book idea, Arguing With God.

I have a few other book ideas, including a blockbuster story that I don’t want to reveal yet. Alright, I will: The Blockbuster Story: How They Became A Successful Rental Store Without Carrying Porn. Then again, I may not write anything, close my bank account and retire to Budapest with Abandon for a few years where we will live like royalty on my 23 cents savings.

My hope in my writing is for you to be entertained and to stimulate your transformation into a more complete you, for you to become a wholly person, someone who is whole, and not a holy one, someone who has a lot of holes and acts like a spiritual douchebag in order to hide them. That and to make the voices in my head go away.

Take comfort in knowing that while I write through a character that may appear at times like an angry, bitter, jaded, perverted psychopath, that I am not jaded, and by that I mean tied to a whipping post by four Asian women while they throw ninja stars at me. That being said, I am looking for one more Asian woman and please, all applicants need to show proper I.D. “Dammit Jim, I’m a pervert, not a pedophile!”

Om-ly Yours,

Swami X

Posted in From the Editor | No Comments »

Swami P

Tuesday, December 29th, 2009

dawson-crying

When I was in college, I was elected the dorm Secretary. Besides wearing old librarian glasses and talking on an intercom and saying, “Yes, Mr. Johnson. No, Mr. Johnson. Yes, Mr. Johnson,” my job was basically writing up dorm news and posting it in the bathroom stalls.

My Dorm News, which included funny commentary and homemade cartoons and a stone-clad guarantee that I would use of the term “tossing-off” in every issue, became a big hit. People started looking forward to popping a squat and soon the sale of laxatives on campus expanded beyond the narrow bulimic market.

But one thing I noticed was that while I directed my wit onto the whole of the dorm, what went out as diffused sunshine of raggery to 300 or so people, came back to me in the form of 300 single rays of insults, magnified under a lens that resulted in a serious burning as painful as any scorching I inflicted on any ant during my sociopathic youth.

It’s not that “You can dish it out but you can’t take it.” I can take it, or at least that is the line I kept saying in prison when I was being bent over a table and gang-raped. It is just that even I have my limit, my breaking point, and while my jokes were—and still are—meant to make light of a situation or to help someone not take life or themselves so seriously, the insults coming back to me seem more designed to hurt. And they do.

Because people are so used to looking at others like caricatures, compartmentalizing them like they would their comic books, “This is the ‘Great Evil Villain’ section and this is the ‘’Heroes With Multiple Heads’ section,” they think someone with a bitterly wicked wit like myself has no feelings. “And we’ll put him in the funny yet jerky emotionless section.”

What they don’t realize is that I feel more than most due to a condition called “PMS,” which while in women stands for “Psychotic Mood Syndrome” in men it stands for “Pussy Men Syndrome.” When I am ragging, like Cinderella’s chariot at midnight, I can turn into a pussy (well that was what happened in the X-rated version!)

While this emotional sensitivity at times allows me to have a greater understanding of others which proves useful in my healing work and writing [for an example see “Lie With Me” at http://rebelyogi.com/lie-with-me.html], it can also result in an inability to control my tear ducts.

I watched the movie Blood Diamond with Toad, which is about the diamond trade in Africa, showing rebels amputate villagers hands to discourage them from voting and stealing others into slavery to scrounge all day in dirty water searching for diamonds so that scumbag companies like De Beers can sell a bonehead here in the states an overpriced clear rock to attach to his soon-to-be’s finger so that she can wave it around to all her coworkers in order to feed her pathetic vacuum of self-worthlessness. About an hour and a half into it, Toad paused the movie so that she could change her Ben & Jerry’s feed tube, and I burst into uncontrollable balling, and by this I don’t mean that I was running around fucking everything in site. After 10-minutes of hysterics, even Toad was like, “Seriously, it’s only black people.”

I watch the PETA underground video recorded in China where these “men” grab animals by their back legs and swinging them in a big circle, they smash their heads into the ground; where they skin animals while they are still fully conscious and when one animal, a dog in this case, reacts in pain to the skinning while fully conscious, the abuser steps on his neck and applies his full weight in a crushing force; where one animal lying there, bloody and without any no hair on its body except its eyelashes, bats its eyes a few times and then collapses over. And, unlike the common person, I cry. I try to justify this by telling myself that people have just grown insensitive to injustice but the truth is I’m just a pussy.

So the other day I was stopping into the bank with Abandon. Another man entering slightly before me held the door and I assumed it was for us. I started to walk through and as I was halfway committed, I saw a woman was on her way out and saw that perhaps it was she who he was holding the door for. The lady and I both paused for a bit and then I quickly slid in ahead of her with a smile.

She walked through giving me a look of death that was meaner than the attitude Death gave Lois on Family Guy when she made him a cup of cocoa [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I4txlA33jdk&NR=1]. She then said loudly, “Unbelievable!”

I walked back outside and called to her. “Excuse me, ma’am? Hey, I’m sorry, I was already halfway committed to entering and thought I might as well complete the job.” She either didn’t hear me or, more likely, chose to ignore me.  I went back into the bank and said to the guy who held the door, who was now making a withdrawal from the magic money machine which prints up money as easily as Hasbro does Monopoly money and the Federal Reserve does American currency, “You know, it’s not so ‘unbelievable.’ I mean, if I were floating upside down, that would be ‘unbelievable.’ But sliding in the door before her—highly believable.”

I was reminded of a scene between Alice and the Queen in Alice In Wonderland:

Alice laughed: “There’s no use trying,” she said; “one can’t believe impossible things.”

“I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was younger, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”

My bank friend, Quiche, always comments on how my constant smile, a la “The Joker” from Batman minus the deformity, always gives her a lift. Well this time my smile was hidden behind obvious distress and Quiche asked me, “Is everything okay?”

I started to have a PMS moment and leaned on the counter with one elbow and covered my face with the other hand as tears rolled down my face and onto my deposit slip. Quiche, always sensitive, said, “Those deposit slips cost money, you know. You shouldn’t waste them.”

It wasn’t so much the word “unbelievable” that started the waterworks. If the woman had said, “Onomonopia” I would have understandably burst into tears, as this was the war cry that the Ottoman Empire blasted out during the Armenian Genocide. It was that I’m trying my best and while I often fall short, I just wish someone once in awhile would give me a pass, would care about me more than they did judging me. And if I hurt their feelings, I wish they would just tell me, “You know, I’m really sensitive about being 5’2” and 300 lbs. and when you called me a ‘extremely fat sack of crap’ it hurt my feelings,” rather than lashing back at me that I have major character flaws and “That is the reason no one likes you but your dog!”

“Abandon, you like me, right girl?”

“As long as the food keeps coming I do.”

I thought back to D.J. from college who after a summer of doing way too much LSD would come into the group house from the cold winter and leave the front door open or turn on the sink faucet and fill a glass of water and then leave the faucet on and if you said, “Uh, D.J.? Can you turn the water off?” he’d say, “Dude, I’m trying.” I guess the only difference here was that I wasn’t having acid flashbacks; I was just PMS-ing.

Fred Sanford, played by Redd Foxx on the early 70s sitcom Sanford and Son, used to say, “My name is Fred G. Sanford. And the ‘G’ stands for___” and he would always fill it in with whatever applied at the moment—“Gorgeous,” “Gallant,” “Guadalupe.” [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WqazleR3FE]. I think in my case it will be a little less ambiguous:

“My name is Swami P and the ‘P’ stands for ‘Pussy.’”

.

REFLECTION:

Think of a few times when you might not have acted or behaved to your ideal. If someone was there to tell you what a jerk you were, did that help you? Did you leave them and think, “That was so useful that now I am a changed man! I will now devote my life to not making mistakes.”? Or did you leave thinking, “Screw that bastard! Just for that I’m going to be even more of a son of a bitch!”? (that’s my usual mode of action.)

When someone doesn’t behave in the way you would prefer, do you rip them a new butthole? Do you talk calmly and quietly like a Passive Aggressive Pussy (PAP) and do your best to make them feel like shit while keeping yourself odorless in your own mind? Or do you actually care so much about the other person that you will keep their personal growth placed higher than your need to be a self-righteous asshole, maybe even to the point of not commenting about their suboptimal behavior?

MEDITATION:

Imagine yourself with your husband or wife or boyfriend or girlfriend or boss or coworkers. Imagine you do or say something that is slightly boneheaded. Maybe you answer your girlfriend honestly and tell her, “Yes, you do look fat in those jeans,” or you answer your husband truthfully and say, “Now that you ask, I’ve had a lot of better sex with past boyfriends.” Imagine your companion telling you not only what a jerk you are for saying/doing what you did but how your very character is so horrible that even Satan is praying that you go to Heaven because he does not want to taint Hell with your admission. How do you feel?

Now imagine you do or say something that is not your perfection and your companion tells you what kind of effect your action or words have on him or her. Imagine they look at you so lovingly when they share this with you and you can see in their eyes that they care more about you coming to an understanding for yourself than they do about their own possibly hurt feelings. How do you feel?

Imagine someone else doing or saying something that is not to your ideal and go through both ways of reacting. First, imagine explaining to them why they are lower than the bacteria that feeds of the waste of pond scum. Second, imagine looking at them with such love in your eyes—whether they’re a “stranger” or not—and not because it is the “spiritual” thing to do but because you genuinely love this fellow soul traveler. Then allow whatever words come through you to share with them. Filtered through your loving heart, it won’t matter what you say, they will feel your love and want to change not for you but to be a better person for themselves. Feel blessed that you are so loving and not a self-aggrandizing prick.

Posted in Casual Encounters, Self-Reflection | 3 Comments »

Lie With Me

Thursday, December 24th, 2009

© December 9, 2009

2CBEPVD400B50003

.

I feel my body tremor as I approach his room

And when I fill the doorway with my form

I see him lying there

Splayed out on his bed

Sweatpants

Shirtless

Reading Steppenwolf

.

He looks up from his book

Eyes turn to me

But his body remains motionless

And his glance sends a shiver through me

And without even a touch

My breath jumps into my chest and throat

And I start panting

As if I just jumped into an ice cold lake

Only my body is feeling anything but cold

.

His leg bends slowly

As he rolls onto his side

And places his feet on the ground

Wind blowing

Draped curtains flowing

His body glowing

.

My lips part

A feeble attempt to regulate

The rising and falling of my chest

With a release valve

.

I am frozen in my spot

And my eyes take momentary breaks

of respite to the floor

For if I continue to look into his eyes

My soul… my heart… may be sucked away forever

Leaving my body to collapse in a heap on the ground

.

After what seems like an eternity

Or maybe only seconds

Of sitting on the edge of his bed

He slowly pushes himself to his feet

His eyes never losing their lock on me

Like a panther stalking his prey

.

His half-naked body glides towards me

And I am in such a haze of ecstasy

That I can’t tell whether his legs carried him

Or if he just suddenly appeared

Inches in front of me

.

My breathing rate increases

And I think either I am going to have a heart attack

Or an orgasm

.

His glance drops from my eyes to the center of my chest

As his arms extend and his hands place themselves

Lightly on my hips

Touching the skin

Between my jeans

And my loose draping shirt

That seems to blow like the curtains

.

He touches his forehead to mine

And now our noses are lightly pressed as well

And my eyes fight to stay open

But they close on their own

Knowing that taking in his form now

Would be like staring at the sun

And they would ever after be blinded to the beauty of

yellow flowers

and snow covered mountains

and children laughing

.

And suddenly on their own volition

My arms throw themselves around his neck and shoulders

And my face pushes itself into his right cheek—

Just for a moment

Before I pull myself close

And bury myself into his neck

.

My hands can’t seem to find comfort in stillness

As they hold and slide and move and bide

The time

Before his hands finally rap themselves around me

And when he squeezes me tightly into him

I feel our chests connect

And my heart jump into his

.

And now hands work surgically

Without thought

Just purpose

As he unties my brown flowing shirt

And it drops to the ground

And like two Tango dancers in perfect harmony

He bends slightly

Letting one hand slide below my knees

While the other remains firmly around my back

And he lifts me off my feet

Physically, that is

As I have already been flying

.

He places me gently on his bed

The touchdown smoother and softer

Than any commercial landing

And his body

Which never separated from mine

Slides on top of me

.

His mouth kisses from my neck

As his hand opens my chemise

And he pulls down one side of my lingerie

Revealing my breast

Over which his soft lips pass

But only briefly

He continues down the center of my chest

Crossing the material of the thin barrier of my clothes

To arrive at my bare belly

.

His lips

His tongue

The slight tickle of his thin moustache

My left forearm covers my face

As I am ready to explode

From the inside out

I don’t know whether

Fluids or body parts

Will scatter the room

But at this point

I no longer care

.

His mouth moves to the outside of my waist

And follows the thin trail

Above the curve of my hip

Up and around

To below my bellybutton

His tongue makes one final pass

Around my navel

And then he leans up

Hands grabbing firmly my skirt and panties

And as he pulls

My hips arch

And soon they pass my legs

And he drops them aside

Leaving me as bare below

As I am inside

.

His lips touch softly the inside of my left knee

And they slide to my inner thigh

His left arm embracing my leg

It’s fingers lightly caressing the outside of my thigh

.

His hand slides up to my hip

As his mouth slides to my pussy

My ribcage arches skyward

As the top of my head pushes into the pillow

And my vocal chords begin to play their music

In moans and groans

.

My eyes pop open wide

A blank ceiling offering nothing to grasp onto

And they close just as suddenly

My splayed elbows rise off the bed

Touch each other in front of my face

And then drop after their feeble effort

To accomplish I don’t know what

.
My left hand covers my face

Pointer finger finding residence on my forehead

Middle finger on my brow

Ring finger on the bridge of my nose

Pinky finger surrounded by parted lips

Resting against the teeth

Of my slightly open mouth

.

Eyes going from the light of the room

To the darkness of my eyelids

Body arching and twisting

Right hand covering his left

Which lies on my stomach

.

The sounds from my mouth

Coming to a crescendo

Until there is a spasmodic full-body quake

And in that complete volcanic explosion

All sounds disappear

And for a moment

I am transported into a silent realm

Just after the Big Bang

Where there is no war

There is no worry

There is no love

It just is

And I know this is Heaven

.

And while his mouth between my legs

Transports me to a place beyond the stars

Just dancing with him naked

Or riding my bicycle with him on the back

His arms holding my waist

Or walking anywhere—

To a bar, the playground, on a sidewalk with no destination

Just looking at him

Through eyes washed clear of fear and frustrations

Heart spilling out in all directions…

I would trade Heaven and harps

Just to have him

Lie with me

Posted in Poetry | 2 Comments »

Knocked On My Ass

Wednesday, December 23rd, 2009

Granted, I didn't look this goofy!

Granted, I didn't look this goofy!

I was rolling back from a session with a client on my blades. I was on the sidewalk because 53rd Street has a lot of patchy pavement and it makes for a pretty unpleasant roll. There was a fair amount of people on the sidewalk but I still was able to maneuver here and there.

I started to roll towards a couple of guys talking who didn’t seem to be aware of my approach. I shouted out something like, “EXCUSE ME.” The guy I needed to move a few inches did not look ahead and as I got a body length away, I realized that this squeeze would be tighter than the little boy’s ass I had to sodomize as part of my Catholic priesthood rite of passage when I was in seminary.

As we touched, I did my best to avoid a head-on by rotating my body and pulling my right shoulder back. At this point the hand knit puke green Rasta hat I had on my face fell over my face. I couldn’t see anything but I could feel the man tighten up and dig in like a football player throwing a shoulder. I could even feel that he was proud of his shoulder check.

As my feet came out from under me, time slowed down and, just like how it is said that the dying have their lives flash before them, I had a little review myself. My first thought was, “Good hit,” as being in the fight game for many years, one could always appreciate a good strike, even if it was your face on the receiving end of it.

Next I thought about my stretched out hat. I knew I shouldn’t have paid $25 for it but the street vendor who made it was cute and I was like a dope in a strip club thinking that the stripper will somehow find a man who pays to have a girl rub up and down on his schlong a catch that she just can’t afford to let get away. It seemed like I had a lot more time to reflect about inane subjects but I was kind of drawing a blank and so I thought, “Uh, nothing else to review now.” And then…

SLAM!

I landed on my back on the cement sidewalk, face still covered by my ridiculous didn’t-get-me-laid puke green Rasta hat. It didn’t really hurt but then again, I wasn’t sure if I was dead and about to meet my maker, which would be my Mom and Dad who would nag me about not wearing a helmet. I suppose that would be better than meeting God who would scornfully ask, “That was your life review?” to which I’d have no real response but to say, “Shit, negro. I’m just surprised I made it here instead of the other place!” to which he’d probably say, “Son, you ain’t staying here. I just had to meet face-to-face the man whose life review consisted of an appreciation for the impact that caused his death and reflection on a bad street purchase.”

When I pulled the stretched-out Rasta hat from over my face, the world looked anew. All my previous conceptions of up and down, left and right, right and wrong, were in a jingle-jangle-jingle. A couple of women looked down at me and asked if I was all right. I said yes only because it would have taken too long to explain that while I was capable of basic functioning in society, I was far from all right.

I then got up and looked back through the crowd to my ass-kicker. I shouted, “HEY, BROTHER! NO PROBLEM ABOUT THE KNOCK-DOWN, BUT WHY DON’T YOU AT LEAST ASK IF I’M OKAY?”

He turned around, looking annoyed that I delayed his progress to the local watering hole and said, “I did,” and turned back forward, never slowing down his pace.

If I were in my right mind I would have said, “AND WHAT DID I RESPOND?” To which he would say, “You didn’t,” to which I’d come back with, “THEN WHY THE FUCK DID YOU ASK ME IF YOU DIDN’T CARE TO HEAR THE ANSWER?” But I wasn’t in my right mind.

The shoulder check had loosened up something inside of me. As much as I would have preferred it to be a rib or something more tangible and manly, it had broken loose the feelings of aloneness I had apparently stuffed deep inside. And as it started to bubble up to my throat like a burp in progress from eating beans and broccoli and washing them down with some crab cakes [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hA7pWkQoAe0], I felt like I was going to cry. As much as I am secure in myself to be a man and also cry, I didn’t want to risk that I’d be standing back in God’s office and he’d be cracking his black ass up at my blubbering over being knocked down. “It’s a good thing you’re dead, bro, because you sure were a bitch!” So I just brushed myself off and rolled home. In truth, I didn’t brush myself off. I felt somewhat dead and buried as it was and I figured a little dirt on me was just par for the course.

I am somewhat of a loner in that I spend a lot of time on my own, which I like, and while I have good enough social skills and charm to be able to chat with just about anyone, from street urchin to sea urchin, there are only a handful of people that I would call my “friends.” I went through my cell phone address book and either the few I dialed didn’t pick up my call, probably too busy making another dollar for corporate America to help a friend in need, or I didn’t really feel like calling them because they would probably just give me a multi-tasking, distracted, wax-filled ear of duty instead of a focused, freshly Q-Tipped, clean ear of care.

When I arrived home, Abandon gave me some licks on my face and that helped a bit. But when I told her what had happened and how I was feeling she said, “I thought I was the little bitch in this relationship?” which I thought was a bit insensitive. I made a note to myself to limit her access to the Internet, as her daily readings of my un-blog coupled with catching up on the latest “South Park” and “Family Guy” episodes had made her a little more of a cunt than I really needed at this time.

Oh, if only it were only this!

Oh, if it were only this!

Posted in Self-Reflection, Stories About Nothing | 2 Comments »

Tiger Woods: Civil Disobedient

Friday, December 18th, 2009

alg_tiger-woods

I never thought golf was anything more than a nuisance I had to flip through when I was channel surfing until Tiger Woods came on the scene. He was not only the best golfer out there but also considered comparatively above and beyond the best athlete in any sport. He had a blonde model wife, was making millions of dollars and was world-famous. I hated this man.

The one thing I did have on him was that he was black and Asian, which would give me a lot of racist material to cull from. I would take the worst stereotypes from each race and heckle him mercilessly as I followed him on tour and shouted my epitaphs.

“HEY TIGER, CLEARLY YOUR HOT WIFE IS ONLY WITH YOU BECAUSE OF YOUR MONEY, WHAT WITH THAT ASIAN RICE PECKER OF YOURS!”

“WATCH THAT TIGER—IF HE DOESN’T STEAL YOUR GOLF BALL, HE’S LIABLE TO SUCK YOUR FLESH BALL FROM HIS PRISON DAYS AS A BLACK BITCH!”

“TIGER, GO BACK TO CHINA AND MAKE SOME KUNG FU MOVIES—AT LEAST THEN I COULD WATCH YOU AND NOT BE BORED STIFF!”

“HEY TIGER, GET A GRIP—THAT IS IF YOU CAN WITH YOUR KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN GREASY FINGERS!”

“I HEAR YOU FRAT HOUSE’S MOST POPULAR SAYING WAS, ‘FILL UP YOUR ‘ASS’ TANK WITH A TIGER!’”

“DID YOU SHARE A CRIB WITH OBAMA IN KENYA, BITCH?”

I had to give it to him, that slant-eyed spook was cool as a cucumber. While my comments were about his skin, I still couldn’t manage to get under his. And then God dropped into my lap both a gift and a curse, which made me remember that I hated God even more than Tiger Woods. It came out in the papers that Tiger was fucking around big-time on his hot wife. I eagerly awaited his next showing on the PGA tour where I was going to let him have it with a combination of how his infidelity was in typical black men fashion and how as a Chinaman if any of his mistresses got pregnant and gave birth to a female child that he could drown it in the river and fit in just fine with his yellow countrymen.

I brought my sleeping bag and slept over the night before at the golf course on hole 8, prepared for Tiger to comment on this and for me to come back with:

“THERE’S A DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SLEEPING ON HOLE 8 AND SLEEPING WITH 8 HOLES!”

When Tiger saw me he called me over privately. My face was hurting because of the shit-eating grin I had plastered on my face like Batman’s Joker.

“I suppose you wanted to say something to me,” said Tiger.

“Where do I begin…?” I said as smug as Al “Manbearpig” Gore pulling out his index cards full of manipulated data and false facts to give a big presentation that’s not supported by science but is highly supported by his own carbon credit company that will personally bank him billions upon billions of dollars if his “inconvenient lie” is hoisted on the American people.

“Before you do,” he interrupted, “Let me just share something with you and then you can hurl at me whatever you have prepared.”

“Uh, okay,” I said, wondering how long it was going to be before it would be my turn to bring out the filthiest, most disgusting, tasteless and rude material that would make even “South Park,” which featured one episode where Mr. Garrison inserted Lemmiwinks the gerbil up Mr. Slave’s ass, look like a Disney film.

[http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoID=2020634973]

“Marriage is a made-up construct that society has designed which not only goes against the very nature of man as an animal to spread his seed but which also relegates both men and women into property instead of souls. There are societies where polygamy is acceptable and others where there is no marriage. The very moral ethic established in a fidelitatious relationship is merely a construct of this society in which we find ourselves. Now, Swami X, you consider yourself a rebel yogi, don’t you?”

I barely stammered in the affirmative.

“How could you support a made-up, conditioned, societal ‘norm’? I didn’t think that you baah’ed with the rest of the sheep.”

“I don’t. I just—“

“If I committed anything of shame, it was in contracting myself into a marriage when I didn’t really believe in the institution. As you know, Swami X, contract law is the only legal way that a citizen can give up their God-given rights. Most of the rights we haven’t ‘lost’ but have given away. So if anyone is going to judge me—including all the supposed ‘Christians’ who say that only God can judge a person while they are busy judging me—be it for my failure to live up to my word when I signed the marriage license and not because I failed to follow a contrived system that is not based on natural law.”

“Uh, those Christians are hypocrites,” I said, really trying just to regain my footing.

“What does a Marriage License provide besides a tax break and a future addition to some divorce lawyer’s vacation home? Does it increase the love between two people? Does it make them better parents? It does absolutely nothing except newly define a family as a husband, wife, two-and-a-half kids, a dog—and the government. You could call what I’ve done ‘civil disobedience,’ that I have taken a non-violent stand against an institution that has stood for nothing more than oppression.

“I am going to take a little break from the game of golf that I love so much to really reassess whether it is worth it for me to make the sacrifice of my beliefs to keep harmony with the woman I love. I am not sure what decision I will come to—or she will come to—but it will be between the two of us and the media and the society will have no bearing on our decision. Now… do you have something you wanted to say?”

“Um, I think I was the ‘half-kid’ in my family,” was the best I could come up with.

“Abortions apparently weren’t 100% effective back then,” he came back and I decided to keep my mouth shut, seeing that Tiger not only kicked ass on the golf course but with abortion jokes as well.

“So if it’s alright with you, I’m going to go home now and see how my wife and kids are holding up from not only my actions but all the judgments that the good Christians have pelted us with.”

“I thought you were going to play in this tournament?” I asked.

“No, I just came here to have a face-to-face with you.”

“Uh, thanks?”

“And one final thing…” at this Tiger unzipped his fly and let unroll a mammoth of a club—at least a 14 iron—that not only showed me which side of his heritage contributed to his manhood but also a reason besides fame and money why so many women were spreading their girlhoods for him. “I don’t expect to hear any more rice dick jokes from you, bitch,” he said firmly.

“No, sir,” I said as he walked off the golf course, leaving me in silence on the green of the 8th hole, alone except for a family of sparrows that had taken up residence in the divot his 14 iron put in the ground when he unzipped.

“Man is polygamous by nature; he cannot remain tied to one woman. Living with one woman, a man is invariably bored; living with one man a woman is not so bored… Every wife wants that her husband should not be interested in any other woman. This desire, which is natural for a woman, runs counter to the male nature which is basically polygamous. The problem is that if social laws and conventions are laid in obedience to the male nature, women will suffer, and if they are laid to conform to feminine nature, men will be unhappy. And the core of the problem is that neither can be happy if one of them is miserable… We made laws according to the needs of our society, not according to needs of human nature… and as a result the whole of mankind has perpetually been in misery and anguish.”

—Osho from Krishna: The Man And His Philosophy (pp. 773-776)

Posted in Truth in Fiction | No Comments »

Not Brad Pitt

Wednesday, December 16th, 2009

BradPitt2Bikini_Man

.

I was fishing for a compliment and so I threw my line into Sinperu’s pond.

“Do you find me attractive?”

“You’re not Brad Pitt.”

Now I don’t particularly like to be asked a question when the questioner has a vested interest in my answer. I have been asked by yoga instructors or the front desk at the studio after a class, “Did you like the class?” to which case I almost always feel a little guilty when I reply, “Not really.” Of course, I answer this way regardless of whether I enjoyed the class or not just to teach the douchebag that asking such a needy question was a pressure-inducing dick move.

But I have to admit to being a little taken aback by her answer to my own question. I guess I was like everyone else: when I asked the question I didn’t just want an answer, I wanted the answer I wanted to hear. Something along the lines of, “You’re the hottest piece of ass I’ve ever had,” a line that was whispered into my ear after sex one cold prison night and just thinking about it warms not only my heart but my buttocks, was what I was looking for. Instead I got, “You’re not Brad Pitt.”

Dejectedly I went to the bathroom and stripped down naked. I looked at my body. My hair—long and matted like a dirty hippie, some of it seemingly burrowing back substrata from the top of my head and resurfacing through my ears. My forehead—scars from youthful falls, kickboxing cuts and walking into poles and walls. My chest—wasn’t it a few inches higher just a year ago? My abs—what was once as hard and ripped as a ripcord now sadly reminds me of Michelin Man. The only thing moderately appealing about me was my near-perfect 14” cock; if it weren’t for a freak accident involving peanut butter and a pack of wild dogs, it would be perfect. Let’s check out the rearview.

I turned around and saw the cause of the mysterious dragging sound that has been following me for years. My ass, big and muscular when I was squatting with 365 lbs. for reps, had lost the bulk at its bottom and now looked like many of the flat-ass old men I have seen in the gay bathhouses I have frequented over the years. What used to be a smooth piece of granite that would bend the first half-dozen steroid needles I stuck into it, now looked as if someone had given me an ass-kicking while wearing a pair of spiked golf shoes. This inspection had gone from bad to worse.

I put on my clothes, for at this point even I was starting to feel a little queasy looking at my disgusting body, and left the bathroom. I really had no response to neutralize Sinperu’s comment. The best I could come up with was, “Get the fuck out.”

. When I was alone, I went online and checked out a few Brad Pitt clips from the movie Troy on YouTube. I wasn’t satisfied with just seeing gorgeous dirty-blonde hair and chiseled arms, so I searched out the sex scene between him and the female prisoner he took and had his way with, which gave me a nostalgic moment to my prison years where I vowed next time that I was locked up I would play the “Captor” instead of the “Captive,” if for no other reason than to allow me to hear my farts again.

Now I consider myself predominantly straight, despite the prison sodomy and bathhouse gay sex, but as I watched his rock-hard tight ass on top of this woman, even I wanted to take a bite of it. For a guy who could argue about anything,

I imagined Brad Pitt asking Angelina, “Do you find me attractive?” and her response being, “You’re no Brad Pitt,” to which he would have the ability to come back, “Actually, I am.” And then it hit me.

I called up Sinperu and told her I wanted to have a role-playing romp and told her to wear the sexiest outfit she could find and I would be over to her place in 10-minutes flat already wearing a condom. When I got to her place, the door was slightly ajar and so I pushed my way into her apartment. There she was, splayed out on her plush brown velvet couch, wearing black lacy lingerie that would make the chick from George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex” video jealous. Her black lace bra pushed her breasts together for added cleavage to her already full breast. You could make out her erect nipples if you were looking hard enough—and I was. Her panties also had a lacy sheerness to them and a garter belt that held up French lace stockings framed them nicely.

She spread her knees apart invitingly and said, “Do you find me attractive?”

Without missing a beat I said, “You’re not Angelina Jolie,” and turned and left.

Posted in Self-Reflection, Shorties, Stories About Nothing | 3 Comments »