Enlightening Nonsense

I have found myself exhausted from lack of sleep, lack of food and emotional drainage from my relationship with Ogre. Last night I went to sleep at 8:00 p.m. and didn’t wake up until the morning. Tonight I found myself trying to crash early as well but, as is typical, the Dominican scum were blasting loud music on the street after 10:30 and like flies to a pile of shit, all the local drug-dealers and their associates in the neighborhood were buzzing around.

In the past I have asked directly to one or more of the music blasters if they minded turning it down, as I have to get up early, most days at 5:00 a.m. One time I was told they would and it took over an hour for anyone to touch the volume button on the boom box. The next day when I talked to the dealer who was on volume control and said, “What the fuck?” he told me that he had “bounced” a little after he had agreed to my request and after being immersed in this Washington Heights cesspool for a year now, I am thinking that by “bounce” he meant he had to go and impregnate yet another 20-something year old girl, adding another “baby mama” to his mantel.

Another time the music was blasting louder than I have ever heard a box radio blasting and I came down and, after being given an attitude from some douche, they ended up turning it down. I have to admit to perhaps not talking in my best Non-Violent Communication (NVC), as after I heard the douche say, “Is it too loud?” all I could think of was cracking his dumb skull on the sidewalk and hearing the pop as his empty skull opened up. The fact that my useless Super, which is really a misnomer as she is anything but “super,” was down there doing nothing only added to the feeling of futility in which I find myself.

You see, the 99% Dominican population in my area are scum. When I say this I don’t mean that 1% of Dominicans are not scum, only that there are a handful of poor blacks and whites who live here in the cesspool as well, me being one of the floating turds. I moved here out of desperation when I found my living arrangements to be “disarranged” and on short notice had to find a place to live [See “Suzie Bee” at http://rebelyogi.com/suzie-bee].

I had kidded myself that I could live anywhere, that people are people and I can relate to anyone, whether they had money or not. I even considered myself more connected to the “street” than I did to the moneymakers who cared more about acquiring bank accounts and dressing the part then they did about anyone else. But after a year of trying to fit in I have come to the realization that I rather “fit in” my dick to an AIDS oozing prostitute than with the Dominican scum of the earth, who all happen to be living in Washington Heights.

I used to call 311, which is a number you can call with complaints, everything from hydrants being opened and letting out thousands of gallons of water (also prevalent in “the hood”) to noise complaints. I stopped doing this, as first of all you would have to remain on hold sometimes for up to twenty minutes and secondly, because I never actually saw this to do anything; the cops that were going to be sent by “if they had time” never came.

So tonight the gathering of shit flies was immense and I had enough and called 311 for the first time in ages. The hold time was almost non-existent and I voiced my complaint. As the music continued to blare, my thought that 311 was essentially useless was reinforced. Finally, about an hour later, the music stopped abruptly and the shit flies scattered like cockroaches when you turn on the lights (red and white spinning lights in this case.)

It was after midnight and I thought I should give my dog a walk. It was only a 10-minute walk or so, enough for her to do her business, and when I was a half a block from my apartment, I walked by a bunch of the shit flies. As I passed by them I heard someone say something about “Go move back downtown and pay $1300.” As paranoid as I am that an elite that is trying to kill us controls the government, I thought to myself that maybe this wasn’t directed at me. Then the same voice said something like, “You and your dog can get the fuck out of here.” To this I turned around and came back.

In my best Taxi Driver I said, “Are you talking to me?” The cowardly punks said that no one said anything. “No one said anything about me and my dog?” I pushed and they just clammed up like a virgin pussy when you first jam a crowbar into it. Then the vocalizer spoke up. He is one of the drug dealers, a guy whose face pigment looks like an albino black man with freckles. His body is stocky, unlike a lot of the dealers who are young kids whose arms would snap if they raised it in a strong wind.

“I was here way before you came into the hood. You call the cops on us for the music? Why don’t you and your dog get the hell out of here.”

I turned to the virgin pussies and said, “So first no one said anything about me and now I hear this?” I turned back to the freckled albino. “I have to get up at 5:00 tomorrow morning. And you can ask Alex [a drug dealer, the one who “bounced” from above], that I have always asked you bitches directly to turn the music down.” I wouldn’t exactly say I was being a pussy but I didn’t want to directly say, “Yeah, I called the cops on you.”

I asked him, “Have I ever gotten into your business? No, I have always minded my own business.” He got more threatening and basically said that if I wanted to do anything he was right there right now. I said, “So you’re throwing down the gauntlet?” a reference that he probably never learned in the school of hard-knocks, where the “knocks” means knocking up young girls of whom you have no intention of taking care of—or your baby.

I thought that he had been drinking and if I were to fight him, now would probably be the best time, while his senses may be a little affected from the booze and his reaction time, both in attack and defense, would be impaired. Granted I was wearing rubber sandals, which was not the best fighting garb. I also had Abandon on a leash but she looked up at me and said, “I’m happy to sit by while you beat this Spic into oblivion.” I don’t generally like that my dog is a racist but in this moment I agreed with her sentiment.

I also thought that I would get mad street credit if I put down this freckled albino bitch, with a reputation that I was a psycho and could seriously fuck someone up. But just as easily I could find myself knifed in the back in retribution. So when the freckled albino asked me with puffed chest from three feet away what I wanted to do, I told him that I just wanted to go to sleep. Little did he know that by “sleep” I meant that I never wanted to wake back up into this demented world of Dominicans.

Some scrappy punks got in his way and “held him back,” not that he was charging or anything. One guy apologetically said that he was the one in charge of the loud music and that he was going home now and if I were to be mad at anyone I should be mad at him. He requested a fist bump and despite this hand jive being questioned as a terrorist hand signal by some moronically biased Fox (but I am redundant) “news” reporter [See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cit-XeYs9dw], I did it and went on my way.

I once talked to Jesus about my frustration in talking to the people in “the hood” and how they just didn’t seem to “get it.” He told me that he had the same problem and frustration and that they would probably never get it. I said in anger but more in frustration, “So are you telling me that I am wasting my time and should just abandon them?” He said that that was not what he chose to do but I should understand that the instant change I seek will more likely be one involving lifetimes.

I think one difference between Jesus and me is that he did what he did out of love for man and perhaps I do what I do out of a vision of a different world where people show respect instead of machismo and that maybe I didn’t love anyone but myself. I also have a bigger dick than Jesus.

I have come to my own personal Gethsemane where I am realizing that my choice is to wind up on a cross for unconscious people or to get the hell out of Dodge. The way I am feeling now and if I had been playing the lead role in the Jesus story, I would be like, “Okay, fuck this! I’m packing my Louis Vuitton bag and getting the hell out of Nazareth!”

I have a feeling that tomorrow, after I come back from teaching my 7:00 a.m. kickboxing class and getting a mani and pedi in the area, that one of the drug dealers who is “friendly” to me will try to smooth things over by making some sort of apology for his associate and blaming alcohol for his behavior. I may ask him if I knock out the freckled albino would I have to anticipate retribution. This will serve to spread the word that I am not backing down from fighting. I don’t know if this is for my ego or for street cred or to let the freckled albino know that I am not someone to reckon with. Regardless, my alchemy is not so advanced. I might be able to turn iron into gold but the best I can do with shit is to not step in it.

So now it is 2:30 in the morning and I will be getting up in three hours. I am not generally a quitter but I quit. I can’t live in this area anymore. I can survive here but I certainly can’t thrive.