Archives: September, August, July, June Let's face the fact that I stopped archiving a long time ago. Don't worry...a new format/layout is coming soon. "Soon" in the Jesus' 2nd Coming sense of the word.

Here is the fabulous, fascinating Flash Mind Reader! Prepare to be amazed. And yes, I figured it out...I would say I'll tell you if you PayPal me some money, but the dude that made it's already doing that.

It's easier to deal with all the news reports, images, analysis, strategy, politics, etc if you are getting drunk.

In the news today, I learned that it is no longer a hyberbole to say that my job is killing me.

The Signsation Word of the Day is donnybrook.

Jesus supposedly knew about the healing powers of marijuana.

Mr. Smarty Pants says that One ad for Pepsi used in China, "Come alive with Pepsi," actually translated to "Pepsi brings your ancestors back to life."

First, to reitterate the entire point of my previous post: I had fun in North Carolina.

Second, the New York Post loves me.

Third: Today was my trial by fire. Well, not a trial by fire thank goodness, but a circus style environment nonetheless. I scouted my way out to the appropriate area, and when I enter they can't find my paperwork.

So they tell me to have a seat. There are no seats. So I wait outside.

After what seemed like years, the Judge arrived. Then people started quickly pouring from the courtroom.

I went back in to see what was going down.

This was Get Out Of Jail Free Day, apparantly. No cops showing up, so everyone getting easy dismissals. But I knew one cop sitting there from somewhere, and since I couldn't put my finger on from where, I thought surely he must be there to contradict me...

Then the lady mouths for me to come up. I tell them my name again...sit back down...then another lady comes over and tells me that since they can't find my paperwork anywhere, I'm going to have to go back over to the Summons Court to ask them.

The look of horror on my face--the Summons line was literally out of the building, up the sidewalk, and to the street--lead her to "look one more time."

Then she comes back out to the original stack. I decide that maybe telling them that I have TWO cases to be heard might possibly help. Then while she's going through the stack I see my name and inform them that that's me.

Idiots.

I was relieved.

Then she calls me right away, I stand in front of the Judge, do not say a word at all... He tells me to stay out of trouble for six months, and he dismissed them both.

Six months is no time!

"Thank you."

Hours spent in pursuit of Justice, and all I said was "Thank you."

I felt like Mattachine Brooks must have felt when she was released from captivity by the former Soviet Union.

I still don't know where I know the copper from.

I am a free man. Watch out.

There's so much I want to give you regarding my Christmas Vacation to the Motherland. But, suffice it to say that the Caki is like it always was, more or less, and the family is fine. I galavanted my ass all over the great state of North Carolina. I learned a few lessons, even, and taught many, many more.

How much of a bad ass was I in my shiny new convertible Mustang? The convertible aspect was kind of useless since it is the dead of winter, but a six-cd changer (you don't even have to go in the trunk!) and the booming sound system made it worthwhile nonetheless. If you see a shiny black Mus-tang fly by ya...that's me, the Nightrider... Thanks for the upgrade, cute little guy at Budget.

So there were lots of hugs and kisses to the family, but most of my time was spent away. My mom and dad cannot fathom why--and I figure that the explanation would be lost on them as well. Maybe not lost on them, but it definatly would shut them down. "Oh, yeah, well I'm going to be out till all hours of the morning smoking pot, drinking, and leaving a trail of tears and memories on the butch-stroll, and I know you wouldn't want any evidence of that kind of thing floating around the house..."

My friends in the Caki are hard to reach, hard to find, and frankly I give out on even searching them out. I come home maybe twice a year. They have their lives still to live while I'm on vacation. It's not easy to pencil me in. There are too many places I have to go, too many people to see...and in the end I'm kind of shitty by not even dealing with it. But it goes both ways, you know. I'm the one in town twice--IF THAT--per year. Maybe putting a little effort into seeing me themselves would solve that.

My friend from High School, let's call her Cunty McCallister, told me last year that the only reason I call her is because I need something, a statment that hit me like a ton of neon colored bricks. This is a girl for whom I bought lunch throughout the eleventh and twelvth grades. This is a girl that I drove around, a girl that I was a one-man support system for. The stories are long and go on and on, but basically I lost my usefullness for her, so now that was her way of getting out of spending any time with me. I wish these people could just come out and state the fact? So she's written out and written off...which is the way she'd have it too, I guess. She's one of the ones that clearly do not want to see me. My New Year's Resolution--the first of many I'm sure, but one that will be easy to keep--is to not give a damn. Not Give A Damn about maintaining relations with people that frankly do not want to maintain relations with me. To a few people down there in the Caki, it's like I've died. Or as if, if I did die, it wouldn't even matter. My funeral would be trumped by a new episode of fucking Survivor, so why do I even bother trying while I'm alive and well? It's me not them...it's me, for giving a fuck, which I do not anymore.

I've said it before but I'll say it again. When you're the one that moves away, when you return, you are faced with mad scrutiny. What has he been up to? Who is this person anymore? Don't be fooled by my money and my roll--I'm just the same boy from the stroll.

Ok, I know...I don't have any money. But you see the point.

But the people that retain love in their hearts for me...those are the people that get a full taste of the Trail of Destruction, and participate in the insanity. You can't go back home, as they say, but you can damn sure have a nice visit.

And I did.

To backtrack: I seriously considered just not returning the Stang.

Right now I'm ravenous and ignoring the stacks and stacks of dead trees behind me that have to be collated, checked and corrected, stuffed and labled, and sent out into the world to people who will probably only gleen it and then toss it in Circle File A. I'm just trying to hold on until noon, when the department holiday party begins. One thing I can say for working for a protestant organization is that there is no shortage of potlucks throughout the year...

Somewhere on the internet...

Judas: I'm just playing Devil's Advocate.

Throw Down Willy: The Devil does just fine on his own, thanks.

Judas: The Devil needs the most help of all, Willy. ;)

Last night the aforementioned Loca Catolica with whom I work stopped by with her daughter, my favorite little future supermodel. I think it was the craziest moment of my life; I gave Loca a j to smoke in the bathroom, while I kept a very careful eye on the the little one while she looked at some websites (cause you never know what's going to pop up on my computer, frankly).

Anyway, I was happy to have the opportunity to discuss current issues in the life of Barbie with someone who cares. I was distressed to learn that the new Barbie is favored over the old Barbie, these days...and that the new Diva Starz is favored over even the immortal Barbie herself.

The good news is that the little one doesn't care for the "Bratz" dolls.

On a side note, I really hate any spelling where "s" is replaced with "z". It makes me crazy.

Next, I'm waking up and taking my ass down to Kentucky Fried for a wing and breast combo. The cashier lady was one of those people that so often appear to me in places of service, who have absolutely no joy in their lives. I know, life is tough, and the world is a vampire. But really, she looked well-fed and no doubt has a roof over her head, but still was raging with anger and hatred towards anyone and everyone who came through her line.

Sometimes you have to smile in spite of everything that's wrong with the world.

Anyway, I sent her into a frustrated, anxious fury when I pointed out the sign that offers a free side item if you are not asked if you'd like to "up size" your combo. "Do I get a free side?" I asked.

"If you want it," she says, which OF COURSE I want it because I asked for it, didn't I? So I got my macaroni and cheese and left that woman probably still thinking about me, and how I dared to enact a policy that the company, not me, came up with, because you don't put a BIG SIGN in front of me telling me something is free and expect me not to take it.

I asked her, "Will you get in trouble for this?" out of legitimate concern, to which she replied, "I don't get in trouble for anything I do" which, in some strange way, explained everything to me.

In other news, the Transit Strike is set to begin tomorrow morning. This is more than a nightmare for the people of New York. I guess I will walk 60 blocks to work. That, or hold a sign up on Broadway that says, if you don't run me down, at least take me to work.

Go Here And Warm Up Some Pussies.

I had to wait in a huge line outside the courthouse, in the snow, just to get into the court room. I felt like I was an extra on Night Court. They announce your name and your offense when you are called. So everyone in the court room knows that that tall white boy is a trespassing drunkard.

But remember--I'm not guilty.

In other news, I went shopping for a Barbie for this thing at work...where you pick a paper angel off the Christmas tree and by something for the child named therein, on behalf of the kid's parent who is in prison. I picked a little girl who wanted asked for a Barbie because...I just wanted to buy a Barbie.

Originally I went to the KB Toys on 86th Street, where they had a huge selection of Barbies, with all varities available in different races. I picked out Travel In Style Barbie, who comes with a fierce collection of clothes and a suitcase. She was my favorite...Barbie, galavanting around the country in sassy fashions doing sassy things.

Well my credit card was declined because the Fraud Department cut me off (it's a long story).

Sooo, yesterday, after calling in to work sick and facing the American Justice System, I stopped by the KB Express in Times Square. They had the same selection of Barbies, but very very few of them where available in African-American. What I found kind of offensive, though, was that the only Barbie that was available in only African American was MCDONALDS BARBIE. And to top it all off, MCDONALDS BARBIE has a BABY she has apparantly taken to work, AT MCDONALDS. I was definatly not going to get that for little Sherain on behalf of her parent.

So instead I got Hot Spot Barbie (which, while it sounds kinky, is just a simple Barbie in a polka dotted dress and a brush). And since Barbie is no fun unless she has mad clothes, I also got a six-outfit "fun pack" (really it was just for the lime green ball gown) and an additional sparkly silver top with bedazzled-flowers jean skirt, platform shoes, sunglasses, and purse.

I secretly wanted to keep all of it.

Then I came home and worked on manipulating the space in my new room...the challenge has yet to be completed.

Today is the big Staff Appreciation Party here at work. I may do a table dance, depending on the atmosphere.

I was alone. I was introspective. I was standing below the promenade of Astoria pool, looking across Hell's Gate to the Bronx, to Manhattan. It was a moment of utter clarity for me. It was...a moment of realizations.

Then the police--like, four of them--scooped me up, along with some other late night strollers...and gave us all tickets for being in the park after dark.

I was special because I got two tickets, the additional being for my open container of alcohol. After making me take it out of the bag to verify that it was indeed the King of Beers, they let me keep my fucking .40 ounces. The important thing to them was giving me the hot pink ticket.

What bothers me the most is my love for pink is mocked by pink being the color of official yet unwanted documents.

I met this dude that night. He got a ticket too. Then we went and did lots and lots of illegal things.

In my sociology course in college, I had a professor who insisted that prisons are like schools for criminals. Because what better place to learn to be a better criminal than among hundreds of other criminals.

And now I realize that what took place on October 16 was kind of like a sociological experiment. They rounded up the "criminals" (I was committing no crime really) and then the criminals paired off to go do much more involved criminal activities than being in the park after dark. (Which is not clearly posted as a rule...anywhere, really.)

The ultimate irony of that night--is it irony?--was that on my way home I was accosted by wannabe-thugs because I kicked one of their beers clear across the fucking road. (Note to readers: don't sit your plastic cup of cheap draft in the middle of the fucking sidewalk on Saturday night when jacked and jonesed lunatics might be passing through.)

It's a long story. There was me, these losers, a heroic knight in shing armor. It all makes for a good story but the point is that the police were not around to stop harrassment in progress.

They were too busy at the park writing silly tickets.

Anyway. Two months later. Tomorrow...I go to court.

Well, I'm all moved. I'm a Manhattanite now. I'm trying to get all the address change, phone service, box unpacking crap over and done with.

I am totally cut off from communicating with the outside world in my little room, for the time being.

I swear there are about two payphones in all of New York City that work.

I think I'm going to be happy there.

Anyway. Answer me this: Do you get a little grey pop-up offering to fix my screwy HTML when you come to this page?

I spent Thanksgiving alone today, for the first time in my life. This was because I have two days to get all my shit into boxes for The Big Move. I hate that I didn't get to hang with the boys on Turkey Day, but, sadly, sometimes you have to do what you have to do, rather than what you want to do.

I'm feeling better about moving, overall. 'Cause now I've got the majority (more or less) done of the packing nightmare that is my life. Some people who are going through the trash on 30th Street are going to be very happy people. There's everything from an electric can opener to a bicycle available, courtesy of yours truly, who has been known to leave tricks and treats in New York City garbage.

So, eat and nap and be merry on this day of Thanks, tell your momma you love her and reflect on all the things you have to be thankful for. And remember, your life could always be worse and that in itself is something for which to be thankful.

And tonight before you lay your tired, lazy, turkey-stuffed ass down, why not go shoot some naked people trying to rape you in the jungle. Truth be told, I would not have to shoot anyone, and "rape" is of course a matter of consent. Enjoy!

If I don't die or go completely crazy I'm going to get some peace of mind.

In other words, after this year lets me loose, I'm gonna take a vacation.

This is just something I'm testing out, here.

Slowly but surely, I think it's all coming together. I just hope I have enough cash to get everything done: room painted, floor retiled, Murphy Bed disassembled, moving company charges...and so on. Not to mention enough energy. (I have a little stash of "energy" to fall back on if push comes to shove.)

When the Notorious S.D.A. asks, "M. Brooks, what the hell are you doing?" I stop and ponder for a minute. At first, I'm not quite sure. Then I realize, I'm just trying to concentrate.

On another note, in another vain...once upon a time I had an awakening. I woke up and I thought, "You know, I really want to see a lot of things and accomplish something. I want to leave my mark." It comes and goes, but most of the time when I think back on all my aborted rebirths and my drowsy wake-up calls, I tell myself, "I could. I could." And I think when it's all said and done and my little chapter in the Book of Life gets closed...people will figure that maybe. Perhaps. I did.

This might be it for a while...hope I've been entertaining, or at least a little insightful these past few months.

Don't worry, I will win.

The lady that set it all up (La Loca Catolica) told me today "You're moving so slow!" and that I should just get some dudes off the street ("They flourish up there") to retile the floors.

Thanks. Thanks for making me feel more stressed out than I already am.

So...maybe I will go in search of some transient freelance handy men today.

I'm craving coffee. I'm on speed.

And in response to Mike, I'd like to say, I don't.

In other news, The Madonna Convention happens the day I move in and I think that, nonetheless, I will be there. And my life will be complete.

Fun and games from the Atlanta Journal Constitution.

Then I remember that the party will be at the laundromat and the only thing getting turned out will be my apartment as it all slowly, slowly, slowly goes into boxes.

I'm gonna call the Universal Carlos to make some deliveries. This is not wise, but it must come to pass.

I have mad shit to do before the end of the month, and mad people to hold accountable for all that needs to get done. I'm moving into what equates to a flop house, for crissake.

Somehow, this pobreza and tenement situation I've got myself into is making itself into a romantic story in my mind. Something for the memoirs. Imagine me in my little room, typing furiously away at my Magnum Opus...the sounds and sites of an angry city just outside the window.

In reality, I'm going to freak the fuck out over these new...conditions.

I'm a little bit rap, a little rock 'n' roll...just never got to the point where I'm looking back on things. Last time I checked I'm still in the middle of them.

The Big Boss and the Asst. Big Boss keep saying their Beyonce and Kelly from Destiny's Child, but Beyonce's wig is short with tight curls (nothing like Beyonce's very Hawaiin Silky style) and Kelly's wig is just this purple bob. They're still cute though, these ambitious power-execs letting their guards down and wearing some wierd wigs.

Then we have a Tina Turner--really a quite good one I must say--with her "What's Love" era wig and a little red fringy dress. Have I ever mentioned that I a die-hard Tina Turner fan? Not only did I see her concert from the field seats in Raleigh (tickets that I won from practically stalking the radio station give-aways when I was in college) but also I lucked out enough to get amazing seats at her Private Showing for Sara Lee employees in Winston-Salem (Sara Lee is the parent of Hanes Hosiery for which Tina was the spokesmodel), thanks to my aunt, an employee. But I digress.

I should have done that Invisible Man thing today.

In other news everyone at Queens County Criminal Court tells me different information. Clearly I'm just going to have to flee the country. Well, maybe just the state.

La Loca Catolica told me today that I was being disrespectful to Papa Dios by mentioning that I feel miserable. It pissed me off. I'm very irritable lately.

Happy Halloween.

So, rather than dressing up as Jesus (stigmata, crown of thorns--BOOM, I'm Jesus) and going out alone or to Brooklyn to sit in a cold Brownstone (that I'm dis-invited to move into suddenly--that's another story) and watch scary movies, I'm going to make plans with as many people as possible. Then, on November First, when all these people that were expecting me say, "Hey, where were you on Halloween?" I'll reply, "Oh, I was there, just no one recognized me in my Invisible Man costume."

Speaking of invisibility, I had one of those "let's just be friends" break-ups with Dr. Slice 'Em. That, too, is a whole nother story...but, it would be appropriate for Halloween since it's one fo the top 3 scary things about living my life.

I just remembered I have an appointment with Doctor Slice 'Em And Dice 'Em today. Somehow I'm gonna have to break off our relationship, because I've decided that I'm doing a damn fine job of being crazy and I don't need his help or his script pad for inspiration in those regards. He's likely to lose his shit and crush and destroy me with psycho-babble verbiage designed to sear through skin into the delicate coronary system. I...just can't deal with that schtuff anymore though, my physical problems are more important to me than having the coo-coos anyway, and plus they're gonna start making us pay a whole hell of a lot more for insurance up here so...as the song says..."it's really over now."

The Big Boss today has made some sly little remarks about my filing system. You know, how it doesn't exist. What do these people want from me?

In other news, I forgot to mention that I found a Yu-Gi-Oh! card (Pokemon is so last year) on the street. It's apparantly a magical power to become a MONSTER REBORN. Reborn or not, I'm kind of monstrous, so I kept it and consider it an omen or a sign or something. Damn satanic children's games.

"I'm gonna close my body now."

This morning I burned myself on coffee, grits, and sausage. This is what kind of day it's going to be, I suppose.

Before 8:00 this morning I had already said to someone: "It sucks, right? Employment."

There's been a lot of break-ins coming up in my life lately. Two people at work have had problems of the sort, and then the police-blotter section of the paper is full of break-ins and robberies and shit all up and down the Queens section, many of them in Astoria. (For example, these two girls' house got broken into and their dog was among the stolen property.) Much like Britney Spears, Ms. Astoria is not that innocent. I'm taking big steps in my security measures. Halloween is truly in the air and mischief and down right thievery is going on. I don't have much but I'd like to keep what I do have on lock down, thank you.

Prophecies are self-fulfilling, truth stranger than fiction, the grass is always greener...and so on and so on.

I look up from my cubicle, or my futon, or the park bench, or the bus stop...wherever I am, I look up and think about those immortal words of Mona Stangley: It's gonna be a hard candy Christmas.

But when she says, "It's always a business doing pleasure with you," it hurts to know how she feels.

Beats me.

I need to speak to my law-office freind about what to do when you are summoned to the court. It happens to the best of us, I suppose.

So much happened to me last night and the friendly seziure and detention by the po-po is only the tip of the iceberg. There were hooligans after my blood, there was a knight in shining armor, there was sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll, and in the middle of everything there was a pit bull. I have love in my heart for the American Pit Bull Terrier. Those dogs embody the fighting spirit, the friendly viciousness, the loyal till the end-ness that more people should have. I just wish that these people would not raise and breed them to kill each other in laughing-stock settings where they are tortured before during and after the proven moments of "gameness".

More later. Life right now, is vertigo. As someone fabulous once said, "The world is the butch stroll."

Oh-oh-oh look at my hair
what 'do could compare
to mine today?
Oh-oh-oh I've got my hairspray
and ra-di-o
I'm read-y to go-o...

In their letters section this letter tickles me to no end: "Hilarious site. I think you give yourselves away as actual black people with the wet dog quote, because most white people don't realize they smell that way. But if you actually are white, congrats on a great job. -Kyle" Hey! I know we smell that way! (Wait, what am I saying...)

Here's a joke from popbitch.com:
Why did the girl fall off the swing?
Because she had no arms.

In other news, I am a common criminal. Not a murderer, not a rapist, not an armed robber, just a common criminal people. I realized this in Genovese yesterday. It's a long story. I won't go into it.

Some final notes: I'm glad they might have caught the Capitol Area Sniper. I'm also glad that Google has a news page among other things. Google rules.

On another note, his picks of favorite Madonna songs is interesting because any of them are slow ones. And I'm glad he's in love with Die Another Day because it is truly one of Madonna's best videos if not best songs.

Ramble ramble...going to lunch now...

Remember the game in the arcade where you take the mallet to the gophers' heads as they pop up out of the holes? This here is something like that.

This is the kind of underground covered-up shit that you would never see on When Animals Attack. (Might take a minute to load this windows media file.)

Penguin on penquin violence is not cool. (This is a realmedia file, I think.)

And finally, we have the short, inevitable story of the alligator and one stupid mother fucker. (Another realmedia file.)

So I tell a friend about this and how traumatic it was for me. "You had a bad dream. Get over it." Hmmm...much like the dream itself, no?! Anyway, I feel like what's really so terrifying about this dream is that it's what I always think is going to really happen--that it's going to come true.

In other news, I keep getting this dizzy-wizzy feeling in my head when I take deep breaths.

Gonna try to do something productive today. If I can't bring myself to do the work that is starting to pile up in the cube, maybe I will just do some creative for myself.

In other news, the Sign Me Up word of the day is: Paraprofessional.

Oh, there's so much more I want to give this diary but maybe you three to four people who read it have realized I can't give much. I'm going to convert this to the October page soon with a new picture up there for October as Mommie Dearest is starting to freak me out, frankly, and I'm having second thoughts about being her for Halloween.

In other news, last night I saw the the made-for-tv-movie art form at it's finest when I watched the amazing docu-drama Hell on Heels: The Battle of Mary Kay which totally made me re-examine my desire to be a Mary Kay lady, er, Mary Kay MAN that is. (I work in a boundless market for her products.) When else in life will you find a cast that consists of: Shirley McClaine (starring as Mary Kay), Shannon Doherty (who's portrayal of an obsessed sales-rep was brilliant) and Parker Posey (as rival Beauty Control's leading lady--a genius portrayal, gotta love Parker). I hope this eventually makes it to DVD or at least video. I'm telling you, despite what Linda Staci said about it in the Post it was fucking brill.

I have so much work piled up here in the cube that I may lose my cooks today. Not to mention my ailments (general falling-apartness) require a doctor's attention but I don't have the energy or time for that matter to see any of these crazy abusive NY doctors.

If I'm ever going to be happy, I'm gonna have to win the lottery. Maybe I'll never be happy then.

Welcome to October. I'm writing a story. I might post it here when it's done. The wheels turn and I know what happens and what will happen, and how it ends...the thing is you have to write all that down. When are they going to have brain-to-microsoft transference machines?