True

To be Irish is to know that, in the end, the world will break your heart.

- Daniel Patrick Moynihan

Go on and Run Off To LA and Lose Your Mind

The more you change, the less you feel...



"I have to tell you... I'm not around anymore. I took a transfer in my job...I live in LA. I'm not in New Jersey anymore... and I met somebody. I need closure on this."

Fuck. Me. Sideways.

When my phone had rung and I saw her name, I stormed out the heavy doors of the fancy "lounge" on the highway ("whorish upper class broads and the guidos who love them" place) and practically sprinted to my car. "Taken aback" isn't the word for what I was.

"Why did you call me? I was doing fine without you. I didn't need to hear you," I said.

"Because I needed closure. I had to tell you that I'm not around."

Closure. She always said things like that that I never understood.

Closure. I need time. I can't date now.

"Is he rich?"

"That's neither here nor there."

"Funny, cause it was both here and there when I wanted to date you."

"Why do you want to do this now?" she says, a hint of tiredness mixed with arrogance.

"Cause you fuckin' owe me, that's why."

There was no heart in her voice. It came through in squeeks and snaps, but it was not there like it used to be. And call me delusional, but I don't even think it was because she was talking to me that it was absent... it wasn't there at all.

It might be the product of too many business meetings where you hustle some motherfucker just like the slingers on the street... it might be she actually feels bad for what she pulled on me this last year and a half. Who knows. But it was sad.

When I talk, I am emotional. There is that tough darkness under my gravelly voice, but it always shows elation, or sadness, or anger. There is a tone. There is heart. I couldn't change it if I wanted to- I've worn my heart on my sleeve forever, and it's gotten me in brawls, gotten me fired from jobs, but I love it because it keeps me truthful. If nothing else, I am always truthful.

Her... well, she's perfected the art of lying. The art of self-preservation. I doubt whether I could ever be with someone who lied so obsessively and profusely, and they flowed like water over a broken dam. Constant, reasonless, meandering and hammering. It wears you down, like the way salty waves wear down the rocks closest to the water.

Our paths will cross again I think. I hope not, because I hope to never see the lying green eyes again. But they will, because that's what happens in my trainwreck of a life. Anything else would be, simply put, too easy. And then God would get bored. And I can't get boring...

I saw this coming. I have a keen sixth sense with people, as if I can predict who's going to screw me, and who's going to be there. I knew all of this... I foresaw it long ago. I was not looking forward to it, but I knew it was coming.

I'm a different guy then I was, though. I do wish I had never heard from her, but it was not my choice to make. I'm made of tougher stuff than I was, and this heartache is nothing new. If anything else, it's dulled... like getting morphine before you get shot; you still bleed, but at least it don't hurt.

She tells me she won't read this blog anymore. I don't believe'er. She's done nothing but lie to me, and this is another in a long string. It's fitting that it comes from a girl who's been hiding now for years... and now it's not even figurative- she actually left the damn state. That speaks volumes to me.

But what I can say is this car crash won't lay the hustla down.

What can you do, except listen to Kid Rock in that song that always reminded me of her anyway....


Why dont you run off to L.A.
And lose your mind
You've got 15 minutes and
I think your wasting time
Its easy to see when you've lost your mind
But here I'll be when you decide to come back blind
And even though i might break down
And cry tonight
Please pack your shit
And take the first train out of my life


So after all I did, all that I put up with, all that I hoped for, the motherfucker sells me out like that. Well, I got one thing to say to her...


Hey Alex.... Fuck you.


We'll crucify the insincere, tonight, tonight...

Bill Maher catching heat

A poll on The Orlando Sentinel’s website has 46 percent of people saying that Bill Maher should be canned for his comments on the Pope last week. I have heard an uproarious outcry about Maher, who in his apology for calling the Pope a Nazi, said, “The main point I was making was that if the pope, instead of a religious figure, was the CEO of a chain of nationwide day care centers who had thousands of employees who had been caught molesting children and then covering it up, he would have been in jail.”

Let me remind that 46 percent of something that too many people are eager to ignore these day: once, long ago, in the forests and hills of this shining land, men tread with grim determination and rifles in their hands determined to secure the rights that they felt were “inalienable”. They fought with purpose, with the strength of the ideal that no oligarchy, no Establishment, and no King should be able to limit the God-given right to voice one’s thoughts, and no one organization should be able to crucify those who with different opinions. Evidently, this noble ideal is a fleeting one that can be shredded with nary a thought as soon as someone gets offended.

Maher has been thrown off of TV before, once in 2002 when ABC bowed to pressure and decided not to renew “Politically Incorrect” because of his comments about the 9/11 hijackers. If you watch his show (which I do religiously), then you’ll know that he is fond of incendiary commentary meant to disrupt and anger the general public. I don’t always agree with him.

But let me ask– is he lying? If the Pope was indeed a CEO, and that many members of his company were not only convicted of molesting children, but also of shuffling locations so as to avoid indictment, would he not be arrested? Or at least forced to step down? Is this such a reach to think that it would be possible?

As to the “Pope is a Nazi” comment, I think we all know that being as Benedict was a child when he was in the Hitler youth, this is more of a potshot than a concrete truth; Maher knows this. Let me remind you that the man is a comedian by trade, not a news anchor; he is trying for laughs.

Regardless, my point here is not to argue Maher’s ideals- he does a fine job at doing that himself. What I am arguing is the power of certain organizations to silence the valid opinion of a known critic of all that is Powerful. I am arguing the innate right that we all have of believing in our own Gods, following our own politics, and criticizing those who exercise their power at will, and many times carelessly as the Catholic Church does.

Freedom of speech is a precious thing, perhaps the most precious of things. It can slip away in the fragile breeze of oppression, and can be annihilated completely if we as Americans do not constantly watch its back for the wicked daggers of those who refuse to accept alternative viewpoints.

Now, the Great Evil is someone who spoke out against the Church; next, it’s someone who speaks out against the party in power; it is a slippery slope. Do not be caught up in the burning of Galileo’s that we should have done away with centuries ago; doing so is willingly disgracing the tombs of every patriot who has bled the ground red on the slopes of Bunker Hill, in the woods of Gettysburg, on the banks of the Marne, and in the frozen woodlands of the Ardennes Forest. If you are a true American, you will, as Voltaire said, not defend Maher himself, but defend to the death his right to say it.

Day Hood Look

"I want you to go to the Courthouse, go cover his trial. 10 AM Monday. It's hard to find parking there, you should probably go down Gra-"

"Don't worry, I been there," I say.

"Huh? What do you mean?" My editor gives me a strange look.

Whoops.

"Ah, nevermind. Don't ask questions. I can get there."

-------------------------------

I'm coming back from the Courthouse, and it's been so long since my youthful indiscretions made me an expert on the location of the courthouse and probation office that I've gotten myself completely lost again. I've been driving around the hood for maybe an hour, making rounds in the same roads, nearly running out of gas a couple of times.

As I finally find my way out, I pass the collection of project buildings that rise straight from the ground, dead grass surrounding the brown pillars, piles of garbage and old plastic chairs on the balconies.

It's as if the Earth itself has died around these places. Cracked out hood rats wearing heavy winter jackets in the 60 degree weather stumble along, eyes blazing under flat brimmed hats.

Black kids walk around in groups. One is wearing an oversized red t-shirts, rapping as he walked walked. He leers at me when I drive by, dark eyes under a red hat. If I had been walking instead of driving, this is the motherfucker that would mouth off about a white boy in the hood. I'm not good at much, but I'm a pro at reading people, and I can tell by his smirk that he would mouth off, and then not do a damn thing except let his boys come after me. He might get a kick in should I go to the ground, but that challenging smirk screams about where he's at in life.

One thing that's changed for me, and has changed me, is that I'm no longer that guy with nothing to lose. I'm not working where I used to. I'm not hopeless. I'm not angry, and I'm not so quick to do the things that would get me locked up. I like to think I'm using my brain more. But that kid... no, he's got nothing to lose. And that's the most dangerous type to tangle with. Just like the Peruvian in the club, as opposed to his friend with the wife and kid. One has a reason to stay out of jail... the other has nothing.

When I was walking from the courthouse, I saw a nursery school, with young kids riding around brand new red tricycles. I watched them as I walked by, my view cut by the heavy metal fencing. Across the street, there are signs saying "Vote Santiago- Put Children first!" This is the future of this once great town- the kids. It's a great political catchphrase, of course, but it's the truth. And I look at these five year olds, these purely innocent little beings that deserve to be safe and taken care of, to have their potential fostered and saved.

The next guy I drive by is another black guy, this one maybe in his mid-30's. He is pushing a stroller with his son in it, and he never takes his eyes off of him, always hovering, protective. He is a tough looking cat, but tough in the way that a bear would be if you came near it's cubs- he's not going to start trouble, but be wary of any man who is with a child he clearly cares about so much. It gives me the merest glimmer of hope.

But then I see those dark, smirking eyes again, and I think that these are just the next generation of bangers and wannabe rappers. I hope I'm wrong.

But I doubt it.

Hood Look

The dance music is pounding, crappy techno like stuff that makes my ears burn and makes me want to hit someone. I keep hoping that they'll play some type of rap that I know, but it never happens.

"I'm going back upstairs, dude," I say.

This is the kind of place where they play hip-hop from 105.1, softer stuff that the girls can shake their asses to. Puffy's Come to Me plays at one point, and it's just like that video- laid back joint, fancy, girls slinking around in sexy skirts, trying to hustle you into buying them a drink.

It was just like this joint.


"Alright, me too," he says.

A friend is dancing like an asshole on the dance floor, looking like a stickbug having a seizure, and I just can't watch it anymore. He'll tell me later that he does it so women assume he's "No threat" and will therefore talk to him.

Sure.

I make my way back upstairs, look for the two girls I was talking to at the bar before when I was ordering my beer; Erin and Carly. Of course, I think Carly got stood up, so when she came back from the bathroom and saw me BSing her friend it got awkward, and I got caught in the, "My friend is a cunt" trap.

They're gone, but there are wonderously good looking women everywhere. We got here too late, and the beers are $5 a piece, which hurts me on the inside, but I'll pay that much to get into where the dime pieces are, as opposed to the white trash, "I just got out of a Bon Jovi convert" lookers that are normally so attracted to me.

There are candles everywhere, and the walls are a deep shade of maroon. Many of the guys smoke their cigarettes like they're gay, and some jazz band that has enough people to represent the UN is playing "Lady Marmalade" in the back room. There's a lot of 43-year-old guidos around, trying to spike the remaining strands of hair up the way they used to back in the 80's, looking around in vain for their third wife. If there's anything sadder than a guido, it's a past-his-prime guido.

It's getting late, and this place is clearing out. We bounce. But we'll be back. Save your nickels up for this place, but it's worth it.


On the way home, five of us are in the car. I am outvoted. Instead of going up the hill, we are descending.

I look at my buddy. "You motherfucker."

"I love this place," he says.

The buildings are getting worse, delapidated and dark, and the air is threatening. It's raining, so the hood rats aren't out tonight, but when I tell you we're in the worst ghetto in the East Coast, I ain't bullshitting you.

It is dark, very dark, inside, and the girls are still horrendous. Not regular woman ugly, either, but stripper-crack-whore-motherfucker ugly. There are buffet trays out, with some kind of rice and seafood in catering platters, and the chairs look like the ones you get when you're at a party at the American Legion, gold legs and brown seat backs. One guy is getting jerked off at the bar.

One of the black strippers with hazy eyes runs over and rips my dancing buddy's shirt right away, starts kissing his chest, until she gets yelled at by pimpette behind the bar.

The strippers do their thing, begging for money in the way that only those with no way out can. I'm drinking, though, and having enough fun, when the stripper offers to take me in the back. There's no lap dances here, though, and "the back" means "let's sit over there, ten feet away." Grimy.

I smirk. "Sorry honey. No money for that." She keeps trying to kiss me, and I'm bobbing my head and rolling my shoulders so she always misses. I tell her, "I'm going to go get money, I'll be right back."

I'm really going for a cigarette, and have no intention of letting this broad near me again. I smoke outside, crouch down and lean on my knees like I tend to, like the guy from Gladiator does before he fights. I rub my hands through the puddle of rain that's been draining from the skies all night. Grimy ass motherfuckers... you ain't getting near my dick honey, I think to myself. Contrary to popular belief, I do have morals, and flatly refuse to consider paying for any type of sex.

When I walk back in, my stripper shoves her lazy tits together. "You have dollar?"

"I got nothin baby. Sorry."

She gives me a hell of a look, storms off. I probably gave the cunt $15 in an hour for being ugly, more or less. There's nothing worse than a stripper with a sense of entitlement.

The soundtrack for this joint is still hip hop, but of a whole 'nother nature. One of the broads puts on 50's first album, and the tracks are hardened and biting, straight from brutal streets.

"You got the realest and illest killas tied up in a knot..."



My buddy is at the bar, talking to a couple of Hispanic guys. One looks like someone I used to work with, tall and skinny with a shaped up beard, so I join the conversation.

"You mothafuckas are cool, man. I ain't down with that hatin' on white boys shit. I got me a job, a wife, a kid. I work, you know? Some of these mothafuckas down here give you shit just for walkin' through, but I ain't down with that shit. You mothafuckas seem like guys I would work for, you know? Like I'm hanging with my boss or some shit."

I know what he means, cause I've had tons of guys like him work under me, and so has my friend (who owns a construction business). That's why I get along with these guys. I don't pretend to be from the hood, but I know what they're saying, how they act, and how they think. But they can get testy when you're on there turf, and I'm surprised at getting so much respect right off the bat from this guy. It's disarming, and I can tell he's a good guy who gets mixed up in bad things. The cut over his eye that's still healing is blatant, and though he tells me he boxes, it could be from anything.

His boy is cool with us too, but he's far more dangerous. Wide eyed and Peruvian looking, he is short and wearing an oversized black teeshirt with a closely shaved head. He's flipping dollars at one of the hideous strippers who's missing teeth.

We got out for a smoke, three white boys and these two ghetto bangers.

"Motherfucka, I just got out of the county. I aint' never goin back to that motherfucka. But I down with you white boys too, I don't be hatin. When I be in there, motherfuckin white boy came up to me and offered me-" he pauses, counting on his fingers- "six cans of tuna, loaf a bread, three snickers bars, and coffee, jus' outta respect. I said, 'Man you ain't gotta do that shit. I 'preciate it, but you ain't gotta do that.' So I down wit' you white boys. Y'all some cool motherfuckers.'"

"When were you there?" I ask.

"Ahh, 2000, 2001, 2004 I think."

"Who helped you out?"

If there was a white guy in County, the odds are I know him or someone he knows.

"White boy named Paul. Paul the second he call hisself."

I know him. Goddamn. Small world.

As he finishes, a tall Italian kid in a blue Yankees shirt and slicked back hair wobbles outside. The little guy looks at him.

"You a bouncer? We in trouble?"

"Bouncer? SHIT SON, I jus' got out County! Look nigga, no laces!" He holds up his foot, showing off the laceless workboots he's got.

"OOOOHHH shit son. You be gettin' that watered down coffee? That shit SUCKED! An, an, the eggs, fuck, that watered down Gatorade."

Just in case you're curious if someone is lying about going to prison, get them around someone else who's been locked up. The FIRST thing they will talk about is how bad the food is.

Before we leave, a one of the other three with us begins antagonizing the little one, doing small things that piss guys off. He does it intentionally to fuck with people, but he doesn't understand how these guys work.

"Let's go. Now."

On the way home I look at my construction worker buddy, and then the drunken retard in the back who was pissing off our ghetto compatriot.

"He doesn't know you can't do that to those guys," I say.

"I know. You can't do that shit," he says.

"Those fuckin guys... you say somthing little, shit starts, and they're not gonna fight. They're gonna stab you and run. Especially if it's two on five."

"Oh I know."

That's Right Pimpin

We're drinking in the back of the tremendously crowded bar on Route 46, and the place is overflowing with women and the spattering of guidos that follows the former around like dogs.

I met an old friend of mine from my blue collar days here, along with the broad he hates but bangs anyway. He looks like he just got out of work- torn up jeans, work boots, a long sleeved t-shirt with holes by the elbows. Me? I wore what I wore all day- a pimpin' collared shirt, nice jeans, actual shoes.

He starts breaking my balls about it instantly, "Look at you all suave and shit. And your damn hair never moves, how the fuck do you do that?"

His girl-whatever... is eyeing me the whole night. Later on she'll smack him and point to me, saying the words that no woman has ever said in reference to me: "Why can't you dress more like him?"

HAHAHAHAHHAHAHA. VICTORY! NO MORE "SCRUFFY" HERE!

He looks at me, shakes his head. "I'm losin' faith in you dude."

Yea, but your girl sure ain't.


Again, I rule.

FUCK!!!!!!!

Beyonce, Jay-Z Tie the Knot.
report 1 hour, 8 minutes ago

NEW YORK (AFP) - US singer and actress Beyonce has married her longtime companion, hip-hop mogul Jay-Z, at a private ceremony in New York, People magazine reported on its website Saturday.


FUCK!!!!! My woman is off the market. FUCK!

Damnit Beyonce, we coulda been somethin...

Tagged

Trashman tagged me 'cause he's a whole bunch of gay. I don't really know how to make links and all that crap, so you're gonna have to bear with me. Damn that Trash is gay.

1. Write your own six word memoire.
2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you want.
3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to the original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere.
4. Tag at least five more blogs with links.
5. Leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play....


Here's mine:
1. "I fuckin kick ass shit. Really."
2. Visual was down a bit with me holding a bottle of Jameson screaming like a black preacher.
3. Don't know how to do this. Big gay Trash did it, click on his link to the right of the page if you'd like to see my queer friend getting a facial (mountains of gay right there).
4. Don't know enough bloggers to pull this off.
5. Might do this later. But it's Friday, so I'll likely be drunk.


Slainte motherfuckers. Hoboken tonight... we ride to ruin...