Sunday, March 15, 2009
The crowd was large in number. So large in fact, that it was said by some to be a throng. Emotions ran high. They were irate and passionate. They wanted one thing: death to the tiger.
A few days earlier, a local wild tiger had killed a younger member of society: a boy. But to the members of the throng he was a child! They had lost a child! Oh sweet mercy, a CHILD! Not that! Anything but that!
The tiger stood in a cage. One woman cried and cried and pleaded with the sky above for justice to be turned onto this crazy tiger. She yelled to the crowd, “I want to see this tiger get what he deserves!” –
“The tiger is a ‘she.’”
“Fine! I want this tiger to get what he deserves!” For some reason the woman would not concede that it was a female tiger. (She was three times divorced, though no one chose to point this out.) As she spoke a hail storm fell onto the throng. Still they stood, defiant against the life of the tigress. “This poor child, oh, this poor child!”
“It was my brother,” said a man, from the side of the crowd. He wore only a large towel, cut in the middle to wear around his neck, and a pair of Allen Iverson Reeboks with no socks. He looked very holy in this towel. “That child was my five year old brother. And I loved my little brother. I used to read Nietzsche to him at bedtime, and he agreed that God is dead. He suffered from Down Syndrome. He had plans to become a singing star; a ‘Broadway’ sensation. He had a beautiful voice – that is, when his mouth wasn’t full of Snickers. He loved to eat Snickers. He had a bit of a weight problem, that little guy. That tiger killed my Down Syndrome, singing, Snicker addicted, slightly overweight, younger brother.”
The crowd fell silent. They looked upon this holy man. The tiger tweaked its head, to view the man. Then the wailing woman asked, “Do you want us to cut the tiger’s head off or merely drop it off the edge of a cliff?"
“Neither,” responded the man.
“Neither?!” murmured the confused crowd.
“I want you to let it go free, back into the wild where it belongs.”
The crowd could not believe what they heard. This was blasphemy. After all, it was a child that had been taken: A child! A CHILD!!!
“Are you crazy?”
“Are you crazy?” responded the man. “The tiger is a wild animal. That’s what it does! It attacks and eats things that aren’t it. That’s what tigers do. What about us? Do you see herds of cattle, congregating, planning attacks against us for murdering billions of their brothers and sisters? No, because they cannot communicate. They eat grass and that’s about it, but this is aside from the point. My point is: We do worse to other animals than what the occasional tiger attack does to us. It is part of nature and we must accept this fact. I embrace the tiger. I don’t push it off a cliff and watch as it tumbles to a terrible, gravity-induced death. Please, let us cherish this tiger. Not perish. Cherish, not perish. Cherish, not perish.”
Suddenly, the throng began chanting, “Cherish, not perish! Cherish, not perish!” It was beautiful. Everybody came together. Their emotions turned. They now loved the tiger and all her flaws, even its inability to groom its own nails. As the chanting progressed, a young boy, a jokester knowing no better, opened the tiger’s cage.
“The tiger’s loose! It’s gonna kill us all!” screamed a man.
The crowd scattered in panic.
And the tiger, well, it strolled away, intent on changing its reputation.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Two Chicago bloggers,
We are the best.
Better, in fact, than all the rest.
Like da Vinci, Keats or Danielle Steele,
We bring the food and you eat the meal.
We're the best and that's no lie,
Sucker MC's stand in line to die.
It's true to say that we don't play,
And like James Baldwin one of us is gay.
Our mission to date is so-so clear!
Like Mao, Noam Chomsky or Carson the Queer,
To the house we bring it all the time,
You read the story and we write the rhyme.
Word!...Communism!...Third World dictatorship!
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
She did what any self-respecting woman would do in that situation. Called you an asshole and threw the card in the trash.
Now...she may be one of those women who can see the childish humor in your wordplay and giving her a card with no definite value. It shows thought...just not tons of it.
To the girl I like, I gave a Valentine’s Day card, one which I have hence, regretted.
The front of the card had a picture of a dapper man, holding cash, inquiring about a shopping spree. I decided to include a Panera Bread gift card. My note read:
"I hope you enjoy your Valentine’s Day, be it alone or with another guy. I’m guessing I won’t be that other guy, since I haven’t technically asked you out yet. Even if I had asked you out, V-day wouldn’t be the best time to do it. I’ll be in Pittsburgh, fighting on behalf of the working man. To be honest, someone gave me that Panera card and now I’m giving it to you. I stopped going there for political reasons. I have no idea how much is on the card, but hope you enjoy the calorie upswing that will result from repeated visits."
In your humble opinion, what happened when she read the card?
Sunday, February 8, 2009
I'm so glad we can disagree on your movie choice because what would our site be if we agreed on everything? Boring! While I agree with your brilliant assessment of how bad Electric Bugaloo was, in regards to the acting, plot, etc., I can't bring myself to ever watch it again! I loathe this movie. However, what I love is Breakin' 1, the original.
I love Breakin' 1 for the same reasons Mel loves Electric Bugaloo, it's horrible! But that's why I love it. It is a precious jewel from the past. The huge draw back in Electric Bugaloo is (1) I don't know how to spell "Bugaloo" correctly and (2) there were not as many good dance scenes. In Breakin' 1 there were some truely remarkable dance exhibitions, particularly by Turbo. But, I love Mel's choice of scene to reference from Electric Bugaloo, when Kelly was confronted with a life-changing opportunity to live out her dreams in France or...go see Turbo in the hospital! Let's go see Turbo - sure hope he's all right, and maybe if we're lucky the best dancer in the cast might try and hobble out a few moves from his cast-ridden body!
So, do yourself a favor and check out both Breakin' 1 and Electric Bugaloo. Compare, contrast, write a thesis on what you saw. Obviously, Mel and I have put way too much time in two dance movies that should have been destroyed like Corey Haim's career. Also, for my pick, if you really want to see bad acting wait for the scene on the beach, toward the end, when Kelly finds Ozone contemplating things. He soon explains to her that she doesn't understand him! It's beautiful.
Being a child of the awesome 80's, I proudly boast of my constant submersion into the depths of spiked hair, b rated horror films, fantastic elevator music, leather, tight clothing, neon colors and in some cases just plain weird s***.
One treasure of the 80's was the 1984 film "Breakin 2 Electric Boogaloo." While not classic in the sense of movies like A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) or Aliens (1986), Electric Boogaloo was more along the lines of a flick like Action Jackson (1988); a cult classic. For those of you not versed in cinema jargon, cult classic refers to a film that has acquired a highly devoted, but relatively small fan base.
Most cult classics are discovered by accident; roaming never ending cable channels or the aisles of Blockbuster (Family Video for those of you in rural areas), through a relative, or friend after a nice session in the clouds. However, the introduction, with the sweet whisperings of MJ, you fall in love with this cinematic expression. So much, that you want nothing more than to share this new found joy with everyone you know.
Cult classic or not, we have to be clear about a few aspects of the movie: Bad Acting, Bad story (great intentions) & Bad Clothing. The style used in the film was definitely savvy for the times, but one can't help but chuckle at neon orange belly tank tops, Gery curls, and aliases such as Turbo and Ozone. Without giving too much away, I urge anyone reading to rent this film.
Movies like Electric Boogaloo are dusted jewels of a time past. We should hoard them, so once they become lost in the transition of technology some of us will still obtain bits of history to share in keeping the memories alive.
In closing, I would like to point out my favorite scene in Electric Boogaloo:
As Kelly prepares to leave for a job in Paris, Ozone arrives with bad news of an injured Turbo, forcing Kelly to decide between doing what daddy wants, or staying true to her break dancing buddies. Kelly can't turn her back on Turbo or his Gery curl; she rushes to the hospital where an outrageous scene unfolds. To kick things off, the overly dramatic Turbo is woken from his coma with a kiss, streetwalkers masqueraded as nurses perform a dance routine stimulating the crippled from the confines of their wheelchair/crutches to pop lock and windmill. Even the gruesomely overweight head nurse Bertha joins in after being mesmerized by the swarm of young bodies.
There's plenty more, but I'll leave that for you to discover.
Be sure to check out the YouTube link to the trailer...
Seriously...sometimes you have to take a step back and ask yourself..."Who does that?" You broke up with her to protect yourself from facing the one thing people cringe at the thought of....REJECTION. If not, then why resort to the JMG's (Jedi Mind Games) in the first place? The girl is pretty, employed, and has good conversation. Nowadays finding someone employed, let alone with the ability to discuss a topic other than Facebook, Myspace, or Gossip Girl is quantum leaps beyond the ideology responsible for coining the term needle in a haystack. The simple, but more importantly adult thing to do would have been to ask her out to lunch. Considering your fear of rejection, dinner may be too large a step, plus lunch has a safer appeal. True enough she could have said no, but one thing you have to keep in mind is no matter how much control we try to assert over a situation(s), there are factors above mortal manipulation; rejection being one of them. We'll all experience the pain eventually. This JMG limits future actions because you've already jumped the gun by stating "It won't work" when in fact, no IT had ever been established.
When it comes to "relationshippy stuff" (new phrase?) leave the games to Milton Bradley.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Melle Mel is not just your typical GQ stud. He is also a snazzy dresser, brisk walker and good with relationship advice. So good in fact, everybody goes to Melvin for advice. For the best interest of society, I shall pepper him with scenario’s and should any of these relate to your life, pay close attention, as Mel is an expert love doctor; the Dr. of Love, Mr. Love Magistrate, Looove Daddy.
First off, break up with a girl before you ever ask her out. This is a very good tactic, one that I claim as my own invention, patent pending. I’m at the age where I see all my friends getting married and having children. Uh-oh, I better have children! That’s what they want you to think; they, being the girly magazines out there like Cosmopolitan, Glamour, Sports Illustrated. You know what, all you magazines, if I want to impregnate someone I can simply take advantage of a drunken, passed out homeless lady whenever I want. But until I decide to further the human race with a non-typical, non-nuclear family as such, I am going to act on relationships as I see fit.
For instance, there is a beautiful girl, my age, single (how, I have no idea), and employed as a manager in a respectable position. I’m being vague because I would hate for her to read this and see that in lieu of a homeless member of society I have placed her next in line. This is not fair, because she’s not homeless. She probably makes a lot of money. Nor is it fair to the homeless. They’re just like you and me, people. Except, they don’t have a home and they possess the ability to eat leftovers out of a garbage can. I’m just pointing out the facts. Look, not all homeless people eat leftovers out of the garbage but when a few do, it makes it seem like they all do. So, don’t blame me, blame those that have indulged from the trash. I support the homeless cause. I once knew a homeless person. Our relationship lasted all of ten seconds, but I walked away with two less pennies in my pocket and I felt like I knew the guy. And he knew me too. That’s what it’s all about: connecting with people.
The girl and I had good talks. For a number of reasons, I would never ask her out where she works: (1) she might find that rude; she’s a manager and here’s some guy trying to score a date (2) she might say no, then where would I go to shop? (3) she might say yes, we go on a date and then I could never walk past her store again, because I’m neurotic like that. One day, we crossed paths near her work. We talked and I made it clear that “It wouldn’t work between the two of us.” Ha! I showed her. Broke up before we ever went out! Now I have no problem seeing her at the store. “Hey, look at me! I’m the guy that assumed you’d want to go out with me and reversed the whole thing by saying it wouldn’t work – what an asshole!”
Talk to me, oh wise one. Was this the correct thing to do?
Thursday, February 5, 2009
"...So make music in my basement, don't cut her off till I find a good replacement."
Slick Rick, you're so cool, why do girls treat you so cruel?
When I look at rap today I feel like an old man, longing for the days of the late 80s, when rap was emerging as a major cultural force in the United States. Heavy D was mysteriously loved by the ladies, The Fat Boys were rapping about donuts (literally), Kwame was prancing around in poke-a-dot pajamas, Erick and Parrish were makin' dollars, Eazy E kept activator suppliers in the profit, Run DMC had taken over the charts, Special Ed made a very ephemeral leap into stardom, Big Daddy Kane was half-steppin' his way to the bank and Tupac was a teenage dancer with Digital Underground waiting to launch his personal career to new heights.
Today, in 2009, I don't know what's going on. Apparently, Bobby Brown still thinks he can sing, Fifty Cent raps, acts, produces, gets shot, sells water (sells WATER!), gets shot some more while claiming more money than some oil producing nations, and Lil Wayne looks like a Lil Maniac. What's wrong with him? Also, white rappers are more and more acceptable. This is plain wrong. I long for the days when white rappers were veeery suspect. Some may argue Eminem is an exception to the norm. Can we keep it at that? Can we let him be the only one? Please. While I'm at it, I don't think Asians should be rapping either. There's just something wrong with someone named Wang trying to rap about his "dilly-dang." I don't wanna hear it; cook your rice noodles and shut the f!@# up.
I long for the days of Slick Rick, looking no less than a gay French pirate with his beret, eye patch, cardigan sweater, Bally shoes, gold teeth, gold necklace, gold rings, gold bracelet, and no doubt gold condoms, personally engraved with the title "MC Ricky D" on it so the ladies wouldn't forget where they'd been. The Ruler was such a hit that he was (a) known as "The Ruler" and (b) could wine and dine any girl with style, all the while looking like a gay French pirate. Who else could pull that off? Should Tom Cruise decide to wear a beret, eye patch and adorn himself with gold jewelry, his once devout Scientologists would pull an apostasy and say, "Woo, that's even too much for us, man; leave you're membership at the door," yet Slick Rick made that look cool and acceptable, for him anyway.
The government has been desperately trying to deport Mr. Rick back to England, where he had citizenship before moving to the States. Are the tax dollars of the United States really going to good use when agents are trying to deport a washed up rapper with a pirate patch? Let's chase domestic terrorists, not Ricky Waters smoking weed from a New York loft. Maybe they just don't want him to make a come back, as so many of us who are stricken with nostalgia would like to see. It might be hard though, as government agents even went after Rick on a cruise ship. Yes, a cruise ship! When he was doing his song "A Children's Story," and said, "Hurry up, run!" he wasn't kidding, as the band probably picked up their gear and tried to keep up. Maybe the only safe place for Rick is in a car, anticipating his fate, but let's hope it's not with a bag of angel dust and a revolver. And if you care as I do, I urge you to write your Congressmen and ask them to call off the government dogs that want to bring so much ill-will to Mr. Rick. Leave him be, and let him work on his next album.
In the meantime, "...You got Rick sittin' right here, waiting for you, my dear. Wonderin' if you're eeever, gonna show-you-oh...La la la la."