Just a quick post to point out that it's been eight years since my arrest. Exactly eight years ago, I was sitting in a cell, wondering what the fuck was going to happen to me.
I've come to realize that, regardless of anything, time flies, not just when you're having fun, but in retrospect.
Odd enough to say, as boring as it was, as much as it sucked not being free, time in jail still flew. Yeah on an everyday basis, midnight couldn't come fast enough, but when looking back, I was still amazed that ten months, eighteen months, thirty months had passed.
So much has happened in these past eight years. I went from being a drug addict, to a convicted felon, to working dead-end jobs, to building my career and living in the middle of Manhattan. I reconnected with, then lost for a second time an old love; I've rebuilt family bonds (with my nuclear family at least); I've gotten back in touch with my biological father after twenty plus years only to tell him to fuck off.
I've put myself in debt, been promised an inheritance, worked two jobs at seventy hours a week, wasted money, made some... I've basically been finally allowed to live in the past few years.
And it feels great.
As much as life sucks, I still think it's beautiful. As much as people are backstabbing assholes, I still give them the benefit of the doubt, although I have learned from my past mistakes. And as much as it's damn near impossible these days to build a fortune without compromising your morals, I will still try, why? Because regardless of anything, it's the ability to choose that empowers us.
And so this date has marked the beginning of a new personal era. I still see it as a blessing in disguise, because if it weren't for this arrest, I might have overdosed, been shot, or arrested for a much larger quantity, and the power of choice still wouldn't have returned to me yet.
So thanks Big Brother but no thanks >.<
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Zeitgeist - Can the Truth Hurt That Much?
I was recently introduced to Zeitgeist, Zeitgeist Addendum and The Venus Project. Here are the two documentaries:
Zeitgeist: The Movie
Zeitgeist Addendum
Before I start, I want to point out that I'm by no means an expert in any of the topics discussed in the documentary, I'm just sharing my two cents, using critical thinking and my opinion of what human nature amounts to.
I suggest you watch the videos first, although they're both very long (about two hours each), the summary below doesn't go into enough depth for you to fully feel the weight of their message.
Zeitgeist (ZG) is a documentary claiming to reveal the truth about the world we live in. According to them, Christianity was literally copied from pagan myths that existed centuries prior, 9/11 was an inside job, the Federal Reserve Bank of America uses a system based on debt (debt begets debt) and has been secretly pushing their own agenda (being responsible for our involvement in World War I, II and the Vietnam War amongst other things).
Zeitgeist Addendum (ZG-A, the sequel), goes into detail about how the Federal Reserve works, denounces money and profit as being the root of all evil and corruption. This leads the documentary to introduce the Venus Project, an economic system that replaces our monetary system with a resource-based economy, commonly and equally owned by all, technology will be advanced enough to eliminate the need for jobs, and by the creation of such abundance of basically everything, there will be no need for money, and hence corruption, poverty, wars, etc. will be relics of the past.
Mind you, I'm by no means a fan of the current establishment. As you may have already noticed, I spent many of my teenage years trying to specifically not have to take part of this fucked up society we live in. At that young and dangerously naive age, I was positive that money was corruptive and the root of all evil. I yearned for a world that had no monetary system, where no one had to work, and we could all enjoy life as we so chose.
I yearned for a utopia.
And so I refused to play by society's rules, got my ass handed to me for seven years, and have now been housetrained to be a well-behaved, listening pet.
But as I walked down this path I chose, and with some influence from Ayn Rand, I've come to realize that money is in no way responsible for anything in this world. Money doesn't corrupt. Money doesn't start wars. Money doesn't do anything but facilitate trade by allowing us to carry paper rather than something of value. And what's of value? Precious stones, gold, jewelry, which are all heavy and difficult to transport.
So if it isn't money that corrupts, what does? Power, pure and simple. Money buys power, but even without money, the concept of power exists. Power comes into play in any social interaction between two or more people. The dream of global equality is but a myth, hell, we're not even born with equal strength, intelligence, height, etc.
And it's this difference amongst all of us, that creates social classes, racism, hate, prejudice. By default, humans are not all equal. We should all have equal human rights, yes, but that still doesn't make two different people equal in every other respect. And because of this, it's survival of the fittest, as it's always been. The strong will bully the weak, and what is that but a power play?
The Venus Project (TVP) is actually a very interesting concept. Here's the pitch. If we can abolish the monetary system, thus overthrowing the modern day emperors by rendering their weapon of choice inefficient, if we can then invest all of our time on the advancement of technology and replace our energy sources with renewable clean energy, if we can convince the global population that money is evil and change is necessary, if we can convince that same five billion people to agree on the same solution, if we can create technology that will get rid of 90% of jobs (without killing us Matrix-style), and if we can get to a point where everything we would need is in such abundance that we can't fathom wanting anything more, then yes, we have a utopia.
That's a lot of ifs though. I can barely get a group of ten of my friends to agree on what restaurant to go to, let alone getting five billion strangers to be agreeable.
ZG-A does say at the end that the first step to achieving this is by reforming our mentality. I completely agree. I also think it's theoretically an impossibility. Even if 1% of the population doesn't agree to TVP, they'll fuck it up for everyone else. So TVP fails right there, unless they get rid of the opposition. Then, are they really any different from the corrupt coporatocracy that they're trying to depose?
On another note, let's say Jacque Fresco (TVP creator) were to be in charge right now. Well, for one that's contradictory to his vision since everyone's equal. But let's assume he can have his way. Technology isn't advanced enough to support his system, and technology--according to him--is stifled by the monetary system, meaning the abolition of money is a necessary first step before technology can progress.
I'm actually unclear as to how Fresco plans to make the transition from the monetary system to a resource-based economy, so I'll stfu now, kthx.
And I reiterate, I don't necessarily believe that money is the problem. The Federal Reserve employs a method called fractional reserve banking, and some believe that it eventually creates an unstable economy, with more debt than currency in circulation.
This system is used globally. If it is true that the system will fail at the end, maybe it's the banking system that's flawed, rather than the concept of money.
Overall, both movies present good material, very thought-provoking, but also misleading. I'm also not overly fond of their choice of methods, it felt very much like propaganda, evoking powerful emotions, ripening us for manipulation, the juxtaposition of violent images, and certain conclusions that they were "logically" led to seemed stretched, and rather than being persuasive, it almost felt forced upon us.
But who's to say that you shouldn't fight fire with fire? Corporations own the media, their propaganda is just more subtle. Their use of quotes is effective, but sometimes seems to be taken completely out of context, which has very little relevance if that's the case.
Take it all with a grain of salt. I took bits and pieces of what seemed genuine, what seemed to make sense, not sure how much it helped or not but it's kept me occupied mentally for a few hours.
Enjoy. Or don't. But above all else, think.
Zeitgeist: The Movie
Zeitgeist Addendum
Before I start, I want to point out that I'm by no means an expert in any of the topics discussed in the documentary, I'm just sharing my two cents, using critical thinking and my opinion of what human nature amounts to.
I suggest you watch the videos first, although they're both very long (about two hours each), the summary below doesn't go into enough depth for you to fully feel the weight of their message.
Zeitgeist (ZG) is a documentary claiming to reveal the truth about the world we live in. According to them, Christianity was literally copied from pagan myths that existed centuries prior, 9/11 was an inside job, the Federal Reserve Bank of America uses a system based on debt (debt begets debt) and has been secretly pushing their own agenda (being responsible for our involvement in World War I, II and the Vietnam War amongst other things).
Zeitgeist Addendum (ZG-A, the sequel), goes into detail about how the Federal Reserve works, denounces money and profit as being the root of all evil and corruption. This leads the documentary to introduce the Venus Project, an economic system that replaces our monetary system with a resource-based economy, commonly and equally owned by all, technology will be advanced enough to eliminate the need for jobs, and by the creation of such abundance of basically everything, there will be no need for money, and hence corruption, poverty, wars, etc. will be relics of the past.
Mind you, I'm by no means a fan of the current establishment. As you may have already noticed, I spent many of my teenage years trying to specifically not have to take part of this fucked up society we live in. At that young and dangerously naive age, I was positive that money was corruptive and the root of all evil. I yearned for a world that had no monetary system, where no one had to work, and we could all enjoy life as we so chose.
I yearned for a utopia.
And so I refused to play by society's rules, got my ass handed to me for seven years, and have now been housetrained to be a well-behaved, listening pet.
But as I walked down this path I chose, and with some influence from Ayn Rand, I've come to realize that money is in no way responsible for anything in this world. Money doesn't corrupt. Money doesn't start wars. Money doesn't do anything but facilitate trade by allowing us to carry paper rather than something of value. And what's of value? Precious stones, gold, jewelry, which are all heavy and difficult to transport.
So if it isn't money that corrupts, what does? Power, pure and simple. Money buys power, but even without money, the concept of power exists. Power comes into play in any social interaction between two or more people. The dream of global equality is but a myth, hell, we're not even born with equal strength, intelligence, height, etc.
And it's this difference amongst all of us, that creates social classes, racism, hate, prejudice. By default, humans are not all equal. We should all have equal human rights, yes, but that still doesn't make two different people equal in every other respect. And because of this, it's survival of the fittest, as it's always been. The strong will bully the weak, and what is that but a power play?
The Venus Project (TVP) is actually a very interesting concept. Here's the pitch. If we can abolish the monetary system, thus overthrowing the modern day emperors by rendering their weapon of choice inefficient, if we can then invest all of our time on the advancement of technology and replace our energy sources with renewable clean energy, if we can convince the global population that money is evil and change is necessary, if we can convince that same five billion people to agree on the same solution, if we can create technology that will get rid of 90% of jobs (without killing us Matrix-style), and if we can get to a point where everything we would need is in such abundance that we can't fathom wanting anything more, then yes, we have a utopia.
That's a lot of ifs though. I can barely get a group of ten of my friends to agree on what restaurant to go to, let alone getting five billion strangers to be agreeable.
ZG-A does say at the end that the first step to achieving this is by reforming our mentality. I completely agree. I also think it's theoretically an impossibility. Even if 1% of the population doesn't agree to TVP, they'll fuck it up for everyone else. So TVP fails right there, unless they get rid of the opposition. Then, are they really any different from the corrupt coporatocracy that they're trying to depose?
On another note, let's say Jacque Fresco (TVP creator) were to be in charge right now. Well, for one that's contradictory to his vision since everyone's equal. But let's assume he can have his way. Technology isn't advanced enough to support his system, and technology--according to him--is stifled by the monetary system, meaning the abolition of money is a necessary first step before technology can progress.
I'm actually unclear as to how Fresco plans to make the transition from the monetary system to a resource-based economy, so I'll stfu now, kthx.
And I reiterate, I don't necessarily believe that money is the problem. The Federal Reserve employs a method called fractional reserve banking, and some believe that it eventually creates an unstable economy, with more debt than currency in circulation.
This system is used globally. If it is true that the system will fail at the end, maybe it's the banking system that's flawed, rather than the concept of money.
Overall, both movies present good material, very thought-provoking, but also misleading. I'm also not overly fond of their choice of methods, it felt very much like propaganda, evoking powerful emotions, ripening us for manipulation, the juxtaposition of violent images, and certain conclusions that they were "logically" led to seemed stretched, and rather than being persuasive, it almost felt forced upon us.
But who's to say that you shouldn't fight fire with fire? Corporations own the media, their propaganda is just more subtle. Their use of quotes is effective, but sometimes seems to be taken completely out of context, which has very little relevance if that's the case.
Take it all with a grain of salt. I took bits and pieces of what seemed genuine, what seemed to make sense, not sure how much it helped or not but it's kept me occupied mentally for a few hours.
Enjoy. Or don't. But above all else, think.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Requiem
Remixed beat from Requiem for a Dream movie:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmdCZLCoP94
i was, caught up in a scheme
trying to, attain my dreams
number one lessons that, nothings what it seems
traitorous snakes, hiding on my team
a vicious crew with a sick gangsta lean
waiting at the corner preying on the dope fiends
u aint got a clue so its now a mystery
torture u like the lady from King's misery
ima rewrite ur entire history
stack enough to still on u w/ my salary
some advice my enemies never took to heart
i tutor my adversaries so they keep to par
its the art of war, niggas get torn apart
by a soldier learning from battlefield scars
a world trade survivor pushed to the edge
plotting schemes in my head ready for revenge
i let, the haters get to me
i turned, to the hennessey
coz thug passions always been all my remedies
the devil sure as hell runs in the family
im a convict released on strict stipulations
first to cross my path gonna be in a situation
3 counts coz i was under suspicion
ran my game tight, so u couldnt fuck w/ these
5ks tryna front like they own the streets
i aint here for telling, pull my file i can take the heat
wiretaps had me selling x-t-c
01 is my year of conspiracy
slanging ex by the G's is how i conspired
60 large by the lines and now im retired
couple more months and my hustle woulda fired
coz doing business i aint never ever getting tired
i was, out of control
i was, ever so cold
like those pocket aces u cant fold
thats how the story went, just like christ
the classics done told if ur men or mice
till death do me part w/ the federal info
used to do lines that was white as snow
its dangerous to stay alive in the ghetto
forget all the shit u learned and what u know
never seen the atrocities of the world below
bitches running game and they jack ur dough
got caught up in a world of trouble
tryna break even in the daily struggle
paying debts and making way w/ arms and elbow
the thug philosophy carries nines and ammo
a 10 yr minimum aint no joke
already done paid for all the drugs i sold
worth more than my weight in 24 karat gold
step on my toes and i'll murder ur soul
assassinate ur character with words from this flow
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmdCZLCoP94
i was, caught up in a scheme
trying to, attain my dreams
number one lessons that, nothings what it seems
traitorous snakes, hiding on my team
a vicious crew with a sick gangsta lean
waiting at the corner preying on the dope fiends
u aint got a clue so its now a mystery
torture u like the lady from King's misery
ima rewrite ur entire history
stack enough to still on u w/ my salary
some advice my enemies never took to heart
i tutor my adversaries so they keep to par
its the art of war, niggas get torn apart
by a soldier learning from battlefield scars
a world trade survivor pushed to the edge
plotting schemes in my head ready for revenge
i let, the haters get to me
i turned, to the hennessey
coz thug passions always been all my remedies
the devil sure as hell runs in the family
im a convict released on strict stipulations
first to cross my path gonna be in a situation
3 counts coz i was under suspicion
ran my game tight, so u couldnt fuck w/ these
5ks tryna front like they own the streets
i aint here for telling, pull my file i can take the heat
wiretaps had me selling x-t-c
01 is my year of conspiracy
slanging ex by the G's is how i conspired
60 large by the lines and now im retired
couple more months and my hustle woulda fired
coz doing business i aint never ever getting tired
i was, out of control
i was, ever so cold
like those pocket aces u cant fold
thats how the story went, just like christ
the classics done told if ur men or mice
till death do me part w/ the federal info
used to do lines that was white as snow
its dangerous to stay alive in the ghetto
forget all the shit u learned and what u know
never seen the atrocities of the world below
bitches running game and they jack ur dough
got caught up in a world of trouble
tryna break even in the daily struggle
paying debts and making way w/ arms and elbow
the thug philosophy carries nines and ammo
a 10 yr minimum aint no joke
already done paid for all the drugs i sold
worth more than my weight in 24 karat gold
step on my toes and i'll murder ur soul
assassinate ur character with words from this flow
Ten Twenty Nine Oh One - Part 2
Part 1
They left us in our cells for awhile. If there's anything you learn in jail, it's patience. Needless to say, I couldn't count how many hours I've wasted sitting in a cell, waiting for guards to finish my paperwork and usher me along to the next step
(cell)
where they'll keep me for more innumerous hours. Your eyes just dim. Have you ever felt like you were SO bored, that you couldn't be any more bored? Yeah try that times a quadrimillion. I never knew the meaning of boredom until then.
Literally. Nothing. To. Do.
Finally they came to get us. I've always been skinny (bony?), and yeah it'd be nice to have a little more meat on my bones but hey it was never that big of a deal. Until tonight. After strip searching us, they took away our shoe laces, belts, and anything else we could hang ourselves with or attack someone else with.
Problem? The pants didn't belong to me, and were about three inches too big for me. Next problem? They cuffed me so tight it kept grinding against my wrist bone, chaffing skin and bruising.
Wincing, what else am I to do? Complain? Ha. Haha. Funny. Not really.
And never two without three (especially when it comes to more problems), hands cuffed painfully behind my back, I'm struggling to pull my pants up as they walk me out to a van. I shuffle my way there, handcuffs attached to ankle cuffs.
Now, I'm not sure how many people can relate to what I'm about to say next, but I'm pretty sure you've all experienced that dawn of realization moment, where either your eyes are opened wide and you can now see the clearly painted blue sky, or the dawn brought about a scene so gruesome that you couldn't shut your eyes hard enough to escape it.
My skies weren't blue. Lined up along a wall, about eight of us cuffed and chained, they took count. This is nothing new to us though. We've seen these scenes hundreds of times in movies, main or side character getting arrested, locked up, etc. Yeah. That's the point. In movies.
That's when my dawn
(apocalypse...)
came and I knew I fucked up. I fucked up bad. There was no lying my way out of this, there was no running, there was no escape, there were no drugs. Just stark, merciless reality. And cold metal cuffs.
The van ride was depressing. They drove us to MCC (Metropolitan Correctional Center), which is a pretrial and holdover prison in Chinatown, right by Columbus Park.
They lined us up along a wall, facing it, and called each of our names.
"Haydee!"
No answer. Haydee? A girl? I didn't see any female inmates here and either way that's just not possible.
"Haydee! Haydee!"
My name's been mispronounced a lot, but that was the worst. I finally reacted.
"What, you don't even know your own name?" one of the guards chuckled.
"If you could fucking pronounce it properly maybe I would," I replied.
Lol yeah okay, I'm just kidding. I said nothing lol.
And another cell. This one was cold though. None of us were separated, close to ten of us trying to find a warm and somewhat comfortable spot on the hard benches.
Let me fast forward a little. I think you all got the point that it's as boring as staring at the same spot on a wall hoping you can will it to move with your mind alone just so that something changes in the scenery.
The next day they separated us by groups, I was put in a two-man cell with Steve. I never quite understood why solitary was called "solitary" when it's really a two-man cell.
They clothed me after stripping me (again... I sometimes wondered if they found enjoyment in our humiliation) but everything they had was 4XL or bigger. I kid you not, my tighty-whiteys could be wrapped around me a couple times and knotted.
A bunk bed. A sink. A toilet. A sad excuse for a desk/chair combination. And lots of cockroaches. A lot of inmates sleep with earplugs, not to block out sound (there's really not too much noise once lights are out), but because roaches crawl into your earlobe while you're sleeping and lay their eggs there.
The unsuspecting host goes about their days until the eggs hatch. I forgot what exactly happened to the host (it didn't kill them) but I'm sure it wasn't pretty.
And I had no earplugs. FML.
Fortunately I never had a bug hatch in my ear since so I think it's safe to say I escaped unscathed. Unfortunately, they didn't even let me shower for four days (I never got to leave the cell), so birdbaths in the sink made due.
I think they served food around 5am, 11am, and 6pm. From 6pm to 5am, nothing. And after each meal, I felt like I didn't even eat yet.
Staring out of barred windows, I caught a glimpse of Columbus Park. My mind played tricks on me making me think I could smell Chinese food. Fuck I was starving.
A psychiatrist came by the door to talk to me.
"Do you understand me?"
"Yeah."
"Are you feeling okay?"
"Yeah."
"You're not hearing voices or... seeing hallucinations or anything?"
"Uhh... no?"
"No suicidal thoughts?"
What the fuck.
"No."
He glanced at me and his eyes said that he didn't quite believe me but he also didn't give a flying fuck because he was on the other side of that door and was getting paid regardless if I was lying or not.
That was the only interaction we had with the guards there besides getting our food.
Steve and I did what we could to pass the time. And it's sad when, the person who ratted you out, is the only person that you have right then and there. He tried to stay positive, talking about bail, mentioning that his family had some cops in it...
"I doubt I'm making bail," I said.
"Why not?"
"My mom always told me, she can deal with follies, she understands we all go through those phases, but there are two things that she won't be able to help me with: one, if I got involved with drugs, and two, the law.
This is both. She's dealt with enough of my shit, this is it, I really doubt I'm going to make bail."
Four days later, I met my lawyer. In his fifties, he seemed nice enough. Basically, I was screwed because of the written statements Steve and Jules made.
"I'm working on getting you out on bail, but the USDA must have sensed more money in your family, because she set the bail really high."
"How high?"
"$500,000."
My heart crawled through its own artery to shrivel up and die.
"What??"
I later learned that Steve and Jules' bail was about $30,000 and $24,000 respectively, and we had to post up 10% of it. My lawyer managed to negotiate mine down to $50,000.
Either way, it was a moot point, I wasn't making bail.
On the day I was to appear in court to see if I made bail, I felt like the poor kid on Christmas, watching everyone open up presents, but thinking Santa forgot about me.
I walked into the courtroom and witnessed the power of a mother's love for her child with my very own eyes. Of course she was there, a look of utter disappointment and worry etched all over her face, but she was there nonetheless.
The court proceeded, and I actually made bail.
"Okay, so you made bail, the conditions are as follow," my lawyer says. "You can't leave the city, you can't fail a drug test, miss a meeting with your pretrial officer, or get in trouble in any other fashion, if not you'll be remanded, sent straight to jail, and your parents will be liable for the full $50,000."
I nodded. "Wait but, what if I fail my first drug test, because I still have it in my system?"
"Well that won't be the case, you came out negative for everything."
I blinked a few times. Then a few more times.
"What? That's impossible."
He shrugged. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it."
I left 500 Pearl Street in an orange jumpsuit, fiending for a cigarette, but so ashamed I couldn't even look my mother in the eye.
Blood is thicker than water. Sometimes. But the unconditional love of a mother can never be replaced, and if genuine, should never be doubted. At least that's what I learned from my mother.
I hope you feel the same way about yours.
They left us in our cells for awhile. If there's anything you learn in jail, it's patience. Needless to say, I couldn't count how many hours I've wasted sitting in a cell, waiting for guards to finish my paperwork and usher me along to the next step
(cell)
where they'll keep me for more innumerous hours. Your eyes just dim. Have you ever felt like you were SO bored, that you couldn't be any more bored? Yeah try that times a quadrimillion. I never knew the meaning of boredom until then.
Literally. Nothing. To. Do.
Finally they came to get us. I've always been skinny (bony?), and yeah it'd be nice to have a little more meat on my bones but hey it was never that big of a deal. Until tonight. After strip searching us, they took away our shoe laces, belts, and anything else we could hang ourselves with or attack someone else with.
Problem? The pants didn't belong to me, and were about three inches too big for me. Next problem? They cuffed me so tight it kept grinding against my wrist bone, chaffing skin and bruising.
Wincing, what else am I to do? Complain? Ha. Haha. Funny. Not really.
And never two without three (especially when it comes to more problems), hands cuffed painfully behind my back, I'm struggling to pull my pants up as they walk me out to a van. I shuffle my way there, handcuffs attached to ankle cuffs.
Now, I'm not sure how many people can relate to what I'm about to say next, but I'm pretty sure you've all experienced that dawn of realization moment, where either your eyes are opened wide and you can now see the clearly painted blue sky, or the dawn brought about a scene so gruesome that you couldn't shut your eyes hard enough to escape it.
My skies weren't blue. Lined up along a wall, about eight of us cuffed and chained, they took count. This is nothing new to us though. We've seen these scenes hundreds of times in movies, main or side character getting arrested, locked up, etc. Yeah. That's the point. In movies.
That's when my dawn
(apocalypse...)
came and I knew I fucked up. I fucked up bad. There was no lying my way out of this, there was no running, there was no escape, there were no drugs. Just stark, merciless reality. And cold metal cuffs.
The van ride was depressing. They drove us to MCC (Metropolitan Correctional Center), which is a pretrial and holdover prison in Chinatown, right by Columbus Park.
They lined us up along a wall, facing it, and called each of our names.
"Haydee!"
No answer. Haydee? A girl? I didn't see any female inmates here and either way that's just not possible.
"Haydee! Haydee!"
My name's been mispronounced a lot, but that was the worst. I finally reacted.
"What, you don't even know your own name?" one of the guards chuckled.
"If you could fucking pronounce it properly maybe I would," I replied.
Lol yeah okay, I'm just kidding. I said nothing lol.
And another cell. This one was cold though. None of us were separated, close to ten of us trying to find a warm and somewhat comfortable spot on the hard benches.
Let me fast forward a little. I think you all got the point that it's as boring as staring at the same spot on a wall hoping you can will it to move with your mind alone just so that something changes in the scenery.
The next day they separated us by groups, I was put in a two-man cell with Steve. I never quite understood why solitary was called "solitary" when it's really a two-man cell.
They clothed me after stripping me (again... I sometimes wondered if they found enjoyment in our humiliation) but everything they had was 4XL or bigger. I kid you not, my tighty-whiteys could be wrapped around me a couple times and knotted.
A bunk bed. A sink. A toilet. A sad excuse for a desk/chair combination. And lots of cockroaches. A lot of inmates sleep with earplugs, not to block out sound (there's really not too much noise once lights are out), but because roaches crawl into your earlobe while you're sleeping and lay their eggs there.
The unsuspecting host goes about their days until the eggs hatch. I forgot what exactly happened to the host (it didn't kill them) but I'm sure it wasn't pretty.
And I had no earplugs. FML.
Fortunately I never had a bug hatch in my ear since so I think it's safe to say I escaped unscathed. Unfortunately, they didn't even let me shower for four days (I never got to leave the cell), so birdbaths in the sink made due.
I think they served food around 5am, 11am, and 6pm. From 6pm to 5am, nothing. And after each meal, I felt like I didn't even eat yet.
Staring out of barred windows, I caught a glimpse of Columbus Park. My mind played tricks on me making me think I could smell Chinese food. Fuck I was starving.
A psychiatrist came by the door to talk to me.
"Do you understand me?"
"Yeah."
"Are you feeling okay?"
"Yeah."
"You're not hearing voices or... seeing hallucinations or anything?"
"Uhh... no?"
"No suicidal thoughts?"
What the fuck.
"No."
He glanced at me and his eyes said that he didn't quite believe me but he also didn't give a flying fuck because he was on the other side of that door and was getting paid regardless if I was lying or not.
That was the only interaction we had with the guards there besides getting our food.
Steve and I did what we could to pass the time. And it's sad when, the person who ratted you out, is the only person that you have right then and there. He tried to stay positive, talking about bail, mentioning that his family had some cops in it...
"I doubt I'm making bail," I said.
"Why not?"
"My mom always told me, she can deal with follies, she understands we all go through those phases, but there are two things that she won't be able to help me with: one, if I got involved with drugs, and two, the law.
This is both. She's dealt with enough of my shit, this is it, I really doubt I'm going to make bail."
Four days later, I met my lawyer. In his fifties, he seemed nice enough. Basically, I was screwed because of the written statements Steve and Jules made.
"I'm working on getting you out on bail, but the USDA must have sensed more money in your family, because she set the bail really high."
"How high?"
"$500,000."
My heart crawled through its own artery to shrivel up and die.
"What??"
I later learned that Steve and Jules' bail was about $30,000 and $24,000 respectively, and we had to post up 10% of it. My lawyer managed to negotiate mine down to $50,000.
Either way, it was a moot point, I wasn't making bail.
On the day I was to appear in court to see if I made bail, I felt like the poor kid on Christmas, watching everyone open up presents, but thinking Santa forgot about me.
I walked into the courtroom and witnessed the power of a mother's love for her child with my very own eyes. Of course she was there, a look of utter disappointment and worry etched all over her face, but she was there nonetheless.
The court proceeded, and I actually made bail.
"Okay, so you made bail, the conditions are as follow," my lawyer says. "You can't leave the city, you can't fail a drug test, miss a meeting with your pretrial officer, or get in trouble in any other fashion, if not you'll be remanded, sent straight to jail, and your parents will be liable for the full $50,000."
I nodded. "Wait but, what if I fail my first drug test, because I still have it in my system?"
"Well that won't be the case, you came out negative for everything."
I blinked a few times. Then a few more times.
"What? That's impossible."
He shrugged. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it."
I left 500 Pearl Street in an orange jumpsuit, fiending for a cigarette, but so ashamed I couldn't even look my mother in the eye.
Blood is thicker than water. Sometimes. But the unconditional love of a mother can never be replaced, and if genuine, should never be doubted. At least that's what I learned from my mother.
I hope you feel the same way about yours.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Bottle on the House
I hadn't really celebrated my birthday in awhile. I came back from jail in 2005, and the first two years I was really just trying to get back on my feet. I found a couple jobs but nothing great (besides the amazing people I've met at almost each). But 2007-2008 was game changing.
I tripled my salary in a little over two years (yes I realize "tripling" isn't very descriptive, I'm sure people with no income can easily increase it by hundreds of percent lol), finally moved to (the middle of) Manhattan, and things were on the right path, still are actually. So I ended up in a digital ad agency, building websites and web apps for some of the biggest brands in the world.
So not like 27 is a special age, but 2009 was the first time I decided to actually throw myself a party, something I usually hate doing. The invitations, splitting the bill, finding a place, never tickled my fancy.
But hey, I'd been locked up for 2.5 years, why not? So I invited a combination of friends I met through work and friends from years ago. We went to Third Floor Cafe, a Korean bar on 32nd St. and 5th Ave.
Location was chosen for a couple reasons.
A couple cocktails later, more people showed up than I anticipated. We had some seating problems that were eventually resolved, then the shots started.
I remember ten to twelve shots. Problem was, my friends were mixing the type of shots they kept (easily) "forcing" down my throat.
Johnny Black, Patron, Three Wise Men... that's just what I remember.
The rest of the night was a blur. I was wasted. Not everyone could tell, since I had different groups of friends present who didn't know one another, I was doing what I could to make sure everyone was comfortable.
I still feel bad because there were a few people I don't think I even got a chance to talk to that night. Adrenaline kept me going, more shots came, and somewhere in all that there was a bottle of Patron on the house. I found out through Facebook the following day.
People came and went, leaving me money asking if it was enough. Laughing, all I could reply was:
"I have no idea."
The next day I was filled in by various sources. Apparently I had over twenty shots. How I wasn't rushed to the hospital I have no idea, but all I know is that I sure as hell didn't feel healthy the next day.
The bill came out to $1,600. I covered a quarter of it lol. I guess instead of saying "I have no idea," I should have said "Hell no, give me another $20!" But it's all good, I kind of expected something like this to happen beforehand, it always does with big groups. But I wanted to have a celebration, somewhat of a combination celebration of my freedom, birthday, and the positive changes that I've affected upon my life.
Partying as a teenager all drugged up was fun. But something has to be said for guiltless, hard-earned fun =) Thanks to everyone who made it, and thanks to those who couldn't but wish they could. The rest of you? Fuck off =P haha jp I <3 you all
2009 has been, on a personal level at least, a good year.
I tripled my salary in a little over two years (yes I realize "tripling" isn't very descriptive, I'm sure people with no income can easily increase it by hundreds of percent lol), finally moved to (the middle of) Manhattan, and things were on the right path, still are actually. So I ended up in a digital ad agency, building websites and web apps for some of the biggest brands in the world.
So not like 27 is a special age, but 2009 was the first time I decided to actually throw myself a party, something I usually hate doing. The invitations, splitting the bill, finding a place, never tickled my fancy.
But hey, I'd been locked up for 2.5 years, why not? So I invited a combination of friends I met through work and friends from years ago. We went to Third Floor Cafe, a Korean bar on 32nd St. and 5th Ave.
Location was chosen for a couple reasons.
- It was close to home so I could easily stumble back.
- They knew me so I get free shit sometimes
- The waitress Cecile is friendly*cough*hot*cough*
A couple cocktails later, more people showed up than I anticipated. We had some seating problems that were eventually resolved, then the shots started.
I remember ten to twelve shots. Problem was, my friends were mixing the type of shots they kept (easily) "forcing" down my throat.
Johnny Black, Patron, Three Wise Men... that's just what I remember.
The rest of the night was a blur. I was wasted. Not everyone could tell, since I had different groups of friends present who didn't know one another, I was doing what I could to make sure everyone was comfortable.
I still feel bad because there were a few people I don't think I even got a chance to talk to that night. Adrenaline kept me going, more shots came, and somewhere in all that there was a bottle of Patron on the house. I found out through Facebook the following day.
People came and went, leaving me money asking if it was enough. Laughing, all I could reply was:
"I have no idea."
The next day I was filled in by various sources. Apparently I had over twenty shots. How I wasn't rushed to the hospital I have no idea, but all I know is that I sure as hell didn't feel healthy the next day.
The bill came out to $1,600. I covered a quarter of it lol. I guess instead of saying "I have no idea," I should have said "Hell no, give me another $20!" But it's all good, I kind of expected something like this to happen beforehand, it always does with big groups. But I wanted to have a celebration, somewhat of a combination celebration of my freedom, birthday, and the positive changes that I've affected upon my life.
Partying as a teenager all drugged up was fun. But something has to be said for guiltless, hard-earned fun =) Thanks to everyone who made it, and thanks to those who couldn't but wish they could. The rest of you? Fuck off =P haha jp I <3 you all
2009 has been, on a personal level at least, a good year.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Ten Twenty Nine Oh One - Part 1
To be honest, I don't remember how this night started. What I do remember is that we had to deliver 1,000 pills to Jules' friend in Manhattan. We borrowed Steve's partner's car, and drove from Brooklyn to my mom's place, I had to pick up a few things. It was a couple days before Halloween, October 29th actually.
I walked into my mom's apartment for the first time in a month, but we were in a hurry, so I was rushing about. It was around 8:00pm, and my mom was trying to get a good look at me and talking to me, especially since she hasn't seen me in a long time.
She had a concerned look on her face, I think she also felt helpless, unable to stop me from walking back out that door. The conversation was very brief.
I hopped back into the car, while calling Jules' friend. He asked us to meet him on some street in Greenwich Village. Not thinking twice about it, we drove off.
Steve and I told Jules that this was the last time we were delivering, and if his friend wanted more, he'd have to come to us in Queens. Jules nodded, saying he understood how much of a hassle it was.
"Yeah I already told him that but he kept saying he was worried we might set him up."
"What?" I asked incredulous. "Is he stupid? If anything, it'd be him setting us up, who the hell sets up the buyer instead of the dealer?"
We all laughed about it and chalked it up to inexperience. When we got to the agreed street, it was jam packed with pedestrians, cops, everyone.
"Why did he pick this street, of all places in Manhattan? Is he dumb?"
If he's dumb, I was dumber. Or just not thinking clearly after a few months of continuous highs.
We parked the car, Jules' friend got in.
"Are those the pills?" he asked, pointing to a Motorola box.
"Yeah," Steve replied. "A thousand."
"Okay, let me go get the money from my partner."
He did the same the first time I sold to him. Steve never met him before.
In the mirror I saw a car try to bust a U-turn on a one-way street. I started laughing thinking he didn't know how to drive or he might have been drunk.
Until I saw another car in front of us do the exact same thing.
"Oh shit..." I trailed off.
DEA agents jumped out of everywhere, guns drawn.
"Freeze motherfuckers! Get your hands in the air!"
Make up your damn minds. Freeze or hands up? Unsure of which command to obey, I just stayed still, which I guess I inadvertently obeyed command No. 1. I've seen too many innocent kids get shot because the cops thought they were reaching for a weapon.
It's a dream, I'ma wake up. It's a dream, I'ma wake up...
I haven't woken up since.
They pulled me out of the car, slammed me on the cold concrete, foot on my back, they patted me down for weapons, asking if I had any at the same time.
I shook my head, then remembering I carried a knife, I told them about it.
They pulled me back up. Pedestrians everywhere were taking front row seats to the free just-off-Broadway show, some laughing and pointing, some chuckling, some curious, and some actually seeming concerned. Don't ask how I recorded the emotions of a few dozen people in a matter of seconds. I just did. Or like to believe that I did.
And then the prejudice begins.
"You know Nicky Dragon?" one of them asked me.
"No."
"You look just like him. You sure you don't know him?"
I shook my head again.
"Well he was the head of Flying Dragons back in the 80s, but we took him down. We'll take you all down."
They pushed me towards a car, separating the three of us.
"You know any martial arts or anything?" someone asked me, chuckling.
"A little," I said softly.
I meant it as a joke, even though I did take karate when I was younger. What the fuck would karate do for me in this situation??
But, surprisingly, the agent didn't take it so lightly. He actually paused long enough to look at me closely, then pushed me to someone else.
"Here you take him."
What an idiot lol.
Anyhow, once in the car, they pressured me to cooperate with them over and over again.
"Cooperate with us and we'll cut you a deal."
I didn't know how to deal with these kinds of situations. So what did I do? I did what I saw on TV. You don't talk until you see your lawyer.
"I wanna see my lawyer."
"Come on kid, you're looking at five years if you don't work with us. You don't wanna do five years, trust me. You're young. You say no now, and come back crying to us later that you wanna cut a deal, we won't be giving you the same deal."
"I wanna see my lawyer."
"Look, don't do this to yourself..."
"I wanna see my laywer."
This went on for awhile. I must have told them I wanted to see my lawyer close to ten times.
We got back to their headquarters, and I was the only one in a cell. Jules and Steve were in separate rooms making signed confessions.
Fuck. Fucking assholes. Meanwhile I'm the youngest of the three. Can't you fuckers just keep your mouths shut??
I shook my head in resignation, looking around at my empty cell, first time ever being a cage. I felt bad for the animals at zoos. Steve was walked out of his interrogation room first. He glanced at me, teary eyed and apologized.
I just shrugged. Apologies weren't going to do me jack shit.
They eventually called me out of my cell, fingerprinted me (that fucking ink is IMPOSSIBLE to wash off...), made me strip naked (and trust me, you lose your dignity one strip at a time), asked me a ridiculous amount of questions, and eventually sent me back to my cell.
We were all in separate cells, more silent than a graveyard at the stroke of midnight. I would like to relate the thoughts crossing my mind at that point, but unfortunately it's impossible.
My mind was a total blank. I don't even think the gravity of what just happened had fully hit home yet.
But next time something impossibly crazy happens to you, pinch yourself harder or you might never wake up.
I walked into my mom's apartment for the first time in a month, but we were in a hurry, so I was rushing about. It was around 8:00pm, and my mom was trying to get a good look at me and talking to me, especially since she hasn't seen me in a long time.
She had a concerned look on her face, I think she also felt helpless, unable to stop me from walking back out that door. The conversation was very brief.
I hopped back into the car, while calling Jules' friend. He asked us to meet him on some street in Greenwich Village. Not thinking twice about it, we drove off.
Steve and I told Jules that this was the last time we were delivering, and if his friend wanted more, he'd have to come to us in Queens. Jules nodded, saying he understood how much of a hassle it was.
"Yeah I already told him that but he kept saying he was worried we might set him up."
"What?" I asked incredulous. "Is he stupid? If anything, it'd be him setting us up, who the hell sets up the buyer instead of the dealer?"
We all laughed about it and chalked it up to inexperience. When we got to the agreed street, it was jam packed with pedestrians, cops, everyone.
"Why did he pick this street, of all places in Manhattan? Is he dumb?"
If he's dumb, I was dumber. Or just not thinking clearly after a few months of continuous highs.
We parked the car, Jules' friend got in.
"Are those the pills?" he asked, pointing to a Motorola box.
"Yeah," Steve replied. "A thousand."
"Okay, let me go get the money from my partner."
He did the same the first time I sold to him. Steve never met him before.
In the mirror I saw a car try to bust a U-turn on a one-way street. I started laughing thinking he didn't know how to drive or he might have been drunk.
Until I saw another car in front of us do the exact same thing.
"Oh shit..." I trailed off.
DEA agents jumped out of everywhere, guns drawn.
"Freeze motherfuckers! Get your hands in the air!"
Make up your damn minds. Freeze or hands up? Unsure of which command to obey, I just stayed still, which I guess I inadvertently obeyed command No. 1. I've seen too many innocent kids get shot because the cops thought they were reaching for a weapon.
It's a dream, I'ma wake up. It's a dream, I'ma wake up...
I haven't woken up since.
They pulled me out of the car, slammed me on the cold concrete, foot on my back, they patted me down for weapons, asking if I had any at the same time.
I shook my head, then remembering I carried a knife, I told them about it.
They pulled me back up. Pedestrians everywhere were taking front row seats to the free just-off-Broadway show, some laughing and pointing, some chuckling, some curious, and some actually seeming concerned. Don't ask how I recorded the emotions of a few dozen people in a matter of seconds. I just did. Or like to believe that I did.
And then the prejudice begins.
"You know Nicky Dragon?" one of them asked me.
"No."
"You look just like him. You sure you don't know him?"
I shook my head again.
"Well he was the head of Flying Dragons back in the 80s, but we took him down. We'll take you all down."
They pushed me towards a car, separating the three of us.
"You know any martial arts or anything?" someone asked me, chuckling.
"A little," I said softly.
I meant it as a joke, even though I did take karate when I was younger. What the fuck would karate do for me in this situation??
But, surprisingly, the agent didn't take it so lightly. He actually paused long enough to look at me closely, then pushed me to someone else.
"Here you take him."
What an idiot lol.
Anyhow, once in the car, they pressured me to cooperate with them over and over again.
"Cooperate with us and we'll cut you a deal."
I didn't know how to deal with these kinds of situations. So what did I do? I did what I saw on TV. You don't talk until you see your lawyer.
"I wanna see my lawyer."
"Come on kid, you're looking at five years if you don't work with us. You don't wanna do five years, trust me. You're young. You say no now, and come back crying to us later that you wanna cut a deal, we won't be giving you the same deal."
"I wanna see my lawyer."
"Look, don't do this to yourself..."
"I wanna see my laywer."
This went on for awhile. I must have told them I wanted to see my lawyer close to ten times.
We got back to their headquarters, and I was the only one in a cell. Jules and Steve were in separate rooms making signed confessions.
Fuck. Fucking assholes. Meanwhile I'm the youngest of the three. Can't you fuckers just keep your mouths shut??
I shook my head in resignation, looking around at my empty cell, first time ever being a cage. I felt bad for the animals at zoos. Steve was walked out of his interrogation room first. He glanced at me, teary eyed and apologized.
I just shrugged. Apologies weren't going to do me jack shit.
They eventually called me out of my cell, fingerprinted me (that fucking ink is IMPOSSIBLE to wash off...), made me strip naked (and trust me, you lose your dignity one strip at a time), asked me a ridiculous amount of questions, and eventually sent me back to my cell.
We were all in separate cells, more silent than a graveyard at the stroke of midnight. I would like to relate the thoughts crossing my mind at that point, but unfortunately it's impossible.
My mind was a total blank. I don't even think the gravity of what just happened had fully hit home yet.
But next time something impossibly crazy happens to you, pinch yourself harder or you might never wake up.
Amateur Fight Club
It was about a year after my arrest, meaning that I had been on pretrial for a year. Weekly drugs tests, and weekly calls to report in. At least I wasn't on house arrest, even though I couldn't leave New York City.
An old friend of mine Sean from high school (boarding school upstate NY) invited Lisa and me over to his place, on the Upper West Side. Actually, it was his parents place. It was a beautiful apartment, not nouveau-riche but au contraire, it emanated that old wealth that you can only be born into.
Sean had a particular family. His (hot) older sister had moved out with her fiance, his mother was very fond of French culture (particularly their vineyards), and his father was a retired judge who was clinically diagnosed with depression.
Anyhow, I was a regular at Sean's house when I first moved back to NYC. He had a fair amount of privacy in his room so we were able to smoke to our lung's content. This night, I went there with Lisa with a bottle of Bacardi and Alize.
The three of us split the Alize, and Sean and I finished the rum. Three to four hours later, I got up for the first time to take a piss. That's when it hit me. I was pretty fucking drunk. I stumbled my way to the bathroom, still trying to not wake up Sean's parents despite my drunken state.
I finally made it to the bathroom, which was unusually long, and of course, the toilet was on the other side. For some inexplicable reason however, at the sight of the sink, I had a sudden uncontrollable urge to vomit.
And out it came. A lot of it. I don't remember what I ate that night, but from how it clogged the sink and filled it two-thirds of the way, I'm assuming I had a hearty dinner.
I tried (kind of) to unclog the sink, but I couldn't think of any way besides sticking my hand in there, so hoping Sean or Lisa would have a better idea, I left it for now. I borrowed some Listerine, then almost forgetting why I was there in the first place, I answered nature's call.
Back in the room, I heard both of them laughing.
"Yo yo yo, Alex, you gotta take a look at this," Sean said in between spurts of laughter.
"Sean, I gotta tell you something, I..."
"Yo, come check this out bro, this shit is mad funny."
"Yo Sean, you don't understand, I puked in your sink. It's clogged."
"What? Ah man don't worry man, come check this out man!"
"Nah but Sean, wait, your mom... you don't understand, you sink is completely clogged!"
"Nah nah don't worry man, come take a look man."
He never stopped laughing the whole time. Sean's bedroom walls have some posters but mainly a lot of graffiti. He used to be part of a graffiti crew back in the days. Earlier that day he had bought these new paint markers, and apparently he didn't realize drunk graffiti wasn't the most aesthetic form of art.
And to prove that point, he had tagged his name on his wall, but it was more akin to a kindergardener's scribble.
"Look at that shit!" he said emphatically, "I've never, ever, EVER tagged anything THAT fucking ugly!"
His tone of voice, body language, everything, cracked me the fuck up. You had to have been there. Obviously we all know the alcohol was the main catalyst in all that but that should be left subtly implied. I sat back down next to my girl and kept on laughing.
I was laughing so hard my sides were hurting, eyes watering, clutching my stomach and, hysterical. After awhile though, it seemed to cause a problem.
"Yo," Sean said. "Keep it down. Keep it down man my parents are gonna hear us."
But I've already hit the point of no return. You know those rare laughs that you wished you could have more often? The laughs that let you release that inner child with wild abandon. And the more he told us to shut up, the harder we laughed.
"Yo seriously man, keep it quiet man, shut up!"
And he punched me in the face. My head whipped from side to side, eyes wide with confusion. When I slowly realized what had actually happened, I burst out laughing even more because I couldn't believe that such a good friend had just punched me.
The previous scenario repeated, and Sean actually punched me again.
"Ow, damn son, chill that time that shit actually hurt."
Laughing apologetically, he said sorry and said I could hit him back.
Drunk as hell, I barely formed a fist and I ended up only half punching him.
"Nah nah that shit don't count," I said.
He agreed to let me hit him again. This time, I nailed right on the side of the nose.
"Oww damn that shit fucking smarts!'
We laughed at what just happened, rubbing our faces, wincing every now and then. Lisa and I promoted at Exit at the time, and we impulsively decided to go. Problem was, we were pretty broke (notice a trend from these days?), but promoters didn't have to pay cover until 1:00am, and we had an extra promoter's card for Sean.
Then what's the problem? It was past 12:30am. We had to make it down to Columbus Circle, which was possible but very tight. We decided to try anyway.
On the elevator ride down, I was whispering something to Lisa in her ear, and out of nowhere Sean punched me in the neck. Seriously, what the fuck lol?? I obviously punched him back.
To this day I still wonder what his doorman must have thought seeing us walking out, holding our neck and face respectively, moaning in pain.
Walking to the train station, Sean started randomly punching car windows. He was a violent drunk. A block or so later, I'm guessing it was due to pent up frustration and anger (mainly at myself), out of nowhere, I took a couple steps and kicked at a car's passenger side window.
Next thing I knew, I was knee-deep into the car, window shattered.
"Oh shit..."
I hopped out, and made sure to shake off as much glass from my pants and shoe as possible, I sped walk around the corner. Released on bail, that was by far the dumbest thing I could have done.
Around the corner of 72nd St, a family was walking by, grandparents, parents and kinds (why kids were out that late, ask the parents), but Sean randomly went to a trash can and threw it across their path, garbage and litter spilling all over the place.
Too embarrassed to even look at them, I 've always pictured the look of complete shock on their face.
Without missing a beat, Sean runs up to a Benz, and rips out the Mercedes symbol from the hood, then runs to a phone booth and smashes his hand so hard against it to shatter the glass of the advertisement.
We finally made it into the train. Sitting there and talking, Sean repeatedly taps me on the shoulder while talking, unaware that his hands were covered with blood. About to say something, I realized the futility of it all, especially considering that I already had blood all over my jacket by now.
We arrived at Columbus Circle 59th St., and I guess Sean was ready to have a little fun. Every person he saw on the train platform, he ran up to them spastically and shoved his bloody hands right in front of their faces and screamed:
"AHHH! AHHH! I GOT AIDS!!!"
Then ran off to the next poor unsuspecting victim. I was cracking up, I never seen Sean this drunk and wild.
He grabbed a piece of paper from the floor which turned out to be a post-it note with "PULL MY ADHESIVE" written on it.
Sean ran out of the subway, the post-it note by his crotch, approaching strangers and couples alike, thrusting his hips forward shouting:
"Pull my adhesive!! Pullll my adhesiveeee!!!"
All pedestrians avoided him like he was the brainchild of the plague and swine flu. Lisa and I tried to keep up, and I kept calling his name and he either didn't hear me or ignored me. I think it was the latter.
He climbed up the side of a small Mack truck, tried the door handle, and by some weird twist of coincidence, the door actually opened. Lisa and I looked at each other somewhat confused, and before we could say anything, a Jansport backpack flew out into the sidewalk.
"Sean! SEAN!"
I looked in the truck and he was no longer there, the passenger door was open, and he was already a half block down.
Lisa didn't look too happy.
"Are you mad?"
"Yeah kinda, you guys are acting like fools."
"Yeah I know, sorry bebe."
I knew we were acting like fools. But to be honest, only Sean was now. I somewhat sobered up after kicking in that window.
As we were talking, two guys walked by and I thought I heard one of them say something about Lisa. When I said I had somewhat sobered up, that was a half lie. Still drunk, but just not retarded drunk.
"What the fuck did you say?" I asked.
One of them seemed to be as drunk as I was, meanwhile the other was sober.
"What?" the drunk one spun on me.
"The fuck did you say about my girl?"
"Look, you don't want none of this. I got ten people following a couple blocks behind us, you don't want none of this."
In the meantime, his sober friend was trying to squash everything and keep walking, saying it was a misunderstanding.
"I don't give a fuck about you, or your ten boys, I'll kick all of your asses!" said the Bacardi and Alize.
By this time, Sean doubled back and was wondering what was going on. No sooner had he caught on, we were surrounded by ten people or so.
Ah fuck, not again...
But luckily, the ten other people were in no mood for a fight even if it would have been like winning a court case with Johnny Cochran as your lawyer.
At Exit, we missed the promoter's line. Bummed, we started to leave, and waiting to cross street, the infamous paint markers resurfaced to perform an encore of a child's scribble on the club wall. Two guys soon approached Sean, and thinking that they were thugs trying to start shit with him, I went to see what was going on.
One of them intercepted me and asked:
"He your boy?"
"Yeah he's my boy."
"So you got his back?"
"No shit I got his back."
Thinking shit was going to go down, he put his arm around my shoulder and waved a walkie-talkie in my face.
"You sure you got his back?"
Ah fuck... (for the second time tonight)
But it was too late to back out now.
"Yeah I got his back."
The other security guard was talking to Sean across the street and ended up letting him go. Walking away, Sean was furious.
"Those fucking fake ass thugs think they can fuck with me, I'll motherfucking slit their throats, who the fuck they think they are stepping up to me like that I..."
"What the fuck nigga, they were cops, security for the club. They're doing their jobs.."
"Nahh fuck that man, they were just some thugs stepping to me man, they..."
"They waved a goddamn walkie in my face, what the fuck are you talking about? Yo, every time you're mad drunk you do some dumb shit, I can't even fuck with you like this anymore."
We started arguing with one another, shoving each other but things calmed down. He slammed his hand against another public phone booth (old grudge perhaps?) but soon he sobered up.
We went to a nearby McDonalds and he washed up. In the subway station where we were going to part ways, he asked what the fuck happened that night.
I started to tell him the story I just told you, and at first he wouldn't believe that he hit me to begin with. An hour and a half later, finally done (I omitted some smaller unimportant details here), we went home.
Next day around 3:00pm, I got a call.
"Hey man, it's Sean."
"Hey..." still groggy.
"I think you told me last night already but I don't really remember, but can you refresh my memory?"
He had no idea what happened. Moral of the story? There isn't one, I just thought it was funny lol (minus my little slip of the foot)
An old friend of mine Sean from high school (boarding school upstate NY) invited Lisa and me over to his place, on the Upper West Side. Actually, it was his parents place. It was a beautiful apartment, not nouveau-riche but au contraire, it emanated that old wealth that you can only be born into.
Sean had a particular family. His (hot) older sister had moved out with her fiance, his mother was very fond of French culture (particularly their vineyards), and his father was a retired judge who was clinically diagnosed with depression.
Anyhow, I was a regular at Sean's house when I first moved back to NYC. He had a fair amount of privacy in his room so we were able to smoke to our lung's content. This night, I went there with Lisa with a bottle of Bacardi and Alize.
The three of us split the Alize, and Sean and I finished the rum. Three to four hours later, I got up for the first time to take a piss. That's when it hit me. I was pretty fucking drunk. I stumbled my way to the bathroom, still trying to not wake up Sean's parents despite my drunken state.
I finally made it to the bathroom, which was unusually long, and of course, the toilet was on the other side. For some inexplicable reason however, at the sight of the sink, I had a sudden uncontrollable urge to vomit.
And out it came. A lot of it. I don't remember what I ate that night, but from how it clogged the sink and filled it two-thirds of the way, I'm assuming I had a hearty dinner.
I tried (kind of) to unclog the sink, but I couldn't think of any way besides sticking my hand in there, so hoping Sean or Lisa would have a better idea, I left it for now. I borrowed some Listerine, then almost forgetting why I was there in the first place, I answered nature's call.
Back in the room, I heard both of them laughing.
"Yo yo yo, Alex, you gotta take a look at this," Sean said in between spurts of laughter.
"Sean, I gotta tell you something, I..."
"Yo, come check this out bro, this shit is mad funny."
"Yo Sean, you don't understand, I puked in your sink. It's clogged."
"What? Ah man don't worry man, come check this out man!"
"Nah but Sean, wait, your mom... you don't understand, you sink is completely clogged!"
"Nah nah don't worry man, come take a look man."
He never stopped laughing the whole time. Sean's bedroom walls have some posters but mainly a lot of graffiti. He used to be part of a graffiti crew back in the days. Earlier that day he had bought these new paint markers, and apparently he didn't realize drunk graffiti wasn't the most aesthetic form of art.
And to prove that point, he had tagged his name on his wall, but it was more akin to a kindergardener's scribble.
"Look at that shit!" he said emphatically, "I've never, ever, EVER tagged anything THAT fucking ugly!"
His tone of voice, body language, everything, cracked me the fuck up. You had to have been there. Obviously we all know the alcohol was the main catalyst in all that but that should be left subtly implied. I sat back down next to my girl and kept on laughing.
I was laughing so hard my sides were hurting, eyes watering, clutching my stomach and, hysterical. After awhile though, it seemed to cause a problem.
"Yo," Sean said. "Keep it down. Keep it down man my parents are gonna hear us."
But I've already hit the point of no return. You know those rare laughs that you wished you could have more often? The laughs that let you release that inner child with wild abandon. And the more he told us to shut up, the harder we laughed.
"Yo seriously man, keep it quiet man, shut up!"
And he punched me in the face. My head whipped from side to side, eyes wide with confusion. When I slowly realized what had actually happened, I burst out laughing even more because I couldn't believe that such a good friend had just punched me.
The previous scenario repeated, and Sean actually punched me again.
"Ow, damn son, chill that time that shit actually hurt."
Laughing apologetically, he said sorry and said I could hit him back.
Drunk as hell, I barely formed a fist and I ended up only half punching him.
"Nah nah that shit don't count," I said.
He agreed to let me hit him again. This time, I nailed right on the side of the nose.
"Oww damn that shit fucking smarts!'
We laughed at what just happened, rubbing our faces, wincing every now and then. Lisa and I promoted at Exit at the time, and we impulsively decided to go. Problem was, we were pretty broke (notice a trend from these days?), but promoters didn't have to pay cover until 1:00am, and we had an extra promoter's card for Sean.
Then what's the problem? It was past 12:30am. We had to make it down to Columbus Circle, which was possible but very tight. We decided to try anyway.
On the elevator ride down, I was whispering something to Lisa in her ear, and out of nowhere Sean punched me in the neck. Seriously, what the fuck lol?? I obviously punched him back.
To this day I still wonder what his doorman must have thought seeing us walking out, holding our neck and face respectively, moaning in pain.
Walking to the train station, Sean started randomly punching car windows. He was a violent drunk. A block or so later, I'm guessing it was due to pent up frustration and anger (mainly at myself), out of nowhere, I took a couple steps and kicked at a car's passenger side window.
Next thing I knew, I was knee-deep into the car, window shattered.
"Oh shit..."
I hopped out, and made sure to shake off as much glass from my pants and shoe as possible, I sped walk around the corner. Released on bail, that was by far the dumbest thing I could have done.
Around the corner of 72nd St, a family was walking by, grandparents, parents and kinds (why kids were out that late, ask the parents), but Sean randomly went to a trash can and threw it across their path, garbage and litter spilling all over the place.
Too embarrassed to even look at them, I 've always pictured the look of complete shock on their face.
Without missing a beat, Sean runs up to a Benz, and rips out the Mercedes symbol from the hood, then runs to a phone booth and smashes his hand so hard against it to shatter the glass of the advertisement.
We finally made it into the train. Sitting there and talking, Sean repeatedly taps me on the shoulder while talking, unaware that his hands were covered with blood. About to say something, I realized the futility of it all, especially considering that I already had blood all over my jacket by now.
We arrived at Columbus Circle 59th St., and I guess Sean was ready to have a little fun. Every person he saw on the train platform, he ran up to them spastically and shoved his bloody hands right in front of their faces and screamed:
"AHHH! AHHH! I GOT AIDS!!!"
Then ran off to the next poor unsuspecting victim. I was cracking up, I never seen Sean this drunk and wild.
He grabbed a piece of paper from the floor which turned out to be a post-it note with "PULL MY ADHESIVE" written on it.
Sean ran out of the subway, the post-it note by his crotch, approaching strangers and couples alike, thrusting his hips forward shouting:
"Pull my adhesive!! Pullll my adhesiveeee!!!"
All pedestrians avoided him like he was the brainchild of the plague and swine flu. Lisa and I tried to keep up, and I kept calling his name and he either didn't hear me or ignored me. I think it was the latter.
He climbed up the side of a small Mack truck, tried the door handle, and by some weird twist of coincidence, the door actually opened. Lisa and I looked at each other somewhat confused, and before we could say anything, a Jansport backpack flew out into the sidewalk.
"Sean! SEAN!"
I looked in the truck and he was no longer there, the passenger door was open, and he was already a half block down.
Lisa didn't look too happy.
"Are you mad?"
"Yeah kinda, you guys are acting like fools."
"Yeah I know, sorry bebe."
I knew we were acting like fools. But to be honest, only Sean was now. I somewhat sobered up after kicking in that window.
As we were talking, two guys walked by and I thought I heard one of them say something about Lisa. When I said I had somewhat sobered up, that was a half lie. Still drunk, but just not retarded drunk.
"What the fuck did you say?" I asked.
One of them seemed to be as drunk as I was, meanwhile the other was sober.
"What?" the drunk one spun on me.
"The fuck did you say about my girl?"
"Look, you don't want none of this. I got ten people following a couple blocks behind us, you don't want none of this."
In the meantime, his sober friend was trying to squash everything and keep walking, saying it was a misunderstanding.
"I don't give a fuck about you, or your ten boys, I'll kick all of your asses!" said the Bacardi and Alize.
By this time, Sean doubled back and was wondering what was going on. No sooner had he caught on, we were surrounded by ten people or so.
Ah fuck, not again...
But luckily, the ten other people were in no mood for a fight even if it would have been like winning a court case with Johnny Cochran as your lawyer.
At Exit, we missed the promoter's line. Bummed, we started to leave, and waiting to cross street, the infamous paint markers resurfaced to perform an encore of a child's scribble on the club wall. Two guys soon approached Sean, and thinking that they were thugs trying to start shit with him, I went to see what was going on.
One of them intercepted me and asked:
"He your boy?"
"Yeah he's my boy."
"So you got his back?"
"No shit I got his back."
Thinking shit was going to go down, he put his arm around my shoulder and waved a walkie-talkie in my face.
"You sure you got his back?"
Ah fuck... (for the second time tonight)
But it was too late to back out now.
"Yeah I got his back."
The other security guard was talking to Sean across the street and ended up letting him go. Walking away, Sean was furious.
"Those fucking fake ass thugs think they can fuck with me, I'll motherfucking slit their throats, who the fuck they think they are stepping up to me like that I..."
"What the fuck nigga, they were cops, security for the club. They're doing their jobs.."
"Nahh fuck that man, they were just some thugs stepping to me man, they..."
"They waved a goddamn walkie in my face, what the fuck are you talking about? Yo, every time you're mad drunk you do some dumb shit, I can't even fuck with you like this anymore."
We started arguing with one another, shoving each other but things calmed down. He slammed his hand against another public phone booth (old grudge perhaps?) but soon he sobered up.
We went to a nearby McDonalds and he washed up. In the subway station where we were going to part ways, he asked what the fuck happened that night.
I started to tell him the story I just told you, and at first he wouldn't believe that he hit me to begin with. An hour and a half later, finally done (I omitted some smaller unimportant details here), we went home.
Next day around 3:00pm, I got a call.
"Hey man, it's Sean."
"Hey..." still groggy.
"I think you told me last night already but I don't really remember, but can you refresh my memory?"
He had no idea what happened. Moral of the story? There isn't one, I just thought it was funny lol (minus my little slip of the foot)
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Why You Shouldn't Air Your Dirty Laundry in Public
It always interested me how humanity rebuilds societies, from the smallest scale to the largest. Post-apocalyptic settings are full of these scenarios, the backbone of novels and games galore. What becomes currency, what economic issues are encountered, what kind of groups emerge from the survivors...
And jail was no different. Pouches of mackerels were a dollar each since they cost $1.05 at commissary (our Walmart). Macks and stamps were the most common form of currency. A billionaire secretly employs a quarter of the unit, a hustler starts his own underground, after-hours K-Mart, a gambling kingpin sends out his henchmen to collect debts.
But you don't have to be a billionaire to be lazy in jail. If you have five macks to spare a week, you can get your cube cleaned and your laundry done and folded. All the inmates that are not fortunate enough to have people on the outside able or willing to send them funds work for their keep.
And because of this side job of theirs, two Jamaicans got the shit beat out of them, one of their eye popping out of the socket. All over laundry.
Six Mexicans took over the laundry room one Sunday, since they were doing a couple dozen loads. The two Jamaicans were on their day off and wanted to wash their own clothes. From what I heard, they waited for quite a while.
Sick of endlessly waiting for their turn, they took out whatever clothes were in the washer and started their own laundry load. Whether they were justified or not in doing so is up for debate, I can understand both sides.
The Mexicans weren't so understanding. They proceeded to crack them in the head with one of those really old, heavy (iron?) mop buckets, kicked off a broom handle, and stabbed the Jamaicans with the splintered end. Supposedly one of the Jamaican's eye popped out of its socket.
All of them were detained, and sent to solitary or the hospital as necessary. FBI got involved and our unit was shut down and isolated for a couple days because they thought it might have been gang related.
We never saw any of those inmates again. They all got their security level raised and were most likely going to a medium-level security prison. And the Jamaicans were most likely hospitalized for a while.
What irks me about this whole story though is, I made it a point to not get involved with all the jail politics and bullshit drama, but it still affected me regardless. One of those Mexicans was the guy I paid to do my shit!
Lol I say that in jest however. Not really that big of a deal. But jumping someone over laundry? Really? What happened to using our words? =P
And jail was no different. Pouches of mackerels were a dollar each since they cost $1.05 at commissary (our Walmart). Macks and stamps were the most common form of currency. A billionaire secretly employs a quarter of the unit, a hustler starts his own underground, after-hours K-Mart, a gambling kingpin sends out his henchmen to collect debts.
But you don't have to be a billionaire to be lazy in jail. If you have five macks to spare a week, you can get your cube cleaned and your laundry done and folded. All the inmates that are not fortunate enough to have people on the outside able or willing to send them funds work for their keep.
And because of this side job of theirs, two Jamaicans got the shit beat out of them, one of their eye popping out of the socket. All over laundry.
Six Mexicans took over the laundry room one Sunday, since they were doing a couple dozen loads. The two Jamaicans were on their day off and wanted to wash their own clothes. From what I heard, they waited for quite a while.
Sick of endlessly waiting for their turn, they took out whatever clothes were in the washer and started their own laundry load. Whether they were justified or not in doing so is up for debate, I can understand both sides.
The Mexicans weren't so understanding. They proceeded to crack them in the head with one of those really old, heavy (iron?) mop buckets, kicked off a broom handle, and stabbed the Jamaicans with the splintered end. Supposedly one of the Jamaican's eye popped out of its socket.
All of them were detained, and sent to solitary or the hospital as necessary. FBI got involved and our unit was shut down and isolated for a couple days because they thought it might have been gang related.
We never saw any of those inmates again. They all got their security level raised and were most likely going to a medium-level security prison. And the Jamaicans were most likely hospitalized for a while.
What irks me about this whole story though is, I made it a point to not get involved with all the jail politics and bullshit drama, but it still affected me regardless. One of those Mexicans was the guy I paid to do my shit!
Lol I say that in jest however. Not really that big of a deal. But jumping someone over laundry? Really? What happened to using our words? =P
Eleven Guys and a Lesbian
The house I crashed at back in 2001, Sung's house, almost always had ten to fifteen people there at any given time. This one particular day, most of my friends had to go on some type of run: drug run, food run, money run, etc.
We were left with five people. Jimmy (who had a broken hand in a soft cast, needles, the whole nine), Jen, Angelina (aka Gellie), and Sung. Sung and Gellie were in his room talking, Jen, Jimmy and I were in Sung's mom's room playing Chinese Poker. His mom was away on a business trip in Korea, she was gone for a month.
Wait hold on, I have to backtrack a little. A few days prior, almost the same group was here (replace Gellie with my friend Mary, add Steve my future co-defendant), most of us were high, but still bored. Steve suggests we play strip Chinese Poker, but considering there were two girls and four guys, I was positive they were going to decline.
Mary and Jen looked at each other, whispered something then surprisingly agreed. They lost the first four hands. But as soon as anything revealing was going to come off, they wrapped themselves in thick comforters. It obviously defeated the purpose, especially considering that the shirt/top they were wearing before was more revealing than a freaking comforter!
But whatever. I wasn't going to force them to strip lol. We kept on playing. Doorbell rang, turned out to be this guy Nick, who was friends with Mary's boyfriend. He was able to discern that she was in fact naked underneath the blanket, but he ended up leaving without saying much. I forgot what it was that he wanted to begin with. Probably drugs.
Okay so enough of that flashback. I'm sitting on Sung's mom's bed, playing cards, binging on coke, sleepless for days, foodless for over 20ish hours, when I see a couple guys walk past the mom's room into the guest room.
Thinking they were friends of a friend, I got up to greet them. They came back into the doorway, accompanied by another two guys.
"Hey," one of them said.
"What's good?" I replied.
"We got a question, you know who the two guys are that played strip poker with Mary?"
I turned to look at Jimmy who just stared right back at me. My eyes glanced at his broken hand. I turned back around and saw Sung (who's not a small fella) standing behind the four guys.
Okay, four on three, even though Jimmy's hand is broken, how bad can it be?
"Yeah," I finally answered.
"Oh yeah? Who?"
"Us."
I swear the guy flashed a quick smile. He turned around and shouted towards the kitchen.
"Yo! We found them!"
About a dozen people materialized out of nowhere, surrounding me.
Ah, fuck.
I tried to talk my way out of it.
"Look, this has nothing to do with us. For one, this is between Mary and her boyfriend. For two, there was no harm done, she was wrapped in a blanket the whole time."
"It's a question of principle dude, that shit's fucked up."
I continued trying to convince them, and mid-sentence, one of them said:
"I'm sick of hearing you talk."
And punched me square in the face.
I fell to the bed and bounced right back up. I only felt the first punch, everything else was numbed by all the coke. From the corner of my eye I saw Jimmy attempt to do something but the guy next to him simply slapped his hand and I saw him fold over in pain. I didn't expect him to be able to do anything, I could barely even imagine the excruciating pain he must have been in.
As soon as I got back to my feet, four of them wailed on me. I kept bouncing back from the bed, impervious to the pain, but I didn't stand a chance.
Jimmy finally jumped on me and held my head down.
"Stay down Alex, stay down."
"Fuck that shit."
I struggled against him. If I get my ass handed to me, fine. But no way in hell I'm going to just lay here and take it like a bitch. Or so I thought.
"They pulled out a razor."
I calmed down almost immediately. These fuckers meant to cut me. I don't mind getting beat, but disfigured? Nah chills lol.
So I just laid there, curled up in a ball, pounded over and over. They tried to take my wallet, which I desperately gripped until my knuckles were drained of blood. That earned another dozen punches.
But that wasn't the worst. I felt one of their boots accidentally rest right by my crotch. I could feel the cool outside air wafting off of the suede, I could imagine the hardened boot blasting my balls to Kingdom No-More-Cum, and I prayed.
God, I know that you know that I don't believe in you, but if you're there, please, please don't let him kick.
You would think I'd be a fervent Christian crusader by now. My heart slowed its pulse when I felt the boot withdraw from the danger zone.
"Do you have any pills?"
I was just fronted fifty pills and they were in my left pocket, that I was laying on. But if I lost those pills, I would have been in some shit. I would have had to figure out a way to come up with $500 to pay it back. I had nowhere near $500.
I shook my head no, expecting they would kick my ass some more, unhappy with my answer. But instead one of them said to let me be, and they left.
I almost immediately got up. The puddle of blood on the bed was quite impressive actually. Close to two feet in diameter. I went straight to the bathroom to check my nose. Like I said, the coke numbed all the pain, and I thought they broke my nose.
Washing all the blood off my face, I fidget with my nose, and feel nothing. No, not nothing as in, numbness. I felt no pain, no brokeness, nothing. I didn't even have a black eye. I had a slightly fat lip, a couple bruises on my back, and that's it. Only conclusion? They punch like bitches.
As soon as I'm done, I snapped at Sung.
"How the fuck do you let twelve guys walk into your house like that?"
"My friend just left, I thought it was him coming back because he forgot something so I didn't check before I opened the door."
Sung talked ridiculously fast. To the point you can't understand him. I'll spare you all the "what?" and "huh?" for brevity's sake.
"And what, you can't close the door after you realized it wasn't him?"
"Well, they shoved their foot in the door and said if I didn't let them in, they'd kick the door down."
I just shook my head.
"You're a fucking idiot. Close the fucking door. If they kick that shit down, call the cops. And worse comes to worst, if they do somehow make it in, don't just let them wander around your house freely! Come tell me so I can get ready! They're obviously not here to party with us!"
I was pissed. I couldn't believe someone could be that stupid.
"And on top of that, you didn't do shit!"
"What was I supposed to do? There were so many of them!"
Now his tone became defensive.
I sighed and shook my head.
"Look, I thought we were boys. And what that means to me is, I rather get my ass whooped with you than watch you get your ass handed to you by yourself. Jimmy has a broken hand and he tried to do something. The fuck..."
The conversation ended there. Mary eventually came over, pissed as hell, apologizing, and she eventually broke up w/ the guy. Apparently he claims to have had nothing to do with it, his story goes like this. He was home, and his boys came through saying they were going to go cop some pills. He agreed, hopped in the car, and they went to Sung's house. What they meant by copping pills was, jumping my ass and robbing me.
For the rest of the night, I kept thinking I got jumped by twelve guys, until Jen said, "It was only eleven guys. The other one is a dyke." (no offense to readers, she was bisexual at the time, I'm just transliterating or whatever that word is)
Great, so I got jumped by eleven guys and a lesbian.
We were left with five people. Jimmy (who had a broken hand in a soft cast, needles, the whole nine), Jen, Angelina (aka Gellie), and Sung. Sung and Gellie were in his room talking, Jen, Jimmy and I were in Sung's mom's room playing Chinese Poker. His mom was away on a business trip in Korea, she was gone for a month.
Wait hold on, I have to backtrack a little. A few days prior, almost the same group was here (replace Gellie with my friend Mary, add Steve my future co-defendant), most of us were high, but still bored. Steve suggests we play strip Chinese Poker, but considering there were two girls and four guys, I was positive they were going to decline.
Mary and Jen looked at each other, whispered something then surprisingly agreed. They lost the first four hands. But as soon as anything revealing was going to come off, they wrapped themselves in thick comforters. It obviously defeated the purpose, especially considering that the shirt/top they were wearing before was more revealing than a freaking comforter!
But whatever. I wasn't going to force them to strip lol. We kept on playing. Doorbell rang, turned out to be this guy Nick, who was friends with Mary's boyfriend. He was able to discern that she was in fact naked underneath the blanket, but he ended up leaving without saying much. I forgot what it was that he wanted to begin with. Probably drugs.
Okay so enough of that flashback. I'm sitting on Sung's mom's bed, playing cards, binging on coke, sleepless for days, foodless for over 20ish hours, when I see a couple guys walk past the mom's room into the guest room.
Thinking they were friends of a friend, I got up to greet them. They came back into the doorway, accompanied by another two guys.
"Hey," one of them said.
"What's good?" I replied.
"We got a question, you know who the two guys are that played strip poker with Mary?"
I turned to look at Jimmy who just stared right back at me. My eyes glanced at his broken hand. I turned back around and saw Sung (who's not a small fella) standing behind the four guys.
Okay, four on three, even though Jimmy's hand is broken, how bad can it be?
"Yeah," I finally answered.
"Oh yeah? Who?"
"Us."
I swear the guy flashed a quick smile. He turned around and shouted towards the kitchen.
"Yo! We found them!"
About a dozen people materialized out of nowhere, surrounding me.
Ah, fuck.
I tried to talk my way out of it.
"Look, this has nothing to do with us. For one, this is between Mary and her boyfriend. For two, there was no harm done, she was wrapped in a blanket the whole time."
"It's a question of principle dude, that shit's fucked up."
I continued trying to convince them, and mid-sentence, one of them said:
"I'm sick of hearing you talk."
And punched me square in the face.
I fell to the bed and bounced right back up. I only felt the first punch, everything else was numbed by all the coke. From the corner of my eye I saw Jimmy attempt to do something but the guy next to him simply slapped his hand and I saw him fold over in pain. I didn't expect him to be able to do anything, I could barely even imagine the excruciating pain he must have been in.
As soon as I got back to my feet, four of them wailed on me. I kept bouncing back from the bed, impervious to the pain, but I didn't stand a chance.
Jimmy finally jumped on me and held my head down.
"Stay down Alex, stay down."
"Fuck that shit."
I struggled against him. If I get my ass handed to me, fine. But no way in hell I'm going to just lay here and take it like a bitch. Or so I thought.
"They pulled out a razor."
I calmed down almost immediately. These fuckers meant to cut me. I don't mind getting beat, but disfigured? Nah chills lol.
So I just laid there, curled up in a ball, pounded over and over. They tried to take my wallet, which I desperately gripped until my knuckles were drained of blood. That earned another dozen punches.
But that wasn't the worst. I felt one of their boots accidentally rest right by my crotch. I could feel the cool outside air wafting off of the suede, I could imagine the hardened boot blasting my balls to Kingdom No-More-Cum, and I prayed.
God, I know that you know that I don't believe in you, but if you're there, please, please don't let him kick.
You would think I'd be a fervent Christian crusader by now. My heart slowed its pulse when I felt the boot withdraw from the danger zone.
"Do you have any pills?"
I was just fronted fifty pills and they were in my left pocket, that I was laying on. But if I lost those pills, I would have been in some shit. I would have had to figure out a way to come up with $500 to pay it back. I had nowhere near $500.
I shook my head no, expecting they would kick my ass some more, unhappy with my answer. But instead one of them said to let me be, and they left.
I almost immediately got up. The puddle of blood on the bed was quite impressive actually. Close to two feet in diameter. I went straight to the bathroom to check my nose. Like I said, the coke numbed all the pain, and I thought they broke my nose.
Washing all the blood off my face, I fidget with my nose, and feel nothing. No, not nothing as in, numbness. I felt no pain, no brokeness, nothing. I didn't even have a black eye. I had a slightly fat lip, a couple bruises on my back, and that's it. Only conclusion? They punch like bitches.
As soon as I'm done, I snapped at Sung.
"How the fuck do you let twelve guys walk into your house like that?"
"My friend just left, I thought it was him coming back because he forgot something so I didn't check before I opened the door."
Sung talked ridiculously fast. To the point you can't understand him. I'll spare you all the "what?" and "huh?" for brevity's sake.
"And what, you can't close the door after you realized it wasn't him?"
"Well, they shoved their foot in the door and said if I didn't let them in, they'd kick the door down."
I just shook my head.
"You're a fucking idiot. Close the fucking door. If they kick that shit down, call the cops. And worse comes to worst, if they do somehow make it in, don't just let them wander around your house freely! Come tell me so I can get ready! They're obviously not here to party with us!"
I was pissed. I couldn't believe someone could be that stupid.
"And on top of that, you didn't do shit!"
"What was I supposed to do? There were so many of them!"
Now his tone became defensive.
I sighed and shook my head.
"Look, I thought we were boys. And what that means to me is, I rather get my ass whooped with you than watch you get your ass handed to you by yourself. Jimmy has a broken hand and he tried to do something. The fuck..."
The conversation ended there. Mary eventually came over, pissed as hell, apologizing, and she eventually broke up w/ the guy. Apparently he claims to have had nothing to do with it, his story goes like this. He was home, and his boys came through saying they were going to go cop some pills. He agreed, hopped in the car, and they went to Sung's house. What they meant by copping pills was, jumping my ass and robbing me.
For the rest of the night, I kept thinking I got jumped by twelve guys, until Jen said, "It was only eleven guys. The other one is a dyke." (no offense to readers, she was bisexual at the time, I'm just transliterating or whatever that word is)
Great, so I got jumped by eleven guys and a lesbian.
An Unexpected End
So one day during the hazy summer of 2001, right after I dropped out of college, I was hanging out with my friend Sung in Flushing. We were completely tapped out, with only $40 between the two of us, but yearning for that next high just as much anyway.
I spent most of that day calling various people trying to get four ecstasy pills but as life often throws a curveball at us while snickering from the sidelines, everyone I knew was dry as well. We finally get a hold of this one guy Will, from Forest Hills and he tells me he doesn't have any pills but he has some Special K (no, not the cereal, ketamine, it's an animal tranquilizer used by vets).
Beggars can't be choosers (K was never my preferred drug), Sung and I, now joined by two other friends, Arturo and another Alex, trooped out to Forest Hills.
They waited at a corner while I was in the car. He gave me a jar of K for $40, then asked me if I wanted a second one.
"That's all the money I have."
And like any respectable drug dealer he replies, "Don't worry about it, I'll front you that, I know you're good for it."
Even knowing that he was doing me no favors, I was still happier than a pig in shit on a sweltering fly infested summer jungle day.
I told the others the good news and decided to go back to Main St., when Arturo realizes he has no more money on his Metrocard. As we're trying to solve this dilemma, he says, "Go on ahead I'll catch up with you guys."
"What? The bus goes on the highway. No way you'll get there anytime soon," I replied skeptically.
He insisted.
"Okay look, I'll give you ten minutes after we get there before we leave."
He agreed. Mind you, Arturo is in no way fit. A little on the chubbier side and not too physically active, he was one of the last people I'd to expect to pull this off.
We got back to Main St. and waited. Five minutes. Six. Then at either seven or eight minutes, my jaw almost dropped when I saw his out of shape ass panting down the street.
"I have to give it to you," I laughed, "you've earned your high."
We decided to go up to the LIRR platform nearby. It had those sheltered areas and was rather empty at that time.
We somehow had a CD case with us at the time (sadly, I'm pretty sure it wasn't carried around for the music), and I poured myself a line.
Ketamine in it's original form is a liquid, but when heated, it crystallizes. In the States, snorting it is the most common practice, as far as I know.
But my eyes were bigger than my stomach (or more accurately bigger than my nostrils) since I had been looking forward to this moment all day long. I was a little heavy handed and poured myself about a four inch line. Special K isn't like cocaine in terms of how much you take at a time or anything for that matter.
Sung was next. He was also heavy handed but instead of doing it all he left some for the next person. For some reason however, neither of them were willing to snort his "leftovers." They insisted that they wanted their own lines, as if it made a difference. Thinking it was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard (sheesh, have I ever been right when thinking that?), I finished the excess powder, even before the first had kicked in.
What ensued wasn't quite a K-Hole, which is the equivalent of a bad trip but usually involves a sensation of falling into spiraling holes. But it was a bad trip alright.
I have a tendency to become very confused and lost on K. It's a dissociative drug which I've taken to mean that it disconnects you from reality.
I suddenly had no idea where I was. I kept asking my friends over and over.
"Where are we?"
"Flushing."
"No but like where are we?"
"Uh. Queens, New York City?"
"No but, WHERE are...l
You get the point. This extrapolated to the size of the universe before long. The next segment wasn't so innocent.
My brain decided it'd be interesting to pretend that I was a junkie since birth and that I had been living on the streets my entire life. Nineteen years straight of constant drugs and homelessness is some depressing shit.
In between these bouts of total helplessness and utter despair, I overheard Sung and Arturo saying, " Oh man, Alex thinks he's going to die."
They said it enough times to convince my dysfunctional mind that they thought, that I thought I was going to die. My legs felt like jello. No, I lied, I couldn't feel my legs. I was short of breath. The walls of my mind were collapsing on me, crushing me, head spinning, where am I? Who am I?
I started thinking I was going to die. I retched a little and gagged. I tried to stand only to find that my legs were completely useless. Numb. Limp. I sat there feeling worse than I had ever felt in my entire life, drained of any positive thought. I later found out that they were talking about the other Alex. FML.
I slowly sobered up, after... honestly, I have no idea how much time had passed. But my body was still weak. The stairs down from the LIRR station were long. Real long. And not just because I just came back from a bad trip. Go see for yourself, them fuckers are LONG!
I wobbled my way down. I would have bet a grand that I was going to face-plant just by walking. Luckily made it down safely, sat down on a bench, and called a friend of mine I was hanging out with a lot at the time.
"Hey Mary, where are you?"
"Dinner in Flushing with some friends, what's up?"
I filled her in on what happened. Concerned, she came by to make sure I was okay, and I eventually went back to Sung's house.
The other Alex went home, so it was just the three of us. Sung made me some food that I barely ate although it was pretty damn good. I tried to sleep. After a few seconds of having my eyes closed, my body suddenly cramped up. My entire body. And it hurt. I moved a little and it went away. Shrugging it off, I tried to go back to sleep. And again, every muscle fiber in my body locked up and extreme, indescribable pain shot through me until I would move my body.
Then it would all go away.
"What the fuck..."
It's mind over matter I told myself. There's no way my entire body is cramping, it's unheard of. So I closed my eyes again, determined to not give in to the pain. The cramping came. I winced but didn't move. My body, more tense than the seconds before OJ's verdict, screamed at me.
Fucking idiot, move your fucking ass, NOW!
I resisted. And resisted. It wouldn't fucking go away. I waited until I couldn't take it anymore, then waited some more. I struggled uselessly. I caved and moved, then the relief of being pain-free washed over me in a breath of fresh air.
How the hell was I going to sleep? I had no idea. This night couldn't get any worse. But my body was probably abused to the point it was on the brink of exhaustion, and I slipped into sleep without even realizing it.
The next morning my phone woke me up. It said "Home." Still groggy, I answered, expecting to hear my mom. It was my step father.
"Alex, where are you?"
I was taken aback by the sudden question. During this phase of my life, home rarely called. And if they did call, it was always my mom.
"Queens."
"You just wake up?"
I rolled my eyes, already knowing where this was going. Since I had recently dropped out of college, and I was supposed to be out looking for work instead of partying like a rockstar.
"Yeah," I answered, resigned.
And what I thought to be the most unexpected thing he could say:
"Good, stay there."
Boy, I've never been more wrong about anything since. Before my mind could even formulate my short, one word question (What...?), he continues, "They blew up the World Trade."
My mind was done playing catch up, and uttered that one word. The wrong one came out.
"Who?"
Dumbest question of the century for sure.
"Uhh... Terrorists." (lol thinking back, he must have thought I was retarded)
My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach as reality bitch slapped the shit out of me. I staggered out of the bedroom, still on the phone, the TV was on, Sung and Arturo in front, and I literally thought it was a movie, until my eyes saw "CNN" in the bottom right.
"Holy shit..." I said under my breath. Then frantically, "Are you okay? What about mom and Ethan?"
Ethan's my little half brother, he was four at the time. My family lives in Tribeca, so we were a matter of blocks away from Ground Zero. My stepdad worked in the World Financial building, right next to the twin towers. My little brother went to school a few blocks away.
And know that I'm not religious, but at times like these, I sometimes wonder if I really don't have a guardian angel watching over me. My family was untouched and safe.
In the end, I couldn't go home for a couple weeks, not like I was planning to anyway. On my way back, they asked me to buy some face masks because of the asbestos, and when I got back to Tribeca, I had a glimpse of what third world countries must experience, seeing military vehicles driving down the street, everyone panicky, the fear and confusion so thick you suffocate in it.
I walked in through the door of my apartment, and at the sight of me, my mom burst into tears. We hugged fiercely and I cried too. This hit too close to home. Literally. The gravity and immediacy of the situation was overwhelming, I was barely able to comprehend how lucky I was, but we all knew just how close we came to losing what we loved most.
My stepdad's friends lived in Battery Park, and their apartment was destroyed. They had to flee, one shoe on, ashy and disheveled all the way to my mom's place. They crashed in my room. I stayed until nightfall, but the transition from one extreme to the other, from artificial highs to such a depressing low was jarring. I couldn't take it.
I called up some friends and left; I went to drown out reality with drug-induced fantasies and emotions.
I spent most of that day calling various people trying to get four ecstasy pills but as life often throws a curveball at us while snickering from the sidelines, everyone I knew was dry as well. We finally get a hold of this one guy Will, from Forest Hills and he tells me he doesn't have any pills but he has some Special K (no, not the cereal, ketamine, it's an animal tranquilizer used by vets).
Beggars can't be choosers (K was never my preferred drug), Sung and I, now joined by two other friends, Arturo and another Alex, trooped out to Forest Hills.
They waited at a corner while I was in the car. He gave me a jar of K for $40, then asked me if I wanted a second one.
"That's all the money I have."
And like any respectable drug dealer he replies, "Don't worry about it, I'll front you that, I know you're good for it."
Even knowing that he was doing me no favors, I was still happier than a pig in shit on a sweltering fly infested summer jungle day.
I told the others the good news and decided to go back to Main St., when Arturo realizes he has no more money on his Metrocard. As we're trying to solve this dilemma, he says, "Go on ahead I'll catch up with you guys."
"What? The bus goes on the highway. No way you'll get there anytime soon," I replied skeptically.
He insisted.
"Okay look, I'll give you ten minutes after we get there before we leave."
He agreed. Mind you, Arturo is in no way fit. A little on the chubbier side and not too physically active, he was one of the last people I'd to expect to pull this off.
We got back to Main St. and waited. Five minutes. Six. Then at either seven or eight minutes, my jaw almost dropped when I saw his out of shape ass panting down the street.
"I have to give it to you," I laughed, "you've earned your high."
We decided to go up to the LIRR platform nearby. It had those sheltered areas and was rather empty at that time.
We somehow had a CD case with us at the time (sadly, I'm pretty sure it wasn't carried around for the music), and I poured myself a line.
Ketamine in it's original form is a liquid, but when heated, it crystallizes. In the States, snorting it is the most common practice, as far as I know.
But my eyes were bigger than my stomach (or more accurately bigger than my nostrils) since I had been looking forward to this moment all day long. I was a little heavy handed and poured myself about a four inch line. Special K isn't like cocaine in terms of how much you take at a time or anything for that matter.
Sung was next. He was also heavy handed but instead of doing it all he left some for the next person. For some reason however, neither of them were willing to snort his "leftovers." They insisted that they wanted their own lines, as if it made a difference. Thinking it was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard (sheesh, have I ever been right when thinking that?), I finished the excess powder, even before the first had kicked in.
What ensued wasn't quite a K-Hole, which is the equivalent of a bad trip but usually involves a sensation of falling into spiraling holes. But it was a bad trip alright.
I have a tendency to become very confused and lost on K. It's a dissociative drug which I've taken to mean that it disconnects you from reality.
I suddenly had no idea where I was. I kept asking my friends over and over.
"Where are we?"
"Flushing."
"No but like where are we?"
"Uh. Queens, New York City?"
"No but, WHERE are...l
You get the point. This extrapolated to the size of the universe before long. The next segment wasn't so innocent.
My brain decided it'd be interesting to pretend that I was a junkie since birth and that I had been living on the streets my entire life. Nineteen years straight of constant drugs and homelessness is some depressing shit.
In between these bouts of total helplessness and utter despair, I overheard Sung and Arturo saying, " Oh man, Alex thinks he's going to die."
They said it enough times to convince my dysfunctional mind that they thought, that I thought I was going to die. My legs felt like jello. No, I lied, I couldn't feel my legs. I was short of breath. The walls of my mind were collapsing on me, crushing me, head spinning, where am I? Who am I?
I started thinking I was going to die. I retched a little and gagged. I tried to stand only to find that my legs were completely useless. Numb. Limp. I sat there feeling worse than I had ever felt in my entire life, drained of any positive thought. I later found out that they were talking about the other Alex. FML.
I slowly sobered up, after... honestly, I have no idea how much time had passed. But my body was still weak. The stairs down from the LIRR station were long. Real long. And not just because I just came back from a bad trip. Go see for yourself, them fuckers are LONG!
I wobbled my way down. I would have bet a grand that I was going to face-plant just by walking. Luckily made it down safely, sat down on a bench, and called a friend of mine I was hanging out with a lot at the time.
"Hey Mary, where are you?"
"Dinner in Flushing with some friends, what's up?"
I filled her in on what happened. Concerned, she came by to make sure I was okay, and I eventually went back to Sung's house.
The other Alex went home, so it was just the three of us. Sung made me some food that I barely ate although it was pretty damn good. I tried to sleep. After a few seconds of having my eyes closed, my body suddenly cramped up. My entire body. And it hurt. I moved a little and it went away. Shrugging it off, I tried to go back to sleep. And again, every muscle fiber in my body locked up and extreme, indescribable pain shot through me until I would move my body.
Then it would all go away.
"What the fuck..."
It's mind over matter I told myself. There's no way my entire body is cramping, it's unheard of. So I closed my eyes again, determined to not give in to the pain. The cramping came. I winced but didn't move. My body, more tense than the seconds before OJ's verdict, screamed at me.
Fucking idiot, move your fucking ass, NOW!
I resisted. And resisted. It wouldn't fucking go away. I waited until I couldn't take it anymore, then waited some more. I struggled uselessly. I caved and moved, then the relief of being pain-free washed over me in a breath of fresh air.
How the hell was I going to sleep? I had no idea. This night couldn't get any worse. But my body was probably abused to the point it was on the brink of exhaustion, and I slipped into sleep without even realizing it.
The next morning my phone woke me up. It said "Home." Still groggy, I answered, expecting to hear my mom. It was my step father.
"Alex, where are you?"
I was taken aback by the sudden question. During this phase of my life, home rarely called. And if they did call, it was always my mom.
"Queens."
"You just wake up?"
I rolled my eyes, already knowing where this was going. Since I had recently dropped out of college, and I was supposed to be out looking for work instead of partying like a rockstar.
"Yeah," I answered, resigned.
And what I thought to be the most unexpected thing he could say:
"Good, stay there."
Boy, I've never been more wrong about anything since. Before my mind could even formulate my short, one word question (What...?), he continues, "They blew up the World Trade."
My mind was done playing catch up, and uttered that one word. The wrong one came out.
"Who?"
Dumbest question of the century for sure.
"Uhh... Terrorists." (lol thinking back, he must have thought I was retarded)
My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach as reality bitch slapped the shit out of me. I staggered out of the bedroom, still on the phone, the TV was on, Sung and Arturo in front, and I literally thought it was a movie, until my eyes saw "CNN" in the bottom right.
"Holy shit..." I said under my breath. Then frantically, "Are you okay? What about mom and Ethan?"
Ethan's my little half brother, he was four at the time. My family lives in Tribeca, so we were a matter of blocks away from Ground Zero. My stepdad worked in the World Financial building, right next to the twin towers. My little brother went to school a few blocks away.
And know that I'm not religious, but at times like these, I sometimes wonder if I really don't have a guardian angel watching over me. My family was untouched and safe.
In the end, I couldn't go home for a couple weeks, not like I was planning to anyway. On my way back, they asked me to buy some face masks because of the asbestos, and when I got back to Tribeca, I had a glimpse of what third world countries must experience, seeing military vehicles driving down the street, everyone panicky, the fear and confusion so thick you suffocate in it.
I walked in through the door of my apartment, and at the sight of me, my mom burst into tears. We hugged fiercely and I cried too. This hit too close to home. Literally. The gravity and immediacy of the situation was overwhelming, I was barely able to comprehend how lucky I was, but we all knew just how close we came to losing what we loved most.
My stepdad's friends lived in Battery Park, and their apartment was destroyed. They had to flee, one shoe on, ashy and disheveled all the way to my mom's place. They crashed in my room. I stayed until nightfall, but the transition from one extreme to the other, from artificial highs to such a depressing low was jarring. I couldn't take it.
I called up some friends and left; I went to drown out reality with drug-induced fantasies and emotions.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
A different kind of love letter
A letter my mom sent me in jail.
"In general, there are two kinds of love, one that rocks your world, and the kind that soothes your heart. When we are young, we tend to believe the first to being the real deal, because we want drama (not to mention the greatest loves in literature, films and music of all times are of the first kind), because we long to feel the flutters in our hearts, because we envision the height it'll take us, and we can't wait to take that plunge... then we grow up. But still there are those who still pine for it despite their age, until the end of time. They, we call them the old fools.
The other kind is more complicated. It isn't so much the falls and the heartbreaks but the everyday aches that hurt. I think you truly love somebody when it pains you to see him/her smile. The love pain - almost a strum in your heart, it's so sweet that it hurts and brings tears of gratitude - thankful to having this person to love. When it breaks you to see him/her in a stage of struggle, so much that you'll step in and take over that fight of hardship to stop that pain - that pain of your own heart breaking and when you'd rather trade places with him/her than to see him/her hurt and suffer, because somehow it is easier to take the pain in your body than in your heart.
It is an adventure, almost a drug, to love someone... and a blessing to be loved... Unlike what most believe, the power lies in the one who loves and not in the beloved. The beloved is merely chosen - for in some small way he/she calls to his/her lover, the beneficiary so to speak, and the lover, the donor, who decides all... Because ultimately it ends when the lover decidedly stops loving...
In the end it doesn't matter how great the love, once gone, it will fade over time and will be replaced by another eventually. For all the obvious reasons but mainly it is our instinct to survive that moves us forward. I cannot fathom a love so great that the loss of which will leave a person so incomplete, that it mars him/her forever... except when that love is but a vision, her/his very own, for then no one can replace that..."
"In general, there are two kinds of love, one that rocks your world, and the kind that soothes your heart. When we are young, we tend to believe the first to being the real deal, because we want drama (not to mention the greatest loves in literature, films and music of all times are of the first kind), because we long to feel the flutters in our hearts, because we envision the height it'll take us, and we can't wait to take that plunge... then we grow up. But still there are those who still pine for it despite their age, until the end of time. They, we call them the old fools.
The other kind is more complicated. It isn't so much the falls and the heartbreaks but the everyday aches that hurt. I think you truly love somebody when it pains you to see him/her smile. The love pain - almost a strum in your heart, it's so sweet that it hurts and brings tears of gratitude - thankful to having this person to love. When it breaks you to see him/her in a stage of struggle, so much that you'll step in and take over that fight of hardship to stop that pain - that pain of your own heart breaking and when you'd rather trade places with him/her than to see him/her hurt and suffer, because somehow it is easier to take the pain in your body than in your heart.
It is an adventure, almost a drug, to love someone... and a blessing to be loved... Unlike what most believe, the power lies in the one who loves and not in the beloved. The beloved is merely chosen - for in some small way he/she calls to his/her lover, the beneficiary so to speak, and the lover, the donor, who decides all... Because ultimately it ends when the lover decidedly stops loving...
In the end it doesn't matter how great the love, once gone, it will fade over time and will be replaced by another eventually. For all the obvious reasons but mainly it is our instinct to survive that moves us forward. I cannot fathom a love so great that the loss of which will leave a person so incomplete, that it mars him/her forever... except when that love is but a vision, her/his very own, for then no one can replace that..."
Some things never change
Some background on this post is needed. I don't know my biological father. My parents divorced when I was young, and at the age of seven I went to live in France with my grandmother and her husband who became my guardian dad.
My father had been trying to find both my mom and me for 20+ years. My mom never thought it was the right time for me to reconnect with my father until 2007, so for 20 or so years, everytime my father found her number, she recognized his voice and said it was the wrong number.
So when I finally spoke to my father for the first time that I remember, things went smoothly, and we gathered that he was doing rather well for himself in China. As time went on though, he made false promises, was very disrepectful towards my mom, and found it very hard to believe that we were actually leading happy lives despite his absence.
In the end, there were multiple silences which lasted months, I sent an email saying some things never change, to which he replied that he was in an accident. He offered to send pictures of his injuries as proof, but instead he sent a black and white webcam pic, very low resolution, meanwhile his vacation pictures he sent in the same batch were all taken from a real digital camera and were clear.
He spoke to my mom one last time and indicated that he didn't understand my previous email when I politely told him to fuck off.
Here's the second and last email.
* * * * * * * *
"first, i would like to express my condolences for the deaths in your family. i do hope ur doing well
so i heard u had a few questions about the whole situation and regarding my last letter, so instead of leaving u to hear it from a third party, i rather have closure with people directly as to avoid misunderstandings
so lets start with the last email sent. i was doing my best to remain neutral and cordial, and above all to be respectful, but since it wasnt understood (although i thought it was painfully clear), i'll repeat myself in laymans terms
yes, i did say for u to find another son, because i have found a father who has raised me with respectable and good values, to whom i owe a defining portion of who i am today. he also taught me about the honor of being a man, abiding by my word. sure, we've all told lies before, i'm not claiming otherwise, but when a person is even thinking about lying and making empty promises to his son he hasn't seen in 20ish years, i think i can safely say thats in a league of its own
and ur reaction to mom when she asked for the money back? deplorable. if u cant even own up to a commitment of $3,000 (which, in ur own words, isnt $3,000,000!!), how can i expect u to commit to me as ur son? if i recall correctly, it was your idea, to pay my ex off for her furniture, it was your screen name that was asking for a loan from mom. and now u wont pay it back? i didnt need to buy the furniture to begin with. as much as i hate doing it, i can still break up my own relationships without paying the girl off. and that was ur solution? next thing i know, ur trying to pay me off too...
... or were u, with false promises of cars and six star resorts, inheritance and a lavish lifestyle...
on that same note, u couldnt even manage to visit? lol, what good is all that money u claim to have if u dont put it to use? i apologize, i should have realized! a quick weekend flight (especially if finances arent a concern) to visit ur long lost son is impossibly unbearable. i rest my case.
next. u mentioned that u want to talk about the past, because without the past, what else do u have to talk to me about? look, i thought i was doing u a favor by not holding u to the past, but hey, if u insist, sure i'll talk about it
for starters, why'd u kick me in the chest? or push me with ur foot, whatever u want to call it. in the end all it did was leave me with the memory that it was a kick, and ultimately from my perspective since i've lived all these years with that memory, doesnt that make it the truth to me? funny how the truth can be relative sometimes
and, where are my puzzles from the xmas when i was, 6, i think? or my nintendo that i left in taiwan? see, do u really want to talk about the past with me? thats my past of u. i was willing to give u a clean slate, but i guess ur an emotional masochist
(by the way, i dont actually expect answers to the above questions, i'd rather skip the bs)
ok, now what? since u got me started, i might as well finish. oh yeah. ur condescending tone to mom? the fact that u cant believe that we're happy with the lives we have? c'mon. what did u think, that we couldnt have possibly survived without u? that u would swoop down to rescue us and be our knight in shining armor? lol. no comment
also, just out of curiosity, of all the pictures u sent, why is the pic of ur scar the only one taken from a webcam? and in black & white? meanwhile every other one was a high resolution color pic? ur gonna say they were from a friends digital camera or something along those lines... with a mercedes amg 55 u dont own a real camera? lol
and give us some goddamn respect. dont talk to us or try to play mind games with us like we're fucking idiots. u do NOT know me, dont assume u do. and if ur going to lie to me, at least come up with something new, put some thought into it so its not so obvious. i just wanted to give u the benefit of the doubt
bottom line is, u screwed up. i gave u a year (ok, ok, 11 months) to back up ur words. ur failure to do so, well, thats on u. but, mom was right in saying i would see u if u showed up in nyc. its rather childish not to. but dont come here expecting a 7 year old boy. it'll just be annoying
so does this sum things up? most of this email is rhetorical, i dont need an answer. ur words, tone, attitude and lack of action so far have spoken enough for themselves."
My father had been trying to find both my mom and me for 20+ years. My mom never thought it was the right time for me to reconnect with my father until 2007, so for 20 or so years, everytime my father found her number, she recognized his voice and said it was the wrong number.
So when I finally spoke to my father for the first time that I remember, things went smoothly, and we gathered that he was doing rather well for himself in China. As time went on though, he made false promises, was very disrepectful towards my mom, and found it very hard to believe that we were actually leading happy lives despite his absence.
In the end, there were multiple silences which lasted months, I sent an email saying some things never change, to which he replied that he was in an accident. He offered to send pictures of his injuries as proof, but instead he sent a black and white webcam pic, very low resolution, meanwhile his vacation pictures he sent in the same batch were all taken from a real digital camera and were clear.
He spoke to my mom one last time and indicated that he didn't understand my previous email when I politely told him to fuck off.
Here's the second and last email.
* * * * * * * *
"first, i would like to express my condolences for the deaths in your family. i do hope ur doing well
so i heard u had a few questions about the whole situation and regarding my last letter, so instead of leaving u to hear it from a third party, i rather have closure with people directly as to avoid misunderstandings
so lets start with the last email sent. i was doing my best to remain neutral and cordial, and above all to be respectful, but since it wasnt understood (although i thought it was painfully clear), i'll repeat myself in laymans terms
yes, i did say for u to find another son, because i have found a father who has raised me with respectable and good values, to whom i owe a defining portion of who i am today. he also taught me about the honor of being a man, abiding by my word. sure, we've all told lies before, i'm not claiming otherwise, but when a person is even thinking about lying and making empty promises to his son he hasn't seen in 20ish years, i think i can safely say thats in a league of its own
and ur reaction to mom when she asked for the money back? deplorable. if u cant even own up to a commitment of $3,000 (which, in ur own words, isnt $3,000,000!!), how can i expect u to commit to me as ur son? if i recall correctly, it was your idea, to pay my ex off for her furniture, it was your screen name that was asking for a loan from mom. and now u wont pay it back? i didnt need to buy the furniture to begin with. as much as i hate doing it, i can still break up my own relationships without paying the girl off. and that was ur solution? next thing i know, ur trying to pay me off too...
... or were u, with false promises of cars and six star resorts, inheritance and a lavish lifestyle...
on that same note, u couldnt even manage to visit? lol, what good is all that money u claim to have if u dont put it to use? i apologize, i should have realized! a quick weekend flight (especially if finances arent a concern) to visit ur long lost son is impossibly unbearable. i rest my case.
next. u mentioned that u want to talk about the past, because without the past, what else do u have to talk to me about? look, i thought i was doing u a favor by not holding u to the past, but hey, if u insist, sure i'll talk about it
for starters, why'd u kick me in the chest? or push me with ur foot, whatever u want to call it. in the end all it did was leave me with the memory that it was a kick, and ultimately from my perspective since i've lived all these years with that memory, doesnt that make it the truth to me? funny how the truth can be relative sometimes
and, where are my puzzles from the xmas when i was, 6, i think? or my nintendo that i left in taiwan? see, do u really want to talk about the past with me? thats my past of u. i was willing to give u a clean slate, but i guess ur an emotional masochist
(by the way, i dont actually expect answers to the above questions, i'd rather skip the bs)
ok, now what? since u got me started, i might as well finish. oh yeah. ur condescending tone to mom? the fact that u cant believe that we're happy with the lives we have? c'mon. what did u think, that we couldnt have possibly survived without u? that u would swoop down to rescue us and be our knight in shining armor? lol. no comment
also, just out of curiosity, of all the pictures u sent, why is the pic of ur scar the only one taken from a webcam? and in black & white? meanwhile every other one was a high resolution color pic? ur gonna say they were from a friends digital camera or something along those lines... with a mercedes amg 55 u dont own a real camera? lol
and give us some goddamn respect. dont talk to us or try to play mind games with us like we're fucking idiots. u do NOT know me, dont assume u do. and if ur going to lie to me, at least come up with something new, put some thought into it so its not so obvious. i just wanted to give u the benefit of the doubt
bottom line is, u screwed up. i gave u a year (ok, ok, 11 months) to back up ur words. ur failure to do so, well, thats on u. but, mom was right in saying i would see u if u showed up in nyc. its rather childish not to. but dont come here expecting a 7 year old boy. it'll just be annoying
so does this sum things up? most of this email is rhetorical, i dont need an answer. ur words, tone, attitude and lack of action so far have spoken enough for themselves."
A bootylicious babe
I met Lisa on 11/07/01. I had just gotten arrested nine days prior, released on bail after four days, and needless to say, I was broke as hell. So what do you do, at 19 years old, with less than ten dollars to your name, and on your way to jail?
Go online lol. I used to go on AOL (still do occasionally), and there used to be this chat room called "nyc asians." Self explanatory enough. So I'm sitting there, minding my own business, looking through girls' profiles, and this one girl, "bo0tilishuzbabe" said in her profile that she promoted for this club, Exit.
Right before my arrest, I used to deal at that club, and from that one common ground, we started a conversation. She mentioned how she just started shooting pool and asked if I would be willing to teach her. I obviously agreed.
This all happened around 5:00am, and we met later that day around 10:00pm. We met at Sambuca's, this cafe in Chinatown, not too far from my mom's place. I'm waiting on Canal St. and Mulberry St., and across the street I see this tiny lil thing walk to the corner.
"Lisa?!" I shouted tentatively across the street.
I saw her head look around in search of the source of her name, and she finally saw me. The usual introduction ensues, we go inside Sambuca's, and since she had just finished a promoter's meeting, she was with around eight people.
We sat at a table off to the side, alone, and got to know each other. We eventually went to karaoke, and that's when I found out that this guy Johnny who was there, had been trying to hook up with Lisa for months.
Now, I'm not a big dude. I'm actually short and pretty small. So when I say Johnny was little, I mean it literally and without exaggeration.
Lisa stood at five foot nothing without heels. He was shorter than she was with heels on. Enough said.
Anyhow, sipping on my beer in the karaoke room, Lisa and I are flirting, whispering into each others ear, lips barely brushing, interrupted a couple of times by cock-blockers, then she leans over the low table to reach something on the other side.
And I had to remind myself to breathe. For a tiny lil asian girl, she had one hell of an ass!
After karaoke, most people left and it was just Johnny, Lisa and me. Johnny asks her what she feels like doing (mind you, I had just met Lisa hours earlier), and she turns to me and asks what we're going to do. Caught off-guard since I was expecting her to make plans then ask if I wanted to join if anything, I replied, "Well I'm kinda broke so yeah..."
Johnny suggests that we go shoot pool at Broadway Billiards, and again I reiterate that I have no money on me. We somehow ended up cabbing it there anyway.
Now, either Lisa was a very quick learner, or she was lying to me lol, because for someone who had only shot pool three times, I didn't have much to teach her. We spent a couple hours there, then cabbed it back to Chinatown.
Driving down Broadway, once we made it to Chinatown, the unavoidable question surfaced. Where is Lisa going? So, after Johnny pays for a cab to the pool hall, then pays for the table time at the pool hall, and again pays for the cab back from the pool hall (all this for three people), Lisa says:
"I'm gonna go to Alex's."
I'm pretty sure I must have smirked.
Now, dear reader, you must be thinking, what kind of girl is she, going back to your place less than 24 hours after meeting you online! Yeah, that crossed my mind too. You'd be surprised to know that we were together for 18 months before I was sent to jail. And you'd be even more surprised to find out that this relationship only truly ended two months ago. Also, I was her first (wtf, right?)
We went through thick and thin. It was us against the world. And against each other. The type of relationship you can only dream of, because you can only have it when you're young and naive. Or just very lucky. The passion, loyalty, blind devotion, trust... most of which have very little room in reality.
She was the morning sunshine after a nightmare; she was my confidante; she was my everything. In retrospect, where did things go wrong? Probably right from the start. How could we have prevented our recent break up? Probably couldn't. Do I regret having ever met her? Never.
Lisa will most likely always have a part of my heart, not her as a person, but the memory of her that has crystallized in my mind's eye, only reinforced by months and months of incarceration.
Obviously we had our problems. And I can't deny the pain and disappointment that I felt over the years. But despite all of it, I kept on trying. Despite all of it, I kept on loving. What's the point of having a heart, if you don't use it because you're afraid it'll be broken?
Despite it all, I will always move on.
Go online lol. I used to go on AOL (still do occasionally), and there used to be this chat room called "nyc asians." Self explanatory enough. So I'm sitting there, minding my own business, looking through girls' profiles, and this one girl, "bo0tilishuzbabe" said in her profile that she promoted for this club, Exit.
Right before my arrest, I used to deal at that club, and from that one common ground, we started a conversation. She mentioned how she just started shooting pool and asked if I would be willing to teach her. I obviously agreed.
This all happened around 5:00am, and we met later that day around 10:00pm. We met at Sambuca's, this cafe in Chinatown, not too far from my mom's place. I'm waiting on Canal St. and Mulberry St., and across the street I see this tiny lil thing walk to the corner.
"Lisa?!" I shouted tentatively across the street.
I saw her head look around in search of the source of her name, and she finally saw me. The usual introduction ensues, we go inside Sambuca's, and since she had just finished a promoter's meeting, she was with around eight people.
We sat at a table off to the side, alone, and got to know each other. We eventually went to karaoke, and that's when I found out that this guy Johnny who was there, had been trying to hook up with Lisa for months.
Now, I'm not a big dude. I'm actually short and pretty small. So when I say Johnny was little, I mean it literally and without exaggeration.
Lisa stood at five foot nothing without heels. He was shorter than she was with heels on. Enough said.
Anyhow, sipping on my beer in the karaoke room, Lisa and I are flirting, whispering into each others ear, lips barely brushing, interrupted a couple of times by cock-blockers, then she leans over the low table to reach something on the other side.
And I had to remind myself to breathe. For a tiny lil asian girl, she had one hell of an ass!
After karaoke, most people left and it was just Johnny, Lisa and me. Johnny asks her what she feels like doing (mind you, I had just met Lisa hours earlier), and she turns to me and asks what we're going to do. Caught off-guard since I was expecting her to make plans then ask if I wanted to join if anything, I replied, "Well I'm kinda broke so yeah..."
Johnny suggests that we go shoot pool at Broadway Billiards, and again I reiterate that I have no money on me. We somehow ended up cabbing it there anyway.
Now, either Lisa was a very quick learner, or she was lying to me lol, because for someone who had only shot pool three times, I didn't have much to teach her. We spent a couple hours there, then cabbed it back to Chinatown.
Driving down Broadway, once we made it to Chinatown, the unavoidable question surfaced. Where is Lisa going? So, after Johnny pays for a cab to the pool hall, then pays for the table time at the pool hall, and again pays for the cab back from the pool hall (all this for three people), Lisa says:
"I'm gonna go to Alex's."
I'm pretty sure I must have smirked.
Now, dear reader, you must be thinking, what kind of girl is she, going back to your place less than 24 hours after meeting you online! Yeah, that crossed my mind too. You'd be surprised to know that we were together for 18 months before I was sent to jail. And you'd be even more surprised to find out that this relationship only truly ended two months ago. Also, I was her first (wtf, right?)
We went through thick and thin. It was us against the world. And against each other. The type of relationship you can only dream of, because you can only have it when you're young and naive. Or just very lucky. The passion, loyalty, blind devotion, trust... most of which have very little room in reality.
She was the morning sunshine after a nightmare; she was my confidante; she was my everything. In retrospect, where did things go wrong? Probably right from the start. How could we have prevented our recent break up? Probably couldn't. Do I regret having ever met her? Never.
Lisa will most likely always have a part of my heart, not her as a person, but the memory of her that has crystallized in my mind's eye, only reinforced by months and months of incarceration.
Obviously we had our problems. And I can't deny the pain and disappointment that I felt over the years. But despite all of it, I kept on trying. Despite all of it, I kept on loving. What's the point of having a heart, if you don't use it because you're afraid it'll be broken?
Despite it all, I will always move on.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
I Bleed
a rhyme I wrote, there's a youtube link to the beat
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zIfDZ_ww0CY&feature=channel
im only playing with the hand that was dealt to me
in the care of lady luck, im a living prophecy
tryna make the best from a petty life of greed
escaping from the grasp of my realities
my addictions to the underground never ceased
temptations never setting me fully free
i battled with the beast within for eternity
please let me be, the last of a dying breed
this eternal hell and pain isnt meant to be
witnessed by the faculties of mentality
caged soul bound by the shackles of treachery
cold as ice as my eyes witness this tragedy
lies from the lips you love on a path of misery
hips and thighs mesmerize got you acting differently
so i bleed so i bleed so i bleed
* * * * * * * *
i shoulda asked for some proof of paternity
but they dont gauge another man's veracity
you have to see for yourself past hypocrisy
picking up empty promises to the third degree
everything nowadays happens for a reason see
destiny runs its course even with disbelief
im a learned cynic tagged with a felony
never led astray by the off key melodies
i cant help but pity the parody
of a man reaching desperately for his family
he's not worth any more mention lyrically
he's as good as dead to me, mentally, physically
i repent for a life of immoral deeds
got me wondering if im nothing but an evil seed
quicksand drowning in the doubts of self deceit
never giving up at the cruel hands of defeat
breathe for another day, better times painlessly
there will be time for redemption thankfully
lessons from a fallen soldier on the battlefield
is it true when they say that every wound heals
new york to cali i give you a rhapsody
classical portrait of a broken family
so i bleed so i bleed so i bleed
* * * * * * * *
i do have to say i chose my path selfishly
fear the cold wrath of a man waiting patiently
surrounded by deceptive masks of heresy
how can a single man overthrow fallacies
conformity with the masses is policy
contract killings are the norm, no compliancy
so rest in peace or agree with the Agency
learn to shut your mouth and not speak blatantly
eyes shifty coz the world is your enemy
if you can't beat em, join em coz you're outta strategies
nothing ever is what it first seems to be
number one lesson learned in a conspiracy
in a cube 9 by 9 dying with a cellie
sharing 9 square feet coz i used to sell ecstasy
23 and 1, going crazy in solitary
serving us trash and green expired meat
consequences of the past finally catching up to me
its time to pay the piper he wasnt sworn to secrecy
progression of the world at the cost of purity
corruption is the bane of a lost humanity
intricate patterns of behavior like a tapestry
and every word i say, know i say it factually
so i bleed so i bleed so i bleed
* * * * * * * *
tragic memories from a child lost at sea
passed down in my genes from my ancestry
its a never ending circle in a cycle viciously
thats the burden of the curse of my family
bound by the chains of time, can we break free?
can we see the light of day, smiling happily?
maybe many days, far from now eventually
but it will likely never be a probability
so i bleed so i bleed so i bleed
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zIfDZ_ww0CY&feature=channel
im only playing with the hand that was dealt to me
in the care of lady luck, im a living prophecy
tryna make the best from a petty life of greed
escaping from the grasp of my realities
my addictions to the underground never ceased
temptations never setting me fully free
i battled with the beast within for eternity
please let me be, the last of a dying breed
this eternal hell and pain isnt meant to be
witnessed by the faculties of mentality
caged soul bound by the shackles of treachery
cold as ice as my eyes witness this tragedy
lies from the lips you love on a path of misery
hips and thighs mesmerize got you acting differently
so i bleed so i bleed so i bleed
* * * * * * * *
i shoulda asked for some proof of paternity
but they dont gauge another man's veracity
you have to see for yourself past hypocrisy
picking up empty promises to the third degree
everything nowadays happens for a reason see
destiny runs its course even with disbelief
im a learned cynic tagged with a felony
never led astray by the off key melodies
i cant help but pity the parody
of a man reaching desperately for his family
he's not worth any more mention lyrically
he's as good as dead to me, mentally, physically
i repent for a life of immoral deeds
got me wondering if im nothing but an evil seed
quicksand drowning in the doubts of self deceit
never giving up at the cruel hands of defeat
breathe for another day, better times painlessly
there will be time for redemption thankfully
lessons from a fallen soldier on the battlefield
is it true when they say that every wound heals
new york to cali i give you a rhapsody
classical portrait of a broken family
so i bleed so i bleed so i bleed
* * * * * * * *
i do have to say i chose my path selfishly
fear the cold wrath of a man waiting patiently
surrounded by deceptive masks of heresy
how can a single man overthrow fallacies
conformity with the masses is policy
contract killings are the norm, no compliancy
so rest in peace or agree with the Agency
learn to shut your mouth and not speak blatantly
eyes shifty coz the world is your enemy
if you can't beat em, join em coz you're outta strategies
nothing ever is what it first seems to be
number one lesson learned in a conspiracy
in a cube 9 by 9 dying with a cellie
sharing 9 square feet coz i used to sell ecstasy
23 and 1, going crazy in solitary
serving us trash and green expired meat
consequences of the past finally catching up to me
its time to pay the piper he wasnt sworn to secrecy
progression of the world at the cost of purity
corruption is the bane of a lost humanity
intricate patterns of behavior like a tapestry
and every word i say, know i say it factually
so i bleed so i bleed so i bleed
* * * * * * * *
tragic memories from a child lost at sea
passed down in my genes from my ancestry
its a never ending circle in a cycle viciously
thats the burden of the curse of my family
bound by the chains of time, can we break free?
can we see the light of day, smiling happily?
maybe many days, far from now eventually
but it will likely never be a probability
so i bleed so i bleed so i bleed
Thursday, October 1, 2009
"Who the hell are you," you wonder?
A little introduction is in order so that all the other posts are at least somewhat coherent.
To sum it up neatly, I was born in Cali, came from a temporarily prospering family which ended as a fragmented one, raised in France, kicked out and sent back to NYC (I moved around a lot prior to moving to France, and lived in NYC for a couple years), went to a boarding school upstate NY, then an irresponsible lifestyle led to my dropping out of college and being arrested for selling ecstasy.
Sentenced to 2.5 years of prison, after 1.5 years of pretrial and 3 years of probation, I dealt with the feds for 7 years of my life. Right now (at 27), that's a little more than a quarter of my entire life. All this for 1,500 pills, a profit margin of no more than $5,000 lol. Pitiful, but my motivation for selling drugs wasn't to make a profit, but rather to get free drugs and maintain the lifestyle I was accustomed to. I didn't really abide by the rule "Don't get high off your own supply," but with all the drugs in my system, I'm pretty confident my brain wasn't functioning properly.
This should, in essence, put into perspective the rest of the memories and stories posted here. Some have somewhat of a moral, or a lesson learned upon reflection. Some are just funny or crazy. Some might be rhymes, short fictional stories, or just memories. Oh great, the ramblings of an ex-junkie...
To sum it up neatly, I was born in Cali, came from a temporarily prospering family which ended as a fragmented one, raised in France, kicked out and sent back to NYC (I moved around a lot prior to moving to France, and lived in NYC for a couple years), went to a boarding school upstate NY, then an irresponsible lifestyle led to my dropping out of college and being arrested for selling ecstasy.
Sentenced to 2.5 years of prison, after 1.5 years of pretrial and 3 years of probation, I dealt with the feds for 7 years of my life. Right now (at 27), that's a little more than a quarter of my entire life. All this for 1,500 pills, a profit margin of no more than $5,000 lol. Pitiful, but my motivation for selling drugs wasn't to make a profit, but rather to get free drugs and maintain the lifestyle I was accustomed to. I didn't really abide by the rule "Don't get high off your own supply," but with all the drugs in my system, I'm pretty confident my brain wasn't functioning properly.
This should, in essence, put into perspective the rest of the memories and stories posted here. Some have somewhat of a moral, or a lesson learned upon reflection. Some are just funny or crazy. Some might be rhymes, short fictional stories, or just memories. Oh great, the ramblings of an ex-junkie...
Basically you get a free peak into my soul and a sideline seat to my battle with my inner beast(s), which, up until recently, I thought was going to be a never-ending fight.
Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I will writing it. Then again, if you don't, this is about MY life, not yours ;P
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