Killing Me Softly with The "N" Word

The much maligned, and often deservedly so, Dr. Laura Schlessinger called it quits this week from her highly rated radio show after stirring up controversy by saying the word nigger almost a dozen times while pretending to offer advice to a black woman who was feeling targeted and discriminated against by her white husband’s friends & family. This is not a shock, not only because Dr. Laura is a misogynist—she tends to side with husbands over their wives—but also because she’s not a licensed psychologist like most decent advice columnists. Dr. Laura is a physiologist, a doctor that studies how the body works. If I wanted some advice on osmosis or homeostasis I’d ask Dr. Laura, but relationship advice? Come on!

Anyway, even though she apologized for “articulat[ing] the ‘n’ word all the way out,” (as if she had the street cred to have pulled off a simple nigga) she’s gone—or at least she will be when her season ends. Good riddance.

But of course this has caused the inevitable argument about The “N” Word, and whether or not it’s ever appropriate to use it, to rear it’s nappy head, again. The issue, as it’s being defined by certain people, isn’t simply whether or not it’s ever okay for a white person to say nigger, but whether anyone should use it at all, EVER.

(Read the rest on the latest From the Bottom Up on The Urban Twist)

Casualties of War

Seven Mexicans executed by rival drug gang members

Before I get to the nitty gritty, a few updates for you:
I recently wrote about the Senate’s inability to extend unemployment benefits for the millions of jobless Americans whose regular benefits had expired, or were getting ready to expire. I’m glad to announce that the Senate narrowly averted disaster by finally passing the benefits extension, no thanks to flailing Republicans. Rioting averted, for now.

Several weeks ago I wrote that Congress was considering legislation to reduce the outrageous penalties for crack cocaine possession & distribution. That bill finally passed its last hurdle in the Senate last week and was signed into law by President Obama this past Wednesday. That means that whites, who mostly go to jail for plain old powder, and blacks, predominant sellers & users of cocaine in crack form, will spend almost the same amount of time in jail for what is really the same drug.

But just to prove that they’re still mostly idiots...

(Read the rest on the latest From the Bottom Up on The Urban Twist)

Tea & Crackers

So the NAACP, an organization that seems increasingly more irrelevant as time goes by, came out to condemn the racist elements within the various loosely organized groups commonly known as Tea Parties which espouse so-called conservative values like free markets, limited government, and lower taxes. The resolution was motivated by Tea Partiers who were protesting the passage of the Health Care bill allegedly shouting “nigger!” at some black congressmen as they walked into the Capitol Building to vote on the legislation, not to mention some of the blatantly racist signs displayed about Obama and the stream of White Supremacists which have recently joined the ranks of Tea Partiers, or my term of preference, teabaggers.

Mind you, all the NAACP was asking for, which won’t be ratified until its October meetings, was essentially for the teabaggers to check themselves before they wreck themselves. But the way the teabaggers and their supporters reacted, you would have thought the NAACP just came out and called them all lying racist shitbags. I mean, they are, mostly, but I’m saying that, not the NAACP.

Even Queen of the teabaggers, Sarah Palin came out...

(Read the whole story on From the Bottom Up on The Urban Twist.)

Fire in the Hole

I‘m officially employed, again. Good thing, too. Shit started looking little dark down here at the bottom. The power cord for my laptop got fried, and I was afraid I might have to go on a fast in order to afford to replace it. But no. Just in the nick of time I find myself slinging cellies, again.
So if you happen to live in the Baltimore metro area and you’re in the market for a new phone come check me out at the Go Wireless in Homewood, on St Paul St, a block from Johns Hopkins University.

Don’t roll your eyes at me. If you all clicked on a couple of those ads you’re ignoring, maybe I wouldn’t have to hustle my wares in my column. So I think I’m entitled to a little personal advertising here. While I’m at it, I might as well let you know that I’m the newest Vice President of the Maryland Writers Association, too. Things are looking up!

At least I’m working. A lot of folx still ain’t. About 26 million, as a matter of fact. About 2.5 million of them wont be receiving unemployment benefits by the end of this week.

Read the whole story on From the Bottom Up on The Urban Twist.

Wilt

Wilt

I can still vividly recall

that smell that smiled

at me in the hall,

as I wandered past

your door.

Maybe it was the shelves full

of overpriced perfume,

but I’d bet it was just you,

in full bloom,

the long spiral petals

of your hair—

gold leafed brown to match

your stare;

I didn’t dare

linger,

long.

Instead I climbed

the stairs,

to the balcony,

from where

I could watch you

from above

& pretend we were

in love.

You looked even better

from that height,

where I could stay

just out of sight

& make believe I’d written

silly poems

just for you.

Even then I knew

I’d spend my days

in your company.

What I didn’t know,

what I couldn’t see,

was how exactly it would all go,

that I’d waste a decade

chasing dreams,

the recurring nightmare

of my life in memes

& all that time,

freedom

was always only

a whisper

away.

So now the make believe

is done,

pretending’s over,

fantasies spun.

Instead of settling

we have won,

although the bloom

is all but consumed;

& we are left

slowly wilting

in the sun;

but we shine

& the aroma’s stronger

now—potpourri &

vintage

wine.

We climb together now—

the balcony is closed

but the curtains of our stage

are just now opening wide,

as we perform in repose;

& who knows

how long it’ll take

before we wilt away.

I won’t even allow

my mind to wander there,

anymore.

Instead, I’ll bask

in the glow

of the love that would grow

from a passing scent as I walked

past your door.

McCrack: Why Drug Dealers Would Be Better Off Working at McDonalds

My hateful pal & fellow Urban Twister, Bryan Stewart, recently came out about his crack addiction (I assume the addiction is virtual.) on facebook, prompting a conversation about the realities of the drug trade. David Simon and his crew showed us plenty of those realities with Homicide, The Corner, & The Wire, but many of the misconceptions about how lucrative the drug trade is still linger. The truth is, unless you can survive the streets long enough without getting killed or arrested as a foot soldier, you’d be better of working at McDonalds...

(Read the whole story on From the Bottom Up on The Urban Twist.)

Villalba

 A poem about my childhood memories of the little town my folx are from in Puerto Rico:

Villalba

A shallow, little thing—
the river behind abuelita’s
house, barely deep
enough to wade in,
to slam our clothes
clean against the rocks.

Except when the hurricanes
came, we would have to
gather the chicken & geese
and stow them in the basement
praying that the great brown surge
carrying cows & cars with
equal ease would not
devour our fowl, anyway.

"¿How far does it go?"
I asked mi hermano—
"Don’t know, but I hear
that upstream
the catfish get so big
you can wrestle them
out of the water—"
and so we set out,
on a day free
of hurricanes, to find that place
where the river began.

¿How far had we walked
before we realized our folly
as the current grew stronger,
a Lucha Libre wrestler shoving
us around, knocking us down
refusing us a glance under
his golden mask?

¿And the catfish?
Just as we believed, we saw
one navigating the current
more easily than we could,
its whiskers as long as it was.

I pounced, thinking, perhaps
I can have at least this
one pleasure; rocks
in my hands,
nothing more.

Chosen

Howdy folx. I'm feeling a bit broody today, which sometimes makes for decent poetry. Here's what came out. Let me know what you think.

Chosen

I love you,

said the Universe

as she pummeled me

into the Earth,

ripped my corpse

out of the dirt

only to throw me

against weathered mountains.

I have chosen you,

She says as I slide

into cool rivers,

chosen you to show

humanity its foolish folly

its varicose vanity

its egregious ego.

I rest upon a riverbank

feeling no pain

because I am pain,

& I remember

being a child

being beaten

by my mother

beyond submission

beyond comprehension.

Afterwards

she would always hold me

in her arms, cradle me,

rock me softly,

& tell me tenderly,

I’m sorry. I do this

because I love you.

You can’t fail.

You are hope.

You are chosen.

Never Too Short to Get Cock Blocked by God, Part III

Wow. ¿Has it been really been February since I put up my last installment of Never Too Short... Oh well, better late than never, right? ¿Isn't that what they say? I could offer excuses, like I've been busy setting up and promoting From the Bottom Up, my new column on The Urban Twist which is 100% true... I guess I just offered an excuse. I'll shut up, now. Without further ado—

So where was I? Oh yes. It didn't take too long to recover from the heartache of The Buxom Virgin. Let's face it. Although they feel pain rather deeply, young hearts have an immense capacity to recover quickly. By the time I met Sissy, her given name was Juanita, I was over Pam. Only the occasional surprise letter would remind me of the hurt, like peeling a scab before the wound's fully healed. But I hadn't lost site of my mission, to get laid before I turned eighteen.

I met Sissy through Patty, a girl I went out with for less than a day not long after moving to Baltimore City. I remember on the walk to school, Patty was telling me how much she liked me, and on the way back home, she was telling me she couldn't get over how much shorter I was (all of 2 inches!). It didn't bother me much because at fourteen she was already a heavy smoker, and kissing her was like licking the bottom of an ashtray. We stayed friends though, until her only friends became the glue and paints she huffed to get high, and Patty started looking like a forty-year-old teenager.

She did, however, introduce me to Sissy in the spring of 1986. Sissy seemed like a simple Girl-Next-Door type—subdued and maybe a little shy. She was a year older than me, but light years ahead as far as sex was concerned. Needless to say, I was a little shocked when I learned she danced on The Block. For those not familiar with Baltimore, The Block is the local red light district. It’s exactly what it implies, one square block of strip joints, peep show booths & adult novelty stores. She had lied and said she was eighteen so they would let her dance, albeit I don't believe they asked for ID. Not yet twenty-one at the time, I never did get to see her dance.

I thought I'd hit the jackpot, though. Here was a girl I could take home to mom, pass her off as this sweet homespun girl, and would show me the frontiers of sexual ecstasy once mom went off to bed.

Well, my place never worked. My mom thought Sissy was a slut, and with four siblings in a small rowhouse, it was impossible to get privacy. Her place was no better. Her mom and little sister liked me just fine, but there was just never a right time. That right time finally came many months later.

We had actually broken up for a while. As Sissy's dancing schedule became more hectic, she had less & less time for me. I was also more than a bit jealous as I realized how much, and what kind of attention she had to pay to her customers. However, when I ran into her and Patty that winter, we were both more than eager to rekindle what little we'd once had. She and Patty were house sitting for some rich guy that had bought two adjacent rowhouses in Butcher's Hill, a fancy name for Upper Fells Point. He had converted it into one large house, so large that he was having a pool built in the huge basement. I suspected he was a customer of Sissy's, but thought it better not to ask.

Regardless, Patty was hanging all over this dude, and Sissy was alone. I was convenient & available. I went in and got the grand tour, which ended upstairs in a tacky bar & lounge with these Indian wall hangings and a bench that was a lot less comfortable than it looked. Patty had stayed downstairs with her friend, so Sissy and I tried to get comfortable on that god damned bench. After a bit of flailing I got Sissy down to just her panties.  

Finally, I squealed with glee in my head, I get to put all I've learned together and try it out for real. I'll just take my time, make the moment last...  It started off well enough, lots of kissing, grinding, feeling—some battling with that thin-ass bench... No sooner did I slip off Sissy's panties so that I could demonstrate the prowess of my tongue than Patty came storming through the door. "He's here! Get dressed." 

Apparently, the owner, who was supposed to be out for the evening, decided he'd rather be home that night. We got our clothes on just before he made his way upstairs. He fixed himself a drink at his bar, opened up the door to his bedroom, and started talking about his extensive video collection. Impressively, his bedroom walls were wrapped in VHS tapes.

Once he was done, he said he was tired and asked the ladies to escort the young men to the door. I begged Sissy to come with me, that we could finish our night elsewhere. When she said no, it was obvious that she was beholden to that man in some way. I decided then to leave Sissy alone for good. She really wasn't worth the blue balls. Granted, if the opportunity had presented itself again, I know I wouldn't have turned her down, as horny as I was.

That would be it as far as opportunities for sex goes, at least for a while. I had other girlfriends, but nothing serious enough to lead to more than some kissing and heavy petting. The exception is what happened during my Junior Prom. I got the chance to share that tale in front of a sold out crowd on CenterStage in Baltimore for the Stoop Storytelling series. Listen to it here.

My next good chance at getting laid was Marilyn. I first met Marilyn when she dropped in unexpectedly at my sixteenth birthday party on July 4th, 1985. She was a cute Nuyorican girl from New York, kind of like a young Rosie Perez—sexy accent & all. She was here with her brother & sister spending the summer in Baltimore with their grandparents. I was immediately in love. Granted, my sister saw Marilyn as her friend and didn't want her to spend any time with me. “She already has a boyfriend in New York,” my sister would tell me, “His name’s Chunky. Besides, she's not interested in your scrawny little ass.”

I took my sister at her word, but I spent what time I could with Marilyn discussing New York—my old stomping grounds— & music. We did this for two summers, each summer bringing talk of a new boyfriend. I didn't want to step on anyone's toes, so I said nothing about the way I felt. That wasn't too hard for me, anyway. I was still painfully shy, and it usually took the girl saying something to me for anything to happen.

The summer after I finished high school, I didn't see Marilyn around. Maybe she got tired of Baltimore, I thought. I finally ran into her at the tiny carnival held by St. Elizabeth's Church on Lakewood Avenue. Ironically, that same night, I ran into the woman who would end up being my first—lay, wife, mother of my children. Anyway, Marilyn was excited to see me. We decided to get on a ride together and catch up.

We actually didn't say much until she asked me, “Freddy, why haven't you ever asked me out?” I told her about my sister, about her boyfriends back in NYC, and her only being here during summers.

“Besides, Kyra always told me you weren't interested in me,” I admitted.

“Well, Kyra shouldn't have said that,” she tells me, “I was always interested.” I immediately felt the need to do backflips, but the ride had us up pretty high, and that would have resulted in death or serious injury. Instead, I directed that pent-up energy for what has to be one of the most magical kisses I've ever experienced, to that time. I remember the ride operator repeatedly, testily having to ask us to get off.

That summer was one of the best ever. She had had a fight with her mother’s boyfriend and decided to move to Baltimore permanently. We spent almost every waking hour together. We even discussed marriage. I wanted to wait until I had a degree and a decent job. She was ready—almost in a rush, it seemed. We were both virgins, and decided that we would have to handle that together, at the right time. Alas, that time would never come.

As autumn crept around the corner, we both got ready to start classes. I had bumbled through my last year in high school, so I was going to start at Baltimore City Community College. She was going to do her senior year at Patterson High. I came home after my second day of classes and my mom was yelling at me before I even made it through the door. Nothing new, but she was going on & on about Marilyn. As I start to make sense of it, I realize that Marilyn had lied to her grandfather telling him she had spent a recent night at our house. When my mother told her grandfather the truth, he was not very happy.

Marilyn wasn't very happy, either. She was mad that my mom didn't just go along with the lie. She was also upset that her grandfather had slapped her. She changed her mind about staying in Baltimore and opted to go back to New York after all—at the end of the week. The rest of that week was pretty miserable. We talked about staying in touch, but something told me it wouldn't be that easy. Look at what happened with Pam.

After we said our goodbyes, I went home and spent the weekend in tears in the tiny basement bedroom I shared with my little brother listening to a mixtape she's made me of her favorite New York Freestyle songs. I became a stereotype. Every song on that tape was about her, about me or about us. The chorus to Noel's Silent Morning—Silent Morning, I wake up and you're not by my side/ Silent Morning, You know how hard I tried/ Silent Morning, They say a man's not supposed to cry/ Silent Morning, Why did your love have to be a lie—became my anthem as it played over & over again. Only the desire to eat, and class on Monday, drew me out.

After class that Monday my mother volunteered me to pick up my little stepsister from kindergarten at the elementary school right down the street. Still depressed, I sauntered to the school, grabbed my sis and began to head home. Imagine my surprise when I saw Marilyn in the middle of the schoolyard. I forgot about my poor little sister. Marilyn had come back. ¡To me!

She noticed me approaching and offered the slightest of smiles. Nothing more. I started off the conversation. “¿So you decided to come back?”

“No,” she said, “I never left.”

I was confused. “¿Never left?” I asked, “¿Where were you?”

“Getting married,” she admitted nonchalantly, lifting her hand to show me the ring.

“Married. ¿Just like that? ¿To who?” but I barely heard her answers as I could feel the anger in me surging. Suddenly I remembered my poor little sister, waiting patiently, her teeny hand in mine. “Well, good luck with that,” I blurted out, not meaning it, as I took my sister and walked away.

There’s a strange irony to the story. Marilyn had married this guy named Wilson. I knew Wilson in passing, but mostly because Peggy Puddles, the girl with whom I’d perfected my cunnilingual skills, had dumped him for me way back when.

Marilyn and I would actually cross paths a few times after that, most notably when she sat me down to tell me that my wife (at the time) had admitted to her that she had slept with six other men while married to me. She felt I should know. She also told me that there were things going on at the time she decided to get married, things I didn't know about, but that she wasn't quite ready to tell me.

She never did tell me. I suspect that she was desperate to get out of her grandfather's house. When she realized I wanted to finish my schooling before starting a family, she turned elsewhere. She had got herself pregnant by Wilson, and felt obligated to marry him. Had she just been honest about what she felt she needed, I would have married her the next day. Another irony—that child, Wilson Jr., looked like he could have been mine. I may never know the actual truth, but I’ve been told by mutual friends that it didn’t slip by her how much her first son resembled me. Penance, perhaps.  

Marilyn and I even dabbled with reuniting when both our marriages were breaking up, but I suppose its one of those things—a love combusted and turned to ashes whose embers you just can’t rekindle. Nevertheless, I still think of Marilyn fondly as my first true love.

That's about it, folx. A year later I would meet Maria, the woman I would finally go all the way with. I would also get her pregnant and end up marrying her. You can find that story in Smile Hon, You're in Flagrante, the sex issue of Eight Stone Press' popular award-winning zine Smile Hon, You're in Baltimore. I will eventually get around to posting it here, but you already know how slow I am about things like that.



That's about it, folx. A year later I would meet Maria, the woman I would finally go all the way with. I would also get her pregnant and end up marrying her. You can find that story in Smile Hon, You're in Flagrante, the sex issue of Eight Stone Press' popular award-winning zine Smile Hon, You're in Baltimore. I will eventually get around to posting it here, but you already know how slow I am about things like that.


Oh yeah, I almost forgot about the thief. Not much to tell, really. Having turned eighteen by then, I had already missed my deadline. I was living with a buddy of mine, Chris Mills, before I met Maria. Chris and I were hanging out a friend's house, one of those places you hang out at because the parents are never around. We had met up with these two girls, good friends who both went to St. Elizabeth's—remember, the church/school where I hooked up with Marilyn and met Maria? Chris was making out with one of the girls; I made out with the other. 

I remember I was on my back on the floor of the darkened living room with the girl on top of me. My wallet was digging into my ass, so I slid it out and laid it on the coffee table next to us. A few minutes later, just as I let my hopes rise, once again, that I was about to get some, her friend comes over and tells her that they have to get home. Curfew. Chris & I walk them out and talk about hooking up again the next day. I go back into the living room, grab my wallet, look inside and see nothing. The couple of hundred dollars I had saved up for an end of summer trip to Ocean City was gone. I never saw her again, but the chick left me with nothing but an empty heart and an empty wallet.

Half Empty

 

             Half Empty

If I had some shattered dreams

@ least I’d have a dream

instead of broken promises

& all this make believe

¿How much more can

I not do

can I not do

can I not have you?

I want to

I don’t live

I just live lies

I don’t get

I just get by

Even 2 is lonely when I’m with me

& the truth is homely when I can’t see

I’m not so funny but everyone laughs

¿But what’s so funny about living in halves?

Easter Snapshot

snapshot
Staring
at the only photograph
I have left, Easter—your head
wrapped neatly in a paisley
scarf, alabaster skin set
off by the scarlet of your top,
all 5’ nothing of you dwarfing
over the 3 of us, [how small
we were, and how as big
as the world you seemed to us
back then] holding JoJo’s fragile
little hand—JoJo, in his blue denim
overalls with a strap dangling
off his shoulder and his Buster
Brown do, free hand gripping
one link of the chain link—your other
arm held hard against KiKi’s heart—
KiKi, with her baby doll dress & her baby doll
smile & her white knee highs— and
there I am, the Little Man all grown
up at 8 or 9 or whatever, hair,
as always, waving wildly in the wind,
stylin’ in my plaid polyester belted lounge
lizard jacket, with matching bell
bottom bottom, foot propped
up, arms spread like I owned
the world like I knew I did;
all of us there, at the base
of Lady Liberty, Manhattan &
its now extinct towers barely
bursting through the fog, celebrating,
not God, not Jesus, not life, nor liberty,
nor the pursuit of happiness, but
love: the love that we could squeeze
out of this fucked up family that we
shared, that we accepted for better
of for worse, or for worse than that
because how can we forget those times?

I stare
at this, the only
photograph I have
left, & I imagine
the others, the ones
I don’t have, the ones
lost, the ones destroyed, even
the ones that never existed,
like the picture I never
took of you during one
of your dazed for days days,
lounging & lost in your
euphoria, hiding from problems
I didn’t, still don’t quite,
understand, like the picture
I never took of you bruised,
battered & beaten by
whatever flavor of the month
macho-sick monster you were
sampling, like the picture I never
took the day you cashed your
first paycheck, leaving the drugs,
the drink, the drunks & the drama
packed away neatly with your past,
or like the picture I never took
of you bloated, bleeding & bleached
on that hospital bed, your past
unpacking itself to prevent
your progress,
your present,
your presence…
your life briefed
down to vital signs & bad
mistakes you had already paid for
with interest.

Staring
as I tend to
do quite often, more
often than I like to admit,
at the only photograph
I have left, I am left
wanting more:
more than these faded
foggy fucked up fragments
that I can’t quite feel,
these pieces of memory
that float around in my head,
incomplete & inane,
that I can’t touch
or hold or strum
like a stringless guitar,
or cry on; they don’t
have the power
of this picture,
this one picture
this one last picture
where life was set
aside one Easter Sunday
just so
that we could remember
that even the fog
could not hide
the love captured
at the base
of Lady Liberty.

One Degree

I’m stalking Kirstie Alley. Before you get the wrong idea, let me state that I’m not a celebrity chaser.

During my career in retail I’ve had the chance to wait on the likes of Chris Rock, Sonja Sohn (who hit on me), Richard Belzer, Carmelo Anthony, Michelle Kwan, a few Ravens, and just about all the Spanish-speaking Orioles from 1999-2005. 

Sure, I would go home and tell my boys about my encounters; and inevitably, they would complain about my refusal to collect any of their autographs. My excuse: celebrities are just regular folx and likely prefer to be treated as such, especially when they’re just trying to buy some film.

¿So, why Kirstie? Well, in the seemingly never-ending process of preparing my novel, Killing Lilith, for publication the discussion in my writing group occasionally turned a possible movie adaptation. When pressed about who I would like to see play Lilith, only one actress came to mind: Kirstie Alley. I fell in love with her depiction of the Vulcan Saavik in The Wrath of Khan, and fell in love with her, personally, during her portrayal of Rebecca Howe in Cheers. Despite her weight gain at that time, she was still incredibly beautiful—perfect for the role of an overweight, former Jewish American Princess on with suicidal tendencies.

At the time her name came up, she was promoting Fat Actress and Jenny Craig, and losing weight at a rapid clip. She’s not going to put all that weight back on for the role was what I heard. Otherwise, there was general agreement that a big Kirstie would otherwise be perfect for the role. Knowing of the potential failings of dieting, I figured she was likely to put the weight back on, anyway. I find the fact that I was right bittersweet. I cheered for her when she went on Oprah in a bikini, but breathed a sigh of relief when it came out that she was struggling again. (Update: Since originally writing this piece, Kirstie stole the show at Dancing with the Stars and, yet again, has lost lots of weight. No worries. If they can make Ian Colm look like a Hobbit, They can make Kirstie look heavy.


Now that I’m in the final stages of polishing my manuscript, I find myself thinking, once again, about a potential movie adaptation. (I realize I’m jumping the gun considering I don’t even have an agent, yet.) Having the vanity required of a writer who wants to break through I feel my novel, once complete, will be top caliber literature. I know I'm cocky, but I was born during the Year of the Cock, after all. It is not a completely egotistical statement. I’ve had enough folx I respect tell me how good it is, including producer David Kirschner, who brought us Chucky, the homicidal doll from Child’s Play, and Fievel the mouse from An American Tail, as well as producing Curious George and Miss Potter. Naturally, I believe a movie version would have Oscar potential. Imagine what it would do for typically stigmatized overweight women, not to mention Kirstie’s career, if she were to get an Oscar nod for her portrayal.


The obvious problem in all this, other than the fact that most writers lose creative control of their projects once a studio decides to turn a book into a movie, is that I don’t know Kirstie, at least not personally. In comes Twitter, the social network that forces you to summarize your ideas into 140 character synopses. Kirstie, being the savvy self-promoter that she is, turned to Twitter to rebuild and energize her fan base and promote her new reality show, Kirstie Alley’s Big Life as well as Organic Liaison, a weight loss program she helped develop. Naturally, I saw it as an opportunity to attempt to attract her attention, hence the stalking.


What I find most thrilling isn’t so much that I can chat with Kirstie directly—which is not necessarily the case considering I might have creeped her out, resulting in her possibly blocking my tweets—but the fact that Twitter has turned the concept of Six Degrees of Separation on its head. As you likely already know, the Six Degrees theory is the idea that we are all only six folx away from anyone in the world. Say you want to meet President Obama. You likely know someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows—you get the picture. Now, with tools like Twitter, you can go straight to the source.


Technology is breaking it all down to one single degree. Granted, when it comes to celebrities and other self-important bigwigs the chances are you’re tweeting an assistant or PR type. But in some cases, particularly in Kirstie’s who tweets about diet, her lemurs & even during her appearance on The Late Show, the person on the other end is the one you hope it is.


¿So where do we go from here? Depends. Lots of us, myself included, enjoyed Facebook until we were inundated with the constant stream of status updates from “friends” that were barely friends when we knew them. Although I’ve accumulated nearly a thousand Facebook friends, many who I have known personally or at least met, only a small core actually notice when I’ve posted something new. Even fewer read it, which is a shame considering my writing can be entertaining, funny and insightful, and I only make money if folx click on the ads on my blog or my column on The Urban Twist. I also have a Twitter account, but few of my friends are even on Twitter. They likely feel that Facebook takes up enough of their time.

That might be where it stands right now, but I reckon once they get tired of wasting time on Mob Wars & Farmville (or for the rest of us, get tired of requests to join Mob Wars & Farmville, etc.) you might eventually see a migration to the stripped down, no nonsense network Twitter has to offer.



Time now for my own social network experiment. As I mentioned, I’ve had no success getting Ms Alley’s attention, yet. Either she thinks I’m a joke, or I’ve spooked her into blocking me. Considering how in touch she stays with what's written about her, I hope this blog entry will finally catch her eye. But you can help. That’s why I tagged all of you. The other phenomenal thing about building social networks is the potential power it gives you to “spread the word,” as seen by the Twitter fueled protests in Iran and elsewhere. My challenge to you is this: help me get Kirstie’s attention. Open a Twitter account, if you don’t already have one, follow Kirstie (While you’re at it, you might as well follow me, right.), and let her know that The Word Pimp has what might be the opportunity of a lifetime. ¿Why not? You’re just one degree away.



And if the day ever does come that I’m standing on a stage in L.A., music playing, being handed an Oscar by some lovely starlet, I promise to step up to the microphone and thank you all.


If you would like to receive news, updates & excerpts from my novel, be sure to "like" the  Killing Lilith Facebook Page.

Happenings

I know, you're all eager to see Part III of Never Too Short to Get Cock Blocked by God. I promise you, it's coming. The main reason I have yet been able to focus on it is because of my newest gig. In case you weren't aware, I am the newest op-ed columnist for The Urban Twist. So if you're hard up for some Word Pimp, click on the link and read my shit there. I'll try to get back to my pathetic quest for teen sex by the end of the week. Until then...

Much Love,
Fernando Quijano III

Never Too Short to Get Cock Blocked by God, Part II

Things finally started looking up when I turned sixteen. I started coming into my own, attracting the attention of cute (& not so cute) girls. One day during the summer I turned sixteen, I went to the pool in Patterson Park, not an unusual activity for me in those days. I came out of the pool a shivering mess, and realized I'd forgotten my towel. I laid out on the bench to dry under the hot sun, and a young lady next to me offered her towel. After drying myself, I thanked her and gave it back. She looked right into my face and said, “You know, you have the most beautiful eyes.”

Not used to that kind of attention, I could feel my whole body blushing and replied with the only words that I could muster, “Thanks.”

She asked me my age. I replied honestly. She admitted she was twenty-four, and asked if that scared me. It didn't. This was, after all, the opportunity I'd been waiting for. I gripped the bench tight. My first Older Girl. It was all I could do to stop myself from falling to my knees and thanking God. “If I told you where I live, you wouldn't come over and hang out, would you?” she asked after some small talk.

There was something sad in this beautiful young woman, afraid that I might reject her. Of course, I said I would go because my prayers had at long last been answered. She gave me her address and a good time to stop by on the following Saturday. I told her I would be there. She said, glumly, “You're not gonna come, but that's okay.”

That whole week, I could think only about that day. It couldn't come soon enough. I was going to prove her wrong. Not only was I going to come, but I wasn't going to do it all by myself this time. That evening, I skateboarded the mile or so to where The Older Girl lived. She was outside with her family, including her son who couldn't have been more than three. After introducing me, she picked up her toddler and had me follow her into her apartment in a building a few doors down from her mother's. I waited in her kitchen as she filled the bath for her son. At this point, I didn't know what to expect. I admit, I got a little nervous.

She came out of the bathroom and said, “He'll be okay for a while. He loves playing in the tub.” That was followed by a bunch of nervous small talk until she asked me if I liked to dance. She turned on some music, and we started slow dancing. That turned into kissing & heavy petting. Suddenly she stops and explains to me that she really thought I wasn't going to show up, so she had made other plans for the evening. My heart sank like the Titanic.

She told me she had to take her son back to her mother's and start getting ready, but that I could keep her company while she got dressed. We couldn't keep our hands off each other, but she would only let me go so far, not wanting to do anything that would keep her from her evening. Finally, I escorted her down to her front door. She stopped me one last time halfway down. “Freddy, please come back again. Promise me you'll come back.”

“Of course,” I tell her, shocked at the desperation in her voice, “I'm definitely coming back! Why wouldn't I?”

"Because my titties are too tiny! I know you don't like them. You're not coming back!”

Mind you, I loved this woman's breasts. They were small—barely buds— but perfect, with large, brown nipples that pointed like prayers at the sky. I figured she must have had a hard time about them when she was younger. “You got it all wrong!” I cried, “You have great breasts. You have great everything.” And I purposely gave her beautiful little buds as much adoration as she would allow before she had to leave.

With that, she let a smile come to her lips and offered me one last kiss before I escorted to her door and we went our separate ways. Ironically, every time I returned after that, The Older Girl was never around, or couldn't make time for me. Maybe she finally felt guilty about my age, or maybe her parents didn't buy her “He's eighteen story.” For whatever reason, that door closed for me almost as soon as it opened.

That left me back at square one and unbearably horny. Which reminds me of the period of my teenage life when I was particularly grumpy all the time. Knowing what I know now, it was probably hormonal. When my mother once asked me what the hell was wrong with me, I blurted out, “I don’t now! Maybe I'm sexually frustrated!!” I don't remember her ever laughing that hard at something I said, and as you might imagine, I could be a pretty entertaining kid.

A few months after The Older Girl in the fall of 1985, during the heyday of my skateboarding years, I was hanging out with a group of skaters who rolled all over Fells Point. One night, I skated by and everybody was hanging out in front of this house on Castle Street. I stopped to see what was going on. Apparently, there was this Geek who had to be in the house once the streetlights came on who had this beautiful girlfriend that everyone thought he must be making up. They were waiting for her to come out, which considering it was nearly 9 o'clock, would be soon because he wasn't allowed company after nine.

Sure enough, at around 9:15, this gorgeous, buxom, blue-eyed, blonde mini-goddess comes out of the house. The Geek (Lordy, I have to get better with the names. I'm thinking it was Chris, maybe...) comes out on the steps and introduces her to all of us. He barely got a chance to finish when his mother calls him back into the house. Pam, as we learned her name was, lived in Laurel, near D.C., and had an aunt who lived next door to The Geek and worked at Johns Hopkins Hospital as a nurse. Pam's mother would allow her to come and spend occasional weekends with her aunt in Baltimore.

She hung out with us for a few minutes before deciding she's going in for the night. We convinced her to stay out a little longer with offers to show her the waterfront, which she hadn't been to yet—a shame considering she was only blocks away. So off we rolled down to a little waterfront parking lot off of Boston Street. Actually, I walked. I was older than the rest of the crew, and more of a gentleman—as everyone else tried impressing her with their skateboard tricks, I, like a Word Pimp-in-training should, impressed her with pointless banter. That worked better for me anyway cuz, to be honest, I sucked on the damned boards. I couldn't even do an Ollie without my board twisting about 90 degrees counterclockwise. I was sad.

But not to her. My fellow skaters kept showing off their best moves, but remember, all my best moves are made with my mouth. By the time she was ready to head home, I had found out quite a bit about her, including the fact that, like me, she was a virgin. Of course, I lied and said I wasn't. We made it back to her aunt's place where Pam invited us all up. Her aunt was on shift until two. Everyone hung out for a few minutes before they started trickling out to meet their own curfews. The oldest of the bunch, I had no curfew and offered to stick around, keep her company.

We chatted until two in the morning, talking about life, music, sex. Everything. I couldn't think about anything but kissing this young goddess, but she was only fourteen to my sixteen. Plus, as little respect as I had for The Geek that was quietly sleeping next door, I wasn't an asshole. Okay, just not THAT MUCH of an asshole.

And then her aunt walks in. She had taken a double shift, and was given some time to go home and change. She did not like seeing me there. I wasn’t The Geek, who might have been as horny as me, but likely harmless. I was very polite, explained that I was only keeping Pam company and asked her to excuse my intrusion. She kindly, yet coldly, said goodbye and had Pam walk me to the door.

As I got ready to hop on my board and roll off, Pam grabbed me and said, “¿You're coming back, aren't you?”

“¿But what about your aunt?”

“¡Forget her! She's going back to work in a minute. Just skate around for a while and come back in like fifteen minutes."

"Sure," I said reluctantly, not wanting to get her in trouble or myself arrested. Then she grabbed me and kissed me. I was stunned. I never really had much luck with the fair-haired, fair-skinned girls. I just thought I'd made a new friend. Not that I hadn’t been hoping...

“Promise me your gonna come back. ¡Promise!”

It seemed a little desperate. I was having flashbacks of The Older Girl, but I figured my luck couldn't possibly be that bad. "I promise," I told her, kissed her back and rolled down Castle Street. It wasn't but maybe ten minutes later when I saw Pam running down Chester Street—barefoot, wearing only a nightshirt. Her aunt had left, and she wanted to make sure I hadn't.

Back at her place, the mood had changed. We were no longer friends. We were lovers, virgins wanting nothing more than to shed our virginity—The Geek be damned. Pam put on a Scorpions compilation, and we started making out. The first oddity was that she didn't want to take her top off. That was a little disappointing, considering she, unlike The Older Girl, was very well endowed. She told me that lots of boys only liked her for that reason. She didn't want to think that that was the only reason I liked her. Also odd, as we were exploring each other's bodies, Pam flinched as my hand made its way to virgin territory. I asked her what was wrong, and she explained that she had been making out with The Geek, and the doofus had accidentally kneed her in the groin, hard. She followed that up with, “It's okay. I want to do this. I want to do this with you.” I think I fell in love with her at that very moment.

Needless to say, it wasn't meant to be. The Geek wasn't there, but he'd ruined it for me with his inept clumsiness. Sex was too painful for Pam, and I was too inexperienced and nervous to ease her pain. We spent the rest of the night holding each other, and I left once the sunlight crept through the windows.

Pam's parents didn't want us together, and forbade her from coming back to Baltimore. After a while, they wouldn't even let her use the phone. We couldn't communicate at all. There were a few surprise letters, including one that promised that she was going to join the Air Force, and that once she got out, she was coming to get me, and fuck the hell out of me on her bed with an American flag hanging over our heads. That was a bit scary, but a part of me wanted nothing more, however resigned I had become that it was never going to happen.


Next Time: The Stripper, My First True Love & The Thief