Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Move The Tape 1st crack at not a highlight film lol

Move The Tape from carl easton on Vimeo.

Sunday, July 09, 2017

Summer deadlines, Book a movie and free therapy, here we go again"Legendes" SOL V. 1

Chapter 1 Heartaches 4/21/47 Hospital Helrose, MA. My sweet child it is you that has done nothing wrong it’s these forces that have chosen to engulf you, it won’t be easy, I’ll be with you child, pray to me, follow me, find strength through me, I’m the righteousness you’ll need to live. I’ll always be a heartbeat away I’ll have your mother right here and inside the deepest corners of your hopelessness close your eyes and shine for you’re a beacon. It will not be easy. I’m sorry sweet child you’ve been chosen for such struggle. Home is in your heart someone will be here for you shortly, much of it will be forgotten. In time, recollections only calling will be a sobering r eminder that this actually surrounded you one long day away life will return where it has robbed you selfishly without candors good tact regarding such infancy never stop believing and someone will be here for you one day soon Baby Lilly Chapter 1. In a Real Love - 11/05/04 High school re-unions (I, V, X) and Turkey Bowls a good spot to begin. I awoke that morning with a case of the blackout blues. The consumption of planet earth gene the American white male passed down taming the west blacked out many of the fonder memories us white people in this country inherit by default, great fucking system. Anyway that was how I saw it. First thing in the AM though this was the worst. Prying my crusty Edison’s, sniffing my seemingly, beer soaked, ashtray of attire, I began to bug. It was the silence. It was dense. “Where am I?” I asked aloud curious if my voice even worked, “Hello?” Scanning the area I wasn’t at my pad and that’s all I needed to know. I wasn't in the tree fort the small efficiency I rented for $900 a month, I wasn’t in Washington DC. Plus this wasn’t my first it was my last chance. I’d had a few so I wasn’t mad. Last chances were like game over fourth downs driving to victory you simply could only survive a finite amount and gods pretty fair overall. This was my fifth I figured I was lucky I got three. The whole uncertainty of my immediate whereabouts slash possible shit trail ignited seismic anxiety on the zilla. My brain then encountered major questions over the day, year and lastly what city was I in? In High School we believed the blackout blues were a myth promulgated by actors. “No matter how drunk we get I can always remember what we fucking did. For the most part.” My old rival turned best man Magic would say recapping yet another legendary high school weekend. Fuck ADD, dude, where are you, focus you fuck. I swiveled my box of rocks and still not a god dam thing, a launch pad for panic, “I don’t give a fuck” nothing, I don’t give a fuck, one more time harder, I don’t give a fuck, harder I hate white people, Jesus no clarity, now I felt it coming, oh shit oh shit, pull the emergency lever, my breath trick always calmed me down. I’d developed my breath trick during the sixth grade playing a game “cliff push” in my kitchen like push my mom off the cliff before she pushes me. It was out of the game Cliff Push or Blind Spots I developed my breath trick. The breath trick worked best alone but wasn’t necessary. It took ten seconds. I’d step back and with gently shut-eyes call on a rare focus. Opening my eyes I’d then slowly exhale my now fully bloated cheeks after my deepest breath naming various players from the New England Patriots 1985 defense, Ronnie Lippet, Raymound Clayborn by the time my cheeks deflated so had I, the crying stopped. Little bitch. I did this now, once, twice the shaking cowered thrice maximum and only for a severe episode. Repeat as needed. The first step tackling the old B & B’s was zip code discovery, think hard fucken retard, I collapsed, crushed under a pattern of my own design. Panic attacks were death. I’d rather die is basically the thinking. I suddenly felt like I was choking. I folded my hands and crawled to a cold tiled surface. The breath trick was out once I couldn’t breathe. I placed one side of my face on something cold. My past “situations” warranted what was coming oh fuck oh fuck out of pills, I prayed, Jesus listen please it’s me Charlie again please, please, please, I don’t want to go to the hospital, I beg you and then it happened, oh buddy. My Edison’s cleansed clearly, I was wearing a tuxedo plus a white silk scarf this brought immediate relief. I calmed down. See the white silk scarf was my Xanex fuck a pill. Pills in my hometown of Madison were far ahead almost racy next to the rest of the country over prescribed was a good way to describe my hometown. I flexed that great smirk of getting away with something I had no idea I did bad things don’t happen to white people in tuxedos dumb ass. I was ready for a lobster omelet inside some American castle. I felt great joy. I could breathe and my toes worked but my head sucked milk. I was definitely late for something clearly this was not the time to interview myself, “fuck, fuck, fuck!” I breathed in deeply calling on that elusive focus, ‘Andre Tippet’ it bought me maybe another five. The panic god dam it wasn’t that hard. I needed to figure out some details quick it was so quiet suddenly cold I was shaking, Jesus. It was getting harder and harder to repress this stuff until one day you forget - everything is remembered conveniently, pressed and stowed away like some sort of mass murderer. Progressions: Sweep all pockets a ninth time reaching my hand back into my breast coat pocket, lifting my what seemed to be extremely bruised thigh, I hit a shuffle of something, what is this Du? It was a picture of a baby and to my hearts warm affiliation the chap was dark Chocolate. “Fuck white people.” I laughed plucking out another behind it followed by another possibly sibling, shorty and I pulled out another and another and a sister and a brother shining black school children like none other, clues, Hmmm where am I? Breath Trick. Steve Nelson, Julius Adams, Garin Veris why the fuck are all these pictures of black babies in my tux? It then dawned on me, I was home my tenth year high school re-union was last night. I’d brought my sister. She was my date. The tuxedo reminded me of a bet I’d made with my old friend Mr. Robinson. I smiled fondly in the comforting remembrance of someone that helped you as a pup. Mr. Robinson the hard ass housemaster. I recalled being shuttled out of our senior prom by my high school kings when Mr. Robinson intercepted our last step, “Stanley Fullerton!” He called loudly aware I was incapable of hearing, “watch over him closely please! Goose bumps. Breath trick. “We always do sir” I was about to cry as Mr. Fullerton the ever-polite, classic underachiever faithfully agreed. My boy C and Mr. Fullerton both full-blooded Irish bound them to a city we really knew nothing about. There was simply no need for us to ever leave Madison except for beeper bills and Celtics games. My boy C crowned the blonde lettuce. Mr. Fullerton the brown both perfectly parted to the side always in a polo shirt and jeans or khakis. They were Madison boys that was the uniform. Their parents were all high school teachers. We were all six feet and above except Skeetah and Herby growth spurts just never seemed to come for the Beats. We called them the “beats” short for the Dead Beats a collection of teenage waste the envy of every hard working student. Mr. Fullerton’s parents were both high school and middle school teachers, real New Englanders people that gave more than they took. Humble and wise my Boy C’s dad taught woodshop in a neighboring tougher city. C’s ma grew up in the small white classic Cape that had been there since the civil war. Madison was about history. It’s core and vital signs. It’s prestige. It’s pole position in our short history, the first shot mutha fuckah! We loved it and gave me a confidence the pills stripped away. Anyway my boy C’s civil war cottage sat on the top of Mass Ave the high ground to our town’s famous battle green. This was a common theme in middle class Madison, the pass me down house. Madison had become a magazine by the early 1980’s and high school legends were bigger than ever complete with their very own TV commercials. Those guys had it all and deserved it. I guess that’s how it all started. Those guys were no rocket scientists. They were not bullies. They stood up for the weak. They were incapable of racism. They were good looking and gifted. They were strong and explosive. They dabbled in beer and weed and loved a great party. They were the leaders of many disdained by less than a few. Growing up we had one at Hayden our beloved neighborhood recreation center Bobby Burns our first legend was a big 1. He looked up to a few, there were others and in our universe they were bigger than Larry Bird. A Madison legend by the time I was eleven was all I ever wanted to be. Anyway Mr. Fullerton was an only child and my boy C had six siblings the classic Irish catholic family. Part of Mr. Fullerton’ loyalty stemmed from being an only child part of my boy C’s was because too many siblings at his crib. They both went to the tonier junior high across town part of a wildly disappearing even by 1994 middle class - sports and the same year of graduation bound us like so many I suppose. I was thankful cause I was looking for a family unaware that loyalty is rarely a two way street often a suckers game as my old high school basketball coach would say not my boy C and Mr. Fullerton though. Not Dog. Not Black. They were the guys that would get arrested for you and that was the only question I’d ever ask myself. I’d never look back but that’s the thing it’s important to holla at history especially your own compass. What’s family anyway we were a family I didn’t give a fuck what anyone said. The Big Guy our high school basketball coach would say the basketball itself was my family (Rollie) the only family I’d ever need and if I was good to Rollie he’d get me to where I was going. “Hey love you Mr. Robinson, for real, um, thanks, you know, thanks” I smiled. A firm handshake we’d spent so much time together in morning detention over those almost four years of high school well there really wasn’t much left to say. “Good luck Charlie.” I knew he was smart. He knew I was lucky. We both had heart. “Peace my man.” There were certain moments that required a clasp on a strong handshake. This was one. Mr. Robinson returned the graciousness, “Take care Mr. Paradise don’t be a stranger.” “Let’s go Dice!” I shook the protected arms of my boy C and Mr. Fullerton the former my once vice president of gaming, I was very big into titles during high school. These were two kids that actually would do for me what I would do for them and that was impossible according to our basketball coach known only in town as the Big Guy. The Big Guy played a passed down full proof coaching constitution and loyalty to your idiot friend set sat atop his personal survival guide of what not to do. The Big Guy was the most polarizing figure in all of historic Madison MA. Where it all begin. The fight. The actual. The real. The home of the very first shot of the American Revolution it had all come to a head right here where half of our fathers grew up. It was quite the privilege to say you’re from Madison in really white circles wealthy, weird and respected by money. Madison was now the intellectual capitol of the state ironically fielding one storybook of a local basketball program in the center of the whitest town in America (remember Indian and Chinese in rich towns are white too IMO) everyone had left that dam senior prom which meant even in the waning minutes of the shit I couldn’t leave besides I LOVED dances. I didn’t really need the protection here of all places but as the script went you never knew. I’d told Mr. Fullerton to leave a hundred times already. I loved him dearly. I’d been scared to travel anywhere even a ¼ mile alone since basically the end of winter nineteen ninety-four. I had to hang back if only to rejoice with my ABC (A Better Chance program) family more so than a tux nothing bad could ever happen to me in a room full of a black people. Think about it you never see a brother shoot up his school nah usually its white virgins with guns in their suburban high schools sheltered from life with a chip on their shoulder. It’s unbelievable every fucking time. The second amendment is grossly misinterpreted. White people suck and it’s not the kid’s fault. Anyway my black brethren from the black part of the city where the black folk lived and celebrate a pending high school graduation that represented so much more for black American inner-city youth than privileged white kids raised in a zoo the irony was important. It was as if the property boom here during the 1980’s fueled in large parts by the basketball program fused with the history and education just hung high like Michael Air Jordan and never did come down. The pitch in the glamour sections of the Boston suburbs was simply move here and your average white kids could be legends especially if they could play basketball for the Big Guy. The black kids that played for the Big Guy were all legends. It’s just the way it was. They were legends in the city. The Turkey Bowl was a reminder of that color divide that existed in our world amongst white and black our blood brothers and teammates since we were kids. It saddened me no one cared all my best separated by just ten miles. I blocked that part out and enjoyed the Turkey Bowl. I mean it’s no ones fault heads on both sides fell hard, early and often. White and black greatness would have to wait. No one had lost more in my mind than me except Black and by then he was long gone the sirens of the streets captured a soldier. It was sad. No one gave a fuck certainly him. The results of being off track were much different inside our colors. I cried anger saved me from myself in those moments the only problem was that it was Monster’s trick and borrowing from his playbook came with mad side effects. “You’re a legend buddy!” Mr. Fullerton shook my neck aware Mr. Robinson’s words at the end of our senior prom along with that sentence electrified me. I did not give a fuck only for them the ABC program and my Young Guns. Senior prom, good old 1994 the end of a long legendary era inside hallowed real estate, 94’ being the last year before the information age begun it’s sweep of our times and brain. The light speed of information and by now in 2017 learning on a macro level peering around the globes free information at our finger tips makes us collectively a lot dumber than we already were. The internet is at the same time the best and the worst: I read the internet so much I feel I’m like I’m on page a million of the worst book ever. "Legend” my boy C stamped the verbal double down on the only thing we ever wanted to be - so sincere he was despite the broken bones he’d endured on my behalf months prior to that high school senior prom of ours. That incident forced me into full time public security cheesy as it sounds the guy whose name you can’t mention buried kids. “Charlie Peter! Let’s go!” Mr. Fullerton professed, eagerly goading the bounce understandably wanting to get smashed in Cape Cod with the Young Guns. “I’ll be fine, I’ll see you soon.” Mr. Fullerton left in crutches. He’d been on them for months another one I’d blamed on myself. Mr. Fullerton was catching the last limo to the Cape “peace out Cub Scout." The only remaining two girls hung in there but this was like so gay, “can we like please.” I smiled. C-ya fuck white snobby bitches “Full come here,” I hugged my brother. “Come soon sir” He nodded I laughed I was not going to miss the after party at a beach house on Cape Cod. I was shocked I was even invited. White world acceptance was a relatively new thing for me at that juncture despite my blonde hair and blue eyes. “Stay as long as you want Charlie. I’m with you.” My boy C my vice president of gaming was more than a brotherhood. He was my business partner. My boy C and I had begun with the proceeds from our gambling book taking limos regularly. In fact just prior to our high school senior prom C had taken me to my first pro hockey game (a big step for me) it was game 7 at the old Boston Garden, front row seats we could bang the glass so much different than the other Madiso kids in worse seats with their rich parents that drove them there and paid for the tickets, pss fucking curtains. Bruin’s beat the Canadians, original six.* The Garden shook. The slinky women their surprised me then I remembered how much pussy Jimmy White got. Unabated the limo company was our dear friend. We never worked with anyone other than the dearest friends and that would never change over the course of my entire life. The way I had been built over time besides I didn’t want to sweat the joint C rolled fat we’d need to smoke before giving hockey my attention. After all I hated white sports and packed mad ADD - same thing applied to our prom. "C will book the limo." I informed the cast. The CEO waiting in the wings of Luxury Limo, Arthur Deluca grew up closely with my shady first mentor and sister’s third love, Daniel Boone. Luxury Limo’s best client in the 80’s our hero and Arthur’s close friend was Red Sox legend Roger Clemens - perks of a rich community. I loved that shit. I’d forever share the fondest recollection of my father coming home late on a school night finding me awake as the day had just about dissipated, “You should be asleep Bunky.” “Dad, dad, dad, Roger has 17 in the eighth!” He was just about as excited as I was so we listened to the historic performance together on the radio as the clock went late into the night. It was how he listened to a game the same game our national pastime hadn’t changed. My beloved basketball looked much different now then when my father attended this same high school in 61. Baseball by and large was played how it was played in the late 1800’s. America’s pastime a boy, ball, bat and a dad, very good stuff, Clemens strikes out twenty. 20K’s. The picture in the Globe the next day was simply 20 separate cut outs reading “K” posted on Fenway s famed left fielded monstrous green wall. K means strikeout on baseball scorecards a backwards K meant you were the ultimate pussy and went down without swinging, the absolute worst. Arthur’s younger brother Rocky a local hockey star was my sister Parker’s second love torn apart over a grave misunderstanding involving one of his close friends from an older group from the 80’s we called “Brat Pack” before renaming almost all of them the Less than Zero crew. The Brat pack had everything you could possibly imagine including a much different version of the term legend we’d grown up with at the Hayden recreation center. It wasn’t the Bobby Burns version. It was death ironic from kids with everything in life. This was hyper entitlement our immersion tore away at the fundamentals of perfect practice taught via the Big Guy atop of Madison’s famous high school boys basketball dynasty. Basketball was held to a higher standard. The funeral home came later. The funeral home was the party that never ended. It’s where kids played make believe and lived like drug-addled executives in a bull markets prime (rib). They never worked for shit carried so much pain. The rules were excess one more meant something entirely different than in the Hayden Recreation centers weight room. Death was in a funeral homes DNA and the nihilism of this particular teenage brand of white privilege was hard to believe. There were no sports. The funeral home always won - no reason to tempt fate but that’s white privilege. In the middle of that misunderstanding was my sister’s second true love, Arthur’s middle brother Rocky and Tucker Sunshine aka lucky sperm what the pricks called him. Old sport Tuck half women half golfer ran the sunset funeral home a place when I was 16 going for legend seemed to tempt fate nightly while cementing it each and every day. Sadly my sister’s second love Rocky’s life was taken on a motorcycle when we were in high school and every Christmas we’d stop by the Deluca’s big Italian brick house in our own neighborhood and see Rocky there in a chair with a tube in his mouth. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. It would always be like this. He was 22. Rocky was a hockey guy. Rocky was a Hayden ice rink legend after all he drove the Zamboni. I remember the last time I saw Rocky. He was short very Italian you could tell he was born with a head of hair and some balls. We said "hey" it was straight, I almost apologized for nothing, I mean his older brothers best friend had gone after his girl in a rock bottom set of affairs. The other limos were screened thoroughly by the companies not mine. I had a different kind of entitlement and by my senior prom of high school so many younger kids wanted in I was embarrassed. The mess I made. I wanted out. I’d sent my next store neighbor Mercedes home an hour ago. My date, “I’d promised her back in the 5th grade” is what I’d tell my girlfriend Muffin who had graduated a couple years. Now that I had been invited, I didn’t even want to go to Cape Cod. I was never allowed inside Caucasian beach houses but everyone had come around. They wanted to party, I wanted to reflect just drive around yup drive around in that god dam long ass limo with my boy C, the one hitter, stack of bud lights and a box full of Marlborough’s figure out what the fuck happened. By that time my boy C and I booked this limo a half dozen occasions. I was spoiled wanting at that point to take a limo to the bathroom and that was the side the Big Guy fought the side that cheated the side that sold out for money and comfort. Plus an hour and change drive to the Cape copping an expiring eighteen-year old attention span might as well have been cross-country besides leaving the prom early in 1994 was so cliché any kid that smoked even one cigarette branded one cut over four years was long gone. School spirit was dead on sight staying was the move. That’s why handing Mr. Robinson that twenty-dollar bill was so important to me a binding bet with my housemaster after all the problems my gambling enterprise brought under his roof amongst a few other far reaching never proven allegations. I wasn’t even eighteen years of age yet however handing Mr. Robinson that twenty I felt like an older man. I’m sure he had been shocked that crumbling year of 94’ by all he had witnessed in such a short period of time. It would be the last time I saw him. He passed on account of cancer at the height of his career nothing worse than not saying good-by. Anyway last night our 10th year high school re-union this white silk scarf’s explanation provided an opportunity to speak of his name often, see me wearing a tux and owning a record label were the other side of the bet. I didn’t own a record label or a yacht I also didn’t arrive in a horse and carriage with two Victoria Secret models just a god dam limo. Weak. I wasn’t as dumb as I was at fifteen. He’d of like that. “Take care of this one.” I’d never forget him saying that. Another deep breath the fear was settling down. As I got a handle on my anxiety the question still begged where was I? Guy your ADD is frightening what day is it? Your twenty-eight years old where are you! Where do you have to be? What have you done? It was the other life voice I simply loved to suppress 90% of the time. Time was no remedy for panic only breath. Back track brother back track, OK…fuck I remembered 4AM at Skeetah’s Mcnelli’s, the panic was re-emerging Jesus Christ quicker and quicker, the cast, the zillas only crew doing zilla only shit, fuck fuck fuck, I could hear my father’s conservative voice, “nothing good ever happens after midnight Bunky.” It finally hit me, I’m at Amory’s Blaines and today is the Turkey Bowl, “FUCK ME!” I shot off the floor, I needed cleats, my high school jersey, wrist bands, calf bands, spandex and eye black, fuck it Pos will have eye black guaranteed. I rocket up two flights of stairs in seconds appropriately tapping my elbow twice as I leapt off the floor with speed crashing onto Amory’s passed out corpse delivering a sharp elbow to the high one on his cheek. And poof, he was awake, “Beaver, Jesus!” another one for good measure, “dude! What the fuck!” He screamed loudly full of anger before continuing his parlance “why, why why, why Beav? God dam it!” “Get up fuck face.” I looked up at the clock and it began to panic, the night was such an endeavor I knew I’d have trouble convincing Amory Blaine to drive me. You can’t pick the kids you grew up with. I knew for this hard- headed, whack job Republican, sheer force was the only thing he’d respond to. “Blaine, Blaine, Amory hey fuck O!” I slapped him in the face hard aware he’d sniffed a whole cake up no one loved the “shit” more than my pal Amory Blaine besides Herbie Rosenbaum, Monster, Mr. Fullerton and you know what it’s a long list it’s cocaine god dam it. See the Turkey Bowl wasn’t just a football game we played the Saturday after Thanksgiving anymore this was the first year of our games charity and my time, place and lack of awareness meant I was still a dummy. I still didn’t “get” it. The transformation to mature dynamic agents of change was slow no one symbolized and interrupted this glorious time living on the gift of earth more than Amory Blaine. Now I was just mad. Our charity addressed the few and all he cared about was where the next candidate stood on the inheritance tax. Amory had won a critical test on a big night my angels undoubtedly tuned into. I’d seeped to the bottom. Again. There was no growth. Again. I tried. He’d won. I’d gotten away from being a Young Gun a basketball player. Amory lived to bring down the righteous. One freaking game at that point the whole year and I was here. The panic was re-emerging the self-analysis. The fuck me dude. This was the Turkey Bowl my favorite day of the year. “Dude! Amory!” His relapsed snore opened the door to panic again dam I was letting down my surviving Young Guns that knew when to say when last night. Amory, groggy, argyle, awoke and passed back out inside the cocoon his LL Bean sheets sheltered, fuck, another smack, a pinch, OK, lacking sense I twisted the nipple sharply in anger, he’s awake, now, asleep again, snore, OK, “how much Bolivian marching powder this guy pound?” Time to break out the lowest form of humanity, speak down to him in puppy talk, soft pet him like he’s my long lost 1 year old puppy Reggie the end reward from my old daily behavioral point sheet in the 7th grade. I loved this talk + it symbolized the trivialization of his life, the docility of one’s nature, his lack of historic understanding, want of diapers this quickly caused any quasi adult Republican to snap. Amory appeared dead petting his now forehead like he was our first family therapist our deceased cocker spaniel Reggie, I cranked the holy playbook of sheer annoyance. “Who mama’s baby?” I asked slow and low like a newborn as my hands were moving ever so gently over his face. “Oh Amory, who a little cokehead, who no get out of bed for mommy for Turkey Bowl?” A grunt. “Ah who?” Twirling his curly brown salon styled hair, cont. “oh I know Amory you good boy when he want to be.” I’d lower my tone, slow my voice, and strengthen my hand, head massage, “You very good boy when you want be, you mama’s baby, you very, very naughty last night.” “Charlie!” A small scuffle ensued. We were quickly out of breath. He sat up anything was better than that. “Prick” “Get up dude” “OK, grab the god dam keys, you absolute fuck, I got wrist bands.” “K, sorry” “Jesus Christ beaver you raked my eyes, the fuck faggot!” I was feeling better needing situational wins to pile up today given what I gave up as a new, great, dawn stepped to the AM. And we were moving. After all it was charity. It represented exactly what this drive did not, full circle, in a good way. “Getting the keys dude, on the kitchen counter?” I screamed back scurrying down the town houses long, shined wooden steps. My voice echoed. “Here, ready, let’s go, missed kickoff, come on, come on.” He wasn’t rushing. “Guy?” “I know, I know, Charlie Paradise, the fucking Turkey bowl give me a god dam second. You love this shit Dice.” Amory also regaled in informing other people about what they loved this was almost as annoying as the puppy, pet face, good boy, mommy talk. Amory didn’t have the accouterments necessary for a playmaker like me. “I gotta stop by my ma’s” “Fine just shut up, I need a rescue rail.” “Are you serious, it would be a miracle, you can’t not put all that shit to bed” “I got so much though” “Dude, leaving now, dam, I can’t believe I’m late, Magic’s going to be pissed.” “He’s not even going to care.” “Yes he will” “Look!” Amory was alive at the sight. “Yes he will.” I re-assure hissy. “Fuck it lay a mini out for me.” “Hahahahaha” It was sinister. “That’s it, putting tonight’s call in early dude. God dam cocaine is fucking legendary.” Amory insisted. Again that word it s meaning and application had been watered down to this. Finally we make it out of the house in a reasonable time frame given the optics. My headache was gone. It was after 10AM. “You feel better now mutha fucker?” “Drive dude!” And he did I felt great, fuck the charity I was ready to hear about what I’d done the night before. “Jesus! My head, beaver I was drop dead faded out of my skull last night, god dam classic re-union.” Amory still set the bar these days on party extremes, all for the second, that one shallow moment that dissipates in value as age rewards itself to the lucky few. He tickled our lack of boundaries. His best high school pal Monster told me at the 10th year reunion his issues had issues recapping his first meeting ever with his first therapist I’d begged him to seek for counseling the last five years. Once I realized I knew nothing as opposed to everything I actively urged my inner cabinet to seek therapy immediately at all costs. Monster was Amory’s best friend who’d I’d given the same sage advice to no avail. They were the hockey guys. In a sense representing everything I’d changed at this high school if even for a year. “Blaine let’s go, run lights guy.” The Turkey Bowl was bigger than all of us. I could’ve cried nothing made me happier than the Turkey Bowl. But Amory didn’t give a fuck this was a nuisance to him. “It’s so early” “Shut up” “We need to head into town tonight” “Shut up” “Hit the Whiskey Blue fucking flex the fuck out of our Par’s connection god dam it.” I wasn’t listening. It was the best day of the year for the athletes amongst us except that I missed my black brothers from Boston, black Boston, Black Knight and Lamont “Spec” Slaughter. I’d spent the entire reunion with the brothers. They were all apart of what the town called the ABC (A Better Chance) program which I believed helped the haves more than the have not’s. Spec had stayed with us since the third grade surviving the crack epidemic from his Dorchester “hilltop” no one saw or cared about in my town occurring in our very own city right down the street. What did the brothers escape? What was that? Gun violence. Guns. Crack. Aids. Jail. Hell. Poverty. Guns so many hadn’t survived. Better chances in Iraq. It was designed for you not to see. It made my monstrosities inside Madison seem trifling at best. Anyway the ABC program was the longest running desegregation program in America, next to basketball the ABC program kept me alive. These were my Minutemen the guys I’d go to war for in a minute just like our townsmen. On the way to the high school football field coasting through gracious Madison, MA, it all came back so innocently. Madison, MA didn’t seem that crazy at the time but then again I had no reference. Ten years later, I was still shook the best of the worst left me with one uncalculated mantra growing up and that was be a legend. That’s what we got from the former sweat hogs of the Hayden Recreation center my childhood home I could see it now on the horizon. The sweat hogs at Hayden didn’t always give the best advice Magic and I declined cigarettes most Saturdays starting in the 6th grade enjoying the constant discussion of high school legend the players their stories, girls and parties. A quick drive to our high school brought most of it back. Hell our dads had grown up here, Amory and I. His mother too a few high school sweethearts would be in the crowd this late morning from those happy days turned war. Vietnam accomplished something. We couldn’t be drafted. Those guys were. Anyway it was a stunning, historic almost heavenly place where the Madison zip code alone afforded you a lot of room to grow up and a very long rope. "I love fucking Madison High School!" I loved Amory but I was late and this was real, the first year of the charity, fuck me. Block it out my mothers and sister’s mantra I flexed it, look, I was home, bottom line and busted some chap with Amory Blaine. Therein lay the beauty of ADD, topic changing. Plus I had zero details. “What’s good Beavy?” Amory Blaine was old money, Madison Hills. His distinct disregard for humanity bore from a mother who viewed his as infallible and a father whose experience in Vietnam provided the venom. At least that’s how a neighbor at their lake house once explained it to me. “Last night was fucking great!” A confident, curly brown haired Amory was sweating it out speaking crisp in his $300 Armani sunglasses he could care less about commitment, the charity or punctuality. “OK, what else, dude, hurry up.” “Fucking irately Classic beaver! Jesus H.” Amory says with the arrogance of someone that secretly double dipped your acid tab. The youthful arrogance of being gifted expensive cars for bad grades I loved him. I loved his parents. They were family. His pierce of tone however sent shivers down my spine in the realm of two-hour sleep and Turkey Bowl tardiness on account of zilla like tendencies. Fuck it we’re almost there, I’ll shake some hands, post a TD, thank my camera crew and post 5 G’s to the ABC program, holla what the fuck did you do over Thanksgiving? The charity was work. I’d written over a hundred personal letters that fall asking for a minimum twenty-dollar donation to help our cause. I learned a lesson as most sent just $20 back, fuck. Accountants strayed far away from the hassle of 501C still Magic (best friend) secured an accountant and we were legit. Somehow the charity of it all justified my behavior. The windows were down on a freezing yet sparkling Madison morning the cradle of America freedom unscrambling a heavy hang over life was good. “I don’t give a fuck!” Blaine screamed, slamming his father’s Mercedes cherry wood steering wheel for no reason what so ever extolling my own mantra. He loved me for it. It was our favorite thing to scream randomly next to “deny, deny, deny!!” and both were getting old. However short-lived, I needed the energy. He couldn’t believe we were awake and filled in the gaps of last night’s highlight’s slash Serengeti faults. We all suffered from impulse control problems. “Was I the only one in a tuxedo?” “Dude (pause) what other person on earth would even attempt that? Jesus fucking Christ you’re retarded!” The last few syllables of retarded turning into Amory’s loud laugh. Amory held down the horn raising his sinister crack up always at the expense of the person standing closest. There was never anything as restricting as rules 2 white Madison teenagers and it carried over like math. “And, and you made out with the witch! Bitch spent the year opening for the fucking god dam 9 Inch Nails.” “Dude, stop with the horn!” “I can’t believe I’m not famous!” “Oh yeah, forget that Aim some heads probably booted on that” “Dude, the gayest shit, of course it was the worst!!” Amory screamed clenching his fist to his nose shaking it back and forth over a joker length comic book expression, “the worst!” He screamed banging my eardrums. “Take it ease” “So cliché so re-union, the lunatic jock and the purple haired, cutter make out and everyone clapped!” “OK, got it” “I wanted to fucking puke!” “You’re evil” “You’re retarded!” “But she did open for the 9 inch nails all year. She is an actual rock star.” “I’m a rock star! God dam it Raymond Pal-Pal god dam Indian nerds were speaking on your behalf on the mic, why the fuck you kept coming up, I had no idea you were barely in mainstream classes. You were in the ACE program! No one gets put in that fucking thing." “Oh yeah I like that kid” “And Jesus, what’s wrong with you, the fucking tuxedo! Jesus Beav you are fucking retarded dude! I mean first.." “OK just relax, speed it up” “K” My thoughts drifted back to my recently deceased housemaster not even a grey hair on his loaf of lettuce. He was the kind of guy you’d never forget. He mattered everyone loved that guy. I felt he could see us although after my performance late night I hoped maybe he hadn’t been watching. Mr. Robinson was a real legend but I could’ve never seen that in the ninth grade only Jimmy White on the front page of his junior high yearbook on a fly fucking BMX, the rebel, the hero, hockey star, the abandoned wild child, you’d heard so much from so many every single person in the entire town new the name. I needed someone in a fucked up situation to look up to. Plus he had blonde hair, blue eyes and dimples just like me. Plus “legend” brought perks that’s what I wanted, oh and attention lots and lots of attention, why not me? The Big Guy used to ask why not us in regards to the varsity being #1 so why not me? Legend. It was as magnificent as it was diluted never retarded though not to me. A legend could change the world or burn the whole shit house. People followed legend. If I wasn’t a Madison high school legend then I was who they said I was. Anyway the tuxedo ten years later at our 10th year re union was a celebration of our bet a promise and a chance to speak in his memory often. The vintage white silk scarf was an early Christmas gift from my date and sister, Parker Paradise, a nod to Sugar Rays* (Harlem Nights). And then there were my Young Guns everything had changed except nothing except it would never be the same without our ABC (Program) black city brothers, this game had become a charity on the programs behalf. After all they were the gift. My faith had started at a very young age in a manner that might cultivate a belief like that. Giving back doing for others that’s what’s created my lucky breaks either that or Jesus really does exist. Anyway our party was now our awareness and humble attempt to acknowledge the staggering blind eye to the endangered species of young American black teenagers in this country no one gives a fuck about. It was hard to think about only because no one cared and we all grew up together and we’re all Sons American sons and we can’t even ban fucking assault guns, I don’t give a fuck yo. I felt better - that sentence my rhymes forever protector. The bottom line was my blood brothers my UNLV (my gang freshmen year), my Young Guns, (my summer league basketball team) they loved their blacker ABC teammates however sans re-unions few and far between never spoke or saw. It was hard two different worlds ten miles away two different galaxies. Best friends. Teammates and we were the nation’s example! The nations longest running program of its type married inside the old town’s most dazzling and low, low five-digit magic zip. It was laughable seemingly insurmountable on a national level after all we were the liberals besides Amory. My Madison guys were the best and zero on the field that day stayed in touch past the time we all had spent together K-12 and that was so saddening to me. I couldn’t though not me that program and my friends from the city help carry me. I got no fear although I never rocked the gear. The first time I realized race as an issue was the first day Spec* stayed with us in the third grade, look whose coming for dinner? Racism has to be destroyed on a kid by kid basis and the older you get… BUT it’s not impossible just so frustrating black and white it was two different countries one city and that’s why I missed my brothers bused to and from hours every day their entire childhood to the mysterious woods of Madison, MA the zillas called Mad Vegas years later the curtains did too. But once graduation was over. You went back to being black I’d continue the course that was outlined to me by Spec’s sister during a Saturday detention. I came into the city stayed in their homes and that was oddly what no one else seamed to do. I saw the world so different it became as weird as my reputation. I was being fair fuck if I ever followed a rule. Black is where I first identified a kid that had my back a hundred percent. Black was where I first identified the possibility through their counsel that maybe our history books were inaccurate. Black is where I first adopted the spirit and musical inclination that made me forever right there in the third grade, fresh, hip and alive. Black is when I first learned of the systems cracks and the crack in the system. Black is when I first as a child saw hypocrisy in the constitution. It’s also helped me see the fright even two hundred years later whites had of losing what they never worked for or maybe they had but there great grandfather hadn’t built this country for nothing. Their grandfather wasn’t lynched for walking through a white restaurant and their grandmother wasn’t raped by the evil men that perpetrated such a heinous act but needed a finishing touch to define themselves for their god their father wasn’t arrested for speaking out for his people and trying to right our American country of the free and brave on a direction that was always reflected in the bill of rights. Their mother wasn’t a light skinned women who was the bastard child of what could’ve been many slave owners. What happened to her, what happened to her son, sons, son, what’s going to happen to Spec? That’s trickle down not economics. We were all worried he might get shot one night simply walking home late off the bus. During the early 90’s we checked the obituaries every weekend for names that’s how bad it had gotten and you never knew like Spec’s brother Eric used to say “your time is your time.” It remains and was and is kids killing kids so many talents lost so convenient how it’s all rolled out for us whites here in America to so conveniently ignore. “OK, speed up, there they are!” I pointed to Amory “the fellas!” Us as friends eight on eight, from the yard (jail) to Yale our Turkey Bowl represented America. We’d mailed guest invitations I’d fired off a hundred letters asking for a modest donation and now a record thirty plus fans buttressing our keg. Believers, mothers, I saw smiles some obligatory kisses to the crowd and finally my best friend Magic shaking his head disgusted giving me two big thumbs down in his old Bay State, Metro, hoops jersey. I limped to midfield. “Sorry Mizz” “Gay” was his only response. He walked away even though I was late there was still a half left to play. Michael “Magic” Wholman was adopted, half black, green eyes with a Jewish dad the son of a bookie from NYC that attended Cornell alone told you everything you needed to know about the weird woods of Madison, MA. Boston Bob * (a composite of the typical union prick which defined our working class city. It was a character we’d often site in racial conversations.) Bob oddly a Republican given the fact he was a union guy called Madison, “one fucking big liberal experiment too much racial mixen Chalie. Too many therapists.” We found comedy often the road to maybe change someone’s opinion. Tone and approach so vital on these uncompromising matters. And it would take more to move those boulders. You needed legend. I couldn’t after all look Magic in the eye he knew what my tardiness meant. Fuck me still a fuck up “Dice” a warm voice, “Dice!” “Dude!” “Get in here, 4-2, Magic.” “Word. Let’s do it.” Commence soul shake, “OK, 5 Mississippi no Schlitz, “Got it” cutting him off, the rules never changed besides the opening kickoff brawl which ended the year before. By our 11th annual Turkey Bowl the game had chalked up our fair share of broken bones. No one loved the Turkey Bowl as much, his short stocky frame with childlike excitement breaking from his Newport cigarette “Chahlie, Chalie! Did you see my pick dude?” Herbie contacted me on multiple occasions throughout each calendar year to discuss the Turkey Bowl. It was important to him, love of football, why he ever quit, he ran over, “what’s up buddy, I just heard, sick!” This translated into, no I haven’t and don’t want to before the cardinal clap, bump, hug commenced. Herbie broke his collarbone in the Turkey Bowl and miraculously held onto the football just last year our high school QB played blanket coverage and landed all 210, D1 lacrosse playing of fat on him. There were doctors in the audience. I accidentally made it worse anyway scrappy Herb O called us from the hospital. We were at Luigi’s in downtown Madison. Our favorite place to get a pizza in historic Madison center a stones toss from the towns famous battle green where the American revolution began. "Dude did I get MVP?” "Of course guys it s Herbie what yeah he s ok broken collarbone." "Charlie Charlie Charlie" "Herb O what up? Buy the way just a great catch way to hang onto the rock kid." "Did I get MVP?" "Of course” “but don't tell me that cause I m in the hospital. I don t want it if that s the case." "Ok well Monster won MVP" "Are you serious!" "Love you buddy I ll call you when I m back at the crib O". Click "that was Herb he s pissed about the MVP". The fella’s hit my favorite laugh. You’d think we’d be nicer however Football wasn’t like basketball once your Pop Warner High School or College career was done you never really played again. It got me thinking it’s where it had all gone wrong for Herby aka Herbal or Urb as he was known in high school had just been released from prison at Western State. This was a larger prison tougher in terms of incarceration and characters. The difference between prison and jail, it was strange in a place like Madison this was a thing. Herbie had done a "stretch." Herb came from so much money it was hard to believe. Anyway it started with coke then OXY then heroin then armed robbery but really it started in my mind with quitting football in the 10th grade. Herb told me after the game everyday in prison was a fistfight for respect. He’d been sober since his release and gratefully has stayed that way. Burning out early and surviving carried merits within the long game. “Dude!” I heard the voice, yes, utterly shocked he showed, “Skeet?” The hue of happiness in the tone of his spoken word on my face was undeniable. My favorite the funniest usually are, Skeeteh Magetti. I could crack his balls but took offense when others would kind of like my mother. “Dude!” Skeet s comic gold led credence to the theorem the funniest people in the world our often the saddest. I had a little bit of that in me too. “Skeet! Get your ass over here and give me a hug.” Skeetah was the only player possibly in as bad condition as me walking over purple faced. He loved black out city. It was sad. My little Irish guy with the big personality could’ve made money I always believed. Skeetah led a segment of the crew we called the deadbeats. High school party perfection the beats were where you turned to for that 3AM white hen run. Madison had historic town bylaws and closing everything early everywhere was stuffed somewhere inside along with no fast food restaurants. We’d often see Jimmy White at seven eleven close to dawn whaling back hot dogs and wings like Slimer*. “Amory, no!” I screamed throwing an imaginary yellow flag from my hip pocket. Amory had already migrated towards the keg donning the pageantry of Turkey Bowl dress but refusing to play, zilla not allowed dude violation can’t dress and not play “Skeetah, dude, you didn’t even catch one pass yet today!” A voice yelled from the keg at halftime. “Eat it fool!” Skeetah busted another of his cherished staples. “Rest your neck” - he came up with the first time he was sent away as a kid before jail there was out ward bound type crap in the woods for white kids that is. Skeet’s high reaching screech of a voice was met for radio. He was a true comedian. So dam funny. He had a tough situation the opposite of Amory. I loved his parents dearly. I loved my friends. “C I’m gonna hurl!” It was poetry, two years ago, in the spirit of his annual “boot*” I called a trick play. It was perfect Skeet walked out of the huddle beat, playing the dam part. Limping his frail 150 pound frame lethargically to the sideline, he then bluffed the annual barf (barely), ran free, Magic missed him just long, wide open fly route, great play calling nevertheless. Back to reality my head was pounding. I needed to re-boot or just boot, I couldn’t tell, the latter typically the harder, smarter solution. Skeetah like Herb was shorter, 5-7, 5-6 respectively his silver lining just below his verbal, often hilarious down and out life commentary, two crystal blue eyes which were accentuated by his forever short, cut black hair and sound facial structure we all seemed to carry. He’d gone to county jail for small stretches judging off last night he was maybe heading back after all he’d get his license back in another year and a half. Cars were the bullets in Madison. Ski’s were the automatic guns in Madison Hills. It’s how white kids did their part keeping funeral homes open. I’d then observed another football buddy of ours Bruce Grey a hulking, rosy cheeked brain surgeon who was home for the 10th year re-union. We wouldn’t see him again until the 25th. Bruce had attended Yale followed by Yale Medical now practicing in New Haven, CT, he approached Skeet excitedly, “Hi Dude! How you doing Skeetah? Hey want a smoke?” I watched engagingly as the smiling brain surgeon like a prick or just laziness asked that the dam question, “So Skeet how are you doing buddy?” Jesus. The last question you asked a high school dropout fresh out of county. What the fuck is wrong with these guys? I shook my head jumping jacks praying for the Turkey Bowl gods to deliver a big second half victory right into my lap. This was America. I was a playmaker. “Hey Bruce fuck you.” “Charlie!” He laughed it off. “Skeet, you feeling OK, buddy, Luigi ’s is almost here!” PEACE raced to the rescue. Peace didn’t break balls. PEACE saved insects and bred them. His parents bred them. They were scientists. They opened their home through the Church to refugee’s they didn’t eat meat. PEACE had tried his best to give me a conscious in high school. The Peace Man as he was then called drove the Peace Van. He understood nature. Girls loved Peace. He was a dreamer that alone bounded us closer than others. Peace was a great athlete and kindred spirit. He didn’t break balls there was somehow no streak of violence or even trace of anger I tried my hardest to cultivate within him during high school. Peace was a professional lacrosse player and for white people in Madison that was Michael Jordan shit. “Hi dude!” Peace had come so far from 14 year-old freshman suicide attempts. I never knew what he was so sad about. I think it’s hard to have a big heart in this world. Peace was tall and skinny. You almost felt he was a descendant somehow of the original town. I could close my eyes and back to the future three his shit, there he is, Peace in a tricon hat. He’d always tell me to respect other people’s feelings. The Peace man was a thinker and unlike me trying to find truth with truth I was trying to find truth in lies in guns in history in our town and high school. We were both dreamers both gemini’s the hippy and the hustler it was perfect. We’d switch roles soon. We both preferred black culture over white most of the crew was somewhat trans-racial. Peace was a loyal man a good dancer that made his highlight reel in Lacrosse jump. “This is awesome!” “Thanks Peace. What’s up Full?” “Mr. Paradise, I barely made it nice to see you did too.” Mr. Fullerton was everyone’s favorite person to hang out with. Peace’s neighbor was Mr. Fullerton. He lived a few doors down from Peace like I did from Magic. “Thanks Full, what’s up with the times?” Mr. Fullerton was very content to accomplish little in life and I respected the hell out of it. He d bought in early our high school antics. I d loved him since our 4th grade LL championship. He made freckles seem distinguished. People often spoke about the dreaded suburban Boston 18year old peak - Beautiful Girls* with Mr. Fullerton we joked about the even crazier, 12 year old peak. The dreaded eighteen-year old suburban Boston peak was that thing the curtains hung on you for your courageous decisions on the adolescent American tip. They drove my vomit. I thanked Jesus. Game over. Thank God. We lost. I sucked in the second half placing my head in between my arms as I sat on the cold morning grass out of breath just fucking gassed, done, finished, sushi. I was still interviewed after all it was my film crew and my welcome home party brought in 5 G’s. “How the mighty have fallen.” The Big Guy, I could hear my old high school basketball coach inside my head. He had said that to me a few years back when I returned to the high school to play basketball with the current championship team for fall ball inside the high school field house. The former Hayden kids we used to coach on Saturday mornings at Hayden recreation center now eighteen a few of who played varsity whispered, “He’s a legend.” Walking off the court a tattered shadow, CJ, turned to me as I gasped for breath with my hands clasped behind my head walking weak towards the bubbler, “You may a use ta been good,” shaking his head with the assurance of gifted black youth, “but you suck now,” I was only 22, he killed me, I sucked, they’ll never call me legend again. The Big Guy seated like always on a lone chair placed on the field house basketball sideline tapping his foot furiously ushering his unique baritone, “I’ve never seen anyone lose it so fast.” His head was down and shaking slowly side to side his eyes were closed briefly. I had no comment. Sitting cold and muddied on my old high school football field swimming in Nike wristbands in my sister’s old figure skating spandex my head spun my heart leaked I was done with flashbacks. “Dude” Monster was so happy to see me depressed, it was Thanksgiving and the recap / drinking / ball busting / blind spots / soul crushing / Luigi’s pizza could begin. “What Monster?” “You’re not good anymore.” His dead panned monotone belied the enjoyment my non-existent stat line filled him with. “I know.” He was right and on the rarefied tip I was baffled and prayed privately to Jesus for coping skills. Ten years ago that would’ve been enough to trigger a search for his softest spot and drive away until I saw Monsters turrets syndrome. In my borderline world find the softest spot and drive away was a way of life. Monster was a loyal disciple to such a bizarre religion. He was a hockey guy that bound him to Amory unlike Amory, Monster parents came from the city buying land and building their very own castle in Madison Hills before Duncan was Monster. His father was blue collar having made it out of the same gritty city, Somerville where my old captain slash first rap manager DOG and the guy whose name you can’t mention (gangster) got his start. Monsters dad did not fuck around neither did Dog’s. City dads. Monster and his friends were not infallible like so many hills kids. We were all lower than nothing until proving otherwise, the way it should be. Monster’s older brother Pars was a Madison Hills legend. A former New York City model now ran trending lounges in NYC for essentially one of the top five coolest man in the world. His best friend also a Madison Hills legend had just won the show Survivor (Africa). He was our celebrity guest this year at Friday night’s Turkey Bowl draft party over at Monsters place. He jokingly shared with us in that he’d hosted the entire cast at his family home after filming wrapped, “This is the guy we voted to get the million dollars?” He’d overheard a few friends / contestants mutter ungodly upon seeing his dream house on top of Madison Hills he grew up in. The winnings? He donated all of the money to charity. It was inspiring. Dreams were the expectation inside Madison Hills making the failures all the harder to overcome like these dumb questions from the brain surgeons to my Pop Warner quarterback. Fuc that Duncan “Monster” had always struggled in what he called the Danny Devito from the movie “Twins” complex. A scrounging patchwork of their family genetics, “I’m the puss” He would say like prayer daily, convinced. We loved the self-depreciating little Monster not the Manhattan one. Monster had grown over six feet. He now showered religiously. He believed a Patrick Bateman tan and stomach six-pack might master the world and eradicate his insecurities. We missed the dirty hippy. “Dude I mean you really, really sucked today. Your done dude as an athlete dude, you were a disgrace and you’re retarded as your life is, I mean do you remember when” “Enough! OK Monster?” “You’re angry” Duncan, like Amory, also loved telling people what they loved and how they were feeling. “Enough from the straight kid that sucked cock once in the village OK?” “You ate your own batch in the Hamptons at Eddie’s wedding” “That was different! I didn’t want to get mess up my tux!” “Dude” “Dude” “What hole do you fuck her on? The par 5, 7th” “Monster it was the 9th hole at least it was a girl homo” “Why were you wearing a tux exactly?” “You should’ve said, fair, why? Because-” “You weren’t in the wedding” “Whatever, it was a Hamptons, Gatsby bucket list type of thing.” “I’ve fucked so many more chicks than you dude.” Monster ripped the absolute cliché our conversations had become must see TV. I took a deep breath leapt off my back via an old break trick I learned watching a black legend that played basketball from Madison. It was sick. Inspiration is no joke. Years in the making this morning’s tenth annual Turkey Bowl our first as a charity was designed around a Wed night welcome home party in the Bean since 99 to celebrate on that most precious slot of time in your 20’s, the mighty Wed night before Thanksgiving. My quaint inaugural gathering of about seventeen heads at Samuel Adams old jaunt the fabled Green Dragon had morphed into the biggest Wed party in Boston year in year out. It was to the point where downtown Boston Bars the stuffy of the stuffy just gave us the whole space for absolutely nothing. True to the “Bean”, mini reunions, your 20’s there were a flash brawls we’d contain, we’d charge $20 at the door collectively black out and somehow ride home with 5 G cash turned around to our partner charities namely the states ABC program (a better chance). I was pissed we weren’t giving it all to my beloved ABC program my first family. The lines for these parties now wrapped around the corner and went down the block in some ways the party itself was a celebration of our collective often misplaced high school legend. The charity: My Godfather, Clayton Dovey, III was the inspiration to raise money for our favorite cause playing the Turkey Bowl. A true American Uncle Clayt his idea was genius. The only differences in our Turkey Bowls were location, excessive wrist bands and of course, optional tackle a wrinkle I’d never remove, part of the whole I hate you don’t leave me thing I’d sometimes transpose from my old borderline homestead onto my white friends. The tragedy of my Godfather’s suicide surrounding our then 5th year high school re-union / Turkey Bowl had put the wheels in motion for what had now become our registered 501C, YG Foundation at our 10th. In a way it was his idea only difference was in our fundraising. His guys paid to play raising money from the actual game our efforts stemmed from a door fee at my welcome home party. He once brought home 20K cash from his dearest NYC after a big year on Wall St. in 1983 for their game. His Johnstown PA game itself had raised over 250K for Easter Seals during it’s run back then adjusted for inflation we had a long 2 go. After his funeral my sister and I traveled to Johnstown PA and watched coverage of his passing* half of it was about his famous Johnstown PA Turkey Bowl. “You gotta a ways to go bunky.” My sister Parker said shocked, laced in humor. “Jesus Christ they have a full band!” Parker went down. Uncle Clayt wasn’t it the saddest shit see he chose us my mother, sister and me. It was a shotgun I think. In a shed behind the house where he lived alone before our sixth annual Turkey Bowl, which occurred over our 5th year re-union another big one. Jesus. Curtains. A curtain was a nothing a fucking decoration. Anyway it was a tragic ending for the once Wall St titan occurring down the street from the very American house where he grew up. It was hard because he’d chosen us. He didn’t have to but he did. My mother my sister and I for the three of us he was the only one that did so shit stung. He loved us so very much. We had no family. This was for his legacy and the ABC program. Uncle Clayt preferred black folk over white too his Turkey Bowl started in Johnstown PA long ago in the sixties. The actual moment for us wouldn’t occur until the late fall of 2001 a couple of months and change after the twin towers fell. His suicide occurred sadly on that Thanksgiving our favorite holiday followed by Patriot’s day. I always thought Clayt died with those towers. How he loved early 80’s NYC when twenty something Wall St guys were bigger than movie stars he fucked all of them. Parker and I got our first Broadway show out of it our first limo. New York City what a king what a thing for a kid to see, Clayt always thought I was his son. I looked just like him. “One night at Brown your mother walked into the wrong room, Charlie Peter, god I loved her too all women are queens Charlie all men our brothers Christ if your not my son.” The man was a champion. In any event we’d get the call the Saturday morning after Thanksgiving. The family hadn’t wanted to ruin our holiday, which we typically did an above average job of anyway. My mother collapsed we both went liquid. I’d knocked a chair over unable to console my mother. All until Monster walked into our living room in sunglasses, morning purchased Turkey Bowl brand attire, “god dam I’m attractive.” He smiled stuck inside his own reflection. Monster already Manhattan Monster far from the dirty, pot smoking, pint-sized insecure Monster aka Duncan Lagger hippy we all once adored. Manhathtan Monster was now a confident, coke fueled, often lonely, Wall St animal working on the floor of the NYSE for Goldman Sachs. It was a minor miracle of note citing our high levels of ADD and the shit show that was our flailing academia how he ever scored such a gig. Without notice he further exclaimed walking into quite the snapshot. “I look fucking great, Where’s another mirror?” He was actually serious completely unaware of the glaring obvious. We all took pause. “Dude” His now low voice digesting sights other than himself presented what was still his favorite word next to “me.” At least that hadn’t changed. “Nothing man” I sprung up, picked up the chair and pieces from a coffee mug. “Mom, I love you, see you at the game, Parker should be here shortly. I know I know, I love you, take a pill, come to the game.” I dried my tears with three separate Nike black wristbands. “What the fuck was that?” “Nothing dude” besides that was par for the course all of these years walking into our kitchen unannounced besides he would never understand just make me angry. Belittle the thing. It served no purpose to share the information of my godfather’s suicide. “Big game” “Huge” “I’d fuck me dude.” “I know pal, you sound like fucken Silence of the lambs, drive.” “Your jealous.” I lived with Monster in Hawaii for a few months and was an expert in tuning him out. I had a working license however was smart enough to have only ever driven begrudgingly a few times. Cars were the bullets in Madison. Our black brothers were most likely to be killed in their teens by semi automatic handguns for us it was luxury automobiles. Madison was American glory. Anyway out of all of this Uncle Clayt’s formula finally came alive amongst my Young Guns in Madison. It was my party his inspiration our game, I was late, tired, praying for the final whistle, blessed when it blew. I was a disgrace. At twenty-eight, I could hardly breathe and wouldn’t walk right for a week. One half. Jesus Christ. The transformation from game and party to charitable sacrifice further anchored that sacred and hard to keep together crew of guys you grew up with. “Come on Boys group photo.” Amory Blaine’s insanely wealthy peach of a mother, Betty, Blaine directed. I knuckled my Gold Newman receiving gloves into the cold and hardened mud rising hesitantly for the photo ops. Stinging loss but dressed in this entire Nike wardrobe + spandex? Well, I‘ll always smile for the camera. This was going to be the photo of the week in our favorite town paper, the Musket. And what used to be the police log was now the photo of the week and all the amnesia that came with it. Of course my stiff groins, flabby belly line, tired knees, ankles and lower back made it in my mind more pro – bono work than actual excitement but I still got a softy. I had a life to return to in Washington DC. I’d lived and died twice now and was content for calm just south of the Mason Dixy line slanging something on the mad legal. Tomorrow was Sunday and with that the boys traveling back to their respective new homes out of state. All in all survivors would soon be breaking, leaving once again the infallibility of what they witnessed here returning to the banal serenity of an everyday good American life. Some would stay and descend into the very shadows I left behind. The town the Big Guy advised me to leave took so much from us. “Where should I go?” “Anywhere” “Anywhere, that’s your advice?” “eh! Anywhere but here” The Big Guy our exalted high school basketball coach, I’d never stopped hearing his voice or enduring nightmares about my senior year of basketball but none of that mattered. As soon as we were all on that field we were back in the 5th grade and those were the rules. It’s America play football on Thanksgiving that’s the message. We had a record thirty-three people attend the Turkey Bowl that year. Cameras flashed, mothers clapped we could all be dead and they would still show up like old coaches do for practice even after they die. “They don’t know any better.” The Big Guy “Nice game guy, pretty gay for being late but not a huge deal.” This actually made me feel a hundred times better. Magic was the eternal politician, the future mayor of Boston, Southie’s prodigal son now working eighty-hour weeks making big money also on Wall Street. Magic’s ADD along with his high school C average meant his “now” was also a minor miracle when measured against the metrics of everyone around him at his job. Magic was the type of guy that had grown up in many profounder ways we should all hope by the eleventh grade often lamenting at high school parties what a bad kid he was in the third kid, “not proud.” He was a winning bet. I was a wild card. “I just wanted to make it through.” I responded to Magic, who’d just won his 10th straight Turkey Bowl on this our 10th TB. “Magic” as local hoop god, Mattapan legend, Donald Craftsman nicknamed Mike when we were in the 5th grade was once my archenemy in Junior High turned teammate ever since Dr. Friedman pointed out the narrow scope of our differences. “Thanks.” I always appreciated a compliment from Mike. The perfect best friend, he was right, I was wrong, I was retarded he was not, he gave the Burn eyes*, I got em, He was half black, half white, I was 100% black (on the inside) 100% white, white, white, blonde, blonde, blue to the naked eye on the outside and oh we’re both on Ritalin, neighbors and the backcourt. Our differences and devotion brought us a unique basketball attention at the Hayden Rec. center he’d harness I’d abuse clinically as we talked legend over and over again every night. “Thanks and Congrats.” We always formally shook hands but I was pissed and said shit forced. Magic had never lost and every year we drafted the teams from names out of a hat. So it was special and of zero coincidence the year, 24 hours after my godfather’s suicide it was my name at Monsters draft party that was pulled out of the hat. The coveted #1 pick. I knew it was him my faith so often back in the day was the only thing not to leave my mother and I. We used to have a cash pay out for the random #1 pick. It angers me deeply, still, when I lose to Magic, we were once 7-0, the Hayden Rec. kids that people joked had their own rooms upstairs at Hayden (Recreation Center). The high school field looked up to Hayden on the horizon our yellow brick road our home her gods simply favored us in a Turkey Bowl on these grounds in her sight lines. But as I slipped away from athletics, and lost speed status, the draft gods were not going to allow me to be rewarded. Not for the year I’d had, and not on the football field for this bestowed contest amongst my life long group of childhood friends dysfunction was still chipping away at some of us. As parents and long ago admirers fade away post game snippets could be heard from mock interviews that are conducted amongst the games many survivors. One of our favorite things to do is interview each other about nothing - we’ll always talk to a reporter and someone will almost always pretend to be one. After formalities have been fulfilled our proud few fans and parents file off closing out another chapter in our nascent tradition now registered 501C3 charity, the YG Foundation. It was empowering. We were organized well Magic is anyway. High school forever the link my Young Gun’s my best friends nothing would ever tear us apart. Anyway the keg of beer fortifying the field’s north entrance was accosted after formalities dispensed. Usual suspects bring down the keg. The dead beats MOSTLY broke. Calming all is lost on us after many beers apiece we have definitely contributed to the lighter density of the keg. “Let’s carry it, walk around the high school.” Perfect “Mr. FULLERTON my good man pretty please activate the bowl Du!” I was hyper I said “Du” like I was mentally retarded. I loved smoking weed it made me strangely even more hyper. “Cool” Mr. FULLERTON said cool to just about anything I’d ever said since the 9th grade my favorite pal. A real conundrum of high SAT scores, classic Irish looks stuck in what seemed an endless rut of bud light half of us were alcoholics already, the Big Guy was right, “just leave the state.” I loved them all seeing our breath with no one on the old high school premise was the place to afternoon-cap the entirety of our holiday then reminisce after a quick flash panic kick save. Breath trick, LOL we were adults; no one can do shit to me. Our high schools latest make over rendered the “get up” entirely different from my dice shooting crap days. Dice and Hoops was my favorite combination. Walking past our darling C House cafeteria dialogue was flowing as naturally as the Notorious B.I.G. free styling over a crack beat. Keenly aware I was finally content for the first time in my life constantly watching that clock, so I wasn’t, Jesus I only had a couple hours left on the grounds of my old high school I wanted to it to last forever just like you once believed childhood would but thanked god it didn’t. These were the moments. This is why you in, paid taxes. “Got it!” Magic was chuckling like he picked a lock while paying a great homage to our fifth grade teacher, Al Pop who incidentally was the college roommate and basketball teammate of the Big Guy. It was now 2PM Saturday afternoon. We heard footsteps but the Turkey Bowl was over, hmm, I could see that Magic might get blotchy. Magic sometimes laughs so hard he explodes in full break out hives actual tears flood down his face and his entire mug looks like a rash or what we’ve come to define as “blotchy.” “What?” I just can’t stand it – when his face gets like this I need to be in on it too. A drama student working in the theatre had opened the locked door for us thinking at almost thirty years old dressed as muddied clowns in spandex we’re all high school drama students. The ridiculousness of this possibility made us all, in one format or another become blotchy. “I would fuck so many chicks if I was in high school now.” Monster the last kid of the crew to lose his virginity says yet again. “We’re close to fighting.” I relay. “I’ll kill you.” “Take it ease Monster Hawaii was my idea.” “I held you over the deck.” “Fuck you Monster fucking maniac let’s see now?” “Chill dude.” Back inside the main hallway of Madison High, the walls, corridors and face of the schools central artery had changed but it was all still there. Memories burst so many problems I was home. It’s where our lockers and home base remained all four years a grand theatre for all of our antics on a centralized stage that received heavy traffic from all diversified angles of our California styled campus. So eight of us walked down the main hall of our old high school ten years later. “G House Rough House!” Monster screamed with the steroid excitement of someone that was once instrumental in random violence against innocent by standers in this very corridor with a face duster. “Crenshaw Ave” Magic laments the uptown all ABC (black) kid lane reserved for the biggest, blackest personalities of what I felt was the single most important program in all of America. We’d changed that coveted white zilla real estate, 93, 94, ABC, holla “Santo” I spoke paying homage to his glass enclosed Madison #22 game jersey with a kiss. We were a year you remembered the sons of 1988. “Ronnie Lee, special” Magic observes his large mural in a calm of blazing remembrance. Roxbury’s Ronnie Lee once played in the NBA making the all-rookie team. He was a part of the inaugural ABC class back in 1965 under then Madison coach, the famous Roland Massimino. By the time Ronnie Lee won back-2-back division 1 state titles here in the early 70’s Coach Mass was at UPENN on his way to the University of Villanova where immortality aka the perfect game waited in the wings. The deal in Madison was Rollie was the ball. He was your best friend. The basketball and he had a name, Rollie. The life size mural on an original brick wall of Ronnie Lee securing the ball for us in a Madison uniform bridged the gym and our class lockers as our old family arms. They called Ronnie Lee the Kamikaze kid during his college years at Oregon where he was the then Pac-8 player of the year. He set the tone even forty years later for the brand of basketball our hamlet became famous for. No one really knew what basketball had done for Madison property values. Arriving at the highest concentration of our lockers that the long hall yielded, it was dark, empty and cold yet so utterly warm. We stopped and took a breath. There was nothing in the world like walking around your old high school halls with a quarter left of a keg at almost thirty years old on a holiday you purchased doing the right mutha fucken thing. We could’ve stayed forever, “Yo!” Silence was broken. Stamping his index finger into the plexi-glass, fixated in our former locker hot spot out of character Mr. Fullerton actually screamed! A complete halt of inclusive breaths “look at that!” We hadn’t seen him so excited in years. “That’s funny” Monster stoically added two words regretfully followed by a high-pitched “oh shit” from me and a “no shit” from Magic. We focused in directly where he was pointing. Scratched into the windows surface you couldn’t miss it, “wow,” we all leisurely smiled, I remembered the moment clearly. Ten years removed yet clearly visible to this day, read “CPP 94.” It was large letters. It was the only thing left. Re-filling our red plastic cups I was stunned re calling silently the moment I inscribed that there after the Plexiglas was finally installed replacing the two large glass windows I’d shattered three times prior. What was with the windows? I dug in deep with my switch or as Black called it, his, “doink.” The language of violence the inner city chanted was an entirely watered down vernacular of slaughter and death. A smack in the suburbs was someone smacked you in the face often lightly separate from Blacks ali baba* chilling peacefully most days in his high school locker across from mine. A “smack” in the hood entailed a beat down you barely survived. “CPP 94” I recalled the forearm pain brazenly without cover, middle of morning, still risking it all so casually after everything so close to graduation. A full sixty seconds in broad daylight. I wanted this one, my last act of demarcation representing my time spent here to survive, the last legend here. I wanted it to survive like Jimmy White’s unmistakable “J” tag that followed me around principal offices, police stations and court benches. I couldn’t believe it was still there. He was a hockey star my freshmen year. Focusing I chuckled staring intently into the plexi-glassed carved surface, remembering I forgot current life and kicked around clinical terms. Yup I was home. I thought about why it was still there and what that meant on this day on that Plexiglas nothing to anyone everything to me. Drifting off I sought an elusive closure. Madison Hills was a place that bequeathed on me a wisdom that only its frantic teenage insurgency could unmask. A place where new money met old money met no money. There it was, clearly visible to this day, “CPP” 94” the gods couldn’t let it come down. I small footnote of one crazy year, dumb kids, “I propose a toast.” The Peace Man spoke eloquently high in the air was his six-3 dome. We all turned bringing in our frothy red beer cups, “to Sugar Rays” “To Sugar Rays!” “I love Sugar Rays.” “I know you do Monster.” I smiled, “Ah dooms!” We “brought it in” as custom since freshmen year of high school. “Love you guys.” “I love you too.” “Yo Kim I ain’t going to leave without saying something on this track.” Left Eye

Monday, December 19, 2016

Friday, September 02, 2016

Final Take The Kap Man (Colin) and Silent Protests.

It’s worth mention this is the first example in my entire life I haven't stood with an athlete in a protest of this nature. That's #1 so why, well Football is a monster sadly bigger than the NBA. He wants to play football. The man is making headlines. He’s trending again like 2010. His agent first broached the topic who has more incentive than any of us to exploit Chip Kelly’s recent perceived racist failure in Philly.

This is a backup QB on the decline true guys would’ve been making this stands at the height of your prowess a few short years back. Colin as it stands is probably cut and in the ultimate emotional hedge can say, racism is why no team picked him up lost that it’s a distraction and football the ultimate team sport. This is also about how his contract is structured. If he plays this year and is hurt his 15 million is guaranteed next year. What a pickle for the 49’ers. And Chip. The front office a brilliant move bordering on an amazing Hollywood hustle.

Curious timing to take a stand now when your heroin spotlight has dimmed, buddy this has gone on forever. It's gotten better. Smartphones have brought awareness to things many of us have sweated to change in the upper class rank and files of American white privilege where it counts the most 4 years. The irony of course is, it is better, like now is better than 91, It’s better. Smartphones - Bless them. Cost came down and we have 5 year’s worth of footage which is clearly obvious now that everyone in America has a mobile video camera. So the timing is VERY suspect. It matters who says what. DJ Premier, on his forearm, respect is the cornerstone of power.

So he's now kneeling for one jam and standing for the next. He also said if he's cut he'll give his life to social activism. So we'll be watching. I hope I apologize to the whole FAM profusely in a few years. He added last night he will give a million dollars to charity’s reflecting the issues he’s attempting to bridge and spotlight. We’ll be watching. Money is funny too. So we hope he’s involved with where it goes. And follows up like a shark tank special to understand how it worked where it went, how we did what was learned to apply and get better help more. Show don’t tell big problem for me as well in this life at many junctures. Some socialist once said, wash the flag don’t burn it.

Some other smart person once said life comes down to what you do when people are not watching. A lesson lost of Colin long ago. It does distract from his ability. I was such a fan when he replaced Alex Smith. We shall see. I hope he’s on the realest team. I hope he calls it out in real time the ugliness of racism wherever he finds it. I hope he was like that since he was a kid. I hope he’s a panther. Not the chump this circus portends him to be in my mind. I hope my sources that our much more in the know than anything you got our false. This was Colin’s idea not his agents. He has a calling. We’ll be watching. The platform of sports is great. I named my son Cassius. Those comparisons are insulting. It’s better for me to type this out here than argue with family about so many other factors at play with this man’s agent and contract and organization lost keeping it simple.

In all of this ANYONE has more leverage speaking on behalf of these issues than complainers or deniers especially of the white ilk. I find it strange when I’m on the other side of a racial argument. It’s one out of a million. The last time was the manager of new edition yes new Edition my favorite group of ALL TIME trying to tell me our high school basketball coach was racist. “Cahl!” Oh man. He lost it. I can push buttons LOL. It was sad. I could’ve been lured with heavenly opportunities but what’s right is right and u can call my high school basketball coach a lot of things going back 40 years, racist not one can't call the NAACP on him Marv I'm sorry you were benched in the second half of the state tournament.

Again just wrong argument for wrong guy. It also pointed out how things stay with us into our adult lives. Marvin the millionaire losing his shit, “CAHL! I called Ms. Prescott I got the word on you, you are not black, you’ll never be black, u think you black?” “No Marvin I hated white people and believed my soul to be black OK fuck face” “Cahl!!!!!! I’m n-n-n-n-n-n-n-nNOT THE1!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Stuttering like a MF. I wanted to be the guy’s best friend for life but I couldn’t be the pawn in that game. He spun the stories I’d dreamt about. How he became their manager. How they met. It started at the YMCA. Another story another day anyway that was the last time I took a non-black side to a racist argument. No matter what you believe YOU have to have bandwith to adjust as circumstances unfold otherwise you’re the tea party. There is a middle ground. A man’s got to have a code, Omar the Wire. But you can’t get half pregnant. Colin has gone about this knee jerk and in the wrong manner. Now it’s a mess. A circus. And I still don’t believe him. Let’s hope this guy is the real deal and I’m the asshole. It wouldn’t be the first time. Start with the premise his agent brought the idea to him. And work from there contract, Chip Kelly, waning ability…… Update: So WTFC if his agent came up with the shit. If it works. If it inspired. If it comes from the heart. If it attracts legends. I love it. Then again we'll see we're minute one in the second round of his fifteen. minutes Fake is in these days. Fake attracts. I hope this is real. Get arrested. Show more heart and above all follow through on the strong of promises you've made under pressure in the last twenty four hours.... Update duex - I DON'T give a fuck. Not anymore. Look the summer he llost his job he begun experimenting with ACID at his GF's discretion and discovered Tupac. it's never too late. really. I just don't want to talk about this guy anymore.... hero.

Monday, August 22, 2016

Happiest Sat. Winning is simply noit losing + writing is therapy

deep breath. so close. So over the weekend I finished the book. Now it's in jay campiis's hands, LOL, my long time suffering editor at large. Anyway this one felt like that shot, you know it, swish, I'm through. Follow. It felt like winning a state title would’ve felt like I’d imagine, it wasn’t losing, I didn’t have to feel that, I won. A small celebration perhaps but most importantly not a nuclear meltdown, losing sucks a hole one. It was everything I ever wanted to say. It took a long time. I worked full time the entire fifteen years. I’d never written anything too worthwhile. I’d never gone to English class. I never wrote grammatically correct. But I had a story 2 tell, the sole driving force of this effort. I knew it. In a landslide I had a story to tell. So my dedication barring final sign off (Sum) is to the therapy of writing more specifically to the next kid that will find this book at some point in time somewhere and be inspired to write himself out of an impossible situation. I didn’t lose, that’s what it felt like. 2 finish. 15 drafts 795 pages of pure ADHD stream of vast nothingness now 336 pages locked. I could bring it further down. Kill your children. But I won’t. I learned allot. I learned never tell anyone your writing a book. The writing is the reward. So on to Chicago, book II “Outcry” 96-99 my empire strikes back, Jesus. I’ll be equally proud for the basketball film, Move The Tape, I just didn’t fail, the end motivator. Then the Wig and book 3, rounding out my Sonz! Trill DC ending where I had the idea to write the first one finished the minute I stamp the shit CW. * And on it goes. Q brothers. Up next after that, motivation in itself to clear. Magic Mayor. Yg Foundation. Sports, Politics and music all day. #YG94, the last high school legend . Thank u writing. Thank u angels. what a crazy fucking story. Ha. Thank u humor. Thank u basketball. Pray 4 me still. #thisis40(ounces)of freedom

Monday, June 06, 2016

Johnny Wakelin - Black Superman (Muhammed Ali)

A giant.  only heavyweight's and home run kings get their own song .  RIP Cassius.  The greatest.  And it has nothing to do with boxing.  that's why.  get it, of course.  My kiddo's namesake