Wednesday, March 7, 2012

That Time I Got Stoned and Ayn Rand Came To Me In A Dream

Ciao fuckers!

I know I know I know I KNOW! I ain't talked to you in ages. I ain't talked to you since King died. Ain't talked to since Heck was a pup. Since the smell of Jheri Curl booster was acceptable in the beauty shop. Ain't talked to you since we all gathered around the telly and enjoyed Black characters on scripted television series that didn't include this post racial Man Tan basketball housewifey lets see what happens when we give these n-bombs money and a camera to follow them around coonery. Since vehicles had carburetors. Since smoking was cool and made you look sexy. Since white women popped Valium, donned curly perms, thin eyebrows and high waist-ed polyester pants giving them endless cases of yeast infection. Since Guido Eye-talians wore their hair naturally, and not this porcupine jizz stiffened bullshit hair that gets brittle and falls off into the pizza that they're making for my Black ass--that very action causes me to "wait a minute, I'm spending my hard earned money on this neopolitan pizza, dusted with jizz hair--AND ain't no brothas on the wall?!!" And then I toss a garbage can through the window of the pizzeria and incite a race riot.

Point of the story folks is, when I'm absent from your dysfunctional life and you from mine--it will cause race riots. Blacks against Whites. Brown against Yellow. Native Americans--well they don't count. And then while the rest of us that matter continue to fight, the Mesopotamian empire will take over the world again.  And no one wants that.

If this is your first time visiting my blog, you must know that I am a drunken hobgoblin and if you find my commentary to be racist, sexist, or just plain inappropriate then you are correct. This is your one stop shop to tickle your brain, soften your stool, and bust a literary nut.  Does it sound like I'm tooting my own horn? I'm not. Like all good clowns, I'm just going about my business with the hopes of making one person laugh. Sipping on vodka, hiding behind self deprecation and playing Simon until the Mayans return to murder us all.

I joked in this blog posting title about Ayn Rand because she was a fucked up disturbed woman. Or maybe she wasn't. I don't know. I'm not disturbed, but sometimes mumsy does get a little fucked up. Don't feel bad if you don't know who Ayn Rand was.  Ayn was a little biddy ofay, who often wrote about intellectual shit that didn't concern most of us in the 'hood--but she did manage to tap into some universal shit. If you've never taken a peek at her work, hop on over to your local big box bookstore and shoplift some of her shit. I can gurantee you that NO ONE will stop you from this petty theft. Because when you steal a book written by Ayn Rand, security--no, ALL people will back away from you. They'll think you're either strapped with explosives, are on your way to climb to the top of the Empire State building like King Kong and swap mothafuckas down...OR they will just praise god that you're NOT reading anything written by Steve Harvey. 

That big tooth mothafucka actually wrote a book about women needing to "think like a man", and now it's a movie? A fucking major motion picture set with a release date. With posters and shit in the theatres. Who approved this? YOU'RE ALL FIRED. Fuck it. Ion't care. Do whatever you want. I've already sprinkled cyanide on my tampon and am prepared to insert.


Let it be known, that I'm not a Randite or Randian or whatever the fuck they are called. I'm from the south side of Chicago, and I grew up reading another fucked up person Eldridge Cleaver, ya dig? Its funny what you can learn from fucked up people. I'm not the first person to write about Ayn Rand, with a tone of ridicule. I'm not an essayist or even someone with great perspicacity--frankly I don't understand most of her shit. I don't really understand ANYTHING. The only time I feel satisfied while reading is when it's the adventures of Ramona Quimby or Sweet Valley High books.

But when you're an adult you're supposed to read adult shit like Octavia Butler, Kurt Vonnegut and Paulo Coelho. You're supposed to own a trench coat, wear a monocle and listen to talk radio, read newspapers and attend community meetings. You're supposed to drop money into the clear box at the checkout counter. Your 15 cents will help save the starving children of the desert. Because that's what good people do. They read works of art, become inspired and change their lives. Truth be told, I thumb through these brilliant works of art and I just keep thinking "Were they able to pay their rent? Did Octavia, Kurt & Paulo hurt people that they loved? Did they lie? Did they oversleep every morning? Owe back taxes? Did they drive people away with their actions? Did they smoke pot in the morning to keep from crying at night? Did they ever become so frightened by the outside world, that they chose to stay indoors all day and watch the Cooking Channel? Did they watch Dance Moms and was convinced that Abbey Lee was really Sam Kinison? Did they for five seconds, ever lay prostrate on bare earth hoping that the earth would crack open and allow their body to fall all the way down into the deep pits of Fraggle Rock? Did they ever kill a moth and feel really REALLY bad about it? Did they secretly curse their grade school teachers for being talentless dickheads who didn't really understand long division themselves? Did Octavia, Kurt, Paulo and others have arrested development like I seem to have? Has anyone Black ever been knighted or inducted into Lordship or damehood in Britain?" Sorry my mind spazzes about like that.

I think that if I had simply stuck to reading Jackie Collins novels, I would not be boring you with my on going existential bullshit crisis.

Back to that white woman, Ayn. Some of her themes, I kinda get...Rand wrote about many things including altruism (unselfish concern) and hyper selfishness.  In my personal and professional life I feel like that's what I have been battling. A devotion to taking a sledge hammer through a wall thicker than Berlin in Hollyweird (and on the Stage)--a tiny contribution to the betterment of my people (not just Black people--all the toys from misfit island)...OR saying fuck moral obligations. I'm sick of thinking. I'm sick of ranting. Sick of writing letters. Sick of watching these lies shoved down our throat until it becomes gospel. Objecting like a lawyer on Perry Mason, that's me.

But somedays-- I don't wanna.
What's my problem?! It's not like I have to sit at the counter of Woolworth while people spit and taunt me. I didn't protest with the 99%'s. Okay once in college I stopped eating grapes to take a stand against some bullshit that migrants went through...but for the most part, I have it easy. I live in Burbank Southern California for fucks sake.  

It's time to get laid and paid. I wanna write awful movies get paid a lot of money, and buy off all of my problems. That's write. Money CAN buy you happiness. Money can buy you a white couch, and you can hold a seance for the spirit of Rick James to come back and muddy it up with his boots. Money can buy a car that can pin a squirrel under its tires and self clean the little fuckers guts while you're still in motion. A nanny that will take care of those kids that you adopted from the booty scratchers in whichever war torn nation you like. Write until it's right! $$$ I'm gonna wear hair that's freshly shaven off of a Malyasian, with a ill fitted dress that makes me look like the Michelin man, topped off with red bottomed shoes and a bottomless purse. Sure, occasionally I would have meaniful visitation rights with moral things like family, happiness and friends. But for the most part, I'm ready to ship off to planet Assholetropia.  

I guess I thought about Ayn's writings because sometimes the things my brain is a seesaw between reverence for what's the good fight and disparaging thoughts about everything.

I'm not depressed, or ready to swallow a bottle of Flintstones vitamins, so don't go calling Dr. Drew yet. I'm just having a moment...and I find that writing is the best way to exercise the demons. Now that I've no doubt given you a limp dick with my confabulation, please enjoy this video. This is the kind of shit I like to watch when my brain swells. Oh and it features Ayn Rand (wink.)

Ciao for now possum,

1 comment:

Rasquachi said...

Aw, Docta! When you say "Jheri Curl" like that, you summon fond memories of sitting on the bus in middle school behind the awesome older boys in their Jheri curls, wearing clear shower caps to protect their shirts from staining (didn't work). I loved those boys so much; they used to call me "Shrimpy" and "Mexican Jumping Bean" (even though I'm not Mexican, and I loved them so much I didn't correct them like I did most people). I was suspicious, however, of that one white boy that used to run around with them, that was lucky enough to have been born with really curly hair (I assumed-- maybe he had gotten a perm?), so he had a Jheri curl, too. And I am not talking a mixed-race, whitish type like me-- he was like Irish or something. Obviously he made a strong impression on me because I can still see him clearly to this day. Why is this? It may have been jealousy that my friends had told me it was impossible to give me dooky braids, but this boy who was waaaay whiter than me could have a Jheri curl! Anyway... thanks for that walk down memory lane.