Man-o-Manischewitz it's been way too long since you and I got together. I miss you like the days of when gas was $1.18 a gallon, and the Jays Potato Chip plant offered tours to Chicago school children. Well, the Jays Potato Chip plant has closed, much like 127 schools in the Chicagoland area. *Rolls eyes real hard at city hall.
So, what's happening with Slick you may be wondering? Well, I am alive and well friends! My shoulder is regenerative, and my mind (though cluttered at times) remains curious and consistently constructs stories. I actually spend most of my days, trying to figure out "How can I make people laugh?"I know that may be annoying as shit to read, but it's true.
Writing this blog gives me such great pleasure; much like singing along to the theme song from that great American sitcom, Amen. When I first started this blog, I only had 2 rules:
1. To only blog when I had something to say.
2. To remember that I am not a journalist on staff with the New Yorker or some egg
head institution, so I can make as many mistakes as I wanted
not really give two fucks about grammar or puncation. ;)
I know my postings have been less and less so, but I implore you to remember that mummy does her very best to weave an elegant tapestry of Tom Fuckery each chance she gets. Much like in the way chef Anthony Bourdain travels the world to explore food as it relates to culture, I like to examine humor as it relates growth. Otherwise, I feel immutable. Stagnant. And just plain sluggish.
I'll admit, there are some days where it's very dark for me. I'm an artist, so that can't be too much of a surprise to you dear reader. Despair, anger, disappointment and limitation makes me wanna holler--throw up both my hands. I admit, I'm a bit of a news junkie so after reading the NYTimes, watching Al-Jezzera, scrolling Twitter, listening to NPR & Radio Pacifica--some days the news headlines make me weep. In fact, I do weep. They scare me. They disgust me. They infuriate me. **Now before you go sending me text messages asking if I'm ok, and putting me on the prayer list at church--don't worry, I'm doing just fine. But you can still pray for me.**
I just happen to be a point in my life, where I no longer wish to protect others from my-self. I am who I am. I'm a weirdo kid from the south side of chicago who know's that thing called Black Rage all too well. Of course there is more to me than my skin color, but it's the struggle that I love the most. I was raised by a strong warrior queen, who always reminded me that I wasn't alone. That I would always have a flotilla should some shit go down. Because I know I ain't nobody's lone ranger. I'm out here fighting along side some of the most righteous mothafuckas you'll ever meet.
I've never really been good about keeping the waters calm...as I child, I loved the story the Emperor's New Clothes because acquiescing to mendacity and other falsehoods was never my thang.
But no matter how dark it gets, I always look to writing--specifically blogging as my north star.
I'm no philosopher, but I can tell you that life can sometimes kicks you square in the urethra. For some INSANE reason, I thought by my 30s, I would have my shit completely together. That magically all of the bullshit would fall off, like a delinquent credit card bill from the 90s. But money comes and money goes. There are days where one can drive up the coast to Santa Barbara to go wine tasting, and then there are the days where you have to coast down hill, because you can't afford gas. Eating macrobiotic vegan grass fed beef from chicken cum fair traded by Peruvian miners who look like Caesar Chavez
------> Grocery shopping at the 99 Cent Only store; trying to figure out if the pack of Ramen noodles with 34500000 grams of sodium will kill you immediately. Completely attached to your smart phone, creeping on social media and texting constantly ------->Call up your cell phone provider, beg them not to interrupt service. Working on some of the most acclaimed and promising productions ------->begging agents & managers to represent you. One minute you're eyeballing a frilly titty holder in Victoria Secret, and contra wise nervously await biopsy results to find out if you have breast cancer. Hoping to have a house filled with children, and then being grossed the fuck into celibacy after witnessing a mom's meltdown because her toddler is a evil little shithead.
Life is all about that ying and yang hunny. I've looked in the funhouse mirror having dysmorphic thoughts far too long. So now, every time I pass a mirror instead of tearing myself down for not having hair that's pretty enough, flatter stomach or clear skin I just start dancing. I literally dance until the demon bids me farewell. So baby love, here is what the good Docta Slick prescribes, should you become weary with life.
For every person you cuss out in the heat of road rage---->shout words of love at the next stop light. Trust me, someone will hear you and it will change the trajectory of their day.
For every slice of pizza you eat...every bucket of hot wings....bottle of Patron -----> treat yourself to a dark green leafy meal sans ranch dressing fucker.
For every afternoon you waste time looking at pictures of people taking bathroom self portraits on Instagram, look up portraits of people from the WPA in the 1930s.
For every time you use epithets like nigga, fag, cunt, dyke, re-tard---->remember those who heard it just before they took their last breath.
And finally, every time you get sad....log onto this blog spot. Surely there's something here that can make you smile.
Be kind to your self. Remember, being human ain't easy. But you're gonna be okay.
I love you.
WHITE MEN WHO MISS COLONIALISM