What’s Your Name?

I was watching the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremonies the other day. I had a little epiphany when Little Walter was mentioned. Why is it that when white artists change their names it is to something that sounds like a normal name but is just easier to spell or less ethnic but when black people do it they change it something ignorant?

For example:

Aerosmith singer Steven Tyler changed his name from Stephen Tallarico but a man born with the name Richard Penniman thought it best to be known as Little Richard.

Maybe it s just the black or hip hop lifestyles that make people do this. The white rappers do this, like Eminem and the Beastie Boys. I just don’t get it really. If I had a talent and thought I may become famous I would want to be known by my own name.

Teen Stars?

I came across this story where a former child star from The Facts Of Life supports Brittney Spears’ little sister.

Whelchel, who played the preppy Blair Warner on the sitcom The Facts of Life, has come to Spears’s defense after the 16-year-old Nickelodeon star earned mostly derision following her announcement that she is pregnant.

Here is my opinion on the whole matter. She is 16 and rich and horny and super hot. Her boyfriend banged her. I don’t blame him at all. They didn’t use protection. They are stupid but again they are rich. Why are we talking about this stupid bitch. She will just be a dumb, old-looking whore bag soon like her big sister.

Racism? Really, Is That What You’re Going With?

I read this story about Wesley Snipes yesterday:

Actor Wesley Snipes has slammed the media for portraying him as a “bad guy” after he was charged with tax fraud, claiming he is a victim of racism. Snipes, 45, is due to stand trial next month in Florida on charges he fraudulently claimed tax refunds of almost $12 million in 1996 and 1997. He is also accused of failing to file tax returns from 1999 to 2004. But the star has blamed the press and its racial prejudice for over-exaggerating the scandal, and depicting him as a villain. He says, “It was easy for people to jump on the ‘Wesley’s the bad guy’ bandwagon. That’s where I think the systematic racism comes in. We’re conditioned in this country to believe that if there’s a problem, the black man is the culprit.” Snipes also blames discrimination for the box office failure of his 2004 movie Blade: Trinity. He adds, “There are so few guys who do action and do it well. Even fewer who are African-American. Even fewer who have classical-theater training. So a cat like me coming in, I’m bringing all of that to an action movie. Since there are so few people that do this and have that pedigree, people disregard their contribution.”

What a crock of shit. How about don’t do illegal shit then you won’t get arrested for defrauding your government. By the way, Blade: Trinity was a shitty movie, dude. Why do lots of black people claim this when they do something that is against the law? Maybe since my family was cast out of Canada over 200 years ago and also persecuted that I should claim racism or something when I doing something illegal. Man, Snipes you are a whiny-ass bitch for someone who portrays himself as someone who is very tough.

Chapter 2 – Flashback

I had lost my new shoes two days after buying them specifically for this evening. “Emily, have you seen my new shoes?”, I screamed. Why she would know where I hid my brand new Johnston & Murphy loafers was well beyond me but I was in a hurry. She used to do a really good job of keeping track of my stuff for me even though she lived across town. Not so good lately.

“Where are you going?”, Em wanted to know. Now this question is quite profound due to the fact that I was having dinner with my dad tonight at some ritzy, pretentious, rich guy restaurant, which my dad was. Em had previously agreed to come with us. Pops was even planning on her being there, but the fact that she was in her favorite Saturday afternoon green colored sweatpants, the ones with the hole in the left knee and yelloe paint stain on the back, told me that she wasn’t going to make it again. She had a habit of forgetfulness lately when it came to things that were important to me.

I was completely annoyed at this point. I asked her if she was blowing the meet and greet with Pops again. I haven’t quite figured out why I torture myself with these arguement set-ups. You know the things I mean: “Are you going out dressed like that?”, “Where were you last night?, and now the ever popular, “Why aren’t you ready yet?”

I know that it must of slipped her mind, per usual, but the fact that I was running around in the silk tie I procured from the local men’s clothier, hunting for my new shoes should have jogged the old memory right? I guess not. I am not even sure why I keep putting up with this crap. Don’t get me wrong, Emily Rasmussen is extremely hot but there are many other lovely young ladies on this campus who wouldn’t mind hanging out with old Jack, at least that is what I keep telling myself. That damn Josh rides my back about dumping Emily but we have had a lot of good times, she and I.

“I just don’t feel like having boring conversation all night”, was her reply. I agree that my father keeps my interest like a 2 year old watching C-Span, but I was ready to explode. “We made these plans weeks ago, Em, and I think it is really shitty that you can’t make it again.” There was no winning arguments with her. She marched into my bedroom, the one that I share with her a few nights during the week, she hopped on the bed and flipped on the television. I was enraged, still standing in the middle of my tiny kitchen when her voice floated in from the back room. “You go suffer through with your dad, and I will be here waiting when you get back.”

There was no problem when she asked me to meet her parents. I remember that really long trip to Mamronek in New York state like it was yesterday. I, of course, had to drive the whole way in my 1985 Chevrolet Cavalier on a Friday. It was late afternoon in the middle of a February blizzard. The snow was flying sideways, pushing that 6-cylinder engine back and forth along the interstate. I was hoping that she would call it off due to the weather but it never happened. Daddy’s little girl just had to make it home to parade her new beau around like a show dog. Her father is New York State Democratic Representative Robert F. Rasmussen, Jr. A very respected business man in the area. He was your local All State Insurance agent who made a fortune in the stock market by mere luck. I can still here the lame story he tells about his wheeling and dealing, “I bet this Microsoft thing will make a few bucks!” I wanted to vomit all over his Armani suit. This guy shits gold and sweats arrogance. Apparently, my potential teaching degree was not a good way for a real man to make a living. “When I was your age, Jack…”, was a popular beginning to a lot of his sentences that night.

The converation steered its way to the ineveitable disaster. “How great is our President, Jack?” Not that I am a big politics guy, but my old man brought me up pro-Reagan and all I remember from our conversations between the haze of the wine and smoke from the Honduran cigars is that Clinton is not my old man’s favorite guy. The media and the comics got some good fodder from him but being born into a Republican family, I had to stick to my guns. Anyway, we got into this great big argument over President Clinton and how Representative Bob thought he could do ‘no wrong’. I proceeded to ask him if that was the name of his new Oriental intern. Suffice it to say, we left early and I never got another invite back. As I am sure you could have guessed, the ride back through Connecticut and up the Mass Turnpike was a silent roll. This was almost six months ago, but ever since, Em and I have spent less time going out together and more time arguing.

I walked into the bedroom having found my new shoes still in the box but sitting next to the garbage can. Luckily I was too lazy to take out the trash yesterday. I said goodbye to Em, stating that I wouldn’t be too late. She mentioned that lounging on my couch watching an old Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan flick on the tube would be company enough for the evening. I met Pops at the posh Aligator Club downtown, near Faneuil Hall. He was halfway through the first of our three bottles of Merlot. Thomas Alphonse LaFerriere III was one of Massachusetts’ top criminal lawyers. He was great at his job but not not so good at spending time with his boys and wife, which is why mom left him and moved my nine year old brother Tommy and I to New Hampshire when I was 12 years old. He had no problems when I told him that Alvirne High School’s Salutatorian was not following his old man’s footsteps and heading off to Harvard. He did; however, not feel that my choice of profession was up to par. “What kind of living can a teacher make?”, he would ask. As I sat down, he shook my hand and I could feel him scrutinize my style of dress. I thought I was conservative and sharp but maybe the Bruins tie was a little too cheesy. Two hours later, after sitting through some of his world famous Judge Markham stories, an epiphany hit him like a Roger Clemens fastball. “Wasn’t that Emily girl going to come with you tonight?”, he slurs.

I made up another lame excuse for her about having a paper due for one her medical classes. Yeah, that’s right. Emily was studying to be a doctor. Not just any doctor, of course, a cardiologist. I can see why her big shot father didn’t like the whole school teacher thing. I was hoping that Pops and I wouldn’t have to get into a conversation about my dating life. It was uncomfortable enough talking about my 3.2 GPA in subjects that he thought were useless. Pops let the subject of our MIA dinnermate go without so much as a hiccough. I’m pretty sure that as long as he had me to tell his bullshit law stories to he would be okay. I decided that I would share a cab home with my old man. He got dropped off at the wharf on the Charles River where he had his house boat parked and I scooted back towards Chestnut Hill dreading another potential knock-down, drag out with Emily.

I got back to my apartment around midnight only to find darkness. This is beginning to become a ritual. I was; however, blessed with one of Em’s world famous “I’m Sorry But…” Post-It Notes. This time she had to run out and have a drink with some friend that was down in the dumps about something I could care less about and she would call me sometime later Sunday afternoon. I proceeded to wad up the post-it and play trashcan basketball, pretending to be my childhood hero, Larry Bird. It hit the rim, bounced to the floor and scurried under the sofa, not to be seen from again until I moved following graduation. I managed to fall asleep in front of a M.A.S.H. rerun, spilling my twelfth Natural Light can on the grey shag carpeting of my living room. For someone that has a campus full of friends and a beautiful girlfriend, I felt very alone again.

Does He Really Think The Judge Is That Stupid?

Michael Vick wrote a five page letter to the judge who sentenced him to almost two years in prison for dog fighting. In the letter Vick claims that he is an animal lover and asks for leniency. He claims that he saw lots of crimes as a child but no one ever got arrested for dog fighting. Basically he is saying he thought allowing dogs to mutilate and harm each other was okay because he loved them. I think I should write a letter to Michael Vick:

Dear Michael Vick,

Please stop begging like a little girl. You KNOW that dog fighting is wrong and illegal. If you cared for animals you never would have allowed for that to happen in your presence or on your property. Under your thought process it would be ok for your own children to maim each other for sport because you have never seen anyone arrested for that before and you also love them. Mike, you are an idiot and a disgrace to your gender and your race. I hope you get ass-pounded in jail then no one wants you to play for their football team when you get out of prison.

With love,

Elephantman

P.S. You have always been a mediocre quarterback.

Thanks, I needed to get that off of my chest. I feel better for writing it.

Stop Bitching

Now I am not a fan of the University of Tennessee or Lousiana State football but I did watch the SEC championship game and I follow sports. The LSU team was the best in the conference this year and UT were just pretenders. This guy whines like a little bitch about his team getting hosed. I read a little more into his blog and he does this alot. Get over yourself. The fact is that you are a fan of a second rate team. It happens. I am a fan of a team that sucked worse than your team (in fact we are not going to a bowl game) but I realize that we weren’t cheated. Loser.

World AIDS Day

So today is/was World AIDS Day. To those of you afflicted with this horrible disease and/or the HIV virus and you got it from unprotected sex or IV drug use…who fucking cares?. You were educated and warned about this for years. I don’t feel that bad for you. I feel terrible for your families. Also, to those people who are suffering from this disease that got it because of tainted blood that was transfused…God bless you and keep you. I hope that they find a cure for you. The rest of ya’ll should be ashamed that you didn’t cover your dicks/make them cover their dicks or shouldn’t have used illegal drugs. Period.

I Am Intollerant Of Other People

Having been born an American I have an ingrained quality that gives me an attitude of superiority. This, of course, is not very Christian of me to have these thoughts. I am sure that my God would not like me to feel better than anyone. This would include those of different nationalities and religions. When I read this story; however, I don’t give a damn.

Hundreds of protesters brandishing swords and sticks gathered outside Khartoum’s presidential palace Friday to vent their anger against a British teacher jailed for allowing children to name a teddy bear “Mohammed.”

About 600 Islamic demonstrators piled out of mosques, chanting: “By soul, by blood, I will fight for the Prophet Mohammed.” Some of the protesters demanded the teacher’s execution, according to The Associated Press.

Read the rest of this ignorance here.

This is the most absurd bullshit I have ever heard. This woman should be allowed to go home and issued an official apology. The Sudanese Islamic crazy-fucks are the ones that should be killed. Anyone who believes that another person should die for naming a stupid teddy bear after what I believe may have been a bullshit prophet should get ass-fucked by a donkey.

Maybe I should get offended and call for the head of a (legal) Mexican immigrant who names their pet chihuahua “Jesus” (pronounced ‘hey-soos’). No that would be ignorant. It is stupid shit like this that makes the world suck and natural born Americans feel that they are better than the rest of the world. This proves us to be correct.

Chapter 1 – Now

“We’re gonna be late!” I hate being late for anything, especially when I’m going to the airport. Logan always seems to have terrible traffic, especially when you are in a hurry. Jack LaFerriere waits for no one, or so I thought. It wasn’t even my idea to make this stupid trip. Josh thought this would be a great way to get all of my bullshit problems out of mind. Unfortunately for us, Cardinal, another of our trip mates, has terrible dart skills. “Throw a dart at the map”, he says, “We’ll go there!”

So here I am, bound for Nashville, country music capital of the world. I can hardly control my excitement. On top of it all, I’m going to be late. So here I sit, bags packed waiting on the never on time Joshua Black. A real best friend would be on time. Ok, I know what you’re thinking. A real best friend wouldn’t say things like “…a real best friend would…”. Well, you don’t know my relationship with Josh.

Together we have done it all. He would pretty much do anything for me and vice versa. He is the only human being that could cuss me out and not get a good ass-kicking! On the flipside, I’m pretty sure that I am the only one to get away with all of the short jokes. It isn’t that Josh is short, but whenever I see him coming my way all I can do is sing that Lollipop Guild song from “The Wizard Of Oz”, not to mention all of the Leprechaun jokes. Anyways, we are tight as tight can be.

Our flight is scheduled for 9:00 AM. I suppose that my New England Patriots clock on the kitchen wall screaming 8:30 AM is not a good omen.

My one bedroom apartment in the Chestnut Hill area of Boston is quiet…too quiet. Maybe I need a drink to mellow me. I guess that I am just anxious to leave. A nice single-malt Scotch should do the trick. The sunlight through the window in the living room reflects off of the flying dust and all I can do is light another Marlboro and daydream. This trip was to help me get my mind off of everything. Everything bad, that is. So why am I thinking about her again? Hurry up Josh, damn you! I can almost smell her. The baby powder perfume, the metallic roughness of fresh nail polish, the leather of her new shoes. I can even smell her minty toothpaste. Her eyes always mesmerized me. They always remind me of the Mediterranean Ocean pictures straight from those nature magazines. You know, the ones they had in our junior high school library that all of the teenage boys would flip through to see the topless African women. They start us off young telling lies to our mothers that we read it for the articles.

The mad knock on my door shook me back into consciousness. “Josh, I know that leprechauns don’t wear watches but we have a flight to catch!”

“Hurry up and grab your bag, Grizzly Adams”, he spat back. “Cardinal is blocking the street with Gremmie.” Grizzly Adams was a pretty good jibe, but I won’t tell Josh that. I may have to finally shave this damn beard off during our trip. That would surprise them all and stop the jokes. I have had this beard since my senoir year in high school. Alvirne High, class of ‘93. Alvirne was the only high school in the tiny southern New Hampshire town of Hudson where I grew up. Josh is a Bangor, Maine native. I think Stephen King is from there, too. I hope that Bangor has more than King & Josh as their claim to fame. I met Josh freshman year at Boston College. His freshman year. Not only is Josh short, but he is the baby of the group. He was pledging Delta something-or-other, I was pledging to get drunk and sleep with every co-ed girl I met. Neither one of us accomplished our goals. Josh got black-balled for sleeping with one of his frat brother’s girlfriends. I met Emily.

That November day of my junior year I was trying to have lunch at the student cafeteria and shake off the grogginess of the prior night’s suarez when some punk freshman interrupted me. “Excuse me?”, resonating throughout my head. Now, one would think that the scraggly beard and bloodshot eyes would be indicators for a smart, well-adjusted person to walk away. “The Uni-bomber is right here in Beantown, not Montana!”, was the first snide remark he ever gave me. Apparently, not all great minds think alike because he sat down.

“What do you want?”, I sneered. The story was always a little blurry until Cardinal regurgitated the tale years later. According to Cardy, and Josh agrees, that this bright and chilly day, Mr. Black was serving a fraternity type punishment. Apparently, due to his lateness to the ever important pledge meeting, he had to go on a campus-wide scavenger hunt to prove his worthiness and dedication to the brotherhood. One of the many required items was a salt shaker from the cafeteria. Now this doesn’t sound so tough to someone who has never eaten at the cafeteria; however, BC staff could not keep the things stocked. Why students felt the need to constantly swipe the logo-emblazoned condiments is something that I do not understand to this day. This particular day, one Jackson Nolan LaFerriere was privy to the rare college artifact and thus the Lollipop Guild leader was in need of interrupting my midday meal. I never did find out where he managed to procure the bowling pin he was carrying around, though.

I know that this sounds like a pretty lame way to begin a life-long friendship, but if that was the end of the story I wouldn’t have mentioned it. It didn’t all begin with sodium. A few days later, I was at my usual table in front of the big bay window at my favorite watering hole, The Broken Bat. I still love going there on occassion to watch my beloved Red Sox and get hammered on Sam Adams beer and Jack and Cokes.

Cardinal and I were in the midst of tying one on whilst spitting out many anti-Yankee epithets. Josh strolls in with a few of his Delta pledge buddies. It is around midnight but the Sox are playing in Oakland that night. We yelled the anti-Yankee sentiments regardless of who we were playing. It was just fun questioning their sexuality from time to time. Although we were in the heart of Red Sox Nation, the occassional group of New York fans would stumble their way in and were always willing to start some crap with the locals.

I, of course, being the group’s trouble maker, had to run my mouth right out of the gate. I always felt that I had to live up to the expectations. I was voted Most Likely to Pass Out in high school. This one particular night, a seven-top of die-hard Derek Jeter lovers tried to get the channel changed. The Yanks were playing the first of a three game set in Seattle that night. There never seemed to be problems when I opened my mouth, Cardy used to say, it was when the words came out that always did us in. It is apparent that Italian-American New York Yankee fans do not approve of a local beer rat who bad mouths the mother’s of their much loved Bronx Bombers. Maybe it was when I started on their own mothers that got them angry. I really can’t remember anymore. I can understand that they felt the odds were in their favor. Seven angry New Yorkers versus two drunks and at worse Tully the bartender, too. Well, they were right in their assumptions. Cardinal talked a big game but had a chin like a white heavyweight boxer…glass! Nevertheless, I got my ass handed to me but Josh backed me up. He always said that it was because he hated the Yanks, too and that he couldn’t stand idly by as his salt benefactor got thrown around like a Mexican wrestler on Univision. We have been tight ever since.

Josh had my bag loaded in the green hatchback and called shotgun before I had my deadbolt slammed. I dragged my feet coming down the hall steps to the street just to make sure that I had remembered everything. I had all the arrangements taken care of. My landlady, Mrs. Gonzales was going to hold my mail; however, I had to sweet talk her to feed Gilmour, my black and brown Basset Hound.

Cardinal was blocking Clement Street with Gremmie. Gremmie was Trey Cardinal’s 1978 AMC Gremlin. It was the only one of its kind in the world I’m sure. Gremmie was black and Bondo colored with fake spinning hubcaps. I think that he paid $14.95 at the local Wal-Mart for those spinners. Three times he paid that much for those wheel covers for each time that they were stolen by the local denizen.

As Cardinal mashed the accelerator I swore I heard him yell, “Hold on to your whiskers, Jack!”, over the bumping bass of one of his local rap musician CD’s. Boston traffic is generally terrible ever since they started realigning the streets and interstates. There was no way that we were getting to Logan on time for our flight. I was hunched over in the backseat of Gremmie, inhaling the burning oil fumes and sweating out another six-pack in the August heat. I slapped Cardinal in the back of the head, “Why are you so damned late?”

“We aren’t that late, bitch! They delayed our flight for some unknown reason. I thought I’d surprise you. We’re actually on time for once.” At least Trey wasn’t a complete screw up.

Cruising through town, weaving between the nice cars in the city with the bass beating my ear drums numb, I started to daydream some more. I could see myself running my fingers through Emily’s blonde wavy hair. I could see her in my mind’s eye. I remembered the first time she walked into my life as she snuck into Professor Townsend’s Psychology 102 class. The only open seat was on my right hand side. She never sat anywhere else which was very handy for note and test taking.

Josh ripped me from the dream world back into reality. We were actually headed through the tunnel below the Boston Harbor into Logan Airport. Our stupid trip was really going to happen and not get messed up. Cardy wanted to leave Gremmie in a mostly safe looking Long-Term Parking space. He parked it next to a BMW hoping that a potential vandal will ignore the easy pickens of the ‘78 AMC and risk a super-alarm of the German-made Z3. We hoofed it to the terminal to check our bags and get our boarding passes. The red-headed girl at the ticket desk apparently was telling us some technical jargon about how our flight and some hydraulic issues and we had to wait for another plane. The three of us were looking attentive as we thought of a way to ask her out to no avail. At least an hour wait required us to kill some time. Josh, Cardinal & myself huddled up and called an audible. “To the bar!” it was.

Are You Really Reading This?

This is the place that I decided to use as my second blog. This is the one that no one knows about including my friends and family. I have plans to put a little of my original fiction (I’m working on a novel – who isn’t right?) as well as my true deep down thoughts on things that may be a little irreverant or non-politically correct. Also, I may have a story or two that is just too damn embarrassing.