Alcoholics Anonymous

This morning, CNN ran a bit on George Bush speaking about addiction, and the power of faith the help heal them. I won't comment on the fact that faith hasn't helped his ultra-conservative republican buddies curb their addiction to gay escorts, but lets move on. Though I'm pretty bummed about Georgie being president all these years, his term will lend itself to numerous quote books after all the ridiculousness is said and done. That is, if Americans are still reading by the end of this year. Let us pray.

Anyway, George was addressing some group of addicts, and said the following: "I used to have a drinking problem. Once upon a time, I drank too much". Well, George, thanks for the clarification, but we didn't really need it. Generally drinking too much is what people mean when they say they have a drinking problem. Usually its not that they have trouble swallowing, or a hole in their throat or anything. I would like some clarification on one point though.

Georgie says he used to have a drinking problem. Perhaps he meant when he was in college, just a wee little rich Bush frat boy who enjoyed keg stands and joints. Or maybe he meant in high school, when he was that rich kid who took it way to far, far too soon. I know that type well. We would be like 17, and here would come Jon, whose dad ran Company X and lived in an 8-bedroom house in the hills. Jon would be high on pretty much any drug available to mankind, and would wash it all down with as many beers as possible. Jon is generally the kid who ended up in a minimum-security prison after causing some sort of drunken driving accident.

But I happen to think that Bush's problem may have began far before any of us think: in the womb. I really can't think of any other explanation for his genius. Think about it . . . mama Bush threw back a few too many glasses of wine while preggers with baby G, and thus gave America the monkey we call the President.

Coffee will make you Black!

So I happen to live in a gentrified area of Harlem. As in, when I moved in, things were nice and brown, and there is more cream in my coffee everyday. Suffice it to say that I like my coffee black, but I'll move on.

Anywhoo, the Rite Aid below my building came after the cream did, since you know, black coffee doesn't need conveniences like pharmacies and UPS stores. Nope, black coffee just needs bodegas and check cashing spots. Oh yeah, and little stalls to buy phone cards, white tees and weaves. Right. Back to the point. So I grew up in the 'burbs, and I know how things are supposed to go in drugstores.

In drugstores, everything except the stuff behind the register is self-serve. Candy, batteries, toasters, razors, apple juice. Not so in my oppressive, caught-in-the-midst of the "new Harlem Renaissance" Rite Aid. Not only do you have to step over the big blue bins of product that block just about anything you could possibly want, you also have to go ask the clerks if you want some of the simplest things. One time, I needed a charger for my cell phone. A cheap, $20 universal charger. I found it, right up front, and tried to take it off the rack, but it was stuck. Confused, I asked the cashier what was wrong. "Oh, you need the magnetic key for that". Ummm, okay. So now cell phone chargers are akin to loud leather jackets in City Blue stores in hood malls? You're really going to tie them down so I don't steal them?

Maybe. I let that slide. I've seen crackheads selling phone chargers before, so maybe they have a point. But then today, I needed a personal trimmer to keep my sideburns under control. Quick trip to the Rite Aid downstairs, right? Not when there is still some black coffee in the cup. Nope. You know black coffee likes that five-finger discount. Once there is enough cream in the coffee, maybe everything will be self-serve. But for now, one can only purchase a $10 personal trimmer by finding a listless employee to remove it for you. And I highly doubt that there is a black market for personal trimmers .

I want a famous face

Yesterday I happened upon a rerun of one of the scariest shows ever: MTV's I Want a Famous Face. In case you don't remember the show, random people would have excessive plastic surgery in an effort to look like whatever famous person they idolized. Frightening, right?

So yesterday, the episode was about a girl who wanted to look like Britney Spears. Now, note that the show was produced back in Britney's heyday, before the marriages, the babies, the divorce and the meltdowns. Anyway, this chick already slightly resembled Britney, but wanted to look more like her, and to be like her as well. So here she went, ruining her credit and dignity, having several surgeries, starving herself, and even taking stripper lessons.

Little did she know that she should have practiced meeting deadbeat PWT, birthing and neglecting kids, going to public restrooms without her shoes and wearing visible hair weave plugs. But in all honestly, what worried me about this show was the lack of psychological help that was offered to these people. I'm rather concerned that MTV found it appropriate to document these people's sicknesses (other subjects included a transvestite who wanted to look like Jennifer Lopez) and act like they didn't need immediate and intensive mental assistance. But then again, these are the same people who produced Fanatic, the show were a black girl once met with some random pop star--I think it was Jessica Simpson-- and happily talked about how she had dyed her hair blonde and was bald, but it all okay, as long as she got to meet Jessica.

Here come the loons

I always knew something was wrong with Kansas, and this confirms it. Now, I'll admit. When I heard Heath Ledger had died, I immediately thought of Clint Eastwood, and while I was sad, I was like "Ehh, he lived a fairly long life. Not so devastating . . .". Well, after being shamed by my much more pop-culture savvy friend, I learned that Heath Ledger was in fact 28, and the father of a toddler, making the situation a lot more tragic.

Anyway, the guy is dead, right? And here come the crazy people. And yup, they're from Kansas. And yes, they're radical Christians. Crazy, Christian, and from Kansas. A very bad combination indeed. And you thought Islamic Extremists in Fallujah were to blame for all of the world's problems!

So these crazy people in Kansas sat around an decided that because Heath Ledger played a gay man in a movie, he doesn't deserve the respect one would afford any other dead person, or even, say, a dead laboratory rat. They 've decided to protest his funeral during a family-building outing with other members of the Westboro Baptist Church. Because thats what all good Christians do, right? Launch graveside assaults against mourning individuals because the deceased had the nerve to play a gay actor in a movie. God Bless America!

This is what one of the progressive church members had to say:

"He (Ledger) got on that big screen with a big, fat message: God is a liar and it's OK to be gay". Did he really? Or did he get on that big screen and say his lines from the script? I don't recall Heath Ledger saying that God is a liar, or that its okay to be gay, but I do think that its NOT okay to be that crazy, and meet up with a bunch of other crazy folks in the name of religion.

Just my thoughts though. As well, I guess they might protest my funeral too. For shame.

Pump your breaks, Amy

I'm having some trouble with the fact that Amy Winehouse now allegedly smokes crack. I'm pretty liberal, and was with it when she sang about not going to rehab, and even when she was spotted roaming the streets of London looking like someone who froths at the mouth on the C train, but I can't support the crack smoking.

I've actually met someone who smoked crack. Well, I'm sure we all have. But I was actually friends with someone who smoked crack, unbeknownst to me. I overheard her trading drug stories with a mutual friend, and listened as she said, "oh yeah, I've smoked crack before". Now, she had a very strong Scottish accent, so I wasn't sure that I had heard her correctly'. I was definitely not part of the conversation, perhaps because I couldn't run off a laundry list of drugs I'd tried, but I interrupted anyway. "Excuse me, did you just say you smoked crack?" "yeah, i did. it was awesome" she said. Errrr, no thanks. I don't smoke crack, homey.

And I wonder. Who smokes crack? I had always hoped that everyone that currently smoked crack did so because they got addicted back in the 80s, before people understood how addictive it was. I had hoped that all those poor, lost crackheads I saw just couldn't withstand rehab, so here they were, in 2008, scratching invisible sores, wearing tattered rags, and talking about how they just got out of the hospital and needed money for food (while wearing their hospital band from 1998 as evidence).

But nope, some people just don't know any better. Stacy the Scottish druggie was one. And Amy Winehouse is another. Crack clearly kills, people. But I guess that some people don't care. I guess that some people are unfazed by the shells of people that stick their heads in a phone booth outside the bodega, only for smoke to rise above it, thinking they're fooling us all into thinking that the phone is just smoking as they talk on it.

Free OJ!

You know what? OJ should just up and move to Mars. Clearly he won’t ever get a minute of peace here on Earth. You know how I know that? Because you OJ haters can barely contain your anger right now, and I didn’t even say anything.

I didn’t even say that, yeah, OJ might have killed Nicole Brown, but get over it. A black man may have killed a white woman. A rich black man. A rich, ig’nant black man. Say it with me, haters: A rich, ig’nant black man may have killed a white woman. But he was acquitted. Years ago. And that’s more than we can say for several murderers of random black people. That’s more than we can say for the people who lynched Emmit Till and countless other black men. But, honestly, that’s not even relevant. Or on the same level. And as far as we know, thanks to the unequivocally fair justice system of the U.S of A., OJ is a free and innocent man.

So tell me then, why I’m watching CNN morning news, and right smack in the midst of important stories, the Soledad look-alike starts talking about OJ Simpson leaving jail last night. I think he may have been there a day or so, for something inconsequential. Then they showed a picture of OJ leaving jail. Somebody please tell me why the paparazzi follows Orenthal James around. I guess for the same reason that the fact that OJ stole some of his own sports paraphernalia is front-page news. Because America loves to hate OJ.

OJ is the symbol of everything that went ‘wrong’ when the slaves were freed. Look how fast he can run! And how strong he is! And he likes white women! And lives in a mansion, bringing the property tax down! And he’s handsome! A millionaire! And back to that white woman thing—he likes to kill them! Well, so what. Spare me, haters. Can OJ live?

That Guido Smell

So I’m at the club the other night, with my drink and my two step, wondering why I had been coerced into being there, and trying to drink the edge off it all. It was a midtown, New York City club, so all of the usual annoyances were in full swing: the DJ that tried to hard to cater to the mixed crowd, alternating “Living on a Prayer” with “Push It” and “From the window to the wall” (or whatever that horrible song is called), the wanna-be video hoes whipping their weaves in my eyes, the abundance of black male WWLs (reference: Rangel post, and the point at which I digressed), a specific wigger turned Penn graduate who I avoid at all costs, the infiltration of the bridge and tunnel folk, and the general corniness that is weekend crowds.

But I’m most thankful for is the west-village white girls, who were wildin out in the most unprofessional manner. Besides being on the verge of death by alcohol poisoning and ‘freak dancing’ with their men of choice, they were in full snob mode, as disgusted, if not more, with the crowd than I was. Whenever a wanna-be video ho, or bridge and tunnel-er, or even, the Penn wigger tried to trespass into their space, they would look completely revolted, and spill their drinks all over their Louboutins in an effort to get away. I watched one particularly amusing interaction, when a man who I would guess was from Staten Island tried to show off the moves he’d picked up from MTV’s The Grind as a child. Aggressively bobbing and jerking, and even doing a little spin, he was pretty much unconcerned with whether or not she was interested.

Well, she wasn’t. She was completely horrified, and ran into the arms of another guy, who looked a little more monied and a lot less bridge and tunnel. “ohmigod! HELP me! Ugh! I can’t stand him!”. Her friend laughs, and hugs her, and says something I can’t hear. Here comes the highlight of my night. Safe and sound in her with her friend, the girl looks over her shoulder at the guy who had tried to dance with her. She looks back at her friend, and was like “ugh! He’s sooo disgusting! And he totally had that, like, Guido smell”.

Dead wrong.