The Time I Got Arrested For Holding A DVD (Part 1)

So it was a fine summer day when I was coming out of my apartment building. I was heading to Blockbuster to return a DVD.

After walking a few blocks three plain-clothes NYC police officers approach me. They quickly make their presence known by getting presumptuous with my civil rights and forcing me against a fence. They search me while demanding information about something I know nothing about:

“What did you get from the store?”

“Let’s see what’s in the bag you have.”

“What is it you were shopping for?”

Unfortunately for me I had not been in a store, I was not carrying a bag, only the DVD I was returning, and I wasn’t shopping or planning to go shopping anytime soon.

So my answer was, “What the fuck is going on here??!!? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Meanwhile these guys are not acting like they’re actually curious about my response. No, they’re acting like they got the answers from god himself a few hours ago and the questions are merely a formality. After forcing me against the fence, frisking me pretty physically, and looking in every nook and cranny you can find on a DVD case, there’s now a crowd beginning to form on the street.

Undoubtedly spurred on by the lack of material evidence, they continue their informal interrogation.

“what were you doing coming out of that store?”

“what store?”

“look. You know what store. What were you doing?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just came out of my house and I’m going to blockbuster. This is my first time outside today”

The officers pause to consider this unexpected fact.

Meanwhile I’m beginning to piece it together. Next to my apartment building there’s a bodega, and very often bodegas are fronts for weed-shops (something I, of course, know nothing about, other than they may exist). Anyways, I figure these officers thought I was coming out the store instead of my apartment. I relay this revelation to them.

They are not eager to reevaluate their situation but they do eventually back off me a little. At which point I get a little more assertive in expressing my dissatisfaction. I sort of play to the crowd and talk about how a “black man can’t even return his DVD on time no more.” I’m jabbing at them, but nothing too inflammatory.

The officers are talking amongst themselves, presumably trying to figure out how they botched this situation up. They’re also telling me to calm down, which of course only gets me more fired up. They’re the ones in the wrong, I have full right to be causing a ruckus, plus my ruckus was fairly tame all things considered. The crowd on the street formed because of their actions, not mine.

After some more back and forth I eventually raise my hands, one of which is holding the DVD, and declare, “I can't believe this is happening! This is ridiculous!!” I say it loud, but I’m quite certain that harsher, more threatening words have been used in similar scenarios. But apparently that’s not what the officer in charge thought, because upon hearing that he looked at me and then at the DVD case and said, “you’re threatening to assault a police officer.” He then tells one of his partners to cuff me and take me in.

In shocked disbelief, my hands are cuffed behind my back. My tone immediately changes from challenging to compliant. I apologize and say I got out of line. But the head guy is no longer listening. Still his order to take me in was so preposterous that a couple of his partners made an effort to verify that he genuinely wanted them to take me in. He did.

I was cuffed and taken to a minivan that was parked around the corner and down the block a bit. And that’s when this unfortunate misunderstanding evolved into an incredible educational experience ...


To Be Continued


Part 2

Part 3
.

WYSIWYG: Sex On Shrooms (Pt. 1)

Last night I read at WYSIWYG: Worst. Sex. Ever. It was my first time reading for a crowd. I've performed, but never read for people that actually paid money to have words read to them. So I was a little nervous. But I also felt good, because I used to read in class all the time. In fact I was a fairly dominant reader in grade school. Always had the hand up strong, confident, just thinking, "if you want the shit read right, call on this motherfucker right here. Don't call on the stupid motherfucker who might get left back over there." So anyways, I think that background helped me get through the experience in one piece. I think there will be video of the performance, and if/when I can get my hands on it, I'll post it. In the meantime, in between time, I'll post the story and the song/epilogue (that I didn't get to perform) here. Thanks to the TAN supporters that were in the house, especially whoever was yelling "Holla!" in the beginning, that always helps a negro feel at ease.

Here's the video of the reading.

I'll be posting the story in segments, since it's sort of long for one big post.

And for the record, the following is a true story based on a sort of true story.

I went with a straightforward title on this and called it, "The Time I Had Sex On Mushrooms" Or alternatively "How I Got My First Wife, But Not Really"


An underestimated part of the assimilation process is the drug culture.

It’s always been interesting to me that rappers and street thugs are stereotyped as the “drug dealers,” “drug lords,” the “proud purveyors of proscribed paraphernalia and potent, perniciously poisonous product.” But when I was growing up in the Bronx, all I ever saw was weed. That was it.

Then when I went away to boarding school (choate) and college (trinity), it was a different story. This was when I had my mind opened - pot, coke, Ritalin, qualudes, lsd, mushrooms, MDMA, and that’s just the bare essentials. Maybe I was a naïve boy, but this is when I saw real drugs. And real drug users. At home in New York City, on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, sure we had crackheads. But then I’d go away to Connecticut, presumably getting away from the toxic environment, and now there’s motherfucking crackheads going to school with me. My freshman year in college, we had crackheads all over the place. Motherfuckers had money, but they were still crackheads.

Anyways, the universal pervasiveness of crackheadedry isn’t the point today, it’s just a little preamble to demonstrate I didn’t know anything about mushrooms until I went away to school.

So this particular episode started out with a big group. It was freshman year, and just one of those classic college weekends where twenty whipper-snappers get together on a Saturday afternoon and decide they’re going to get wasted. We were going to trip all day and drink all night.

There was an electricity in the air, that feeling of kids about to do a lot of wrong shit. Many of the veterans were breaking off into groups, planning different activities to do during the trip. For me, it was only my second experience with shrooms, and most of the activities sounded too advanced for someone planning to be insane for at least the next 6-8 hours. Based on my first experience, I was fine with just hanging around in the dorm staring at walls and floors. So I ended up with a group that stayed in the dorm. Three or four of us went to a room, and eventually I ended up paired off with this girl.

This girl, let’s call her Kate, was pretty. We lived in the same dorm, and saw each other around, but didn’t really know each other. So we ended up hanging out, and when you’re tripping and meeting someone it can either go horribly or swimmingly. And she and I were like effortless laps in the English Channel (this particular line was thrown in specifically for literary peeps, and because it was a "reading series," which is amusing because it's not phenomenally "literary"). We developed this trippy thing where we’d talk and then both of us would get thirsty at the same time and go to the hallway for a drink. Then we’d laugh and note our “thirst synchronicity” and start a new tangent.

After bonding for a couple hours, eventually some other friends from the group barged in on our connecting-session-for-two and announced they were going across campus to North, another dorm, and I was to join them. I wasn’t eager to leave Kate, but these were my guy friends, and I couldn’t diss my guy friends for some girl I just met while tripping. So I left Kate, and our connection, and our trips to get water, to go across campus with the fellas ...

continue Sex On Shrooms (Pt. 2)

The Giving Tree Incident

I’m not a big person for the question “what is your best [blank]?” I don’t believe in the "best” anything. I believe in the Perspective Evolution. I believe in the Eternal Now. I believe every day I wake up a different man ...

But, I understand the need to occasionally work within the system. It's an annoying conversation when you're just trying to have small talk with someone and they're all, "every day I wake up a different man." So if you ask me my favorite movie, I’ll tell you Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. And if you ask me my favorite book, I’ll tell you The Brothers Karamazov by my mizzah Fyodor.

But specifically on the book tip, my mind will invariably think about other potential contenders to the throne. I've cried every time I've read The Brothers Karamazov, and I think that's my primary factor in determining my best/favorite book. Crying, in my mind, is a tougher *get* than laughter, so if a book draws the tears out it receives extra points for difficulty. As such, the primary challenger to The Brothers K is a book I've only read once or twice, but sparked a memorable crying episode. And that book is: The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein.

Now it’s quite possible that I read The Giving Tree as a child. But for whatever reason, I don't remember it. So for all intents and purposes, my first real reading of The Giving Tree came my freshman year in college. And it wasn't in a class, it was while hanging out with friends. On drugs, natch.

All my incidents with 'shrooms were confined to my freshman and sophomore years in college. The experiences I had were sufficiently intense enough that I’m fairly afraid to try them again. I could give it a shot -- I'm about 90% sure I could handle it -- but fantasies of what could happen in that 10% zone are enough for me to play it safe.

This particular episode was maybe my third or fourth time taking mushrooms. In contrast to my previous escapades where I was full of vim vigor and vitality, on this occasion I was sick. Not just a little sniffle mind you, I basically had the bubonic plague; fever, chills, and a few days spent in three sweatshirts under mountains of covers praying for death. It was also dead in the middle of winter in Connecticut. All the ingredients you need to officially call yourself miserable.

On the bright side, it was college. And so I had visitors. One friend came by and gave me 20 vitamin C. Others stopped by just to say hello, or to laugh at my dilapidated state. The sort of love and camaraderie you don't get (or at least I don't) once you leave school. My roommate "Teeks" was very sympathetic; when he stole a keg from a frat house and brought it back to our room circa 5:45 AM on a Friday night/Saturday morning he took great pains to keep it on his side of our 12x12 dorm room. The friends who came to the impromptu kegger jumpoff that followed were also kind enough to not jump on my bed or spill beer on me. Everyone's so considerate in college, I kind of miss it.

Now I had gotten sick early in the week, marinated in my own pestilence for a few days, and woke up on Saturday, post-kegger, feeling nominally better. Once out of bed I found many of my friends had gathered for a weekend 'shroom festival, and it seemed like every hot girl on campus was in on the action. I was distraught figuring there was no way I could participate. I kept thinking maybe I could push it, but when they said they'd be taking 'shrooms I thought, no, maybe some other drugs I could do, but not 'shrooms. I was too sick for that.

BUT, it was college, and in college if three people decide they're going to walk on their hands in traffic and ask you to join, you're like, hmmmm, I can't walk on my hands, and the traffic sure looks dangerous, but ... welllllll ok. You only live once, etc. etc. The memory is fuzzy, but I'd guess 30 minutes or so after determining I couldn't do 'shrooms in my condition I was scarfing them down.

Magically, as the 'shrooms took effect I was reinvigorated. My sickness, apparently, was no match for the power of hallucinogenic drugs. And even better it seemed the over-the-top trippiness was used up in combating my misery. I was slightly loopy, but very much in control, which in my weakened state was perfect.

As was the norm with 'shroom festivals, the large tribe of drug users splintered off into traveling sects. I was still conscious of not overextending myself and stayed in the dorm. I ended up in a room with three of my closer friends, two girls, one cup guy.

At this point we're just hanging around having normal college conversation, and somehow The Giving Tree comes up. My friends start debating the morality of the story, but I wasn't familiar. Somehow we located a copy and started reading.

Right from the onset I found the story incredibly gripping. I could relate to the boy. I could relate to the tree. I'm a sucker for stories/songs/fantasies of unconditional sex love, and this is perhaps the most classic of them all. So in my mushroom-enhanced emotional state, I easily immersed myself in the melodrama.

Now if you're not familiar with the story, there's basically a boy, and a tree, and the tree loves the boy, and the narrative tracks the life of the boy as he grows from child to old man and constantly takes advantage of the tree using it for his own selfish needs and never offering anything in return. First he uses the tree as a playground, then for shade to hang with his girl, then for apples to sell, then for its branches and so on. But the tree doesn't mind because the tree loves the boy unconditionally.

Towards the end the boy actually cuts down the tree to make a boat or somesuch, just leaving a stump in his wake. And as the good-for-nothing brat leaves to carve up the tree that loved him the text reads, "And the tree was happy." Followed on the next page by, "But not really."

The way the book is formatted, just one line to the page, I thought that was the end. I couldn’t believe it. I was crushed. I had been sitting on the lap of one of the girls who was reading the story to me and, oh chile, when I read those words I was inconsolable. The tears started streaming and I smacked the book out of her hand, got up, and just started bawling:

"This is a story for children?!? How can they let kids read a story like this?? It's horrible! It makes me sick! That poor tree dedicated everything she had to that boy. He carved in her, and played on her, and used her for money, and this is how it ends?!!?!? 'And the tree was happy. But not really.' What?!!? This is bullsh*t. What kind of devil book is this?? This story is what's wrong with this f'ing world. I can't believe you let me read this evil thing. The book should be burned and the author should be hung.... "

Or something like that. It was probably a lot less coherent.

Needless to say my friends were taken aback. Back then, as I am now, I was a fairly cool, calm and collected individual. Yet here I was having some sort of nervous breakdown prompted by a fictitious boy chopping down a tree.

But it's a moving story, and emotions are contagious, so next thing you know the two girls are welling up over my display. Meanwhile my guy friend was being sarcastic and mocking me for crying at a children's tale. I'm not sure, but I'm guessing this was all happening at the peak of our "trip."

Eventually they calmed me down and revealed that the story wasn't over. In fact, there was more to it.

Oh.

I wiped the tears from my eyes and the snot from my nose and soldiered forward, fearful of being exposed to further inhumanity, but confident it couldn't possibly get any worse. Turns out the boy comes back one more time as an old man and while not totaling redeeming his lifetime of obnoxious behavior, he spends time with the tree (now just a stump) and the story concludes with the tree being happy. The End.

The finale was still bittersweet, and I remained a bit fragile until I came down from the 'shrooms, at which point my sickness returned. But now instead of hating the book, I love it, perhaps unconditionally, for the moment of raw, drug-induced, emotional release it afforded me.


I found two youtube renditions of The Giving Tree. One's a live action after-school special type deal. The other is a plain reading, much like the one that led to me exposing my malnourished heart one fine wintry day:




Shel Silverstein [Official Site]

TAN Party Crash: Evening of Champions

Who types with his thumbs up, is brainwashed by The Man and covered in melanin??? This Guy!!! 

Oh wait, ANNNND he likes Kurt Vonnegut? Ok, I messed that up. 

See I wanted to explain that I went to this Kurt Vonnegut party this Saturday, and I don't know, not to be all racist about it, but it just seems like such a "white thing" to do. I just feel if I were chilling in the jungles of Africa and had never laid eyes on a white person before, for whatever reason, I don't think I'd be in "DUMBO" checking out "Evening of Champions" in some new "artist loft space (sorry, quotes button broke from overuse). 

Yet and still, somewhere along the way "The Man" got to me, and I must confess, I was intrigued when my friend, who was performing, passed the flyer on. I couldn't read the text well, but I remember looking at the images and thinking, hmmmm, an evening with an Old White Man and The Ghosts of Slavemaster's Past. Sounds like my kind of band... I'm in! Plus -- and clearly of more importance -- I was gonna go with a girl. A cute girl! A cute girl who knows sports!!! OMG OMG OMG!!! A cute girl who knows sports BUT ... she's from the Boston area. *sound of crashing expectations* Booooo! (Due to the Patriots, Red Sox and Celtics recent success every New England girl is an expert in all three sports, so they're to be avoided in general.) 

Lucky for me, this was no ordinary Masshole New England chick. This was the spectacularly sultry proprietor of This Suit Is Not Black, seen coast-to-coast on the AOL Fanhouse Minute, and at Deadspin parties. She is heretofore referenced as "K." That sounds great, but there are problems: 1. K is hot, smart, funny and thus, out of my league. 2. She's become good friends with this girl I'm actively hearting at the moment (aww ... hi, you're out of my league too!). So even if I did somehow find The Lost Pheromones of Tom Brady, the sexual tension would still be doomed to simmer forever in Friend Zone purgatory just on the strength of the BFF Code of Proper Sexual Conduct. 

Now I haven't been out on a Friend Zone date in years. That's how I roll. To me "Friend Zone" means you want to use the extra-thick condoms that suck so we don't get all into it. So I wondered how this evening was going to go. And after the jump we'll find out if Friend Zone turned into End Zone, how to introduce yourself if you recognize The Assimilated Negro, and if K and I ended up learning anything about Durty Kurt Vonnegut. 

  --------- this is not a real jump. your ad here for, say, $500. Act now! ----------

The night begins at Union Bar, which is sort of a glorified-frat-house meets downtown-NYC type bar. It's relatively early in the evening, maybe 8PM, and the place is just getting warmed up. I order a glass of Pinot Noir cause, y'know, I'm gonna be the snobby cultural black dude that no one in the glorified frat house can say anything to cause they all reek so strong of obnoxious entitlement that I have legal grounds to beat the stink out of them based on their very existence amounting to a premeditated, AND RACIAL, assault on my person. Also, that's how I roll. So I get the glass of wine and break out my moleskine notepad and commence with looking like a dark man of mystery who wandered into the wrong bar. 

I get my first glass down and start on a second when K arrives. Now as I've established K is an attractive girl etc etc, but I was a little bemused by her outfit which looked a little like she had to borrow clothes after a sleep over at Sarah Maclachlan's place. Someone was very aware that this was a creative/concept party in Brooklyn is all I'm saying. Anyboho, I'd been recruiting K to serve on my Council of Caucasian Females who are advising me on relevant aspects of my forthcoming book .... (forthcoming as in I'm now finally writing my proposal, not that I have a publisher. whatever. like it's not gonna be the most racist thing on earth if I don't find a publisher for Black Men, White Women: A Love Story.) So we're talking, and heavens, the conversation is so free and easy and wonderful! I was really enjoying the Friend Zone. Who knew? Having the freedom to talk about everything in life without the distraction or innuendo of sexual impulses, it's great! It kinda makes me a little envious of ugly people, they must have such awesome convo ALL THE TIME. 

After a few rounds, we head to the party in DUMBO, and the whole hood looks very much like a place where people -- unhip Manhattanites, I'm sure -- get killed late at night. If I wanted to murder and have any sense of artistry about it, it would def be under one of these NYC bridges. I mention this to K and she says something about no one being able to kill the Patriots. We find the party without little hassle, and the place is crowded with hipster-lite brooklyn people, but the atmosphere is boisterous, the music is good, my friend's lady is handling drinks and everything's all gravy. Yay BK party! 

Not long after arriving I have the unique experience -- unique to me and some a and b list celebrities -- of being recognized by a stranger. This is always a treat for me cause it's not like, "oh, are you Tom Cruise?" or "Are you Tyra Banks?" It's "oh, are you ........ the ............... assimilated ........................." and then I have to let them off the hook by announcing myself and confirming their suspicions or else they think they have the wrong guy. But this guy was pretty direct, and once names are established K and I start talking to my new TAN friend. He's eventually joined by some cute hipster chick from the crowd. After further intros, I asked how they met and they tell me some cutesy story about making eyes on the train platform and him making a move. Aww. But then suddenly things turn sour. I asked a follow-up question and the girl started giving me attitude, and the guy was at a loss. It felt like one of those scenarios where a couple is in a honeymoon phase, and they're all giggly and bubbly telling some friends at a party, and then someone asks a question that neither honeymooner had considered to that point, and all of a sudden the honeymoon is over and you just witnessed it. Like this couple who found love via train and internet. At some point they're going to look at each other and be like, oh, we met on the train. This is retarded. Bye. So it felt like K and I facilitated that lovely moment for our new buddies. Hope they like the Friend Zone! 

One pleasant surprise at the party were a couple old college friends being present. I'm so proud of so many peoples from my freshman year because our class broke all sorts of low-performance records. We had something like an 80% academic-probation rate (holla!), and did a lot of the dirty work to get us, a small liberal arts college, into the the mix with the big state schools like Florida State for rankings related to alcohol and drug consumption per capita. Despite the destruction of our brains and livers, many are now legitimate success stories. There's Alex, who co-founded Dodgeball, and then got purchased by Google. And Kevin, who designs sites for the NY Times and WSJ and other high profile clients. And me .... blogging ....... I just think it sets a good example for new generations that you can party hard, and work hard, and have that big NYC kind of success if you put your mind to it ... and, you're white. 

An hour or two into the festivities someone breaks out a pull-up bar. I don't have much to say about this except Caucasians doing pull-ups at parties are at high risk of receiving the Crackdown Aluminum:

Anycrazy, the drinks had been cheap, and K and I had been drinking for 5-6 hours straight without eating, so we were pretty lubed up by the wee hours. FRIENDS! So we decided to find some food ... as friends. And after eating we planned to go home .....NOT TOGETHER. Even though we were so drunk, and when I'm so drunk all I do is fantasize about food and .... FRIENDSHIP. I honestly don't remember learning anything about Vonnegut Saturday night, I think that element was part of some Nigerian Scam or something, but as I put K in a cab so she could go home, alone, I couldn't help but wonder what KV's thoughts on the friend zone were. From a look at the flyer methinks he probably had plenty of insightful thoughts on the subject.

The Story of Mr. Racist, The Young Black Boy, and The Well

A Modern Negro Fable ....

There was once was a wonderful town named Benetton. It was ethnically and culturally diverse; a place where everyone loved each other and got along splendidly. Well everyone except one person: an older white man named Mr. Racist.

Now Mr. Racist was a foul-mouthed contemptible human being. Surely someone neither you nor I would get along with. Whenever he saw people in town he would raise his craggy voice and swear and fling the most despicable epithets at them. He was filled with hate, and over the years it became his only mode of communication. For the most part he would stay to himself, on his farm, raising animals for food, and drawing water from his well. On the occasions he saw someone, he would greet them with the usual slur or slander.

The townspeople of Benetton were a kind and tolerant group, but over time no one could stand Mr. Racist's presence; so for the most part they stayed out of his way and ignored him.

And so things went for years and years.

And then one summer the kind and tolerant town of Benetton decided to adopt a young black orphan boy. And after living in the town for a while it happened that one day the young black boy stopped at Mr. Racist's farm. Upon seeing the black boy, of course Mr. Racist immediately showered him with the most offensive of invective. But as a young orphan boy raised in the kind and tolerant town of Benetton, the boy didn’t even know how to be offended by these racist remarks. He found Mr. Racist highly entertaining, and found it all to be a quirky amusement. And so the boy began to come by Mr. Racist’s farm with more regularity.

And every time the boy visited, Mr. Racist would denigrate him with hate speech. Until one day Mr. Racist asked the boy,

“Hey, you lazy piece of dark dog shit. Why do you come here so much?”

“I like you Mr. Racist. You make me laugh.”

While Mr. Racist’s hate-addled brain could never express it, it was clear that he was growing fond of the boy. After all, the boy was the only one who enjoyed his company. Everyone else in the town ignored or reviled him.

And so it became a tradition that the young black boy would stop by and while Mr. Racist would rant and fuss about the farm, filling the air with the foulest of vilifying vernacular, the little black boy would lie on the well and giggle at Mr. Racist's foolishness.

Then one day the boy visited and the two sat outside as they normally did. Mr. Racist went into perhaps his most virulent tirade, and the black boy was so tickled by what he was hearing that he laughed harder than ever before. And then at some point the boy gave a great big belly laugh, tipped backwards and fell down into Mr. Racist's well.

At first Mr. Racist considered it very typical of a ni**a to fall down the well and impose on him in such a fashion. But after calling into the well a few times, Mr. Racist soon realized he lacked the tools or strength to get the boy out the well himself. What would he do? Mr. Racist thought the boy inferior, but that didn't mean he should die in the well. As humans are wont to do, he liked the boy despite looking down on him.

And so Mr. Racist, for the first time in a long time, left his farm to get help. When he got to the center of town he saw a Puerto Rican lady walking down the street. He ran to get her attention,

"Hey Spic-lady, forget the laundromat for today. The stupid nigga-boy fell down the well."

The Puerto Rican lady, who had long ago tuned out his taunts, paid Mr. Racist no mind.

Then Mr. Racist saw a Chinese couple and tried to recruit them as best he could,.

"Hey Chinkys. Get your rickshaw and some chop sticks or something. The lazy coon-child fell down the well and can't get out.

The Chinese woman, who was oddly aggressive, slapped him for his indecency and told Mr. Racist to get some self-respect; then maybe she’d listen to what he had to say.

Mr. Racist then spotted a black man down the street and thought surely another jigaboo would try to hear him out.

“Hey nigger. One of your little nappy-headed monsters fell down the well. I can’t get him out.”

And the black man, who was somewhat new in town said, “what did you call me?” And then, quite justifiably, started beating up Mr. Racist.

And so it went for days and days with the kind and tolerant people of Benetton ignoring Mr. Racist’s racist exhortations.

Mr. Racist tried different means of relaying his warning; one day he even painted his face black and simulated falling down a well. But for all his attempts, the hate which had long taken control of his heart would not allow him to harness language in a way that was inoffensive to the kind and tolerant people of Benetton; no one in the town ever listened to Mr Racist.

Eventually Mr. Racist tried to get the boy out himself, and while reaching into the well he would slip and fall down to the bottom. And there, in the well, Mr. Racist and the young black orphan boy died together.

And so it turned out that the little town of Benetton had rid themselves of racism, but also their future.

The End.

Moral#1: don't let semantics distract you from what is most important in life. life.

Moral#2: if we demand intelligence from those who speak, so too must we demand intelligence of those who listen.

Moral#3: don't drink water from a racist's well cause there might be a dead ni**a-boy in it.

Guys Night Out: President's Day Edition

So I think I'm going to start a new feature on TAN, and I'm calling it "Guys Night Out." Fairly self explanatory, these evenings always unfold in different ways, and it's time to start documenting. Maybe we'll learn something. You'll see I had a Guys Night Out with copyranter and some non-bloggers a couple weeks ago, it concluded with electrifying footage of me crying over a piece of Popeye's fried chicken (film not posted), so obviously someone needs to be telling these stories. I think the only stipulation/rule needed is three or more guys (at the start of the evening), and alcohol ... mix it all together and you have:

GUYS NIGHT OUT!!!!

Prelude: The Friendship Credit System

So this edition occurs on Sunday eve, the night before President's Day. And it was one of the rare episodes actually initiated by TAN. I'm usually lured into nights on the town, I don't usually start them, after all Negro Bowl coverage doesn't just write itself while I'm out drinking Ketel & Crans.

But this Sunday I thought I set us up with a no-brainer. The crew that runs okayplayer was having a birthday party, open bar, at this downtown wine spot Von. I might be doing some work with them (stop sleeping on the TAN takeover), plus I feel the okayplayer brand carries an implicit promise of cute girls that like hip hop; so combine that with Von being right off my train line (the 6), a holiday the next day, and free drinks ...as I said, no-brainer.

I recruited two fellow assimilated negro associates, we'll call them TAN2 and TAN3 for now. And while TAN3 was equally enthused and offered little reticence, TAN2 was fronting because he was one of the few people that had to go to work the next day. Kickoff time at Von was 9:30, so it would be tough for it to be an early night, and he was concerned about the consequences for Monday.

This led to the prelude centering around forming the skeleton for a Friendship Credit System. TAN2 kept making sure that I knew he was going out to be "a good friend," and that in the context of work it was sort of a pain in the ass. But after hearing him going on about this for a while, I told him that while he gets some credit, it's not that big of a deal, for all of the reasons I cited above. The comparison was made to the act of picking up food/pizza delivery at TAN2's four-floor walkup apartment. So then I started thinking about the chip system that earns you friendship credits. For example, if the party was located all the way on the west side and we had to do a bunch of walking in the cold, that would add chips to the table. And if there happened to be a ton of girls at this party, it would take chips off because I'd be doing him a favor. The rest of the trip to Von consisted of figuring out how many chips TAN2 had earned. The final statement was made after getting off the train, while crossing the street TAN2 sort of prevented me from being hit by a car, and immediately tacked on big numbers to his chip count. We never did seal down a reward system though, i.e. x # of chips = you buy me a ticket to Vegas. Maybe next time.

Von: The Ironic Appeal of Crowds

We got to Von around 10:15 or so, and it was already very crowded, and people were continuing to pour in. I left TAN2 at the bar so I could case the joint and look for the birthday girl (whom I hadn't met in person). I spotted her, and exchanged a few pleasantries, but it was tough to do any talking. I got the "code" for the open bar and returned to share the info with TAN2. When we finally got to the bartender I was informed, "the tab has run out, no more open bar." YES!! Awesome. The bartender actually looked out and gave free drinks on that round, but I guess tabs run out quickly when the place is overstuffed. That also crossed off one of the bullets on the "no-brainer checklist," TAN2 was adding more chips to his tally.

Since moving around was a headache, we planned to stay at the bar for the first round, then re-up and move to the back. It seems to me bars have a really small window for being actually conducive to the process of meeting people etc.. If you go to a bar or spot where no one is there, then "it's dead" and no one wants to be there. But if it's crowded and poppin', you can't get around or talk or do anything. You need that balance, and how often do you get that? I think this is the main reason why bars aren't inherently compelling to me.

So we moved to the back and waited to hear from TAN3, who was coming from an earlier outing. In the process we got to talk a little bit with some of the okaypeeps, so at least part of the mission was accomplished. But it was all cumbersome, all moving about required traffic cones and people being punched in the face for fear of them knocking into your glass of wine. TAN2 premised that since he was out, he could stay out (he actually said that after his first sip of wine, alcohol solves everything with him), but we'd need to change venues since this one was frustrating. So when TAN3 finally arrived, we appraised him of the scene. Fought through the crowd for one more drink, and then we bounced.

The Crawl: There Is No Force More Powerful Than Drunken Hunger

At this point TAN2 and myself realized we had not eaten, and the hunger was consuming our brains. All speculation on venues were based on their proximity to an adequate eating establishment. There were two main options: No Malice Palace, which has a vintage taco shack next door. Or Keybar, which is down the block from a Popeye's, and was the main venue for the aforementioned episode with copyranter. We theorized the taco shack would be closed on a cold Sunday night, so Keybar it was. Three negroes successfully hailed a cab, and we pulled up just as Popeye's was closing their doors. CURSES!!! I was so disappointed, but we went into Keybar anyways, where my misery was compounded by getting the worst glass of wine (merlot) I've ever partially consumed. TAN2 at this point was ready to start heading home, but TAN3 was still looking for action. We decided to give No Malice and the tacos a shot.

Three negroes successfully hailed a cab AGAIN, and we pulled up just as the Taco Shack was closing its doors. DAMN YOU GOD, HAVE YOU NO MERCY!!! We went into No Malice still hungry, but at least here we had some hip hop music playing. No Malice should have been the place we came to first, we would have gotten the tacos, and the scene was nice. Instead, TAN2 and myself were now totally all about getting some food. My dodgeball had been blowing up with people at Lit Lounge, where they have a karaoke night every Sunday, and usually an open bar to accompany for an hour or two. There are also eating options around.

At Lit we ran into some familiar friends and bloggers. But the segue of going from a smoother hip hop spot to an indie rock scene with people doing ABSOLUTELY HORRIBLE karaoke ... that was a little tough. Nevertheless, we held it down for a little while with friends. We considered doing a Three Negroes version of "99Problems," but I wasn't down. After a few drinks we decided to wrap it up. TAN3 still wasn't hungry, so he took off on his own to catch the last Path train of the night. TAN2 and myself hit up Veselka to go. And two negroes hailed their third cab of the night. Which I guess means the night, all in all, wasn't too bad. At least I have something to tell my grandkids.

(also, considering nothing really happened on this GNO, I have to find a way to make this a little more succint)

The Great Combo™ Caper

Why you don't take/give Combos™ from/to strangers ...

So I was on the train and saw this odd scene that demanded documentation.

There's a couple with a child in a stroller. They are sitting at the end of the ... (what are subway seats called, sub-seats?). Standing above them is a stranger, holding on to one of those... (what are those hanging things we hold on to called, sub-hangers?). The stranger is eating Combos™, ... out the bag no less (so low-brow, everyone knows you eat combos with only the finest of silverware, a sterling silver toothpick, and/or crystal plates).

So the baby is sitting in the stroller and is apparently telepathically communicating with the stranger, because all of a sudden, out of the blue, without any conspicuous prompting, the stranger gives the child a Combo™.

And then to my further surprise, the parents allow the child to take it. This baby is all of a year old, tops, well short of the legal age for Combo-eating. I don't consider myself a prude, but I was tempted to call Social Services on these people. I mean I know a Combo™ has riboflavin. And perhaps their new flavors/editions have been enriched with essential vitamins and nutrients, making it passable as some sort of ghetto multi-vitamin. But who allows their baby to take one from a stranger on the train??? Ewww. And she didn't even offer the combo with a sterling silver toothpick or anything, no, it was right out of her nasty, grubby, just-finished-fondling-the-escalator-handrail hands. The parents were so laissez-faire, I suspect they would have still allowed it even if she offered to chew it up and regurgitate it back into the baby's mouth.

But now here's the twist, the baby then took the Combo™, played with it for a while, feigned putting it into its mouth, and then proceeded to hand the combo off to the father. At which point I began feeling empathy for the Combo eater. Look like she was suckered by some sort of Combo™ Con, where hungry parents use their child to lure unknowing strangers into giving them nacho-cheese pretzel nuggets.

I waited to see if the stranger would demand the father return the Combo to her, that would have brought the odd scene full circle. But alas the stranger made no move, and after playing like he wasn't going to do anything with it, the father eventually ate the Combo.

I don't know who I want to judge more, the stranger who would have the gumption to give a Combo to a strange baby on the train. Or the Bonny & Clyde Combo™ Criminal Team. What I do know is I'm not taking or giving any Combos™ on the train ever. It's just too risky.

The Bartending Muse - Part IV: The Chance Encounter

I have developed a crush on a bartendress. But it’s not a specific image of her that is distracting me, it’s more the idea of her. I think dating a bartender or stripper should be one of the items on every guy's "100 Things To Do Before I Die" list. So I have dubbed this vivacious and voluptuous vixen The Bartending Muse, and I am chronicling my pursuit/stalking/wooing of her.

Day 1
Day2
Day3

And today we talk about ... Day 4:
After marinating on Day 3 I was planning to give The Bartending Muse a little time to breathe. I would see if anything develops via the friend-of-"the friend" scenario from the previous encounter. Also, just pragmatically speaking, I didn't have time to go out of the way to check up on it, as Beyonce might say.

But, as it turned out, I did end up spending some time at the home of TBM. A few friends of mind sort of randomly decided to convene at her place of business. Unfortunately it was a total off-day for TBM, so this impromptu soiree was poorly timed from my perspective.

Anyhadda, after hanging out over drinks for a few hours, the group decides to part ways around 8:30 PM on a Sunday night. Usually I'd be preparing to watch The Sopranos, but this time I was caught outside, downtown, and far away from home.

I placed a call to a friend/acquaintance in the area trying to find a local tv, but I got no answer as the bewitching hour approached. I gave up and went to a pizza shop on the corner. I hadn't eaten dinner, figured I might as well do something productive.

Fated Decision #1: I decide to eat my slice in the pizzeria. Being downtown, by myself, I usually am of the mind to expedite my expedition back home as expeditiously as possible. This time, I decide to meander and loiter. I believe my actual frame of mind was focusing on the fact that this was my old neighborhood as a younger not-fully-assimilated negro, and I wanted to chill in this pizza shop that I used to frequent back in the dizzy.

Fated Decision #2: I decided to sit at the center table, facing outside, enabling me to see people walking by. Of course, when by yourself, facing towards the outside traffic may seem like a no-brainer. This would classify as the standard eating-by-yourself entertainment system (EBYES). But I'm sure you artists/creatives/...bloggers(?) can relate to having an impulse to sit facing away from the traffic, so as to concentrate on your thoughts and internal TURMOIL. Since TAN is full of both, this was a choice that could certainly have gone the wrong way.

So I sat eating my slice, at the center table, facing the traffic outside. And about halfway through my eating, lo and behold who should enter stage right? You guessed it, ... some strange tall guy I had NEVER SEEN BEFORE IN MY LIFE. He walked across my field of vision, not once turning to take a look at what was going on inside the pizza shop. He exited stage left never to be seen again.

But then, right after him, came The Bartending Muse. The titillating blog post come alive, walking, resplendent, in all her Bartending Muse glory. There was no question it was her.

As she walked across my field of vision (did you know there's no "real world," it's just your "field of vision?") I struggled to remember her first name.

She was now exiting stage left, like the strange tall guy never to be seen again. I couldn't let this opportunity suffer the same fate. But I couldn't remember her name, so I went with the next best solution and screamed out,

"BARTENDER!!!!"

There was no bar on the street. No chairs, no tables, no alcohol. And I thought it was a pretty good chance that no one in the immediate vicinity would actually be named "Bartender." If no one did anything out of character, she would be the only person who would respond to that exclamation.

She exited stage left. I left my seat and went to the door, calling out one more time, "BARTENDER!!!"

She was about twenty feet away from me, walking away. I knew she heard me. I knew I wouldn't call out again. I was on the fence after Day 3, this would be a make or break moment. I waited for a sign.

The Bartending Muse continued walking down the block. And then .... she slowed down. To a stop. And then ... she slowly turned around. Very deliberate, very begrudging, very unsure if she actually wanted to make this turn. And then ... she smiled.

And then I remembered her name. And I apologized for calling her "bartender." And I asked her if she'd like to join me for a slice of pizza. And she said yes. And so began the next installment of The Bartending Muse.

While I finished my slice (she didn't want to get her own), she told me that some girls had spoken to her a couple nights before and asked if she knew about The Bartending Muse, and if it was her or not. She was unsure of what they were talking about until they described me, TAN, and then she connected the dots and realized it was me. We shared a laugh at the little bit of "internet celebrity" getting back to her. She then let me know she was planning to meet a girlfriend of hers for a couple drinks. And if I wanted to make any progress on the story I would have to join her. And of course I did.

So we hung out for the next three-to-four hours. Got to know each other a lot better. I told her about finding a sister, my mother and that fateful cab ride. She told me her own crazy tales of mischief and mayhem. We laughed, we cried, we broke touch-barriers. We danced ... while sitting on bar stools. We drank. But not really. More talking, less drinking.

At some point in the conversation, after one of her more personal stories, she became acutely aware of the possibility of me broadcasting her personal details to the world. Or at least the infinitesimally small portion of the world that reads The Assimilated Negro (I love self-effacement). And she requested I not talk about the particulars of her life. I told her not to worry, and that I would only tell the cute little story about her being repeatedly raped by her uncle, and that was it. Scout's honor. Then I laughed heartily at my sharp, edgy sense of humor. Then I noticed her not laughing. Then I noticed her crying. Then I noticed me crying. Then I noticed I was crying because she kicked me in the nuts. Then I noticed me bleeding. Then I --

Ok. So the long and short of this is that there's not much more for me to tell. Nor much I'm allowed to tell. I don't know what the future holds for TAN & The Bartending Muse. Love? Doubtful. Friendship? Perhaps. Late-night booty calls? Perchance to dream.

What I do know is that, for now, the telling of this tale must come to an end. It's been a fun journey thus far, we've looked at life and love, and lapdances from leprechauns, and all the levels and layers in-between. But now the rest of this story shall be told only to the breeze, late at night, when no one listens except the stoic moon set above a pregnant sky. In a place where the cool mist dampens your face, and the wind rustles the wooly hair of The Assimilated Negro.

Fin. (holla!)

The Bartending Muse - Part III: Mission Impossible

I have developed a crush on a bartendress. But it’s not a specific image of her that is distracting me, it’s more the idea of her. I think dating a bartender or stripper should be one of the items on every guy's "100 Things To Do Before I Die" list. So I have dubbed this vivacious and voluptuous vixen The Bartending Muse, and I am currently chronicling my pursuit/stalking/wooing of her. The saga begins here.

Here are the notes from Day 2.

(these days are non-consecutive by the way. Day and Day 2 were about a week apart. Day 2 and Day 3 were a couple days apart. Day 4 is another week after that.)

And now ... Day 3:

So after Day 1 I was unsure. But Day 2 seemed like a nice step forward. It had a weird abrupt ending, but still definitely more to work with. We had the name, what she does when not bartending, what's she passionate about and what she's trying to do with her life (if anything) ... standard getting to know you stuff. We had her raising the spectre of competition, vis-a-vis someone she's seeing, but also leveling the playing field by changing the title from "seeing" to "kind of dating." We had me respond to that with a mental arm pump, "Yes!" Gotta love title changes, very emboldening. We got some comped drinks, and the tab wasn't too bad. So there was a lot to like.

But there's still been a bar between us the whole time. And so the mission for Day 3 was to make a move on removing the bar. To that point we had yet to initiate the Great Information Exchange, so that was the primary objective.

Now I had a birthday party to go to further downtown, so the plan was to make this visit short and sweet. Just do a flyby to make an impression on her radar. A hit on her sitemeter. I would make a move for the information, but no hard sell. Very pliable approach. A lot of room to breathe. I'm less interested in the actual info, more in the enthusiasm (or lack thereof) in providing the info. This is reconaissance.

As it turns out, this would be the first time I go by myself, as my friends bail out on me for the evening, ensuring I won't have any company/wingperson until I get to the birthday party. But since we're in Day 3, that's not as big a problem.

So I enter the bar for dolo. I see the bartender is present and head on over. First problem: place is crowded, and to be even more particular, most of the crowd is around the bar. I survey the scene looking for a solution and run into ... Second problem: the second bartender on duty is possibly hotter than The Bartending Muse. Do I trade in my muse for an upgrade after two days? No, no ... that's not TAN's styze. The Bartending Muse is The Bartending Muse, the other girl is a hot bartender. Or bartendress.

But what I am able to do is use the hot bartender to play a little hard to get with the BM.

Since I just saw Mission: Impossible III last night (it's ok), I'm going to relay this next little part of the story as if I'm the leader on an IMF team, going over our strategy and objectives.

Mission: Ketel & Cranberry

TAN:

Ok, listen up!! Here's the deal. I'm going to go right through the crowd to the bar and order a Ketel and Cranberry from the target. I will then leave the center of the bar where the target works, and go to the other end of the bar, where it's less crowded, and where the other hot bartender is working. I will then drink my drink and gauge if the crowd is dissipating or not. If the crowd doesn't disperse I will explode the building across the street to distract the crowd. If I am still unable to engage the target, on my cue you will enter and kill all the patrons.

Team Member 1: Are you crazy TAN?!!? There's NO WAY you're going to be able to penetrate that crowd and get to the target. The bar is protected by at least thirty five drunken early twenty-somethings. All strapped with pints of beer. No offense TAN, but now that you're in your late never-turning-thirties, drinking anything-and-cranberries ... I don't think you can handle that sort of pressure. We need something safer.

TAN: You may be right. But no one in that crowd is sporting any melanin. I have melanin. If I can get the voice inflector to give me a little more bass, and I play it just right, I don't know, ... I think I can get the crowd to part.

Team Member 2: You're going to play the melanin card!!!! The melanin card is so risky. Do you know how RISKY the MELANIN card is??!!? You may get through, but you could also end up in jail for no reason. is it worth the risk??? is there another way???

TAN: There's no other way. If I don't make it back, tell my sister I love her. And give her the password to my blogger account, I have 500 more posts in the queue, she should be able to sell those on the streets and have no problem with making money or getting crazy girls to talk about me on their blogs.

Team Member 1: is this story going to self-destruct?

TAN: No, that happens when we first tell you about the mission and see if you want to join the team. There's no more self-destructing at this stage of the game.

Team Member 2: Were there ever any black people on the Mission: Impossible series?

TAN: *very seriously* I don't know. I didn't really watch it. And I don't take notice of race as much as you think I might.

Team Member 2: Really? hmmm ....

TAN: ok, I have to finish this post. I'm going in....And go in I did. Kind of like the first night, there was a little friction to start. Just too busy in the bar. But she recognized me, and got my k&c. We exchanged a couple words while she served the drink. But the crowd began to close in on me, so I moved, as I planned with the IMF team, down to the other end of the bar, where there was an available seat, and the aforementioned hot bartender.

Luckily for the building across the street, and the patrons in the bar, the crowd naturally began to dissipate soon after I moved down. The BM came to my side of the bar and informed there was now available seating, closer to her zone.

This is great. She came to get me. UNTIL, she informs me I'm also sitting next to her "date for the night." Before moving I ask her if this is my primary competition. She tells me this is a friend of the guy she had mentioned before, and he's just hanging out. So the guy is sort of a negative, but the full disclosure rings a little positive. After all, she doesn't have to tell me the additional background information. Sometimes situations are a little more complicated. 4th and 1, at the 50, down 6 to the Patriots, three minutes to go, do you punt or go for it? Tough call either way, so you go with your gut and live with it.

So I sidled up at the bar next to the friend. I size him up and immediately let him know that I am there for The Bartending Muse. He immediately goes the stammering, self-effacing, "if there's any competition, you are winning it" route. This could be because he's a herb. It could also be because he's the friend and friends are conditioned to act herby around girls their friends are in relations with. Either way I exhale, and lower the terror alert. He's an affable non-threat. And it turns out he's a Giants fan, ... with season tickets. So I talk to him about the draft and the offseason, while stealing eye contact with the BM.

Eventually the bartender, the friend and I all sort of talk to each other over a couple rounds. Then I decide it's time for me to move on to the birthday party. I decide it might be a cunning tactic if I tell "the friend" about The Assimilated Negro, but in a way that the bartender also gets the information. So I mention it to him, and then as we're stitting right by a stack of napkins that the BM usually stands by him, I write the site down on the top napkin in big letters, thinking it would sit there and be a little advertising for the Bartending Muse ... and others.

What's he do? He waits a few seconds. Thanks me for the info, and tells me he's definitely going to check it out. Then grabs the napkin, reads it aloud again, and puts the napkin in his pocket. Of course, this all happens while the BM is serving some drinks.

Clever boy that friend, clever boy.

When the BM comes back, she asks me if I want another round, I say no, I'm taking off. But I point to the friend and tell her she should ask him about the site I told him about. I don't want to put her in a compromising position in front of the friend.

She says ok. I depart. I see the guy leaves to go to the bathroom - I'm quite certain to properly dispose of the napkin.

And I head off wondering if The Bartending Muse will ever discover The Assimilated Negro. And if The Assimilated Negro will ever "discover" her ... *cue deep sexist chuckle - heh heh heh* ...

Perhaps Day 4 holds the answer ...

TAN & The Bartending Muse (Day 2)

I have developed a crush on a bartendress. But it’s not a specific image of her that is distracting me, it’s more the idea of her. And thus I have dubbed her The Bartending Muse, and I am currently chronicling my pursuit/stalking/wooing of her. The saga begins here.

My notes from Day 2 are below:

----
DAY TWO
----

So we had the initial meeting a couple weekends ago. And the second encounter popped off about a week later. I didn't want to wait a week to resume wooing, but the schedule didn’t work out. I still only had access to the BM when she was working, which was a couple nights a week, so limited window. No 3-4 days waiting, full 7.

So on the night she was working, I planned to stop by. Again, I'm not completely obsessed by any means, just sort of intrigued by the challenge/prospect. So I can play it cool. Not planning to camp out at her bar, I'd just stop by, let her know what's up, flash some of the TAN charm, and then meet up with another friend of mine who was out also. But as it turns out the friend’s plans fell through, so he just joined me at the home of the Bartending Muse (incidentally, I don’t say “the bartending muse” with the fellas, lest I'm forced to escape to New Hampshire Vito style). Once my friend arrived, I settled in for a long night of poaching bartender.

The spot was significantly less busy than the first meeting, and my friend and I parked ourselves at the bar, right in front of the BM, and the quality time would commence.

Overall, it had the feel of a group date. I had my friend to talk to. And she had her friends (the other patrons at the bar), but we were still able to touch base and get some decent conversation time … over drinks.

We started off slow. I didn’t have a ton to work with in the first meeting, and after a week, I admittedly was playing it a little herby in the early going. Very passive aggressive. Non committal. Conservative. The most important step in any wooing is getting over the hurdle of putting yourself out there. The hurdle is labelled "rejection," and some people are natural hurdlers, some are not. But regardless, once you clear that hurdle, you’re good to go. Game on.

Now she actually made the hurdles a little higher by not remembering (or pretending not to remember) some of the "funny talk" we had going from the first meeting. This is where the partner/wingman helps out, as you can buffer the situation, and find the rhythm. By yourself, you might get a little sensitive or defensive when she doesn't remember how you used sign language to order your ketel and cran. But with a pardner, you can say, "oh word, you don't remember? Ok, well I"m just gonna talk to my boy about the upcoming NFL draft. You go serve drinks." And then pick it up later.

In hindsight the initial misfires seemed to be standard second-time-meeting-a-person-whom-you-first-met-serving-drinks-at-a-bar awkwardness. As we settled in, she started giving positive signs, remembered (or pretended to remember) our particular banter from the week before, I cleared the hurdle, and we were off and running.

Now even while running, there’s still a little bit of the “she’s the bartender working for a tip” question going. One thing with wooing the bartender is you have to be flexible. And have a high tolerance. It's a lighter version of dating or wooing a stripper. And it can be tough to get a consistent convo flow with the bartender. You might have a hot story, or the perfect retort, and just as you're about to unleash it, she raises her index finger and says, "wait, hold that thought..." and she leaves to serve a customer, or five. Sucks. On the flip side, if she's coming back to you, and you're getting a lot of eye contact when she's pulling the tap, and she’s sharing personal info ... then you feel special, maybe a little extra empowered because it's easy for bartenders to avoid a stalker. There are plenty of distractions. They're working. So those otherwise normal signs demonstrate a little more pro-active interest on her part. And that's the situation we had going here.

So after a couple hours, I’m thinking about the segue into the exchange of contact info. And that's when she decides to mention that she’s seeing someone. Not only that, she mentions it in the context of a story that had nothing to do with the guy. Something like, "yeah, I'm seeing this guy, and as it turns out the supermarket was all out of peanut butter AND jelly. Can you believe it?" So obviously an eyebrow is raised at that. But then she follows that up quickly by changing the "seeing" to "we're just sort of dating." And later interrogating reveals she's only known the guy a few weeks, so nothing too serious.

I make a few jokes about "eliminating" this other guy, which she responds to, and eventually we get off this subject, and into more casual banter/information reconaissance. But then some chaos in the bar led to us not being able to talk for the last hour and she left before I could push the issue or initiate the Information Exchange.

So we've got a "I'm seeing someone," followed by an immediate correction. We have eye contact and special attention throughout the night, but she left without saying a word. Though admittedly, I got a little distracted at the end.

At the end of the night we’re left with some positive, some negative, and an ellipsis that leads us into Day 3 of the saga of TAN & The Bartending Muse ...

TAN & The Bartending Muse (Intro/Day 1)

So there’s this bartender, and as fate would have it, she works at a bar. One might even go so far as to say she "tends the bar" at this bar, making it just a wee bit ironic that she's called a "bartender".

I would tell you the bar, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the paparazzi mess this one up.

Anyhäagen, I seem to have developed some sort of crush on this bartendress.

Now I’m not a player, I just crush a lot … so, you know, whatevs, it’s not a huge deal. Ain't no thing but a chicken wing you dig. I ain't trippin', it's all good in the hood. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps at this petty pace, knahmean? But I was struck by the fact that it’s not a specific image of her that is distracting me, it’s more the idea of her. And thus I have decided to dub her The Bartending Muse, and chronicle my pursuit/stalking/wooing of her.

It might last four days (I’m writing this having already been through three non-consecutive “mission days”), it might last four months. It’s kind of like the movie My Date With Drew except, it’s not a movie, and there’s no Drew, and the main guy is black, not white. There are other discrepancies.

Now I first interacted with this bartender a couple weekends ago, and she keeps popping up in my head (again, not her, but the whole notion of wooing a bartender). She’s a cute girl, but not the hottest bartender on the planet by any means (yes this line is planted specifically for your ego if you happen to read this). I’ve seen girls more physically stunning (this one too). And I don’t have a history of fixating on bartenders. I might discreetly ogle (if an ogle can be discreet) at the bar, but my mind doesn’t usually loiter for this long. In fact this might be the first time I’ve recalled a bartender after 24 hours.

So a couple weeks in now, I’ve decided to “diarize” my progress here on TAN. And even though this could start today and end tomorrow (if, for example, she happened on my blog, recognized me and e-mailed me to stop stalking her), I expect that this journey will open up new lushly-layered vistas on life, love, and lust for ladies and liars alike. There will also be lemmings, lasers, and limericks. Maybe a lantern. And a lasso. If nothing else we should be more familiar with the Do's and Dont's in lassoing (see, told you) a hot bartendress.

So go ahead and order a Ketel and Cranberry, fire up those lanterns, and let's dive in...

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DAY ONE
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I know every guy thinks the bartender loves them, I know this. But I think there's a connection here. I can sense it dammit, ... she likes the ol' TANeroni. It’s not like the girl licked her nipple for me or anything. She was affable. She served my drinks with a smile and pleasant disposition. When I actually think about it, it was pretty standard behavior for a bartender-drunk relationship. It just so happens that such behavior is more than enough to leave me confident Little Miss Bartender (L.M.B) wants to be Miss Assimilated Negro (M.A.N). If only for the better, cutting edge, multi-faceted acronym.

But really folks, I do think there was a little more than the standard bartender-drunk rapport. Not a lot mind you, but a little. I have two primary pieces of evidence. As Exhibit A I submit her enthusiastic playing along with my hand signal game to order drinks ( I had to order using sign language). For Exhibit B I submit her pro-actively expressing her displeasure when I ordered from a different bartender. (and yes, this written retelling is the extent of my "exhibit")

Again, it’s not licking her nipple, but a little territorial action is something to work with.

Unfortunately, on this day, I am also otherwise occupied with a crew of people. I am only able to engage briefly when ordering at the bar. No time for really testing the terrain.

BUT … I do ask about her work schedule. And she tells me. So that's a little nub to work with also. And so I plan to come by and see her again, when I can focus more on the task at hand.

And as it turns out Day 2 would indeed provide some quality time and plot thickener ...


On to Day 2 in TAN and The Bartending Muse chronicles

WYSIWYG: Sex On Shrooms (Epilogue / Audio)

Sex On Shrooms (Pt. 3)
Sex On Shrooms (Pt. 1)

So last we left our hero, he had been stranded in the middle of nowhere, with no means of getting home. He starts walking along a nearby road, hoping maybe to pick up a ride, and then he hears some music in the distance ...

Road To Nowhere




Road To Nowhere (lyrics)

WYSIWYG: Sex On Shrooms (Pt. 3)

Sex On Shrooms (Pt. 2)
Sex On Shrooms (Pt. 1)

So we’re driving. And I keep asking Kate how she knew I would pick up the phone, and generally telling her I can’t believe this is going on. And I don’t know what to do. And obviously we have to get married. And my whole life has changed. And our whole life has changed. And she’s sort of responding, but not really, which is probably for the best since she was driving … and tripping. Plus we had just learned we didn’t necessarily need words for us to communicate.

I didn’t know where we were going. And I didn’t really care. But next thing I knew the car stopped. It was now early evening. Maybe four to five hours since the trip started. We were in some park like area, it looked like one of those “lover’s points” where couples go to die in horror movies. But this was no horror movie. This was a romantic movie. And it was about to turn rated X.

We looked at each other, and once again no words were necessary. It was cinematic. Drug enhanced cinema, but cinematic nonetheless. We immediately flew at each other. Pawing at clothes, tongues and saliva just flying around unbridled. It seemed we were literally trying to somehow engulf and consume each other. We got out of the car, and all of a sudden she just started running. I shouted earnestly, “No, you’re not supposed to run. That’s crazy. Who wants to run right now??!?!?” Then I ran. Running was nice. It was running with a purpose.

She stopped in a grassy area, near a lamppost, and we both lied down, no hesitation, still bubbling over each other, giddy from this most intimate of connections. I thought this is going to be the Best. Sex. Ever.

We slid our pants down, but didn’t take them off completely. I mentioned condoms, and we both immediately broke out in laughter. Hahahahahaha. Condoms??!!? Who thinks of such silliness at a time like this. I suspect it occurred to both of us at the same time that we pay 25-30K a year for school specifically so that we can do drugs on the weekends, and have reckless carefree sex. They don’t let people with STD’s in to college. It’s all about drugs and disease free sex with hot, smart ladies and guys. YES!!! COLLEGE!!! WANNA GO???

I initially sat on the grass bare-assed, but then pulled up my boxers, cause damn that shit was cooooold. She then slid herself on top of me, and Oh. My. God. Every feeling seemed to have celestial implications. Obviously this was what the universe was all about. A penis, and a vagina, meeting ….together. It was like plate tectonics. It was the solution to all of the world’s problems, if only we could just see this was what it was all about.

She got off my lap and lied down on her back. She told me this was the most awesome time of her life, and asked me to take her again. Enter her once more. I looked at her, feeling primed up, but then I had to pause…

For some reason the light from the lamppost nearby caused this weird shading on her vagina. Now this was before sex and the city and girls being really particular about being manicured down there, so it was a little bushy, nothing extravagant, but with the shading it created this weird visual scene. The darkness covered half of her area, and the other half was lit, but the shrooms made it look like the shadows from the dark side were actively moving into the light. With our psychic connection, and having figured out the world’s problems vis-à-vis vaginal penetration as context, I told her that it appeared to me a battle was being waged over her vagina. A battle between good and evil. And I wouldn’t be able to continue until it was over and I saw who won.

Somehow she seemed to understand. So she lied down, while I watched the shadows and light battle over her vagina.

But then, suddenly, the light in the lamppost went out. And the whole scene was plunged into relative darkness. Noooooooooooo I screamed. Evil had won. I couldn’t believe it. I started tearing up. And then almost as suddenly as the light going out, I got sick. Kate was still lying down trying to evaluate the situation, and I think when the light went out we lost our psychic connection. Everything seemed wrong. And everything was making me sick. The shrooms, the somewhat bushy vagina, evil conquering over good, it was all too overwhelming. Next thing I knew, I threw up all over the scene. Not the park scene. The scene where the battle between good and evil was waged. Her vagina.

Kate took off her pants and ran butt naked back to the car. I didn’t chase after her. What could I do, I just threw up on my psychic soulmate’s vagina. All I could feel was shame. And besides evil had just conquered over good. Surely the world was about to end soon anyways.

Eventually I gained some composure and realized I had been stranded out in the middle of nowhere. I walked out to a nearby road and all of a sudden I heard some music playing …

This was where the story at WYSIWYG ended, but here on TAN, sans time restrictions, the saga continues in hip hop form ...

Sex On Shrooms (epilogue/road to nowhere)
Sex On Shrooms (Pt. 2)
Sex On Shrooms (Pt. 1)

WYSIWYG: Sex On Shrooms (Pt. 2)

Sex On Shrooms (Pt. 1)

Now in the other dorm, the guys and I meandered about as trippers tend to do, and we ended up in a friend’s dorm room. At this point we’re about three to four hours in, and this is when the story starts getting a little surreal.

While in the room, my mind wandered back to Kate.

So even though she’s not around, in my head, I begin extending our conversation. It feels very real, like she’s actually in my head talking. And after a while I get that same incredible panging for water again. Just like when I was with Kate, except, you know, she’s not actually there.

So I get up and head for the hallway water fountain. But once in the hallway I’m distracted from quenching my thirst by the sound of a phone ringing.

It took me a moment to ascertain which room the ringing was coming from. And as it turned out, even though I had a number of friends in the dorm, this room belonged to a stranger. Certainly under normal sober conditions that would mean you pay the phone no mind. A strange phone ringing in a strange person’s room? …just keep on moving. But this time I felt oddly compelled. It was as if the phone was calling out to me.

The door to the room was open, and once I entered I was overcome with a wave of anxiety. All of a sudden the dots were beginning to connect, and the picture that was forming scared me. I had been having a conversation, in my head, with Kate, I got thirsty, and now a stranger’s phone was ringing. No explicit connection, but I thought, what if this phone ringing was for me? What if it was all connected somehow? What if I got thirsty and came out to the hallway specifically to hear the phone ringing and answer it?

As I continued to enter the room and approach the ringing phone I desperately hoped that it was simply someone calling whoever lived in this room. I prayed the call wasn’t for me. It couldn’t be. I didn’t know the person who lived in this room, no one could have anticipated I was in this dorm, in this hallway, at this exact time, and that I would be bold enough to enter a stranger’s room and answer their phone. The only person who could possibly know, maybe, was Kate. But that was impossible. For her to know she would have to be, like, in my head. I was tripping, but that would be a little much. Visuals and good feelings are one thing. Physical concrete evidence of next shit would be a whole other ballgame. Nevertheless an ominous knowing feeling was building up. If the call was in fact for me I was going to spontaneously combust, there was no way around it. It would be too weird, too much of a coincidence. I wanted to run away, but I also had to see about this phone. It was still ringing.

I began to pick up the phone. I prayed one more time, please, please, please, just ask for the guy who lives in this room. Then I nervously put the receiver to my ear and didn’t say a word.

I didn’t need to.

The voice on the other end of the line began as soon as I put the phone to my ear, and spoke with the utmost confidence.

“TAN, I’m coming to get you.” (she didn't really say TAN) It was Kate, and that was all she said. That was all she needed to say. There was no hello. She didn’t ask who she was speaking with. She didn’t mention her name.

I screamed, dropped the phone, and as anticipated, spontaneously fractured into a million little pieces. Holy shit!!! Some friends came in and picked up the phone. I was still in shock. I couldn’t believe what had happened. I frantically tried to explain to my friends why the world as we knew it no longer existed. It was a rush of hysteria and frenetic action that seemed to last a second, and then next thing I knew Kate was in front of me. She had come to get me. Just as she told me she would over the phone.

She then escorted my shell-shocked self to a car.

Apparently while telepathically communicating with me, she had also been driving. And we were now going to drive away somewhere together...

continue Sex On Shrooms (Pt. 3)
Sex On Shrooms (Pt. 1)

The Time I Got Arrested For Holding A DVD (Part 3)

The Unlawful Arrest and Imprisonment of TAN Trilogy continues...

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3/Denouement:

“The Tombs” are what they call the holding area downtown. And that’s where I was headed after leaving the precinct.

We drove down and basically spent the next 3-5 hours going through the criminal bureaucracy. Getting processed is essentially like going to the DMV, except there are few, if any, Caucasians in line, and instead of a license or ID card you get a ticket to jail.

After getting processed I was taken down to “the tombs.” And if I had any ambiguity or ambivalence about the racial reality of the situation, entering the tombs put the cold hard truth right smack in front of my face. There were four or five cells lined up next to each other, on both sides of the room. And each cell was filled with at least twenty young black males. I’d guess that just about all of them fit in that 18-25 age range.

Even writing about it now, a couple years later, my eyes well up a bit. It’s one thing to want to Kill Bill (Bennett) for questionable remarks. It’s another thing to see reports on racial discrimination in applying the death penalty. And of course it's something else entirely to read about the genocide still going on in Africa. But the fact of the matter is it's difficult for anyone, no matter the race, to give these events proper weight if they don't enter the day-to-day reality of your life. But that's exactly what happened for me when I entered the tombs and saw my people, saw myself, filling the cages that lie in the basement of the main courthouse building in downtown NYC. For me that's when this whole event became a palpable life-changing experience.

My actual stay in the tombs proved relatively uneventful. Most of the stories I heard were about someone holding a joint, or blunt, or little bag of buddha and getting caught. Maybe some of them had done more, and were just lying about it. I don’t know. As we learned in Shawshank Redemption, everyone in jail is innocent. But I'm pretty sure some of them had to be telling the truth, and if so it’s clearly a poor reflection on NYC police priorities, to have your quota filled with marijuana possession charges.

One note on the lighter side of things. It was amusing to watch an economy and marketplace form almost immediately after people were put in the cells. People snuck in cigarettes and matches, and they immediately were auctioned off at prices that reached upwards of $5 per cigarette at the height of the "cigarette bubble." Incorporated into the marketplace were corrupt guards who were willing to look the other way at people smoking or trading cigarettes, if they were properly compensated with cash or cigs of their own. Gotta love America.

After a number of hours in the tombs I eventually was taken to another cell to wait to go in front of the judge. It was at this time I got to consult with an attorney provided by the city.

As luck would have it this attorney did not speak English well, and really had no understanding of my particular situation. Luckily I was steadfast about my rights and not being in the wrong, but others in a similar scenario may have been coerced into accepting a deal that wasn't in their best interests.

At some time in the wee hours of the morning, I got in front of the judge. The attorney again tried to explain my options, but I couldn’t understand him. The judge ended up explaining to me that I would have the case expunged from my record if I did nothing over the next six months. There was an official name for it, but I forget it now. If I didn’t choose that option I would have to continue waiting in the cell. So I accepted that and was allowed to return home.

I would eventually file my complaints with the police. Though I don’t think they mattered. I would also eventually get a lawyer and file suit against the city. They would eventually settle, and I cleared 2K after lawyer fees.

To be honest, at 2K per night, I’d probably go through it all again. I could still use the money more than my pride and/or dignity. But regardless it was an eye-opening experience, one that altered my worldview forever.

THE END


Q&A session:

what was the DVD? - I'm amused that so many people have mentioned this. I run through a lot of DVD's so unfortunately I no longer remember.

do you use netflix now? - yes I do. Although it wasn't until much later when I got on board the netflix train. I reference my use of netflix in my review of "crash" and my post about The Negro Sir Anthony Hopkins.

were your raped/molested/sodomized? - No. Yes. No, well not during this incident...


CAST

TAN - innocent beacon of light, truth, and the American way.

Officer Rivera - asshole wannabe clint eastwood police dick asshole.

hundreds of young black males - the apparent scourge of society.

clueless attorney - clueless attorney #1


this has been a The Assimilated Negro production. All accounts and video footage courtesy of The Assimilated Negro


holla at ya boy
.

The Time I Got Arrested For Holding A DVD (Part 2)

If you are joining us midstream, click here for the first part of the story.

So your friendly neighborhood TAN-Man is being taken to the van in handcuffs. And I can’t believe it’s happening, but I’m also thinking, “ok, well this sucks. But it can’t go too far. I mean I didn’t do anything, and everyone knows it. So they’ll probably let me go soon.”

Well not only was I not released, for the next couple hours I drove around in their unmarked van with tinted windows as they played Negro Roundup. These guys seriously just drove around looking for suspicious minorities, and by suspicious I mean, coming out of a store, or in my case coming out of your house carrying a DVD. They ended up with about seven or eight people in the van after stopping a good twenty people.

Adding danger to insult to injury (my wrists were hurting since the cuffs were so tight), the driver is incredibly reckless. He darts in and out of traffic at high speeds to get in position for swooping in on another unsuspecting victim. There are at least two occasions where I seriously fear we’re going to get hit by a car.

Throughout the roundup I initially tried to get out the situation by simply pleading my case. After all, I continued to remind the officers, “I haven’t done anything. Just let me out wherever and this whole misunderstanding could be over. There’s no reason for me to be here.” Time and time again the officers had to reconfirm the truth of my situation with each other. And time and time again they shrugged their shoulders unwilling to correct their mistake. The captain/lead officer who ordered my imprisonment was riding in another car, so I was stuck, at least until the roundup was finished and we went back to the precinct.

After it became apparent that I wasn’t going anywhere, I decided to make my point by needling the officers and basically cracking wise about their jobs, lack of character, and cliché racist assholeness. The highlight here was when the driver, a Puerto Rican male who was shockingly unsympathetic to the blatant racial profiling, was discussing his daughter going away to a private school. Since I knew he didn’t think anyone in the van would know about private school, I was very quick to inform him, “I went to private boarding school, one of the best in the country, and while I would classify it as a positive experience overall, it clearly did not help in preventing me from being plucked off the street by racist pigs for no reason. You should make sure your daughter knows that for those of us who are ethnically challenged, assholes like you don’t take into account the pedigree of one’s education.”

This is when Officer Rivera started to dislike me in a more personal and proactive fashion. I would have thought officers are trained to handle verbal abuse, and they just ignore everyone who talks to them, but I clearly had gotten under this guy’s skin (pardon). He starts asking me about my job, and when I tell him, “freelance writer” he laughs heartily and informs me that really means “unemployed.” I tell him, "I’ve heard that line before, but if all of this is about you being upset about your job, I know a lot of white people who would love to hire an asshole of your caliber, and probably pay you more than the city does."

All of this, as expected, got me nowhere in terms of my quest for freedom. But all my talking made it more and more apparent that I wasn’t supposed to be in this situation. Whenever I used a word with more than two syllables a palpable silence would fall over the van. My use of the word “accosted” became particularly noteworthy as the officers even asked me what “accosted” meant. Apparently the typical negro they pick up doesn’t complain about being “accosted.”

This in addition to my outfit, strap on flip-flops, black Capri pants (no wisecracks CopyRanter), and a shirt that says “I spent $200,000 on my education and all I got was this stinkin’ t-shirt,” all made me stand out from the minority mass. Soon they were telling me in hushed tones, “look, it’s clear you don’t belong here, just be quiet and you’ll probably be let go soon.”

*sigh*

So after being told that upon getting out the van and getting ready to enter the precinct I decide to play ball and be quiet. I get lined up, have my picture taken, and get my fingerprints taken digitally without a peep. Eventually the head officer in charge of my arrest arrives. I think surely I’m going to be let go now. Clearly I’ve learned my lesson, and I’m being a good negro, it’s time to release the innocent.

But the head officer never looked in my direction once. He informed the people who handle the administrative paperwork of all the charges for the various criminals they rounded up, and he left. Never to be seen again. I guess a long hard day's work had come to an end.

After he left we were informed we would be placed in a holding cell, we would be strip-searched to verify we weren’t carrying any concealed weapons, and then we would be taken downtown to central bookings for processing. Well upon hearing this announcement, my Recalcitrant Negro personality felt obligated to return (and no I didn’t use the word recalcitrant with any of the officers).

I once again began declaring my innocence and telling any person in a uniform that I shouldn’t be there. Apparently, however, they hear this song a million times a day on the radio and basically tuned me out. When they escort me to my holding cell I tell them I refuse to enter because I'm innocent. They tell me that, “unless you want to be hogtied on the ground and physically forced into the cell, I should just go in.” I think about it, pausing to let them know I would actually consider being hogtied as a symbol of this injustice, and then eventually enter the cell. We go through the same thing with the strip search. Eventually we’re taken outside to wait for the new van that’s taking us downtown.

While outside Officer Rivera resurfaces and he still doesn’t like me. And funny enough, I still don’t like him. At this stage I feel there’s no point in holding back, they are clearly putting me through the system regardless, so I ask Rivera about his daughter again and he snaps.

He pushes me out of the line and spins me around so he’s positioned behind me. He grabs the cuffs and tightens them even more, and they were already on tight enough to be painful. He grabs my wrists and forces me to bend forward and in my ear he says, “say something more smart ass, talk some more shit and I’ll break your fucking wrists.”

And even though wanted to ask if I could get Clint Eastwood's autograph, I immediately complied to his violent demands and said nothing more other than apologizing for getting out of line. The other guys in the roundup started asking him to chill out and say clearly there was no reason for this. Another officer eventually came out and got him away from me. I, of course, had nothing to say.

The van arrived to take us downtown and we all piled in. Officer Rivera didn’t come. But this experience was not over, I still had more to learn …

To Be Continued


Part 1

Part 3

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