As the days slowly but surely get longer, and the faint whisper of spring can be heard through vibrations of sawed off icicles. It signals one thing is soon to be coming to an end: that’s right the quarantine cuffing season is all most over, and love will soon be in the air again.
In honor of this I decided to reflect back on love. And I realized I used to write about a love so raw- so primal- so full of throat punches you could feel it pierce through your molars. A love that burned through emotions, bridges, and tsunamis of hearts. A passion that was a strike from a drone: an explosion you never see coming till your guts are caressing the canvas floor. For a fire so intense was always made to self-combust, and blow the fuck up it always did.
That type of love is not sustainable- that type of love is more of a high than a partnership. For along time I couldn’t tell the difference. I was so full of hate, rage, sadness, and anger that my vision was clouded to only see love in those same violent colors. Searching for a love so pure and intense it could replace the root of bitterness that had intertwined with my soul, and had me rushing down the raging rapids of sorrow. I was too selfish and guarded to be saved- instead I was an emotional terrorist blowing up any empathy around me.
That passion- that naivety- that listening to the lizard part of my brain forgoing all reason – well yeah I sometimes miss it-but not really. I am at that growth part in life where you are at a such a good place you know that the only person dating you right now should be you. I am currently wooing myself with 1985 wrestling dates. Future suitors take notes.
I still seek a pure love- but I am not seeking it out to save me from my own self-destruction, or as a distraction from life itself. In fact I am not really seeking it out all. I figure when fate wants it I will find that dope female of my future. Until then I always have these words I write, the love you, my beautiful readers, give me, and the pure joy of pro rasslin’ at my side.
I love my readers like corny ass Chance the Rapper loves his wife, and because of this I’m always looking for new material to write about to entertain you. You know keep our relationship spicy- the old slip a finger in the butt just to let them know you still care time in a relationship (this is probably why I am single- actually this is not even close to the reason why I am single so let’s move on shall we). So for the past week I decided to get my legal sport bet on. Mind you I am not a gambler- and before last week I had never made a sports bet other than a friendly wager among chums. Hell, I had only been to a casino once and only played slots there that reminded me of Joshi Wrestling
But this past Sunday a Holy Ghost vision of a Buccaneers victory struck me- the image appeared in neon lights in the clouds as a vision of none other than one of the shining trinities that is guiding me to greatness in 2021- yes the one and very drunk and focused Tom Brady- appeared before me.
Of course I had to bet on Brady- and of course that dude came through and I won my first bet. I also had my first taste of losing as my prop bet that Brady would gallop for more than .5 yards failed to occur. This betting win and lost would be the pinnacle of a well thought out bet, and what I dubbed a doing dumb shit bet. My initial bet was the Tampa win, and Leonard Fournette to rush for the over of 47 yards. Why I made this pick was based on logic and knowledge of said sport and players. If Tampa was going to win they needed to be able to run to get the play action pass going, and Fournette was going to be that dude to get those yards. Unfortunately fan duel went down for a bit so that bet didn’t go through, and then I decided I wanted to go for the sexier bet of Brady getting rushing yards- because we all know there is nothing more breathtaking than a good ol’ lead-foot Brady scramble.
Of course I lost that one, but at the end of the night I came out up $41.20- almost doubling my investment. And I was content with that pay out- until they pulled me back in with a free bet for the earlier technical difficulties I experienced. Now feeling pretty good after my win I decided why not get my uncut gems on and do a parlay: which is a wager where you bet multiple games to win, and only cash out if all of your picks are right.
After spending an hour going through Reddit, and various sites and Twitter feeds I came up with a perfect parlay.
It was not perfect.
Eric Gordon screwed me.
But I did learn from that loss and I got the bug to participate in the other contest to win a 7 dollar free bet when you purchase three 8 dollar over under bets. I went 2-3 on my over under and was now up just under 50 dollars with a free 7 bet. In the next couple of days I was up to almost 90 dollars when the gambling gods showed their face- like a gruesome fun house mirror mash-up of the Michael Jordan crying meme and Charles Barkley’s normal everyday mug- and I started doing a lot of small but doing dumb shit bets. Mind you at this time I was technically losing fictional money (and yes all the non broke-boys out there are judging me over this 90 dollars- but I work at a public school and I don’t have that Showtime money yet) but being able to cash out at $100 is a lot better than $25.
So back I went to the betting gods on that day after love- Valentine’s Day. A week of gambling was a lot like love itself with all those highs and lows. And just like love I decided to go all in at the end and make a wild go for broke two last bets. You know get a get a real good climax to this tale about the agony of winning and losing. And since I didn’t find love on Valentine’s Day why not go for the next best thing in life: winning money.
Plus I wanted to make up for all those doing dumb now picks like a 7 team parlay with college basketball and hockey lines.
See I don’t know shit about college basketball and hockey other than at surface level. So I can’t decipher the bullshit from the statistics that work with these sports when I am doing research on the games.
So post Valentine’s Day I was locked in. I did my research and found two perfect games to parlay. I would grab the money line (that’s for the Warriors to win straight up with no point spread) on Golden State versus the Cavs. My logic behind this pick came from the fact the Warriors had just dropped a home game to Durant and the Nets this past Saturday, and would be ramped up to play. They were also playing the Cavs at home, who would be without Andre Drummond who they just announced they were sitting till they can find a trade partner. You couldn’t really find any formulation out there that would show any momentum for the game going the Cavs way. And true to form the Warriors came out and crushed them. I doubled this game up by taking the plus 5 points for the Bulls against the Pacers. The Bulls would go to win outright in over time cementing my 97 dollar win. My other bet was a five dollar Julius Randle to score over 21 points – and dude goes off for 49 putting the exclamation point on my night of gambling dominance. I ended the night up to $106 proving that I am a lot luckier at gambling than I am with love.
In the end I hope you enjoyed this little tale of my gambling week, and how I turned 25 smackers into a hundred dollars of straight moolah. If y’all want to see me get my bet on in the future just let me know in the comments, or send me a message and I will do another one for March Madness.
All right readers I been having a bit of the old writer’s block. It’s not that I didn’t have any ideas to write about, but when I started to write the faucet I had hoped would be spewing forth tsunamis of words did not open, rather, like most middle schooler’s cameras during a zoom class, my faucet was definitely turned the fuck off.
So to engage this glacier of the mind I figured I think about what has often been the most popular content on this often malnourished of new content blog. Then it hit me: people love reading about anything promoting a healthy lifestyle, and it’s New Years so soon to be broken resolutions are in full effect. So for the past week I been getting my ITF 16-8 on! Ohh word you ain’t down win with the lingo? Well fear not for that’s why I am here to break it all down to you in it’s glory. ITF is the Poochie way of saying Intermittent Fasting- a hip now eating pattern designed to ideally make you feel better, lose weight, improve brain activity, and all that cross fit Jesus mindful commandments that are promised to you when you start praying to the kale god.
I chose the 16-8 method because I am not a sadist. This method involves eating for 8 hours and fasting for the other 16. There are other versions of fasting such as the eat-stop-eat method- where two times a week you don’t eat after dinner for 24 hours. And the 5-2 week- where two days a week you only eat 500-600 calories. But fuck those versions- we doing the 16-8!
I started this past Monday, and because I am bad at math my first two days was more of 14-10 breakdown. For two days I really thought there was only 8 hours between 11-9. Now this mistake happened because I teach individual math to two students. And these two students always make the same mistake when doing double digit subtraction of not regrouping, and just subtracting 9 from 1 as 8, when 1 is on top of 9 and thus needs help from his left side number friend to be properly subtracted. Anyway that blunder aside those days went by pretty smoothly since my lunch at work is at 11, and all I had to do was not drink my TB protein smoothie till later in the day instead of on my way to work. But alas by Wednesday I had discovered my mistake and ate my first meal at 1. Wednesday went easy- Thursday and Friday a bit of the hangry definitely arouse during the morning- had me feeling a bit on edge like a tween wearing her first pair of Vans to school, and then coming home to listen to Billie Eilish records on a turntable- all the while smugly mocking U2 for losing its edge even though they kept their guitarist. ( washed references are in full effect today.) As you can see by the now onslaught of words I am bombarding you with that by the end of weekend I awoke feeling full, and with the extra energy of the my pillow guy when he used to sleep on a pillow of crack each night. So I am going to keep it up the fasting for the next-week- see how my body reacts as I kneel at the altar of the kale god once more.
Speaking of my body this is where we talk about being washed. For being washed I use the example my man Desus put forth stating, “Being washed is a state of matter much like solid or liquid or plasma. Anything or anyone can be washed. The only known Law of the Washed Universe is that it happens to everyone.”
Embracing my washedness is a key on my journey to enlightenment. But sometimes you got to show yourself you still got it. So I found myself in race against time- aka my sixth grade student. As we turned for the homestretch of that basketball gym floor homeboy was right next to me-cue ‘Chariots of Fire’ music in the background- so I sprinted as hard as I could to barely beat him to the finish line. But washed or not I still had to prove I could still go when needed. Speaking of washed I just spent ten minutes trying to remember that Chariots of Fire was the name of that movie. A reference so old it came out a year before I was born.
So if you are wondering embrace being washed. Enjoy that gray in your beard, warm yourself with a cozy bathrobe and black tea, and come to terms that all your witty references will now go over anyone’s head who is old enough to be on the TikTok. But remember like Gucci Mane preaches continue to embrace your inner greatness and destroy all completion. If you see a sixth grader you race that student. And well- you beat that student. You embrace your inner Cobra Kai- no mercy.
Also shout out to Tom Brady for getting to the NFC finals, and proving he was an ideal choice for guidance to lead to me to a better self. And like that hunk I am drinking a lot of water. At least 16 glasses a day. It’s great. I feel hydrated as polar bear chillin under a waterfall in the Lazy River at Water Country.
My loyal readers I know I been absent. In the past five months you might have feared I ventured back to my demons; but alas worry not- because since August 10 my days have been full of progress, acceptance, a complete overhaul and cut back on meds, some weed smoking, no fucking alcohol, and actual happiness. I was finally able to visit my sister’s grave on the anniversary this past October for the first time since the funeral in 2004.
And for once my soul feels uncluttered of the albatross of anger and depression that had imprisioned my ability to truly perceive life for what it truly could be. When you are under the intoxication that is depression your world view becomes severely skewed. Now I feel so disconnected from those past years- as if those last 12 years of memories were of some doppelgänger- my own Twin Peaks Bob- as they are only remembered as securely as an etch-a-sketch drawing.
Luckily, like Cormega before me, I was built for this.
Yesterday was James Baldwin’s birthday- an author whose words always leave me in awe. So today I reflected on one of his quotes, “To accept one’s past—one’s history—is not the same thing as drowning in it; it is learning how to use it. An invented past can never be used; it cracks and crumbles under the pressures of life like clay in a season of drought.”
So in the past few weeks I have been really diligently trying to be mindful so I don’t return to my past harmful ways of thought. It means having to be truly insightful, and honest of my past behaviors- especially the selfish ones that came from fear. It meant embracing the fact I hadn’t truly been pushing myself for being stagnant is oh so comfortable. It’s realizing I feared failure more than I desired success. It meant looking in the mirror and deciding I was not going to let my old ways of thought bury my future happiness . And it meant learning past failures are key for they unlock the skills for future joy. And most importantly it meant sacrificing immediate happiness and comfort to experience the discomfort of growth. Which I exemplified by not pursuing a relationship with a truly beautiful girl because you realize lust is not a foundation you build relationships on. That looking outside for validation only ruins yourself and the other soul’s ability for connection, and ultimate growth. That two boats letting in water don’t fix each other’s holes- and in the end it just leads to two people drowning even quicker. Each an anchor preventing one another from reaching the shore ahead.
So Instead of drowning in past failures I am actively learning from them. Some days I still want to drink, and instead of simply running with the thought and mindlessly allowing for it to occur; I now challenge it. Realizing that maybe that thought is occurring from a lack of connection with others; my own loneliness gutting through my belly causing such feelings of emptiness. Maybe it’s the routine of the past, and a desire for a return to turbulence out of the current tranquil waters I swim in now. Maybe it’s just my brain firing on old pathways I haven’t successfully rewired yet. Either way the only thing I know for certain is today those pathways have a big ass detour sign in front of them blocking those shortcuts of sabotage.
For I agree with Baldwin that our past always shapes us, but it never defines us. With our first morning breath we choose which path we will follow today. Our footing as solid, or perilous as we wish for rock solid foundations are only built with time and effort. Each day I am putting in the effort to reshape my future. Each night knowing my past has helped guide the way to this current future. And each day struggling towards a better tomorrow.
Baseball opens up this week- which honestly does not excite me as much as I thought it would. I am still mad the Red Sox did not pay Mookie Betts, and instead traded him and World Series hero David Price for a bucket of balls. In a sport with no salary cap, and homegrown super star, who is arguably the second best player in the game, to be traded at 27 years old is disgusting. But I will admit the many Works Series rings the Red Sox have won the past 15 years has quelled the anger a bit. But it did make me reminisce to the day when I truly believed I never would see a Red Sox title, and back to the worst year of my life 2004. And from all that tragedy a mammoth Dominican named David Ortiz saved my life- or at least my hope. So I have remixed a story from my MFA novel about the stubborn faith of hope, and the unlikely saviors who show you it exists.
I have to admit something now that I should take to my grave. I think I used to be a Yankees fan.
I want to think I might be making this Yankee story up because could I really have rooted for something so evil? I can’t fathom doing it, but then again why would I make up anything so terrible? It’s definitely a repressed memory as if the Yankees molested me in my youth. I picture having to go on the stand while Don Mattingly looks at me from the defense stand, wispy moustache and all, and winks at me as the prosecutor brought out a doll and asked me where he made me put the New York hat. It’s all too horrifying to remember.
What made me think of this memory was a vision of me at four years old in New Jersey, and standing on the doorstep of my uncle Chris’s house decked out in a full baseball uniform. The uniform had pinstripes. It wasn’t red either. I think I am going to be sick.
I was also going going to be sick because my uncle Chris was at work, and his wife Gi Gi was going to make breakfast. In my memory she is Jersey through and through, and seemed like she could have been a mob wife—you know, polyester pant suit and all, and she probably had big hair. What I do remember distinctly was how she used about a dozen eggs, shells included, to make the worst scrambled eggs in the history of all scrambled eggs. If they made a shiny medal to inadequate and god-awful eggs, she would have won. I am not sure she understood the concept of cooking, but at least to her benefit she gave it the old college try.
So here I am, a chubby little four –year-old Babe Ruth, sitting at the kitchen table covering my plate of eggs in mountains of ketchup that made these runny eggs look like they were hemorrhaging blood, and all the while trying to be polite and eat what’s in front of me in a fucking Yankees uniform. This was a memory that should have stayed suppressed.
In 2003 I thought it was our year. When you’re a Red Sox fan every season has to be the year. But now this was the year. I was living in apartment right off of the UNH campus with Loafy and Justin. Loafy and I had started a tradition to celebrate each Red Sox victory by table diving. Table diving was exactly how it sounds. We had a long hallway in our apartment with a table we used to play drinking games on. The table was blue and sturdy as hell. It had to be through all the abuse we put it through. The goal of table diving was to stand at the far end of the hallway while we flipped the table on one its ends, so when you impacted it you would be able to ride it to the other side off the hallway and be catapulted off as the table landed back on its other side. If you took the table at the wrong angle, you would fly off the side and into the wall where there were a few holes to commemorate table divers whose dives went off course. After each Red Sox win I would wake up bruised and hung-over. And yet after every Sox win I would stare down the table, start running, and leap into that table with sheer exhilaration knowing that any bruise I received was worth it to dismiss eighty- five years of torture.
After the Red Sox won their first playoff series against Oakland, it seemed as if all of UNH headed downtown to celebrate. The police would say we went to riot. The next day on front of the page of the UNH school paper was a picture of Loafy standing on top of a car, “Howard Dean for President,” t-shirt prominently displayed across his chest, leading a chant of “Yankees Suck,” with the headline, “UNH Comes Close to a Responsible Celebration.”
After the Oakland win the Red Sox were going against the dreaded Yankees for the right to go the World Series. Seven games later it was not our year. Aaron F’N Boone broke our hearts in the twelfth inning of game seven, launching a home run off Tim Wakefield. This was only after Grady Little inexplicitly left Pedro Martinez in for too long in the eighth inning and set up our doomed fate. It was as if the Gods were conspiring to make the Red Sox lose in the most brutal ways possible. I felt as if I was at Guantanamo Bay with a battery charger hooked up to my genitals. Why do the Yankees always win?
Then 2004 came and a 6’4”, nearly 300 -pound Dominican man restored my faith. His name was David and he slayed the Goliath of baseball. Everyone writes about the Red Sox winning the World Series after so many heart-wrenching and heartbreaking losses over and over again. Jimmy Fallon even made a horrible movie about it that no true Red Sox fan can stomach. If someone tells you that they like that movie know they are probably some asshole Cowboys fan who grew up in San Diego and has a Yankees ball cap in their closest. But the 2004 series was more than baseball to me. This was a referendum to me that life wasn’t futile and just full of heartbreaking pain. I am not talking about heaven, religion, or any of that bullshit. I am talking about real life miracles. This was a team that was down and out and on the verge of a humiliation, and most importantly elimination. No team comes back from this. History has taught us this much. Who could ever in the wildest dreams think the Sox could come back? We are talking about a team down three games to none to an evil empire that has feasted off and inflicted so much misery on them throughout history. They were the smug villain in the Eighties movies with the hot girlfriend, and here I was rooting for the Ducky of baseball, a team destined to always be second rate. Good guys only overcome these odds in the safety of cinema.
People love to belittle sports as not meaning anything. It’s just a game they say, and of course it’s just a game. But the magic is found in it is its ability to transcend one’s life, and for a few hours make us believe in the impossible. It’s a never-ending novel with twists and turns and the Red Sox was the protagonist I followed through all the bad times and well, more bad times. Sports have this unique ability to put the gifted on a pedestal, where they either succeed or fail on the grandest stage possible. There are statistics to judge them, and championships at the end to reward them. Life is never this uncomplicated. So when I was feeling the worst in life I turned to the Red Sox for hope. Sure, in the end they wouldn’t bring back what I lost, but they could bring something I thought I had lost, and that was hope. And no matter how much life throws at you, you can never let hope escape from you. If you lose hope, your fate is doomed. So I rooted for the Sox with this in mind, knowing after what I just experienced something good had to happen.
The first night I went out on town after my sister, niece, and nephew were murdered was game three of the divisional series and the Yankees were already up two games to none. I was with Justin and we were barhopping in Portsmouth. The goal was to get drunk. Rip-roaring, shouting- at –the-moon, biting –the- heads- off- bats drunk. We succeeded. But every pint I threw back or shot I took didn’t change how I felt. The Red Sox was how I felt and they played like it. Every inning the score was worse. Every bar we hopped to welcomed us with another Yankee run. It was 19-7 by the end, and I was blacked out. It was fitting the Yankees won with a score that resembled the last time the Red Sox won a World Series. As I puked on someone’s flowerbed it all seemed too fitting. The Red Sox always lost. At least some things hadn’t changed.
I watched game four in my parents’ basement curled up on a futon with a blanket that could be pulled over my eyes to shield me from the inevitable loss I was about to witness. I needed to watch this alone. Rooting for the Sox was I guess like putting faith in religion. You know it’s going to fail you in the end, but each year you still blindly follow, hoping that your endurance and faith will be rewarded.
I spent most of the game with an impending sense of dread. Even if they won this game, there was no way they could pull of four straight. They were playing the Yankees, Curt Schilling was hurt, and these are the Red Sox. I love them, but they are fuck-ups when it comes to winning the big game. I pondered turning the channel. Maybe watch a cooking show on the Food Channel, or a reality show on VHI. Hell, maybe read a book. Or even fly a kite. Anything seemed like it would be better than torturing myself with this game. But I am a masochist, hence a Red Sox fan, and I had to watch every minute, as gruesome as it may turn out to be.
Everything was going according to plan. The Yankees were winning going into the ninth and quite possibly the greatest closer in baseball, Mariana Rivera, was coming in for the close. The Sox were a run down and with him on the mound that might as well be ten runs. Rivera does not blow this save. The Yankees don’t blow this game. History taught us this. But I still blindly believed. I needed to believe in something. So why not the impossible?
And then the impossible happened. Kevin Millar walked and the atmosphere at the stadium changed. I looked at the clock it was 11:58, not quite midnight, but midnight in a perfect world was about to happen. It was like every Red Sox fan was hit by lightning and suddenly realized, you know, we might be able to win this after all. Dave Roberts pinch ran for Millar, and we all knew he was going to try to steal second. If this was a movie, Dave Roberts would have been the aging star, down on his luck, and his career in its twilight. He would know his fate was to steal this base. In the movie everything would slow down. Roberts would saunter out to first and dig in with his cleats, kicking dirt and slowly building his lead from first. The pitcher would stare down the plate and then Roberts at first. The sweat would be sneaking down the pitcher’s skin and he would rifle a throw over to first to try to keep Roberts close. Roberts would dive back safe. Roberts would dust himself off and build his lead again. The pitcher would sneak another look back and then fire a fast ball to the plate. Roberts would be off with the pitch. The camera would pan the crowd leaping to its feet, and cut back in slow motion to the pitch hitting the catcher’s glove with a loud thud and the catcher rifling the throw to second. Then there would be silence as Roberts slid into the back of the second base bag and the tag is applied on him. The umpire would then appear to signal he was safe. The crowd would roar.
And this really just happened! Roberts just stole second! Roberts stole second! Holy shit! I need to high-five something. I’ll high-five myself. Any other game he gets thrown out. But he did it, and Rivera was rattled. This was like when Hulk Hogan slammed Andre the Giant. The impossible just happened and for once you knew the Sox were going to pull this off. Robert’s steal had put the Yankees on the rope, and then Bill Mueller’s single into left them staggering as Roberts scored to tie the game. We were headed to extra innings.
In the bottom of the 12th inning David Ortiz strolled to the plate with fate on his side. Fenway erupted with cheers, and was willing Papi to come through. I was sitting on the futon emotionally drained. But as Papi dug into the batter’s box, and did his ritual of spitting into the hands of his batting gloves, I felt nothing but hope. For once I truly believed the Red Sox were going to come through. And just like that he rocketed the next pitch out of the yard for a home run to win the game. I was in shock. My face was wet with tears, but I was smiling.
This win had helped me find something I feared was lost forever. This meant more to me than any baseball game will ever mean again. You have to realize I never felt worse in my life. My sister and her two kids, whom I adored more than anything in the world, were dead. And I was rooting for a team that cultivated misery, and I assumed they would lose and I could wallow in my pity. I expected that. I mean who wouldn’t? But in the matter of a few hours I went from debating changing the channel because I didn’t need any more heartbreak in my life, to watching the Sox rally on the of the greatest closers in history, and Big Papi hit a 12th inning game-winning home run. The hope they gave me meant more than anything in life. I questioned my faith so much, so to combat this I put all my faith in the Sox, assuming they would fail. But they didn’t. There was hope for me after all.
I get it that people look down on sports as an art form, but those baseball players for the Sox renewed my faith in mankind. Isn’t real art determined by the impact it has on you emotionally? If the Sox can come back even for one game against the evil of the world, that meant I too could overcome the pain that was trapped inside me. Thank God for Big Papi because with one swung he changed everything.
The Red Sox went on to do the impossible by coming back from 3-0 hole to their most hated rival, something that had never happened in the history of baseball before, and then went on to sweep the St. Louis Cardinals to win the World Series. Eighty-six years of baggage forever gone, which proved to me you can’t change your history, but you can change your destiny.
In going with the music theme I finally uploaded some new (old) mixes to my mixcloud site grab them here. Expect everything from classic rap, to rare pysch and kraut rock, minimal wave, and everything from weirdo electronic shit, bass music, and b-more and jersey club.
Playlists for each show below
Tuesday Mornings at 8:30 AM. Kendrick Lamar – Swimming Pools Daedelus – The Finishing of a Thing Usher – Climax (Diplo remix) Gonjasufi – The Caliph’s Tea Party Aleuda – Galope (remix) Flosstradamus ft. Danny Brown – From the Back (Lunice remix) Xeno & Oaklander – Blue Flower (Live at the Weird Party, Home Sweet Home) Futuristik – Army Now Martial Canteral – Occupy These Terms Destiny’s Child – Say My Name (Cyril Hahn Remix) Oppenheimer Analysis – The Devil’s Dancers Murray – Pantum Lama Teengirl Fantasy – Vector Spray Win Win – Salt Days Amon Tobin – Dream Sequence Future ft. Juicy J – I’m Trippin 4lienetic – You Never Loved Me Notorius BIG – Suicidal Thoughts Aphex Twin – Nannou The Diplomats – Real Niggas ? Goldie – Inner City Life Cousin Cole – Amen Amen Ivo’s Group – That Shocking Day The Prodigy – Ruff in the Jungle Uplifting Vibes Remix)
That’s Respect Polygon Window – Quino-Phec Ice Cube – Doing Dumb Shit Metamatics – Blue Water ? Nancy and Paddy – Owl Ritual Escort – Cocaine Blues (Greg Wilson Remix) ? Jungle Brothers – Tribe Vibes Kendrick Lamar – Cartoon and Cereal WIN WIN – Landloper Das Racist – Girl Jack Beats – Epidemic Hannulerauri – Zombie Tropicana SS-Say – Care Can – Fly By Night Kaine – Love Saves the Day (Soul Clap Remix) UFO – Freeze (Labradford Remix) Martyn – Seventy Four Polygin Window – It Really Is Me
That Walter White. Aphex Twin- Polynominal-C Jim Jones – 60 Racks Boards of Canada – Basefree EDUBB- Topsdropbladeschoppnmuizk Cam’ron ft. T.I. – In The Jungle Young Jeezy ft. Future – Way Too Gone Flosstradamus – Total Recall Kingdom – Hood By Air Theme Polygon Window – Supremacy Window Odd Future – ? A$AP Rocky – Celebration Juicy J – Let’s Get High Darq E Freaker – Blueberry (Sinden & 5kinandbone5 remix) Koreless – MTI DJ Dodger Stadium -Ds Drum Routine Dj J Heat – Get Low Drop Low DJ Sliink – Emergency ? XXXY – I Know This (Can’t Be Love) Deejay Theory – Club Tearz ? James Nasty – Them Do It Horns Amrand Van Helden – You Don’t Know Me ? Switch & Erol Alkan – A Sydney Jook (Bok Bok remix) Crookers – Bowser Floyd Campbell – Taped Rob Threezy – Love to the World Silver Apples – Lady and the Clown Boom Bip – Closed Shoulder (clouddead remix) Broadcast – Unchanging Window/Chord Simple MMOSS – Another Dream Smif’ n’ Wessun – Hellucination
Half Measures Half Measures Intro Boom Bip – Closed Shoulder (Clouddead remix) The Velvet Underground – The Black Angel’s Death Song Boards of Canada – Amo Bishop Roden Slowdive – Souvlaki Space Station Spacemen 3 – The Sound of Confusion Gil Scott-Heron – I’m New Here HTRK – Sweetheart (A.K.A. I love you) Koreless – 4D SBTRKT – Something Goes Right Oppenhiemier Analysis – Don’t Be Seen With Me Play –Deeper Than Blue Moderne – Vers L’est Hudson Mohawke – All Your Love MMOSS – Wander Radiohead – Bloom (Jaime XX rework) T.I ft. Beanie Seigel. – 2 Glock 9’s/ Can- Oh Yeah (Evaredy and ayo patrick remix) Danny Brown – Pac Blood Faust – Lauft.Heisst Das Es Lauft Oder Es Kommt Bald.Lauft Smif’ N’ Wessun – Hellucination Freestyle Fellowship – For No reason Burial – NYC A$AP Rocky – Purple Swag
The last couple posts I been talking about failure a lot, and one thing I am glad I failed at was committing suicide. I am not going to lie, I kinda half assed it. I didn’t follow any of the the Gravediggaz advice from “1-800-Suicide.”
I didn’t run to the zoo and lock myself in a lion’s den, didn’t confront an alligator and let it eat me raw, or even just hang myself with a fucking barbed wire. Nor did I even follow the plan I had thought of before. To be honest it just kinda happened- it was very passive. I just got to the point where I didn’t want to feel, and didn’t care if that meant not waking up the next day. It started with mixing Ativan and a pint of vodka. That combo proved too weak- it just left me feeling sober. My existence was still on fire- my skin a vampire in the sun. So I added a big bottle of wine to the mix. And still nothing. My brain was still firing missiles in all directions; a kamikaze bombing of my consciousness creating a maze out of doubt, fear, and self-hatred. I was blinded, lost, and just wanted out so next I found an almost full bottle of gabapentin and those easily found their way down my neck into my belly. And finally a handful of sleeping pills to blot out the rest of my existence. Then I found the peace of my bed. I laid down and enjoyed the high I was finally feeling. I had no fear left. I was weirdly at peace that maybe the next morning I wouldn’t wake up; a feeling I wish to never have ever again. The morning did come and I was grateful as hell to see that sun. You see I don’t want to die, and I sure as hell don’t want to live in a world of numbness. My brain loves to trick me into that existence, but today I fight it with the guerrilla warfare that is mindfulness. It is with ruthless aggression I fight for my existence. I am dropping nuclear bombs on the tricks my mind uses to play on me, and embracing the love that surrounds me. Today I want to fucking live, and that feels pretty damn good.
My brain is still a bit foggy like the grave mist of dawn in a land of ghouls. But writing keeps me sober so I type these SOSs to the world. Failure keeps you hungry and hopeful. And I have failed enough to remain hopeful as fuck. I am grateful for failure. It’s how I learn. It’s why I have this chip on my shoulder because I don’t think anybody truly believes I will stay sober- that July 15th will just be another day- just another broken resolution. That my resolve will falter, and my belly will once again surrender to the swill of liquor cascading into its center. But I have a feeling this time you will be wrong. And what’s different is hard to explain- that feeling deep inside your gut can’t always be explained. But when you feel it you know it. And today I feel it. Today I know it. And tomorrow I will keep on showing it. Because these SOSs of heartbreak might not mean that much to many, but at least they get me through the day. And each day that mist will feel further away. And each day my vision will get clearer. And each day that ghoul that clutches on my soul will get easier to push away. For embracing failure gives you a power you never knew existed inside you for it takes away the control that fear has over you. And without fear on your back you can achieve anything you want. And even if you fail at least you learned the next time what not to do. And through that failure you learn most importantly what you need to do. For heartbreak and surrender are the only true path to real love. Be that a love for oneself or another.
My dear readers you can rejoice for I have returned. I apologize for the delay but my brain’s been a bit foggy these days. The words scattered in my skull; my thoughts a jigsaw puzzle floating through outer space as I desperately fly to each piece to sort them together. The aftermath of my last post led to a stay in the hospital where I came off a cocktail of 8 meds to a new lean new two piece of a mood stabilizer with a shot of antidepressant. So far I feel decent- not too high, not too low. So of course for me that means I feel uncomfortable. It’s funny how we get so comfortable in those undesirable emotions such as turmoil, depression, fear, or pain. Those feelings are like a warm blanket to me compared to contentment, and well just the fucking normalcy of the day. I also hadn’t been able to write so I thought I would cure it with a drink. I figured the drink would spark everything back and break me out of the void I had falling into. In reality it was just my brain tricking me into a return to an old comfortable feeling- the numbness and escape that first sip brings. The fleeting myth you chase every time you succumb to your poison. So I embedded myself into the alcohol, like a journalist in a war town country to a squadron, and gave in and drank. And of course James Baldwin did not enter my soul and come out through words on my paper. In fact the only words that did were lies to myself and others. The lie that alcohol can somehow make me whole- while in reality it’s just making the hole inside me even bigger. The hole of self doubt, hatred, insecurity, and fear. The hole you fall into where lies become the safety net. The hole you know you will eventually be buried in if you keep down the path that the drink wants from you. And a hole dug so deep I didn’t want to tell anyone I had fallen into it again. So I just pretended it didn’t happen, and let the halo on top of my head fashion into a noose. That noose got so tight I needed a drink to loosen it- and since I hadn’t shared my shameful secret from the night before the alcohol slipped right in like a Viking from the shore. His battle-axe a pint of vodka to my heart. I know my defense now is just being honest. Being vulnerable letting everyone know I failed another alcohol test. I gave in like a chump. But through failure comes knowledge. A loss is the best way to learn how to win. So I woke up early determined to write words. To prove to myself I don’t need alcohol to write. To prove to myself I don’t need alcohol to live. And to prove to myself finally I don’t need alcohol to survive. So today, July 15th, I declare my goddamn independence from that demon alcohol. And already I feel that noose loosening from my neck as the sun gently rises on a new day ahead, and I embrace this new journey where getting really fucking uncomfortable is going to be me striving for my new norm.