RSSNon-Fiction
Ode to all the Race Traitors, Embracers and Assimilators
Struggling For Your Consideration
Tales of High Adventure with Crazy Larry
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Summary: Previously published as several different blog posts. I cleaned them up and strung them together for this piece. As a Southern California driver, driving is intrinsic to our way of life, just as walking is intrinsic to a New Yorker’s. While everyone can usually manage walking, driving is a whole other ballgame and it’s infuriating when people don’t step up to the plate.
Excerpt: “Now, I appreciate that everyone thinks they’re a good driver and I appreciate that 90% of those people are incorrect, but I fall in the top 10% definitely. See, I understand the dynamics of the road. I understand the intimate relationship a driver must have with the car in front of him/her and with the car behind. It boils down to trust. Do you trust the driver in front of you not to brake too early and do you trust the driver behind you not to brake too late. More importantly, if you can’t trust those drivers are you skilled enough to compensate for their shortcomings? I can and that’s why I rock as a driver. I can be in the minds of everyone around me at the same time, which allows me to spot dumbass driving and Road Rage flare-ups, thereby avoiding accidents through minor adjustments in car positioning.”
Summary: The workplace is really a joke, isn’t it? What is the workplace but a location where people who would never, ever socialize, much less look at one another, meet and pretend to cooperate for eight hours, everyday. So much of my life and my misanthropic nature has been carved out by the workplace that’s it’s only natural I devote some words to it.
Excerpt: “This is the kind of secret comfort that waiters–another job I’ve worked–enjoy and that restaurant grs fear. In the back of every diner’s mind is the fear of food sabotage and they know that the only thing that is keeping their food safe during the journey from the kitchen to their table is the mood of their waiter. Sure, customers may delude themselves into thinking they have the power because they control the tip, but what is threatening a waiter’s tip when compared to the possibility of a certain amount of spit or mucous or urine or semen being passed into their clam chowder? Fantasies like this make jobs tolerable.”
Summary: Everyone looks back on their high school romances with tenderness. The emotions were so new and our minds were just developed enough to understand the power of those feelings, only equaled by the emotional havok wreaked upon our souls when those romances inevitably crashed and burned. Later relationships would pale in comparison, only because by then we had learned to filter our emotions through healthy restraint and jaded skepticism. This story encompasses my one true-love and its bitter failure, but it focuses more on the friendship that carried me through it…most of the way.
Excerpt: “I cupped her cheek into my right palm and drew her close with my other hand. When I could feel the warmth of her breath I closed my eyes and kissed her gently. I could feel the soft short hairs around her mouth against my thinly parted lips. I kissed her gently again, but held it longer. Then with the tips of her lips, Rebecca urged my mouth open and devoured me. Surprised, I inhaled deeply through my nose, which heightened Rebecca’s excitement. She redoubled her efforts, voraciously teasing my tongue with hers and exploring my body with her hands. Saliva was slowly slipping into the cracks of our lips and we continually shifted the angles of our heads to seal the breaches. What had started out as a friendly kiss was turning into an oral ravishing. This was the most earth moving, mind-blowing kiss I had ever had and it rocked me to my ts. It was Rebecca’s way of adding an exclamation point to one of the greatest missed opportunities any man can have in his life. When she finally released me we were breathless and the brisk weather was no longer biting, but refreshing.”
Summary: Previously published as a lengthy blog post. I cleaned it up and edited it down for an up and coming publication about failure, but now it doesn’t seem like they’re going to get off the ground. Or so they say, anyway. So what else is new? This story is about the toughest job interview I ever had to suffer through.
Excerpt: “Old Dude is the kind of person who has never seen a happy day in his life. He has the opposite of a poker face, meaning he communicates through his facial expressions. If he doesn’t like something you say, he’ll roll his eyes. If he’s disappointed in you, he’ll sigh and look down and away. If he can’t understand something you’ve said, he’ll squint, shake his head sharply, cup a hand to an ear and gape his mouth in a silent, “Wha-?” Even if he was capable of smiling, it would be lost beneath the folds of his trumpet player’s cheeks; the ones that hang down the sides of his mouth like a bull dog’s and stripe the sides of his chin with the mandible lines of a ventriloquist dummy.”
Summary: I have the worst luck with women. Every time I think I’m making headway with one, it turns out I was all wrong. It used to really bother me, but now I look on these moments almost like a case study. Sadly, there are still no answers to be had.
Excerpt: “Someone has to be undesirable so that others can be. I know my place in the world and I accept that. I choose to deal with Fate on her terms. So I go through life, squelching any impulses of pursuit whenever I come across an attractive girl. As the years pass, it’s getting easier to deny my motivations, almost becoming reflex. In this manner, I have caged Fate — or caged myself, however you want to look at it — and kept myself away from Fate’s deadly grasp. Sadly, I suffer from moments of weakness now and again when I carelessly step too close to the bars and Fate takes a lethal swipe at me.”
Ode to All the Race Traitors, Embracers, and Assimilators
Summary: Having grown up as a Filipino in White Society with White friends, I spent a good portion of my life thinking I lived in a color-blind world. Once I embarked into places where no one knew me, it was easy to see that people had to judge me by my outward appearance. And try as I might, I could not escape my face. This piece is really about a subject that I was not, and still am not, ready to tackle. Consequently, I spat out a mishmash of half-baked thoughts with no resolutions.
Excerpt: “And this is how it was for a very long time. My first girlfriend was a white girl. She dumped me after a day, but that didn’t stop me from lusting after white flesh so voraciously that I sexually abused my next white girlfriend with marathon length Friday fingerbang sessions. Don’t get me wrong. I had wanted to take care of this girl and show the world that I could be a good boyfriend. I see now that the world really just consisted of all the white girls that rejected me and I only wanted to prove to them–and myself–that they were missing out on something fantastic. When my hand disappeared beneath my girlfriend’s cotton panties and my middle finger moved rhythmically inside her, there was no love involved. I didn’t do it to please her. I was giving the finger to all of white female America.”
Struggling For Your Consideration
Summary: Freelance journalism didn’t always come easy for me. In the beginning, it was a struggle just to land a simple press junket for a movie. This story is just one of my many mishaps starting out.
Excerpt: “I pull up to the Regent and hand my car over to valet and dash inside. It’s 10:15 a.m. Fashionably late for check-in, but plenty of time to catch the Press conference. And maybe just enough time for a sausage and scrambled egg? We’ll see. I make my way to the elevators and pause to marvel at how well I remember the hotel since the last and only other time I’ve been here, which was a year ago. DING! The elevator doors open and a not-quite-middle-aged woman steps in after me. I press the button for floor five. The woman glances at my dusty shoulder bag and asks, “Are you here for the junket?”
Tales of High Adventure with Crazy Larry
Summary: Crazy Larry is who I aspire to be in my golden years. He’s inconsiderate of others. He has little to no regard for his personal safety. And he hits on women impulsively and without fear. He’s one of the strangest people I’ve met and this piece practically wrote itself.
Excerpt: “As we drove up the bumpy road to what I can only assume was Larry’s neighborhood, we passed a young black girl, probably around seven years old. Larry leaned over me and yelled out something unintelligible yet friendly at her. The young black girl started after his car. A few moments later, Larry yanked the wheel sharply to the left, taking us off the road and up a steep, leaf-covered slope where his “home” was. What I suppose would have been considered his front yard was littered with old machine parts and derelict appliances. Next to a pile of worn tires stood a rusted oven range with a pair of shears stabbed straight through the range top.”
Summary: Alright, I admit it. I’ve gone through mental therapy. Not because I thought I needed it, mind you, but because I thought the therapist would have had some clout with the college I was going to at the time and would convince the school not to flunk me out, because of my mental “condition.” Never underestimate the things people will do to survive…or avoid being yelled at by their parents.
Excerpt: “Nobody ever thinks they’ll need personal counseling–at least not in the way people think they’ll find riches, happiness, and love. Still, it’s not hard to imagine how therapy works its way into a person’s life. You’re a baby. Everything is new. You get older. You watch your Saturday morning cartoons. You eat your cereal before it gets soggy. Life is good. You get older and your parents are busy working, fighting, or worse, not communicating and you wish life were better. You get older and you see that your attempt to make your life better is failing and all the lies you were told about the straight path to success fade from your ears. You get older. You flip on the tube to take your mind off the mundane mediocrity of your life and you’re bombarded with ad after ad, scaring you into buying the latest happy pill. 250 mg Zanax. 500 mg Prozac. Coke chaser. Next thing you know, therapy has you. You’re sitting in a chair telling your darkest secrets to a stranger who doesn’t really care.”
Summary: People, by and large, want to be accepted. Especially within their own social circle. Therefore, they do a lot of stupid things to fit in. Drinking is my “stupid thing.” My buddies do it and they look like they’re having a blast, so why can’t I? Are they better than me in some way? Faster? Smarter? Have bigger dicks? I refuse to believe that! So I go through the motions and I drink, hoping it’s going to be one of those miracle nights where I don’t have puke running down the front of my shirt.
Excerpt: “I could already feel the chemicals swishing around my innards like the chemical catalyst to a bomb. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, hoping that when I woke I would be safe in my apartment with the night behind me. No such luck. Steve turned on the radio and, being midnight on Saturday, all the stations played techno, rife with “bwoops,” and “zoots,” and sound bytes of Martin Luther King Jr. Furthermore, my head was reclined far enough back that my face was no longer beneath the roof of the car, but instead under the incline of the rear window. What this afforded me was constant acid trip flashes in my eyes through my eyelids each time we drove under a streetlamp, which were many. The techno and the lights all melded with my stupor into a private rave inside my head.”
Summary: An entry from my old blog. This continues the story of Rebecca in the Dear John story. I’ve edited it a bit for readability.
Excerpt: “I fell in love with a girl a long time ago. She was smart, capable, engaging, and a natural beauty. She brought fun into my otherwise rigid and rehearsed life. I was 11. She was a classmate. I moved away, but I kept in touch with her; mailed her lengthy letters filled with short stories and drawings. With my friend, The Mormon’s, help, I upgraded from letters to audio cassettes, punctuating our commentary with poignant songs. This went on for years. She never wrote back. But I still loved her in the way that only children know how to love: blind and unconditional.”
