When Keeping it Real goes Wrong

In celebration of Black History Month, I like to expand my horizons - watch black cinema and culture and see the myriad of contributions that have been made to our society (not that we don't see that enough every day, we now have a federally-imposed month to remind us). Gone are the days of Amos and Andy, Li'l Black Sambo, and the 70's Blaxploitation era of Super Fly and Shaft. Instead there is today's cleaned-up, politically correct BET and Oprah to off-set these traditional stereotypes, but I like to go for more of the underground film producer - one who likes to keep it as real as possible, and as a result I give to you ROCK STARS - the documentary of crack cocaine users in New Jersey. It is funny and shameless at the same time. Just like Bumfights, you have people who are willing to degrade themselves for the camera, although not through the use of violence. You see these crack heads light up and tweak at the same time, and then do the "crack head bend" looking for the same piece of rock that they've already smoked. The film producer interviews about 4 or 5 people total and has them hold toy guitars while they're speaking, in an obvious exploitation theme. One woman claims to have had 9 kids, but 3 of them died since she was too busy trying to get her next fix. Some guy is missing the fingers on one of his hands and only has a thumb that he uses to hold his crack pipe. Another woman claims that some thugs beat her in the cooch with a hammer. When asked as to how this whole affliction entered the ghetto, they blame "whitey" each and every time, even though they score from their neighbors down the street. I don't know about you, but last time I checked, the Colombian drug cartels that ship this crap into our nation were predominantly hispanic, but I could be completely off on this one! What's sad (or depending on how you look at it, humorous) is that these drug addicts all think that some how their problems will magically disappear one day, and that some great supernatural hand will deliver them like Moses and the Jews from Egypt. Never once do any of them say "I'm gonna get help and stay clean". If there is any take home message they all agree on, is that not to get started on drugs, with their hollow lives as being quite possibly the best example as a result.

While there is an honest attempt to bring to mainstream media the problem that drug addiction has on the streets, the whole thing smacks of someone trying to get rich off of another person's affliction. It's shameless capitalism at it's worst, only because the whole thing was poorly put together. Anthony Quinn, the producer, can take some lessons from those assholes who made the Bumfights series if he ever wants to make a sequel to this otherwise complete waste of film by using "Bling-Bling" the crack-head for some comic relief and by taking more of a Jerry Springer approach to it.

She bought your love but you paid for it Day

To the bitches who should be making this day memorable.



Enjoy.

Speed Dating

One thing I try to do is stick to routines - constants if you will. It makes my life alot more predictable and easier to manage. The things I can't control - irritable bowels, male pattern baldness, or that rash from that one Eastern European girl I met a long time ago - I just have to accept as being a part of those things life won't let you bargain with. The same goes for dating. Well in this case, Speed Dating. As much as I try to control my interactions with women, ultimately you're S.O.L. in the end, and will go to one of these things sooner or later like I did. Take 20 horny losers, and 20 broads that are all damaged goods, and throw them together in an atmosphere that reeks of desperation and spilled booze. Plus $3 martinis to add as an ice-breaker, and it's a recipe for a late night therapy group but without the guilt associated. Myself, I've never been one for fancy drinks - Jack and Coke or beer has always been my fave, but since I've been living in Europe these past 2 1/2 years I've also become a wine sipping homo on occasion as well. Hey, I know what you're thinking but don't knock it - the Germans have some damn good wine that comes from the Mosel, plus the hangover the next morning doesn't make you feel like you've been violated by a bunch of soccer hooligans either, but I digress. This isn't about paying homage to a bunch of smelly assholes whose idea of culture is based off of what some lazy Romans did thousand of years ago. This is about paying homage to the ONLY ASSHOLE whose idea is based off of what some lazy Romans did thousands of year ago - ME, GODDAMMIT!!! So anycase like I was saying, Speed Dating - the last ditch effort for bar flies and outcasts to find true love without having to admit they've thrown away the best years of their lives and are now a bunch of has-beens. How more pathetic can you get? Heh, well if you're me there's plenty of more room to go but for once I figure I'd forego cold showers and my X-Box 360 in hopes of scoring some bottom-of-the-barrel poontang. The guys lining up were alot younger than me and looked better, but they were all fucking dorks like I was when I was in my younger 20's and didn't know how to communicate with women. As for the women, heh - they were all burnt-out sluts whose brains had been fried from too many drinks spiked with GHB or fat beasts who reek of chicken grease and butt sweat, I kid you not - one girl I met was as big as that one bitch from Deuce Bigalow - you know - the one with the weight problem YES, THIS ONE. Goddammit, I thought I was about to start quoting scenes from the movie when I saw her. I did my best to control myself when I was stuck at her table, but ultimately I bailed early by saying I had to go to the bathroom. So in theory you spend a few minutes at each table and if you don't like the girl then there's no pressure to shoot her down publicly. Instead you write down on the card which people you wanna bang and leave the rest to the crew organizing everything. Me being the royal prick that I am, thought I had game over all these losers and with each martini I slammed, I became more and more of the Sex Demon I imagine myself to be. The ladies will find my wit charming and the gray highlights in my hair sophisticating. It will only be a matter of time before I have them lined outside the back of the black rusted van, waiting in line to experience The Machine. I am fucking on fire, I am fucking unstoppable! Right? WRONG. The only girl who took an interest in me turned out to be more butch than most the guys in there, and looked like she could hog-tie a gorilla after bitch-slapping it open handed. Was I supposed to be happy that she's trying to break her vicious cycle of Dickies Jeans and hormone therapy, or should I be scared of this estrogen deficient freak and dismantle the distributor cap in her monster truck, so I can get away safely without becoming her next man-slave? I value keeping my genitals in tact! Thinking it over cautiously, I decided to do what any guy who hasn't been laid in a very long time did - I RAN. Like hell if I'm going to take one for the team. I AM THE TEAM, GODDAMMIT! The TEAM is ME!! No wingman to catch my fall or steer me clear of the pitfalls in life, I gotta think for myself - I am that boxer getting his ass beat in the ring, I am that door-to-door travelling salesman making the calls. I am Lt Dan without Forrest Gump, and no way in hell am I gonna jump on a grenade. If it's one thing I learned about certain women is that once you start associating yourself with them, you get locked into that mentality. "Once you go black you never go back" has been coined for a reason, and I'm not about to date the other-other white meat if you catch my drift. I like my women to look like women, even if they have more baggage than LAX. So will I ever do speed dating again? Perhaps but in the meantime I'm working on the Shivering Isles extension pack of Oblivion for X-Box 360 and would rather spend time fighting smelly beasts than actually dating them. This post isn't called "Coyote Ugly" and that's for an entirely different time all together. Heh.