Bum Rusher Plus

As I sat Thursday night watching the NBA Draft, vicariously sharing in the crowning moments for so many young athletes, some news came across the ticker that shot to the core of my youth like a syringe, Michael Jackson, The King of Pop, pronounced dead on arrival. It was a strange juxtaposition, kids becoming professional men and the passing of a man who became professional before he could ever enjoy being a kid. You may think that the Michael Jackson we all knew and loved died a long time ago, that his ever-increasing alienation was something he brought upon himself, something that made him harder to admire, but that kind of judgment is harsh, especially considering his childhood, or utter lack there of. And despite his alleged legal indiscretions, I suggest that we brush the vilification aside for now and focus on the positive legacy he left behind. Whatever you thought of Michael Jackson the man, his legend is undeniable.

As a child of the early 80’s, “Thriller” was it. I may have only been 5 when it came out but you couldn’t go anywhere without hearing it. It wasn’t punk rock and it wasn’t new wave synth-heavy schlock; it was an injection of the soulful artistry that everyone had been craving. In this sense, “Thriller” saved the music industry. It also catapulted the music video into an art form of it’s own, simultaneously making MTV a cultural mainstay. To this day, “Thriller” has sold more copies than any other album, 109 million. And all tallied, Michael Jackson is responsible for the sale of over 750 million records worldwide. Numbers aside, the man WAS the greatest entertainer of our time. I can’t list how many times my friends and I tried to master the moonwalk. He captivated crowds with more force than anyone since The Beatles and, in the process, became a zeitgeist unto himself. As far as pop-culture is concerned, Michael Jackson was the 80’s.

Something that gets lost in the mosaic of MJ’s image is his generosity. Exact monetary figures are illusive but he’s listed in the Guiness Book of World Records for supporting more charitable organizations (39) than any pop star. Jackson co-wrote “We Are The World” with Lionel Ritchie in support of the USA for Africa fund and the record went on to sell over 20 million copies. A lesser known of MJ’s contributions involves the infamous Pepsi commercial, during the filming of which, Michael’s hair caught fire, causing him to suffer second-degree burns. Pepsi settled out of court for 1.5 million dollars, every cent of which was donated to the Brotman Medical Center where Jackson was treated. The Michael Jackson Burn Center was subsequently built. On May 14, 1984, President Reagan honored Jackson with a reception at The White House for his lofty donations to substance abuse organizations.  For someone who may have come across as “self-absorbed,” Michael Jackson was a prolific philanthropist, someone from whom we could all learn a thing or two about humanity. Rest in peace. 

Race is a weird concept. We share so much at this point that bringing up the word itself ushers in brush-offs and guffaws. Racial differences get hidden under the mattress like porno mags, canopied under the lame p.c. belief that we’re all just people. In essence, this is a good belief, one I subscribe to but, at the same time, I think it’s a shame that race isn’t celebrated more, that ethnic idiosyncrasies aren’t discussed freely, learned from, even laughed at. I understand that living in a predominantly white country town doesn’t provide the best testing ground. Besides the obvious redneck comments that stem from zero exposure and the odd ethos of valuing ignorance; I haven’t sensed any real measure of racial tension since I’ve been back, however, that stands to reason seeing as there aren’t too many people here representing different races. Sometimes I miss the diversity of NYC and San Francisco. I miss the different foods, art forms and eye candy. That isn’t to say these places are better than the country. They aren’t. They’re just different, and that’s the point.

My woman lives in Boston so twice a month I make the drive and, despite being a die-hard New York sports fan, I always manage to enjoy myself. But a few weeks ago I had one of the strangest experiences of my life. While perusing the men’s section at a downtown department store, my girlfriend said to me; “I wish I was a guy,” stating her belief that we have it much easier when it comes to fashion. To that, I replied, “I’m glad you’re not,” and continued on to the dressing room. When I came out, a young black man abruptly confronted me. He said; “You should be careful when you say things like that.” “Like what?” I replied. “You told your girl to watch her bag.” “What?!?” I exclaimed. An argument ensued but nothing changed. He mistook “I’m glad you’re not” for “watch your bag” and somewhere out there in Boston someone thinks I’m a bigot. Despite my anger, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit sorry for this guy. Something is obviously wrong on a more fundamental level when ignorance, from the aspect of any race, permeates the men’s section of Marshall’s between two perfect strangers. But still, in lieu of this rationale, I was fuming. I wanted to fuck this guy up. So I turned and followed him toward the escalator. I yelled as he went up. People stared. Nothing was resolved.

The frustration of not being able to explain and exculpate myself was too much for me to handle so I did what I thought was the next best thing, I called one of my black friends. In retrospect, that action could be analyzed; did I need validation that I am not, in fact, a racist? What my friend told me was simple, sad and true; “Ignorance is ignorance. Some of us just aren’t trying to hear it, and you can’t force people to listen.” It helped hearing this in the sense that a black person was telling me racial tension comes from both sides of the fence. I’ve never been accused of being a racist. Back in the day I was always pegged as a wigger and my hip-hop stylings were mocked by older jocks. Would it have helped to tell this guy at Marshall’s that I write for Okayplayer, that my favorite band is The Roots, that my favorite book is Roots, that Vanessa Blue is far and away my favorite porn star? Doubtful. That comes off as contrived and insincere and besides - fuck that guy; I don’t need to prove shit to some stranger. But I’d be lying if I said that knowing some idiot out there will be forever telling the story of how one day he crusaded for justice against some dumb cracker in Boston didn’t bother me a little.

Walking around with a mustache is pretty fucking weird. It makes people uncomfortable. And not only with questions like, are you a rapist? Or, do you love guns? But also because they don’t know if you’re kidding or not. If you weren’t born before 1962, you have no business rocking a stash. Back in the 70’s and 80’s they were cool and dudes from that era that still sport them have been grandfathered in. Do you have any idea how many inner thighs Tom Selleck must have rashed-up? Rollie Fingers was also the man. No professional athlete ever looked so much like a musketeer.

The past couple days were like 90 degrees, and sweating like a Chinese factory worker is all well and good in the course of a good days work but when shit starts sticking in your facial hair and you scratch at it like you have VD on your face it’s time to make a change. So I figured fuck it, I’m in the country, I work with a bunch of Mexicans and RedNecks (2 highly mustache-friendly sub-cultures) and my girl has a great sense of humor. Stash it is.

After I first shaved it in I went to the grocery store and I was a bit timid. I kept my Ipod on an avoided major eye contact but as I walked around I noticed something; I wanted to approach all strangers in public places and ask them for their license and registration. Nothing says undercover pig like a thick stash, a Yankees hat and big sunglasses. So I practiced saying some key phrases later that night. I got my voice low and scruffy like, “Hey shitbird, you ever been to prison? You ever suck a black guy’s dick? These are questions you gotta start asking yourself.”

So I kept it and went to work. As soon as I got out of my car I saw Paco. He grinned approvingly and gave me a solid nod. 

In my never-ending quest to reintegrate myself into the cultural fabric of rural Columbia County, New York, I joined my man Pappy for a day of maple syrup cooking. Mid March is usually money because the temperature is freezing at night but warm in the day and this combo allows the sap to hold in the tree overnight then release down through the tap lines once the sun hits it and it thaws. The best thing about making maple syrup is that it involves constant fire and drinking, the later an improvement developed by the white man once this process, along with everything else holy, was usurped from Northeastern Algonquin Indians in the 15^th Century or so. All terrain vehicles are also a bonus. So upon cracking my first beer I picked up an axe and began showing off my wood-chopping prowess. The chopped wood is consistently fed into a big oven that heats the vats of raw sap. Once enough wood was chopped, veins popped and female on-lookers wowed, I hopped on the ATV, which looked like something out of the Gulf War or Viva La Bam, a golf cart on steroids covered in camo that did 50, sick. I whipped around some cornfields and through streams, got covered in mud and felt exhilarated. The collected raw sap looks just like water and has a very slight hint of sweetness. This stuff gets put into a 500 gallon holding drum then pumped steadily into the hot vats and that’s that. It’s all about timing and patience. That’s where the beer comes in. And at this level of redneck-dom, with all the trucks and smoke and whatnot, we could have been running a meth lab bigger than anything this side of Breaking Bad. But it’s a family affair. Parents and in-laws stop in throughout the day to shoot the shit and taste the uncut raw. Truthfully, I don’t even like maple syrup but due to the rise of fuel costs over the last few years, little mom & pop operations like this are fucking killing it. Throw this shit in a “local handicraft” clay jar or something and the city folk will gobble it up like cock. So I’ve decided to abandon the idea of grad school and rock out crawdad style instead. I’ve fallen deeply in love with the feeling of insulated flannel on my skin. 

When I lived in NYC I developed an intricate knowledge of public restrooms. Being left literally assed-out with nowhere to shit in the city goes beyond feelings of panic and cold sweats. Gone wrong, it can be the most dehumanizing event since Katrina. Since I used to spend most of my time downtown and especially loved grubbing at this one Indonesian restaurant that had bangin’ curry, the shithouse of the Barnes & Nobles on Astor became my spizzot. It was in the very back of the store and it didn’t lock since there were like 3 stalls in the men’s room so you didn’t have to front like you were buying something to get a key and it was right near the magazines so you could roll in with reading material Castanza-style. This became my home away from home, I would structure my Saturdays around it because anyone who knows, knows that IBS + NYC = SOL.

So this weekend I was back in NY. I took the time off from my lady to go see some friends, eat some bomb ethnic food, see some bomb ethnic ass and basically (re)assess whether moving to the country was the right move. But never mind all that. Saturday night we went to a dope dinner in Brooklyn. I had a goat cheese and beat salad followed by blackened catfish. I had cleaned the pipes before going out to avoid a disaster in my pants and to enjoy my meal worry-free. We paid the check and walked to a bar. Shots were poured, a horseshoe booth was secured and a Chinaman danced with some lezbos. Brooklyn.

Brooklyn, for what it makes up in space, diversity and flavor, it lacks in frequency of public venues, i.e., bathrooms. By now I was a bit drunk and the booze must have relaxed my abdomen because it came on like a summer storm, quick and without warning. The bar was small and I knew I couldn’t do it there for fear of being pegged as the guy who blew up the entire spot for the rest of the night. I went outside and looked from side to side for anything open, restaurant, bar, bodega, anything. Nothing. I went back in, walked straight back to the unisex bathroom, entered and took the longest, loudest, most disgusting shit this side of Mumbai. Mad people pulled and banged but I wasn’t moving for anyone. It was like that scene in “Grandma’s Boy” when the guy gets busted beating off like, “I can’t stop cumming!!!” I couldn’t stop shitting. I felt imprisoned. If there was a window I would have climbed out and met my friends later but there wasn’t so I finished in ten minutes, slammed the door behind me and lowered my eyes as I glided out passed some hot girl who was next in line.

I went back to the booth, shamed and dehydrated from sweating. A minute later, guess who sat right across from me in the adjacent booth? The hot girl who just inhaled my dinner. It would be nice to end this entry with something cool like she sent me a beer and winked cuz she liked how unabashed I was in shitting in public. But no, she looked away with disapproving eyes and turned around to tell her friends.