Blackhumouristpress's Blog

July 30, 2013

Mod Night- Then and Now

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 5:33 am
Tags: , , , , ,

Many people, who knew Matt Luc, knew him as either Matt or Luc but not both. Matt’s father was a fan of Westerns and the fictional character named Matt Dillion on the television show, Gunsmoke. Luc’s mother was a fan of the French Jazz violinist Jean-Luc Ponty. One person, two names.
Luc showed up at the hip little club run by an old Mod friend who was intelligent, smooth, musically talented, physically capable black man, immersed in an urban white wonderland of chic lighting, boutique finger food, alternative music to alternative music among twenty somethings who had defected their mundane, predicable suburban upbringings for something beer commercials are made of. Mike wore a pork-pie hat and smiled at Luc from behind the bar as he entered.
Luc scanned the dim room looking for people he knew when there was a Soviet Union, leaded gasoline, Ronald Reagan and… Joan Rivers. Those that remembered Luc remembered a moody Los Angeles kid prone to fist fights, a transplant that never really was a Mod. He was a former Punk Rocker who was drawn to the energy of Ska. Luc stood in the doorway in the same Florsheim penny loafers he wore thirty years ago, with the same Two-Tone checkerboard socks he wore in high school. He wore a fitted black long sleeved shirt, black pants and a black Porkpie hat. The song, That’s Entertainment by the Jam had just started playing through the speakers in the club. The unmistakable strum of the first chord on guitar and the bass line.

Two lovers kissing amongst the scream of midnight
Two lovers missing the tranquility of solitude
Getting a cab and traveling on buses
Reading the graffiti about slashed seat affairs

A song can bring one back like a scent, a photo or something said that brings on déjà vu. Everyone in the room had the scene in common. The idea of an all-nighter dance party with drugs and alcohol and the hope of casual one time sex was what drew the Mods together on Mod Nights. They had been trying hard to capture something that happened twenty years earlier in England. Thin lapel suits, parka coats, bobbed haircuts, dessert boot shirts, Vespa scooters and toe tapping, finger popping Northern Soul, psychedelic rock with intermittent Ska. Warm summer nights, dancing and eyeing someone who caught your eye. Who are you? Where are you from? How did you get into this scene? Where are you going to go to college? What will the rest of your life look like?
Not many could have imagined aging, shackled down by marriage, careers, offspring and bills. Luc took a sip of his drink and thought about coming of age with his convertible Fiat, his Lambretta Scooter, his sanctuary of living on a quiet tree lined suburban street that he returned to after nights of dancing and romancing. There was peace in the stability of returning home to sleeping grandparents who at that time, had the responsibility of paying bills, working full time and worrying about the world, the country and where the economy might be going. We were going to live forever or at least a really long fucking time. Thirty years is a long time and when you’re eighteen, it might as well be forever.
The scooter girls, the lead singer from the local premier Mod band, the guy who was known for looking Mod, the guy who nobody could ever imagine in anything but a sharp three-button suit, who was the glue that kept it together back then and now. They all listened to music, some danced, some drank, all reminisced on a warm summer night. The way it used to be.
Luc never said goodbye to anyone. He walked out as he walked in. Once in his car, he put the windows down and forwarded the More Specials CD to a song called Enjoy Yourself and drove back to reality.

It’s good to be wise when you’re young
‘Cos you can only be young but the once
Enjoy yourself and have lots of fun
So glad and live life longer than you’ve ever done

Enjoy yourself; it’s later than you think
Enjoy yourself, while you’re still in the pink
The years go by, as quickly as you wink
Enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself,
It’s later than you think.

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July 23, 2013

Never Tear Us Apart

“My old man dies and doesn’t leave me his antique cars, his house, his summer house, his condo in Florida, his restaurants but he leaves me a fucking horse?”
“Yes… A horse. The horse is housed at the Hazel Park track and is a harness racer. Your father saw to it that all the expenses for the horse are taken care of. There is a note that goes along with this if you would like me to go ahead and read it.” Said the Attorney.
“Sure… Read the fucking note.”
Nicholas,
I had always hoped that you would have had my ambition to succeed and persevere. You had extraordinary talent for ice hockey and were content living in my basement to play beer pong and X-Box. The fact that I owned several Coney Island restaurants and you were content being counter help for minimum wage instead of helping me run things, sent up a red flag years ago. I have left the chain of restaurants to your sister as well as my homes and cars. You can have that beat up old home in Detroit that you now live in with your friend and I too leave you my horse. I was given this horse as a gift and I am giving it to you as a gift. I envision you and your bust-out buddy, sitting in the stands at Hazel Park betting your pittance against your own horse. It is yours to do with as you wish. Your mother always came to your rescue whenever I tried to push you along and you never amounted to much. I love you, Nicholas but could not in good conscience give all that I created to you just to have it melt away. Have fun with the horse.

Dad

“My dad was always a tight waded motherfucker… So when can I see my horse?”
Nick finished playing morning pick up hockey with Anthony at the Hazel Park rink in suburban Detroit and showed up at the stable where their horse was housed. In the stable was a small black man in a Speedo bathing suit and a pair of Timberland boots that was singing and doing Tai Chi moves. He had long hair and was ripped, as he was petite. Josiah sang the INXS song, Two Worlds Colliding. Josiah was unaware of the two large white men watching him as he closed his eyes and sang until tears came to his eyes.

Don’t ask me
What you know is true

Don’t have to tell you
I love your precious heart

I
I was standing,
you were there

Two worlds collided
And they could never tear us apart


We could live
For a thousand years
But if I hurt you
I’d make wine from your tears


I told you
That we could fly
’cause we all have wings
But some of us don’t know why


I
I was standing
You were there,
Two worlds collided
And they could never ever tear us apart.
“Fucking great… I inherited a broken down horse with a gay Sammy Davis Jr. horse jockey.”
The smallish black man stepped up to the two white men without fear. He spoke like the Geico gecko which surprised the men even more.”
“Take me for a fucking poofter will ya? I’ve shagged more female white and dark meat in me loife than Colonel fucking Sanders could shake a stick at, mate. Fuck with me and you’ll be feeding the fucking trees. Now then… Who the fuck are you?”
Josiah’s great-great-great grandfather had been taken on ship from England and dumped in Australia. Josiah’s ancestor was a former slave that was imprisoned and had found aboriginal people and mated with them. Josiah wanted to be a singer and actor and was working his way to Hollywood from Sydney, Australia and was stuck in a quagmire, which was Detroit. Josiah was talking with two career recreational, non-paid ice hockey players who never quite made it and they never made it because they lacked drive and dedication. They coasted throughout their twenties and at the cusp of thirty years of age, they were about to become inspired by a Prince look-a-like who was determined to win harness races, earn enough money and move to California to be discovered.
Josiah took the hands of Anthony and Nick and looked them intently in their eyes and began to sing again.
“You were standing… I was there… Two worlds colliding and they could never tear us apart… We were fucking brought together by a hoi-er being for the purpose of making it, mates. Let’s not fuck this up, eh?”
Nick and Anthony laughed hardy laughs and took their jockey to a Detroit Tigers game and then to the casino. They got trashed and then formed a triumvirate. Within a year, their horse won enough money for Nick and Anthony to buy a low-level minor league hockey franchise for $30,000 in the Michigan League. On Friday and Saturday nights, you can find them playing for their own team at a rink in Suburban Detroit. Patrons pay $5.00 to see fights and a little hockey. Working at a coffee shop in West Hollywood, California is a singing, small black man with a strong Australian accent, passionately desperate to realize his dreams so much so that he inspires all those that he touches to try harder and keep hope truly alive. Two worlds colliding.

July 16, 2013

These Days…

Filed under: humor,poem — blackhumouristpress @ 7:03 am
Tags: , ,

Strip the veneer of suburban strip mall hell
I can see it in the whites and the whites of their eyes
Don’t shoot! It’s just a hood.
I know what I should; it’s just so hard
2/3rds of everything cooked in lard
chemicals, animals and minerals
expanding waists and universe
comfort foods and depressed moods
suicide, Kardashian brides- choose the number two with two sides.

Use a Geiger counter to measure the pleasure
By buying this product
Guaranteed to bring results quicker than a microwave
Jesus saves, seismic waves, Obama legacy in the land of the free and home of the brave.
By the way- we know what you’re thinking, we know what you’re doing
You terrorist, anti-social activist. Encrypted scripted responses held close to the vest.
Try to hide what your thinking in these days of GPS

July 9, 2013

I’d Buy a Gun

Abe had a razor thin beard and moustache, wore tight jeans with pointy white shoes and smelled of cologne to the point that the bulletproof room that he did business behind, always smelled like Axe. Abe told people he was Persian and most Americans who asked his nationality assumed he came from the same land as carpets and cats that were also Persian too. Abe learned early on that claiming to be Iranian drew negativity to his gas station/pawn shop/video gambling hall.
Abe changed his named from Abufasal upon learning that an American president by the name of Abe, set slaves free.
“Bro… I was named after Lincoln. I’m on your side, bro. You want King Cobra or Olde English 800?”
Abe was a quick study in Americana and learned fast that there was money to be made off of liquor, gambling and desperation of the poor and addicted by loaning money and buying jewelry. Abe drove a Mercedes sedan that he bought off of a businessman in Johannesburg that was bullet proof and had the capabilities of spraying tear gas. Abe made thousands of dollars a day, lived in a nice house with his Russian girlfriend and life was good. Abe exploited a segment of society that was there for the taking. All was well until Illinois passed a concealed weapon law. Abe knew that people packing heat while drinking and gambling, could lead to trouble. One hot and humid evening, things came to a head.
At 12:03am on a Friday in July, a woman wearing a black shroud from head to toe with only a slit for her eyes, ran her car into the back of a Dodge truck with Mississippi plates that read “Johnny reb” with a large confederate flag that hung across the back window. The owner of the truck, bred pit bulls and had just delivered three dogs to some “colored folk” on Chicago’s west side. Johnny Reb was purchasing Kodiak chewing tobacco, some gas, a Red bull and a Barely Legal Magazine. He would make Mississippi by daybreak if he drove through the night. A squeegee man came into the mini mart to report the fender bender to Johnny Reb.
“Eh man… That yo red truck with the fucked up flag in the back?”
“Yeah, what of it?”
“Well them terrorist looking motherfuckers, side swiped yo shit?”
Johnny Reb was about to walk out of the mini mart without paying when Abe locked the door. Johnny Reb pushed and pushed until Abe’s voice came on the loud speaker.
“If you vant the Barely Legal, chewing tobacco and the Red Bull, you must pay for that first. I don’t have a lay away program for these items.”
Just as Johnny Reb was getting his change, a female figure, escorted by a Middle Eastern male, entered the mini mart. She seemed to float in like a ghost. All Johnny Reb could see was her eyes. Johnny went out to inspect his vehicle and noticed green paint on his truck that was badly scratched. Johnny Reb came marching back.
“All y’all sand Negroes gone hafta pay foh the damage to mah gawd damn truck.”
The male brushed Johnny Reb off with a flick of the wrist.
“I know nothing of your truck, sir.”
“Yeah… Well this here man seen you hit mah truck… Tell em, dude.”
“Did you call them negroes?”
“Bitch, did you see them hit mah car or not?”
“Bitch? Whose you talking to? You better git into yo damn truck and git the fuck back to Mississippi or wherever the fuck you from. We don’t sit at the back of no fucking bus up here.”
With that, Johnny Reb pulled out a gun and pointed at the squeegee man and then at the Muslim couple.
“You people up here are all fucked up and I ain’t got no time foh bullshit. We can do this the right way or somebody gone pay foh this with they life.”
At that moment, in the mini market a Vietnam Vet pulled a gun, a Mexican gangbanger, A White Sox Fan, a Cubs Fan and a Baptist Minister and a frail white woman with two cats, a hybrid car with several Obama stickers all had guns drawn at each other in the mini mart. The only safe person was Abe behind the bulletproof glass. Abe pulled the microphone towards his mouth and slowly spoke.
“This is America, man. People are created equal to do what they want and dress how they want and believes in god or not. Your forefathers didn’t die so that you could come up in this place and kill one an other. Independence Day should mean something to us all. You all came across the ocean on the Mayflower, right? I’m going to ask all of you to put down your guns and be sensible. Who wants a red wine or Jolly Ranchers? Lets have something here and chill out.”
A shot was never fired that night, a day after Independence Day. A day that represented freedom from tyranny and to others, a day off with liquor and fireworks. Some might have reasoned that the fact that everyone in the mini market/gas station/video gambling/pawn shop had guns, helped diffuse the situation. Then again it could have been Abe’s words that touched everyone and made them take a step back and appreciate that they were Americans, living in the best, most capable and powerful nation that god ever thought of creating. Then again, it was probably the guns.

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