GABFEST

No Words, How The Story Ends For Now

/ ludlumdrive / Leave a comment

Originally sent to friends on November 4, 2008

I was searching for a better heading to forename this piece and many came to mind but nothing was sticking.  I played around with a few but nothing seemed to have enough clout to nibble my liking; so, I opted to having no words.  I have no words. I have no words to describe what I feel, no words to interpret what this means and no words to translate its limbs.

I need to weak up from this big roar, the cold shower that has frozen me in the interim as I have yet to process what this is all about.

A flow of wires is running through my brain and tears are emblemizing my cheeks, my heart is pumping at speed of light, and I am shaking. I am bewildered and it has not sinking in.

I am hallucinating from it all.  I am still floating on a couple of balloons shivers drifting down my spine as the barrel tumbled down.  I am in awe, subdued, all chocked up in a ball of emotions with pride and I have no words. I have never seen it, I have never experienced it, and I never thought I would see this day – a play that I thought I would never be able to witness in my lifetime. It is mind bugling, exhilarating and one hell of a page-turner.

My heart hammered perfidiously as I wept convulsively as I learned that Barack Obama has come victorious for this nation highest office. I squirmed back and forth biting my nails throughout the night as I waited nervously for the results. I was locked in a steel box and dumped in a wall hanging only by pins and nails, high adrenalin waiting for the ball to drop.

The feather begun to descend slowly oscillating, and waiting for the perfect place to land. The goalie positioned at the basket patiently waiting for the perfect score. The world stopped and I waited for the pin to drop.

For twenty-one excruciating months now, the pundits have been at it, giving their two cents, estimating, satirizing.  Each side mined with a perfect agenda hoisting their own game, pushing their own calculator and wonder contraceptive injecting a drill into my brain. The surrogates armed with ferocious menacing play-by-play sound bytes selling cheap spit, perpetuating me into a dangling yoyo.

This election made a pariah out of me and I obsessed with everything election.

I could not go a day without the seductive pill. It was delivered either via the tube or the net to the point of contaminating my peeps. It was additive, captivating, and downright maniacal, and yet draining. It was like killer bees going for the prey and splattering honey; bubble gums ready to pop.

I could not go anywhere without breading election. I could not turn one TV station without having my adrenalin mutilated by their every penetrating drunken words pounding, pounding, pounding vociferously into my dwindle soul.  I could not pick up one magazine without breeding election with pictures of the candidates splashed everywhere.

I was on a bubble and left alone to treat my dependency – my doing for having licensed myself to the quandary, and resorted to lollipop, which gave me a nauseating heartburn.

As if academic and as I was not tortured enough, the networks instituted the countdown clock; the little box of different colors depending where you were, on the right hand corner of the TV screen that kept winking at me every time I looked at it. Moment by moment, tic tack, tic tack, tic tack, it begun registering the seconds, tic tack, the minutes, tic tack, and the hours tic tack, intoxicating my psyche even deeper as if I did not care to ingest it.

My head spun into ferocious loop scouting for a stick to land.  I was already in a drunken stupor mode when it was alerted to me that the clock was not in my jewelry box but on the store display. I envied it for a moment but pluck right back into harmonic pastures with trickery Powerball jams: he is ahead, he is behind; he is up, no the campaign is dead; he has pulled away, how is going to find his mojo; October surprise, last minute push, miracle on the road, polls don’t count, polls count, look at numbers, he has no chance, there will be a surprise, on the home stretch, six days, five days, four days, etc, etc, etc… oh Lord stop please?! No, they did not stop and I did not turn off the TV either.

And so it was.

Like any major disease, the first round of pills did not work. As time widen down, the acceleratory rhetoric elevated even more. It was akin to a spinning class as the days changed to hours and pedaled, pedaled, pedaled driving my anxiety heartburn to needing zantax. I opted to release my burner on a basketball field, not playing basketball but jogging.

I did not get to Obama bandwagon until when the wave begun to turn. I belonged to the 18 million cracks of glass ceiling and was proud of it. Who could have imagined it? I must confess that I was part of the pejorative black section who was skeptical of a black man ever being nominated for a major party less again reaching the highest office in the land. But Hillary made it possible by making him a better candidate as the primary prolonged.

This country has come a long way from the days when Mr. Story, my English 101 professor told me “what are you doing here. Why don’t you go back to my country?” or the time when I was passed over for promotion countless times just because there was no because, or those of us who have been accused of preposterous just because of the color of our skin.

But all did not matter as we came together as country juicily starving for change. It was awesome to see streams of colorless aisles marching through the tunnel to deposit a vote for a black president or the sea of monochrome flashes at Grant Park in Chicago. The divisiveness that drove us apart, young and old, black and white, Jews and gentiles, yellow, pink or orange, brought us together in an immeasurable proportion and deliciously we became a purple nation.

In the end, race did not matter neither did the Bradley effect, neither did Ayres, neither did Jeremiah, neither did the patriotism; a testament to what we have become. Where else can a minority be elected President? Not in France, not in England, not in Italy, not in Australia, not in Japan, not in Argentina, not in Brazil, not in Iceland… not in any western hemisphere nation but only in America.

We have elected the first minority President of a free world and for that we have to pad ourselves on the back. The mountain is stiff and difficult to climb; and even if he turns out to be the hopeless or dreamless President, he has transformed us; he has opened the doors and good or bad, the new chapter is here; we can finally holler that change has really come to America.

What a race, what a fight, and what an amazing drive it was.  The battle is over and the party has just begun. Where were you when …

Congratulations to President Barack Obama, COC – Community Organizer in Chief

To All Liberal Media

/ ludlumdrive / 1 Comment

Dear Crazy (not lips!) Libs,

I hear you have been thrown in a blender, put in a glass and served chilly. I hear you have been put in a platform, thrown in a ring and under the bus.

Rumor has it you are a punching bag of sorts for everything traditionalist, a terrifying ear for a bullhorn and chili sauce for Tostitos. They don’t think highly or have much regard for you. They grumble daily that you are a menace to society, pesticide, and a disease that they do not fancy.

They strike and hammer you but you continue to lick your gashes without shame. You continue to open the doors, cuddle and barefacedly invite them to your party; yet they still spit at you. You continue and yet they still spit at you; they still spit at you and are still spiting on you… hoof, I pity the foul!

Considering that you are a disease and might infect the almighty;

Considering that they believe you are wicked and sinful, have no scruples; they question your wisdom; they do not give any credence to your position and would like you to go away;

Considering that you don’t believe in evolution and they do;

Considering that you are and will always cry “victim” and “feel sorry” for yourself; you are masochist and don’t mind the beating; you would not like them to blame you for their immaculate collapses; you are drained of hearing the same old rhetoric;

Considering that they are not looking for full-court media press, pass them the baton; why not, why not for a month or at least a week, allow all, turn your back on anything and everything republican. Don’t talk to, interview or refer to them in no way, shape or form on your newscast, blog or print. Just do not do it!

If you see them walking towards your microphone, run away, disappear like they yearn you to; do not let them near anything you whatsoever; leave them on their own for a time or for as long as you are able.

If you see them coming towards you in a parking lot, scream bloody Mary Joseph Madeleine, call the police and point out that they are not harassing you; they are not coming to get you; they are just coming to straighten your ways so you can have good manners and please keep silent while they rant. Let them teach you how to conduct yourself.

If they have a book, a documentary or a show, any event to promote, don’t book them on your program, don’t listen to their agents or publicist, do not read what they are sharing. If they invite you to their program, decline, do not attend. And if you come around to finally accept them on your show, do not fuss; do not introduce the topic of the conversation or raise any subject; do not get into a debate – shuhh it is a trap; give them more than an inch, park yourself gently across from them and stare, set the alarm clock and give them the floor, let them speak, spew out for the duration of the segment, and when the alarm goes off and their time is up, thank them for having been there and move on to the next segment.

Do not invite them to appear on your movies, documentary, TV show since you Hollywood – yes, I am pointing at you fake rich people – are a fantasyland and the basis for everything appalling and immoral, and don’t let them in your theaters either. Locate their TV signal and blackout the entire liberal shows from reaching them; do not watch any of their shows, performances or movies; don’t be out of your character. Do not read any of their books, magazines; do not read none of their blogs, do not infer to, link or mention them anywhere in the air or sea. Do not gang – you bunch of criminals – on them even if they are forthcoming; let them say whatever is on their minds and desire. Do not court, watch or listen to them; have a real media blackout day and enjoy the reputation of being a discriminator, a bona fide “real” jackass, show them your quirky side by hiding your self-governing smug.

If you are like many after having water thrown at you, after having been kicked on the groin, taking so much crap and hearing numerous spiteful chants; you either fade away, give the other cheek or punch back; something (any action demands a reaction), whatever fits your fancy.

In concluding this fallacy, instead of giving them the lip service, give them chocolate or butter; do not heed to their bawl.  If they are looking to be in the spot light, enjoy bashing you because it makes them feel good, terrific; just do not refer them to Mr. Feel good shrink or Who Let the Dogs Out.  And if you are or consider yourself a liberal or a member of the liberal media, change your locker, TV and radio station; don’t let pity clout your judgment.  Entertain their thoughts and judgment and do whatever they like; give in to their requests, become a butler to their own domain.

The balance is in the pudding.

Sincerely,

Misery Loves Company

Bazooka Joe and his GANG (No, ME), a Christmas party

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I was at company’s Christmas party this past Thursday – yeah, they make it a Thursday thing to tamper us from globetrotting, as if it was ever a deterrent for excessive intake of the good stuff – when I saw one of the newbie’s and his wife having a grand o’l time. For a person who has only been in the company for three months, he handled it well. He did not miss a beat including dressing up for the occasion. I went as me.

Super Heroes, was the theme of this year’s shindig. There were customs of every types, shapes and forms for the world to see. It was mostly capes and masks but the one that captivated me the most was this dude dressed up as Wonder Woman. He looked gorgeous; well his make up was to die for but since he was an average size guy, he came across like a beautiful grapefruit drag queen but a very shy drag queen.

After cruising around the hall with other colleague dudes, I found the Wonder Woman tucked in a corner with his legs wide open (where are your manners lady!) begging for mercy out of that well tailored suit and high hills pump. I could tell he was hurting. It ain’t easy being a woman. We are used to not breathing. So, I am thinking he was probably a guest of one of the employee’s, otherwise, he would have been jumping around like one true honest to God Super Hero or on his way out up to one of the offices – couches, that’s what we don’t lack. There is one in almost every office in the building.

As I made conversation with him – we only made small talks beforehand; I called him Nacho Libre foosball dude because really, I don’t recall his name, even though we work in the same department three doors down and for the same boss but in different sides of the corridor. (Ok, I don’t really get to mingle a lot with my coworkers other then IMing them, so there. We are too busy producing).

The party was held at the office. It is a huge building with enough space to hold a football game. Come afternoon, they tacked away all the superfluous furniture and installed one majestic ambulatory event with dancers hanging from the ceiling – last year we had a lion, off course he was in a cage, I swear – lights, camera and a nightclub was born. Last year’s was big; this year’s half of the budget went to worthwhile causes which I am totally for.  It did not matter, great time we had.

I detected that Nacho Libre foosball dude was overly ecstatic, dancing his ass off while proudly shooting off his work stories to his wife and me. He came across like he was experiencing his very first company bash as questions begun to flow. Lovely! I have been to millions and have stories.

We were instructed to take all the gadgets and personal belongings home and not to venture off the venue during the festivities. For all sense and purpose, they were not looking for things to wonder away. (shuhh, the main objective was to stop unauthorized “gift exchanges” of the third kind; do you know what I mean?!).

I noticed the joy in his eyes and could not help but add more to his enthusiasm. I told him to wait for the gift. “What do you mean, the gift?”, he asked.  I replied, “the gift, the one’s that they give you at the end of the year and you grin eternally, well at least for six months until something interesting replaces it and you stop talking about it kind of thing”. “Oh that one” (no, not the John McCain type). “Yes that one”, I replied. He grabbed his wife, pulled her off the high chair – we were sitting on these high bar chairs and tables – and run to the dance floor. They danced their feet off and by the time they came back to the table, he only asked for one thing: when. I had no idea but I believed it to be right before Christmas and since the day is just upon us, I am thinking it had to be somewhere before the week was over.

I must confess that the foosball dude was not the only one counting on the “gift”. C’mon, I was salivating; my tongue stretched out to the max all they way to the North Pole. I was counting on it to be my miracle busboy; I was looking for to put it in my refrigerator, my safe and my receipts. I was undeniably counting on it. I was not only counting on it but I was planning to marry it. I planned to swim with it, sketch it, rubber stamped it and make a soup out of it. I had it all mapped out, all lined up, all dreamed up. I knew where it was moving to and where it was going, who was going to drive it and how it was going to be put to service. I just knew it and smelled it, and reached my hand to grab it.

The news was out and the jumping foosball dude was ecstatic. If you must know, the reason for his nacho libre moniker is because he dressed up as Jack Black’s character in the movie.

That was Thursday. Came Friday morning, the emails begun to roll. I saw them, one by one, one after another. They summed us by our last names and in alphabetical order. ‘If your last name starts with so through so, please come grab your gift right now. We are across the street in the red brick building number, second floor. Follow the Holiday signs.’

They kept rolling every 20 minutes or so and around 2:00PM, it came to a halt; the very last email was received. All was not lost however. There was a semi colon to the episode. If you failed to pick it on Friday, no worries, you can still do it on Monday. Ok, I could still do it on Monday so, I breathe. I could still do it on Monday. Santa Claus was still going to deliver.

Right away, my hands quivering, I began to work my magic. I became Libre Nacho ecstatic; fireworks euphoric. I jetted an email to the dudetes at the office to schedule time to pick up the memento on Monday. I even attached a LOL Internet slang thinking that they would be amused. The handkerchief was being handed to me and I could not wait.

Laugh on me it was however; handkerchief, I would need.

Another email arrived and it wasn’t cute! Apparently, the girls were still at the office and responded to me pronto. I opened it pronto too and jubilant about the pronto response.

I thought all were roses but surprise, surprise; it was not to be, at least not this time. All came to a squelching halt as one very potent simple liner was delivered. I am sorry but this year’s holiday gift was for employees only. Just like that blunt. Poof on my face! No gift this year; I was not going to be vaccinated this year! I was not going to drink the Kool-Aid this year because I am not part of the franchise but a borrowed server. Hint, hint freelancer.

I had the marriage certificate taken out already and was on my way to the courthouse but the judge put a break on it. He claimed it to be due to current fever ravaging the country. I swallowed the seed and waited for the tree to grow up through my head.

I was saddened and mumbled my way all through Saturday afternoon as I could not contain my disappointment. The knot was so constricted that I was blowing bubbles.

I was driving out of the mall and still faltering about the tragic episode of the year when I popped one of the bubble gums I had picked from the party in my mouth. Bazooka bubble gums, they used to be so hard since when they became so malleable?

I don’t know what potion the gum possessed, if you ever had Bazooka gums you know that they always roll up mini comic strip stories. Coincidence or not and at point I realized, the only thing I know is that the little piece of paper literately put the whole “bazooka” ordeal into perspective and spoke to me. It literarily, spelled in diminutive red letters, told me to get a grip, to get a life, to not cry over spilled milk. Honesty, I am not bluffing. It reads, ‘Visit Bazookajoe.com To collect cool stuff. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Better yet, don’t sweat at all.’

I know the gift was not mine to begin with so, why was I even attempting to bed it? The answer lies with the Freudian theory (Classical conditioning: learning that involves the association or substitution of a new behaviour or response with a stimulus. Present a hungry dog with food and it will salivate. Classical conditioning occurs if you ring a bell each time you present the food; eventually, the ringing of the bell will be enough to produce salivation. The dog has been conditioned to salivate at the sound of the bell.) I had been given the pill and was looking for it again, that’s simple. I have not spoken neither sent an email, remember I don’t know his name, to Nacho Libre foosball dude so, I have no idea what his thoughts are since he is also another borrowed freelancer.  From what I heard, it was one awesome gift.

bazooka