Sunday, December 7, 2008

The Artist Within

As a child, and through my teenage and young adult years, I drew something every single day. My cousin Ariel, can tell you how I had folders, and folders and folders full of sketches, and scraps of things that I drew. A few weeks ago, as I had lunch with a co-worker/friend, So-Yon, she questioned why I had stopped drawing and encouraged me to get back into it. Then this past weekend, my boy Tim, reminded me about this craft, and he gave me the same words of advice. Is it a calling? I don't know, but I decided to start things off by looking through my old drawings and reflect on what was once my best friend, and my favorite thing to do. Now, since my move to the Boogie down Bronx, I haven't been able to recall what I did with all of these drawings, I know it was careless of me, but, I found two drawings that I did about 10 years ago. It's crazy when I look at them, because it brings back so many memories from that time.

Now these aren't original characters made up by me, but they weren't traced either, that's like artistic blasphemy. These two characters were from a SONY PlayStation game from back in the day titled "Oddworld: Abe's Exoddus", the sequel to Oddworld: Abe's Odyssey, two of my favorite games of all time. I'm not going to go to deep into who Abe was and what the game was all about, but I would let you know that Elum, was Abe's companion and "ride"; kind of like his horse.

The images were taken from a strategy book and as I recall, my rendition was about 5 to 6 times their original size. This took a lot of skill at that time, because I had to mentally enlarge every portion of their bodies, without the use of a grid as a guide; I refused to take the easy route. I drew them with a #2 pencil, and a black gel-ink fine point pen for the final outline. Believe or not, the shading was done with my fingers and a piece of construction paper. A little trick I learned from my 7th grade art teacher Ms. Goldstein. If you notice, I ran out of space on both of the drawings. This was one of the difficulties in enlarging things from their original size without using a grid to guide me, but I enjoyed the the challenge and appreciated the results. Elum was my favorite, not only drawing him, but the job I did with the shading. I was proud of the results back then, and still feel the same way now. Check out how I use to sign my name. Memories...

Abe by J. Gomez signed 12/30/98

Elum by J. Gomez 1/4/99

I hope to have more to come. Hopefully some of my original characters.

Peace and Love.

Saturday, November 1, 2008

I'm Rick James Bitch! Happy Halloween!

For the first time since about the age of 6, which was the last time I was allowed to wear a costume, I got dressed up for Halloween. On the suggestion of a very special friend, I went dressed as the legend of "funk rock", Mr. "super freak", Rick James himself. How impersonating this character would bring me so much attention, affection, love, titties in my face, humor, pictures, phat asses at my hips, and shout outs, was unbeknownst to me. Friday night, I learned a very valuable and important lesson. There are two types of folks in a given Halloween celebration, those dressed in their pretty, unique and/or sexy costumes, and then there's Rick James Bitch! I've never taken so many pictures, grabbed and hugged so many strangers, and heard so many people call-out my name. I honestly lost count after the 100th pic that I took with some chick on the corner of 32nd and 10th ave, NYC, and they must have said "Rick James Bitch" at least 5,000 times. In all, I had an incredible and fun-filled night of ongoing attention. Those folks, my friends included, made Rick James aka ME, feel like I was on top of the world. Thank you Bitches! It was a celebration!

The crazy thing about all this is that going as Rick James, was a bit intimidating for me. You see, besides his music hits, and the popular phrases made famous by David Chappelle, I didn't really know much of the man, and I wanted to play my part right and give the role justice. So after some research, made possible by YOUTUBE and images obtained from Google, I was able to put something together. What's even crazier, is that the outfit I wore, was improvised the day of. As many of my friends know, I was actually waiting for a shirt, which still hasn't arrived, that said "Good Evening Bitches". You know, kind of cuing people in on who I was. But the result that was born from a brain child idea, was better than any shirt. My focus shifted from going dressed as Rick James, to being Rick James himself, period. Have you ever heard of the phrase, "Can't have your cake and eat it to?" Well, I have to believe that Rick James, had his cake, and ate the shit all the way to the grave. Being this man for one entire night, gave me the "Green Liiiiiiiight", like John Legend says, to call every female I saw a Bitch, and have them smile back at me or blow me a kiss. I couldn't believe it. I even called a few men Bitches, and they laughed with me. Shit was too easy. So here was my try at being Rick James. What do you think?

Me: Rick James
The wig, which arrived two weeks after I ordered it, and the jacket which I got for 50 bucks, were the only things that had been previously purchased in preparation for my costume. Everything else, as in all the jewelry, earrings, nose-ring, studded leather gloves, glasses etc., was put together with random shit that I found around my apartment, and things I picked up @ Ricky's the same day; I'm glad I was off from work.

I must add though, that putting this fabulous outfit together came with some sacrifices. Do you see that nose-ring? That shit hurt more than a mother-sucker and it kicked my ass. One thing worst than getting a piercing in a sensitive area, is getting a fake piercing in that same area. As we speak, my right nostril is a bit infected from that shit, with pus and everything, true story. It seems that the "fake" nose-ring pierced through a portion of my skin, and infected it. And lets not even talk about the boots I had on. OMG!!! Them shits, 3 quarter high Frye boots, destroyed and annihilated my feet to the extent that tears almost came out of my eyes when Taxi's kept zooming past us. I didn't cry when I read the "Kite Runner", but I almost wailed on the corner of 96th and Broadway @ 4:00am. What was I to expect, I hadn't worn them in over 10 yrs. Funny shit right? But hey, it was all worth the pain and time of recovery. I felt like He-Man for an entire evening. I was the "Master of the Universe" and by the power of Grey Skull, "I had the mother freaking Poweeeeeeeer!!!" Bitch!!!

My crew says that I put it together better than they could have imagined, and they loved it. My boy Zak said "You look better as Rick James than Rick James did. When I saw you through my peep-hole, I almost threw up". That was funny. My boy Tim said "OMG! Increible (incredible), you look amazing bro. I can't stop staring at you!" My boy Arod said, "I didn't even recognize you when you opened your door. That's when you know it's a good costume. I thought you were really Rick James." And finally, My cuzzo Big A said, "The costume is freaking hilarious. You look like a modern version of the old Rick James. All you need is to get all his lines down, and you'll add the icing to the cake."

The fellas and I (Zak, Tim, Big A, and Arod), got together this year to celebrate Halloween and we made it a celebration of a lifetime. We were also quite unique with our choice of costumes. I counted over 102 Jokers; 7 Gynecologists; about 10 or so Gladiators; 15 girls dressed up as some sort of insect either a bumble bee or a lady bug;

and the rest of them were dressed as FBI agents, Cops, or other forms of protective services, oh yeah and your usual devil girl here and there. But no one, and I mean no one, was dressed up like us. Especially not like me; "I'm Rick James Bitch!!!"

When we initially saw each other, we almost threw up in laughter. Even before stepping out of Zak's crib, where the pre-party was taking place, we were in tears. When we all looked at each other, we just fell to the floor laughing. I second Mr. Brucru by saying that no one can do it like we do, and that's the motherfreaking Truth. Here's what the rest of my crew was dressed up as:

Zak: Princess Leia (Star Wars)

Tim: Penny Wise the Dancing Clown (Stephen King's IT)

Arod: Speed Racer. Not by choice, but because of procrastination

Big-A: Santa Clause

We laughed, and laughed, and looked at each other, and laughed some more.

The Halloween '08 party went down @ Prime, a small club/crack in the wall (literally), located on 28th, off of 10th avenue. The club was so small, that we walked by it 4 or 5 times, and took several pictures before even noticing it.

Actually, we still didn't notice the shit, cause there wasn't a sign to identify it. Rick James (that's me), had to ask some random white dude who was posing as a hard body security asshole, to confirm that the black door with the red spotlight above it, was PRIME. When we finally got in, I quickly noticed that the space was not my cup of tea; nobody told us we had arrived to Ricker's Island. They padded us down like convicts. I mean they even went to the extreme of grabbing our genitalia, with prior permission of course, "I'm sorry but I'm gonna have to grab your privates to get a full check-up", but still, the spot wasn't even all that, and having my balls fondled by a complete stranger, a f#*king man at that, was not a nice way to start the night. I know it was Halloween, and they were trying to keep things safe and in check, but I know profiling when I see it, and I would bet all the money in the world, that Tom Cruise or Donald Trump would've not been searched in the same manner my friends and I were. If I'm going to be honest, I rather you get a K-9 to sniff the crack of my ass for drugs, if that's what your searching for, than to have some random bitch ass toy cop, touching me where only a preselected number of females and myself have. And all that for what? Honestly, it was one of the worst spaces I've ever been to, and the liquor was way-way-way over priced. My gosh, I ordered three shots of Hennessy and my bill was $39. That's the price of a medium sized bottle of Henny.

But, they're not gonna be playing people for their money for too long. I'm a great judge of success, and I give that venue another few months before it has to close down, seriously. But, all that being said, and since this isn't a blog about clubs, I want to say that the boys and I still had a freaking awesome time and we made the best of the situation, like we always do.

I have to admit, that although we enjoyed ourselves, and I had an awesome time seeing the fellas in character, and loving every minute of being Rick James, this year may be the last time I go to a club for Halloween. Catching a cab was mother freaking nightmare. It took Penny Wise The Clown, Speed Racer and myself, almost three hours to catch one. It eventually came to the point where we took the Subway, to get further uptown, where racism & stereotypes don't reign as much, you know, a little closer to home, but no auto-mobile would stop for us. AT 4:00am, we were finally picked up by a "gypsy" cab who probably noticed that the sun was rising and felt sorry for us; Unbelievable. It's funny, but even with all the bitter sweet moments of the evening, I'm already pumped for next year's event. I already know what I'm going to be. You wanna know? You really wanna know? It's a surprise. Wait 'til next year and see.

Ah-Ah-Ah-Ah. Life's a celebration! It's a celebration Bitches! Unityyyyyyy!


Sunday, October 26, 2008

Cool Artwork by cartoonist Jean-Marc Borot

Ms. Rehab: Amy Winehouse

I love art! Even more, I love caricatures. I love picking up the local newspaper and turning to the cartoon section just to see the caricatures of the day; especially the political ones. To my amusement, this morning, as I paid a visit to my web home page, MSN, I ran across some awesome caricatures of artists from our past and present. French cartoonist Jean-Marc Borot, does an incredible job of bringing these cartoons to life and accentuating the unique features that made and/or make these artists who they are/or were. Check 'em out!

Freddie Mercury

Kylie Minogue

The Original Guitar Hero: Jimi Hendrix

Iggy Pop

The Godfather of Soul: James Brown

Marilyn Manson

"I don't love 'em ho's": Snopp Dogg

Tina Turner

Tokio Hotel

The King of Pop: Michael Jackson

Props go out to Artist Jean-Marc Borot. If you wanna see more of his work, well you're in luck, he's a fellow blogger. Check him out at Hey Jean-Marc, you have a new fan dude.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

A Rear Obsession...

Folks I have something to confess. I have an obsession, or better yet an addiction. I'm addicted to crack. Not cocaine crackel-pop-crack, but Female crack; phat ass crack; booty crack. I desperately need your immediate assistance in this matter. I've tried to go cold turkey on my own since the age of 7 or 8, when I first caught myself staring at a girls phat ass for a longer than normal period of time, but my attempts to rid myself of this addiction have constantly failed; nothing seems to work. I've continuously attended A.A.S.S. (Ass Anonymous Stop Staring) meetings, but I immediately start staring at the instructor's phat ass and am asked to leave within the first 15 minutes of arriving to the session. If only they would listen to what I had to say, maybe they could help. Can somebody help me? Anyone? Please help me. I'm obsessed with the booty!

OK, maybe most of the introduction was a bit fabricated, you know the whole attending A.A.S.S. meetings business and all, which by the way you must admit was pretty clever, but the reality of it all is that I do have an unhealthy obsession with the “butt”; "junk in the trunk"; "onion"; "badunkadunk"; "phatty"; “back”; “buns”; “wobble-wobble”; "sweet-tweet"; "cabinet"; “pancakes”; "ass"; "booty".

You see, it all started in 1985 or 6, right around the time my uncle exposed me to a second-hand copy of Michael Jackson’s Thriller album. Up until the age of 7 or 8, my life was filled with sweet and heavenly innocence. I mean I wasn't an angel, but I was a good kid; my eyes were veiled. Unfortunately for me, this veil came burning and crashing down when I was exposed to my first event of some watermelon jolly rancher tongue action.

She was my 1st floor neighbor and I was 3 yrs her minor, and she must have had cable back then or something cause the girl was highly sexual. Every once in a while we kept each other company, playing one-on-one games of: MOTHER MAY I, RED LIGHT-GREEN LIGHT-1-2-3, TAG and I DECLARE WAR; the card game. We never did any of that touchy-touchy stuff cause for ONE, she was a girl and therefore an automatic carrier of the cooties, and TWO, I was a younger, inexperienced and shorter boy, and a love relationship between us was socially forbidden. Yet, one lovely summer day, this memory will stay with me 'til death, she looked me in the eyes, it was a different kind of look, and asked me to play HOUSE with her. She placed the rules and regulations: she would be the mom, the caretaker of the home and I would be the hard working dad. She clarified that because we were now "a couple" we were obligated to act like one; the veil was beginning to burn. She found two huge cardboard boxes and we built a cozy home to our liking; the veil was beginning to catch on fire. All of a sudden, she asked to speak to me outside of our home, which was situated by the stairs leading to our basement. She quickly grabbed me by my t-shirt, and pushed me against an adjacent wall. Her hour-glass shaped, well nourished body, suffocated mine as her overdeveloped breast pressed against the upper portions of my bony chest.

The scent of her watermelon-jolly rancher breath was absorbed and savored by my nostrils and lips; the freaking veil burned. She took my soft Johnson & Johnson baby-lotion hands and wrapped them around her round, lower mid section and forced me to squeeze and hold; the veil quickly burned. She then slowly leaned towards my face, puckered up and gave me a watermelon jolly rancher tongue-flavored French kiss. Honestly, at that time, not knowing what a French kiss was, I thought it was an alien kiss with candy bliss. You see, her tongue was all up in my tonsils, and it was sort of wrestling my tongue and teeth; it scared me shitless. For starters, I wasn't expecting “it” and secondly, I wasn't expecting “that!” When she finished, she leaned back, my hands still firmly gripping her larger than humanly normal assets, and she asked: "Did u like it?" Liked it? I hated it! I did! Well, I hated everything about it except for two things. One, the warm watermelon jolly rancher (my favorite flavor) that she had purposely transferred to my mouth as a token of completion, and was now being nervously tossed around by my tongue, and TWO, the wonderful feeling of her boombastic and amazingly virtuous badunk-adunk-acrunk soft Dominican ass, still within the grips of my tiny baby-lotion hands; the burning veil came mother-freaking crashing down.

Five minutes passed and we stood there motionless. Well, motionless except for one specific part of my body, which has always had a mind of its own, literally. I stood my ground and maintained a firm grip. What happened next would change my life forever. She gently loosened the grip I had on her trunk and slowly walked away, speaking into my mind saying: "you felt it, now pay attention to the way gravity helps it move". Good lawd! I surely did pay attention. So much so, that my eyes were transplanted to the back of her Adidas wind-breakers. Chick's ass was a sweet-a-lee, tweet-a-lee and I followed the rhythmic movement of them cheeks. It had been there all of this time but I never noticed it. How could I have missed that? Feeling the "phatty" was an amazing and ground breaking event, but staring at it, with the movement and sounds of her wind-breaker pants, was overwhelmingly spectacular. True story.

So thus began my years of torment as a result of "the booty". A boy prematurely introduced to the "ass realm", "por una maltida" (by a damn girl). I was hitched. Hitched to the round phat ass of a woman; an obsessed individual. The life of ongoing days of whiplash and eye cramps had begun. Twenty-three somewhat years later and I still can't resist the cravings of a harmless peek, an undercover look, a reflection, a tease. The view of a bikini, a thong, a pair of booty shorts, a tight spandex dress, a pair of pajamas with little Mickey Mouse faces in the corner bodega, some tight denims on the 6 train, khaki slacks at Best Buy, a nice two-piece business suit, some SWEATS. A glimpse of a phat ass in any of these garments is like White Castle to me: "It's what I crave".

Now, am I the only sicko in this world that suffers from this disease? Au contraire (French: On the contrary), I am not alone. Out of random curiosity, as it always occurs with me, I conducted a survey via text messaging and e-mail, in which 50 NYC males between the ages of 21-51 were asked the following question: If you had a chance to choose, what would you go for, nice teeth, beautiful hair, or a phat ass? The results were astonishing. Out of the 50 surveyed, only two men answered something other than a PHAT ASS. One of them said teeth, you know who you are, and the other male, said Tits, which was not even part of the f*&cking question. What does this quick survey show? That for one, I’m not the only addicted individual, but most importantly, that it’s not just about the beauty, it’s ultimately about the B-to-the-double-O-T-Y! Yes sir! It’s all about the booty!

Honestly, having nice teeth is a plus. It would probably, and I mean probably, get you a few compliments here and there and maybe even a Colgate commercial, although very unlikely. A nice set of hair would have your girlfriends going on and on about what products you use and how you gave your hair so much volume, but it would pretty much end there. But, a phat ass? A phat ass you say? A phat ass can get you a record deal, hook you up with a professional athlete, get you a mansion in the Hampton's, a shoe/sneaker contract, your own perfume: “Le Bootylicious Eau de toilette”, an instant modeling career, a starring role in a box office hit, your own talk show, appearances in more than your fair share of hip-hop music videos, and more than a few filthy rich baby daddy’s supplying some form of child support; and you don’t even have to be all that cute.

There are times in a given week when an addict's craving for rear “pancakes” doesn't even take into consideration what the girl looks like. The chick could be a “butaface” (everything looks good but-a-face), shit, she could have a chest made up of two large nipples and an eye in the middle of her forehead, but if she has a nice-round “sweet-tweet”, someone, will turn around and stare at her “wobble-wobble”. Strangely enough, the chick becomes equivalent to a Taco Bell Crunch Wrap Supreme; "Good To Go!" The truth is, that being ugly and having a phat ass, justifies your man’s choice in YOU. His friends will tease him and say, “that bitch is ugly…(pause)…but she got a phat ass though”.

So, do I really have a serious problem here? Maybe so. Do I really want some help? Maybe not. I just wanted your attention. I take this time to send a shout out to the legend, Mr. Sir Mix-A-Lot, for his contribution to the music industry with his powerful “Baby Got Back” song, and I leave this blog dedicating a song to the booty, in the words of Ryan Leslie:

I’m addicted to you, I’m addicted to you, I’m addicted to you, you’re my addiction!

Berry Merry, Live, love and laugh. If you have a chance, take a peek at what this world has to offer. There’s booty everywhere!

It’s a Celebration Bitches!!!

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Do you prefer 6 inches or 12?

The title sounds a bit pornographic doesn't it? But, as you may have already noticed by my history of blogs, I'm a master of "random" thoughts. Over several months now, I've been disturbed; frustrated; and filled with curiosity as a result of the following question: Who the hell made the 6 inch or 12 inch sandwich, the rule of thumb for supreme hunger satisfaction? Ah, you thought I was going to talk about something else huh? You nasty people you.

For starters, why has the world become so hooked on sandwiches all of a sudden? Well, a bit of recent sandwich history reminds us of just why. In 1999, a young man named Jared Fogle, an Indiana University student at that time, lost an astonishing 245 pounds, with a diet focused on eating Subway Restaurant sandwiches and exercise. His remarkable weight-loss story impacted people around the world, and got everyone hooked on sandwiches like the resurgence of coffee.

This began a movement, and businesses everywhere, introduced some sort of cold cut alternative to their ever so popular menus; Dunkin Donuts and Dominoes now offer sandwiches as well. The ever so famous Blimpies is back on track (I'm a Blimpies man myself), and the idea of "healthy eating made possible via the sandwich", stuck a thorn to the side of all the burger eateries and gave birth to businesses like Quiznos, who makes a pretty freaking good toasty sandwich. Yet, the question at hand: Why a 6 inch/12inch and not a 5 inch,or a 8 1/2 inch, or 7 3/4 inch with a curve (you nasty) or any other measurement, remains unanswered.
Who came up with this precise statistic of measurement and labeled this finding, as the "SANDWICH SIZE PHENOMENON". Was there a town hall meeting about how long (stop being nasty) a sandwich should be to satisfy the appetite of all humanoids. Maybe, in one of the past business Expos, while all the up and coming entrepreneurs were off to lunch, someone suggested:

"Hey!" "How about we go to a sandwich store and tell them to cut all of our sandwiches in rectangular shapes of six inches? Or for those who are a bit hungrier, let them get a whole foot long with their favorite condiments. Sounds delicious doesn't it? Mmmmmm... (your nasty)."

Well, having nothing better to do with the spare minutes of my life...

(Sidebar: I just got a flashback of that AT&T commercial, where the dad spills milk on his left-over roll-over minutes and he's about to throw them away. "Who wants milky minutes anyway...". Check it out:

Anyway, as I was saying, having nothing better to do with the spare minutes of my life, I began an extensive research trying to discover the history and founder of the 6 inch/12 inch sandwich idea. Looking into the history of the franchise known as Subway Restaurants aka Subway, who as I recall were the first to make an emphasis on "bread" inches, I learned several cool things.

According to Wikipedia (which I must warn you, shouldn't be your go to source for any medical information, or anything that's truly serious, as it can be edited by it's subscribers), the franchise which is owned by Doctor's Associates, Inc. (DAI), not medical doctors by the way, is currently the fastest growing franchise in the world. There are over 30,016 franchised units in 88 countries, and as of this month, is third largest fast food operator globally after Yum! Brands (35,000 locations) and McDonald's (31,000 locations). Not bad huh? In further research, I learned that there are Subway's in Muslim countries that serve alternative menus with substitutes with Halal produce. That means that my man Amir, from The Kite Runner, the best-selling novel by Khaled Hosseini and one of my favorite books, thanks Zak, can revisit Afghanistan and pick-up a foot-long Halal Sub. Cool isn't it?

As I continued my research, I obtained other cool info, like the fact that the first form of sandwich was attributed to the ancient Jewish sage Hillel the Elder, who is said to have put meat from the Paschal lamb and bitter herbs inside matzo (or flat, unleavened bread) during Passover; hey that flat bread idea goes way back. Furthermore, I discovered that the first English usage of the word "sandwich" goes back to the 18th century. According to Wikipedia, the sandwich was named after an English aristocrat named John Montagu, 4th Earl of Sandwich.

Mr. Montagu aka Lord Sandwich, who quite strangely resembles our contries 1st president (please see pic above), and even more strangely existed in same time period of G.W., was fond of this type of food that consisted of "bits of cold meat" in bread. He favored this food because it allowed him to continue playing cards while eating, without getting his cards greasy. Far out right?

Nevertheless, I was not able to obtain any information on the emphasis on SIZE and how it mattered (you nasty). I was eventually forced to arrive to a theory of my own.

My theory: I believe the guy who came up with this was probably watching an X-rated... No sorry, I don't think that, please disregard the previous statement. I think that, some jobless dude with a whole bunch of "roll-over" minutes to spare, a kitchen counter overflowing with loafs of bread of all sizes, and a fridge full of healthy vegetables, and condiments, sat down and began a personal investigation of this "cold-cut" case. His mission? To uncover the myth behind the statement: Does size really matter? He locked himself up, in a dungeon, or a basement, as the time period of this discovery is unclear, and conducted several tests until he would satisfy his hunger. Maybe he began at 1, then 2, until reaching six inches and feeling a complete sense of pleasure and satisfaction. Then, all of a sudden, he received an unexpected visit from his larger than normal cousin, who found two six inch subs and scarfed them down with no apparent difficulty. At that exact moment, this man was enlightened with a new discovery, and thus began his voyage across the globe to spread the "good news", the gospel, on how many inches does it really take to satisfy mankind.

Is this how it really went down? The world may never know. Just another one of those things that make you go Hmmmm....

Yes i'm random, but you freaking love it.

Be merry, call Jared and try a $5 foot-long. You'll be totally satisfied with how BIG it really is. Oh yeah! hehe (you nasty).

Monday, September 22, 2008

Creatures of Sameness

Aaaah yes! New York City; The Big Apple; The Melting Pot; Capital City of The World! Our city; your city; his city; her city; my city! A city known by so many names, tales, descriptions and stereotypes. They call our city the melting pot because it’s made up of a mix of folks from all around. We’re like this ginormous pot of paella (a Spanish dish prepared by simmering together chicken, seafood, rice, vegetables, and saffron and other seasonings) made up of several different cultures, beliefs, habits, tastes, customs and smells (yes folks, some of our people stink); I LOVE NY! But when you take some time to think about it, which I'm sure you have as we're all tormented with random thoughts from time-to-time, with all our differences, including but not limited to our different stinky perspiration's, we're quite alike. There are moments where we all behave like Siamese twins in this "paella" (pronounced pah-e-lyah, for those who are unfamiliar with the word) of a city. Now you may be asking yourself what the hell is this man of random thoughts talking about. Well, In what follows, I will show you, the reader, or listener if this is being read to you, several scenarios where we unconsciously acquire identical habits, therefore making us, even if u stink, "creatures of sameness." Ooh! I like the sound of that..."creatures of sameness." Hmmm... (In the annoying high pitch voice of a child) I'm a creature of sameness! I'm a creature of sameness! I'm a creature of sameness! Shall we continue?

The Dining scene

Hey! We all eat out from time to time. Heck! There are some of us who eat out every day, and, even though this could be a point of reference to reveal a clear example of sameness, this is not the example I would like to present. Instead, I would like to focus on the restaurant scene and the introduction; or the "welcoming act" we receive when we visit them. Ahead, I will do my best to role-play this episode of "sameness", that believe it or not, we’ve all gone through.

The Restaurant introductions, be it from a hostess, mantra dean, or your waiter(tress), are so rehearsed, and fake that we very rarely ever pay attention to them! Unless it’s a hot-ass chick for us guys or a sexy dude for the ladies, our brain automatically selects small parts of their pre-rehearsed small-talk of “blah!-blah!-blah!”, to let that person know that we're not mildly retarded, we care about our food not being spat on, and we’re on point with everything they’re telling us. If they only knew (which they probably do by the expression on our faces) that at that exact moment, our BRAIN is receiving, and we’re hearing this scene in the following way...(Now forgive me as I make the best possible attempt to verbalize the jargon that comes out of their mouths in their introduction. Aaaaand Action!):

The employee approaches your party, "Hi, my name is shua-shua-blah-blue (smiles). The special of the day is crickie-cra-cra, and foo-foo-ma-blah with a sprinkle (does a sprinkling gesture in the air) of chacky-poo-pa, and a side of rice and beans (we Spanish folks always here the rice and beans part). The employee continues, “The desert of the day is chocolate blah-poo-poo, with a cherry on top (men like cherries hehe), and the drink of the day is shua-shua-shua with pineapple blah-splah, on a blah-flah-blah with whip cream and a shot of tequila on the side (hey, our brain likes whip cream and liquor? Not a bad combo if u know what I saying).” “Now what would you like to drink?”

Now you can’t tell me that you haven’t been through this scene at least once in your lifetime. Shit, I go through this scene every time I go out; especially when I’m starving. OMG! Isn’t it when you’re starving that the freaking waiter wants to look “all-knowledgeable” about how much of the menu he/she has been able to memorize for your amusement. OMG! Just give me the freaking menu, my hot bread with a stick of butter, my glass of water, and show me where the specials of the day are. Thank you very much! I’ll decide what I want to eat…coño! (This is a curse word in Spanish culture closely compared to “damn” “dam it” or “f&#ck”. It all depends on what just happened, or how you feel and who made you feel this way. In Dominican culture, this is by far, our universal curse word. Sorry for the side bar).

The subway scene

In everyday life, for most New Yorkers (myself included…shut up! Hehe), mass transit is the way to go! Unless of course, you’re one of these snobs who, with a tone of superiority towards others, and with a vocal pitch as if they had a finger stuck up their asses say,

"Not me, I drive into work. I can't deal with rush hour. Too much chaos and people for me. I suffer from claustrophobia".

Ah shut up! But anyway, (sorry for the side-bar vent), back to business! When you think about it, it is crazily insane how our habits in public transit are so ridiculously alike. For instance, most of us rush out of our homes, with 2 point 2 seconds left on the clock. Why is this? Well because in our train calculating expertise, we’ve been able to take note of the exact time, and speed rate in which a train will enter the station. Furthermore, we even have a few back-up plans, and know the exact time of the next two or three trains as well. We have that shit synchronized, like we use to do in High School with that “end of the period BELL.” You remember that right? I don’t care if you went to school during the 80’s and early 90’s and heard a real bell, or went to school afterwards, when the ringing was replaced by an electronic buzz, we all synchronized our watches to that freaking thing. Regardless of what sound you heard, there was always that one kid, maybe it was you, who had the timing of that bell down to the last second. He/she would even do the countdown in silence while picking up his/her bag, to walk out the door while the teacher was still talking. Creatures of Sameness? I think so. But anyway, for some odd reason, most of us go to the train in the same way, every single day. We walk or run (depending how many seconds are left on our stop watch) towards the train as if a nuclear war-head missile was homing in on the crack of our asses. Shit, some of us have even developed rush our ninja skills. We can't dance salsa, or keep a calorie count, but we can move in and out between thousands of bystanders, taking short cuts, jay walking and even sliding down a railing if we must, just in time to squeeze in between the closing doors (“Stand clear of the closing doors please”).

Now if you’re not one of the ninja skilled, than you’re probably one of those folks that makes it to the platform on “good-time.” Just with enough time to read a little bit more of your favorite magazine, or book, or shuffle through your favorite songs on your iPod. You may not be in a hurry a day in your life, but, you’re known to other strap hangers as the mother-freaking “seat-hogger”, who through time has developed blood thirsty vampire-eagle-eye skills to seek-and-destroy. What do I mean? Well, you’re one of them folks that as the train approaches the platform, quickly scans the insides of the speedy train with x-ray like vision, squinting as you locate any empty seat. Once you find one, you immediately position yourself, in an angle towards the opening door, so that no other citizen or green-card holder can skip you. The event becomes a freaking thrill ride as all strap hangers, including you, head for the races. As you run towards that seat, in between the chubby guy and a homeless man who’s been sleeping there for 7 hours, you pray and hope that you don't run into a 90 year old lady or an 8 1/2 month old pregnant girl, so that you won’t be forced to relinquish your seat. Once you’re seated, you make it your mission not to ever give your seat up if your life depended on it. You begin to play little games within your head, like the “let me close my eyes and make believe I’m into this song game”, or the “make believe I’m all into this book game” or the ever so popular and my personal favorite, the "make believe I'm sleeping game", so that no one would bother to even ask you to please give up your seat. Come on, don't lie, u know you've played this game before. You remain rigid as you peek around through your semi-closed eyes, looking on through the hairs of your eye lashes to see if the person in need, like that 100 year old grandmother of 25, or the woman who’s giving birth right in front of you, begs with their eyes for your seat. Cruel wouldn’t you say? Maybe so, but you’re shocked to see that you’ve done this before right? Don’t be, it’s a part of who we are.

A Gas crisis

Come on! Don’t tell me you haven’t been through that embarrassing day. You know, maybe had a little too much melted nacho cheese in that chili; a little too many yogurts in the morning; too many pinto-beans in that burrito during lunch time. It’s now a little after 5pm, and your stomach is going bonkers! Not because you’re hungry, or are suffering from a major stomach virus, but because your extremely bloated, and there’s a war of gases taking place in your “insides”. And of course, you have pride, you’re of the higher classes. Maybe you’re one of those “drive-to-work” folks I mentioned a little earlier in this segment of sameness. You can’t possibly take care of the infamous, and now popularly referred to “#2”, or “take-a-poop” in the “can”, or “ the john”, or the toilet at work. What? “Never will I Mr. or Ms. (Your Last Name Here), ever, ever, ever, use a toilet out of my own my home to do the-poop thing.” “That is just disgusting!” Well, just great, your body would like to take this time to thank you for the torture you’re making it go through. It could’ve simply been a harmless form of a flatulent expression. One of those wonderful enormous “gassy” farts (which bring great relief I might add), or maybe just a “row” of baby farts lined up in single line formation, waiting for the appropriate moment of release; freedom! As it is for those of us who suffer from heartburn (myself included), that can’t seem to find a pack of TUMS or ROLAIDS when struck with the uncomfortable symptoms associated with acid reflux, the same goes for our fellow “gassy” counter-parts; there are no anti-gas tablets in sight. Heck, the only time we’ve really seen an anti-gas medicine is on TV in a late-night infomercial. Presenting Gastro Herbal, for the quickest relief...

Anyway, seeing no other solution, your stubborn ass (literally speaking, since it is this area of the body that we’re currently concentrating on…how ironic), decides to fight the forces of human nature, and make a break for home, in hope that when you finally arrive there, the toilet will be unoccupied.

OMG! Your subway “ninja skills” come into full affect now. You zoom through the other 1.5 million pedestrians like a swift wind. If only they knew, you were holding-in a number of “swift-winds” yourself. If you weren’t a subway “seat-hogger” before, you definitely become one now, running to the first available seat to trap the tormenting vibrations being caused by your butt cheeks. This is when you remember God, yes, even you “so called Atheist”. You begin to silently recite the speech that has been made ever-so popular by the drunk folks: “Please let me make it home!” “Please let me make it home!” Please let me make it home!” You do your best not to make the slightest inappropriate move, in fear that a little “spurt” of gas may involuntarily ooze out, but you just can’t control it. The forces from within are just a bit too powerful for you. With the AC on blast, you decide to give things a little test. You say to yourself, “If I were to let one go, and feel nothing coming afterwards, I’ll be an awesome condition to relax, and maybe even fall asleep in front of this little old lady. At that exact moment, “The Conscious” interrupts. Throughout the centuries, and since the times of Adam, it has been known that the conscious pays a visit in the most crucial and decisive times, and it has chosen the most opportune time to provide it’s “2 cents” of advice. It says, “Listen, Mr. or Ms. (Your last name here), this is your conscious speaking, I don't mean to interrupt you, but if you decide to do this, you must be prepared for the repercussions.” With stubbornness, you respond “What repercussions?” The conscious answers, “Well, if you decide to go through with this manifestation, and something a little more “solid” follows, you’ll find yourself in a very BIG PROBLEMO, and you would be on your own with this one." You see, I'm, in a sense, of the spiritual form, and I think you would agree that there's no way in hell or heaven, if you're of the optimistic type, that I can help you out with this "pooh-pooh" situation; it's all on you (literally).

You sit back in your chair, and give this dramatic scene some thought and, to the relief of your conscious, you take it's advice and wait till you get home. When you arrive home, things that you usually did with your eyes closed, are now giving you trouble. You pushed the entrance door, when for the past 25+ yrs of your life, you know that it's always been a pull door. You decide to wait for the elevator when you know for a fact, that it's not going to come to your rescue. You hit the stairs, and as you reach your door, you can't seem to get the key into the keyhole. It is at that moment that you realize you were using the wrong freaking key! Your body unconsciously goes into the "pooh-pooh" dance. You know the "pooh-pooh" dance, you begin to rock at the hip from side to side, front to back, as your bum-bum, keeps giving you that annoying pushing sensation at the rhythm of every heartbeat. (OMG! You know exactly what I'm talking about don't you!) You finally get inside your apartment, sprint over hurdles of three out-of-place dining chairs, smack your dad, kick the cat, tackle the dog, spit at your grandmother (OK, maybe that's a little too much), ninja flip over your grandmother (much better), and you make it to the bathroom. You instantaneously sit your ASS on the toilet and let it rip. Wow! World War III anyone? The explosion scares the shit out of you (not literally, though you kind of wish it did). It's a thunderous-volcanic gas, followed by spurts of machine-gun-like gases, followed by baby farts, a side-angled final wheeze, and then nothing else...nothing else. You give yourself a few minutes just to be 110% sure. First, because your conscious was talking all that shit (literally), 2nd, because a 1% miscalculation could be a devastating and uncomfortable situation, and 3rd you don't want to even imagine going through all of that for NOTHING! Sadly, time goes by, and you come to the realization, was all just a false alarm. Fu#%ing Conscious! Noticing your anger, the conscious tags in one last time for the day and says,


Be Merry, Enjoy life, and never leave work with "pooh-like" symptoms.
Talk about "rush hour?"