Bronsonius Rex

The Hamburgler

2008-07-21T16:38:00.000-07:00

"Doc, I've not had a burger in years."
"Is that what you really want to talk about Bobby?"
"Yes."
"Well then, have at it hoss."
"I think that's rather unproffessional..."
"I'm just trying to make you comfortable."
"Thanks... so I haven't had a burger in years..."

"It started way back in history... that is to say, my personal history. I'll skip the first five chapters and tell you that I ended up in Rio at Carnival. It was hot and muggy and clothes were frowned upon. I danced like the dickens and Charles was there."
"I'm not surprised that Charles was there."
"He usually is... So Charles was there and we were dancing like the dickens. And he turns to me and says, 'this trip is going to be a tale of two titties.' And I say, 'that sounds like something I would say.' And he says, 'I learned it by watching you.' When all of a sudden two gigantic women with breasts that can only be described as inspiring camel envy, bounded toward us. We looked at eachother, knowing and not knowing our next moves. We introduced ourselves, in not-so-fine portuguese, as the Didley Brothers, owners and operators of Didley Design... or as we told them, the ones who make the lights blink blink, the music go blah blah, and the asses go shake shake. They were amused."
"They usually are."
"They usually are."
"So... the burgers...?"
"Let me tell it how I want to tell it... so first, we bumped, then we grinded, then as I was flossing my teeth with her g-string, she turns to me and says something about her friend and about how she didn't trust the guy she was with. I explain that I'm the more harmful of the two... she chuckles and sucks on my neck. She's got nothing to worry about - let's all meet up after a shower 'AND SOME E!' she squeels... fine - I'm in Rio. I meet up with Charles and he asks why I have so many hickies... I respond, as I recall, 'because each one felt better than the one before.' I hand jived to the music and moonwalked to a hot dog stand. Rio was great, but as it turns out, E, while it's an awesome form of entertainment is not an awesome form of sexual protection... it's actually the opposite. I spanked more ass than a little bit that trip and my heavy chested lady friend left me with a parting gift... one that rhymes with shmepeltitus and ends with a liver's inability to process greasy foods... I haven't had a burger since the one I got at JFK on the way home."
"And how does that make you feel?"
"It reminds me of a joke."
"Really?"
"Yes. Really. A Priest and a Rabbi are talking - they've been friends for years and years. While confiding in eachother one night the Priest asks the Rabbi if he's ever 'cheated, you know, gone off the wagon and had unkosher meat?' The Priest explains that he has the utmost respect for him and wouldn't question his faith. 'Well then, yes, actually, I've strayed from my kosher life... what about you Father? Have you ever, you know, strayed and compromised your vow of celebacy?' The Priest ponders this and finally says, 'Yes Rabbi, I have, I was with a woman once.' The Rabbi laughs, 'what's so funny?' the Priest says... 'nothing,' the Rabbi says, 'it's just, that's a lot better than a piece of ham, isn't it!?'"
"I'm not sure I understand how that makes you feel Bobby."
"Think about it... maybe this'll help. Two roads diverged in the wood, I took the one with bigger tits... no?... [sigh]... Charles and I are heading down to Brazil in three weeks - we still have those chicks' numbers, you want in?"

The Dark Night

2008-07-18T11:18:00.000-07:00

Bobby saw "The Dark Knight" at midnight.
He entered the theater and smelt the essence of the bearded comic book junky and the cooped up overzealous fan. Boys in make-up, young santa clause in training scribling characters of his own, non-descript chicks wearing black pants... all was as expected... almost...

Now, the Bronse is not a forum for movie reviews, but I will allow this post to dip into philosophical, and possibly dick suckingly trite, praise of the film.
I was worried about the jokester in the full theater who likes to make loud jokes at tense moments, eliciting chuckles from the lamer audience members. This happened only during the previews as most people there were focused fans... it was either that or the gripping and mind-fucking story line kept the less-thans too confused to hurl out some lame aside.
As good as the film was on it's own merrit, one cannot possibly watch the movie without feeling loss and awe at what might have been. Heath Ledger's cinematic eulogy to himself turned the movie up to eleven. The audience clapped after his first scene, partly in homage and partly because, from moment one, everyone knew we were witnessing greatness.
Some thought that Jack played Joker best and, like Willy Wonka, nobody should have the audacity to try a do-over. Like painting water lillies over Monet's water lillies or re-recording the vocals of Freddy Mercury, the idea of Heath's performance was suspect. But rising from the flames of that argument was a performance so transendent, that we are all reminded that movies are stories and that to assume any story has already been told perfectly is to undermine the concept of art itself.
Heath Ledger will win an Academy Award. And when watching and rewatching "The Dark Knight," we will all be filled with awe and sadness, because the greatness that has been preseved will only heighten the feeling of loss for what other stories he might have told...

Why so serious indeed?

Charles Is On A Bender

2008-06-13T11:12:00.000-07:00

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Bus Fare

2008-06-10T18:00:00.000-07:00

Your drunken heroes Charles and Amerigo board a bus in San Francisco. They stumble into two seats facing the back of the bus, directly across from a man and his young son.

C: This is an awkward way to sit.

A: Yeah, you can't see where we're going, only where we've been.

C: Such is life.

The man notices them and chuckles out, "That's right." He looks down at his boy, over to our heroes, and back toward the front, jittery, waiting for our heroes to respond to him. But Charles is already looking out the window, and Amerigo is thinking about the route and the time, and both are waiting for the bus to just go.

Drunk Saturday

2008-06-06T16:39:00.000-07:00

Gentlemen,

To completely shit on this cheap ass office party, I plan on showing up really, really drunk. By the way, I have a mustache. And so should you. If not real, then fake. Groucho Marx. I heard Asylum gives beer out for free on Saturday and Dan's pours it down your throat. So I figure we get the whole gang together and work our way from Asylum to Dan's to cheap ass work party.

My phone number is 917-343-4343. Invite everyone.

Sincerely,
Charles Bronson

Clincher

2008-06-06T09:46:00.001-07:00

The Number One Man with the Left.

Amerigo's Lament

2008-05-26T17:36:00.000-07:00

As we have not heard from Amerigo in like ever, it was sweet johnson that he finally resurfaced. And in doing so, he has simmered and sauced the aphoristic Bronse. Svenjoy:

"Here is the deal. When I was a yjoung bronse, I had a tap installed upon the top of my brain. A tap similar to the fancy polished black mahogany and brass guinness tap you might find in a sod hut cobblestone pub, behind a solid wooden plank in the dusky backstreets of Cork - similar to the tap in the pirate bar made from the worn wormwort wood of longshanks' peg-leg that when pulled, gently releases the Absinthe chaser - a similar tap to these was attached to the apex of my cranium. For the past four years I have been a walking open bar. I haven't demanded tips or charged a nickel for the swill elixir that has been lubricating the masses. In fact, I have enjoyed watching people drinking up what I have been putting out there. (Like I were the Baltic see they were a cup ah-hah) I have enjoyed it, but the kranal-keg is about to reach the 30 point. (also referred to as the dirty point) I still enjoy it, but I need to start bottling some for later. I guess thats just what happens. First, however, I think I need to do a Keg-Stand, and I was wondering if you would be so kind as to pump."

Big Brown Bronson

2008-05-20T08:41:00.001-07:00

The infield at the Preakness, as Bobby pointed out after the fact, with which Your Charles concurred, is a mixture of Bar Harbor, the Jersey Shore, and Sodom and Gomorrah, only with less rules... It is a drunken, seething morass of depravity, complete with pushing, fighting, passing out, making out, pissing, puking, trampling, titties, crying, yelling, appeasing, chugging, ducking, staring, flashing, betting, eating, dodging, sunburning, horseplaying... Imagine, if you will, a skyfull of somersaulting, spilling beer cans, rising and then arcing from all directions smacking heads of the unawares and wares. Imagine girls punching guys because they can, and the swirling, yelling, pushing throng that follows. Imagine the endless funnelling of Busch Light and the boxed-in beer pong games on stolen ABC garbage boxes. And because the boxes are stolen, imagine the hundreds of thousands of beer cans, with no obvious place to put them, littered on the ground, glittering after being crushed underfoot by the tens of thousands of seething drunks.

Then imagine: You, Charles Bronson, try to avoid all the madness and just shotgun your beer in relative peace, but instead someone yells, "Incoming" and a mortar beer smacks the girl you are talking to, completely taking her out, and then you turn to see some guy next to you going after someone in the neighboring group and you have no idea why, and you see a female with sunglasses and a tank top emerge from the scrum to defend her rockhead man and you put your arm out to stop it but she slips trying to avoid you and everyone thinks you pushed her down, so an army of ten fat guys now wants to fight you but another army of fifteen shirtless guys wants to stop them, so you give a wry smile and slip out and are grabbed by some other girl with sunglasses and a tank top who says, "You're so good looking," and kisses you and you pull back and are handed a beer, which you chug because it's sunny out and you are thirsty.

Then the horses blur by and people raise their hand and cheer and then five people ask you what just happened, and you say it was number 7 that won but have no clue, and you turn and grab a water because it's really hot out now, but the Poland Spring Bottle is really warm vodka and you gag so instead you reach for a two liter of Diet Pepsi which you chug even harder because the warm vodka was so nasty but the Diet Pepsi turns out to be Diet Pepsi and Rum and Rebel Yell and warm which you spit out all foamy on some dude passed out in a lawn chair getting all lobster.

You realize you have to piss because you drank fifteen Busch Lights in the last twenty minutes, but the portas are a dense swim through 60,000 people away, so you go down to the fence nearby which is lined with National Guardsman and BPD, separating this rowdy, blighted morass from the horse track and all of humanity and you piss towards the law and they don't blink perhaps because, you reason, they are happy that you don't storm through the fence and start attacking them like you are attacking that bottle of Rebel Yell still in your hand and upended into your mouth

Sometimes largess depravity can be a cultural concern, one that overwhelms in its reckless, fratty entitlement. Certainly, any one Bronson's quest for salvation through such depravity can be championed, but when it is in the context of such empty collusion, your Bronson must cringe. The cheap booze and cheap thrills were meant to amuse, and, though the passionate and aggressive manner of the multitudes was at times amusing, it was also a sick look at our collective bankrupcy - encircled like an eye, with horses running all around it. Your Charles was a contributor and also an observer and felt good about neither. In fact, later that night, he threw up.

Bronson To Teach New Orleans Sixth Graders

2008-05-13T19:02:00.000-07:00

Let there be such a flood of knowledge when Charles Bronson arrives in August.

Work

2008-05-09T11:03:00.000-07:00

Imagine if your job was to pretend you were doing work.

The bosses are out. They've been out for weeks and haven't even called. With each day, the general authority is increaingly moot and equal amongst yourself and your coworkers.

Every day begins with obsequious hellos. Everyone is polite but guarded. Even you grumble hello as you sit at your computer. Then, there is a roomwide pause.

You notice the furtive glances over monitor screens. There is a sudden tension and it is palpable. A coworker blurts out a question about some deadline and lets it linger for someone/anyone to respond. No one does, at first. Instead, one coworker gets up and surrepticiously wanders toward the refrigerador. Another coworker picks up a physics textbook and starts half-reading it. The three of them all secretly look toward each other, then at you. You smirk at the ceiling.

You know these indirect questions and obvious-but-not-too-obvious glances/postures are the bait for which the coworkers are testing the waters of status quo. They first pretend to do work and wait, suspiciously, for everyone else to pretend to do work. It is only once they have confirmed for themselves that everyone is pretending to do work that everyone actually starts doing work. Except you. Your job is to not do work at all.

It is always the same. First a coworker responds cheerily to that token deadline request. It is awkwardly late after the pregnant pause. But that is the icebreaker: once one chimes in, then the others quickly follow. Actual conversations about dates and inquiries and lessons start up. The tension subsides; the veil of uncertainty lifts. The coworkers, now certain of communal complicity, speedily resume (almost with a physical sigh) to normative office culture. They pick up phones and start typing out emails. Their posture suddenly improves.

Each coworker is now sincere in their purpose. They are actually doing work. But since they only assumed that role (as someone who actually does work) through the collective influence of each other, you realize they may be wary of someone who is non-compliant. Especially since a moment ago, they were so wary of each other. So your position as someone who only pretends to do work is vulnerable. The coworkers (who are working) have the majority and can use the majority against you.

So you have to pretend to do work. Which is your job. So you open up a google document, which looks official/professional, and begin typing "Imagine if your job was to pretend you were doing work. The bosses are out.."

Sartre

2008-05-07T07:53:00.000-07:00

Charles Bronson poured his bucket of coins into the CoinStar machine at the local supermarket. He took his receipt to the Customer Service desk, and the clerk put 36 dollars and 58 cents into his hand. Charles pocketed the dollars and headed back to the Coinstar Machine. Charles threw in his 58 cents, and then took his new receipt back to the Customer Service clerk. The clerk accepted his receipt with skepticism and looked at it. Charles saw the clerk's eyes widen and then look up at him with a disapproving look of sheer disbelief.

Where in the World Is Bronson Sandiego?

2008-05-02T11:14:00.000-07:00

Well, not in San Diego, but close. The Bronsonius inner circle extends from LA to MN to DC and beyond, only now it extends to PR or NOLA or to the bakery or something. Basically this inexplicable pause in gloryposting should be attributed to spreading the Bronson spirit to warmer climes - the South, the Islands, the oven, wherever...

So, if you are constantly plying this site for new feral indictments of the hypocrisy of lame chicks and stupid jobs and you tragically find this post day after day after day, Your Charles sincerely apologizes for the lack of renewal.

Just confide in the fact that the meanings of life, buried superficially on these pages, are being spread via boots on the ground. This webwire writing is effective, yes, but sometimes a handsome man in a chalkcovered suit shooting Wild Turkey must suddenly appear and challenge the proletariat to solve riddles of reason and faith. Sometimes, that handsome man is the messenger, upon his leaving, that causes everyone to sigh and to wonder if that really was the messiah, or at least Bronson Sandiego...

Bruce and Bronson Play Copenhagen Streets 1988

2008-04-24T06:48:00.000-07:00

In a moment's pause from the Danish leg of the Tunnel of Love tour, Bruce and Bronson play "The River" hobostyle streetwise.

I know what you're thinking: That's not Your Charles. I know, that is Bruce. But beside the Boss the other strummer is an androgenous Lebowski-like analogue of Your Charles Bronson. It may not be Charles in body, but it is him in Copenhagen.

An Open Letter To This Homeless Dude

2008-04-23T09:13:00.000-07:00

This Homeless Dude,

Not long ago, maybe a fortnight, Your Charles was whistling through a rough neighborhood when he witnessed the furious flickering of a ninja gang dismantling a Northeast DC tenement house. Apparently, a resident had dropped a spoon or had falsely prayed to a false Shinto spirit and thus caused the ninja band to converge like a soft breeze before erupting in piercing shrieks and exacting precise kicks and chops to all residents, furniture, and structure beams. In minutes, the building lay in rubble; there were no survivors. Then, in a screen of smoke, the ninjas vanished.

This incident is indicative of the rampant lawlessness of ninjas today. Many ninjas have formed rogue gangs that have eschewed the ninja's protectorate mantra and have instead pledged fatwa vengeance upon the common folk. Why ninjas have broken away from the order is still uncertain, but speculation exists that Shredder has launched a resurgent footclan and/or East is finally meeting West.

So, as we have all heard and as you have been so tragically privy, this homeless dude, homocidal ninjas are responsible for killing families and thrusting poor survivors into poverty. At least five incidences have been recorded on cnn.com, attributed, of course, to low force tornadoes, erosion, and gentrification. You are not alone in your plight.

Though never fear, this homeless dude, because Your Charles has been teaming with the likes of Pei Mei, Splinter, and Charles Bronson and seeks to team with you, too. Your Charles has been training: timbering forests with his roundhouse kicks, alighting the night stars with throwing stars, and whisking furtively into your gf's mind while you snore beside her, oblivious.

Let me tell you this: Your Charles will fight the Kumate this August in Hong Kong, and you, this homeless dude, are invited to watch and learn. If, when you see Charles keeyaa monkey-like fighters, Sumo wrestlers, and ruthlessly pectoralled kung fu masters, you still believe you have what it takes, then Your Charles will train you himself in the jungles of Siberia and the tundras of Thailand.

Or you could just go through the Charles Bronson movie catalog and watch vengeance alive. Or Your Charles could give you his last five bucks (it was a wild weekend, sorry it can't be more).

So you see, this homeless dude, even though you are homeless and you have a clever sign, your options are still endless.

Sincerely,
Charles Bronson

The Death of Bronson?

2008-04-16T11:37:00.001-07:00

Over the past few months, Your Charles has pondered his mortality. We all know the epic artist on roaring display in these pages is surebet eternal, but the man himself, now a ripened 28, has surpassed the corporal limits of incumbent immortals James D, Kurt, Jim, Jimi, and Janis, so he now wonders if he will join them by combusting in some freakshow CNN.com worthy accident, thereby leaving the embers of his work to conflagrate with his newsworthy death, and all these words will become fashionable, revolutionary, vital in memoriam.

Why, you may ponder, does Charles think his litany of genius will soon end? Very simple, his life lacks supreme purpose. The compounding nature of successive days teaching rich apathetic kids, answering to the phony expectations of a perpetually absent boss, all while living below even his meager means, has corrupted his sense of original place in the world. Instead, Your Charles feels a patsi in an unjust grind, reaping no real rewards.

Granted, he views his present jobstyle as common amongst the ordinary man that willfully succumbs to it. That man with safe marriage, and new mortgage must swallow whatever cruel job situation befits his monetary responsibilities and builds upon his new domestic predilection for sheds of tools, retirement funds, and newborn babies. Once fully settled into that boring job, the wild spirit gives way to the responsible family man and rationalized values replace rocking impulses, which drives the man's life firmly into frustration and predictability. Yes, there are benefits to ordinary man's life (stability and companionship for two), but if it comes at the cost of enduring a soulsuck job and surrendering freewill to fate, Your Charles decided long ago to not go that gentle.

And now that Your Charles has felt himself slip into the ordinary man realm via this shit job and accompanying stunted lifestyle, without the requisite components (wife, rock fatigue, hometown) to convince himself that a stupid job is a means to an end (or a means to a mortgage. i.e.), he finds himself in a stupid vertigo, where his new netherworld is neither rocking nor stable, but rather wan and meaningless. So therefore he thinks he is expendable. His life isn't tending towards any absolute - static nor electric - and that realization makes him more wary on the roads for buses skipping red lights.

However, such depressing inevitability will not be found here anymore. Your Charles's latest foray into teaching the gov't abandoned kids of NOLA has restored his sense of purpose as a fulltime rocker. This return to form has given him back invincibility. So while Janis and Kurt and everyone had their life moment flicker and extinguesh before rebursting into history, your Charles will see his transcendance while he is still here on earth.

So, Your Charles's myth will not be truncated, full of bittersweetness and caution, but instead Your Charles will be a lifeblood embodiment of his self-made celestial lore - a living legend, if you will. So, my Bronson faithful, do not fret about compiling posthumous tomes of pale letters and prescient kumbayaas a la John Kennedy Toole or Bradley Nowell, for Your Charles is Your Charles and the rest is beautifully undiscovered.

Castle Atlantis

2008-04-11T08:55:00.000-07:00

Now that Your Charles is bayou bound to teach in charter school classrooms, the inevitable "Big Project" (magnificently named Castle Atlantis) will again be on the front page of every major Bronsonius Rex blog. Castle Atlantis is the dream company of teacherhero Bronsons Charles and Amerigo, which will unleash a virtuous empire of innovative and high-achieving schools that will mold to the community and then transform it. So now that Your Charles will soon be under charter school rule, his ambitious soul will be attuned to soak up the good ways with the bad plays, so that he may comecorrect with Castle Atlantis's nexus, two years hence. Below is the mission statement. Preview away.

N.B. If you want to contribute to the Castle Atlantis Project, please rent or buy Death Wish 4 or the Great Escape from your local Netflix or Blockbuster superstores. For a limited time only, all proceeds go, in true Bronson fashion, to saving you from yourself and the world from Death Star-like combustion by teaching the children well, of course.

Castle Atlantis School Mission Statement:

Castle Atlantis is a preparatory high school that addresses the diverse needs of students in the classroom and the urgent needs of New Orleans through community outreach. The school uses a core-based and progressive curriculum to empower students to actively participate in reconstruction while learning to become tomorrow's leaders.

School Vision Statement:

Castle Atlantis High School provides an innovative educational approach in an elite learning environment. The school offers an intensive core curriculum in all major subjects with strong focus on science, mathematics, engineering, and technology. Castle Atlantis emphasizes student achievement and academic rigor in an environment that applies both traditional and "hands on" learning in classrooms outfitted with modern technologies and workspaces.

At the core of Castle Atlantis' community outreach is a self-contained modular home construction and delivery workspace, housed on site, from which portions of the curriculum are derived and applied. Each class presents tangible application to learning objectives by incorporating construction-based lessons spread throughout each thematic unit of study. In doing so, the school produces at least one prefabricated home per year, built upon environmentally sustainable principles, to be donated to a low-income family affected by Hurricane Katrina. As the students build, they will document this process through digital media and share their experience with the global community.

At night, the school serves as a community hub providing family services, teaches academic and vocational classes to adults, directs sports teams and clubs for students, and continues house construction with community volunteers.

The Castle Atlantis School faculty consists of certified teachers from local school districts, recent graduates from America’s top universities, specialists from advanced math and science fields, counselors from health service organizations, and both full-time and part-time contractors.

Castle Atlantis High School seeks to reinvigorate the community by rebuilding through education.

This Merlot Goes Great With Jim Beam.

2008-04-08T10:47:00.001-07:00

BTB: What up Charles?
CB: What up, Big Time Bobby?
BTB: Sorry I missed your call yesterday - was at a BBQ at Tuohy's.
CB: Weird shit all around yesterday.
BTB: Elaborar.
CB: wine tour/bbq/doughty show
basically I started drinking at 11am
went on a birthday party wine tour with people I didn't really know
BTB: Oh yeah! - You get too durnk, invite some crazy broad to the show, who didn't like and lamed out?
CB: sort of
I brought a bottle of Jim Beam
and was pouring it into my wine glass at the vineyards between wines
BTB: Haha - Kid Rock wine?
CB: I got really drunk
BTB: Holy shit.
CB: the Ben Stiller wife lookalike babe was there
BTB: She had to have respect for your tasting activities.
CB: and since I was the only single guy there
everybody was involved in trying to hook us up
I didn't find her attractive but she kept falling on me and rubbing the Bronse
we get back at 5 and go back to the birthday girl's apartment
and I start doing shots of Jack
CB: At which point, you can't see straight I assume.
BTB: everyone is in awe.
and everyone raids the liquor cabinet and the Stiller babe tries to impress me by doing mad shots
BTB: Oh no...
I see some directions this might go.
CB: but the birthday girl also starts hitting on me
BTB: She's engaged?
Or has a boyfriend, right?
CB: she's married
BTB: Booyah.
Everyone wants a ride on the party train.
CB: and another girl who told me (for some weird reason) not to hook up with Stiller babe
BTB: Because she wanted some bronse.
CB: now wants to go the the Doughty show with me now that her boyfriend left to go watch the Final four
BTB: That's an easy one.
CB: anyway, we finish the booze and try to walk four blocks to the bbq
It's 7
stiller babe can't walk
BTB: Piggyback vomitas?
That'd be a good one.
CB: my army friend and his finance are yelling at each other
and stiller babe is screaming she wants to marry me
in the middle of DC
BTB: Sounds like a fairly normal evening.
CB: the I want you at the concert babe takes me aside and tell me about how much of a slut she is
BTB: I want some quotes on that one.
CB: we go to the bbq
BTB: Seriously.
No wait.
Finish up the "slut" convo.
I need specifics.
CB: hold on
let me finish first
stiller babe gets rushed off to a cab
BTB: Who rushes her off?
A cockblocker?
CB: the large husband who paid for everything
she was done, the other taken girls were hotter
BTB: O.k. - proceed.
CB: by the way I'm sipping a bottle of Gordon's gin
so we get the bbq and I immediately own the grill
BTB: Uch - are you fuckin' serious?
CB: I flip burgers and dogs
BTB: Haha - did some uncle chip on that?
CB: everyone loves it
BTB: Handjobs all over the place?
CB: all the guys are inside watching the final four
so it's only chicks outside by the grill
I ask for a deck of cards and I set up chairs around the keg and we play suits
Everyone is chugging beer
BTB: Haha!
Ringmaster.
CB: girls are boutit
I am definitely going to get laid
BTB: Untill....?
CB: So the concert babe invites me into the bathroom
BTB: She has a husband?
CB: no she has a new boyfriend who went on the wine tour
he was cool as shit
so I kinda feel bad
BTB: But not too bad...?
CB: So she goes down on me in this bathroom
and then stops and starts crying
BTB: Holy shit.
Because she's not good at it?
CB: I am still sipping the Gordon's - the whole time
BTB: Just because that's what Mr. Gordon has intended when he distilled his first juniper berry.
CB: no she said she cheated on every boyfriend she ever had and wishes she had met me first
BTB: So she could have cheated on you instead of with you?
CB: so she immediately calls him and shes on her knees and my bronson is out
BTB: No fucking way.
CB: so I go back outside
and the bday wife
puts her arms around me
BTB: The big guy who paid for everything's wife?
CB: and says "I'm from queens, let's go reminisce about NY'
no joke
BTB: And your bronson is still out.
CB: no this is outside
I zipped up
BTB: Boo.
CB: but the husband is right there
then she tells me he's gay
BTB: WHAT THE FUCK!?
CB: but I kindly back away
BTB: Dude, this would be a great story if you weren't so full of shit.
CB: this is true
BTB: This better end with the dude trying to blow you.
CB: it's not over yet
BTB: You haven't even made it to the concert yet, right?
CB: So I have no one to go to the Doughty show with
and it's like 10
BTB: What time does it start?
CB: I have an extra ticket, so my army friend and his finance who have been arguing for hours
agree to show
So I grab some beers and fill my pockets and we catch a cab
When we get there, I crack some beers in front of the place
after getting my tickets
and start chugging
I crack another one and just pass it out to random people
BTB: Haha
CB: some dude comes over
and he's like five four
BTB: You're a big hit...
CB: with a radio
BTB: Uhoh.
CB: and flashes a badge that says 930 club
not police
he asks for my ID and then takes my beer
and walks away
BTB: Takes your ID?
CB: no
All my new beer friends boo the shit out of him and get in a yelling match
by that time my army friend has bought his ticket and we go in
We hit the bar
Doughty isn't on yet
and the finance offers to buy the round
but she has no cash
so she goes downstairs to the atm machine
she comes back with the receipt and says the machine is broken and won't dispense money
BTB: Fug that.
CB: the receipt says she took out 40 bucks
so I go downstairs with her and ask for some help
the bartender downstairs gets the manager
and it's the five four narc from outside
CB: HAHA!
I was about to guess that!
CB: yes
and he sees me and immediately looks down
BTB: I imagine he's happy to help you guys out.
CB: he's all startled
and talks directly to Lauren, the finance
BTB: Wants nothing to do with Charles.
CB: she doesn't get her money but has to call a number
so we go back upstairs to the concert
BTB: And you demand to get $40 worth of beer.
CB: and Lauren freaks on her boyfriend
BTB: Army dude?
CB: yes
because she's drunk and in debt from med school
BTB: Good thing they didn't fight all night.
CB: So they fucking leave
BTB: Drunk and in debt is not a good combination, but it is oft that the twain shall meet.
CB: and I'm alone with four drinks on the bar
BTB: What to do, what to do?
CB: Doughty comes out and I'm in the back
because I got there so late
I immediately start yelling all the words and dancing like an idiot
everyone around me is just standing there
but there is one girl next to me who is also dancing
and she's fucking hot
all these other chicks from the story are very mediocre
some busted
BTB: And her boyfriend...
CB: but this is a legit hotchick
no, she's by herself
BTB: Lesbian?
CB: so I hand her a drink
BTB: Of course - you're like Johnny Appleseed... except of booze.
CB: yes
the great bartender of the Bronson
she immediately latches onto me, shocked and pleased and chugging
says her name is claire or something
and I think I'm in
I yell/talk at her
and she tells me she is Doughty's ex-girlfriend
BTB: Haha!
CB: and she's going backstage after next song
so she ditches me with no invite
and I'm all alone at the concert
BTB: Awesome... you should still have two drinks left...
CB: with three more drinks
BTB: But you've got one...
CB: so I enjoy the show, drink the rest of the booze
and stumble out
alone after drinking for 12 hours and having chicks on me all night
then I tried to call you
then I went home
the end
BTB: Wow.
BRAVO.
BRAVO!
CB: it's like a microcosm of my entire dc experience
BTB: But you did get half a blowjob.
CB: nothing really clicked
or sucked
BTB: Well... sucked...
CB: so today I did nothing but hurt
BTB: The most surprising thing about it was that you fucking sipped gin - that's fuckin' nasty.
CB: I'm a hardcore kind of Bronson
BTB: That sounds fuckin' crazy - I can't believe you're alive - sounds like gallons of booze.
CB: It was a weird day man, chicks all hot and heavy about the earrings and the steez, single or not, then they drop like flies
BTB: Well they sort of get overwhelmed.
CB: apparently, they're all settled into their domestic lives
and then bam, Bronson
BTB: Ready. Set. Bronson.
CB: Once they experience Charles Bronson
they lose their shit
BTB: It puts them into catchup overdrive.
CB: they are willing to throw it all away for a taste
BTB: They overheat, blow a Bronson, then blow a gasket.
CB: all because of some Bronson with shaggy hair, sideburns, and a Bronx tshirt
BTB: They're like pots of water, then you put a flame under their asses and they boil over.
And sometimes you put a noodle in'em.
CB: exactly
BTB: Word.
CB: exactly like that
I think that will be my next Rex entry
BTB: It ought to be.
But that's a fucking awesome story.
CB: the Bronson cup boozeth over
BTB: Boozehound overdrive.
CB: I can't tell if it was all a waste of time or not
I got no phone numbers or anything
just a flash in the Bronse
BTB: What was your tie to this group of people, how'd you even end up there?
CB: my army friend
he's on my basketball team
BTB: Ahha.
CB: so it's his friends
BTB: So there'll be stories at the next b-ball game.
CB: yea, we hang out a lot
and I saw a few of those people before
but I never really talked to them
BTB: Or showd them the steez.
CB: I think all the couples got drunk and argued the rest of the night away because of something I did
BTB: haha!
CB: and the single chick who wanted to marry me passed out at 7
BTB: Well, you'll be getting a call next weekend.
CB: well, she has no tits
and I've seen her go home with the definish of Eurotrash
BTB: Boo.
Well that'll always sour an opinion.
CB: yea, she's a big ho
BTB: Wow - that chick is fucking superlame.
Does she have daddy issues?
CB: apparently
BTB: Lame.
CB: totally lame
so that's that
BTB: I think she's one of those girls that has a hole in her soul that's shaped exactly like a bronse.
CB: yes
but the indelible image, the most fun
was standing at the wine taasting bar
with my wine glass
at noon in rural VA
while the dude was describing tannens and acididy and shit
and I'm blatantly filling my glass with Jim Beam
with the Beam bottle on the bar too
BTB: And you're holdin' out your cup and pourin' more.
CB: not even trying to hide it
all class
BTB: Haha!
That shit is hilarious.
CB: that's fucking bender
BTB: Actually, that's better manners than if you were drinking another vineyard's wine.
Benderriffic..
CB: the wineguy, after a few wines was like, "this one goes great with Jim Beam"
looking over at me
BTB: HAHA!
I would have shaken his hand.

Reasons I Won't Be Coming

2008-04-03T12:47:00.000-07:00

I'm tired.

I made other plans.

She and I really don't get along.

I had Chinese last week.

I'm just getting over this flu.

I think I'm coming down with something.

I have a hair appointment.

All we're going to talk about is her relationship.

I hate that place.

Those people are lunatics.

God, the traffic.

I just don't feel like it.

I have to get up early tomorrow.

I never said I would go in the first place.

I'm trying to save money.

It's raining.

I already promised I would do something with her.

I'm not hungry.

That's like half an hour from here.

I have nothing to wear.

I'm already in my pjs.

It's a school night.

It got really bad reviews.

Those parties always suck.

I'm not gonna be third wheel.

I need to feed my cats.

I just feel like hanging here.

It gets so smoky in there.

It's too loud.

We won't be able to see the stage.

Lost is on tonight.

I have to wait for the cable guy.

There's no place to park.

I don't have a ride.

I have to work late.

It's in this really bad neighborhood.

My back hurts.

I lost my phone.

I planned on staying in.

I already rented this movie.

There's no gas in the car.

I heard that place sucks.

This book is really good.

I'm having some issues on the homefront right now.

We're going to be the only white people there.

I don't want to have to go all the way up there and then have to come all the way back.

I hate packed theaters.

I can't stand waiting in line.

I need to take a shower.

I have better things to do.

I don't know how to get there.

I didn't have fun last time I went there.

I already promised I'd see it with her.

I don't know how long the meeting will go, so...

Do You Know What It Means To Fiend New Orleans? Part III

2008-04-02T07:04:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, PirateBar wench was gourdshape yuck, but, fortunately, there were four disclosed puertadores that brought a pleasant droolness to the stein's eye. Our heroes drank up the airy wheeze like runners from Chariots of Fire. They riggemed refreshingly up to the seatback fools, baiting the hottles come hither. Barwench teapotted over with a heebeegeebee sheergrin. Charles felt ordermuch lust. But Pierre said bulletbang: "Grabsinthe us absinthe there, right there, no there. Zeusdammit. Where is the fairycloud craze and does it cost?"

Charles spaken: "Lick my licorice! Light up this galleon bullship!"

Amerigo: "May I sneaksnooze while you reekbooze?"

Pierre, zombiedumb towards the hottle convection, "Amerigo, beddyby bitches are veritable bitches in britches SIphon yonder fairycloud craze burrofludorimidori..." The blackgreen hottle unleashed a streaklight. PirateBar gourdette goes all emflambeau on the sugardrop stirjob, and then says something like boomtown, fairies 'R us (but she refereth to wretchbletch Amerigo, solonely, right? who now slinkied floorward and doorward)

Charles:"Amerigo! Do not deny yourself this thrustlife beverahey! Winds tornado in the soul, not the stomago. If I gargle yours, a noontime werewolf will become me to haunt your daydreams."

Pierre: "Wenchy and werewolf, halloween share you like tonight's viral sextape."

PirateBar wench: "What? Are you guys talking about me?"

Charles: "My phone-a-friend is dumbo disney."

Pierre: "Yes, wenchy, fantasyhot havenot. Unfortunate for you, it is not against the straw to be a crass."

PirateBar wench: "Are you guys fucked up?"

Rejuveniled Amerigo, up from the concrete kungfu-style, haughty like great Batman through a skylight, commandeers the barkeep afternoon: "Know this, gourdette Georgette, " he then grabsinthed the glass du jour and then cough cough dryheavered, then dragonspake, "Fuzzle the hottle again and leave us. Your deuces are not wild. ErinGoBraugh is not for your tainted intervention. Today is a collectivedirective for all teacherknights to highhorse it, you afllalo?"

Charles: "I concur, Lazarus Amerigo. Heroes, fly the flag jolly roger!"

Pierre: "Shamrock your cock! Ha!"

Amerigo, "And much more, heroes. Yes, let us be in that number"

The First Tale Of Harry

2008-03-31T10:35:00.000-07:00

Scampering through the trudgemuck on his mission position to the dangerous hilltop abode, Harry binoculars ahead sponging his hobbit brow. A shlong journeyromp lies ahead. Onwards upwards bootwards and legcramp will be the niceties lei'd upon heroe Harry's hairy shoulders. Robinhood quiver shouldered for erection protection, leather animal stomach satchel filled with naturemorselmunch.

He is shreddy.

Harry kneels, sneering dietyward, "Puppetteer! I rob days from you! Journeywise I point my gnarled pointers. Try to hinder, try to forecast waterice and gust! Cloudover and retire, I to brimstonefire rage - a juggernauted rollingthunder, not above or below to be denied. Vacate the skyward haven - overbear another sloor journyman roustabout deserving stoppage, NOT! I!"

Blunder cracks. Gusts gust. Electroshock sky ignites. Harry rises, mudcovered boot ahead of the other. Ascension. Closer to hilltop danger, robin hood and firesword ready, groanpuffs bellow, rumble rock and tree tumble.

Close to the crimson chest thumper, Harry thumbs paperette likeness to imprisonatta beauteous. "Savior I." Filthmuck slowing pace, waterice falls; freezes and cleanses. Thanknot and chillcrunch Harry mucks up to threshold terrorchamber. Clunkwood knocker... creak... eminating beastheat loosens tendontight cadaverpose. Cautionless and headstrong Harry, stompmarch castlestone stairs. Upanddown abovebelow, hotter grows Robinhood tremble aims.

Boomsurprise fireblast singe. Facefire burns. Yelpgroan heavenward grumble. Painridden diveroll. Adrenilunge! Sidejabstab, powerflash thick crimson lifemilk puncture. Beastcurdlethrash! Painruptured Harry hyperheaves oxygen. Bellyup on warm and bloadsoaked dungeoncastlestone. Like spent postrapture new lovers, beast and Harry neardeath embrace.
Blackout.
Cometo.
Shiningglowface beauteous thankful toothgrins. Harry binoculars sky above, cloudless background. Heavybreathchockes, ribache, filthcoat doesn't distract. Beauteous is faceclose and free. Savior Harry erects and armraises, "Beauteous, for you hillward trudgethump. For you, sufferpain. For you, frozendeathmarch. For you, beastmurder risktaker. For you, I know not why."
"Stranger. Thanks. Heroic and awesomerumble display. Reward ensues, post healtime, and cleanup. No more castlestorming beastbludgeon!"

"Beauteous. I, Harry, painridden and bloodcrunch juggernaut to oblige. Thanks received understood all, but I changenot cannot."

"But Harry why?"

"Beauteous, name please for trophycase remembrance."

"... ... Sharon."

"Sharon." Harry uprights and turns. Walkaway overshoulder worldweary backlook, dirtface wink, "'Tis done."

Do You Know What It Means to Fiend New Orleans? Part II

2008-03-27T11:29:00.001-07:00

So then, our heroes gumshoed down cannedheat Boubon Street. The road was soapmoist from irrigation. The legioness sickyawn and hottle fottle and sextape beadfills spilled Neptune's disgustflush o'ernight. Now crowning lightbright eroded drencher assfault, but stankonia reminded heroes, preyhunters all, of the whored swillrack uncleansed. Preyhunters, por course, because tummy rumblefish bob's po' boy.

Charles bekept namesake Jameson and triforce ford coppolas in his marsupial shoulderall, in case heroes became stunned by phasering lightbright and needed a roadside revelation. For, the beauteousness of herelife is the alcoholics licensure is Crescently full-bodied. Also, marsupialled was various joeyfood - the bookendpan and the red red raz and the roofmouth crunch, all for cheap latersnack yum.

Amerigo then sputtered, "Scary decadence anight blights those crazy hair of the dog gogos, Charles. Methinks dawn sickyawn dug a chasm between mind and shotty. This Pirate Bar momentum is too early birdy. The horses on this carousel are beginning to go straight!."

In a floppy ogrestride, Pierre dimly dismissals, "Hottle please." So Charles unstows his woozy cargo and bequenches namesake Jameson to Pierre, the Booze Desert. Pierre glugabugs musky rapture into ford coppola one and two and sheergrins Charles.

Charles saids, "Holy St. Patrick, we pray blotto everafter. ErinGoBraugh lightbright drunk enriches leprechaun gold. However, the stupid rainbow belongs only Amerigoward, that sissypants bad rally monkey."

Amerigo: "Sour grapes and evil wine."

Charles: "Follow this galleon alley so we can grabsinthe. Rickey turn, land ho, whording heroes."

Do You Know What It Means To Fiend New Orleans? Part I

2008-03-26T09:07:00.000-07:00

In the greenbitter whine of ErinGoBraugh morn, our heroes and such blather hangovered in a Crescent City hideaway, soon to rebirth. Amerigo suffered from yawnflush, mostly because he dithered with the hottle extremis, and Pierre balked at movements galore because his melon cracked open, leaving shards knifing outward furious. Charles keyed in the lowhang smokeroom hack from st. elsewhere, engines ablaze. Time was prime rocksteady.

So Charles said, "Merry ErinGoBraugh! I have been interviewed for approven Crescent City teacherhero just now and have thusly TigerWoodsed the poor questions into the merry hole. Sleep is not Optimus Prime, my heroes. Noon breaks mostly, rocksteady we mostly must."

Porcelained Amerigo echoes out, "Foolish interviewer, didn't know storm repeat this morning you. Permanent vacation must appeal to Mardi Gras instincts, huh Charles? No winter iccumin in. Just bayou and children. Congrats!"

Charles replied, "Indeed. In the Falltime, down like leaves Charles will go to be the Crescent classroom hero with a bonafide whoreship vidastyle to boot. But Amerigo, slumper not. Pierre, render fat. Risedough your bodies. Rigormorole we now blaze with bagpipe charm."

Pierre, frowndown on beddyby, spakes "Anight has thusly rocked, Amerigo and me. You slumpered tightly with morn dreams of teacherhero impressives. Succeed, por course. But resty possess you. Kitkat us for a meantime hence. Headpound knives hatorade on Pierre."

Charles sashays tableward in this fauxtelroom Bourbon, past infinite bedtimes of Amerigo and Pierre (now queenlying each) and resuscitated the hottle of namesake Jameson at the whipcrackcrack of 11am. Upwards turned glug with fire finish met with bedwise groans. Charles continued, "My lastnight respite was necessary for morning teacherhero impressives, yes. But anight, you both obviously befriended our good friend Dionysus, while yesrested I. No worries. It is St. Patrick that will soulguide you hereafter amen."

Dragknuckles Amerigo insisted on colder climes of flushroom tiles. Pierre girthed and bumbledore to the clothed fenestrates and pulled back to engage holy light and the underbooze of Bourbon Street. Namesake Jameson kissed lips in musky rapture as Charles blared eyes on whiteflake ceiling.

Charles next denuded from coattie and the fauxtel room was triforced into impending cocoonburst of teacherknights. Amerigo socked himself. Pierre tossed his melon through a T-shirt, mouthbreathing still. Charles laces Chucks, then yesses, "This drunkparade wenches Pirate Bars, you diggem. Fairy absinthe shocks veins on mornings where deathhurt must clark kent itself for superhero greenbeer connoiseurs. Now once armoralled, let us go..".

Do You Know What it Means to Fiend New Orleans?

2008-03-24T20:57:00.000-07:00

Lest we forget the dopetruth Your Charles extravagates on this frog. His sinful sinnership, he knows, waxes lustly for his sextape, now for almost a snuffblight. But evermind, Your Charles Crescently citizized himself with the betrothen Amerigo and Pierre, swigging from the hottle and creating supreme erections with hammer and two by flour. NOLA nomo', but s'more to swallow. Blotto me hack morrow-wise. Exeunt.

Are You Charles Bronson?

2008-03-13T12:50:00.000-07:00

Yes, I am.

Goody Two Shoes

2008-03-07T12:26:00.000-08:00

At the request of blog enthusiast Amerigo, I will recount my gym jaunt two mornings ago...

You see, Charles the Bronson has a fierce loyalty to New Balance Men's MX621WN (Men's) - White/Navy Crosstrainers, almost as strong as his loyalty to obsessive chicks and Wild Turkey. For the past six years, he has footballed/basketballed/ baseballed/ frisbeed/boned/bocced /boozed/swam/ran in those very comfortable, form-fitting, inexpensive sneaks. Frequently, because of his ferocious, Level 4 lateral moves, the shoe's sidestitching is prone to pop and unravel.

No worries: Charles has many a pair stocked up in his closet like extra cookies for the Cookie Monster. Only, alongside the new pairs are also the old pairs. The loyalty lasts forever. Surely when and if it rains and I want to partake in mudwrestling, I might need a pair of once-awesome but now ruined sneaks. Tossing out the broken shoes would be like executing an injured cheetah.

So imagine a giant pile of identical sneakers on a closet floor. Some are browning with imploded seams and some are white good as new. The current pair Charles uses to dominate the sports world is, at night, placed on top of the pile as he reorganizes the shorts, shirts, socks, soap, shampoo, s-somethingelses, that are in his gym bag. Charles goes to sleep, figuring he'll be ok to repack his gymbag in the dark, freezing cold of his apt at 5:30am.

At 5:30, there was a shrieking alarm followed by an awkward aerobed rollout where Charles landed facefirst atop strewn bookpiles and condom wrappers, Then, he put on some clothes from the piles on the floor. Charles disregarded fashion since he couldn't find the lightswitch (his eyes wouldn't really open), so he just kept layering until he felt warm enough.

Out the door without his wallet, keys, puffer, pbone, glasses, and gym bag, Charles semi-awoke and performed a 180 and pirouetted over to the coin/receipt-covered dresser to get his vitals and then over to the closet to grab at his sneakers, et al. Off to the gym he went.

In the lockerroom, Charles was met with a curious dilemma. Does he try to workout in the two left sneakers he brought, one of which has a gaping hole? Or does he workout barefoot? Charles deemed it funnier (maybe safer - Charles lifts a lot of heavy heavy weights) to work out shod rather than unshod. So he laced up and saw his right foot with an interesting outwards banana curve. Charles felt borderline deformed with his two right-turned left feet.

The anticlimax: No one noticed. Charles did pullups, pushups, leg lifts (for God's Sake!) but everyone was entranced in their routines. The treadmill was off limits, figuring no one wanted to watch Charles run like a pained ostrich. But if there was an aerobics class, then Your Charles would have found a place amongst the Hillary-lookalikes and gay men. He would have corralled a mat and some strength bands, and fought his way to the front. With a clear view at the mirror,waiting for the cheese techno to start, Charles wanted to see himself dance like everyone told him he did, with two left feet.

The Earth Is A Cold Dead Place

2008-03-06T19:20:00.000-08:00

Fresh (to death) from hanging 36 on the hoop court, Your Charles, freshly showered, pondered the TV weak and weary. Normally, Charles doesn't ponder the TV, but uses it as an anesthetic after a hard day's rocking. When Charles lives alone, sometimes he needs a talking box to substitute for a human presence, and sometimes the talking heads and reality people, for all their abhorrence, provide a simulacrum of humanity missing from the dark, messy apartment at 10pm. There's usually no need to actually WATCH the shows. To achieve the desired affect, the shows merely have to be ON. Actually paying attention to the talking box would cause cultural malaise/disgust as I just discovered and will thus explain.

So it was some Puff Daddy show. In a recording studio, these marginally hot chicks were trying to record an album. Producers with ridiculous names introduced them to "reference tracks," which are new, pre-recorded songs - the beat, the lyrics, and the vocals already in place. As these songs were played for the chicks, everyone in the room looked serious and impressed and bobbed their heads to the beat. Some of the girls had sour expressions, but still bobbed away. Then, since the songs were already written, produced, and recorded, all the chicks had to do was go in the singing booth and re-record the vocals EXACTLY as they heard them on the "reference track." They sung along with the song like the producers told them to, even though they told the camera they hated the song.

After recording a few songs not to their liking, the chicks began complaining profusely that Puff Daddy (the bigboss) was assigning them slow boring songs to sing when they envisioned "their" album to be "pop international" with a lot of "bangers." So the chicks started a defacto coup, where they had standoffish exchanges with the producers, then with the A and R dude, then with some other dudes with sunglasses on indoors, and then finally with Puff Daddy. Throughout the upheaval, the girls whined and complained to everyone, including the camera, looking for sympathy about the lame songs being chosen for them.

Your Charles wishes he didn't see this. These oblivious chicks acted desperate for songs that represent their "individuality" and their "vibe" as a group, but disregarded that the songs, whether slow or PopInternational trash, are chosen by PuffDaddy, whose self-interest is only to put out an album that will sell the most copies, not to champion their vibrant, independent souls. In this recording process, PuffDaddy is God and the girls are automatons, parroting spoonfed vocals from spoonfed tracks. If the chicks wanted to represent their true selves, they would actually WRITE songs, but since they don't/can't they are at the whim of a man making a mass consumption product. Their opinion doesn't matter. They are not artists.

These chicks are obviously a mass appeal front for the saccharine/cliche "hiphop" songs that sell millions and inspire no one. This song-choice dissension episode exposed the chicks as extremely base on the assembly line of corporatized music/ "hiphop." They are like the guy in the Ford factory bolting in car axles who now wants the car designer to design prettier, better axles for him to screw in. But what that guy incorrectly assumes is that the car designer has creative power. Really it is the CEO in the big office who manipulates designs to compete as a business. It is his decision to manufacture regular axles or pretty axles, produce a slow album or a dance album.

And so when the girls still sing the songs they dislike and Puff Daddy struts around saying he's "getting this money," and the producers are constantly tweaking the chicks' voices in the singing booth to conform perfectly to the reference track, and everyone is wearing designer clothing and adhering to timetables, know that this show is the willful transparency of making ubiquitous, bad music.

Also know that the show itself, as in "reality show," manipulates the manipulation of music. The producers put this fake music process on TV, and present it as real, authentic drama. Strangely, this is no fishbowl show where you ape in disgust at the misbehavior of idiots - where the setup dating show/competition is just a front for ogling irrational behavior. If the producers went that route, then perhaps it would be more evident that the recording process is mass-produced and the chicks were twits/cogs. However, the show is designed for you to root for the girls to make a killer album that will be hugely successful. Their recording process is portrayed as vital and necessary, not phony and contrived like it really is. So the TV show reinforces the ruse by spinning the corporate music formula as a real creative struggle between an album that is slow and boring and an awesome album full of hits.

After realizing all this, Your Charles turned off the TV and stared for a second through the silent dark.

Four Single Years

2008-03-05T10:40:00.000-08:00

Around this time, four score minus three score minus sixteen years ago, Your Charles was liberated from a relationship. Of course, it was all his fault, as the primo anno of Bronx teaching rendered him manic and depressive, frustrated mess.

His naive teacher failures like trying to quell screaming children, random fistfights, and the administration from arbitrarily firing him led to a change in his constitution from idealistic college boy to blank-faced booze fiend. So when cries of "Why are you so quiet?" "Why won't you tell me?" and "I want to help." elicited only a stonewall, it was because recounting student and administration hysterics was to relive them, and when even more hysterics were as close as tomorrow, the nightly respite, where Your Charles and you spent time, had to be exactly that, a respite, completely void of the relentless moral horror of teaching at that school.

Add that to my singular desire for commiseration meetings at the hoop court, Subway, and the bars with fellow naive Bronx teachers Amerigo and Pierre, where we would, like platoonmates of war, share laughs at Fate's audacious absurdity, and Your Charles begins to recognize his culpability in increasing his emotional and physical distance. But, definitively, it was his way of coping with the Bronx that made him grow apart. It was not your fault that you weren't there in the classroom everyday, and thus couldn't understand his manifest needs that didn't explicitly include you; because if you were there, then you would have known you were helpless in the first place, and so was he, forever.

No matter. In the now gone four years past, Your Charles has found eternal wisdom in two unassailable truths.

1. If you find a girl at the bar, you can always find another girl at the bar. Probably a better one than this crazy chick lying next to you, fawning, needy, ordinary.

2. No girl is worth it who isn't at the bar.

Did you notice the paradox? Going to a bar with a chick you met at a bar is excruciating because you know the bar attracts all kinds, from the lunatic to the fembot to the vision of white. Which all appeal to you. The sense of possibility you had when meeting that girl on your arm has the potential to be usurped by a new, greater sense of possiblity perhaps with the girl in the corner or the girl behind the bar. There is an urgent desire to trade up because the girl on your arm is insecure and slightly annoying. The exalted rush you felt when you first met and got drunk and went home together has dissipated and reality has seeped into the expectations of your collective future. It will not be what you previously thought. It will be much less. So now that you are drinking again and the same scenario as before is playing out in front of you and each girl tucked between friends and into tables provides a potentially definitive opportunity for eternal happiness, why not act on that hope? Renew the sense of possibility and possibly see it fulfilled.

Of course, the drunken, tenuous expectations are sure to fail with each successive girl. But the sheer exhilaration of each new beginning is unmistakable. And it is the girls at the bar, who like to drink and dance and dress up all pretty, that provide the most exciting nascent relationships. Underneath the partygirl veneer is usually a litany of turn-offs, simply because of the laws of verisimilitude - with reckless abandon comes consequence. The same law applies to someone you meet at the library or at work, only the amplitude of the extremes in much less and therefore she is usually boring and traditional. Who wants to go on sober, awkward dates with girls who hang out at the library anyway, especially if you don't know if they can actually ROCK?

So it is an inescapable cyle, a true bachelor paradox. Each weekend, Your Charles begins anew with bargirls who are sure to disappoint, simply because they are beholden to the most thrilling potential. His high hopes are then starkly diminished by the girls' often rancid shortcomings and so he begins again, hopefully, drunkenly. Now, there are many in this readership who opt out of this cycle by surrendering to the best option to date. Those readers are doomed to alway wonder, could that skank in the corner be the endgame I've always wanted? Well, it is up to Your Charles to be the vicarious one, seeking perpetual renewal of the Platonic Ideal by finding his missing half, torn asunder by Zeus as punishment for scaling too close to heaven, so that he and she may rejoin soul and body as he/she and continue on that failed journey with beer in their hands and lust in their hearts.

3 AM

2008-03-04T08:10:00.001-08:00

While Mr. Obama would have to be woken up at 3am for that terrorist call, Hill will already be up, wondering where Bill is.

Clearly Clearly

2008-02-29T00:02:00.000-08:00

This is the tip of my Bronson.
Behold it, it only gets bigger.
I stand tall like Magic Johnson,
And I'm a white dude not a gold digger.

You jump to conlclusions too fast
Cover yourself in honey and judge.
The mirror speaks the truth about your ass
I'm Judy Bloom and behold my fudge.

If you don't get the ref, then step off.
Read a book you illiterate sonofabitch.
Drink the Anchor Steam and the Smirnoff,
In time you'll figure out the glitch.

The glitch is your mentality and the way you precieve the world... it's incorrect and you need to right yourself. Bitches be trippin' and dudes be envious. Which are you? Resign to the fact that you're lost and you need to cover your hand in an abrassive chemical reaction that will leave you with a scar that will only remind you of a time when you gave up and let yourself over to something greater than you... pain... pain that releases you... pain that resembles the hopelessness of your life before the pain...

We're all fucked.

I heart you.

This Poem Is So Deep

2008-02-28T19:49:00.000-08:00

This poem is so deep that
Your mind will hemorrhage from your head
And steam out
And float up
Like the escaping soul of a flatlining patient.

Only your mind will stop at the ceiling
And turn and look back at you
And you will see yourself reading this
As if from a surveillance camera

You examine yourself sitting there,
Staring blankly at a computer
In the corner of a messy room.
It is so still and quiet, you notice.
So you sigh and see yourself sigh
And you slap your face and see yourself slap your face
What is this person doing? you ask
Where is everyone?
You see a person as detached from the world
As you are from yourself at this moment.

But you know that person down there
The one reading and feeling his cheek
The one whose problems are the same as your own.
And even though what you see seems without soul,
He is still you, connected forever.

Just like those people you see eating alone,
Chewing slowly and reading a book,
Who pause to look elsewhere
And happen to catch your eyes looking elsewhere,
As you too eat alone.

If A Blog Falls In The Woods...

2008-02-27T09:52:00.000-08:00

Riddle you this: If a Blog falls in the woods, and there isn't anybody around to read it, does it make a sound?

Before you answer, let me give it a shot.

Let's start in the cosmos... The geocentric universe provided a superlative example of Man's egotism. From the beginning, people believed their perspective to be the origin from which the planet and the heavens circumnavigated. This was the default consensus until Copernicus in the 16th Century, whose predictive mathematical model of the heliocentric universe (backed by Kepler and Galileo) shifted the geocentric (read: egocentric) universe to the heliocentric. Man's importance moved to the periphery in the cosmic sense, Darwin then redefined the Bible as a novel, and the grandeur of life's meaning vis a vis the world and universe became less about just, only me and more about the whole shebang and how it relates to me.

So, in relation to the above question, you must decide whether you are geocentric or heliocentric in your answer.

Do you subscribe to the selfish rationale, borne from the beginning of homo bronsonius, that man is the center of the universe and therefore only what he experiences actually exists? Does the unread blog not exist if it is outside of human awareness? If we posit human perspective as supreme and absolute, does anything truly matter outside of the parameters of our perspective?

Or

If all matter in the universe adheres to scientific laws and humans are only a part of that universe, doesn't the matter, independent of humans, exist and move and react just the same? Thus we can say, the perception of sound is not necessary for the sound to exist? As a tree falling in the woods (unless the trees are in a vacuum) will cause compression waves to propagate outward away from the disturbance. Those compression waves are sound regardless of the availability of a "sensor" capable of detecting those waves, right?

So where does this leave unread Bronsonius Rex? Well it is all an issue of causality. Let's say a falling tree that no one hears fall lands on a Bengal tiger den, which, in killing many tigers, truncates the food chain at the top and thus increases the populations of monkeys or hares or langurs that then overrun a nearby village and contaminate its people with a virulent and incurable disease, which, naturally, spawns a worldwide epidemic. In that case the falling tree has a supreme purpose, but it's purpose isn't manifest until after the fact.

So it goes with the Bronsonius.

The Rex exists independent of human consciousness but that doesn't mean it doesn't yet exist in the world. Like a pebble in a placid lake, the ripples are extending shoreward to where the dockworkers booze and scholars check out beach babes. It is because of the interconnectedness of all things, that matter cannot be created or destroyed but only change forms, that the very constancy of an anonymous Rex can one day find its singular moment when the scholars add its universal truths to our textbooks and then trace the cause-chain back to this very post as the nexus of something that once never even existed.

Psycho Hose Beast

2008-02-26T09:39:00.001-08:00

Quite a week for this chick. First she is conciliatory ("I am honored to be here with Barack Obama..."), then she is vitriolic ("Shame on you, Barack Obama"), after that, she is sarcastic ("Let's just bring everyone together and celestial choirs will come down and sing and everyone will do the right thing."), then irrational ("We just had a president who was inexperienced with foreign policy, and look at the change that happened when he took office.")

This is all too familiar in the female-as-crazed-beast world of mine. Many women have mounted similar smear campaigns against Your Charles to, ironically (paradoxically?), get back together or extend a relationship with Your Charles. Frankly, the belief that naked, ribald desperation (under the guise of holding it together, no less) is the means to a genuine renewal and reconciliation is really, really pathetic. The scorned female is so transparent and cliche, and Ms. Clinton is no different. She wants what she can't have, so her insecurities become manifest in erratic, emotionally impulsive behavior. Her Obama attacks are the exact same as those fawning phonecalls, the panicked emails, the passive-aggressive put-ons of the many girls that have fallen out of Your Charles's favor and have let their jilted emotions usurp proper judgment.

Indeed, boyfriending Your Charles is akin to an infinite term as Madame President of Heaven. It is the prize of the prizes. But no mixed-message campaign would ever impel Charles to cast his ballot for you. I don't care how qualified or hot you are. When you, like Ms. Clinton, are going buckwild, feeling the specter of the perfect situation slip uncontrollably away, selling crazy is not the answer. Face it: The sea change is here, and you must recognize that you have come and gone. One party is moving on and up. The other must not cling irretrievably to the past, of what once was or what could have been, but must move aside gracefully and try to salvage some self-respect. This newfound adversity is not for you to splatter your emotions against, but to move aside from.

So, I anoint Barack the Brother Charles as he tries to get that psycho off his jock so he can go do his job. Which is rocking.

Job Interview

2008-02-19T20:38:00.000-08:00

In a whitewalled room, Charles and four women coworkers sit at computers. It is quiet except for an underlying hum from the corner printer and intermittent bursts of keyboard typing and mouse clicking. The heat is turned up too high, so Charles has stripped down to his white T shirt and is squirming. The four women all sit upright, sweaters still on, as they type out emails and edit spreadsheets. Charles looks around and decides to forego work and make the banal scene into a story. He opens up a blog entry and starts typing.

In the room next door, a guy is applying for a teaching job at their office. The guy applying speaks across the table to another guy (a coworker of Charles and the four women) who, after asking scripted questions, takes notes in a green folder.

Back in the office room, the coworker's (the one presently interviewing next door) computer station sits empty except for a half-eaten microwave diet dinner. One of the female coworkers next to Charles notices the dinner left there and remarks on its wonderful smell. Others chirp similar sentiments about hunger and "deliciousness." But since the comments are directed to the room and not each other, no conversation develops and it becomes quiet again.

Charles sighs loudly and tries to finish typing his fiction story. He realizes he's under time constraints, since he is next to go interview the guy applying. The four women (his co-workers)have already taken their turns, dutifully evaluating and taking notes while being bubbly and welcoming and professional. When the coworker interviewing returns back to his computer and synthetic meal, Charles will have to go administer his portion of the interview and leave this scene and his story unfinished.

Charles pauses at end of his fourth paragraph. The walls of the office are superthin, and the present interview conversation (between the guy interviewing and the guy who's an employee)suddenly muffles through the room. "Oh my god. Can you hear that?" one woman coworker, looking up from her monitor, asks the room. Another woman, putting down the phone she just picked up, says, "Oh my God, did you see what he was wearing in there? Did his mom dress him for his big job interview?" Pause: "I mean really, I've seen better candidates for a dog show." Then another woman coworker says, laughing: "He's like a freakin' Simpson's character with that face." Catty comments continue about the applying guy's overbite and wardrobe. Everyone is energized and excited. Charles tries to write it all down.

The office door opens, and the coworker guy, finally finished with his interview, tiptoes in and the women laugh. He puts the green folder next to Charles. A woman asks, "How about that overbite?" and the guy says with a chuckle, "Oh my god, I know..." Someone else asks him, "Is that Lean Cuisine you have there?" "Yes, the new panini!" Charles opens the green folder and sees Yale and 3.9 GPA atop the resume. Another woman asks, "What do you think of him, really? The kids would make fun of him. Wait, let me close the door." She almost runs into Charles as he walks through the doorway to the adjacent room.

CB: Sit down Sit down. Do not get up for me. Seriously man. I'm going to go back out there and come back in. Do not, under any circumstance, get up and shake my hand. I am not worth it. Unless you genuinely want to meet me. But you probably don't. You're just doing what you think you should do because it's an interview. I want you to cut that shit out. Because, really, I'm not that important. In fact, I'm almost positive that I have no say in whether you are hired or not. In fact, do you want anything? Water? Coffee? Lean Cuisine?

Guy: No no. I'm good.

Charles puts the green folder in the trash and leaves the room. He closes the door, walks two paces, and pivots back around and opens the door again.

CB: Hi! I'm Charles Bronson. Don't get up.

Guy: Ok.

Charles sits.

CB: So, you probably think that last remark is some sort of trick. The one about me having no say. You probably believe that I really do have the say, and those shrill girls that you talked with are just window dressing for my big empire here. Because you really don't know, do you? You have no idea what goes on here. You went to Yale, right? Most of your friends have probably done the I-Bank interview bullshit and have told you about all the trick questions and thought experiments. But, I assure you, I will only tell you the truth, and the truth is, I have no say in whether you will get hired.

Guy: Okok. (Nervous laughter) Actually, I do have a friend who interviewed at Bear Sterns who...

CB: Let me ask you a serious question: I was reading this article on postmodern literature. It was really interesting for some reason. It basically claimed that authors now create a self-conscious text - basically, a text that is written with the knowledge that it will be looked at critically, so it shades and hides it's true meaning for the discerning critic (or reader) to cull out themselves. You following me?

Guy: Yea. Of course.

CB: So you know - make the reader work for "what it really means" [he quotes with his fingers] with the idea that the reader will appreciate the meaning or number of meanings they discover in the language, symbols, textual implications imbedded in the story...

Guy: Okay....

CB: (Keeping his line of thought) But, paradoxically, what prevents the reader from discovering a different meaning from what the author intended? What if someone wrote a story with the theme of working here as a very bad idea. The story is cryptic and ironic in a well-written way, but everyone who reads it takes the story to imply that working here isn't that bad, maybe even good? Who is wrong - the reader for not understanding the story or the writer for not being totally forthcoming or straightforward with his/her intentions? Who is at fault?

Guy: I don't know.

Charles leans back in his chair and puts his feet on the table.

CB: Yea, so there's a power struggle, a conflict between reader and author over the meaning of the text. And the author is bound to lose, right? The reader has the power of judgment over the meaning of the text. It's the person that consumes the story that determines it's meaning. Get it?

Through the wall Charles and the Guy hear screeching laughter.

CB: I was struck by this, because I do a bit of writing myself, and I always try to write by shielding my true meaning in metaphors and irony and wordplay. Shit like that. Or else, you know, I think just coming out and saying anything straight up would be cheesy. Like - take this for example - instead of just saying - making fun of someone you just interviewed to all your colleagues is reprehensible, two-faced, etc., I would hide that sentiment (which is an easy morality tale, by the way) in a hyperliterary story about something else and present it in a seemingly ambiguous manner. What do you think about that?

Guy: About postmodernism or about making fun of someone?

CB: (Not liking that response) Just listen. This is about...Wait, you probably know by now this interview is a charade, since I'm doing all the talking. But, I want to have this conversation with someone. Chime in whenever. What was your major at Yale?

Guy: Um, econ with a minor in philosophy.

CB: Ok, but do you read fiction?

Guy: Yea, sure.

CB: Good, so if you follow the argument of this article I read: Do you think that a story about making fun of someone you interview can succeed if written in the normative postmodern way?

Guy: I'm not sure I get the question.

Charles leans forward.

CB: Don't worry. Don't worry. It's cool. Let me ask you something seriously: Are you nervous right now?

Guy: Yea, of course. This is an interview. Especially since I'm having a hard time following you.

CB: No worries, man. You're doing great. (Charles gives the Guy a thumbs up) I understand where you're coming from. You obviously got dressed all nice, put on the tie, the jacket. Maybe you didn't eat this morning before coming here. You probably got frantic when you couldn't find this place, right?

Guy: Yea, I guess.

CB: It's hard to find. My point is, it takes a lot of courage to go into someplace and try to put your best foot forward. Jobs are hard to come by, and you want to look and act your best. Which all makes you insecure, right? You feel vulnerable. Now, how would you feel if you were sincerely trying hard to be your best, look your best, and answer all their stupid questions correctly, and then they, behind your back mind you, cut you up about how you looked and acted?

Guy: I wouldn't really like that.

CB: Sure, but tell me how you would really feel. It's fucking hot in here and you've been sitting here for two hours.

Guy: I would hate it, frankly I would be pretty pissed.

CB: See. Now imagine if I put that hideous behavior inside a story, about a job interview, let's say...like this job interview, let's say, instead of just writing: People who make fun of people they interview should be hanged because they are feeding their own power-hungry egos by destroying the defenseless trying to get into their club?

Guy: I don't really understand. I guess you're right. Is this really the interview? (He looks at Charles) Sorry. But, I guess, a story could be put in human context...

Charles considers this.

CB: Exactly, but is that what good writing is? I mean, making that sentiment palatable in a more human setting? But what if it's misconstrued? What if the person reading the story, about the job interview, doesn't really understand what the author (me, in this case) is implicating? Is it possible that I could lose my story's meaning in a story?

Guy: I don't know.

CB: Come on, didn't you major in philosophy. I really want your opinion on this.

Guy: Umm...Can I talk about my teaching experience now?

CB: This isn't about the teaching job. Besides, didn't you just answer those stupid questions for the last two hours with those women, who probably are making fun of you and are making fun of me right now too.

Guy: I guess.

CB: This is about what is real and what is perceived. I just want your thoughts.

Guy: I honestly, don't know what to think.

CB: About my questions or about this whole situation?

Guy: About everything, I guess.

CB: I feel the same way. I would hire you, but unfortunately, I don't have the power. I just have to get up and leave and you can tell the story of your interview to your friends any way you want

Bronson Maximums

2008-02-13T07:57:00.000-08:00

We here at Bronsonius Rex wish to give you a limited-time-only opportunity - that is, to implant the tree of knowledge directly into your melon. Don't worry: this regalo will be safe from serpents and firsthumans alike, so you will not have to run interference with the Devil or even with God. You merely have to adapt the following maxims and platitudes, which outline life's blunt truths/sage ad(vices), to your own life.

So go on and hold them in your heart. Live with them gracefully. And carry around a cheat sheet if you dare forget.

A lot of girls do porn.

Boyfriends are lame, especially if you are one.

Order Wild Turkey as your first round.

Take the biggest piece

Never wash Cheetos down with Grapefruit Juice

Recite Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

Don't stay in tonight.

Shop at the thrift store.

Ask strangers, "You want hi-hats with that?"

Drink from the pitcher

Don't do steroids

Think nothing of it.

Never wear a hat at dinner

Lift as much weight as you can over your head

Fire that chick up.

Take Kid Rock seriously.

Read when you should be working

Hoop in bad neighborhoods and win.

1 + 1 = 3.

He couldn't, but I can.

Chicks dig bad clothes and a good attitude.

If she's drunk and says, "I'm not going to sleep with you." It means she will. If she's sober and says, "I am going to sleep with you." It means she won't.

"Rock" is a verb... the best verb.

The water is never completely under her bridge.

She doesn't like you for who you are, she likes you for who she can make you.

If the gastank light is on, you can still make it to the next exit - no matter how far.

If you're at a concert and you look around and everyone there looks just like you, then you're listening to the wrong music.

Dance too much.

Go to Memphis

Quote JB Brown

Root for the Giants

Solve every riddle.

The Conquerors Of Man

2008-02-11T16:49:00.000-08:00

Charles, long ago, created Eve from a spare rib that he had swallowed whole from a ghetto Chinese food take-out place. Since then she's been trying to get back at him. Without restraint, Eve has been attempting to turn the tables on Charles and make him into what he is not. Eve on her lonesome is awesome; she is movin' and groovin' and doin' her thing. However, when entangled with Charles she becomes the Wisteria vine, strangling Charles at his trunk. Her free spirited nature gives way to the careening need to alter Charles... to make him chuck.

Through the years, Eve has honed her game. She has enlightened her 'sisters' and given them the tools to wrangle the Charleses and Bobbyses of their time. "CHANGE!" Eve proclaims, "That is the secret! CONVERSION!" Her minions populate the Earth and have inundated the multitudes of bar crowds, co-eds, and post college spinsters. Charles, although resilient, is not immune to the spells cast by this she-army.
The Eveian Handbook was recently unearthed under a banquette at a SoHo wine bar and the following text has been released;

"Eve advises that you begin communication through rough drinking and binge sex. Lull Charles into a euphoric drunken state where all he wants is to sleep and shower... and copulate. Be good and interesting and tell him that he's special or "The Most Special." Rapidly become obsessed, but make yourself as useful to Charles as possible; cook dinner, dish out the oral, tell funny stories to his friends, and - most importantly - act like nothing bothers you. And once he has made it clear that he is not infiltrating anyone else, freak out. Tell him about his faults, tell him he's not good enough and that you deserve better. Tell him that he is full of himself and you don't understand why people like him so much. Tell him that he's lucky to have you. Tell him that you're tired and you don't want to have sex with him until he understands how poorly he's been treating you. Then, when his head is turned inside out and around, cry and make him feel bad."

Unfortunately for all the Bronsons out there, we are defensless. We cannot defend ourselves against such overt and calculated measures being taken against our manhood and rockitood.

History repeeats itself and people can't change themselves... however, as many times as a Charles meets an Eve, he will fall for her tricks. And only two trails of flame and bile lead away from the car wreck of their union. The first leaves a Bronson lamer, compromised, and altered. The second leaves a Bronson seathing, righteous, and sad.

Fever Dream

2008-02-11T07:33:00.000-08:00

As Tweedledee once said, "Generally I am very brave...only today I have a headache" So it goes with Your Charles sniffling and coughing, his mind clouded with ineffectual cold remedies, and his ripening fever which pushes the color waves of fantasy into everyday consciousness, finds himself deliriously typing at a computer.

Since nothing new has come of late, maybe now is a good time to go through the back catalog of Bronsonius Rex and really experience (for real this time) all the hidden gems you sorely missed out on. Because maybe it is time to garner a greater understanding of what we (and you) are all about.

Or perhaps it is time to evaluate life and what it would be without the miracle of health. Because as Your Charles is unraveled by illness, he believes, if only for a moment, that the overwhelming sickness he feels is the beginning of a slow descent into the arms of the Ender. There is a pessimism of recovery, an inevitability of an all-engulfing, like Johnny Depp being swallowed whole by his bed in Nightmare on Elm Street, that will asphyxiate all his hopes and dreams, and, on the eve of extinguishing his poor, poor life, impel him to answer the foreboding question: Was it worth all worth it?

Maybe it's not worth it, but the fate of Your Charles is not to be the crispy gentleman above, unable to quell the exponential sickness takeover of mind and body...

Your Sick Bronson is merely indulging in the doldrums...and doesn't really believe that this illness is a blessing, the beginning of the end. Normally we should not promulgate our incumbent sense of doom. Yet, as Your Charles's ill perception becomes increasingly like the passenger looking out from a car being rinses and washed, only the truest sentiments can permeate his weak and disoriented mind.

Thus: the vitamins, the NyQuil, the Airborne, the Flintstones chewables are being all-consumed by Your Charles to get a grip on these most perilous feelings and deter you from a similar despondency. So, like Lewis Carroll, I will use the visionary distortions that come with fever spells and make Alice (or You, dear Bronson) feel as clumsy and unsettled as possible in the far-from-wonderful “wonderland.” Then, you and I (and Alice) may find solace and companionship in a decaying world and stem the tide of our decaying souls, together...

You're Dumbstruck, Baby

2008-02-06T09:01:00.000-08:00

Remember when we were first making out and you pulled back suddenly and said, "You're really cute, do you know that?" You tried to look in my eyes and I swallowed and smirked and said, "No, you're really cute." Then you sighed and looked into the distance, so happy, saying "You're just saying that because I'm here..." And I mumbled something that sounded like "no of course not" and reached for the beer on the nightstand and swigged from it, chuckling, then reached for you again...the beer then dangling in my fingers behind your back...

Remember when you said, "Why do you think I dress this way? Why do you think I wear these expensive dresses? Everyone at work is like, 'Wow, you look amazing.' And when I come over you don't say anything. Do you even notice? I mean, what do I have to do to get you to notice me? Or compliment me?....Yea, saying it now won't do you any good. What the fuck?" And then I continued to lay there quietly before you asked, "I'm sorry. Do you feel ok?"

Remember when your friend pulled me aside and said, "She really likes you, you know?" And I turned my baseball hat to the side and sipped my beer, deciding what would be the correct thing to say, deciding on something stupid, but truthful, like "I know." And without a pause, she said, "So, you're a teacher...." I gave her a sidelong glance then returned to watching you dance on the bar...

Remember when we were at the back room of the bar and I entertained your table of friends with stories about how you dumped me in college. "Yea, but she still calls me though..." I said. Your head was on my shoulder with your natty hair almost in my mouth. I was drinking from the pitcher and talking and talking. As your friends burst into laughter, your arm curled around my thigh under the table....When we got back to your apartment, I leaned against the kitchen counter, complimenting your new place. You came out of your room in pajamas and turned on the tv. Then you asked me if I was hungry...

Remember when you pushed me off and said, "God, i can't believe we're hooking up again..." and I rolled over on the futon bed, saying, "Why?" Then you covered yourself with your arms and said frantically "You're really good at it. You're a slut..." I acted innocent and pretended like I didn't hear you. You said, "I can tell, Charles..."

Remember when you got a boyfriend, and you started calling again...

Remember when you texted, "Come play with me." and I wrote back, "Bring condoms." and you immediately called, yelling over the din of the crowded bar, "What am I supposed to just bring the sex?..." And I explained I was staying home this Saturday night because I didn't want to spend Sunday hungover because Sunday was the day of planning and the dreads. Monday is back to the sixth grade in the Bronx and the resumed feelings of so much despair and so much responsibility that I cannot even begin to explain...but the line was already dead...

So now you contact me again, years later. You call and you email. You ask about my new teaching job in DC, how I'm doing away from NY, and if I'm seeing anyone. You have a serious boyfriend, but you never explicitly say so. I am eloquent and charming and reveal as little as you do. I am alarmed by my emotional response to you. The intensity comes from nowhere and feels like it can be renewed.

But I tamper down my feelings and talk (or write) broadly about classroom mishaps and DC posers. In return, you flirt a little because you know you are in control. You can feel it. You try to elicit the passionate echo of those old phone messages and naive nights arguing outside of bars, with me saying yes, I was wrong. Yes, I miss you. Yes, I fucked up all those times and I wish things were different. I wish I didn't have to live alone and for so long, where now the pain is so intense I go between mania and catatonia. I'm a mess. School is still hell. You could have saved me...

But I'm not lost. I am still the same - broken and charming and heroic and drunk. Those incidences above, whichever one you and I shared, that were so right and wrong at the same time, keep happening to me. Perhaps you know that, but I know you don't want to. So I will never tell. So as you call out to me from your safer place, your boyfriend somewhere in the other room, I will act dumb and lonely, letting you believe I was just your sacred, dysfunctional tryst. And allow both of us believe that it was eternal...

Giant Football

2008-02-03T21:49:00.000-08:00

And David put his hand into his bag and took from it a stone and slung it, and struck the Philistine on his forehead. And the stone sank into his forehead, so that he fell on his face to the ground.

What Is This Show?

2008-01-31T11:55:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure. I really haven't watched an entire episode. But, when insomnia prescribes Your Charles a latenite dose of TV, naked, and his existential anxiety accelerates the channel-flipping to Mach 10, such that the tv seems like a strobelight in the dark room, he occasionally, momentarily, stops on MTV's Rob and Big show, where he's seen the duo playing with a net gun (like Spiderman), dirt biking with scooters, trying to find an industrial scale to weigh the big guy, and having their likenesses (along with their dog's and mini-horse's likeness) painted in a seascape at the bottom of their pool. It's all very strange. But the show is improbably compelling, no less. So your Charles endeavored to discover why...

There certainly is a Dadaist element to the show, where these two guys, who are opposites in size and race but are identical in personality, only do nonsensical and incongruous things. The producers put these guys in innocuous situations and they (Rob and Big) just exist inside the show's imposed scenarios, remaining perpetually detached and apart from everything but themselves. They chuckle and snort insidejokes and play with things they shouldn't, and everyone else stands back and let's it happen. It's almost surreal because Rob and Big have no ambition and no purpose other than to fuck around with shit. But when they fuck around with shit, they do it passively, nonchalantly, almost innocently.

But, they do have some ambition. My students have shirts and sweatshirts with the back-to-back B's for Big Black, so these guys started a clothing line at some point. Rob is supposed to be a professional skater and Big Black used to be in the Navy and spent time as a bouncer. Yet, we never see them at any skate competitions or signing any endorsement deals or doing anything that signifies collecting income to sustain their big house in LA. So it is calculated (by the producers) that these guys get filmed just hanging around. Why?

There is no gimmick to the show like all those horrendous "competition" reality shows or those sleaze bachelor(ette) shows on the same networks. There is no incentive, no prize, no hook. It's just these two guys amusing themselves as the world around them takes itself so seriously They epitomize postmodernity by showing us that there are no objective realities, only subjective ones. Their own subjective world is enough for them - basically skating around and feeding their mini-horse - and, by being immune to the pretensions of everyone else, Rob and Big render the outside worlds they encounter false.

The rodeo, the bike course, the supermarket, the talent agencies are all exposed for their transparent human constructions by Rob and Big. You can see it in the eyes of everyone they meet - they all want Rob and Big to leave asap and quit making a charade of it all. Rob and Big are nonsense, but in doing so, are exposing everything else as nonsense too. They are the white canvas with the big red streak that for some reason, unknown to you, is hanging in the Met. They are the "Jabberwocky" by Lewis Carroll. They are the monkey to the right of your screen unknowingly, but brilliantly typing out Shakespeare and this post.

The JabberCocky

2008-01-31T10:22:00.000-08:00

Twixt sheets so fline and trumpled slays Sathy.
Exhampered from prev'yus night's tomfugry,
Muckles out a garfusion of near words.
"Stay still Sathy smatter is for the birds."

Come from nowhere but cometh everywhere,
Connesseiur of spum with tangmussled hair,
Bobby encanted her in a night bub.
Shotzinks leads to fluz, leads to dungle rub.

The Bobby, with Billy Club still Jimmied,
Reached to repex'er in the bumgullede.
Chuzy mornfuz allowed the ereption,
Sathy's a sweet one without expection.

The Fall of Memphis

2008-01-29T09:59:00.001-08:00

There was some internal strife amongst the Bronsonius Writer's Guild of late, and it concerned the destination of our Spring Break rendezvous. Our writership is not only a diaspora of topicality but also an actual diaspora, with Charles, Bobby, Amerigo, and Pierre residing in DC, LA, MN, and PA respectively. Miraculously, the calendars aligned like the stars to allow Amerigo, Pierre, and myself (Your Charles) a free week in March to reunite the TriForce. The contentious question was...where?

While Your Charles sought blonde hair and blue eyes in Reykjavik or a Leopold Bloom-like foray into the streets of Dublin, and Amerigo wished for a Stallone/Cliffhanger johnse at a devilish SD outcropping, the increasingly cowed (by way of new mortgage) Pierre deemed COST the deciding factor for our agreed upon destination. So be it; we are teachers, after all.

So, due these new restrictions (i.e. miserly COST) the international and exotic locales whittled down to a few frequent-flier cities here in the USA, namely Chicago, Nashville, Vegas, and Memphis, which eventually whittled down to Memphis and Nashville. Memphis because it is the home of the King: my idol and yours, second only to you-know-who (CB!). Nashville because we heard it rocks in the name of outlaw country a la Hank Williams and Johnny Cash. Yet, when the scales were weighed and votes were tallied, Memphis won out.

That is, until we received a hideous email from Pierre, which you may read after the jump. My hard-line rebuttal follows that. Read the both and be aghast, then awoken.

To Whom It May Concern:

I'm starting to feel as if a three way consensus is going to be hard to reach. I would like to take this opportunity to express my feelings on this matter. I would like you both to consider how many times you have changed your mind in the last two weeks. We had New Orleans for a good two hours planned out...then Memphis.....then Nashville. I'm losing confidence that we will ever agree.

Amerigo and Charles: I realize that you have your sights (for the moment) again set on the Asshole of the US known as Memphis. Amerigo, you are interested because you went to a library and read a "tourist attraction" book. You then went on to make the "logical" claim that if they wrote a book about Memphis, it must be nice. "They certainly wouldn't write a book telling us to go there if they knew it was bad. That wouldn't be morally correct." Hmmmm. You also went so far as to claim "if people live there, they must not fear violence." If this is a valid point, why are we not going to Camden or Detroit for break? Maybe we can get a hotel in the South Bronx and hit the local clubs.

Charles, Amerigo tells me that you spoke to several people (while drunk at Hooters) that told you Memphis was cool. I can respect that, but Erin's brother Chris dates a girl who lives there. Both he and she tell me that under no circumstances should I go there. On New Year's eve this year alone there were three stabbings and over 30 arrests on Biele Street. That kind of shit doesn't happen in BIG cities, ESPECIALLY not on the "main street". Last fall he SAW a guy get stabbed on Biele Street. Amerigo, I'm not making the claim that I think if we go, I'm getting stabbed(which is the impression I accidentally may have given you on the phone). I'm making the claim that there is a certain "type" of behavior that seems to be the norm down there, and
that reflects on the people living there. More than that, it is widespread around the whole city, not concentrated in "bad neighborhoods" like in DC and Philly. I don't want to spend a week in an area where fights and arrests happen even night.

Furthermore, all of this is to go to a city that we already vetoed! I thought that we didn't want to spend the money to go there? I thought we all liked Nashville? As far as my "other suggestions" go, I'm not sure what is left for me to suggest. We've gone through most of the spots in the lower half of the country. I looked up Phoenix and it's all golf courses and Museums. The consensus is Austin is the only city worth visiting in Texas, and we've already been. You guys didn't like New Orleans, I don't like Memphis, you guys don't like Florida or Nashville. I don't think any of us like Atlanta. Vegas is going to be more expensive then we think. While hotel and flight wouldn't be bad for any of us, being there a week and partying definitely would be. As far as places I would still go....I'm still interested in Nashville, Austin, Seattle and Chicago. I would also do Tampa, Florida (although I know Amerigo won't).

I look forward to hearing your thoughts,
Le Poop

Pierre Miley,

Relax. You need not get so flustered. Adding circumstantial arguments to circumstantial evidence is never convincing to a shrewd Bronson. Raving hypocrisy and xenophobic moralizing, Pierre? You can do better than that.

Let's not mention the terrorist threats to subways and landmarks in NYC while you lived there, nor the drug dealers and gang members near the SpaHa hoop courts where we reigned, nor the very reputation (violent, worldwide) of the Bronx, where taught for three years. Remember reading Amazing Grace our first summer of grad school? You went to the Bronx over 500 times and did any of that stuff happen to you? How many times did you really feel threatened? How many times was a knife or a gun drawn in your presence? .

Nevermind that I took a poll of Memphis v. Nashville at my Saturday pickup basketball game, where I got the lowdown from one guy who grew up in Memphis and another guy who has a wife from Nashville and two others who had been to at least one of those cities. They claimed Memphis to be more authentic, gritty, and bluesrocking than the anti-septic, countrymusicallthetime, stripmalled Nashville. And I assure you, from their firsthand experience, never did they mention Memphis being a post-apocalyptic freeforall where (God forbid) the drug addicts and criminals indiscriminately butcher Beale Street whiteys.

I'm very concerned that you believe that the separation between rich and poor in "BIG CITIES" is comforting. So we can go to a place like Chicago and feel safer because all the stabbings happen on the South Side? Las Vegas is home to tens of thousands of convicted child molesters and gang members and drunks and lowlifes on the city's outskirts, but if we hang on the strip and in casinos, it would be fun, but maybe a little too expensive? But, as soon as some violence happens on the "main street," where the bad shit used to happen on the periphery but is happening in the center of the city's assumed identity, even if we hear such news from a friend of a friend, we are immediately dismissive and genuinely scared? Keep the riffraff out of where I want to go, so i can feel better about myself and my time touring the sites? Is that your message, Pierre?

Memphis is moot. This is about your easy submission to xenophobic attitudes and your stubbornness in listening to multiple points of view. Not visiting a place is perfectly acceptable if you would rather go somewhere else, but not visiting a place because your friend's girlfriend told you there is some crime and your fellow travel rockers tell you otherwise and you refuse to listen to them is just selective hearing. How many people have told me Philly is dangerous, but I still went to visit you? How many people are impressed and/or shudder when you tell them you taught in the Bronx (because they fear it as part of its overwhelmingly but somewhat unfair reputation)?

Listening to hearsay and believing it is indicative of a life lived further and further from reality. Becoming paranoid from stories of random violence, by taking a few overheard incidences to mean manifest, widespread lawlessness is both ignorant and sad. It reminds me of the people here from Georgetown who protested the construction of a metro stop for fear of "outsiders" (read: black people) entering their neighborhood. This kind of thinking is dehumanizing - essentially mongrelizing the "outsiders" that have to live in abject poverty and hopelessness, as well as disrespecting the sensible people who (perhaps stupidly) believe in equal opportunity for everyone and some sort of universal goodness in people.

Pierre, you know I love you. But you need to cut that shit out. Let's go to the beach somewhere. Name it and we'll book it.

Sincerely,
Elvis Presley of Memphis, TN

N.B. The rich irony: after all this garbage, it was decided that we will travel to NOLA, the most dangerous city in the US right now, by way far.

A Bronsonian Geometry

2008-01-25T12:16:00.000-08:00

Amerigo awoke this morning and soon found himself alone, on a bike, bound for work. His eyes were watering from the chill wind in his face and the tears were freezing to the collar of his coat and to the hair hanging over his ears. It was 4 degrees. He didn’t mind the tears, but they pulled the trigger on some hidden gun inside him that made him sad. This sadness swept inward until he could feel the muscles in his cheeks twinge and jaws begin to clench and his body began to respond to the new sadness that had crept over him in the icy morning air. He reached a point just over halfway through his ride where he began to cry.

When he arrived at work, Amerigo produced a frozen tear from his collar blown by the wind into a perfect sphere. He held it up to the rising sun and beheld the beauty of mathematics and openly wept.

This is that story.

The Charles Bronson Awards

2008-01-24T13:14:00.000-08:00

Sadly, the stale winter of the writer's strike has killed off the Golden Globes and the Dundees, with the Grammys and Oscars likely to follow. So, as we here at Bronsonius Rex would never deprive a readership of high-theater banalities and self-aggrandizing, we have fashioned our own gratuitous award ceremony to celebrate our first 50 postings. For months, our shrewd board of scholars, homeless people, evangelicals, former heads of state, Elvis impersonators, game show hosts, and slutty bartenders has rigorously debated the merit of each nominee over tea and strumpets at Yogis on 76th and Broadway, and has come to a consensus on the following winners of the Charles Bronson trophy.

N.B. A quick word about the Charles Bronson trophy: It is akin to the Nobel Prize for Rocking. Alfred Nobel, a dynamite party animal in rural Sweden, wished in his will to add the recognition for Rocking to his eponymous award, but his wife vetoed it, deeming it "unfit" to be categorized with Peace, Literature, Medicine, Economics, et al. Her ghastly naivete has not been exposed until this day, however, as we honor good Alfred's wishes and incorporate Rock into the esteemed field of great honors this world has ever known.

Without further ado, here are the gracious winners and snippets of their acceptance speeches. (Btw, the ceremony was kept under wraps, especially from the media. Presenters included Tupac Shakur, Elvis Presley, Jimmy Hoffa, and Charles Bronson himself. For those reasons, I hope you understand and appreciate the Level 3 secrecy, and you will be as discreet as I when discussing this award ceremony with the powers that be.)

Best Supporting Actor in a Motion Picture:
The Gabadose on the Left, "Hustler".
"I really wish you didn't interrupt that conversation I was just having. What the hell is this thing? You know, I was trying to get that girl's phone number, and - whoops! Look! - she just left. Fuck you Academy. .."

Best Supporting Actress in a Motion Picture:
Lady J, "Night Out, Mornings In"
"Oh God! Oh God! Whew! Wow! Where's Bobby? Bobby... Oh there you are. Stand up, please. Thank you so much. You were so wonderful. Oh, god. Is that a bolo tie?"

Best Actress in a Motion Picture:
Maria, "What's It Like Living In DC, Charles?"
"Stop bothering me. Why don't you call me anymore?"

Best Adapted Screenplay/Depiction of Internal Bronse:
Charles Bronson, "The Heighth Of Bronson Fashion."
Charles's response was not clear - it was too loud at Yogi's... but we think there was something about how the bartenders really just looked like dead strippers from the 70's.

Best Animated Film:
St. Pierre, Bronx Teacher Opus, Vol 2
"Charles, thank you for changing my name and saving my engagement. I know none of you know me around here. I'm kinda new. But I'm just glad we had the awards in Yogis this year. I'm really glad this ceremony is not in Memphis. Really, really glad."

Best Documentary:
Big Time Bobby, "Bronsonius History of Time: Part I."
The board tried to reach Big Time Bobby, but the bathroom door was locked... he did offer up this comment through said locked door, "Come back later, I'm administering some extra credit."... then it sounded like somebody was repeatedly dropping a Christmas ham on the floor...

The Hunter S. Thompson Lifetime Achievement Award:
In a landslide victory, Amerigo Bronsonni.
Amerigo, when asked for his speech, said, "I'm gonna give you a speech that will rock your socks off. Seriously, just wait - it's gonna be awesome..."

Best Actor:
Big Time Bobby, "Guided Youth"
For his Stanislavskian portrayal of William the Bard
"I have a kind soul that would give you thanks, and knows not how to do it, but with tears."

Best Cover Art:
"On Srockholm Syndrome"
Accepting the award was Sylvester Stallone, star of "Lock Up."
"Hey, yo. I'm accepting this award on behalf of emotionally guarded teachers everywhere. It's ok to be afraid to teach in a dysfunctional school in a ruined city again. But just know I was afraid to come dressed as Rambo, and look at Lady J. She loves me. she just told me. It's a great night to be alive. I also would like to shout out Pierre for being the Philly bum I always wanted to be, and...[music from 'Magic Stick" commences and drives him offstage]"

Best Picture: "On Rock and Roll Jesus."
Kid Rock, accepting with a toast:

"Times are hard,
And wages are small,
So drink more beer,
And fuck them all."

Last Lecture

2008-01-23T18:04:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, Big Time Bobby urged Your Charles to watch the terminally ill Randy Pausch give his 90 min "Last Lecture" on Youtube, billing it as a man celebrating his life's arc (now, sadly, like a curved walking cane) from childhood dreams to realizing those dreams to lessons learned along the way. The 47 year old Computer Science professor confoundingly appears in utmost health and is equally, confoundingly, upbeat - even joking about his death. But, he is very much frank about the platitudes that he has learned in his life, parsing them out of entertaining anecdotes about his career and family. These include:

1. Luck is when opportunity meets preparation

2. Listen to and absorb criticism. When a person sees you doing something bad and will tell you about it, they really love you. The person that just let's you slide is one to watch out for.

3. Brick walls [metaphorically] are there for the people who don't really want it. They are there for you to prove your want and determination.

4. Work hard.

5. There is good in all people. You may have to wait awhile, maybe even years, but people will surprise you...

There is a certain element of cheesiness to those life lessons. When I heard them all the first time, years ago, I probably rolled my eyes. If someone gave you a calligraphy-ed, sentimental birthday card with a lush but nondescript tree on the cover with those five things as the inscription, would you really think twice? However, the source, in this case, is the thing. When an eloquent, self-deprecating man whose accomplishments are no doubt impressive, with nothing to lose and three months to live, explains to a room of 500 people and a webcast audience that those platitudes are absolutely true, you have to agree with him.

Here's the thing: I know those lessons are true, but I'm also skeptical about them. There's an ironic sense inside me that regards those platitudes, overplayed like those ten songs always on the radio, as less than sincere and drained of their core meaning. "Work hard" is so general: what if I worked hard at becoming a complete ass? Is that "work hard"'s intentionality? No, but it takes the platitude at its word and direction and flips it around, which becomes somewhat funny. And therefore lessons its true meaning.

I could "listen to all my critics" but so often we are told to not listen to our critics. What if Copernicus listened to all his critics? Or MLK? Or the New York Giants? Granted, there is a fine line between listening to constructive criticism when you are learning a craft and listening to resistant criticism by insecure naysayers. But, the same "listen to your critics" platitude can be taken from each vantage point and argued easily for or against. It is not a one size fits all, and therefore it is devalued.

I could sunder the high ground of the other three listed lessons, but I think you get my point: each of us has an ironic, shrewd sense that delights in mocking or demeaning very general life lessons despite knowing that they are true. So where does this ironic sense come from?

Well, there's now television shows that make fun of television, which are extremely popular. SportsCenter is all irreverence and irony. Politicos answer everything cryptically or even use the above platitudes as shields for the real truth. News is sensationalized for entertainment and easy morality. Even fake news like the Daily Show has now supplanted real news as the go-to for "what is really going on in this country." But really, Jon Stewart and Colbert use irony to expose irony, which exposes falshoods, but doesn't unearth any definitive truth.

Rarely in pop culture, which we are all drenched in, is there an unironic sense or truth or what is real. Everything is double entendres and vilification - the Republicans vs. the Democrats, the gov't vs. the people, television vs. itself. Everything is so muddled and self-referential that irony pervades most everything.

So as the truth is continually obfuscated within the layers of irony, and irony becomes the only way we can relate to ourselves and each other, where do the life lessons of Mr. Randy Paush reside? Do we just dismiss them because we can equivocate them and find paradoxes within them so easily? But we know they are true, deep down, even if they have been watered down from overuse or misuse. And coming from a man of such astonishing courage and intellect as Prof. Pausch, who is passionately coming to terms with the truths of his life, maybe it is time to shed our ironic tendencies and return to the root values we know exist somewhere beneath the cool detachment.

On Stockholm Syndrome

2008-01-21T11:00:00.000-08:00

From having read and svenjoyed many of the writings of Your Charles heretofore, it should be evident, undoubtedly, that Charles has a firm enough grasp on reality to skew it, splice it, and magnify it for your righteous edification. Because the present reality is where Charles reigns, where he can digest and negotiate the moment to moment barrage of stimuli into a coherent and dominant persona. That is why you watch him without knowing why. He is a measure of grace and swagger, of high reason and firm moral principle (with the sideorder of buckwild wardrobe and/or drunken ballyhoo). However, it is the past that haunts Charles because it is the ever-executor of his future. Charles's memory is broke and he is reaching out because he believes your memory may be broken too.

To the un-encyclopedic Bronson, the Stockholm Syndrome according to wikipedia.org is defined as "a psychological response sometimes seen in an abducted hostage, in which the hostage shows signs of loyalty to the hostage-taker, regardless of the danger (or at least risk) in which the hostage has been placed." I mention this perverse majormalfunction because there is an element of it in Your Charles. See, Charles was a threeyear sixthgrade teacher in the South Bronx, beginning as an idealistic young Ivy League can-do-it-all and ending as a poured-out, nihilistic bender rocker. That evolution no doubt was necessary - Charles grew up in mounds of privilege and needed to test himself against the rigors of hardcore experience and fulfill his promise as talented teacher - however, that experience, which is the watershed experience of Your Charles's as yet young life, is skewed and distorted in his memory.

On his Bronx teaching journey, Charles met rancorous and incompetent administrators. too many twelve year olds without manners or couth or knowledge of the times tables, a daily teaching schedule as unrelenting from 7am to 5pm as is humanly possible. Add obligatory and irrelevant graduate school courses and little-to-no classroom training, and the daily stresses began to grip at the Young Bronson's core. Manage the class. Teach the curriculum. Keep your gradebook up to date. Quell constant disruptions. Do your grad school projectwork. Ward off the random incompetency accusations of the AP. Plan nine engaging lessons each day without basic materials. Those daily stresses accumulated and as the mind eventually learns to routinize your schedule and compartmentalize your disparate problems, it also subverts the truly irrational/horrific moments to a place hidden away, very deep.

On the plus side, what you read right now is a result of that experience. You get the incisive wit, the propulsive stories, the dancing dialectic between the meaningful and the absurd. So now that Your Charles is in a "holding pattern," away from the classroom Bronx, living alone in an unknown city with a mundane job, he believes he is recharging his batteries for another tour amongst the nation's most difficult teaching classrooms. He believes he can further file down all the bs and teach those who truly need it, and in his incumbent despair over the circumstances of that mission, will feel vindicated when he saunters into Friday barrooms and declares himself a teacherpoet with whom everyone should revel.

Consequently, Your Charles is forgetting the circumstances that made him quit the Bronx. He is reminded now watching "Half Nelson" and feeling ripples of wretched pain in his chest. He is reminded now during phone interviews when the question is "what was it like teaching the first year?" and Charles remains silent for minutes, trying to quell the echoes of student screams and insults and lesson failures and administrative acts of conspiracy against him. He is reminded now when he returns to his old apt at 97th street to reminisce with his two best teaching friends and he demands the paperbag beer and chugs it for fear of vomiting from sudden distress and memory overload.

This proves that the stresses presently exist in Your Charles's subconscious. Yet, he wants to go teach again! He believes it will again define him like the last three years!. He remembers the Friday night boozefests, the bedpost notches, the streethoop glory, the triumphant lessons, the student and parent gratitude! But that is because good memories never fade, they are forever. But, what Charles remembers of the bad is only partial, the rest being somewhere beneath the veneer of his consciousness.

So Charles weighs the good vs. the bad, but he can't do so accurately, because the bad he remembers is only the tip of the iceberg, while the good he remembers exists in full bloom. So he is only weighing the totality of the good vs. a small portion of the bad. And when he does so, Charles believes another teaching go-round would be logical ("it wasn't that bad" "it would be so much easier this time"), maybe even necessary! Charles has succumbed to an emotional and fake reality; he is a fool.

This is why Charles suffers from a mild form (or maybe major, Dr. Freud) of Stockholm Syndrome. This is why he wants to call up ex-"girlfriends" who were annoying and immature and completely not right for him. Charles is at the height of boredom here in DC and frequently indulges in the nostalgia of loves and experiences past, wondering where things that were so right went wrong. But, nostalgia is all distortion: feeding off the good and suppressing the bad. He fails to recognize that his present situation is a result of the bad stuff that all his relationships and experiences have accrued Giving in to nostalgia is to give into weakness or temptation. It can lead to the snake eating its tail, the captives running back into their captor's arms, and Your Charles finding himself in a classroom of screaming children alone in a broken city, nauseous.

SuperBowl Homeboy

2008-01-20T20:21:00.000-08:00

Let me quickly amend the previous post by adding New York Giants championship football to the "What is the Best?" list.

Look as the spirits of greatness cloud Eli on that cold Lambeau night.

What is the Best?

2008-01-20T08:26:00.000-08:00

Once every five years a list is compiled that defines "The best" in every genre/niche/variation and that list is what follows. Think of it as a fortythree-step program to transcendence. Print it out, get a red pen, and start crossing off because we all know this world is sinister and vexing but to experience, and then recognize, and then categorize life's Joycean epiphanies, not only gives them creedence, but gives them currency. So here they are free of charge, and in particular order...

What is the Best?

Being drunk and ready to drink.

Flirting with the Ethiopian ambassador's wife.

Angry Wade's popcorn (bartenders).

Fake bling piercings from Claire's.

Culture Club outfits.

Pierre as Ron Burgundy at Bender I.

Blacksmith Shop piano legends.

Flor de Mayo on birthdays.

McSorely's at noon.

Hartshone Woods.

My jumper at the buzzer.

My Charles Bronson.

The wedding band following you out to the bar after the reception.

Fireside Midleton in northern MN.

Snow Day hospital visits

Summertime cornrows.

An American Dream by Norman Mailer

ShanesApartment.com

Cilantro margaritas

Lounge 68 jukebox

Ugly sweaters.

Tao on absinthe.

Brother Jimmy's poetry

"If I had a boat" at Yogis

Olbermann at 8

Hunter S. in his prime.

barnapkin roses.

K-town karaoke.

Sheep's Meadow long toss,

Kissing booths.

Bourbon Street dance parties

To-go packs/Party favors.

Uncle Rich's Boat.

Barber Shop Hour.

Roger Dodger.

Movies about gladiators.

Tom Brady.

Success Rice.

Other people's tabs.

Borrowed Barstools.

Yogi's payphone.

Hang-Clean/Press.

Bonefest.

The sound of an inflating Aerobed.

Finding Bobby Fischer

2008-01-19T11:17:00.000-08:00

The above photo is of Bobby Fischer perplexed over Charles's Knight Gambit in the eleventh move of the fourth match of their largely unknown 1972 showdown. Fischer won the match by winning seven games, drawing two, and losing none.

Though, Charles did defeat Fischer once in Washington Square Park, but only once. It was after a raucous night out together at Cafe Wha?, only two blocks away, where Fisher sung "Istanbul" ("where having fun is the only rule!") onstage, and then challenged Charles to a 3am bout of speedchess in WSP. Bobby might have passed out, but Charles prevailed, nonetheless. And as it was Charles's crowning achievement, for Bobby, the residual intellectual embarrassment is speculated to have driven him into exile.

RIP Bobby, and sorry.

The Heighth of Bronson Fashion

2008-01-17T12:04:00.000-08:00

Recently I (Charles the Bronse) had a six week beard, and then, to the chagrin of many Bronsons (especially those envisioning my Marx-like bookjacket photos), I shaved it. This act, which destroyed two razors and clogged my sink, was met by rising cries of antipathy among the inner circle. So let me explain and then refute.

The Bronson look is an outward expression of an inward will to rock. It is long, shaggy hair. It is stubble for days. It is cavorting in the most florid of thriftstore suits. It is meant to show all your worldly insouciance viz. your supreme knowledge that the world holds very few truths, and those truths are sacred and universal, and do not include the cultural tyranny of fashion or beauty. Basically, you look unabashedly like a strangely dressed man letting himself go, which garners fear and loathing from the normative multitude for your audacity to not care about what you are "supposed" to care about, namely the shorn/khaki charade ubiquitous at colleges and bars and businesses everywhere. The Bronson look is rogue and it is meant to point out the transparency of conformity.

Someone may ask: how can this floppy haired teacher who hasn't shaved for days and is wearing a 70's leisure suit be smarter, more confident, and a bigger chick magnet than me? But that questioning person already knows the answer, that you are an arbiter of some sort of truth that is lacking when he looks at commercials feeling want or goes to work feeling vacant, or looks in the mirror feeling incomplete. A Bronson's very presence exposes what he covets - the burgeoning confidence to flow along gracefully with the evening.

However, there is something dishonest about this. Dowdy appearances together with rapier wit and charm is more about them than it is about Your Bronson. Looking like a Bronson is about exposing the hypocrisy of others by showing them their status quo is simply inadequate, and perhaps much of what they value is meaningless. Granted, that does make a Bronson feel good sometimes, but it is slightly mean and pointless. A Bronson already possesses the truth and the gusto of rock, so rather than peacock it to the embarrassment of others, why not use it to his advantage to disseminate the rock throughout this increasingly falsified society?

Much of the time teaching is socializing students for the "real world" where they must conduct themselves "professionally" during "job interviews." That includes speaking correctly, reasoning intelligibly, and dressing appropriately. The powerbrokers of this world (and their ambitious minions) need reassurance of one's propensity to conform as "part of the team" and not feel threatened by wayward appearances/language/ideas that exist outside the bounds of what is "appropriate." So, Your Bronson in his natural state ("bummed" out) will not rise in the ranks of power in this world. He is too threatening and is therefore vulnerable to judgment and dismissal.

Consider this: a well-dressed Bronson is potent. He can infiltrate the monied hierarchy from within and affect greater change than just his previous distillation of unease amongst the bar crowd and his unprecedented knowledge-onslaught on thirty classroom students. Simply, the Bronson look originates from self-confidence manifest from a distinct morality (i.e. getting five more minutes of sleep before teaching Bronx kids is more important than waking up and shaving), and that self-confidence can never be diminished, no matter the outside appearance.

So, the Bronson shaves and cuts his hair. He buys a comb and a nice pair of pants. He sits across from the bluesuit in the windowoffice smug, angling for a high-level job, money for a project, or an opportunity in front of the camera. And once that is procured, a Bronson will begin to order the world around a vision simply by being uncompromisingly, gracefully himself. Soon, the bs will be trimmed like the fat, and increasing portions of America will be fit again, enough to see itself for who it really is and what it can be. Only then should a Bronson grow a beard.

Bronx Teacher Opus, Vol. 3

2008-01-14T09:34:00.000-08:00

Ah, the DreadTrain. The sunrise sleigh to the nether Bronx. Watch your heroes at their least glamorous and most heroic. This is where they find the will to wake and forage ahead to that classroom of both mayhem and miracle. It is a wonder. Your Bronson is choking back tears. Find out why...

Wednesday, January 26

My eyes are open when the alarm bleats at 5:43. An ambulance glides by on the street three floors below and the darkness makes the lights bright through the fraying curtains. I don't even hear it. I'm untangling my legs from the sheets, thoughts beginning: I really haven't planned and it's Wednesday so I start with a double period of Balanced Literacy, then writing, then a double period of Math, and then Social Studies before Lunch. I sit up and wipe the hair out my eyes and sigh. Six straight periods with those kids. I inhale and reach at the repeating sound. But that means only one period after lunch, Extended Day Test Prep, before After School until fucking 4:30. Goddamn, why can't I have two preps a day like the middle school teachers? Yea, but they get all the coverages. Shit, what if I get a coverage today? If that happens I don't think I could make it through. The brown towel is over my shoulder and I trip, stumbling over books and dirty clothes. The last time I took a day off I slept until 3. I was good the whole week. But, there is a responsibility that looms, though, and I fear the disappointment on the other end of the phone from Mr. Martin, a good man, and he's probably there already. The shower is sudden and beating becoming a steady drone. I forgot to put the coffee on, so I take my hand from under the warming water and run it through my hair. I do something to the coffeemachine without thinking and it starts hocking. I've only taken two days so far; I could take another. But that poor sub. The kids have to finish that Darwin lab anyway, which I need for the bulletin board next week. They'll work hard on it. It'll be easy. Just get through math. Amerigo has it worse. I stick my head under the showerhead and watch my hair fall wet, uneven and thick, below my line of sight, the water cascading down. I'm out of bed... By tonight, it'll be 48 hours until the weekend. The water turns cold and is turned off. Shivering and toweling, bending to look at myself in the unfogged bottom of the mirror, I begin to watch the clock.

My reflection is blurry as I tighten my tie wondering whether Nyquil causes hangovers or if I really slept at all. My weeklong beard itches and I scratch it like Italian fuck offs and decide to shave it into a mustache (or at least a pirate beard) by the weekend and begin to hate myself for anticipating and feel my face turn to a wince. The toaster hiccups poptarts and I take a long swill off my black coffee, splashing the rest atop dirty sink dishes. I juggle the hot poptarts onto a small plate from the cupboard. As I sit down in front of the 2crew with Shon Gables and Dave Price's effervescence just occupying my attention, the front door grunts and is pushed open by Bobby wearing seersucker pants and aviator shades. I don't look at him.

"Hey?"

"Um."

He speaks on fastforward: "I just came from this guy's place, Roman, the boyfriend of this smoking hot bartender at Play. That black one, who models, who I told you about. Anyway, he's this Ultimate Fighter. He showed me these brass knuckles and get this, he has this fucking arsenal of..." I look at the clock and the hands say I have five minutes before I have to leave. The New York subway usually comes ontime at 6:19 I put my plate somewhere and walk to my room and pull out my chalkdust-covered sportcoat, the hanger wobbling. i remember my hat, then bend down frantic, running my hands over the floor and under the bed, anxious at the time, maybe panicking, and gasp to find it, of all places, still in my coat pocket. I dip my shoulders and paw my hair back with one hand while angling the knit hat on with the other, thinking there is a much easier way to do that, still hurrying. The scenario of missing the train: arriving with only fifteen minutes instead of thirty to plan, to clean the board, to write the lessons. to prepare the reward charts. I could do it, but I would be rushing and wouldn't get the lessons straight in my head before the kids came in all rowdy. I would botch my explanations, my rhythm and the kids would know I was unprepared. What if Ms. Daley were to walk in then? God, six straight periods of that... Bobby is pulling tip money from his coat pockets, piling ones, and my focus moves to the top of the fridge where there is a congregation of plastic gators aimed at a Jack Daniels bottle from all sides.

"Hey, man. Can I finish this?"

"What? Yea. Yea." I look back at my room; I never turned on the light.

"Your poptarts?"

I try to say yes.

My foot is placed on the couch armwrest and I twirl and pull my snowboot laces. I look at the clock. My boot bottoms are still wet, but it's only a futon (one I didn't pay for), so I hoist the other boot and lace, tie, pull my backpack off the ground, move my hat away from my fake diamond earrings while strapping the bookbag, heavy with textbooks and ungraded papers, over my shoulder and tighting the strap. My jacket puffs around the tightness and I squirm to get comfortable as I debate with myself to say goodbye. I say it to myself and the door creeks and I cross a threshold and the hallways are small. I think of how, when I move out, we will get my cases of records and Bobby's big bed the fuck out of here.
The darkness is low. Buildings are brightening in the halflight. The 24 hour CVS on the corner isn't open yet and Monday's snow has become unbeautiful with dirt and sand, refreezing over the shoveled paths. My boots slide with it and I tiptoe along maintaining balance, finally breathing. A truck lulls by and the lights change and I hear traffic. I turn the corner, noticed I forgot to think about school, see the downstairs entrance and reach for my wallet. My boots are loud against the sand on the stairs and the station floor has puddles extending out from the stairwells into the semi-calm dryness of pre-rushhour. I slide my metrocard, jam the card back into another space in my wallet, and see Amerigo, wet head, waiting on the platform below.

I notice him place his coffee on the payphone as I lean my head towards the tunnel to see if I see two brightening lights. He unwraps the tinfoil of his bagel, takes out a quarter and shakes the melted butter onto the platform before greasing his lips with the first bite. I notice a faint blonde mustache and think I hate him.

I confess: "I almost pulled the trigger today?"

"Me too. I think I'm going to pull it on Monday?"

"Yea?"

"Yea. Michelle's parents are coming in this weekend."

"Nice. Are you gonna keep the mustache?"

"This is ten days. This is all I got. I don't know I might just show up like this. Really make a great first dirtball impression"

"I almost cut mine into a pirate beard."

"Nice. But save that for the bender"

Another teacher, blonde ponytail, reads a thick book down the platform. She looks up at us and then back down.

"Did you plan?"

"Yea, I guess. I was up all night. You?"

"Yea. After school. I think I was up all night too. I mean, I planned After School, but I still didn't sleep."

"Dude we should just go to Costa Rica and just surf. Just ditch."

"Yea, I'll quit if you quit. Seriously"

The train became heard and there was a breeze.

"The only reason I'm still doing this is to honor my lease agreement."

"Ha."

Amerigo exchanges his coffee for his bagel on the payphone and shoves the cup to my chest. It tastes gooey with milk and sugar He pulls hard on both his backpack straps and looks at me for sampling without permission. I put the cup in his open hand. The train is slatting by and exhales to a stop.. .The doors open, bing-boo. Amerigo double fists his breakfast onto the train and I follow. The blondegirl curls around the post and settles against the back corner as Amerigo turns left and away pausing to get my attention and gestures with his coffee towards an old man whom we both saw take a deep pull of cheap liquor and then replace the bottle in his duffel bag with a library book. He smirks, and I laugh with a nod.

Once seated, I spread my legs and put my backpack between them and unzip to find my war novel. As I peel off my hat, some hair rises, charged with static so I shake my head, which makes it worse, and then brush the hair from my eyes. The doors have closed and the voiceover lady's call "next stop 103rd Street" makes passenger's eyes open. The lights are bright, phony. Amerigo is fingering through his open bookbag, kicks over his coffee "Oh shit" and ignores its spreading gray underneath the seats. I look up and around at the disparate zonked riders to see if they noticed, but I notice them, teachers and construction workers both, moving away from Downtown to help fix a shunned borough. I feel no solidarity but am grateful for the quiet.

I kid: "Nice dude."

"Whaaaat?"

I think of the Burrito Deli, but don't mention it. Amerigo moves his Teacher's Edish and Gradebook to his lap, balances everything, and lifts his headphones from his neck to his ears.
"How can you listen to music?"

"What?" He reaches in his pocket and thumb wars his IPod.

"The music would remind me of this, this boatman trip to the Bronx. Everytime I listen to it again, I be reminded of this."

"Oh. I listen to the Bends. It perfect. 56 minutes, the last song ends when I walk into school"

"I just can't." I regret talking and wish the morning would just weigh on me.

"What should I plan?"

"I don't know. What's the subject?"

"Mitosis"

We hush, wanting to keep the quiet on the train.
"Shit. Just go by the lesson in the margin."

"It says to have a tribunal over current event issues relating to abortion. There's no fucking way."

"It says to do that? Make a graphic organizer and have them fill it out."

After opening my war novel and removing my 5 train bookmark, I show him I'm waiting to read.

"Amerigo insists: Like what? I seriously need help man."

"Just get a sheet of paper, fold it into quarters and have them draw and label the four stages of mitosis. First, do a minilesson on why people say , ' you have your mother's eyes, but your father's nose.' that shit. Read aloud together from the book. Have them do the pictures in groups, and then write a paragraph summary independently. Present. You're done."

"So what's the aim? How do you define mitosis? What is mitosis?"

"Shit, dude. Whatever."

"..and the objective: students will be able to indentify or understand mitosis...Shit, I can't do this. Delroy will fucking get up and bother kids, man."

"So call in. When we get off at 125th take the train back. I'll come with."

"I can't man. I'm going to just keep showing up until they tell me not to come back."

"Which they won't, because you're the positive male rolemodel Delroy needs."

"Yea." I read the first sentence on my page and then read it again hearing the lady, now loudly, ".. stop 125th Street"
"Make a decision."
I read the sentence again and it flows into this violence. The characters are scared. Amerigo is scribbling on dogeared pages and post-it notes. People are dying. The subway cruises into an open station. Stationary people shoot by flickering in the windows. I put a thumb in the page and rise toward the door, my boots marking the floor with coffee stains. "Come on, man." Amerigo battles gravity with his arms full and meets the onrush of new passengers which I have already threaded and moved to the next platform. As Amerigo catches up, I watch the transferring passengers careen their heads down the tunnel and sigh and he nudges me to notice the blonde standing and reading: symmetry from 96th street.There is a bodega between platforms and I pivot to stare at its sidewall of magazines: glossy posing with blunts, in bikinis, with guns, with a basketball, for the paparazzi; the glass covering reflects a dull silhouette. People begin to be alert and there is a humming crescendo. A 4 train decelerates into the station. People mush together at the edges of the opening doors. Amerigo steps back and I stand with him. Passengers swarm out then in as I rejoin the firefight in the pages. Around us, everyone is funneling up the stairs while we stand still, hearing the 4 shuffle away to the Bronx, impatient for the fucking 5. "Dude...dude.."

I feel arms around my leg and look down at braids and pink barrettes. "Get the fuck over here, Raja. What did I say? I'm so sorry." "Nono" The little girl takes her mother's hand and is given candy and looks up, then is dragged by her muttering mother past the stairwell and away.

Amerigo: "Jesus, how old is that kid?"

"Three. Four. Five. Young. I don't know."

"Do you think we missed the first 5?"

"Maybe, the next one comes in like ten minutes right?"

"Fifteen, usually."

"Fuck,man. That's like those phone calls home, 'I don't know what else to do with him Mr. Irish. What do you think I should do?' I'm fucking 24 years old. I don't have a family I don't know how to raise your kid."

"Just give them candy."

The mood lingers. There are moments of brotherhood at war. The main character is confused and hesitant. The war unfurls itself in my mind, sentence by sentence. The text is gone. I feel the station move away from me. I look up from the book. The five train must be in Brooklyn, and my mind revs elsewhere, going over the sequences of my six lessons: the hook, the minilesson, the group work project, the independent work, the assessment, the phrasing, the questions, the necessary materials, and the next minilesson, the group work project, the right time hand back those quizzes, the agenda for the sixth grade meeting, my lesson for AfterSchool with no workbooks, how I will speak to Diamond when she first starts to act out, what I will tell Israel so he knows I'm serious even though I said I was going to call his parents last night but forgot, the new groups for guided reading, the student of the week prize, how to get copies of that math worksheet today (beg the secretaries), if they won't do I have time to write the problems on chart paper? Do I have a dark marker left? the group prize winner should get a pizza party, the need for positive reinforcement, the need to plan great lessons, the need to be consistent, the need to relate and be funny, the need to get there first...The propulsive thinking stops when I remember thinking all this last night.
I try again to read but see Amerigo standing with his mouth closed and his jaw askew. He must have put the books back into his bag; either he figured it out or has given up. Behind us, a downtown 5 train blasts and rattles in. The boarding passengers are dressed nicely, some in suits. I don't think about getting on, but I feel, somehow, that I am in limbo.

Nights Out, Mornings In.

2008-01-12T14:12:00.000-08:00

Hangovers are never fun, but they are even worse sober. 'You can't have a hangover and still be drunk though!' you say... 'wanna bet?' I say.
The night before wasn't especially special. There was just the requisite profanity and pizza, although there was also the requisite blackout and yelling (I think). I was celebrating my new job with the people from my old job. Included among the scattered ex-coworkers were Cindy, Cynthia, Carla, and a girl whose name I could never remember but decided to call "Lady J" for the majority of the evening.

I had a lot of different emotions welled up inside me. I had been dismissed from the last job because of disputes with my immediate boss. Our problem was that I thrive in a logical, driven, casual, and organized work environment whereas he was an asshole. His boss however, was the father of my ex-girlfriend and thus the reason for my employment there to begin with. Normally, a father would fire his daughter's ex, but that only works when the daughter doesn't turn out to be a drug addicted whore who bangs her dealer in her parents' marital bed. Ipso facto, he wished no ill-will upon me and even felt a sort of camaraderie with me. We had both suffered at the hands of the evil skank that he spawned and raised... interestingly, blaming her propensity for indiscriminate fellatio on the inherent skill that she must have genetically inherited from her mother.
Now, I live alone, I don't have a cat, I don't own a television, and I don't make coffee... needless to say, my foggy hungover mind couldn't comprehend the stimuli I was being confronted with.
I opened my eyes just as a fat and arrogant tabby cat leaped onto the bed, landing squarely on my crotch. I looked beyond the luckily de-clawed nut cracker to see #6 on Sportcenter's Top Plays from the night before (it was a Lebron no-look dish that filled me with unwarranted pride). I closed my eyes, I heard footsteps, and then a much larger animal climbed on top of me. My nostrils were filled with coffee breath and some sex B.O. (this time the pride was warranted). I pried my eyes open.
"Good morning Big Time." She says.
"Good morning Lady J." I say.

What's It Like Living in DC, Charles?

2008-01-09T08:55:00.000-08:00

(This demented ride is verbatim, but as Charles learns, not for free.)

Maria: "Can you help me with this paper I need to get published?"

Charles: "Sure."

Maria: "It's about how these pregnant women are being imprisoned for using drugs."

Charles: "Aren't all people caught using drugs sent to jail, pregnant or not?"

Maria: "Yea, but they are excessively punished because they are harming their fetus. If the baby is stillborn or has birth defects they get charged with aggravated assault. It's a backdoor way pro-lifers can pass legislation. Soon all people harming a fetus could be punished...Abortion doctors, etc."

Charles: "Damn. What's the paper about?"

Maria: "It has to be a creative piece on how to show that that law is classist and racist. No white women have ever been convicted of that crime. And I want to show how raising kids, even though the women are taking street drugs, is ok. and they shouldn't be imprisoned"

Charles: "Ok. So you have to write a paper convincing people that the pregnant drug users need to considered or exonerated in some way?"

Maria: "Yes, sort of."

Charles: "That's sounds like it would be tough. What have you got so far?"

Maria: "Well I was going to talk about the time last year when I was pregnant"

Charles: "You were pregnant?"

Maria: "Yea, last year and I.."

Charles: "So you have a kid somewhere?"

Maria: "No, of course not. I got an abortion. But when I went to the doctor to see if I was pregnant I was addicted to Adenol and Xanax. The doctor prescribed me Adenol, but I stole the Xanax. When the doctor told me I was pregnant, she asked what medications I was on, and I told her. She told me I needed to get off the drugs if I was going to have the baby. Right then, I was about sixty percent sure I wasn't going to have it, so when I left the office I took the drugs anyway."

Charles: "You kept taking Xanax when you were pregnant?"

Maria: "Yea. When I got in the car, I took a Xanax to relieve the stress."

Charles: "Ok."

Maria: "But that doesn't mean I wouldn't be a good parent. My parents took drugs all the time, and I was raised in a household where my parents did drugs. My mother was manic and drank to soothe her pain, my father smoked pot to relieve his anxiety. When the cops came to our neighborhood, I was always so scared they were going to take my parents away. So I want to prove that although parents use drugs, they are still capable of raising children and shouldn't be put in jail."

Charles: "Are you serious?"

Maria: "Yes, why?"

Charles: "Well, sorry about this, but a lot of people think that pregnant drug users should be put in jail. You have certain responsibilities to yourself when you have a child. Taking drugs shows that you aren't responsible, are willing to put the baby in harm's way, and will set a bad example when the baby is born. Everyone knows this, and feels strongly about it."

Maria: "Really. I never thought of that Good point."

Charles: "Doing drugs is a choice, and if you choose to do it while you are pregnant, that's not good."

Maria: "But doing drugs in not a choice."

Charles: "Really. Why not?"

Maria: "A lot of people who do street drugs are doing them because they have some mental illness that's not diagnosed, that they can't get help for, so they take drugs instead."

Charles: "So all the crackheads were crazy to begin with? I though most drug users got swept up in different forms of peer pressure or the allure of gangs and selling drugs. But it's always a choice. You don't have to do drugs. Most people in the hood just can't see their lives having any meaning and sometimes try it to make it have meaning or to feel better about it having no meaning, but its always a choice."

Maria: "But you don't have a choice. All those people, their lives are so bad, and something happened to them and they can't get to a doctor to cope with it, so they have to do drugs. It's not a choice. So you can't blame those women."

Charles: "So, if your life is bad, you take drugs? It's natural causation? I saw some shit in the Bronx, but people still had hope. Kids wanted to achieve and not end up like their druggie parent or incarcerated older brother. But when I said you have to do your work so you won't end up like those guys hanging out in front of the Safeway all day, they listened. They knew it was up to them, and they knew they had an opportunity with their lives."

Maria: "But I grew up in those schools. You don't understand me. You are so judgmental."

Charles: "I'm just saying that most people think pregnant drug users should be in jail, and it would be hard to convince anyone otherwise."

Maria: "But it's not about that."

Charles: "What?"

Maria: "I haven't been talking about the paper for a long time. I think all drugs should be legal, and I don't think those women should be put in jail."

Charles: "Ok, but most people would disagree with you."

Maria: "This isn't about most people. This is about you and me. Why don't you want to understand what it was like for me growing up that my dad sold weed and my mom was drunk."

Charles: "This wasn't personal, but ok, convince me that your situation can speak to a larger audience and convince me and them that pregnant drug users deserve different consideration"

Maria: "This is not about convincing. God. "

Charles: "Calm down it's not a big deal."

Maria: "Calm down? How do you think you have the power to make me calm down?"

Charles: "It's just not a big deal, you don't have to raise your voice."

Maria: "So I can't get emotional."

Charles: "It's past midnight."

Maria: "You can't even see beyond your own experience. I have a question. When you taught in the Bronx, did they give you any training?"

Charles: "Uh, yea, kinda. It was kind of a joke."

Maria: "I know they taught you hard stuff like lesson planning,but did they teach you soft stuff like cultural differences."

Charles: "Yea, we had some discussions and they made us read a book."

Maria: "What book?"

Charles: "Amaxing Grace by Jonathan Kozo.."

Maria: "zol..figures. What did they teach you about cultural differences?"

Charles: "I don't know really. We talked about how some kids might come from different backgrounds, and hard living situations."

Maria: "Did they talk about how you were white and they are black?"

Charles: "Are you trying to provoke me at 12:30 about a topic I rarely like to speak about not on my own terms? And you know that. I'm going to have nightmares if I continue this. I'm ending this and going to bed."

Maria: "You are so fucking judgmental. You were talking about teaching before, but now I can't ask you about it?"

Charles: "Not like that. You were deliberately trying to provoke me with that bullshit."

Maria: "So you don't know there are differences between black and white? I was there. I was a student in one of your classes."

Charles: "Not really. I don't think you have any idea what went on in my classroom besides teacher of the year shiz"

Maria: "How come you get to be the judge of all those things. It's not funny. You are so fucking judgmental and set in your views. I just can't stand you. I'm leaving."

Charles: "I think that's a good idea."

Maria: "No wonder you live alone."

Charles: "Yep. I guess I get what I deserve."

Maria: "You always do."

Iraq Furlough

2008-01-07T12:04:00.000-08:00

Tim turns to me and says, "Man, you see the girl I introduced to you, Diaz's girlfriend? Well, let's just say, she wasn't the best looking chick five months ago when he left for Iraq,"

"What? She's hot. Or at least... it's dark in here. She seems hot."

"She had a certain pear-like quality."

"Really? What...she lost the weight from the constant worrying? Or maybe worked out to pass the time?"

"I'm not sure, but they met like a week before he left so it might be something like that."

"So he's only back for two weeks,"

"Yea, furlough for two weeks, so this is 'welcome home'."

"Hold my drink for a second..." I reach through a talking couple at the bar and they recoil from each other, slightly, as I take a square napkin from the black straw-and-napkin holder sitting between them. I begin unfolding the thin napkin. The music changes to throbbing techno from something innocuous, less abrasive for the background, so I cringe at the DJ booth over my shoulder where a silhouette with headphones is bobbing and the lights seem to have dimmed since I last noticed.

"Watch this," I strain my voice.

"What?"

I crease and wrap the napkin around in my hands. "You ever see this trick?"

"No, but I will drink your drink soon. Is that a rose?"

"Yes I plan to reward the fair maiden for her chastity and for providing a delish appearance for our good soldier."

"Origami shit, huh?"

"Yes, army man, it is only for the worthy." I grab back my drink. The party of about fifteen, of which I'm a part, is cordoned off at the end of the bar, all in amorphous, talkative groups of three to five, that's easy to ply through since I just met everyone and can give them a cordial nudge before weaseling past. I feel Tim following me and he steps on my heel as I stop abruptly at the haltertopped, blonde girlfriend sitting at a candlelit table, mid-laugh with two other girls. I dangle the rose upright between them as their laughs become inquisitive looks at the rose and at me.

"My god, is that for me?" the blonde girlfriend says.

"Of course."

"Where's mine?" says another girl.

"Get a napkin." I say

"This is really great," says the blonde girlfriend, "where did you learn how to do this?"

"From a guy named Captain Ron in New York City."

"You're Kidding?"

"I'm not. He also taught me how to drink obscene amounts of Maker's Mark." This gets a stilted laugh and a look away, but Tim, beside me, puts a napkin in my hand and I say, "Thank you, Mr. Smee. Who wants to learn how to do this?"

"Wait, is that from Peter Pan?"

"Clever girl."

"You're funny." I feel a forearm across my throat and my head is forced up. There is a lot of shouting. I'm pulling at the forearm, trying to laugh. My feet lift and the shouting becomes louder. The girls in front of me are gone, the chairs upturned. The forearm is like a vice. I am tilting further back, losing my balance. My breath is forced out and my vision goes blurry. I hear "Stop! STOP! Stop!" Then it is over. I feel a rawness of my neck and hurry to catch my breath. I try to laugh.
A yelling carries out of the club. Four men pushing another through the door and out. Girls and people follow. Someone says, 'Are you ok?"

From the 52 Parallel

2008-01-06T14:35:00.000-08:00

Standing atop a Patagonian Mountain, beholding the majesty of a 3 billion ton glacier, Big Time Bobby thought up the following:

Begin buffing this,
My grimey anatomy
Des pues, no cuddle.

A Bronson´s mind is broke; the switch is permanently flicked to the ON position.

Stabbin Cabin

2008-01-04T08:44:00.000-08:00

Around the room you look
after giving light from darkness took

Smell your staid smell essence
that should be sweeter upon female presence

The secretive smallness of apartment yours
noise absence but sighing floors

Routine reach for the cold beverage
breathless gulps golden mind severage

Dirty carpet looks sink dishes scattered bills,
needle the recordplayer quiet now unstill,

background crescendoes from Floyd Pink
despair and freedom are so betwixt, you think

Faded couch comfortable so sit
weightless drop relax a minute

Pirate Bang Olaffsen endtable stands
wood trinket blank-eyed you scans

Flip on TV another voice in the room
Pray inner monologue will rest soon.

Beside stoic bust of sculpture's Daveed,
Bought off the street telling you need.

Cacophony rises from all your decor
Paintings speak volumes though placid at core

Personify a room happens home not
Alone you ignore your lying slow rot

Barack Obama

2008-01-03T19:49:00.000-08:00

Man dropped 38 on Iowa.

Bronx Teacher Opus, Vol. 2

2008-01-03T06:54:00.001-08:00

This is the avant-garde portion where three Bronx Teachers and one sideshow jabroni cavort and mingle at Brother Jimmy's NYC. Reading this section is long and arduous and you probably will get confused and fail to see the point.

But, deep down, the rewards are plenty. You get a full view of the searing social commentary viz. teaching, waitress-wooing, and drinking many pitchers. Pathos awaits.

Hint: Your Amerigo speaks first. Charles follows.

Read On. You are free.

Poems:
"A Haiku"
Surrounded by Fools
Three Teachers Emerge As Knights
Lovely As It Seems

Juicy
Evocative
Sensual
Sexual
Imbibing
Cuervo
Always

Inside Brother Jimmy's, Friday January 21:
"So, I think they alternate. Each week, one does the morning shift and the other does the night shift."
"At the Burrito Deli?"
"Yea. What's funny is one is really nice. So when I order my coffee and bagel, he actually asks me about my class. In Spanish, of course."
"Si, por guapo."
"Whatever. So the other guy is a fucking grouch. He just grunts...and they fucking look alike.'
"So they switch mornings? Like the changing of the guard?'
"Yea"
"Like Bartleby. They work at a copy place before there were copy machines, so they basically just write out documents over and over each day, which makes them crazy. One guy gets boozed up before work and does shit work until after lunch when he finally mellows out. The other guy gets so flustered that by lunch he has to go get smashed for the rest of the day. So one does work in the morning, and one does work in the afternoon. Melville describes it as the changing of the guard."
"I guess. Yea, well at 6am, they totally dictate my day."
"Huh?"
"The attitudes, whichever one I get, totally rubs off on me."
"Yea, I can see that."
"And I fucking carry it through the day."
"So you let the bodega guys ruin your day?"
"Or brighten it. But the thing is, my day still sucks."
"So sometimes you get put in a good mood and your day sucks. But other times you get put in a bad mood and your day sucks. So what happens if you don't go there in the morning?
"I go hungry."
"Good point."
"But..whatever, let's stop talking about school shit, man.'
"We're not, really."
"Yea, but I am so self-conscious of doing it, that's all people at my school do."
"Like Ms. DiMartino?"
"Yea, she's such a fucking bitch to me now. Or she doesn't even say hello to me in the hallways anymore."
"Yea, well, isn't it funny when you're walking some drunk, teacher chick home after happy hour and you're making out and stumbling and everything. Then, suddenly, she gets a moment of sobriety and gives you the 'just because I'm going home with you doesn't mean I'm sleeping with you.' And then, when you get home, she sleeps with you."
"Ha. Not funny."
"Her friends were worthless, remember?"
"You're worthless.. watch out"
"What?"
"Stage left.."
"Boys. Boys? Can I get yall some more beer?"
"Huh?"
"Yes, please."
"PBR good...?"
"Yes Ms. Anna."
"Anna, can you please tell Brian to turn the music down?"
"Um..Maybe. The bar is getting crowded though. It's kind of our policy."
"It's kind of annoying."
"Hey!! I like this music. I grew up on this"
"Yea, but it's fucking too loud. How's Brad, by the way?"
"I don't think she heard you."
"Because it's fucking loud."
"I hope she comes back. After that."
"Who is this, Brookes and Dunne?"
"Fill this up."
"Huh?"
"It's John Deere Greene. Give me that."
"I would totally marry her."
"Huh? I know."
"Yea. Who are those two chicks over there anyway?"
"The one's LeCroix's talking to at the bar?"
"I can't believe they latched on at Lounge. No one ever is in there."
"LeCroix! Pierre! Come sit down back down, man....and, he's not listening"
"Yea, I was just talking to one of them..aand, they had nothing."
"I think one of them goes to FIT and the other, i don't know."
"Are they hot? I can't really tell."
"The small one's ok."
"Yea, LeCroix's all over that. Look at him. I swear to God that guy."
"Yea. All those burgers."
"Ha. I wonder if the guy's ever heard of masturbation."
"Wanna do a lap?"
"Bronson!!"
"No. I'm cool here."
"What, man?"
"Bourbon Street?"
"Pierre, in a bit, we just ordered another pitcher. And stop shouting. Get the fuck over here."
"Huh? We need to make a decision, Sweetcake!"
"What? Nothing. We will! Relax!"
"Yea, right. You both are a bunch of Giant Idiots, and you're lucky I still love you!"
"Ignore him. Let him be over there"
"The girls must love his outdoor voice."
"And his beard."
"Dude, I don't want to go to Bourbon again. We always go. Let's go downtown or something."
"Sure. Where?"
"I don't know. Ginger Man. Cafe Wha? I don't know..anyplace but Bourbon. We fucking always end up there man."
"So. It's fun. There's girls there."
"We go there. The fucking DJ plays the same songs. We bullshit with Jason. We dance party. I hate the bartenders They're not even that hot. This is New York man, there's got to be other places."
"There are other places."
"So let's go to them."
"We can't. LeCroix always gets the attention there."
"Guys!"
"I'm down to go somewhere else, man, but you gotta convince Pierre."
"Yea, right."
"Where's Michelle tonight?"
"Here you go, Boys.'
"Thanks."
"Anna, you better watch Pierre. I've never seen him flirt in front of you before."
"Yea, with someone else anyway."
"Yea, I guess since you're married, he's just trying to make you jealous, like any good future second husband might do."
"Amerigo!"
"Anna, please sit."
"Here we'll even pour you a beer."
"You like the poems?"
"Oh my god. I keep all of them in my apartment."
"Does Brad know that the Bronx teachers are trying to woo his wife?"
"No, yea, he found the poems, and we almost broke up. Guys, it was really sad."
"Are you serious?"
"That's not good."
"No, you stupidheads. All the poems are over there by the bar."
"Oh shit. Which one is that so prominently displayed?"
"The last one you gave me"
"The haiku?'
"Yes. That's my favorite, like ever."
"We try."
"So how was school today for my boys?"
"I had a snowball fight in my class."
"Haha. I thought your kids didn't have recess. How'd they get the snowballs in to your classroom?"
"Yea, well, they reached out on the window sill, pushed the snow through the window cage and made fucking snowballs."
"Did one hit you?"
"No, they actually respect me too much to do that."
"Why?"
"Because if they hit me, then they actually do get in trouble."
"Shit. I actually had a great screaming match. I had to restrain this girl."
"You're not supposed to touch the kids, man."
"She was pulling out the other girls braids. School security won't fucking come fast enough. Or at all."
"How was that science experiment I gave you."
"Good man. They know Darwin now."
"Ahh, that's so cute. Charles, where's that girl you were with last Friday?"
"Watching them try to pick up those gummy worms with chopsticks and tweezers and hairpins would have been great. Natural selection for beak size. Unfortunately I had to trash it."
"What?'
"Seriously. Another one?"
"Yea, they played with everything when I was passing it out. Plus, they just wouldn't stop talking."
"So what did you do?"
"I warned them three times, then I went around and cleared their desks into the garbage can and sat in silence for the rest of the period putting up lunch detention minutes"
"Oh my god. You're so mean."
"Not really. Actually, I wish I was more mean."
" But, Charles, was that your new girlfriend last week?"
"Who?"
"That cute one. Brown hair. She said you guys taught together"
"Um.. who? Katrina?"
"Is that your girlfriend now?"
"Haha"
"What? Why?"
"The one that was licking your face?"
"I remember that shit."
"What? How come I don't?"
"We went to Cilantro, remember? Frozen margherita happy hour?"
"Shit. She fucking has a live-in boyfriend"
"You boys"
"What? I have a girlfriend. It's him"
"Hey, what's up guys?"
"What? I was just.."
"Hi Jess."
"Hey guys"
"Hi. We've met once before. I'm Amerigo."
"I'm Elvis Presley."
"Yes, Elvis, I remember. Nice shirt and tie. Why are you so dressed up?"
"Um..Because I just came from teaching sixth grade."
"Oh my god. Really? That's so fucking hot. Are you into cocaine, too?"
"What?"
"You look like you doused yourself in it?"
"Oh, that's fucking chalk. It's seeped in. I can't brush it off."
"Ow. Here. Let me try."
"Stop. Stop. You know you flirt like a middle schooler? See."
"You guys..These boys had a tough day in class. Tell her, Amerigo"
"Let's not relive it."
"Naaa..Want a beer?"
"Yea, but I got to get back to my tables in a sec."
"You want a poem?"
"They write poems, too."
"Where's that friend of yours, that actor guy.'
"I think he's downtown at his show or something.'
"He's funny."
"And a lot of other things."
"I gave you the flyer. You going to his show?"
"Why? Are you an actress?"
"Yea. I told him I would... I'm trying to be. I go to Marymount."
"Anna, you go to Marymount, too, right?'
"I graduated last year."
"Oh yea. You dance, right?. Dance theater? You get your new headshots yet?"
"Kind of. They're so expensive. But they're auditioning for Grease in Vegas. I think I got a callback tomorrow."
"Congratulations. Can you please demonstrate the winning dance number?"
"Here?"
"Yea, for practice. Besides my friend Amerigo here is a fierce dancer and a shrewd critic."
"No."
"It'll help, I swear. No? Fine I'll do it."
"You know Grease? O my god."
"No. I know Dancing."
"Sing Summer Lovin'"
"What?"
"Had me a blast"
"Dude, that's the karaoke jam when you duet with a girl"
"I thought it was Paradise by the Dashboard Lights?"
"Hey, you guys want to go to K-Town karaoke later?"
"When?"
"When you guys get off work"
"Um. Maybe. Brad is coming in at 10."
"He can totally come."
"I have to go walk my little doggie. After that, I'm going to bed."
"Does this job make you that tired or something? I've been up since 5:40"
"Yes, dealing with all these crazy drunk guys.."
"Aww. Shot down, how you feel?"
"No, I didn't mean you guys."
"We are those guys."
"Charles! Want a shot!?!'
"He's been yelling at you guys all night."
"Yea, well, we know him."
"Yes, Pierre I want a shot...You guys want shots."
"Maybe later"
"I have an audition.'
"Oh my god my tables."
"Anna I got your check from Table 12."
"Oh ok. "
"You still want a poem?"
"Uh.."
"You'll get one.'
"How do you spell your name?"
"Jessica. J-E-S-S-I-C-A"
"That's easy."
"You idiot. You forgot her name."
"Did you remember it?"
"Sort of."
"Charles! Amerigo! Get over here."
"Is that Jager?"
"Leave the coats. No one will fuck with our table."
"Go that way. Go around ."
"Charles, you remember Dana."
"Yes, we were talking when we came in, asshole. Hi. How's that cranberry vodka?"
"Good."
"Good. Hello again, Christina"
"Oh, and these are their friends."
"This is Dina."
"Hi"
This is Steph."
"Hi"
"Dude, are those our shots?"
"And this is Liz."
"Hi"
"Hi"
"Where are you guys from?"
"We're all from Jersey, except for Dina. She's from Cali."
"Excellent. Where in Jersey?"
Morristown."
"Cool."
"By the way, our friend Pierre here recently won teacher of the year for his great work at MS 180. He uses the prestige of the award to spread love throughout the world and his apartment is filled with books of philosophy. You'd be a fool not to have him read to you."
"Dude, take this."
"What the fuck was that?"
"I'm setting you up."
"You think I need that?"
"Salud."
"Brost."
""How long until the bender?."
"Fuck"
"I love that shit."
"A little more than five months. Halfway there."
"Pierre, pass me that napkin."
"Where's the pen?"
"That's close, man."
"You left it at the table."
"Here I have one in my coat.'
"Nice sports coat by the way."
"It's my Friday blazer, bitches. You want chalk? I have some of that too"
"We should have a teach off"
"What should we put for the J?"
Is this an acrostic?"
"Yes."
"No more limericks tonight?"
"No, let's do an acrostic."
"Fine."
"Who's this for?"
"Jessica?"
"That waitress?"
"Yea, the hot one. This has got to be good."
"Juniper.'
"What? No."
'Pierre, you're not helping?"
"I'll be over here living you down"
"Go back to the table. I'll follow you. Go"
"What did you think of their friends? "
"Definitely not"
"Yea"
"So. Ok. Japan. Everyday. Sometimes. Singapore. Iran. Contra. Armageddon."
"No."
"Juicy.."
"Hey Boys, want another pitcher?"
"Jesus Christ. More? Already?"
"You did finish that last one."
"We gave it out to you guys. It's just sitting here in these cups."
"I'm going to drink it."
"When you come back and sit down with us."
"In like fifteen minutes I swear. I just have to get rid of this huge softball team."
"We're starting the clock."
"You guys still want beer right?"
"A pitcher, yes."
"Shit I'm getting drunk"
"I'm drunk and ready to drink"
"Ok."
"Hurry back."
"We're such idiots."
"Yea, but she is trying to get us drunk."
"Already done."
" So, how about this: Juicy. Evocative. Sensual. Sexual. Imbibing Cuervo Always."
"Nice."
"Close"
"Judiciously Evasive. Sometime Sneaky. Imagining Craving Anywhere."
"I like mine better."
"Fine, write it."
"At least its provocative."
"Fine. Have fun. We're at a bar."
"Whatever. We playing hoop tomorrow?"
"Jessica...Jessica."
"Just wait man, she's taking a fucking order, just give it to Anna."
"Okok. Fine I'll play but I'll be hungover as shit.
"Whatever. It's what gets rid of the hangover"
"Yea, but I'm so fucking used to getting up at 5:40 and starting the kiddie show at 7, that whenever I pass out later, I'll be at attention super early. So not only will I be hungover, I'll be a fucking zombie."
"Stop fucking whining. We'll still school all those guys?"
"You think we can even get a game"
"Sure if we walk North like 106 or something."
"You're an asshole."
"Pierre!...Pierre!..hoop tomorrow?"
"Nice nod"
"Did he just wink at me?"
"Who's calling?"
"EE"
"Answer it"
"Shit."
-"Yo."
-"Where are you, Mr. Bronson?"
-"I'm out. It's Friday."
-"Come play with me"
-"Um. where are you?"
"Here you go, boys? Who's he talking to, Amerigo?"
"Have a seat."
"Did you ask Brian to turn down the tunes?"
"No. Yes. He said no."
"Shuush, I'm on the phone."
-"Mr. Bronson? Mr. Bronson..I'm downtown at this bar called Bar."
-"Say again."
-"I'm downtown in the village. At Bar."
-"Umm. Sounds great. I'm uptown. but we might be going downtown later."
-"Are you going to Bourbon later?"
-"Bourbon Street?"
"You guys are going to Bourbon Street? Again?"
"I guess, yes, fuck."
-"Um. No. Maybe. Maybe. I'll call you and let you know. But I'll definitely call you later."
"Here. Give this to Jessica, please"
- "Ok. Call me soon 'cause I don't know how much later I'll be out."
-"It's 8."
-"I want to see you."
-"I know. I want to make out too."
-"What?"
-"Ok. I know. Gotta go. Bye."
"Who was that?"
"You've met her. That crazy Alabama chick."
"That one that lives upstairs."
"Yea. EE."
"Do you like her?"
"Her ex-boyfriend is calling me from LA."
"Yea, but she's calling you from downtown."
"Whatever. She's fucking crazy. So..what's Brad up to until 10?"
"He's working late. She seemed nice, though, that time I met her. You should totally date her, Charles."
"Marvelous. No. I ..I don't know. "
"Guess what? Brad's working on the Guggenheim Museum project at his firm"
"That's why he's working late?"
"Isn't he a grad student?"
"Yea, but he also works for this firm"
"Didn't Frank Lloyd Wright design the Guggenheim?"
"Yea. That's what I thought."
"I don't know. That's what he told me...Boys I gotta get back."
"Fuck this stay and leave shit. At least finish your beer."
"Jeez, I'm drinking, sweetie, no longer passive aggressive we with, huh, Charle."
"You love it."
"Dude, stop... Anna, please stay. Here we'll fill up your beer again.."
"Thanks. Keep it for me when I get back."
"Don't give me that look, I'm drunk."
"Are we gonna meet EE?'
"Probably not. She might show up later.'
"You really want her to come out?"
"Should I call Nicole, then?"
"Just, let's see what happens first."
"Dude, you know I'll gonna go through the Rolodex. I'm drunk enough already."
"Charles, if you've met all these girls at bars, who you don't really like, really, so what's stopping you from meeting another, better girl at the next bar?"
"Nothing. Good point. I'll stay off the horn, then."
"You should call Vanessa."
"What? Now?"
"Not now. Later."
"At Bourbon?"
"No. Not there."
"Guys! When are we going to Bourbon?"
"I don't know Pierre."
"Thanks for finally joining us."
"Is that Bobby outside?"
"Because the girls are going to this bar in the village, but if we leave soon, they'll come with us."
"I don't know Pierre. We just ordered another pitcher. Relax."
"I am actually going to rip your head off. Give me a straight answer. Half hour good? Can I tell them that?"
"Is Bobby fucking smoking? What an idiot."
"Pierre, I don't know. In a little bit. Do we have to go to Bourbon?"
"Where else would we go?"
"I don't know..Ginger Man."
"Haha. No. Amerigo, listen to me. What should I tell the girls?"
"I don't know...We'll leave after the next pitcher or two. Anna's been sitting down a lot, so.."
"Uh oh, Pierre, she did turn down the music for us... I'm going to get a redbull. Want one?"
"What are you talking about, it's loud as fuck in here. Besides, you guys know I am in total and complete love with her. So back the fuck off."
"Anna's right, you are a like a teddy bear."
"We'll go in a little Pierre. I don't know what else to tell you."
"God damn it, they're getting their coats."
"I'm going to the bodega. Pierre you wants?"
"No. No. So what am i supposed to tell them?"
"Pierre, just keep doing what you do"
"I'll be back with caffeine and sugar to compliment the booze."
"Try not to get lost."
"Actually, get lost."

XXXMas Haikus

2007-12-24T14:59:00.000-08:00

Santa and Reindeer
Fly down the Jersey Turnpike.
Traffic is a bitch.

I know it's dirty;
It's hot and full of stiff wood.
Please sweep my chimney.

From Big Time Bobby;
Merry Christmas to my ho's.
Unzip for your gift.

Charles reads lots of books.
He also drinks lots of booze.
And bones lots of chicks.

Blonde Amerigo.
Oh, how we miss your sweet moves.
Why is Dan Hilson?

Bronx Teacher Opus, Vol. I

2007-12-18T14:03:00.000-08:00

Known amongst the inner circle as The Bronsonian, I now promulgate this considerable Bronx Teacher ubertext in tiny installments for your reading pleasure. Sadly, the work of any Bronson is never finished, and this manuscript is no different. So prepare to be moved physically and ruined emotionally and then, about ten entries from now, left hanging.

As you may want to envision the whole enchilada, here is a working outline of proposed chapter titles:

"Hi, I'm Charles Bronson," "Stop Talking," "You're Cute, But I Hate What You're Wearing," "Ah New York," "The Fucking Viking," "Happy Hour?" "The Green Fairy," "The Cliterati" "Back By Popular Demand," "The Broom Room," "The Subway Bone," "The Shidiot," "What is for Gays," "Away Game," "The Wedding Rocker Vol. I," "In The Shnavy," "The Wedding Rocker Vol. II," "Did You Order Johnson With Your Pizza?" "Ode To A Grecian AeroBed," "'Just Because I'm Going Home With You Doesn't Mean We're Having Sex:' And Other Lies Told By Women," "What Are You Doing?" "Do You Think I Climbed All The Way Up Here Just For Hand J%b?" "Was That Your Boyfriend?"

Click "Read More..." to discover the sprawling setting and loveable cast of characters:

Setting: At 2:30, my weekend starts at the back of my classroom scratching red checks on handouts and rubricking final drafts with post-it notes until my cell phone brrrrrrrrrs on the desk and Amerigo tells me he's already on the train past Intervale Avenue, fiending for booze. The janitor wheels a garbage can down the hall, echoing that the students and teachers have already gone, and this becomes my second queue to leave immediately. Deeply tired, I've been trying to go home even before Amerigo called, but now respond to the urgency and hoist myself up. I put the thick pile of half-graded papers in the Graded bin, and stuff my bookbag with my plan book, the Greek myth book, and the Impact Math Teacher's Edish, vaguely confident I have some other lessons ready for Monday, and let the momentum spiral me down the back steps and out and to the train and back home and to the bar.

Brother Jimmy's opens at 5:30, so it has to be the second bar we attend. The first bar, rumored to be a mob front, is a startling mix of goth and the islands whose torpedo chandelier and surfing posters we find hilariously ironic and whose emptiness provides a calm antecedent to the rising mayhem. The tattooed bartender serves us two-for-one margaritas at a torrential pace and we sing along to Sublime and Sinatra from the jukebox before the growing buzz and mania ruins the novelty and ushers us back out into the street. We shove each other across the block to Brother Jimmy's, maybe across to Duane Reade to the ATM, but we arrive as Brian unlocks the door to the aroma of stale beer and lingering disinfectant and Anna takes her first order, ours.

Characters:
Pierre is a teacher and a big guy with a beard. He only eats hamburgers and sandwiches, and once went on a berry diet. He is magnetic with both women and men and the reason for it is completely unknown, but is always a compelling topic of discussion. That he has a girlfriend in Philadelphia is ignored in bars.

Amerigo is a teacher and a tall, blonde Minnesotan who is the voice of reason and the reckless ringleader. He lets his girlfriend interrupt his lifeblood rocking, but oftentimes, will accept pot as a reward for getting straddled on the upstairs leather couch.

Bobby is an actor and a roommate, who, between hot girlfriends, loses control and gains skanks. He graduated Columbia an English major, but never read a book. His specialty is the to-go pack (a redbull, a Coors Light tallboy, and a box of condoms) that he assembles in bodegas and either uses himself that night or gives out later as Christmas gifts. He is the villain of this story, but also my best friend.

Goals:
The Bender: A wild, raucous, unruly shindig every June 28, the last day of the school year, for which we prepare and anticipate by growing out our hair (it measures the passage of time: longer the hair, closer the party), growing out hysterical mustaches and Civil War goatees, and developing a point system that measures the permanent damage we will inflict on New York City. There is a rigorous countdown of school days leading up to it, and we never refrain from discussing its nihilistic potential whenever we want to keep morale up. Reasonable attire includes fuxedos, lavender sport coats, CVS gardening hats, or nothing at all. We put a down payment for bail at the local precinct and it all commences with a championship champagne spraydown, and continues on for weeks.

The No-Talker: The ideal South Bronx school day where students listen, participate, and learn in peace and harmony, where teacher is philosopher king and student is eager beaver. This is a pipe dream and a joke, so we pray for the bender.

Amerigo and Charles Go To New Orleans, Part 4

2007-12-17T18:25:00.001-08:00

The low ceilinged club was gorged with dancing people. Bodies throbbed up and down, some entwined. The small bandleader sung into the microphone and smiled and pointed while the brass instruments wonked away behind him. Shouts and claps came from everywhere.

The booze made it all seem fractured and disjointed, as if the flash of sudden memory was unraveling in real time, running disassociated images in quick succession - the glinting of angled-up trombones, the girl smoothing along Charles like a feline, the bobbing random faces - all over an immutable din of New Orleans jazz.

Charles and Amerigo, by the back bar, were handed drinks by people whose faces looked unfamiliar. A tall white guy with a backwards Yankee hat wobbled through the dancefloor while holding up his two fists and a nearby man, who looked like Prince, grabbed Charles and laughed at the guy and said, "White Chocolate, God damn."

Charles and Amerigo feverishly sweated and danced apart from the crowd. A girl from the worksite spun against Charles, putting her body flush against his, before slinking her face down to his zipper, and popping back up to oogle his drooping, bloodshot eyes. Charles eased his hands further down the girl's skirt, while next to him Amerigo sipped his beer and shook himself to the music, looking almost catatonic.

The girl tried to kiss Charles again, but he withdrew. She said, "What's wrong? Are you mad?" Charles clutched Amerigo's shoulders and mouthed "I'm out," and plied himself through the boisterous crowd with Amerigo following and protesting. They toppled over each other into the eerie, abandoned neighborhood and Charles walked out to the darkened opposite side of the street, the uproarious noise wavering out from the club, and Amerigo, with his beer still in hand, said, "What the fuck, man?"

"I don't want that chick grinding on me all night, man. There's tons of hot chicks in there."

"That's why we should go back inside." Amerigo finished his beer and threw it into a ransacked yard.

"I don't want to man." Charles said, pacing the sidewalk under a bald, spindly tree.

"Why the fuck not?"

"I just told you."

"Your reason makes no sense. There are hot girls in there and we should go back in there."

"Let's just go. To that other place. Vaughn's. I gotta get the fuck out of here. You can fucking stay if you want, but I gotta leave."

"Relax. okok. I gotta go back in and tab out my credit card." Amerigo turned and crossed the street without looking and a car swerved and brayed the horn, making the milling people glance and laugh. Charles sat on the curb and pulled his knees to his chest, then got up and paced again. He felt like something was slowly dissolving beneath his chest, and he became increasingly frantic.

Across the street, the clubdoor opened and music released into the night. Amerigo hurried out and the closing door muffled the trumpet wails behind him. Charles was about to apologize, but Amerigo said with tired eyes, "It's ok, man. I'm sure around here ridiculous freakouts happen all the time."

Bronson Reads War and Peace, pgs. 1-127

2007-12-16T16:26:00.001-08:00

In Princess Pavlovna's salon, the dowried St. Petersberg aristocrats mutter and posture, in French ironically, about the merits and madness of Napolean pointing his invincible army towards them. A rogue bastard, Pierre, educated abroad, shows his youth by professing admiration for Napolean as a post-Bourbon uniter of newly Enlightened France, and is promptly dismissed by the bouffant princes and princesses as reckless and trite.

So, Prince Andrey, disgusted with the pedantic privilege in the room, his wife among them, offers such priceless Bronsonian advice to Pierre later, in private:

"You talk of Bonaparte, when he was working his way up, going step by step straight to his aim, he was free; he had nothing except his aim and he attained it. But tie yourself up with a woman, and, like a chained convict, you lose all freedom. And all the hope and strength there is in you is only a drag on you, torturing you with regret. Drawing-rooms, gossip, balls, vanity, frivolty - that's the enchanted circle I can't get out of. I am setting off now to the war, the greatest war there has ever been, and I know nothing, and am good for nothing. I am very agreeable and sarcastic."

Your Bronson, too, is agreeable and sarcastic, but has yet to seek such extreme measures to escape that fate. Instead, Your Bronson has embraced his own vanity and has been validated by the Great Tolstoy to continue to eschew all bullshit chicks and fight the noble wars, like finishing this ridiculous book.

Bronsonius History of Time: Part I

2007-12-15T18:11:00.000-08:00

First, Charles invented fire, then he invented ice, because without fire nobody could fire up chicks and without ice, pussies would never be able to drink their bourbon.
Then the dinosaurs started roaming the earth because Charles had already bested molten lava and needed another nemesis. After he destroyed the lage leathery beasts, he turned them into oil, because some of the toughest men on earth work on oil rigs. He had to give them something to do hundreds of miles off-shore so as to not have these grizzly men kicking the asses that Charles wanted to kick.

The modern world then began taking shape. Hammerabi had his code and Charles recommeded an eye for an eye mentality... MegaDeath would later use this in a song (you're welcome Dave Mustain).
Little known fact; the great Pyramids actually go hundreds of feet (meters) below the sand. Charles thought that it would be cooler if all these tourists and archeologists migrated to Northern Africa to climb up what is really just a structure that represents the top of Charles's Bronson.
Then Jesus and Charles hung out. Charles taught Him some cool stuff he did with robes... he also taught Him some cool stuff he did without underwear. Charles would later hit Judas with a left hook that broke his jaw, he spoke with a lisp for the rest of is dusty life.
The crusades were actually a massive manhunt. The Popes knew that the biggest challenge to their power was Charles and thus they sent armies to find him and try to contain him... the reason there were so many crusades? Charles has a thing for Asian chicks and he was in Bangkok on an opium and hooker binge (sidenote; they might have been hookers, but they never asked Charles to pay). He finally returned to the West just in time to teach the Muslims everything they knew about Astronomy, Medicine, and hats.
Charles didn't go with Christopher Columbus to The New World because he'd already been.

more history to come... for example, the stage didn't break John Wilkes Booth's leg; Big Time Bobby did.

The Blanding of Bruce

2007-12-14T17:20:00.000-08:00

The new Bruce album is far inferior to his old ones (hardly a surprise), however, I cannot stop listening to it since I've worn out all the old ones by memorizing all the lyrics, solos, key changes, and cracks in Bruce's voice, so having some new Bruce to listen to, even if it is a retread or emulation of his great past work is better than any other new music I've heard in months. Which leads to the problem: my repeated, semi-obsessive listens of this new album and my chronic-obsessive relationship to his old albums magnifies the divide between the two.

The greatness of Bruce begins intermittenly on Wild & The Innocent and extends through Born to Run, Darkness, River, Nebraska, (Born in the USA is annoying but still good) and some of Tunnel of Love. His achievement was to fashion the feelings of workingclass people into anthems and hymns of longing, companionship, and redemption. He did this through character study and the pathos derived from immaculate orchestration, at turns joyful, somber, defiant, and knowing.

The overring factor that hoisted Bruce to greatness was his lyric detail. After the initial listen to the overwhelming power, and the operatic subtext, of the rythmns and voices of the E Street Band, the second and third and fourth listen revealed Bruce's lyrics as the harbinger to the emotional depth of his music and therefore the creative force behind his band's sound and essence.

When Bruce sings "I'll be on that hill with everything I've got" on Darkness or "you can hide 'neath your covers and study your pain" on Thunder Road or "it was Frank they said" from Highway Patrolman or "take a knife and cut this pain from my heart" on Promised Land (there are hundreds of examples), it is a soul-stirring experiences because the people seem real in their lyric description and the band carries their emotional weight through the song.

For some reason, Bruce has lost that rigorous lyricism, which in turn has lessened his bands power, in subsequent albums. The Rising was good, but it got stuck on sweeping celestial metaphors and "this kiss" repetitions, and Devils in Dust was obscure and lacking any melodies and boring. This new album trades hard-worn depictions of people struggling through life for general details sewed together around a more general theme. "Living in The Future" is about concern about what might happen in our now uncertain collective future. "Magic" is about deception (ne governmental). "Girls in their Summer Clothes" is about opportunities forsaken. All very noble, but no longer entrenched with the people most directly affected by those dilemmas.

This is probably due to the old, successful artist paradox. From deserved success, Bruce got to see the world and meet more people and visit more places than most anybody, and with his money began to live in a great big fenced in home. (He probably made 20 million of this album.) Bruce's exceedingly vast exposure to the world and its complications and its sheer numbers as well as him settling down created a disconnect between him and the common person. He is no longer the struggling musician playing in the bars for the people just like himself, wanting success and solace and good times, experiences which fueled the material for his amazing run of 70's and 80's albums. Success took those Stone Pony faces from the front row singing along, and multiplied them by the millions, obscuring them when he toured in different cities, in different countries, for years, and soon, when he began to slow down in the early 1990's and he was rich and a stadium juggernaut, the edges were all dulled, but his Jersey roots remained, which is probably why we now get albums about working class, American struggles without knowing how it really feels.

Ocean Liner

2007-12-13T18:39:00.000-08:00

The propellers of the ocean liner churned a whitewater wake that frothed straight out and calmed to a steady swirl. Starting from the bow, huge swells slanted back in an expanding, oblique trail that rolled out toward the northern and southern horizons until, somewhere out of sight, the wake was met by the greater ocean and absorbed back to the sea's natural sway. The firecoin midday sun had shimmered down to its last purplish black and the streaming lights and revelry echoes from the ship began to amplify out into the endless, oceanic night.

The engine cut off for a second and everyone felt that their hearing was suddenly given back to them, but then the motor clicked on and the whine and chug of the turbines returned. Water slapped the hull, and the boat rocked slightly, but no one seemed to notice except Charles, who sat alone in a lifeboat playing beautiful guitar songs. His stomach lurched and stirred and he stopped playing abruptly and let down his guitar with a vibrating discord. Milling passengers straightened their backs and craned their heads to determine the origin of the dissonance while Charles looked ahead into the coming night where the horizon used to be, taking deep breaths.

The people who lined the decks and balconies to enjoy the sunset were now shuffling down to the dining room for drinks and dinner. The tradewinds turned cold and the people were rubbing their upper arms and using beachtowels as shawls. Charles disregarded them and continued to breathe and look out. In the daytime, the blue ocean melded with the blue sky creating a seemingly infinite, distant space in every direction, but the nighttime closed that distance with blackness, making the space more intimate. When Charles stared out into the darkness, he felt better and waited for what he thought was the last passenger to descend into the ship's belly to eat and dine and dance before taking back his guitar and composing new songs for the grand abyss now surrounding him.

He wrote elaborate and cryptic hymns and sung them with blind earnest. He sat back on the lifeboat seat, strumming, and imagined that beyond the lapping ocean was an audience somewhere, and that his songs met the distance between them all.

"Hey, that's pretty good." said a girl, sauntering through the decklights with her arms crossed.
"Thank you." Charles was surprised and stopped playing. He felt her pass behind him, and he turned around to only see her silhouette.
"Why don't you come on the boat?" she said.
"I am on the boat."
"You're on the lifeboat. I think you can get in trouble for that."
"So what?" Charles thought for a second. "I might be saving myself, you never know."
"From what? The next Titanic iceberg." she snorted.
Charles sighed, "No, I don't know."
"You should come play for all of us. The guy who plays the piano in the lounge is so awful. You're so much better."
"No thanks. I don't feel like it."
"Well, you want to come watch a movie with all of us or something?"
"No. Not right now. Thanks, though."
"Can I sit out here and listen?"
"No, no. What the fuck?"
"Jeez, I was just trying to be nice." Then sarcastically, "I'll leave you to it then, asshole." Charles wished she would leave him alone. He almost dove down into the ocean to feel its steely cold against his skin as the girl screamed out in confusion and regret. He almost smashed the guitar on the starboard rail and handed it to her like a broken promise. He even considered apologizing and jumping aboard to follow her belowdeck to wherever that stereomusic was coming from. But he didn't. He simply sat there unmoving and considered the darkness before him. After a beat, Charles heard flipflops clicking away, and he turned and said, "Can I ask you something?"
"Yea, sure."
"When are we going back? You know, like ashore?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said. He almost called out to her again, but let her go.

Bronson Ball

2007-12-13T15:48:00.000-08:00

With the anticlimactic release of the Mitchell report today, fans everywhere were treated to little more than the validation of what their hearts had been telling them for quite some time: baseball is fucked. I don’t intend to offer any sentiments on juicers and nonjuicers or what can be done to move forward. Instead I wish to sum up my position on the matter with the following comments from Charles Bronson:

“Are you fucking kidding me? Here. (pulls down pants) Why don’t you take that needle and suck out some testosterone and give it to a kid who needs it. Some kid somewhere with a hormonal deficiency could use some, so go ahead. Don’t be shy, seriously. I’ve been bit by worse. And I’ll still strike your ass out.”

Crepes

2007-12-12T09:56:00.000-08:00

Haiku + Video

When not pounding booze
When not working the dance floor
Charles heats up youtube.

Smells like beer

2007-12-11T16:40:00.000-08:00

Five bucks will buy you the whole seat, but you'll only need the edge.
She didn't pay. She's with the band. To her credit they're good and if I was a dirty rock chick who inappropriately wore high heels all the time, then I'd probably want to wind up in the middle of their sweaty post show mess too.

"Can i buy you a beer?" I scream.
"No."
The music was blarring and I couldn't make out a word of lyrics... why would I ask to buy her a beer? I never buy chicks beers, that's lame. Plus... like an asshole, the rock-whore was drinking something on the rocks. And the only person I know who drinks beer on the rocks is Father Paul. Father Paul was an old drunk at one of my college bars - he used to hit on young girls and make no bones about it. He was boisterous and lecherous, but he was also generous and hilarious. "Just because I don't use it doesn't mean I can't talk about it!" was his spitfilled bar-room refrain.
So yeah, RW (rock-whore) wasn't Father Paul, but I was hoping she'd call me Daddy.
Time for a drastic measure. My ears were ringing and I didn't give a shit anymore. Monday nights are good for rock shows, but they're bad for Tuesday mornings. I took my beer and poured it on her. I didn't do it in such a way to make it look like an accident. I didn't do it in such a way to make her think I was "really into the music." I did it in a way a monkey masturbates; diliberate and unapologetic.
"You look like a girl who likes to be treated poorly." ... the music got louder and she smelled like beer, "Hi. My name is Charles Bronson."

The Library

2007-12-11T11:14:00.000-08:00

Deep in the stacks of Butler Library, a man sat on the cold floor propped up against the high shelving with his legs straightened out. Around him were large piles of books, some twenty tomes high, like a castle fortification hiding him. The books came from the surrounding shelves, leaving huge spaces and gaps in the rows above his head and to his right and left. Occasionally he would hear the bing of the elevators or someone sighing by the far desks, burrowed in their studies, or the faint buzzing of the lightbulb above his head, but mostly it was quiet. In his hands was a large book, opened to the middle, with a blank tan cover and small white writing on the binding. He read undisturbed, flipping the pages, his mind somewhere out of time.

When the kid came running through the stacks later on, yelling that the library was closing, the man continued to read. The kid shook some people awake and there was rustling and a slow, fading march down the stairs. The man was concealed behind rows and piles of books and the kid never saw him. Soon, from the back to the front, the lights were turned off, cascading blackness in even envelopments, until the dark reached him and went past. The man felt around for his small flashlight, clicked it on, and put it in his mouth, aiming the circular light at the pages.

In the middle of the night, the man turned the last page and closed the book and smoothed his hands along the rough cover. He added the tan book atop one of the nearby piles next to him and stretched over for the next book on the shelf. On the first page, there was a new story.

The man rarely slept anymore and only left the library in the early mornings to clean up and get food, but not often. He was always alone with his books and stories and preferred it that way. He believed that books contained a true and pure reality, undiminished by the plotless universe outside. His ongoing exegesis of each story brought him closer to the totality of the human psyche, marked throughout all history and consequence in beautiful prose.

The increasing piles of books became tangible reminders of the stories he had read in the past, but they never felt like his past. Each story seemed ephemeral and would slip from memory so easily. A new book subsumed, further and further, those stories around him until some became just a title and streak memory of incident. The man wanted to believe they were there somewhere living in his subconscious, but he was never sure. So he continued reading for days upon days to retain that vividness of human nature foremost in his mind.

So forever on the man stayed in the library and welcomed each new opened book. Long ago, he learned to accept the new stories swallowing the old, just like that person on their way to work or on the subway all alone who suddenly remembers a brother, a friend, or an acquaintance who once so much liked to read.

DinnerDate Bronson

2007-12-09T17:52:00.000-08:00

I often think that
millions of people have nothing to say
including myself

Until I am with that Howard girl
chewing lettuce
across from me

her erudite monologues on
race
abortion
politics
reality television
in the candlelight

the accusatory tone
the loud body language

and instead of trying to get a word in
I continue nodding

tell her she's wonderful and very smart

She smiles to herself
pokes her fork in her salad
and
I look at the waitress's ass

1980

2007-12-08T14:23:00.000-08:00

From my Bronson to yours, December 8th goes black.

What's Worser Than Shea?

2007-12-08T09:38:00.000-08:00

A few years back, my father's late friend JB found a teachable moment when his infant son was gurgling in a Yankee bib and ripping apart a Mets baseball card and said, "That's right, Matthew, they suck. Here rip away on this Mike Piazza,"

And so began an elaborate and unarguable father-son "talk" where JB effused the simple New York sports maxim: "Matthew, all the -E, T, S teams suck." That is, the Jets, the Mets, and the Nets, with their shallow histories and guido fans.

Listening to JB espouse the wisdom to his drooling two-year old son made me realize his sentiment's profound objectivity: those teams really do suck.

My few experiences at Shea stadium were all fucking pathetic. The long, droning 7 Train out there, the soulless 70's kitsch atmosphere, the unironic greaser fans, the long, droning flyovers by LaGuardia-bound jets. Not to mention the JV National League competish and the hometeam lineup trying too hard to be the Yankees. All of that crap is magnified by the majestic U.S Open Tennis Center across the street, proving a meaningful sports experience can be had in a place called Flushing.

However, my opinion of Shea Stadium and its team as the worst of the worst, was pushed up a rung and replaced at the very bottom by FedEx Field in Landover, MD.

Do not go here. Even if you have good seats. Mine were on the 30 yard line, fifteen rows up. It's butt.

The Redskins are owned by some DC tycoon Dan Snyder, who bought the team and built the new stadium as part of some richboy moneygrab. I was at Woodstock '99, so I am quick to recognize egregious events whose sole purpose is to make money, and this stadium, on gameday, is the epitome.

Everything costs: the slow ass city buses from the far ass Metro cost 6 bucks each, and the beer and food cost more than at Yankee Stadium. A warmed over hamburger costs $12 dollars. Oxygen is two bucks.

And for what? FedEx was built hastily, away from the city and the metro, in some dead area of Maryland, yet, with all that space, they botched the transportation planning and there is stop and stop traffic everywhere, for miles, for hours. There are 90,000 seats, all filled, but the open design lets the crowd noise float upward and out, not contain the noise like the old, now curiously un-obsolete RFK. The bathrooms, always a line out the door, not just at halftime like regular stadiums, force people to snake around three corners before lining up for four widely spaced urinals on a wall, where there could have been easily been ten. Line the walls with troughs like Wrigley; that's worked for 110 years.

Then put some self-serious, first-down saluting douche fans around you while you sip a $9 beer after traveling two hours from downtown and paying $15 for public transportation, and watch from the 15th row and actually see the breathtaking size and speed of professional football for the first time, seething with bitterness.

Everything Looks Like a Nail

2007-12-07T11:09:00.000-08:00

I looked over at Charles to see if he would bow his head. He didn’t. I stared at him until he noticed and then raised my eyebrows and shot him a bloodshot smirk. He laughed out loud, a booming crusty top of the morning noise, making the people next to us sway uncomfortably with their heads hanging down towards the constructions site dirt at our feet. I shook my head – slightly in disbelief and slightly to assess the progression of my hangover.

We were corralled beneath an immense trailer in a sizzling drizzle to receive the morning blessing. The young man standing atop the trailer gripped a bible in his left hand and a skill saw in his right, the short electrical chord dangling like a serpent. After passing the lord’s peace upon all of us he shared the dangers of using a power tool in the rain. Again I smiled slowly and again Charles laughed.

When it came time to split up into crews for the day we stood alone in a sea of people. Groups fractioned off and headed in different directions. A church-youth-group from Indiana wearing silkscreened lime green tees broke into song as they made their way to finish siding the sheds in the back yards of the adjacent ultra bright houses. We stood still, silently hoping to be invited to finish framing the house from the day before.

The Canadians Mitch and Lynn saw us standing and looking for our next move through the fog in our heads and approached. I smiled and shook hands. Charles stood quiet. They were headed to work in a warehouse doing some form of light carpentry. I took a deep breath shook the night before from my shoulders and forced myself into a chipper mood, inspired by the pleasantness of Mitch and Lynn. These two Canadians were troopers. Mitch, an engineer from Toronto, had long silver hair and wore thick-rimmed black and grey glasses and an odd fitting orange baseball cap giving him the appearance of a friendly professor. Lynn sported gaudy tattoos and a heavy accent. They had both outlasted us the night before at a Rebirth Brass blasting and I was curious as to how they pulled it off. We smiled together and spent the day tearing apart hundreds of walls built by volunteer groups from across the country that were shipped to New Orleans but were either to big or too small to use - in either off by inches. I spent the day breaking off plywood floorboards and dismantling stud framing.

Some of the wood was left in the rain before reaching the warehouse and couldn't be salvaged. Those pieces were discarded. Written across the sides of many of the boards were messages to the would be future dwellers. "Bless This House" and "Nevada loves you and is praying for you," or "Built by Anna, who hit her thumb three times," and "May your new home bring peace." These messages were thrown into a pile of scrap lumber outside to be dealt with later.

Amerigo and Charles Go To New Orleans, Part 3

2007-12-05T19:46:00.000-08:00

Some houses Amerigo and Charles passed had no front doors, just an opening to reveal shards of debris. Thin plasterwhite trailers were propped on cinderblocks in driveways and front yards. Mattresses and lampshades and trees lay over the sidewalks, and strange plants had overgrown the yards. It was all still. No one else seemed to be around. Amerigo and Charles walked steadily, silently through.

Each house had a big spraypainted X marking the number of dead once inside. Charles pointed to one house that said "2 dogs" and Amerigo took a flashless picture and then puked in the road. Other houses had a delineation on each outer wall, usually near the highest windows, of softened, dulled paint below and brightening color above. A rusted car rode up on a slumping wire fence, its front tires in the air, and Charles took back his camera and took more pictures, some of Amerigo wiping his mouth on his white shirtsleeve and his hands on his dirty jeans and some of him just walking. Ahead was a green traffic light and a hanging streetsign that said "Desire."

Charles still felt drunk, but mostly groggy and tired. He took deep, measured breaths of the cool April air which helped him feel awake, and not puke himself. Along side them, a pickup truck hummed down the street with six men sitting in the back. After that, a military Hummer rolled slowly by.

Amerigo stopped and said, "Are we lost? Do you know where we're going? Are we even in the United States?" His eyes were bloodshot and glassy, probably from vomited so much.

Charles said, "Yes, the fucking Mapquest said we turn left on First Street after 2.7 miles. It should be up ahead."

"I hope you're right. I have no idea where we are."

"Me neither. But let's just continue walking." There was a weight they both felt, a palpable seriousness of mood. It kept them quiet and contemplatative as they continued on.

Burnt out couches and empty clotheslines. Rhombus-shaped house frames with roofs spilling shingles. The lowing of cars from the distant highway. Charles's mind retreated back to Vaughn's where he danced and sweat to the blurting horns. A girl put his hands over him and he twirled her to the swaying rhythm and smiled and sung along with growly-voiced Kermit Ruffins to songs he thought he'd heard once in a dream.

The road became a high overpass that opened to a panorama of the city. Pieces of the overpass railing were missing, so they kept along carefully, concentrating on the sidewalk. But they were unable to stop themselves from looking to their right, where the early morning haze hung low over the skyscrapers and Superdome and the small foreground buildings, reminding them of a picture they saw, possibly taken from the same vantage point, where all this space, now seeming so vast, was drowned in water.

Bronson Reads War and Peace

2007-12-04T09:29:00.000-08:00

On my last birthday, I treated myself to a bottle of Wild Turkey and the 1383-page omnibus War and Peace, and, if you know Bronson, it was not necessarily a lopsided race as to which would be finished first. Assuredly, both would be preyed upon like jackals to an ibex. However, last night I found the Wild Turkey bottle in my wine-less wine rack, and burned my mouth and stomach on the last remaining drops, thinking of its purchase partner holding open my bathroom door. I despaired: I was wrong that booze and Tolstoy could be consumed in equal amounts.

So now I embark on a journey of redemption, the literary monster open in my lap. I need your unending support to help me flip the page and not cannonball this other Wild Turkey bottle to my right so hastily again. For your sake, I will update you every hundred pages or so about the dynamic human entanglements of 19th Century Russia.

It will be an enriching experience for us all. Together we will slay Napolean, fall in love, rise to wealth and prominence, and dance so elegantly in beautiful chadeliered ballrooms, you in a poof gown and me in a tight-collared suit of an aristocrat. Because, as they say, War and Peace contains all of life, and as far as my life goes, I have only yet begun. Tolstoy, show me the grandeur.

Time to go.

2007-12-01T20:24:00.000-08:00

Drunk tonight.
No End In Sight.
I'm gonna start a fistfight.
About to go out.
No Doubt.
Gwen Stefani.
Who's your Mommy?
Give me liberty.
Give me titty.
Drunk now; tomorrow shitty.
It's late and I haven't yet left the house.
Almost Christmas and nothing is stirring, but my Charles Bronson.

No End In Sight

2007-12-01T19:55:00.000-08:00

Have you ever gnashed your teeth and held two tight fists, your fingernails digging into your palms, through an entire movie? Your Bronson has seen the nation our nation has destroyed and it's not ok. Arrogance. Ignorance. Cronyism. Disorganization. Lying. Stonewalling. What the fuck? Iraq is burning.

Netflix this movie and join me. I'm on my way down to the White House to throw peaches. Then I'm going to gopher out Cheney like Carl Spackler.

The Myth of Hunter S.

2007-12-01T12:22:00.000-08:00

My Bronson's reading spectrum begins with lurid, flimsy benderbooks and ends with turgid literary tomes. The best books, and there are few, sit right in the middle, like the early work of Hunter S. The Vegas book (as the man calls it) chronicles an unsurpassed bender with his propulsive voice, and we are all better for it. The Great Shark Hunt chronicles the evolution of his voice through compiled early pieces, including the birth of Gonzo when dear Hunter S was so drug-addled following a Kentucky Derby julep jag he was incapable of writing a coherent piece, so he instead submitted his manic notes and made history.

Truthfully, Charles Bronson began reading Hunter S. in the sixth grade and has yet to find a more suitable hero.

This new book about Hunter S. is a stitched-together oral history
of Hunter's entire life, culled from thousands of hours of interviews with family, editors, Johnny Depp, Jack, Ed Bradley, George McGovern, Charles Bronson, everyone. Before reading this book, I was entrenched in the myth of Hunter S.: that he was an uncompromising writer who simply did not give a fuck. Sure he blasted himself, but that only cannonized him further with all those other immortal writers who did the same. He did every drug, caroused with all the females and celebrities, and then wrote straight poetric vitriol unlike any other, ever.

However, this book killed the Bronson Santa Claus. It reveals an irrational, bullying addict who couldn't write anything the last thirty years of his life. And when Hunter S.'s body couldn't take the drugs anymore, his reaction was to swallow a bullet. Check this out:

Jann Wenner (Rollingstone editor): " But then I questioned whether I really wanted to go down there, stay up until three am, and take drugs. We'd sit there and laugh and then come up with some scheme to do something, an article to write, some political move, knowing it would fall apart, and I'd see him aging. I didn't want to do that. Maybe I was lazy or just neglectful, but I just wanted to remember Hunter in his glory."

More Jann Wenner, about Hunter's first wife Sandy: "I really never fully understood how she could absorb all the abuse. We used to work very closely on deadlines - she was typing up clean pages, faxing them to me, keeping Hunter awake, putting him to sleep, everything. You'd always hear him in the backgound of phone calls, screaming violently - "Goddam it, Sandy, you fucking dingbat, I am going to tear your fucking throat out."

This is curious in and of itself because Jann Wenner edited the book. But more:

A Neighbor in Aspen: "Some of his friends did an intervention in the mid-nineties, and he said to me and some other friends, "If you ever try that agian, I'll never speak to you."

Ed Bradley: "Once at Owl Farm he was trying to get some stuff out of the refrigerator, and a bunch of things fell out. Hunter just sat down on the floor like a little boy and started laughing on the floor and screaming. I said, "What the fuck is wrong with you, man? Pick it up." He looked at me and said, "I pay them a lot of money." Sure enough, his assistants came running in to take care of it all. "Oh god, Hunter, what did you do? Hunter, let us pick it up, just stay there."

Yes, the same people lionize him, too, but the damage to this glorious idol is irreperable. I read this book as a lark, to merely enhance my knowledge of Hunter S. Now, I am seriously shaken. Hunter's eloquent invenctive was not just pointed at the hypocrites, but his loved ones, too. The drug fueled rides that were his most celebrated adventures eroded his talent. His lifestyle turned on him.

But, not so fast. James Carville, near the end, says, "Hunter did something that none of us had the guts to do - he led the kind of life that secretly all of us would like to have had the guts to lead. To hell with the whole thing, just stay drunk and high and smoke and hang out and write outrageous things. He'd never lived his life on anybody else's terms." Then I realized that the myth does exist, and the 112 people who spun Hunter tales for the book were the privileged ones, even if knowing him did exact a cost. I will burn this book, but when I turn to Hunter's own work, there will be no vendetta. After all, as you've just read, it is only on the written page where there can be no flaws.

Amerigo and Charles Go To New Orleans, Part 2

2007-11-29T20:31:00.000-08:00

The days of the flood sprung back the bayou flora, but now that the water was gone, everything was rotting. Weeds and marsh plants rose up through collapsed porches and split cement. Yards were repossessed by slackwater seedlings. Waterlilly's littered crumbled rooftops and dead crawfish and frogs lay still in the gutters.

Amerigo stopped hammering and dangled his spit into the dirt. He stared off, gripped by wavy tremors from glasses and glasses of vodka. He and Charles drank straight booze all afternoon and night alongside the afterwork louts, the happy hour poolsharks, the raucous dinner crowds, the lovely jukejoint bartenders, the sloppy strippers, the surging brass musicians, the afterhours philosophers, and the ugly breakfast waitresses. His focus slipped to a candelit bar where the frail piano man took requests and ignored them. He couldn't remember any of the songs, only that they were beautiful and he was singing along. At a lonely diner, he ordered a cajun omelet and began sweating. Before the first bite, he made an excuse and left to puke in the toilet. He returned and finished his meal before walking and vomiting through the wrecked houses of the Ninth Ward to the construction site.

Charles said, "Pass that fish," again and Amerigo shook himself and slid over the catspaw. Charles bent a nail trying to hammer it in with one wind-up smack and had to undo and retry. He arched the nail loose and, next to him, Amerigo became startled, motioning to the neighboring yard.

Amongst Amerigo and Charles were diligent sunscreened people, busy and chatting. The house was coming along. Churchgroup girls were laying sod. Retired high school teachers were measuring planks for the front stairs. But, the reamed-out nextdoor house, as were the rest of the homes on the block, was leaning crookedly on its sinking foundation. Its yard was a waist-deep ramble, given back to nature. "Look at that shit," Amerigo motioned again.

Charles looked across at an overweight man, deeply black, ripping the cord of an old lawnmower. The sound, when it revved to a full chug, overwhelmed the hammering around them. A mother from Bethesda, on vacation with her husband and two children, saw Charles peering over and said "I heard they even looted the copper from his wires. This is the first time he's been back in two years." The man pushed the mower forward and the blade cracked. The chummy volunteers kept working, oblivious. "Why doesn't everyone ditch this and go help him, man?" Amerigo pleaded. Beneath the shade of his ruined house, the man tried again to push the mower, but it made a jagged buzz and stalled. Amerigo and Charles stood watching, hungover, and felt the pervading silence.

Fireside Bronson

2007-11-29T20:01:00.000-08:00

Q: Is this a Charles Bronson fansite?
A: Yes.

Q: Who is Charles Bronson again? That action guy with the stache, right?
A: He is. But, since he is RIP, we now assume the moniker Charles Bronson with extreme creative license. Our Charles Bronson is both tribute and expansion. And by expansion, I mean what you think I mean.

Q: Ok, what does Charles Bronson do?
A: Reads. Writes. Drinks Jameson. Shoots the three. Listens to Lyle Lovett. Quotes Roger Dodger. Worships Hunter S.. Is the best damn teacher in the bar.. Acts in motion pictures. Fights injustice. Watches a porno and uses the dialogue in casual conversation. Disregards the impulse to use irony. Does it all anyway..

Q: What is the definition of irony anyway? I can never get that shit straight.
A: When an action's meaning becomes the opposite of its literal intention.

Q: Wow, how late are we staying out tonight?
A: Till we're done. Give me your watch.

Q: Who is Big Time Bobby?
A: He is an heir of Teiresias and the son of Peleus. He is both Oedipal soothsayer and Homeric superhero. If you swoon over his posts (as most are wont to do) and wish to experience the glory firsthand (as most are wont to do), just breeze to the end of Easy Street where you will find BTB sunning and funning with your girlfriend.. . .

Q: Where do you all find your inspiration?
A: At the bottom of the glass and betwixt maidens' sheets.

Q: Why can't I understand any of the posts?
A: If you have an education and a sense of humor, your comprehension should be knife through butter. However, if you are at all sensitive, pc, ignorant, racist, republican, and/or sober, the multi-valenced meanings and hidden allusions will stymie your enrichment, courtesy of Your Charles Bronson.

If you still don't get the posts, I suggest you email Andrew Delbanco, Julian Clarence Levi Professor in the Humanities at Columbia University: ad19@columbia.edu. He is an acclaimed Melville and Bronson scholar. His works include, The Puritan Ordeal, The Death of Satan, Melville: His World and Work as well as his most recent, O Bronson My Bronson: A Guide to Chicks and Blogs.

Q: Where is the Bronson headquarters?
A: Yogi's. 76th and Broadway. Although neither BTB nor myself lives in NYC anymore, if you enter said establishment, you will experience the signature low hang beer musk out of which our posts emanate.

Q: Wow, why do you write so weird?
A: Someone has to decipher the elliptical, raving truth for the common Bronse.

Q: Aren't you really just making up your own myth? Isn't this all total bullshit?
A: Yes and no. Do you believe? I have seen the midwayman of physics and philosophy, of blasphemy and sacrament, of drunk and really drunk, of teacher of the year and teacher of the century and his name is Charles Bronson. Do you feel better knowing that someone like that exists? I know I do, because it's me.

Rock Takes A Detour

2007-11-29T19:52:00.000-08:00

Inhale. Exhale. Cough.
My East Coast lungs aren't cut out for this bullshit.
Most of my life, the act of stepping off a plane and onto a Jetway was exhilarating. Last night though, exhilaration was muddied by dread and late-onset asthma.
I was to race "home" to my brand new apartment, unpack my records and silly hats and commence with the 'shut-eye.' Upon waking, 6:30 in the a.m., I tried to find my way to the Bright Futures Learning Center (the 'namers' of the institution were certainly not the other peas in my pod). A 'team leader' at Bright Futures hired me through a phone interview two weeks ago and invited me to start immediately... I informed her of things called "leases" and "loose ends." Thus, a fortnight later, here I am; sunny, arid, and vapid L.A.
My first 'assignment'; a sun kissed seventeen year old named Catherine ("KK is what my boyf calls me"). She is applying to colleges this year and is looking to bolster her less than sturdy resume. English is like totally her worst subject. Standing five foot nine inches tall (three inches might have been heels), she was much hotter than any girl I fucked in high school/hotter than any high school girl I will ever get to nail (what with laws and all). Sitting down across from her I prayed only for her to be stupid enough to be unattractive, but nice enough for me to take pity.
"Catherine. First off, what type of college are you looking to attend?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well... what are you looking for in a school?"
"Oh! I want to go to a school in like the south. A school that's sunny, you know?"
"Yes. Sunny. I know."
"Yeah, like a school like in Miami or like The University of Arizona - I hear they have pools in the dorms there!"
"That must be nice. Let's get more specific Catherine. What kind of degree are you looking for?"
"I just told you - I want a warm degree, I totally couldn't go to a school with a cold degree."
"Ahha... well I guess Harvard's out."

On Rock and Roll Jesus

2007-11-27T18:58:00.000-08:00

If you look at Kid Rock's albums chronologically, from Devil to Jesus, there is a natural progression from raprock to countryrock. And that progression is now complete; his style is no longer in transition - it is fully realized ROCK. However, this is not what I like about his music. He does write a good rock song - Amen, Low life, Rock and Roll (off the last album) - are fucking stunners, but they lack something. On Cocky, Kid was in full blown transition mode, letting his diverse influences push and pull all over his songs: he raps, sings, rapsings, piano solos, scratches, while referencing skynrd, foghat, and grandmasterflash. This eclecticism is what made Kid Rock so good. He is never as good as his influences, but in melding them together, becomes the true original. Now that he is a fully realized rock god, he is diminished because he is not as good as Seger or Hank Jr. or Skynrd, or whomever he is trying to emulate. Therefore, there is a watered down heard-it-before predictability to all Rock and Roll Jesus, whereas Cocky is a sonic collage of every kind of music he knows, and was incredibly exciting, if mostly misunderstood. Agree?

Haiku

2007-11-27T18:28:00.000-08:00

Surrounded by fools
Three teachers emerge as knights
Lovely as it seems.

Put On Your Thinking Cap

2007-11-27T14:09:00.000-08:00

To The New Readers and Fans of My Bronson,
I know you have no idea what you're reading, so allow me to enlighten and frighten. Through the required readings posted above and below you will begin to embrace and understand an essence of being. This essence does not posses an acute lightness, but it could be unbearable if, as with my own personal Bronson, you take on too much too fast. My Bronson's message is this; be a sponge... or at least be some sort of 75% effective contraceptive device.

The tales and lessons in My Bronson are told and taught to create a new cultural zeitgeist.

As you read, take note of not only My Bronson's attitude towards materialsm, capitalism, eroticism, jizm, and criticism, but also of women, sex, booze, and rock... in other words; all things Bronson. If you take Bronsonius Rex seriously, then you'll enrich your life and the lives of those around you. You will learn how to rock a bit better, a bit longer, and a bit stronger. You will find an unspoken kinship with those who have also studied My Bronson. If you are able to make a concentrated effort to learn the word and spread it, then we hope that one day My Bronson will become Our Bronson. By reading and studying these words the power is in your hands and you are on the frontlines of the battle to snub out white-america-douchery and lame-chick-lamery. Embrace the responsibility and make Our Bronson proud.

Go forth and prosper.

Amerigo and Charles Go To New Orleans, Part 1

2007-11-25T16:17:00.000-08:00

During the flood, there must have been a time, perhaps when the water was at its deepest, or perhaps when the rooftop cries reached their loudest, or perhaps when God heard the slowing heartbeats of the submerged, that New Orleans became still. At that moment, the long-dead, awash in the breeching flotsam, stirred in their crypts and shallow graves and came alive. And out from the city's voodoo roots, ghosts emerged in elongated wisps and dispersed through the canal streets humming their funeral jazz. So, when that last water drop made its way to heaven, the ghosts had reclaimed their instruments and sat on stoops and streetcorners to play dirges and celebrations to their mournful city.

The joyous Mama rocked to and fro as she carried her keyboard and crates out of the alley. Wheezing midblock on an empty street, she stopped and delicately assembled herself: first the keyboard atop the crates and nearby bucket for a stool, then a whiteface from her powder compact and a careful glazing of red, red lipstick. With the sidestreet still brightening in the morning sun, the joyous Mama dusted off her red bib dress and shoes, then took out the compact again and straightened her white bonnet in the mirror, patting around her grey curls. Satisfied, Mama gingerly bent and sat down on the bucket, moving her big rump side to side. She sighed at the keys, then turned on the keyboard's power.

From the shadows of the blacksmith shop, Blind Johnny appeared from the right and sat at the corner piano. He felt around for his sheet music books and peeled one open to a familiar page. Blind Johnny noted the music with his fingers, then laughed at the frayed, warped pages, closed the book and threw it against the far brick wall. With the gentle uplighting of his face, Blind Johnny appeared transparent, his skin only a lamina around a skeleton as he stared and mumbled. His fingers smoothed along the keys. The music began first in his mind.

So they all were, playing, and that music has since never stopped. And through a chilly April afternoon, Amerigo and Charles were to bear witness along their decadent path.

Guided Youth

2007-11-20T16:34:00.001-08:00

The beginnings of My Bronson can be traced through My Bronson's ancient and beautiful poetry. Poetry that was ghost written for a future Bronx teacher's 17th and 18th Century English Poetry class. A class held in the hallowed halls of Barnard College and presided over by an illiterate protestant was the forum for the first public unveiling of what will go down in history (and go down in the back of cabs and in single occupancy bathrooms) as The First Sonnets.

Bronson was ready, the world was clearly not. Even less ready however, were the protestant and his long and hairy legged minions. The genesis of most greatness has been met with obstacles and My Bronson's is no different. Jordan got cut from his high school basketball team, Einstein failed algebra, and Bronson received a check minus for his effort.

The Work Performed;

Sonnet 5757
Dish out your elixir young peddler there,
Ask not my problems and pay you no heed
To my tears or their base for I can’t bare
Wanton want or hateful falsehoods decreed.
Understood is your intent, simpleton,
O life lived behind bars is such a crime!
No experience, just news of fights won,
Wet naked bodies explained out of time,
You can give advice as if from a dream,
Not from reality and not to me!
My lady now denies our old steam,
Help drown these sorrows so I cannot see,
Alas I cheated and she cracked the whip
Thanks for asking: you get a twopence tip.

Sonnet 6969
Your body caressed with blindfolded hands,
Sight unseen of thine milky skin beneath,
Knowing your whimsy falls to my demands.
I, bold love’s tyrant do my sword unsheathe,
Slay untimely virtue in maidens ripe;
Though surrendered upon polite request.
Knavish fathers quibble and brothers gripe
As you my round rigid Robyn lay nest.
Violet are your eyes, Pat goes your heart.
Sue as lawyers do, like Lillys in May,
My wordy contract with your Kat like part;
I await you humbly, what dost thou say?
Nay, love me my sweet without baneful quiz,
Embrace me now, whatever your name is.

Hustler

2007-11-17T17:55:00.000-08:00

An early masterpiece from the dynamic minds of two Ivy League lotharios. After a brief but stunning showing at the Ivy League Film Festival (for which it was alternately oooed and aaahed), it is now primed for viral video infamy. The jabroni on the right is a Hollywood actor. The gabadose on the left is just a gabadose. But both are making it happen.

My Charles Bronson

2007-11-17T08:36:00.000-08:00

This is a website devoted to my Charles Bronson. Not Charles Bronson, the action legend. Although my Charles Bronson is also an action legend. It's complicated.

So without fully disclosing the definish of my Bronson, I will say that it is a frame of mind manifest from experiences teaching powerpoint and the Iliad to sixth graders in the Bronx, writing an essay in college with a ten page title but subtitled "The Goal of Man," and reading copious amounts of Hunter S. and F. Scott and DFW before dominating dancefloors and eeeny-meeny-miiiny-moeing girls for the superfling and subsequent destructive relationship.

My Bronson is drunk and ready to drink, losing control and gaining skanks, and the best goddamn teacher in this bar.

He is a pied-piping master's-degree-holding chalk-powdered teacher eloquently pounding the pulpit with words and diagrams and challenging students to learn and achieve and be somebody.

Everyone Charles Bronson meets comes on to him sexually, even when he wears baseball uniforms or kimonos or clown sweaters amidst the seething throng of Bourbon Street.

My Bronson is the artist the philanthropist the wicked great time, but he is no myth.

He may score 35 points per game at the JCC hoop league, bomb touchdowns all over the Great Lawn, spray fastballs like darts all over the Louisville batting cages, and then appear as a photographer on primetime sitcoms, You Humble Narrator in your reading book or the reason you are grabbing your coat when you promised yourself you'd stay in tonight.

You will meet him, you will love him, and he will haunt you, but know that he is straight from the heart and he is as passionate as anyone willing to help this world heal and grow by tearing off its clothes and laughing and caressing its nakedness.