Author’s Note: This is a continuation of my exploits at Military School which is featured in my book The Passion of The Christoph. Please check it out if you enjoy the non-fiction story…enjoy.
I was going to die. No they literally threatened to bury me in the baseball field. If they didn’t kill me, my Japanese roommates were going to karate kick me to death. Ninjas and Gang Members is what you find in military school. Once I got moved out of Counrtyman’s room and into the Babel of 4 Beds I was done. My lack of safety was to be blamed on two things: anime and me throwing up the wrong gang signs.
In my new room, was myself, 2 boys from Japan, & 1 Mexican: no one else spoke English–fucking Tower of Babel with beat downs. The Japanese two did not like me and here is some great truth–don’t fuck with Japanese teenagers when they watch anime. Every damn day they would play this film ‘Akira': I saw it over 20 times and still have no idea what it is about, at the end this kid turns into killer goo or something and hates the world & tries to destroy it. I must say at 14 I never saw any cartoon that was so nihilistic.
My second day in the new room I had to piss & walked in front of the screen and tripped falling on the oldest Japanese one who karate kicked me. He did a straight up Keeya! And said, “Don’t touch or bother during ‘Akira’. You are fool.”
“Yaw. stupid.” Echoed the other Japanese kid.
After that I would just stay in bed while ‘Akira’ played but the nihilistic ninjas were not my biggest worries, our room had a window where we got to see the psychopaths and gangbangers workout and run races knowing they could be out in the open field cause they were strong and big enough that no one would mess with them. Not sure why, but kids in military school really liked to fight, go figure.
Well, I’m just hiding out one day in my room when one comes up to the Mexican roommate and says something in Spanish which I took I’ll meet you outside. The big Mexican gangsta guy stays by the window and looks at me and says, “You look like a little maricone; why don’t you come suck my dick.”
Now, when you hear words like that coming from a man much bigger than you and has more tattoos than girls your 14-year-old self has made out with you go into survival mode.
I decided to throw up gang signs and said, “I got back yo. I got folk love, folk nation yo.” And then I made unironic gang gestures with my hand like a pitch fork…I was not in any gang, I am Jewey Italian from South Florida I’m about as gang related as Justin Beiber but I rolled the dice and I rolled wrong.
The vato-loco looked at and took the gang sign I made and put it upside down and said,”Folk Killer mother fucker. Latin Kings. You claiming sets; starting shit. You fucked up. We gonna bury you in the baseball field.”
“Um…shit…I got to go to the bathroom.” And left the room.
So now I am definitely going to die. Either the amateur ninjas are going to kill me or the entire Latino gang population–I am screwed. My Mexican roommate comes back ands says in broken English, “That was stupid. They want to kill you. You not even in gang are you.”
“Mira, mi amigo, we roommates. That make us hermanos. I fucked up, but I got adderall and I’ll shine your shoes for inspection. Save mi kullo.”
“Ok. I talk to them.”
He agreed and went told them I was loco and not to bother with me because I was just a gringo with a screw loose; it was the biggest favor anyone has ever done for me. I am not only pro-Mexican because of it but it also gave a me a story, a role, to play with. The gang bangers and minorities in general fear one thing more than the police and the majors–the crazy white kid. That would be my role in surviving military school.
Pretend I’m fucking crazy.
In my plan I started randomly pulling things down, having uncontrollable outbursts, and yes even crying like a mad man–playing it for all it is worth. A kid called me a name I went & threw his desk and all his clothes apart. I had to build a mystique that fighting me would mean approaching the insane that would catch some disease of the mind and soul.
It worked, I left the Asians alone when they watched anime and for dealing with the rest of the psychos, I survived with my plan of being crazy and giving out my Adderall for porn and protection.
Because I am so prolific and brilliant; I decided to share my writing secrets which is really just reading the hell out of 3 craft books and talking to this director dude at a diner for brunch on Saturdays.
Character & Preimse
This book is great. It is a keep in the bathroom kind of book. My drummer actually brought some chick home and they did cocaine off of it, which was kind of awesome, but he should have used my Sylvia Plath Book of Poems instead (that would have been poetic).
This book has much more utility than doing cocaine off it, it really helps you figure out character and premise. It gives you steps to know your character on every level. When you know your character inside & out (physical, psychological, sociological) his/her actions will make a lot more sense and if you can combine the characters choices with the premise which creates good plot you might have something pretty interesting and good to read.
Yeah, that old bastard knows what he is talking about. This book still works and basically gives some great info on craft. As a musician, I would describe the stuff as playing to a metronome–it is not fun but needed to improve your timing and get discipline. This book echoes the need for writers to provide sentence structure and why A goes to B type to keep the story readable and to make sense.
3 Acts. 3 Acts. 3 Acts. I have read so many books where the beginning is great and then in the middle we wonder or the writer has the 2/3’s of the book so good but then your like ‘damn where is this going’ and the writer seems to wonder the same damn thing and we get some idiotic ending that I don’t believe or it just ends on a whimper. All this can be fixed with 3 Act Structure and this book simplifies it so well.
Quick Note on Style: Read a lot of fucking books, work at a porn store, do drugs and drink in your youth, and sleep with women or men that make you feel bad in a spiritual sense and you will find a style. To see if any of this true you can read my book coming in Feb 2013 The Passion of the Christoph.
In the back
smokey strip club
I see the girl
who burns my blood
A sophomore named Shavona
Who loves cocaine
and minors in drama
I’m loving her
like the way
she loves that
as she calls,
and she crawls
and she calls to me.
So, I’m back
smokey strip club
and deeply in love
A love, paying for
coke and college,
Well, my B.A.
didn’t give me
she drop that ass down
make that as bounce
she drop that ass down
make that as bounce
as she works fast yeah,
on my lap, yeah,
working that ass making
me want her so bad, yeah.
She does a line off my arm
and tells me I’m the only one
As my heart falls,
for my drug doll
I love her like
she loves that eight ball
I am just having fun with the title. I’ll state from the beginning if you are looking for an anti-Shavini piece defending the MFA process go to the Huffington Post Message boards and speak of the joy of debt and shitty jobs (I have an MA in creative writing and worked for a porn store–I’m allowed to make fun of myself). No, there will be no polemics for the Polemic Prince; this will be a review of his own work of non-fiction and his new poetry book ‘My Tranquil War & Other Poems’.
Anis has the chops to talk the smack he does and I am grateful for his voice.I was a fan of his posts on Huffington Post that would become part of ‘Against The Workshop’. It wasn’t the MFA bashing that struck a chord (though I’ll probably lose from Facebook friends for say this: a thesis paper is one of the biggest waste of times for any writer) it was his passion for the act of writing itself focusing on poetry, non-fiction, and fiction: stating how much they matter and it is lack of quality that is breeding more mediocrity. His list of overrated writers and assault on the MFA process was enjoyable, needed, and whether you agree with him or not it was an important message for the literary community–we can do better and we should have more ambition to write something of true quality…
On side note, as a musician/writer (if this review sucks, then lets just agree I am more of a musician) this article below by Ben Westhoff was a thing of beauty and shows that being polemical is a duty of the criticism and criticism is needed right now as this speaks the truth for rock musicians who feel as disgusted with the current music scene as Anis does with a majority of the literary community.
But I digress, back to Anis…’Against The Workshop’ was a strong collection of essays, satire, polemical prose, and good praise for excellent poetry. It made me curious about his new book poetry ‘My Tranquil War and Other Poems’ wondering how would the critic and polemic do with the more open and more inward act of creating a poem?
Pretty damn well, Anis poems echo the best parts of his polemics; they are fun, intelligent, well-written pieces that take on the literary and political establishment. Your every day man is not going to enjoy this book as much (they might feel more comfortable reading Billy Collins, even if they even read poetry at all), and Shavini’s piece ‘Billy Collins Confronts a Herd of Mexicans Caught in a Trap’ was perfect parody of a Billy Collins poem.
Shavini’s writing is like a high art Comedy Central Roast; it is the mirror into the literary community and his poems like his essays and satire do bring a fun and playfulness but urgent seriousness. For the detractors of Anis Shavini and those just not wanting their tenure fucked with, I say, this is a man who really cares about art and uses quality prose and poetry to express that sentiment.
There is a signature to certain artists, a certain theme, and for Anis it is someone who thinks fiction, poetry, the written word can be something of great value and a needed part of the human experience. He is not only writing to the reader but writing to the artist and lovers of art as his poems mention writers, directors, and painters saying: you have to do better, don’t blame Facebook or twitter, look in the mirror, get out of the classroom, and really create something that can touch people.
As someone who wears a lot of creative hats I respect Anis and can see those many hats collide and morph into solid poetry: he is a fiction writer, he is a critic, he is many things but in ‘My Tranquil War’ he is a poet speaking to others who wear all hats of art and all who have power–is there a difference between an artists and a politician? He is not specialized like we are supposed to do for our grad school thesis (my thesis was fiction and I got non-fiction, satire, book on way for Christmas–‘The Passion of The Christoph’–shameless plug) but Anis has a gift for poetry.
Politics and antagonism is at the heart of his poems and if I would compare Shavini’s work with a musical act and album it would be with Against Me’s album ‘New Wave’ (Pre-Tom-Gabel-Sex-Change). Art echoes art not matter what the form as ‘New Wave’ represented another poet saying: what does it mean to make my music, why does everything I hear not give me satisfaction, ‘I want a New Wave’.
Against Me’s songs and Anis’s poems are for those of us dissatisfied with the art of today and to focus more on the writing establishment of the 21st Century–we have the two camps ‘the published establishment and ‘the indie publishers’ and he represents the writers who are feeling annoyed with both camps. To use a political analogy Shavini is very much like the 60’s president Gamal Abadel Nasser who started the Non-Aligned Movement not wanting to be part of NATO or The Commies (Wikipedia that–just because I play rock n roll and write dick joke non-fiction doesn’t mean I don’t know my cold war history–Mick Jagger, kids ‘Sympathy for The Devil’), non-aligned but trying to build something, trying to make art matter while being independent and protecting their own creative sovereignty.
That is why this is a great collection of poetry for people who care about what is going on the world and what is going on in art. From the opening of ‘Harold Bloom’s Old Age’ to the closing ‘The Essential Salvador Dali’ we are taken on a historical trip of artists, people of power, and art itself. Each poem stands on its own, each of quality in a different way very much like each essay, polemic, and satire stood on its own in ‘Against The Workshop’ but yet flowed well as whole.
Shavini has now set a standard and I look forward to seeing if he can keep matching it with other genre’s as I plan on reading more of the man and see if he can do the same kind of quality with his fiction. For now, I think he has earned an honorary MFA.
Setting: A posh coffee shop, in L.A.; Jaleel White aka Steve Urkel walks in to meet his agent Josh Weinstein.
Agent: Jaleel. Look at you. Handsome as ever. How is life?”
Jaleel: Mother fucking hard. The royalty checks they are not enough anymore. Why are we at this place? I hate this place.
Agent: What are you talking about? This place is great. Best coffee, best croissants.
Jaleel:The fucking waitresses here…I wanted to take my old Urkel suspenders and strangle one of them to the death. The stupid bitch asked me if I’d like any cheese with my danish…ha fucking ha. I can’t even go out to get something to eat without some asshole asking if I want cheese with that or if I’m still talking to Laura. The worst thing is, is that fucking Hulu thing. With more shows in syndication, I’m not getting my Urkel money. I running low. I need work.
Agent: That is why I am here. We are going to get you to the top again, getting the Jaleel stream flowing.
Jaleel: Man, I showed range playing Stefan, I can do this. What about a duo show with the guy who played Carlton. We could pitch it to BET.
Jaleel: Yeah, Jaleel and Alfonso, we could be divorced dad’s or something…
Agent: hmmm…not bad, I’ll try…but I got something that can pay the bills.
Jaleel: What?! An offer. I want something strong where I am not a buffoon.
Agent: You get to play the hero. You get to show your brains and brawn.
Jaleel: Film? Tv Show? I’ll take indie even. This sounds good.
Agent: Not film, not show; a TV movie, but definitely indie.
Jaleel: Made for TV…ok, not fucking great but nothing horrible. I can do it. We talking HBO, Showtime? Oh, is it dying from a disease? I could nail that Josh. I could.
Agent: Not a disease movie, but something epic. Something to really say, hey I’m alive and I’m not Urkel. I’m Jaleel and I belong back in your homes.
Jaleel: I’m game.
Agent: Mega Shark vs Crocosaurus.
Jaleel: Mega what? What? Fuck man, I don’t want another voice over job…unless I get Chris Rock Madagascar cash.
Agent: Live action. You play a military man alpha male role. Sci-Fi has green lit it; it is going to be huge. Mega Shark equals mega hit!
Jaleel: Those shitty movies they make fun of on The Soup. I should have fucking done a sex tape it. I should have sex taped Laura or Myra. I could have got that pussy, shit my only other option is porn like Justin did. I should have done it; how I have fallen. Fucking Sci-Fi films.
Agent: What are you talking about? They are great, and doing excellent overseas.
Jaleel: Tiffiani did one. Fucking Tiffani post-Playboy shots. Am I that bad? I can’t escape Urkel can I?? I never will, all people see is those suspenders and the cheese, the fucking cheese. I wan to send that writer who wrote that a fucking line poisoned cheese, not just to him but to his whole family!
Agent: Jaleel, calm down. It is either this or a Family Matters renuion…or a sex tape.
Jaleel: I need to buy an eightball and a bottle of jack or just kill myself. Maybe make myself forcefully choke on some real good cheese. That will be a good laugh, right.
Agent: Stop this! Now you listen to me; Sci Fi makes these piece of shits every year but this one has a plot. There is thought to this one. I’ve read the script, they are fighting because the Shark messed with Crocosaurus’s eggs…it’s a metaphor. It’s deep man. It can be huge. This can be huge globally and guess what. China and India do not know you as Urkel but they could know you as the man who killed Mega Shark and Crocosaurus. That could play big in Japan too.
Jaleel: …You know what…fuck America, fuck France and their fucking cheese. Fine…I need the work. Let’s do China and India. I like Asian chicks…they’d make for a good sex tape.
Agent: Wait… I got it. Do this film and then Do Dancing With Stars before the Sex Tape.
Jaleel: Ok. Let’s sign the papers.
*Author’s Note, if you are unfamiliar with the awesome crunkness of the rap artist Tyga please watch his video Rack City. If you have already, watch it again, enjoy the booties and then enjoy this leaked interview between him and Pitchfork.
Pitchfork: Thank you Tyga for coming, we are glad you are taking the time as Pitchfork is trying to grow our urban audience.
Tyga: Wait, what is this bullshit?! I thought you mutha fuckaz was a barbecue joint; you ain’t hooking me up with some ribs & sponsorship? I got to talk to my label about this…this is some bullshit…y’all at least could have brought me some nachos.
Pitchfork: Um…no we don’t have nachos and I apologize if there was confusion. We are an indie rock online magazine trying to embrace all types of music now…that said Tyga, I must say listening to ‘Rack City’ I could hear a tight minimalism that reminded me of an Urban Britt Daniels; we’re you under the influence of Spoon? Are you a huge as fan as I am of GaGaGaGa? Am I right?
Tyga: Listen you alien looking tight ass jeans wearing mother fucker. Are you stupid?! Why the fuck would I need to be shooting up and making baby noises to make a song about titties. You got thick ass glasses on like you smart but you seem stupider than a mother fucker. I got to text my agent about this bullshit. You got lap dance time, then I’m bouncing.
Pitchfork: um, I appologize…lap dance time…oh I see..So let’s cut to the chase. What is Rack City?
Tyga: Where the titties be bouncing, ten’s and twenties on your titties bitch. Mother fucker, you even listen to my shit.
Pitchfork: Of course Tyga. A line I found very poignant and a little punk rock was ‘I got your grandma on my dick.’ Now, I must say how I read that line was that you were challenging ageism. Do you find older women sexy and believe they should be thought of as having sexual vitality. That beauty has no age.
Tyga: Nah, I don’t like saggy titties, but I am such a balla I got grandma’s wanting to be on my dick. It’s how shit be.
Pitchfork: a baller, yes, I see…but who really are the ballers? Who has the power? You know what I mean…times are tough and even the elderly have to do somethings for cash. Very proactive Tyga, very Lou Reed in the Nico years…You mention the line ‘throwing hundreds’. Are you commenting on the wastefulness of the 1%?
Tyga: Wait, are you talking about cutting the product by only 1%, damn yo, you’d be broke if you did that shit. Hell yeah, that is wasteful. You can’t move good shit that way.
Pitchfork: Um…yeah, I totally agree. We are finding common ground. Let’s find some more. So I am indie rock guy; we are trying to bring the cultures together. Right now, my favorite band is Grizzly Bear, now if I could get a little self-indulgent I think you could use them for a chorus or even a little collab. They can do a little remix on Rack City…it would be epic. Check this song out…here I have them on my I-Phone…
Tyga: …They sound like ballless dick suckers.
Pitchfork: Tyga, with all due respect do you not hear the melodies of grace coming out of these boys mouths.
Tyga: I hear them humming while sucking on dicks.
Pitchfork:…well, we all have different tastes.
Tyga: Man you skinny, them jeans look tight. You on the pipe yo.
Pitchfork: I smoke some herb now and then Tyga.
Tyga: Word. I’d roll a blunt but I’m already hungrier than a mother fucker. So on the real…am I really not getting a Barbecue sponsorship; y’all seriously aren’t playing, you really having nothing to do with any kind of food joints.
Pitchfork: Um, sorry Tyga, but we do reach millions of eager music loving readers.
Tyga: I don’t give a fuck; I just want a good ass sandwich right now. Shit, my manager tricked my ass. Fucking shame, I really wanted to start Tyga hot sauce. It would be huge in the hood, I got to get on that Shark Tank show or something…
Pitchfork: Once again I am sorry Tyga we are not a barbecue chain.
Tyga: It’s a’ight. I saw an Arby’s down the street. I’m gonna bounce; get me a chicken salad sandwich.
Pitchfork: Um…alright, ugh…any last words for Pitchfork.
Tyga: Yeah, go suck Grizzly Bear’s balls. I’m out. Rack City Bitch, Rack Rack City Bitch…
Bitches ain’t shit but hoes & breadsticks. That is on the real, mother fuckers; I’ve been pigeon pimping since a nigga’s feathers turned red. Shit…while all these other herb birds are hanging in the park shitting on statues I’m flying to the back alley behind Nino’s pizzeria on St. Marks.
It’s dem breadsticks’ yo, my pigeon bitches is hooked on that shit; these hoes be strung out on these garlic rolls–foe show. I protect these pigeon-heads & make sure we all getting fed.
All these other pussy ass pigeons living on front street know not to come here & start shit. I’m mother fucking strapped with a 12 cm beak. My hoes know I’ll peck a nigga’s eyes out whose fronting. First they pay and then they get that pigeon-pus-say! And business is booming & blowing up; this pimp game is filling up a nigga’s belly, shiiiitte, with all these park pigeons with no game and light feathers, they all bringing us Korzo Burger left overs to get feather deep in my pretty peeps–I’m ballin; the more food they bring the more my hoes will ruffle their feathers yo. These hoes go crazy for them Dream Balls that cracker ass chef Steven makes. Mother fucker is an artist; straight up Niño Brown of hamburgers.
But yo, on the real, it wasn’t always like this; back in the day when I was a lil baby bird nigga there was no need for pimping, slanging, & hoeing we’d all just chill at Tompkins Square Park and that cracker ass Steven would just throw his left overs out in the park and we could all get our fair share; pimpadelic pigeons like me would just get all that pussy cause I got that big beak. Shit was dope. To drop some knowledge-it was Darwinian order yo. But that shit all changed when Marquis De Hawk moved up to Tompkins square Park…shit was never the same when we saw that Deebo sized nigga fly in & perch up them Tompkins Square trees. For real, yo, a hawk; a straight up gangsta hawk; on his first day that nigga ate 3 pigeons & a squirrel. It was like Omer from The Wire, yo, no pigeon felt safe. We had to start running in packs and the food supply went down.
This crusty grey back named Jamal moved in on Korzo and set up shop with some pretty feather bitches and me, I did Nino’s. I got a bunch a little baby bird soldiers to match Jamal’s to spread the word that I got those bright feather bitches. Still, I gotta watch these little pawn nigga pigeons cause I know they want my crown.
Shit, on the real, why I’m telling you all this is cuz I want out of the game. For real. The pussy, the Dream Balls, and even the power–it’s got no end. I’ve seen The Wire; there ain’t no niggaz like Marlo, in the end we all just Stringer Bells. I’m gonna get pecked to death by my hoes or by that busta ass nigga Jamal. I put a hit on him but the bird hit the wall & Jamal tortured & then killed him. I know he is waiting to beak me to death.
I was convinced that was my fate but then I met this fly ass piece of pigeon pussy. This pigeon was banging, yo. I thought she was slumming for some pizza; I’m talking quality upper west side type of bitch. On the real, I caught the vapors and started chirping (I never chirped once for a bitch, never had to cuz I got that big beak) singing pretty Rihanna type shit. She came over and I was ready to tap it but she gave me a dirty look and said, “I am not that type of pigeon & I am spoken for. My boyfriend Carlton & I are in court phase.”
“Then why you up in a niggaz face if you ain’t gonna let me ruffle them feathers yo.”
“You are disgusting & rude; I have a name it’s Dominique. I shouldn’t even tell you why I am here, but your ‘friend’ Ronnie quit our singing group on the upper west side and recommended you as a replacement. I promised him I would check you out. We are having try outs in a month, to renew our lease…You will need back up singers. Maybe your ‘lady bird friends’ can help you.
Some herb bird flew up with a huge dream ball in his mouth, dropped it, and said, “Damn yo, she extra fine. I’ll give you the whole ball if I can hit that.”
The fine ass upper west side honey rolled her eyes and said, “Gross. Think about it Pasquale. You have something special, Ronnie was at least right about that.”
She flew away and I pecked this herb bird in his grill and said, “Get the fuck out of here!”
He flew too and I was left with my bitches, his Dream Ball, and my thoughts.
Ronnie was my boy; we go back and shit, he let a lil nigga crash by his tree after my moms died. That fool said I chirped in my sleep and it was all pretty & shit; I thought that nigga was playing, but he was on the real-word is bond.
As my top 3 hoes started eating the Dream Ball & I looked out from the alley and that Deebo mother fucker Marquis De Hawk was looking my way. And I knew that this was it; this was my chance to get out of the ghetto. I had to take it.
I turned back to my hoes and said, “Bitches stop eating. All 3 of you…Alright hoes, you ain’t gonna be tricking no more.”
The bitches looked shocked but they listened so I didn’t have to raise my pimp wing and continued, “I want out of this game; I want the good life. I want that upper west side life. I can chirp. I didn’t even know it; but I can spit this poetic pretty shit. You gonna be my back up bitches. We gonna do this shit.”
Chantel my number one hoe gave me the last bite. I chewed down & finished the Dream Ball; then told her and the other two hoes, “Practice starts now. We got new Dream Balls to chew down on. The ones that will take us out of the ghetto.”
This chirping shit was hard at first and my pimp wing was used many times but after a few weeks I turned these hoes into respectable chirpers.
When the day came for the try outs; I saw Marquis De Hawk eating some little Squirrel and we flew the coup. It took a good hour but we made our way to the Upper West Side. It was by some little cafe where they had bomb ass bread sticks, the shit smelled clean–that Organic shit, yo, you only find on the upper west side.
I saw Dominique perched next to some herb bird and I chirped and then my bitches followed. I could see the humans impressed as they threw dope ass food at us to eat. Dominique looked happy but that herb bird next to her was all smug and shit and said, “He is good enough to be my understudy Dominique, I am still the lead.”
“I agree. I am very proud of you Carlton. Your have progressed with your Jealousy issues.”
This smug ass nigga Carlton smirked at me and said, “I am not concerned about this little hood rat.”
“Nigga please. We all know you Sanchez and I’m Tebow. You gonna be replaced by me.”
Carlton rolled his beady pigeon eyes and says, “I don’t know if he is right for the group. I think we can have better understudy.”
Dominique looked at me and I begged her with my eyes to give me a chance, “Carlton, let’s let them stay here for tonight. He can try again tomorrow & then we can do our duet.”
We camped out on the upper west side but I knew I had to handle this Carlton shit; I had the knowledge that Dominique was making him wait to hit it and his little blue balls were probably about to burst.
I told my hoes what to do–they pros, foe so.
I then found Dominique practicing solo and said I needed a private word with her. I took her aside and said “Look, I know you think I’m just some hood nigga, but I appreciate what you are doing for me. But On the real, I gotta tell you I don’t trust Carlton. I think he ain’t what he seems.”
“Pasquale stop assassinating Carlton’s character he’s a great pigeon. I think you are jealous.”
“Maybe, yo, but I saw him looking at my hoes. The way many man pigeons do–I’m just saying yo, be careful.”
I saw her look worried; she looked so fine with her feathers all ruffled and said, “Fine. Let’s go check on Carlton and see he is resting up for tomorrow.”
We flew over and that nigga was having a threesome with my top 2 hoes. My number one was tossing his little bird salad, while he was tearing the other one up pigeonstyle–it felt too good for him stop.
Dominique shed a little bird tear and screamed, “All of you out. All of you. I will perform with Pasquale. Carlton, you have broken my heart.”
He looked upset but my hoes fuck so good he couldn’t stop and I said, “When you bitches are done. Take him back to the ghetto; y’all work for Carlton now. I’m quitting the game for good.”
Dominique flew away and I followed her fine ass all the way to Central Park. Never seen it before it; it was ballin. She landed in some big ass tree and I saw her sad eyes in the moonlight-the bitch looked beautiful. In that moment I knew I was gonna marry her ass and then fuck her Akon-style in this park–word is bond.
“What’s up girl. You sad and shit?”
“Yes Pasquale. Of course I am.”
“Fuck that nigga.”
“I never did. I was waiting to be married. I want marriage and Carlton I guess didn’t.”
I looked at her said, “Look, yo, I never chirped for nobody til I saw you Dominique. I thought love was some pussy ass nigga bullshit but that thinking that was the bullshit…”I then got down on one leg and asked, “Dominique, after we win the competition tomorrow and we are ballin, will you let me do you proper and marry me up in this park. You the one, girl. For real.”
“Are you ready to change Pasquale and be a good man to me?”
“Word is bond, yeah, I’m ready. I got love for you. On are wedding day, I am going to tell you something my ma asked me before she died. I couldn’t answer the question but now I can yo because of you.”
She let out another little tear, smiled, and said, “I feel it too you; I felt it when you first chirped. I will mate with you and be your wife.”
We slept in the tree, feather to feather; it was the bomb-shit felt so good yo. We woke up in the morning, practiced our routine, and then went to the cafe ready to win this mother fucker.
All the other pigeons were there and we knew if we sang the best we could have bomb ass breadsticks for life. I looked at my fiance, she looked so good, so I started chirping; we did a duet of Marvin Gaye’s & Tammi Terrell’s ‘You Are All I Need to Get By’ and we fucking killed it. We made it rain breadsticks.
We won. We owned it. We now had a spot to eat and we had a home–that tree we slept in. I made it out of the ghetto and was ready to be a good man to Dominique. Life was dope, can’t even a front, a nigga felt happy for the first time ever in his life.
We had our wedding day at the park; my hoes even showed up with Carlton, that herb bird almost looked as happy as me–I could see the pimp game suited him. Dominique looked super-fine, she even had her little sister Tamika there; she was a good girl–I felt ready to be family man and take care of my ladies… not hoes; out of love and respect for Dominique I stopped saying bitch, nigga, and hoes. Love can change man–word is bond.
We said our vows and I went to grab the ringworm from Tamika to give to Dominique when I looked up and saw that crusty grey back Jamal flying at me and Tamika. That fool calculated wrong and was gonna hit Tamika. I saw the fear of Dominique of losing her sister and I jumped into front & took a beak right in the chest–a damn beak-bye, on my wedding day.
As Jamal flew away, he screamed, “Now we even nigga, you stupid if you think you can’t escape the ghetto shit you did.”
Then he was gone; I saw Tamika was alright but I felt the pain–he got me good. Dominique came to me and I could see in her eyes she knew I was going to die. I hated seeing her like this and I told my beautiful wife, “It’ll be a’ight. You’ll be fine. I’m gonna be ok.”
She cried and rubbed her feathers against mine and said, “Just breathe baby it’ll be ok. He didn’t get you that…”
She couldn’t finish the line, she knew it was lie; we didn’t have much time and then she said, “Pasquale, I love you…please tell me…what was the question, you can now answer that your mom asked you.”
I could feel my heart slowing down and a tear falling out for the first time ever in my life and told her, “My moms asked me if whether if I wanted to live or die…I now know I want to live, but my love, it’s too late…”
1. Sexual Personae by Camile Pagilia
*Author’s note. Here is the mud shark’s side of the story of the Shark Episode of Led Zeppelin.
How’s it hanging dudes and duderinas; I am the most famous shark in the world, seriously bro, I’m like only second to Jaws and that dude isn’t even real. It’s a total wash out holmes, the Great Whites get all the fish and the fame.
Me, I am just a regular mud shark, nothing special; I hunt minnows and eat baby snappers. The only real gnarly thing that ever happened to me (before I met Led Zeppelin) was I banged this white tip named Sheila. She was totally hot and cool and liked to hang out by Edgewater Hotel but she flaked out and skipped town to Cali. Total bummer.
I waited around Edgewater for her to come back but my bro Jeffery swam by me & said he saw her on his vacay to LA going raw dog with some Hammerhead. My shark heart was broke; it sucked like rank seaweed dude.
I stopped eating and listened to that Beach Boys song “God Only Knows” just drifting like a dorkarino by the Hotel. It went on for days bros and I call I could think of was Sheila; man, she was the best: her fin was the perfect size and she was a snaggle tooth which is just my thing-you know. I wanted to die and prayed to Poseidon to take me out baby seal style.
But after a while bros, I just got the munchies hardcore and saw this squid floating in the water.
I shot right up and ate that spaghetti hot dog whole. It tasted good as balls man but when i went to swallow–total fucking wipeout, metal went through the gills and I kid you not bro all of a sudden I was flying in the air like those pelicans that chill by the pier.
Man, I just kept flying up and up; then these humans pulled me through the window in the hotel. Crazy bro!
Even though I was super pissed I gotta say bros they were pretty gnarly looking humans: they had long hair that looked like a bunch of sea enemies and when I heard them talk they didn’t sound like Seattle humans they had some weird Jacques Cousteau ancient but way less lame.
But these rocker dudes weren’t alone, on the bed was this red-head chick all nude-beach-like laying there spread eagle. Man, all I could do was flap around hoping to scare them but like a bunch of dicks they just laughed and asked her she was ready to have me take her to the stairway to heaven.
I prayed to Poseidon to make sure Sheila had a good life and made peace with you know deep stuff. I thought they were gonna make me shark sushi but these buttheads turned me into a dildo instead of a seadish.
The one named Jimmy sang out, “here is a whole lot of love” as they had my shark fin rub on her tuna surprise. Even though I was scared as balls the smell of her just made ME get the munchies. And this crazy chica was all into it like a clown fish and a sea enemy.
As they are having me black dog her taco I am seeing my life flash before my eyes: being a baby shark, eating baby seals, the time I wiped out on coral reef, and banging Sheila while the ginger colored human moaned all banshee style.
The louder she got the worst I needed water; I made my final peace with Poseidon and closed my eyes for permanent wipe out.
But then I felt a big gush on my fins and into my gills. I could breathe & opened my eyes and saw water shooting out of her clam shell. My fins got so slippery & & this Jimmy dude laughed so hard that I flew out of his hands into air like Jonathan the lesbian seagull. I was flying bros but I thought it was my shark soul going to heaven but then I went down & hit the water and could breathe.
I was alive but I was not the same; I freaked out and swam down to Portland to get my head right.
I didn’t talk to any other sharks for next months I just ate baby seals and tried to get my shit together. I’d get sharkmares, waking up wondering who these dudes were and why would they want a shark fin up in some human poon.
More months went by and I got bored and felt bummed. Even though I was scared and had the heebie-jeebies to go back to the hotel, I ran to this mudshark Brad and who told me heard from the grapevine that my bro Jeffery had a nice stash of seaweed with shrimp.
That was all I needed to hear and left him in mid-sentence and swam back to my home and homies.
It took a good day and made my way toward the hotel and saw Sheila drifting there like she was waiting for me. She smiled at me and said, “Dude. I’m sorry. I got scared. I know Jeffery saw me with the Hammerhead and told you.”
“It sucked dudearina; I really love you and stuff.”
“I wasn’t ready dude. I know it was bogus what I did, but still man, I always knew you were a special shark. When I heard what happened, I knew I was right.”
“Heard what?” I asked, I didn’t tell a soul about the hotel.
“Dude, about you hanging with Led Zeppelin; you are like the most famous shark in the world.”
“Those dude’s made me fin that chick?”
“Yeah, man they are the most famous humans in the world and they rock sonar style. Jeffery found a picture of you and the band and the ginger chick; he found it on the bottom of the floor. They must have taken it that night. Word has spread dude. Everyone wants to talk to you.”
“Woah, that is pretty gnarly.”
“Yeah, man. Even the great whites want to talk to you…”
“I think those dudes are stuck up, but alright, I’d be open if they shared some yellow fin with me…’
Sheila then swam close to me and said “I’m sorry dude. It really was bogus what I did. I don’t want to mess with any more hammerheads; I am ready to have shark babies with you. Can I get your love back.”
“Dudearina, you can have all my love.”
This story and many other screwed up ones are in the book “Demons In The TV” by Christoph Paul.