The world through my eyes relayed to you through my keyboard.

Month: January, 2015

Castleton Square Riot

Well, we recently had another free-for-all at Castleton Square here in Indy that caused the mall to shut down. I know what you’re thinking. I’m here to talk about how Black adults with poor parenting skills have moved to Northeastern Indy, and their progeny will eventually do to Castleton Square what they did to Lafayette Square. You’re wrong. I’m here to talk about something far more important.

It’s been reported that a number of participants were as young as fourteen-years-old. Fourteen. If any of you have seen the videos, you can see many of them, who, like most of the boys, were holding their respective trousers up with one hand while punching with the other hand. I guess it’s still a fair fight when both combatants are punching with only one hand. But that’s not even what’s important.

I can say it on one word. Curfew. Are you kidding me? My curfew in high school started out at 11pm. I bitched it up to midnight in my sophomore year of high school. My friends were going to parties and dances that lasted until 3am. I was frustrated because I had to go home so early. They were frustrated because they often had to drop me off home between parties.

I’m not stupid. Of course I broke curfew, but I was rarely more than an hour late. Sometimes I got caught, sometimes I didn’t. I turned 18 on 12/05/1975. My curfew endured until I graduated high school in June of 1976 where it converted to a 3am curfew. For six months a grown-assed man with a job had to be home by midnight, or he’d get his car taken away – a car provided to him by the parents invoking the curfew. The only way I could get out of the curfew was to go off to college.

Okay, maybe having a curfew wasn’t so bad. It helped to provide a modicum of discipline to a largely undisciplined young man. I got enough discipline to know to not ruin a good time with a fight, or go home first. I learned, also, to wear a belt whenever needed.


New Year Lament

Happy New Year, everybody! I worked a normal 10-hour day picking cotton in Whitestown on New Years Eve, so I was too tired to consider doing anything for New Years Eve. Okay, that’s a lie. Yes, I was tired, but I did have considerations that I simply turned down cold.

Work friends were meeting up at Latitude 39 in Castleton. I like Latitude 39. There’s a lot going on even though the one time I’ve been there I only bowled. My bowling smelled like a dead elephant carcass, smothered in human baby shit, and sprayed by the urine of a cat with a urinary tract infection. The pizza was excellent. I had been drinking, and, like smoking weed, late night drinking makes duck billed platypus liver taste like medium rare filet mignon. Still, I like the place. I live in Eagle Creek, though. The drive to Castleton is as long as it takes Andrew Luck to throw the damned football.

That being said, I’ve driven long distances with the capability of blowing well over a 0.08 on the breathalyzer as many times as Steeler’s quarterback Ben Roelthisberger’s skin cells beg for him to stop tanning. I’ve been stopped only once. The cops let me go. I had enough outstanding citations to start a forest fire in a swamp, but I’d made it to within a thousand feet of my residence. I could hear grumblings among the three officers regarding the late hour, and the amount of paperwork.

I considered attending the New Years Eve festivities downtown on Georgia Street. Visions of the Super Bowl festivities – so crowded I was scared to move my arms for fear of being accused by somebody of inappropriately sexual touching danced in my head. Besides, it was cold out. That, however, wasn’t the true reason why I didn’t go. I didn’t go because, well, that seemed like a date destination – you know, a man and a woman, or same sex couples on a date. I thought it would be pathetic for me to show up alone. Pathetic. I know I’m pathetic, but that doesn’t mean have to demonstrate it to the entire world. I kept my yellow ass home.

Good things happened. I didn’t get killed. I didn’t kill anybody. I saved money, and I wrote this essay. I like to think that something good happened.

Christmas Lament?

Another holiday season has past. It was my 57th. I know this sounds cliché, but over at least the past decade, the holiday season has more and more become a string of simply regular days that do little more than remind me of how long I’ve been on this earth.

I haven’t gotten or given any gifts over the last few Christmases. The last Christmas gift I received was a few years ago. It was a pair of Perry Ellis pajama pants. They were navy blue, with green and white plaid. They had two hip pockets and a single button opening in front where a man needs it most – for at least two reasons. You know what I mean.

Those comfy-assed PJ pants lasted me for a few years, and then I discovered a nine-inch tear at the left buttock this past summer. I wore those suckers until the rip was so long you could see my pasty left leg from space. I gave gifts the year I received those pants, I just don’t remember what they were and to whom they went.

I decided that I’d give myself a gift – something useful. Gloves, maybe. I lost my left leather glove, and I refuse to discard the right one just in case his prodigal brother decides to return home. How about house shoes? The ones I’m wearing at this very moment leave crumb trails everywhere. If I had free-flying birds for pets, they would’ve choked to death by now.

Suddenly, on Christmas Day, it came to me. I knew exactly what I needed. I decided to buy myself some good old-fashioned pornography. I didn’t want the free, soft-core stuff. I wanted the porn where the participants painfully contort themselves to ensure that the viewer sees every second of penis, vagina contact.

I went to my trusty AT&T U-verse Adults Only menu, and trolled for some serious visual sexual stimulation. Suddenly, however, I found myself blindsided by a stunning development that left my blood as cold as a snake, frozen in ice, at the North Pole.

I had, apparently, been away from cable porn longer than I’d thought because the fees had skyrocketed from $6.00 for a two-day rental, to $11.00 to $18.00 for a two to four hour rental. Two to four HOURS, it is! Isn’t that what crack whores charge? I trolled, and trolled, and trolled, until I found more suitably priced porn, at $7.00, with some two-day rentals.

I investigated. That menu offered what seemed to be mostly girl-on-girl action. I like it, but I’d never pay for it. I picked a movie. It was titled: “10 Dirty Students”. You know what I thought I’d see. What I got was 10 girls with hairless vaginas performing poses that wouldn’t stimulate an ex-con paroled after having served 50-years in Satan’s personal hell prison. Merry Christmas to me.

Having wasted seven bucks, I decided to do something I’d procrastinated against for many months for no good reason other than being selfish and stupid. I called a very good friend I’d made during my 12 years in LA. I won’t use his name, but I will say that he’s been heavily afflicted with various maladies, the main one being bone marrow cancer. He’s confined to a wheelchair, and takes chemotherapy almost daily. I hadn’t spoken with him in well over five years. He was so excited to hear from me, he forgot who I was halfway through our conversation. I’d forgotten how important of a friend he was to me. Merry Christmas to me. I had a great Christmas.