Coffee Rhetoric: Darksided Tales
Showing posts with label Darksided Tales. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Darksided Tales. Show all posts

November 28, 2011

This Land Was Made For You And Me...

Post-racial Society: Post-racial Society is a theoretical environment where the United States or other first-world countries in the west, is void of racial preference, discrimination, and prejudice. In the U.S. some Americans believed that the election of Barack Obama as President and wider acceptance of inter-racial marriages signified that the nation had entered this state, while others believe that groups such as the Tea Party movement prove it has not. In January 2010 the Pew Research Center conduced a poll in conjunction with National Public Radio that indicated that 39% of persons of African-American descent felt they were in a better position than they had been five years ago, an increase of 19% from the previous poll taken in 2008. Actor and director Mario Van Peebles made a television documentary titled Fair Game that challenged the idea that the United States had become a post-racial society. --Wikipedia

June 27, 2011

Writer and Actor, Terrill Closs Tangles with THE BEAST

2014 Update: Within the 3 years since this interview Terrill has hosted child pageants and was featured on 'Toddlers & Tiaras' and relocated to Los Angeles, where he has acted as a visible extra on several popular TV series, including 'Scandal' and 'Glee'. He continues to edit his book about 'The Beast', and hopes to release it to the masses sometime this year. 

Every now and again, I meet someone’s acquaintance or am introduced to a dynamic character I either end up wishing would suck on the open end of an exhaust pipe or who I'm intrigued by and will chop it up with in 3D over drinks, email, or social networking. 
Recently, I did a feature on a talented and exquisite Avant-garde   unicorn by the name of Dani Arranka, after having attended his birthday where he premiered the music video to his single, Be Like Me. A few days later my sister pitched me another idea: “If you liked Dani, you’d totally love my friend Terrill! She exclaimed. He’s a writer too! I think you’d like some of his work. He lives in Atlanta now! I told him all about you… ” At this point in the conversation, I sort checked out, because sister was rambling a mile a minute and my attention span has waned with older age (not my fault). 
In any event, I suggested she tell him to email me and give me the skinny all about himself, on his own accord. Sister sent me an email with one of his short stories attached. During that time, I was swimming in emails and in the midst of working on blogging the behind-the-scenes action for HartBeat Ensemble’s play, Flipside; and so it slipped to the back burner

Shortly after the initial suggestion to check out her friend, I got a Facebook friend request from one Terrill Creative-Closs. I noted we had my sister in common and remembered that this was the friend I was supposed to know about, and gladly accepted. The rest is history. I started noticing the lamentations in his status updates... one in particular, suggesting he'd need to soak in a Hazmat-sanctioned bleach bath (not really), before having to immerse himself in seedy goings-on at his job, which he called THE BEAST: Another night at THE BEAST! 
Subsequent posts would follow along that same vein, the underlying subtext seeming to be that folks wish him luck and the mental stability to sustain him through the evening...
"@THE BEAST: Sum guy got mad at us, on his way out. So he screamed & threatened to tell the cops that we’re ‘running a prostitution ring."
 another recent Facebook status read. 

But Terrill would also post updates about the progress on the book he's working on, inspired by exploits at THE BEAST.  
“…typing up my book and luxuriating… knowing I’m free from the grasp of THE BEAST tonight and tmrw.”  
Needless to say, my interest was, once again, piqued by this book-in-progress. I was anxious to delve into how found himself toiling away at THE BEAST and how he ended up in Atlanta. I also wanted to get a sense of his writing voice. So I had the opportunity to build with Terrill via an email conversation. What he relayed to me would prove to be even more compelling than his status updates on Facebook. It was so interesting; I couldn't bring myself to condense any of it and so, am presenting it on here exactly as he presented it to me, in its entirety. It’d be in your best interests to read on… not to mention he's rather easy on the eyes. 
Details about 'The Beast' are graphic and, perhaps, NSFW. 

January 11, 2011


Urged on by friends who seemed overly excited by Nicki Minaj's fervid verse, I listened to Kanye West's all-star collaboration on the track, "Monster." Notoriously particular about the music and artists I listen and pay attention to,  I found myself nodding along in spite of my reluctance.  I'm not a hardcore Kanye West fan (I'll never forgive him for bestowing fame and fortune on the mute femme-bot known as Amber Rose)- or detractor (I think he's talented, enjoy some of his work, and even defended him during Taylor Swift-gate, when he Mic-snatched the annoying and saccharine country singer and did the infamous shrug seen 'round the world, elevating his douchery to epic proportions)- but in keeping with his current Avant-garde projects, controversial album art for his latest (and awesome) offering, My Dark Twisted Fantasy, and modernistic fashion choices, I found the dark, macabre lyrical quips right on track in keeping with this re-branded,  douchier more artistic than usual version of Kanye. I also found myself more impressed by Nicki Minaj's contribution to the song as well. She proved to be more than a one-trick pony with a dubiously luscious ass. She held her own, and then some, on an all-male track, and seemed to deviate from her whole "Harajuku Barbie" schtick, showing the breadth of her lyrical skills. Plus Jay-Z helped bring up the rear with his talk of vanquishing bitter vampires, ungrateful interlopers and such. In fact, Monster is heavy with horror movie tropes. I was in. I couldn't wait see the video... 
Um, so then I saw the video... *insert blank stare here* ... While I'm not sure what the inspiration was, I was a bit taken aback by the visuals. The video begins with a dead-eyed, limp model hanging by her neck, from a chain... Then the subsequent wide shot shows several other dead models hanging from chains in little else but their underwear, flanking rapper Rick Ross as he casually sits amongst their dead carcasses, puffing on a cigar... Next up? Kanye West... lying in bed... next to two dead models with broken necks, their eyes open but vacantly staring off... The video just goes downhill for me from that point on... 

Listen, I'm no prude. I'm known for seeking out obscure, off the cuff Art House/Experimental films that would cause the vast majority of the population to doubt my mental stability. I'm a fan of Richard Kern and Catherine Breillat. I've watched and grimaced my way through several films from the Torture Porn genre, so this is not a holier-than-thou rant arguing about the perverse nature of pop-art and rap videos. I'm all for seeing a little cutting edge perversion in art, and any rumblings disclaiming that admission would be b.s. because I suspect we all harbor curiosities when it comes to exploring perverse behaviors that're within some semblance of reason. However, there's imagery and ideas that are even twisted enough to make me squirm... which is a difficult feat...
During many aspects of the video, there seemed to be no discernible message connecting the dead, decapitated women with the crux of the song other than for shock value... and therein lies my issue. While I still enjoy listening to Monster, watching Kanye West lying in bed with two dead, broken necked models, as he re-positions them to touch one another reeks of necrophilia and it just makes it difficult for me to remember that I enjoy the song. There is a LOT going on in this video and none of it is particularly enjoyable to watch... including Jay-Z rapping his verse as yet another dead model lays splayed on a leather couch behind him. The visions of decapitated model heads and entrails offered no further hope or high expectations for the duration of the music video. I was over it by the time the Nicki Minaj, Dominatrix vs Nicki Minaj, Barbie (tied up in a chair) scene came up. 
Duncan Quinn ad
This video expounds on this disturbing trend of women featured in compromising situations... namely dead and dismembered ... or as zombies. It sort of reminded me of this movie I wrote about a while ago, that shook my core and prompted me to make haste and return it to Netflix. And in likening Monster's video to Dead Girl, perhaps the most chilling aspect or the one thing that bothers me about it rather, is the apathetic way in which Kanye, Jay-Z, & Rick Ross drift amongst the carnage of limp and dismembered female parts. While I understand the nature of the song itself and perhaps the video is a metaphor for... for... something... It always unnerves me when the female aesthetic goes beyond the usual titillating pictorial of T & A (which can also become problematic when done horribly wrong) - and manifests into something way more sinister and malevolent. And so enter the birth of films like this, this, and videos like this to counteract that victimization, much to the chagrin of many men, who are quick to deem it man-hating propaganda ... I'm just speculating.  Seeing women as tortured, mutilated corpses within the context of a music video is unusual and dare I say trumps the disturbing nature of Eminem's Stan video, where its antagonist places his pregnant girlfriend in the trunk of his car. Are women, hanging by their broken necks from a ceiling not hateful, misogynistic visuals? I suppose dousing some video vixen with a bottle of high-end champagne or swiping a credit card down the crack of her gyrating ass isn't humiliating enough.  Please weigh in.

November 30, 2010

Taxi Tales: Eubanks

 As a karate expert, I won't pontificate about the seemingly fluctuating state of mental illness amidst today's cult of personality. There's nowhere for people to go in these crazy times and the numbers are too damn high (spoken in this voice).  

That disclaimer of sorts aside, every now and again I'll find myself in the most random of random-est situations. It has finally dawned on me that for the past seventeen years of my life, I've been walking around with an invisible WEIRDO WHISPERER stamp emblazoned on my forehead, only visible to members of the Special People's Club. A signal akin to that whistle only audible to cats and dogs. Of course, I nor those with any semblance of sanity or stability have the ability to see it. Which makes it somewhat difficult for me to navigate and avoid certain personalities and circumstances. I mean, what other explanation could there possibly be for the strange, David Lynch-like encounters I find myself becoming an unwilling participant in?  ... 
While en route to a meeting at a facility I've never been to before, I decided a cab would be my likeliest bet, if I were to successfully reach my destination within a certain time-frame and in avoidance of having to walk up and down that particular street looking perplexed, searching for some elusive building. The directions I was given were opaque at best and I just wasn't in the mood for all of that hunting foolery. I dealt with shoddy directions two weeks prior, while carrying a heavy package to a post office I was told was only "three minutes away" from where I was working. It wasn't fun.
The cab driver was a chatty, middle-aged Black man. The cab? A raggedy and stale, onion-y smelling vehicle that rattled... the type of taxi where late-night 'business deals' took place... transactions squirted and crusted to a dry, inconspicuous stain on the backseat. It certainly wasn't one of the fresher looking or smelling ones. Pressed for time, I Kanye-shrugged and scrambled on in the back. Foreboding told me I'd be in for an unusual ride when my driver parked across the street from me, then called my cell phone claiming not to see where I was... despite my standing in front of a major, looming historical building downtown waving madly at him... in his line of vision. He stuttered, "I'oun see you... ummm where you at? Oh, that's you? Want me to stop in front of there?" I hung up on him, rolled my eyes, and just crossed the busy street. 
Upon getting in, the cabbie apologized for the state of his car and explained he was driving that one until his new one was ready. I shrugged my indifference and repeated the address I needed to get to. He made small talk, then kicked around ideas as to where the building in question might be. Then suddenly... 
"Are you the type who likes to hold your feelings inside?" 
Confused by the question, I pressed my lips together then shot an "oh boy, here we go" look in his direction. I didn't answer. 
"Well, I'm the type who likes to hold my feelings inside," he continued. "See, it's because I know a lot of information. Information the government don't want nobody to know about." 
I stayed silent and turned my head to look out the window. 
"You have a business card?" He asked. 
Looking down at my purse, I spied the top of my card holder nestled against my wallet, and pushed it down deeper, feigning as if I was digging for one. 
"No. Sorry. Fresh out." I lied, dryly... turning back to the window. 
"See, I know a lot of things. Big money maker stuff, but if I can just get a hold of some of these CEOs ... and just make that connection..."
"Oops, looks like we're here!" I interrupted. "That's 227. That must be the building!" I said, already halfway out the cab as I thrust 8 dollars at him. 
"Miss, you sure you outta cards? Because I really need to talk to someone to help me get this secret out there. Trust me, it's a big one that'd make people a lot of money. There's stuff I know about the government folks don't even know about. I don't even really like talking about it. I usually hold it inside" He pressed. 
"Yup, all out." I answered brusquely, still trying to scramble out. "Thanks again!" I said, fearful my holder would fall out... spilling several of my glossy cards on the floor of the cab as my judgement. 

He thrust a generic YELLOW CAB card at me. No name on it... 
"Call me please," he insisted, "So I can tell you some of the ideas I have... or just call me if those folks in there start aggravating you." 
"Ummm..." I started... 
"Just call me, uhh ... Eubanks for now." He answered.
"Right." I said. 
"Don't lose that." He warned. 
"Mmm hmm." I answered, finally free of the stale cab's clutches (I was having issues getting the eff out, as if I were being pulled back by some adamant force of nature)
Free of the cab's pull and of Eubank's shifty, money-making secrets. And out into the fresh air ... quickly up the stairs to the building... and no I didn't look back at the cab. 
That invisible WEIRDO WHISPERER stamp must've been glaringly bright yesterday morning ... 

March 04, 2010

Leave Me Alone!

Black women. We've been labeled as Mammies, Jezebels, Golddiggers, Undesirables, and now Tragic Figures?  Yes, 2010 seems to be The year of years to bash Black women, in yet another redundant cycle of trash talk about why we are, the way we are. Some might read this post and disagree, but then those of you who do probably aren't Black women and are whispering under your breath for me to shut my gob because, Michelle Obama is this country's First Lady. It's just that simple, really. *insert side eye here.* 
It seems as if every publication I read, or program I watch has an article or segment discussing why Black women are single. Forget the construction of the pyramids or the Bermuda Triangle. ... Black women being single in high numbers seem to be the mystery du jour! To hell with finding a cure for AIDS or getting over this country's health care, job, and economic crises. Black women are single and it's our own fault. The world needn't be bogged down worrying about the important issues... but should mull over my love life instead. You see, Black women... we're just too driven and unyielding. We're difficult to please and our need to find our place in the world and plant our flag is off-putting... apparently. How dare we try to better ourselves or even entertain the notion of having (insert danger music here!)... EXPECTATIONS. Not to mention we aren't trying nearly as hard enough to look like the vixens in the rap and R&B videos. 
According to these articles, newsreels, blogs, and public forums of the like, seems like the only, and I mean THE ONLY way Black women can reconcile being tragically single is to date White men, and ONLY White men. This White Knight In-waiting, will apparently salvage what's left of our lonely years, and is a last resort to prevent us from dying alone with nothing more than a house filled with cats, all of which would undoubtedly nibble away at our rotting corpses. To hell with dating someone who has mutual interests, regardless of his skin color or ethnicity. Who cares if you like various types of men from all walks of life, with GREAT PERSONALITIES, or if you're even interested in going that route? Racial/Ethnic fetishization is definitely the solution to our habitual singledom! Non?  *shrugs*
Listen, I don't know why my sex and dating habits have become public fodder for the media and various other men and people to pick apart and scrutinize. I guess the fact that many Black women aren't rocking back and forth in a corner or curled up under the covers in a fetal position, because no one has "put a ring on it"... or aren't bemoaning the fact that we're single or unmarried doesn't occur to those of you doing the judging and marking ticks in your little notebooks. We aren't the only group of women who live singly, however, our White counterparts are merely single, looking, and living footloose and fancy free a la 'Sex And The City.' They're simply exploring their options and building their careers until Mr. Big catches their eye and having a great time playing the field in the interim. Why can't this simply be the case for Black single women as well? Why are we scraping the earth for scraps, clucking around like confused chickens... looking for any remnants of a good man... rather than just exploring infinite possibilities and having fun too? 
Everyone's an armchair anthropologist or sociologist these days, especially when it comes to Black female sexuality. Our femininity... our desirability is constantly up for debate. Men (especially) have mucho jokes and take low brow swipes for days talking about our appearance, our attitudes, and our personalities. Residents holed up in their glass houses, throwing stones. Black women aren't good enough because we want better... or at least according to Black male comedians and social critics turned dating experts, with dubious track records of their own.
I've grown tired from reading these statistics about the numbers of Black women who aren't hitched. Why is this even newsworthy? Why is anybody still single in this complex era of love and dating rules? Moreover, why am I being told to date this type of man or that type of man... do *this* with your body, but not *that* by critics who can't even fathom... who don't even know my core and all of its wonderful complexities? 
Men, the media, and so called experts on Black female sexuality can tout off a long list of reasons why Black women are single and the primary, b.s. song is that our standards are too high. The last time I checked, having standards (within reason), is a common thing to expect. Men also are notorious for having outlandish standards, and those very same standards could also be indicative of why many of them are hopelessly single and are prompted to fly overseas to woo desperate and eager foreign women. Most of those who're anti-standards seem to be sub-par to mediocre at best and so complain the loudest about a Black woman's high standards.
At the end of the day, I'm single because I've chosen to be. Because I'm preoccupied with various other things in my life that fulfill me or keep me too busy to lament over such nonsense. Perhaps it's also attributed to my impetuous and overly sophisticated bon-mots and risqué coquetries... perhaps not. I'd like to think I'm a little more multi-layered than most would have me be. 
No one has the right to dictate the reasons why so many Black women in America are single, and claim it as fact. There is no one, fundamental reason why. It just is, what it is. We aren't some abnormal sub-species. And anyway, mind your own damn business. That is all.

January 28, 2010

Me Talk Pretty One Day

Snow fall, plus minimal sleep, coupled with grumpiness, divided by exasperation, multiplied by, "Wait, I'm flummoxed," plus "Bastard(s) please!"- minus zero booze equals my mind is on a marathon run, and it has a case of the disappointeds. 

"Sex only goes so far — then you want to be able to talk to the person..." -creator of that sex robot, talking, woman thing.
  • Smile! 
  • Slim down! 
  • Just nod! 
  • Go easy on the intellect, will you!
  • You're way too sophisticated for me (read: your brain is too high maintanence).
  • Only weigh-in when deferred to. 
  • You look angry. 
  • Bitch! 
  • I've created you in *my* image. Live up to it dammit!
  • Be infallible, pwetty pweeeease!
  • You're aging. Stop it at once before I upgrade!
  • I'll stalk you until you *do* give in! 
  • You're comfy with your sexuality? Then you're a slut, WHORE!
  • You can turn on the smart now. I'm ready for you. Bring it!
  • You should like this list of preferences, cuz it makes me happy and secure ... 
So many demands. The list seems endless. It becomes even more asinine and disturbing it its growth. Perhaps now that the latest and greatest in technological minds has created a sex robot (fresh off the AVN Porn Expo's showroom floor)  that focuses on "appealing to the mind." Real, living, and breathing women born of flesh and blood can exhale a little bit and get somewhat of a reprieve from living up to so many standards. Even if it seems to aim to make us obsolete (or to appeal to the socially inept male mind, who can't mesh well or deal with real female interaction anyway). Alas, an inanimate object, masquerading as a woman, reminiscent of a corpse can listen intently, as its human lover reads it passages out of David Levy's 'Love And Sex With Robots.' Ladies, hold tight to your vibrators. It doesn't judge or criticize, and will never demand that you "smile!" while walking past it.

October 21, 2009

Two Boxes of Douches and Snuggle Fabric Softener

Life is still sputtering along. I think I did well on my interview last Wednesday, but only a follow-up phone call will tell if I sold myself well enough. Needless to say, the search continues. And I'm hunting at a feverish pace, as my only other options are relocating, hooking, or relocating to hook. ...
Anyhow, two nights ago, while in my chariot (a.k.a. mass transit), a disheveled, drunkish looking man wearing the whitest pair of sneakers- (they struck a shocking, like-new contrast against his wrinkled black t-shirt, and dirty, faded black jeans)- stumbled on the bus balancing a cell phone against his ear, his fare, a plastic shopping bag, and his sobriety. He stood up front, reassuring whoever was on the other end of his call, that he was "on the bus now" and would "be there soon. bye!"
In awe of his super-white, squeaky clean, new sneakers, I broke my trance and noticed the contents of his bag... two boxes of Summer's Eve douche stacked on top of each other: Vinegar & Water and Island Splash (trust me, those were the varieties he purchased, because I'm familiar with the color code of each type of douche). Leaning against the douche boxes, completing the unusual menage a trois was a bottle of Snuggle fabric softener. I looked back up at the man... week old scruff served as a beard, his eyes were heavily lidded like he knocked back a few, and he leaned his back against a pole at the front of the bus, struggling to maintain his balance. He held on tight to his shopping bag though. Perhaps he needed to dull the pain of having to buy feminine douche and Snuggle, so he drank until he was numb? Just speculating...
Needless to say, I'm still a bit perplexed by what I spied.

April 20, 2009

Update- Tales from the Darkside and Home Improvement

Conversations that transpired while walking around my neighborhood this past Friday:

Encounter 1: Lady buffalo stancing outside Family Dollar and Carlos's Supermarket: " 'Scuse me MISS. You got a dolla'??" Me: "Nope." Lady: "How about fifty cent? You got ANY change?????" Me: I shook my head emphatically and hurried inside towards my destination for Folgers and flip flops.

Encounter 2: While walking from Green Apple produce market

Man: (standing next to disheveled Black woman: "Scuse me Miss... you think you can give me and my friend here some money...." Me: Shook head emphatically and hurried inside.

**I come back outside from store**

Woman (beggar's friend), in a slow, drug induced drawl: "Scuse me... MISS. Can I have some..." Me: Shaking head so hard my neck pops, as I hurry down the street towards home... Woman (yelling after me): "Well, you got a CONDOM den??"
Encounter 3: The best friend (Cat to those not in the know) visits. After settling in, we head back out at around 10pm... Cat, being the genius that she is... parks TWO WHOLE BLOCKS away! We stand and wait outside, in the mild night air, waiting to cross the street...
Condom Lady approaches... head lolled to the side as she lumbers over, like a corpse out of Night of the Living Dead: "Scuuuuse Me. Ladies... Ya'll got aaaany money I can..." Cat and I in unison: "NO!" We run out into busy traffic, desperate to get away from Condom lady. Bitch is lumbering towards us at a clip now!
We make it. I verbally abuse Cat for parking so far away!! And Onward Life has been somewhat busy. I'm still... still... settling into my apartment. It is starting to feel a lot like home, however. With several free acquisitions, a few priced next to nothing accents, switching things around and figuring out (through trial and error) what works in this particular space, things are starting to come together. I now have a king sized bed and board (sans frame, but not dire) today. I'm excited. The bed is huge. Bedding will be costly, but I plan on NOT paying more than 30 dollars for king sized bedding.

Check out what's going on thus far

Oh and I also acquired this amdist the madness.

November 21, 2005

You're Blind Me with Stupidity: A One Act Play/First Person Narrative

 Scenario: A few months ago, while hovering in front of one of the insurance buildings downtown, I met an attractive, artsy looking guy... I'll call him Buddha. It was raining that day. Not hard, but sort of misting. Let me walk you through the Affair That Never Was…

 ... I was huddled under my umbrella, waiting for a bus. This rotund, light-skinned, black man entertained us would-be bus passengers with loud, dissonant singing. He would throw in an occasional "whoo!!" for emphasis. I guess he wanted to give the impression that he was tearing some shit up, notwithstanding the fact that the singing was loud, distracting, and downright horrible. I saw a pair of feet, inching somewhat closer to me, during the impromptu concert. Donny Hatha-find-a-way had made his way closer towards those of us standing near a stoop.

He sat down, and continued on with his show. I looked to my left and saw the feet move closer, next to me. I thought the pair of feet was merely trying to inch away from D.H.-Not. Finally, I put down my umbrella, and there I saw him. Buddha. Mr. Wonderful In all his tall, lanky glory. Clad in denim... poetic, with a thick, glorious crown, stuffed under an Ivy cap. "Hi," he said. I returned the greeting. We engaged in small talk.
He asked where I was from. I told him. He said I looked other-worldly; unlike anyone living in town. He dug my style, and said my hair was "beautiful" I spied my bus pulling up to the stop. I bid him farewell, he asked for my phone number before I scurried away. He thought it'd be cool if we got together sometime for lunch, coffee, or an "activity at his church" I quickly made it clear to him that I was unashamedly atheist, and that particular activity would probably not be happening anytime soon. I told him I wasn't looking for anyone to proselytize to me. He named some weird sounding religious sect he belonged to... I put my hand up to stop him and shook my head no. Anyway, I said bye, and ran for my bus.

Several weeks later (around the time I got invited to talk about my blog), he called and left a message on my voicemail, while I was enroute to Trinity College, to see about this graduate course on blogs. I didn't hear from him, for weeks. I had no way of reciprocating his call, for he never gave me his phone number. ... First conversations are just as crucial as the first date. They're very telling. You want to make the best impression, possible. Needless to say, he didn't.

 It started off okay. He said he was born in Jamaica, and raised in Brixton. He asked me if I knew of Brixton. I said, "Yes, it's like the Harlem of London..." he continued on anyway, cutting me off, as if he were enlightening me on something I didn't know about -- (insert my first eye roll here). The conversation continued going downhill, increasingly. He tried to convince me that Jamaica didn't have any problems to contend with, and how racism didn't exist there. I said, "Um, excuse me, but Jamaica is rife with economic problems, and while racism isn't as cut and dry as it is here... “He cut me off, again, in all his long-winded glory.

Um, Jamaica has all kinds of people. Um, um, there is no racism... blah blah blah blah... owes money to World Bank… blah blah blah blah, so you should check your facts first, before you make that statement."
"EXCUSE YOU, I began, but I did, and I do check my facts. Perhaps you should let people finish their thought before you cut them off and condescend to them."
He continued on with his hot-winded, weirdo diatribes, about himself and how Jamaica has all sorts of people. He was repetitive, is a horrible listener and self-absorbed. I told him several times that I have 2 sisters; he'd talk about himself, and then ask me repeatedly, if I had any sisters or brothers. I'd remind him that I already told him I did, several times during the course of our conversation. I asked him what his interests were. He went on some strange rant about how he's trying to be discovered. I asked him what he was doing to ensure that he would be discovered. He stuttered around the question; so basically, nothing. No drive. He'd ask me about my interests, cut me off... yet again, this time, claiming to "know me and what my dating history has been like" because I reminded him of his girlfriend, oops, "my friend" Belinda, and would proceed to tell me how he thought I was. He had no clue. He went on.... and on... and on. He gave me his phone number... We got disconnected. I called him back. Instead of a greeting from him, I got one from a recorded message saying, the subscriber you called, has not set up an account yet. ???????? I shrugged, and went back to reading The Times, which I stole from work.

Ten minutes later, he calls back. "Sorry, I got a prepaid phone. I used up my free fifteen minutes, and I have to put more minutes on the phone. I'm talking to you from a pay phone now." strike bazillion. (He'd already used up strikes one thru several billion with his propensity towards talking incessantly about nothing and himself and not having a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of).

We continued our hand at having a quasi-intelligent conversation, to no avail. He picked up where he left off... talking about himself. He thought he knew everything. I asked him if he had an e-mail address I could contact him at. He said that he wasn't computer literate and didn't know how to operate e-mail (At the ripe age of 28, no less. How does he function at work, IF he's being honest about even having a legitimate job??) He wouldn't let me get a word in edgewise. I sighed heavily, several dozen times. "Hello?" he said, in response to my sighs; he said he wasn't living anywhere in particular... with a bunch of guys, that he wouldn't dream of inviting a girl there. It sounded sketchy to me. He kept asking me where I lived, impressed that I lived alone. I declined providing him with the details. See, I'm not too keen on men thinking just because a woman lives alone that's a ticket for him to hone in and take advantage. Not on my dime. He continued to drone on, about... nothing. He said he likes to prepare exotic meals (several dozen times, he repeated this) and mentioned he was extremely Afrocentric, but didn't mind interracial dating. At one point, I put the phone on speaker, set it down, sat back, and continued to read the NY Times. Paris was still burning. North African youth were being reassured... He kept going... French-Senegelese playwright and author, Marie Ndiaye's play Hilda is appearing off-broadway, in NY... in a limited run. …  and going...  French-born Ndiaye had her first novel, "Quant au riche avenir" published at the age of 17. ... wow,  interesting. … and going...

 " know, there's Jamaican-Chinese and White Jamaican... there're a lot of different cultures in Jamaica. They just owe a lot of money to the World Bank. Hello? Hello?"
He had the nerve to suggest that I should call him, so that we can get together for lunch. I picked up the phone upon hearing the low battery beep... I tried to cut him off, tell him my phone's battery was about to die; to hold on and let me plug it in its charger. He just kept babbling. I said, "HELLO-OOOOOOOOOOOO-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO???" He kept going, slowly, In this boring, low, stutter-ridden monotone. I finally gave up, shrugged, and flipped the phone shut. I figured the likelihood of him calling me back was... well... not likely, since he didn't have a phone. He was probably sans change, so the pay phone would've been out.

Two weeks ago, at about 11:30pm, my phone rang... I didn't answer. I figured it was him. I rolled over and went back to sleep.

Thursday, at 8:30 in the AM... on my day off.. My phone rang. I thought it was one of my sisters or perhaps my mother. I answered.

"Hi, coffey, it's Buddha. Why don't you call me?"
"Are you kidding me, calling me at 8:30 in the morning ??? I have to go!"
"Wait!" he says. "I got a new number, a new prepaid phone. I got this hot new deal..."
"Dude, whatever, I'm hanging up." 

He hurriedly spit out his new number... breathless... as if sensing I was about to push the hang-up icon on my phone. Fin
You know, as much as I lament my single status, it's frustrating when guys don't get the hint when you tell them you aren't interested after all and that you don't have anything in common. I wanted to like this guy. He seemed my type. I think the situation irritates me so, because I just don't like when someone else's baggage seeps into my life. I like simplicity. I have my share of problems, but nothing too dramatic. And I like it that way. I also felt just for a spell, "Why me? Why can't I find someone compatible?? What did I do to deserve such horrible luck?"

It's not so much about me not having someone. It's about me being a magnet for the biggest bunch of losers known to man. Buddha, fuck off. You disappoint me. Don't call me again. Thank you and have a nice day.