Dissatisfaction

I’m beginning to think I need to make a change. I’m beginning to think that that may be easier than I had expected. I’m beginning to think that if I don’t make some sort of change, I’ll be stuck. And I’ve always hated being stuck.

New York is a myth, I’ve decided. It is a dream, a rumor, pure hearsay that has been propagated for centuries by movies, songs, literature and let’s not forget sitcoms. After all, Carrie Bradshaw figured prominently in mine and hundreds, if not thousands, of little gay boys wanting to successfully pull off a halter top and ballerina skirt while hailing a cab on Fifth Avenue. It’s also the small town mentality. To grow up in a town that you feel is too small to hold your larger than life dreams, the big city is the only outlet and the only reasonable solution. There, ah yes, THERE, people will understand me, will appreciate me and will love me. There I can get back at all the fuckheads who made life miserable for me. Where will they be in ten years? Doubtless stuck in the same nowhere town with the same nowhere jobs they’ve been working since high school, though I hear they’re a manager now. But when I wake up at 5:30 every morning to face hordes of shoving, malodorous, disgruntled people who hate their jobs and show up at the job I hate--stoned because I can’t take the idea of going out of the house sober--only to run through the same small talk with the same people, day in, day out, ad nauseum, well then… we’re all stuck aren’t we? Being in New York doesn’t automatically make life fabulous, only interesting; amusing at best. No, to participate in the mythology requires money and a lot of it. Which is what I don’t have. Ambition, tenacity, a lack of shame? Check, check and check. It’s just that damned price of admission.

I’m at the age where dreaming still isn’t a luxury. I’m young. I tend to forget that. And when I’m occasionally reminded of it, I get a surge of electricity through my body that seems to say ‘you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, you’re barely old enough to drink and nowhere close to collecting social security, you don’t have to do this’.

Hey, I think I’ve got a little respiratory problem. I’ve been coughing and hacking up mucus for weeks. I think it’s from my sinuses, but surely the daily/hourly blunt smoking isn’t helping. Luckily, that’s clearing up, though and I’ll be able to stop grossing out everyone around me, myself included. Seriously, a long, green trail of slime from your lips to the garbage can is a bit of a turn off in some circles. My left shoulder hurts from that Hep B booster vaccine I just got yesterday. Technically, I don’t have Hep B, but my liver toxins are so high that they’re doing it as just a precaution. Liver or not, a girl’s gotta live and that apple martini last night was delicious. I’m running out of vodka, though…hmmm. Too bad I only have about a combined 6 dollars in my bank accounts. Until Friday anyway. Payday is always the greatest day, but it has to be after surviving the Day Before Payday. After spending my entire paycheck in five hours from paying bills and/or rent, well, the only money I have left over for myself gets rolled up and sucked into my lungs. Everything else--food, clothes, chiffon--must wait for another day, another week, month, year, lifetime. Being broke the following Monday after Payday makes survival look rather grim, let alone the Day Before Next Payday. By then I’m hanging on by one pinky toe while trying not to bleed too heavily on the carpet at work. And whatever pride I've developed and hasn’t eroded through wear and tear over the years keeps me from asking for any help. After all, I’m 21, dammit. I’m an adult. And as an adult, I will exercise my right to fuck myself up at least as much as life does...which is on a disturbingly regular basis. I’m a fugitive from reality. What has it done for me lately? Or ever, really? So I’m stoned at work at 8:49 on a Wednesday morning. Some doctor chided me for being cold and impersonal in a mass email. Obviously, he doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know that cold and impersonal is my shtick. It’s what I do. It’s who I am. Plus I just wrote what my supervisor told me to. In the scheme of things, I don’t matter. At least not to that doctor. So why be sober? I’m bored as it is.

I want to run away. I actually can run away. No one and nothing is stopping me. What if one day, instead of waking up at 5:30 to face the hordes of shoving, malodorous, disgruntled people who hate their jobs I don’t show up at the job I hate. I just pack up all my care and woe. I’m tired of being pushed around by this city. I’m tired of being pushed around and told what to do, period. Ellipsis. What if, question mark. I wish jazz hands was a punctuation, exclamation point.

The Tracks of My Cheeba Tears

So I’ve been devoting a lot of my blogspace lately to the gradual death of my emotions and ability to feel, thus neglecting my other two passions: music and marihuana. So, to remedy that, I decided to compile a list of some of my favorite songs to burn to at the moment. Some are perennial favorites on my daily journey through the weed wonderland that is the apartment of my mind while others I’ve only recently found the joy in increasing my THC levels to dangerous highs to their both funky and fresh beats. Just sit back, inhale deeply and let the love seep into your brains. And remember, kids, just say 'no.'



1. ABBA- “Lay All Your Love on Me” Anthemic as always, but with a heaping of melancholy and regret sauteed over a disco beat. Mmmmm.

2. Amy Winehouse- “Back to Black,” Back to Black [2006]
Bonus Track: Amy Winehouse- “Tears Dry on their Own,” Back to Black [2006]
Little did I know what was missing from my life was a drunk white British gal singing Phil Spector-inspired girl group pop with cool, jazzy vocals. Somehow, life feels complete.

3. Aretha Franklin- “Oh Me Oh My (I’m a Fool for You Baby),” Young, Gifted & Black [1972]
Bonus Track: Aretha Franklin- “Daydreaming,” Young, Gifted & Black [1972]
No one can work your soul into fits of ecstasy as frequently or as passionately as Re Re. Girl's looking a bit Jabba D. Hut these days, but I ain't sayin' shit...to her face anyway.

4. Beyoncé- “Irreplaceable,” B’Day [2006]
Bonus Track: Beyoncé- “Suga Mama,” B’Day [2006]
A change of pace from the bitch-slapper, "Ring the Alarm," Beyoncé turned it down a bit and I'm still throwing shit to the left, to the left. Get your damn bags out of my goddamn room, nigga!

5. Billie Holiday- “On the Sunny Side of the Street” Oh, Lady Day. You get me through the rough times with your wounded voice and the simple knowledge that your life was ten times more fucked up than mine could ever hope to be.

6. Black Star- “The Definition,” Black Star [1998]Mos Def. Awesome. Talib Kwali. Not as awesome as Mos Def. But together, they are/were the North's answer to Outkast.

7. The Cure- “Just Like Heaven” Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me [1987] Contrary to popular belief, not everyone who likes the Cure wears too small plaid shirts and skinny jeans. It does help to rock some eye liner and an air of despair, though.

8. David Bowie- “Moonage Daydream,” The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars [1972] I have no idea what Bowie is saying in this song--clearly I need to be on cocaine and face down in Lou Reed's lap to TRULY understand--but he sure says it with soulful conviction.

9. Diana Ross & the Supremes- “My World is Empty Without You,” I Hear a Symphony [1966] Echoey and hauting, Diana & Co. sound like they may have had the wall of sound treatment, but still come off with the polish and sophistication that only Motown could provide.

10. Grace Jones- “Love is the Drug,” Warm Leatherette [1980]
Bonus Track: Grace Jones "Pull Up to the Bumper," Nightclubbing [1982]
Oh, Grace. You're as cold on record as you were last night in bed, but twice as entertaining. Ho! Fantastic cover, though.

11. Guns N’ Roses- “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” Appetite for Destruction [1987]I do the sickest air guitar to this song: tongue out and kickin', legs as far apart as I can spread 'em, head bangin' against the rock & roll wind. Fuckin'A, bro. Fuckin' A.

12. Juicy- “Sugar Free,” It Takes Two [1986] Basically a rip off of Mtume's "Juicy," (ahem, the group's name) but the groove is still undeniable. By the way, I'm both sugar free and now, have no trans fat!

13. Kelis- ”Protect My Heart,” Tasty [2003]
Bonus Track: Kelis- “Emergency,” Kelis Was Here [2006]
Hey remember when Kelis was doing the trashy 80s dance pop/hip-hop thing a year before and a hundred times better than Gwen Stefani? Well, this one track puts La Stefani to shame, even moreso than that tacky Von Trapp shit she's peddling nowadays.

14. Led Zeppelin- “D’yer Maker,” Houses of the Holy [1973]
Bonus Track: Led Zeppelin- “Fool in the Rain,” In Through the Out Door [1979]
This song is so fucking high. Even if you're not smoking, it'll make you irie. All up in the face.

15. Liza Minnelli- “Bye Bye Blackbird,” Liza with a Z [1972]So sue me. I'm gay. I love Liza. Do I judge you for liking John Mayer? Oh yes, that's right...John Mayer's pretty gay too.

16. Madonna- “Get Together,” Confessions on a Dance Floor [2005]Along with "Hung Up," Madonna's greatest contribution to dance music since "Ray of Light." but really, though, hasn't she given us enough? Time to start giving back, y'all. Help momma Madge to her disco walker.

17. Outkast- “She Lives in My Lap,” Speakerboxxx/The Love Below [2003]I really love Andre 3000's Prince impersonation. Until recently, he was doing a better Prince than the man himself. No better example than this pyscho-sexual romp through eighties funk updated for the funkin' oughties.

18. Prince- “Erotic City,” Let's Go Crazy Single(B-Side) [1984]We can funk until the dawn, making love til cherry's gone. Or something like that. You don't need to know the words to know this song is funking dirty. And also funking funky....Funk.

19. Rufus & Chaka Khan- “Stay,” Street Player [1978]
Bonus Track: Rufus & Chaka Khan- “You Got the Love,” Rags to Rufus [1974]
Okay, I might have lied. Chaka Khan is so transcendent sometimes that she gives Aretha a run for her money...and her fried chicken--I'm sorry I couldn't help myself--just witness the rapture that is "Stay" or the measured funk of "You Got the Love."

20. Sheila E.- “The Glamorous Life,” The Glamorous Life [1984]The best Prince song supposedly not written by Prince, Sheila E. drummed her way forever into my heart with a tale of long mink fur coats in the summertime, i.e. my life.

21. Stevie Wonder- “Ordinary Pain,” Songs in the Key of Life [1976]
Bonus Track: Stevie Wonder- “Knocks Me Off My Feet,” Songs in the Key of Life [1976]
Stevie warms us up and then lets protégé Syreeta turn it up on "Ordinary Pain," giving us two sides to that old break up story. And the chorus of "Knocks Me Off My Feet" makes me wet in the panties. What? You asked...oh, you didn't? Well, I'll just assume you did and we'll leave it at that.

22. TLC- “Creep,” CrazySexyCool [1995] Gosh, remember when R&B was fun? When it wasn't sappy love songs or overproduced faceless by-products? Sometimes, I like to take CrazySexyCool in my arms and weep for hours on end. "Don't go chasin'..."...oh, it's too much.

Portrait at 21

Happy birthday to me. I actually made it. Funny how no age is ever how you thought it’d be, though. At fourteen, I thought I’d have a boyfriend, a car and be at NYU studying film at eighteen. Well, I did the NYU thing, just not film. At eighteen, I’d thought I’d have my own apartment, be getting ready to graduate college and going out every night at twenty-one. Well, I have no plans to graduate, let alone return to school, and I rarely go out as I can’t bare the sight of most people. I’m already an old man, it seems. So at twenty-one, I don’t know where or who I’ll be at thirty. I only have fears of what and who I don’t want to be. For instance, I’m terrified at the prospect of working the same job day in, day out for the next ten, five, or even two years. I’m afraid I’ll still be depressed, alone and weighed down by the baggage of previous years. And I dread losing myself along the way. Now, I’m not afraid of getting old, rather, I welcome it. What I fear is getting old and realizing I’m just as miserable as I was ten years ago. And by miserable, I really mean poor. Because let’s face it, as long as I can afford to buy my happiness in bulk…I’ll feel that I’ve won.

Twenty-one is one of those magic numbers. A threshold year. It’s built up in our adolescent American minds as the final frontier, the official end of your childhood in the eyes of the law and your parents. Clearly we stop seeing ourselves as children once we become teenagers. After all, no one knows the complicated feelings and emotions we experience. They are real, they are painful, they are therefore adult. But I stopped seeing myself as a child when I became a teen for different reasons. When you have no one to treat you as their child, no one to call “Mom” or “Dad” you cease being a child. You’re just a kid. No one’s in particular, you’re nothing special except maybe someone to be pitied. But how I detest pity. But since I was fourteen, I’ve always felt grown-up, more or less. I worked to put food on the table and to help pay bills, and I suffered the consequences of failing to provide for myself. That, I know now, was not true adulthood. There was a safety net, a very shoddy one, but a net nonetheless. There was a great deal of slack afforded to me for my age. There was free lunch at school and friends to whom I could turn when dinnertime rolled around and nothing was left in the cupboards. And there was my brother who tried, but couldn’t quite live up to his role as my guardian. But at twenty-one, the net is all but a faint memory. I’m my own guardian, responsible for myself; I can’t blame anyone for the mistakes I make. Too bad, as shifting blame is one of the cornerstones of childhood. As for school, college gives you its warm insulation from the cold real world and without that, you have to find your own. Thankfully, I still have friends.

When my mom died, I didn’t know to whom to turn or what to do. Suddenly, my family didn’t feel like a family. It was always my mother and I, and occasionally my brother. We came over to this country together and lived in a small one-bedroom apartment together. She was the anchor of my life, and with her gone I was a castaway, adrift at sea. I needed something to latch onto and my friends were the most likely candidates. So they became my family. My friendships mean more to me than anything in the world, so it hurts most when they hurt me. I try not to let it affect me, try not to let anyone see just how much it hurts me to be neglected by them. It feels like being abandoned all over again. And to avoid that, I’d rather be the one to do the abandoning--it gives me some power back. You lose power when you let someone into your life, into who you are, who you were and who you hope to be—-similar to the power I’m giving you as the reader. It comes with loving someone and hoping they love you back. I didn’t know that for the longest time and it was painfully hard to learn. My first deep friendship was hard to live through. When she hurt me It hurt more than anyone else had ever hurt me before and I wanted to hurt her just as much as she had me. So we fought constantly, but when I needed her she was there (usually) and when she needed me, I was there (usually). We had to work through all of our fighting and I had to let her in and thankfully she was patient enough to wait for me. If anything, I looked forward to my 21st birthday to celebrate it with my friends, as without them, I doubt I would have made it this far. I didn’t care about the actual birthday because as far as I was concerned, the age couldn’t tell me anything I hadn’t already known. It was the celebration that would allow me to reflect on the journey. Therefore, it was paramount that the most important people in my life be there to celebrate it with me. The fact that some weren’t there hurts more than I thought it would. But then again, I could just be on my period. My breasts have been rather tender as of late. Or maybe I’m just realizing what’s really important in life. Drugs, drinking and going out every night are great, but it’s not what makes life worth all the bullshit it puts you through. What makes it worth it are the people whose voices on the other side of the phone make your heart just a bit lighter and whose presence means more to you than any gift. Oh, god, when did I become a Lifetime movie of the week? “Not Without My Stepdaughter’s Autistic Husband: The Mary Kay Johansson-Franklin Story.” If you’ll excuse me, I need to stop writing this and go cry on the floor of the bathroom.