grab the brownish area by its points
Merging wasn’t the right word for it. More like seeping into highway traffic. So I idled up the merge lane and finally put my left signal on, where a van gave me no opening. Ok, I sped up to the end of the merge lane. Enough space to edge my nose in. Just when a car’s length opened, the van’s driver—instead of letting me in as the merge lane ended—stepped on her accelerator. I threw the steering wheel right and drove into shoulder. Saved from untimely death.
"Fucker," I pronounced. Then I got behind her and did what I rarely do. I honked. She needed scolding.
Within seconds I moved left into the fast lane, bearing angry and sad thoughts about humankind, wondering why they continue to be assholes, wondering if generally the asshole bar had been raised or if I have lived in Jersey long enough to have melded into a brasher and more assholing culture than I was born into.
A cop was in my rearview. I wondered what he knew. Lights flashed in my rearview. Fuck. Naturally I was being pulled over for having angry thoughts. Rarely do I act out angrily. Almost every time, though, something nasty happens in return. Karma’s way of telling me to calm the fuck down, that nothing matters. Finding a spot to stop took a stretch. Siren went whoop-whoop. Cop ran me off the left side of the road and drove on.
And then I went to work where a pile of dirty-stimulant tasks buzzed on my desk. Black coffee.
Last night I watched the first four episodes of Arrested Development with my roommates. After the third episode I took off my sweatshirt, then looked down and saw I was wearing my kelly green t-shirt with "HANDJOB" spelled out in white letters across the front. Further down I remembered I was wearing white socks with "I (heart symbol) BOYS" spelled out in red glitter around the ankle. My roommates are male and the most convenient set-up for DVD-viewing in the house is on the one roommate's bed. The way things come together is by some black comic magic corn.
Until last Friday evening I had thought I was composed of Swiss, German, and Native American blood. Last Friday my mom told me I have a great-great-great-great grandmother who shares my first and middle names (though she’s a Sara with an ‘h’). She wore long blazing red hair and was Irish as can be.
My mom also informed me that it’s possible we’ve also got black blood in our lines. Apparently she’s got keloid scars, which is most common to people with dark skin. Her doctor had asked her about our roots. As yet, this is inconclusive.
I have pale skin, dark brown hair, and dark brown eyes, relatively high cheek bones, moderately slim and long nose, and somewhat thin lips (unless I’ve just eaten Chinese food containing a large dose of the devil nectar*). I’m about the whitest person I know. Hear me say, Word. It’s as stiff as the stuffy doctor’s collar. Ax my friends.
The Irish could explain my affinity for Guinness and more Guinness, and why I keep dying my hair red. The latter could explain my affinity for James Brown, my pulsing inner desire to be a funky black man. I have long had a dream of making an instructional video: How-to-write-your-own-James-Brown-song.
Sometimes you have to grab the brownish area by its points and run with it. That’s why, for writing purposes, I’m changing my name to Handjob Whiskey Jackson. Find my books in your local corporate bookstore, either in African-American lit. or gender studies. Find my videos, of course, in foreign self-help films. There is space enough to edge in anywhere.
*devil nectar: really fucking hot sauce at New Kahala in Carbondale, Illinois; trying to impress my dad once I dumped a few heaping tablespoons on my already spicy garlic chicken, my lips swelled up for four hours.
"Fucker," I pronounced. Then I got behind her and did what I rarely do. I honked. She needed scolding.
Within seconds I moved left into the fast lane, bearing angry and sad thoughts about humankind, wondering why they continue to be assholes, wondering if generally the asshole bar had been raised or if I have lived in Jersey long enough to have melded into a brasher and more assholing culture than I was born into.
A cop was in my rearview. I wondered what he knew. Lights flashed in my rearview. Fuck. Naturally I was being pulled over for having angry thoughts. Rarely do I act out angrily. Almost every time, though, something nasty happens in return. Karma’s way of telling me to calm the fuck down, that nothing matters. Finding a spot to stop took a stretch. Siren went whoop-whoop. Cop ran me off the left side of the road and drove on.
And then I went to work where a pile of dirty-stimulant tasks buzzed on my desk. Black coffee.
Last night I watched the first four episodes of Arrested Development with my roommates. After the third episode I took off my sweatshirt, then looked down and saw I was wearing my kelly green t-shirt with "HANDJOB" spelled out in white letters across the front. Further down I remembered I was wearing white socks with "I (heart symbol) BOYS" spelled out in red glitter around the ankle. My roommates are male and the most convenient set-up for DVD-viewing in the house is on the one roommate's bed. The way things come together is by some black comic magic corn.
Until last Friday evening I had thought I was composed of Swiss, German, and Native American blood. Last Friday my mom told me I have a great-great-great-great grandmother who shares my first and middle names (though she’s a Sara with an ‘h’). She wore long blazing red hair and was Irish as can be.
My mom also informed me that it’s possible we’ve also got black blood in our lines. Apparently she’s got keloid scars, which is most common to people with dark skin. Her doctor had asked her about our roots. As yet, this is inconclusive.
I have pale skin, dark brown hair, and dark brown eyes, relatively high cheek bones, moderately slim and long nose, and somewhat thin lips (unless I’ve just eaten Chinese food containing a large dose of the devil nectar*). I’m about the whitest person I know. Hear me say, Word. It’s as stiff as the stuffy doctor’s collar. Ax my friends.
The Irish could explain my affinity for Guinness and more Guinness, and why I keep dying my hair red. The latter could explain my affinity for James Brown, my pulsing inner desire to be a funky black man. I have long had a dream of making an instructional video: How-to-write-your-own-James-Brown-song.
Sometimes you have to grab the brownish area by its points and run with it. That’s why, for writing purposes, I’m changing my name to Handjob Whiskey Jackson. Find my books in your local corporate bookstore, either in African-American lit. or gender studies. Find my videos, of course, in foreign self-help films. There is space enough to edge in anywhere.
*devil nectar: really fucking hot sauce at New Kahala in Carbondale, Illinois; trying to impress my dad once I dumped a few heaping tablespoons on my already spicy garlic chicken, my lips swelled up for four hours.
5 Comments:
What happened with the cop? You left me hanging... I met a boy from Carbondale at school, we shared tales of how different we thought Chi-town was gonna be. I think we dye our hair red because it's sassy...
Oh, the cop drove on. Because I was going 70 I was still slowing down when he blew me off the road, the fucker. Those C'dale folk are everywhere. Sassy, I'll take. I was being fanciful about doing it because I'm now Irish.
The amount of assholes in Jersey is to prep you for when you need to deal with New Yorkers or New Englanders; it's a stepping stone!
There was just this whole 'Independent Lens' episode on PBS last night discussing Parliament-Funkadelic, so there was necessity for them to mention James Brown quite a bit. I would be able to tell you more if I watched it all. Alas, it conflicted with the Nets game so it was relegated to commercial time.
African-Americans...we're everywhere! I subscribe to the belief that everyone has some of every race on Earth in us if we go back far enough. And you can't go by looks. You hear the story of the African-American history professor who discovered he has zero genetic roots to Africa? I'll try and find the link.
Peace out, my nizzles, fo' shizzle.
Monkey Migraine, you've gotta be right. I can hardly wait until I discover my Japanese roots.
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