When I was 18 I had somewhat of a super hero complex left over from my childhood. I had grown up with Batman as my hero and had an inflated sense that a trained person should be in a position to stop crime. That plus my absorption of Frank Miller's seminal "The Dark Knight Returns" pushed this all into high gear for me. The Batman was back and was badder than ever. Now it was my turn.

Dressing up in tights and a cape was would have been way over the top and besides as much as jumping from building to building would have appealed to me I'm deathly afraid of heights. But oh did I want to do it. Fuck Michael Keaton. I didn't need no stinkin' stunt double.

So instead I did the next best thing. I joined the Guardian Angels. That's right, red beret and all. The Angeles had just moved into the Village in Manhattan. I walked right down to their office and signed up. Well, there was nothing to sign. All you had to do was ask to be in and you were in. They gave you a different shirt than the standard one during your "training period". The was the same except for the words "I support the Guardian Angels" written on the front. When I was given this shirt to wear I found out that there were three levels of Guardian Angel: I Support, Guardian Angel, and Leader. I Supports couldn't do much of anything. You could follow along with patrols and partake in activities but that was about it. Guardian Angels could lead patrols and take with them whoever they wanted. Leaders could take patrols on trains and potentially setup their own operations in other parts of town or cities. Leaders basically told everyone else what to do.

Oh, we had knicknames too. Unlike knicknames in the rest of the world our names were self proclaimed. The idea was to give yourself a knick name not of who you were but of what you wanted to convey. Some had OK names. Hannibal was one of my favorite ones. However, not many people are that creative. We had 3 "Ninja"s. One "Rambo". One "Unique" (well that one got points on originality). Curtis Sliwa's knickname was "Rock". It was an old name he was given due to his ability to stay up for days at a time. The comic book geek in me settled on "Daredevil". Daredevil patrolled the streets of NYC as well. I was 18 and I was inspired. Sue me.

Some cool things I got to do as a Guardian Angel included:

Seeing the premiere to Robocop.
Being in a Mick Jagger video. ("Let's Work". You can catch about 12 nanoseconds of me just before they cut back to Mr. Moose Lips.)
Winding up in a Martial Arts magazine.
Getting to eat all the leftover Popeye's Fried Chicken I could want.


Looks like I might have to stretch this out to a two part story. To be continued.

So I just got finished watching the "Let's kill the kykey hebbey jewey jew" episode of Star Trek the next generation. Character actor Saul Rubinek plays a "collector" who steals Mr. Data. Amazingly enough it is the emotionless android Commander Data who grows to hate the Jewish alien in this episode. His programmed logic leads him to conclude that the Jew must be "thrown down the well."

Something must have happened in the 24th century because I have never seen the visiting Chink captain episode. Although we have had two nips and a gook. Let's not forget the genetically modified Asiatic Khan played by the immortal Mr. Rourke.

I've never seen the episode with the spic or wetback unless we count the half wetback half klingon with the temper problem.

I don't recall ever seeing the dego ginny goomba wop Starfleet Officer save for the possible plumber who just like bathrooms has never been seen on screen.

We've had enough spooks, spades, and jungle bunnies to fill a shuttlecraft. Interesting how that spells diversity. In the USA we're only 10 percent of the population.


That leaves us with Bobo, Ofay, The Man, Cracker, and Peckerwood. Maybe Darwin was on to something. The caucassoid race is so strong that even all the aliens have taken on their features and mannerisms. Save for the Klingons who remain dark and have anger management issues.

Dammed be all that high yellow, butterscotch, oreo, sellout in me doesn't love the show anyway. Fuck it. Live long and prosper Whitey.

Daffy at his finest. After all, it was the yams that did it.

My favorite scene from Napolean Dynamite. The Spanish subtitles make it even better.

If you've read my previous post you know that I started working in the New York City club scene when I was 20 years old. Back then the best clubs in NYC didn't card but rather let you in based up your look. I knew one girl who claimed that she was actually 14. We all called her the Chocolate Girl as she worked her way into clubs by giving out free chocolates to everyone. She looked older and that's all anyone cared about. So being 20 in the club naturally meant that I had to turn 21 at some point during my employment there. That night came and boy was it a night.

On the night of my 21st birthday after we closed up the club the head of security decided to have all of the liquor cabinets opened up. They lined up shots of some evil concoction called an Orange Crush.

Here is the order in which I remember things.

The club closed.

The head of security asked the manager to open the liquor cabinets.

About 20 shots Orange Crush were being poured into glasses.

The DJ, Mark Kamins, fired up some music. He was thrilled to find out that I liked his music.

I was running across the dance floor.

I was throwing up into a trash can on the dance floor.

I was throwing up next to a co-worked into a trash can on the dance floor.

The morning sun of West Broadway hitting me.

Me being put into a cab worrying that I had no money to get home. Someone yelled out that it was paid for.

Trying to find the keys to get into my loft on Chambers St.

Me giving up on the key and falling asleep with my knees tucked to my chest in the doorway.

My neighbor Jim finding me asleep with my knees tucked to my chest in the doorway.

My literally having to crawl out of the elevator and into the loft.

My brother laughing his ass off.

The painful 12 hours that resumed after that.

It was one hell of a night not to remember.

I think we all have had times in our lives where we've been complete poseurs. Usually such things first happen to us around puberty. In our sudden need to break away and be independent we ironically start following others and trying to do what they do. When I was in Junior High School in 1981 Hip Hop culture had begun to flourish. It was the latest way for young people to stick their finger at the "Man." "Hip Hop" became a label to what was new and fashionable in brown and black communities in New York City. Being raised in the artist community of Tribeca I wasn't exactly in touch with was was happening Uptown and in the Bronx. However there were the ghettos in Chelsea nearby the Junior High School I attended. My Junior High was named the Clinton Program. Clinton was housed on the 5th floor of an elementary school. It consisted of 90-100 kids and about 5-6 teachers. It was first class instruction but very socially claustrophobic. There was a very diverse mixture of kids but too few of them at the same time. It was in the 6th grade at Clinton that I first became aware of having a Black identity. Coming back from a field trip on the Subway I was sharing some seats with a few other kids. The leader of our little group was a kids named Andre. Andre was athletic, cool, good looking, and already showing signs of being a man. Quite the 8th grader. He was lecturing us on being black. There was one other black kid in our group who was nodding his head up and down every time Andre made a point.

"None of you can understand what it's like to be black! Just me and Jamal!", Andre exclaimed.

At that point I had what some would call a moment of clarity. I was this little overweight sixth grader with a jacked up afro. But I had to set the record straight.

"Well, I'm half.", I said clear enough for all to hear.

"I heard that!", Andre said proudly as he got up out of his chair to give me five. Jamal got up too. I was now a part of a larger club.

It was on this same train ride that Andre pointed out he had been in that particular subway car before. His graffiti "tag" was in plain site up by the emergency break. He was being congratulated by all. Andre had now become my personal James Dean. The rebirth of slick, the personification of cool. I had to get my own graffiti tag.

The story seriously winds down from here. I had no talent for NYC early 80s style graffiti. My chosen tag was even worse, "Jab". I would scrawl it, in my inept style, all over my note books with store brought felt tip markers. I was actually too scared to draw it on trains. However, there was one time I manage to pull it off. I was completely alone in the train save for one man diagonally across the length of the train from me. He was fast asleep. I curled up in the corner of my seat and snuck out my pen looking out for anyone who should suddenly walk in the train. I managed to pull off one sloppy and tiny "Jab". I was a rebel at last.

As for Andre I remember bumping into him when I was in high school. He was selling newspapers down by the World Trade Center. We always greeted each other warmly. To this day I can still hear him yelling out: "Post! Post final! Post!"

I think my mother at one point belonged to the White Gay Men Who Are Willing To Love Black Women Club. Just like I have been known as the great lesbian converter of my time, my mother did the next to impossible with my father. My father was a gay man when she met him. She managed to get him to play for the other team for 10 years. Forget Pride of Family. That's what her novel should have been about!

After my father she got involved with another gay man named JL. In retrospect JL wasn't just a gay man he was a sterotype. A very talented musical theater perfomer, JL was dramatic, overly emotional, and thin to boot. The relationship didn't last very long and to this day I'm not sure how it ended. It might have had something to do with an exchange that JL and I had when I was 11.

Me: JL, you look so happy.
JL: yes, I just fallen in love.
Me: Oh really? With who?
JL. Michael B.
Me: *????????????????????????*

Welcome to yet another typical event in my childhood.