My Whitney Houston Story (well,...not Whitney per se)--Part 2* (*Scroll Down for Part 1):

Of course I eventually went to Rosedale with those gals, but not before I felt things out a little better. I mean, these were two very hot women and I’m just a regular guy, doing the regular things that normal people do. So the investigator in me had to be soothed a bit.

“So hey,” I told them as we progressed towards the train stop, “you’re not gonna pull the old East-coast flim-flam on me when we get there are you?”

“What?” Whitney asked with a laugh. “What is d’at? East-coast flim-flam?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, “...not really sure myself. Just seems quite a coincidence is all. With that bookmark, and you sitting next to me and then going out to that guy’s house today of all days.”

“What do you think we would do to you?” Khatija asked, eyes fixed on mine as she leaned across Whitney in my direction.

“I don’t know. Maybe you’re a pair of hot bad-asses or something. Or maybe someone’s gonna gack me when we get to that house.”

“Oh my God! Really?” Khatija exclaimed incredulously in her very London accent. She was actually from Trinidad-Tobago, but we’ll get to that. For now, she and Whitney shared a laugh.

“’ere, I’m going to show you somet’ing,” Whitney said, as she dug into her bag again and this time pulled out a Black Hair Magazine. She thumbed through the pages ‘til she found what she wanted. Then plopped the open magazine on my lap.

“Look,” she said as she tapped at the magazine’s glossy pages with a long, painted fingernail. It was a two-page photo spread; both sides of the magazine, that featured her in about a half-dozen different hair styles and weaves. Flirty Whitney, bobbed-hair Whitney, extensions Whitney; afro-Whitney, blonde Whitney.

“Oh wow, you know who you look just like in this one here?” I asked.

Whitney and Khatija both answered at once.

“Whitney Houston!”

“Right. Guess you get that a lot.”

Keep in mind this was almost ten years ago, so Whitney Houston was still a decent beauty. And Jamaican Whitney was even prettier than the real Whitney. Fuller lips and hips. More plush. And probably a few years younger than me.

But this isn’t about Whitney Houston. Or Jamaican Whitney. At least, not per se. In fact, I’m not sure what this post’s really about, though perhaps its meaning is buried somewhere in that walk over to the photographer’s house in Rosedale.

I exited the train with those two gorgeous gals in tow, feeling a lot different about myself and life than I had 20 minutes earlier. All eyes watched as we trundled through the narrow train aisle, then it was about a two block walk through brightly painted, framed houses and middle-income, Long Island streets. It was probably 90 degrees outside. Not a cloud in the sky as I made my way in my flip-flops and backpack.

I heard the hip-hop before we got to the two-story house. It blared out the open, upstairs windows; and once oriented I saw a line of gals that spilled-out the house’s front door to the porch. I don’t know if there was a hundred--more like twenty or so; but these gals all could have been straight out of Smooth Magazine. Or better--by which I mean high-end fashion magazines. It was hot outside, so there were halter tops and short-shorts and thin cotton dresses and those low-cut jeans that were still somewhat new to me back then.

And once we got inside there were girls in bikini’s queued-up to get their pics taken. From the first floor down to the basement they stood in line, and all of them had these comp cards or...I forget what they call ‘em, but they’re these oversized, glossy business cards with 5 or 6 shots of the girl in various styles and poses. The card lists the girl’s representation or agent’s contact; and all the girls either had one or were on line to pick their’s up.

It was like straight out of a Jay-Z video, with that hip-hop simply blasting from upstairs. Turned out the music was the photographer’s son who had a music studio in his bedroom. Just like his dad, the son had about a half-dozen people that streamed out his bedroom door, down the stairs from the 2nd floor. The son was mixing hip-hop CD’s with guys rapping over their tracks and whatnot. And just like with the dad, the rappers were waiting for their finished discs or to cut theirs.

Everybody in the place was entrepreneurial. Had business going on. Except me of course, who simply floated round in my flip-flops and oversized beach hat. All skinny legs, pale skin, and awed respect for the turns life can take.

After asking around, Jamaican Whitney worked her way down to the basement to locate the photographer. That left me upstairs with Khatija. Alone for the first time.

She was from Trinidad-Tobago, I know I mentioned that. Trinidad and London, where her family lived now. She had a skin-tone that’s featured in another magazine called SHOW. Unlike Smooth, which actually features black models, every model in SHOW has the same mysterious range of caramel-colored skin. Like the progeny of those models from United Colors of Benetton. Its obviously an air-brush, but it doesn’t bother me. In fact, its funny that this has now become a type or a demographic niche to be marketed. An idealized shade for someone with a certain aesthetic sense.

“What do you think we’re gonna do to you?” Khatija asked as she widened her exotic eyes.

“I don’t know. Nothing right?”

“Well that’s not how you’re looking at me,” she said with a laugh.






* NOTE: Due to the length of this post I'm going to split it into another part. Next installment in a few days.

* ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images with the exception of those in which I appear. Images are included simply to enhance the story and I'm sure copyrights exist on photos culled from Smooth and Show Magazines.

My Whitney Houston Story (well,...not Whitney per se):

I wanted to write my Whitney Houston story back when news of her death first broke; but I was in the middle of writing Buttons and Jules and felt I had to finish it. There was no urgency anyway since its not really a Whitney Houston story per se. I just call it my Whitney Houston story.

I think its really a story about my homemade bookmark (see above). I’ve had it for years now and its held my place in all the books I’ve read for close to a decade: Augie March, House of the Dead, Hard Times, Sexus, Nexus, On the Road, The Hundred Brothers, Winesburg, Ohio--a billion more! Every book I’ve read since I’m a New Yorker.

The girl on my bookmark is named Farrah. Or she calls herself Farrah--I don’t know if that’s a real name or not. I got her picture from Smooth Magazine, which I used to buy all the time before the internet killed print. I used to have a real big thing for black girls--a holdover from my Detroit days, though my taste has become a little more varied here in New York.

Still, Farrah’s one hot piece-of-ass, even if this pic was taken almost a decade ago. By now she’s probably got two kids and at least 20+ pounds to go with her $200 dollar, bi-weekly hair-weave expense; but I ain’t what I used to be either (and never was much to begin with). So call me up sometime Farrah!!

I suppose it’d be interesting to see what Farrah looks like now. I’ve looked at her face and body so often over the years I wonder if I’d recognize her on the street. Even after the changes of a decade. Did she win in life? Get what she wanted? We’ve shared a lot of good books and intermissions, so I certainly hope so.

But wait, this post’s supposed to be about Whitney (stay focused Lodo!). Not Whitney Houston per se, but a girl who looked just like a young, pre-crack Whitney who I met on my way out to Long Beach. This was about 6 or 7 years ago, on a sunny Saturday afternoon where I’d taken a seat on the Long Island Railroad next to the window.

On the LIRR you sit on leather benches wide enough for (3) people. The odd number creates all kinds of mixed social situations where parties of two are often matched-up with 3rd-wheel loners like myself. This happens all the time on the LIRR or the subway, and results in a lot of chance meetings. Particularly with women. You’re already on the same train, in the same city, going literally in the same direction if not the same destination. Oh my God--we have so much in common! And if she’s from out of town that’s great too. You know where such and such is? Sure, that’s east side. Let me show you. There’s no sexual overtones like in a bar; and conversation is easily spontaneous. Its just nice.

On this Saturday afternoon I sat alone on the train to Long Beach, next to the window as people boarded at Penn Station. There were two open seats to my immediate right; but I paid no attention since I had my book and wasn’t in a particularly social mood. I can’t remember the book, but I recall being immersed in it when I suddenly felt the presence of weight on my bench, followed immediately by the sound of female voices.

“I like your bookmark,” the voice closest to me said as she pointed at Farrah. If you didn’t know your accents you might think she was British, but I had a very serious thing for black chicks; so I knew even before I turned that she was Jamaican.

But I didn’t get confirmation ‘til I addressed her comment; and it was then that I found myself face-to-face with my young Whitney Houston look-a-like and her even more gorgeous friend from London named Khatija.

“You like that?” I asked Whitney as I held up the bookmark and we inspected it together.

“Oh yeah,” she answered in her West Indian accent, “she’s a pretty girl. But I hope I don’t disappoint you when I say she may not be very natural.”

“No?” I asked, “Why do you say that?”

“Well I know her,” she responded. “Or I’ve seen her. I’m friends with the photographer who took d'at picture.”

Here Whitney took the bookmark from my hand and showed it to her friend Khatija. The two inspected the photograph closely as they proceeded to comment on the lighting as well as dissect all the feminine tricks used by Farrah and her photographer.

“You want to hear something funny?” Whitney asked as she handed me back the bookmark.

“What?” I responded.

“We’re on our way to d’at photographer’s house right now. He lives in Rosedale and he’s going to videotape my audition for William Morris. You know who d’ey are?”

Indeed I did since my old buddy Jake was an actor.

“Wow, really?” I asked. “I’m a big fan of Smooth magazine.”

Both gals laughed.

“Well, he does all their photography from his house,” Whitney said, “If you see a girl in d’ere, he probably took her picture. This one here,” she said as she pointed at my bookmark, “d’at was taken in his basement. I can tell.”

“Oh wow.”

Wow. Great response, eh reader? Must have really been on my game. But in fact we got to talking and eventually Whitney opened her overnight bag and extracted a couple of dog-eared sheets of typewritten paper.

“You want to help me with my lines?” Whitney asked. “The more I rehearse the better.”

“Uh,..okay.”

So Whitney gave me my lines and proceeded to perform her scene right there on the train with no embarrassment or hesitation whatsoever. It was a scene from either CSI or Law and Order. I forget which one, but every aspiring actor in New York apparently has to appear on one of these shows before they move to the next level.

Anyway, Whitney played my character’s old girlfriend, and she laid into me there on the train about how she couldn’t support me anymore and had to leave and was taking the kid and wouldn’t be back (at which point she began to cry). She was good!--and the scene made a lot of sense. Of course this hot Jamaican babe was leaving me and of course she had to take our snot-nosed mulatto kid, and why should she support my freeloading, blog-writing, dope-smoking ass?

And that sing-song accent of hers! I really responded to that since she reminded me of my old girlfriend Judith who I dated back in the early ‘90’s.

Well, we finished our scene and by then I was breathing hard; with dilated pupils and a racing heartbeat. I wanted to reach out to Jamaican Whitney and say Baby, I can change. Don’t go. You me and little snot-nosed Lodo--we can make it! We can...

I was in the moment for real and both Whitney and her friend Khatija could tell.

“Wow,” Whitney said to me, “I’m getting a whole different vibe reading wit’ you than I do with Khatija.”

“Well of course,” Khatija chimed in, “he’s a man. He brings out different things. Read it again.”

So we read it again--or Whitney did (I only had 3 lines, none of which were successive). The 2nd reading was even better than the first, and when she’d finished Whitney had a very decisive look.

“Hey, maybe you want to come wit' us to Rosedale?” she asked. “That way Khatija can be behind the camera and I can read my lines to you.” (here Whitney gestured towards Khatija). “Khatija knows all my angles and can tell ‘im how to shoot me. ‘Cause I know what’s gonna happen when we get d’ere. There’s going to be a hundred girls waiting for their pictures and he’s only going to give me just a bit of time.”

“...There’s going to be a hundred girls there?” I asked.

“Umm hmm. But that doesn't help me 'cause now I see I need to read with a man.”

“So you should come with us,” Khatijia said with an inviting smile.

And oh man! that Khatija was really, really beautiful.




* NOTE: Due to the length of this post I'm going to split it into another part. Next installment in a few days.

* ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images with the exception of those in which I appear. Images are included simply to enhance the story and copyrights may exist.

NYC Pics and a Clip* (*Be sure to Enlarge for Full-view):

"King B" at work in the Bronx:










* NOTE: All pics taken by Lodo Grdzak. 5 Boroughs of NYC. All rights reserved.

Lodo Grdzak's Status Report (Chauncey Billups, Jeremy Lin, Race and the Blues):

It feels good to have finished Buttons and Jules and to know I can write a longer post. Now I’m wondering if I should go back and finish Streams From My Russian Intermission. I think of it whenever I see Vladimir Putin, which seems to be a lot these days.

Course it took me over 2 months to write about Buttons and Jules; and theirs was only a 5 day visit, so how long is it gonna take me to write about 14 days in Russia and all the crazy shit that happened there?

Come to think of it, my carpal tunnel and herniated discs might need a break.

Speaking of injuries--like my favorite NBA baller Chauncey Billups, I’ve torn my achilles tendon. I’ve had the injury for months, though its gotten progressively worse. Unlike world champion Chauncey (who probably got his MRI performed and diagnosed within half an hour), I had to wait 3 months before my insurance company gave me authorization--then wait an additional 3 weeks to actually get the MRI done. All that time I just worked and ran around like my only problem was getting old and soft. Don’t punk out Lodo. Even my doctor initially doubted it was torn.

“Usually you know right away when you do it. The fact you can’t say for sure, tells me its probably just inflamed.”

But then we got the results back and he was like “Damn, you’ve got a 16 mm tear.” (That was just how he said it).


So now I wear the boot you see here (above). Or I’m supposed to. Except its hard to walk any real distance in it since the lopsided, imbalanced gait created by the boot really messes-up my hips and back. Christ fuck. Moral of the story--don’t get freaking old!

On a related matter, if you wanna buy a genuine Lodo Grdzak-owned Xootr scooter (as seen below), I’ll start the bidding at $45 dollars (plus shipping and handling).



But getting back to that NBA, I suppose Chauncey Billups and I wont live out our final years of high-level performance in New York. That was one of my biggest disappointments (aside from the strike-shortened season itself). The fact that the Knicks traded Chauncey. He’s played in all my cities--Detroit; Denver; New York and always elevated those teams to another level.

Then the trade.

Then the injury.

Yet its funny how life works. The Monday after The Giants won The Superbowl I had (2) appointments scheduled in Manhattan. I was smart enough to schedule them for late afternoon, but both still cancelled. The first guy didn’t even try to make an excuse,

“Oh wow Mr. Grdzak, wasn’t that incredible last night? God, my wife and I almost cried. And I’m so hungover! Can we re-schedule for tomorrow or maybe later in the week? We didn’t get to bed 'til after 3:00. Great, go Giants right?!!!!”

Whatever.

My 2nd appointment wasn’t much different, but I only bring it up ‘cause now I was in Manhattan with nothing to do. With this sudden intermission I decided to walk to the The Garden to investigate the cost of a Knick ticket. Knick star Amare Stoudemire wasn’t playing that night (his brother had just died in a car accident); and a lot of commuters had played hooky from work. Couple all that with an unpopular Utah Jazz opponent, and I was able to buy a scalped ticket for $15 dollars cash-money at game time.

That was Monday, February 6th.

Try to get that deal today.



Whether its scripted or real, I have to say I love the Jeremy Lin story. I do think its a little serendipitous the way his unexpected rise from nowhere coincided with the visit of China’s new President Xi Jinping; but that said, I think he’s a real deal player. He’s strong. Exciting. Different.

Course once you get race involved things get sticky (we know that!). In fairness to Floyd Mayweather Jr., I do think there’s a certain section of America that relishes the idea of the black ballplayers being bested at “their game.” These people will quickly embrace a white or (in this case) Asian player, but don’t have the capacity or willingness to root for a black player. Its true Floyd, I agree.

But that said, you can’t just dismiss Lin’s game. His numbers have been off the chart these past 3 weeks--particularly his scoring (the ref’s can’t put the ball in the basket for you). For a 24 year old who’s never been a starter, he’s got great leadership skills. And from what I’ve seen he’s handled the pressure of New York better than A-Rod, Rex Ryan, or a whole host of so-called stars. Hell, he single-handedly saved coach Mike D’Antoni’s job--at least for this season; and if coach gets an extension I’d say he owes Lin some money.

So Floyd, while I say this with great respect for your ability to kick the shit out my ass; please drop the racial bullshit.

And yet there’s another brand of racism out there that hasn’t been discussed. I know ‘cause I’ve seen it first-hand at The Garden. It’s the Asian racists, though exactly who their racist against is an open question. These fans seem to attribute Lin’s success to his Harvard education and because he’s “so smart.”

“Very intelligent,” these Asians will say to me as they tap their index finger against their temple. “He knows.”

Knows what reader? How to put the ball in the basket? How to find an open man? I’m not sure what’s being implied. Jeremy Lin’s no smarter on the court than Chris Paul, or Derron Williams, or Rajon Rondo, or Jason Kidd, or Derrick Fisher--or probably a whole host of others. Lin’s 6’ 2” tall, over 200 pounds. Deceptively quick and very driven. By his own admission he’s been studying Steve Nash since he was a kid and has been playing organized basketball for over half his life. He didn’t just walk on to the court after Geometry class. So I’m not sure where these Chinese and Taiwanese fans are coming from. The guy’s a seriously gifted athlete, end of story.

But the politics gets sticky on this stuff.

Anyway, on that final subject of politics, let me ask you a fairly easy question reader. You think Mitt Romney would have invited Jeff Beck or Mick Jagger to perform at The White House? How bout Newt Gingrich? Think Buddy Guy or Keb Mo are on Newt’s radar? How ‘bout Rick Santor--oh please, forget it!

Watch Red White and Blues on PBS. See more from In Performance at The White House.

Watch Brush with the Blues on PBS. See more from In Performance at The White House.

See you in a few days y’all.


* NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images except for those in which I appear. All rights reserved on my stuff.

Epilogue to Up, Down, and All Over the Map (When Buttons Met Jules)--Conclusion* (*Scroll down for all Previous Installments):

"...I was dead for a minute and 52 seconds in that ambulance."

"You think they're gonna put my face on the cover of God-damn Fortune magazine?!"


Readers can take what they will from the respective stories of Buttons and Jules, but I think our bartender put it best. He’d listened as they told their tale (the bar still wasn’t too busy then); and when Jules left to answer a call and Buttons got up for the bathroom, we shared a moment.

“So today’s the last day?,” he said to me with his thick Irish accent.

“For them,” I answered, “I live here.”

“...Right. You know them from out west then?”

“Yeah--Buttons I know. A little bit. Jules I just met.”

The bartender smiled and nodded in a manner that suggested conspiracy.

“...They’re wild,” he finally said a bit hesitantly.

But he got no argument from me.

It was Jules who returned first. He plopped himself down on the stool beside me. Gave my back a slap.

“Lodo, what’s up motherfucka? Where’s Buttons?”

“She’s over there,” (I pointed toward the back), “lined up for the bathroom.”

“Oh good, good brother. This’ll give us a chance to talk.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah man, listen. I don’t know if you remember the other night--at dinner? You remember what you and I got to talking about?”

“...Maybe,” I answered grudgingly, hoping he wouldn’t go where I feared he was going.

“ ‘Cause listen buddy,” he said as he threw his arm round my shoulder and spoke into my ear, “Buttons tells me you ain’t got no job right now.”

“That’s not true Jules--I work for myself. I’m not tearing it up, but I’ve got a pair of clients. I’m alright.”

“Yeah, well, listen brother. One thing I’ve learned in this life is you’ve gotta live now. I was dead for a minute and 52 seconds in that ambulance--did I mention that? Shit like that makes you think. We’ve all got an expiration date. And you know what? I like it! Makes you get up and do shit. If you’ve got the balls! Know what I mean?”

“..I think so.”

“Ha! I think so. I know you do Lodo! I saw that right from the start. Let me ask you something else. ...You know where _____ is?”

“Yeah that’s probably five or six hours from here.”

“Five or six hours, eh? So that’s what--ten, eleven hours roundtrip? How’d you like to make ten grand for ten hours? How’s that sound? A thousand bucks an hour?...”

I began to shift on my stool and look ‘round for Buttons toward the bathrooms. She was laughing with a group of guys and hadn’t even gone in yet. Oh you betcha!...

“No, I mean it Lodo!” Jules insisted as he pulled me closer, “plus you’ll keep an ounce or two for yourself. Listen. Its just like I said. My problem’s distribution. I’ve got all the product you want--enough for half the east coast. Killer stuff! From the Pacific Northwest. You’ll see, I’ll get you some samples, but I need to find a way to move it. That’s my problem. I’ve got a good pilot--hell, the best. But I need a driver who can pick it up and bring it inland...”

I sent out all the non-verbal cues for Jules to stop, but all he saw was green lights.

“...I’ve gotta fly a certain number of pounds before I make money, but not so much that I draw attention. Gas is a bitch and my pilot’s top-notch. I don’t get any breaks there. You pay for that, but its worth it. Just like I’d pay for a good driver Lodo. Like you brother! Someone I could trust. Can’t be cheap on that shit. You see the business considerations that run thru my mind? I crunch all the numbers, but you think they’re gonna put my freaking face on the cover of God damn Fortune magazine?!”

Jules leaned back in his stool to allow his words to sink in, but now he’d grown excited. He clasped my bicep and drew me in close again.

“What I’m saying is you’ve got yourself a chance to get real rich here, so think about it. You could do a run every couple of months once we get this thing rolling. Even if you got busted you wouldn’t serve more than a hundred and twenty days. I know! Shit, by then you’d be so rich you wouldn’t care anyway. I’ll show you where to put your money. But you won’t get busted ‘cause even with the pounds I move I’m still not big enough for the Feds! I’m smart that way.”

Again Jules leaned back on his stool and took a dramatic sip of his whiskey and water. Like a born-again preacher he’d worked himself up, with beads of sweat visible near his temples as he rocked in his seat. To my amazement he still seemed to expect some kind of acknowledgment or even acceptance on my end. Despite all my mannerisms and gestures to suggest the contrary the guy had a zombie’s empathy.

We locked eyes.

“So what d’ya think Lodo? You wanna get rich?”

“..It’s a lot to think about Jules.”

We continued to lock eyes for several awkward seconds, ‘til Jules suddenly and unexpectedly dismissed me with a wave of his hand.

“...Ah! I should’ve known. Look at you. You don’t need it like I do.”

Jules let me off the hook with that last comment so I should have been relieved; yet it was said with such condescension and seeming disappointment I almost felt compelled to defend myself. We’d been together five days now, and suddenly all the fatigue brought on by Jules’ manic energy hit me at that moment. It was a force to contend with--tangibly felt, like the sour whiskey in my belly.

And of course now I saw what he’d been after. Or assumed I did. The fight. The dinners. The show. The compact discs. All business expenses for Jules I suppose. Marketing. If he were in another line of work he’d have kept the receipts.

“...Its a lot to think about Jules.”

With little else to say, we both looked for Buttons at the same time; but she was still laughing it up with the guys playing darts near the bathroom.

So we sat silently for awhile.

Jules removed his fedora and gently placed it on the bar. He wiped the sweat off his brow and ran his hand through his thin, grey hair. For the first time since the day we met I was struck by how old he was. He probably had 20 years on Buttons and me, yet he drank me under the table every night and was first one up in the morning. I never saw him sleep. The guy was animated. Or possessed. He’d broken almost every bone in his body, but was still infused with that wild spirit the bartender mentioned.

Only now, on this rare occasion where he sat quiet and alone--spent of ideas, he struck me as possibly tired. He didn’t approach Buttons, yet I could see that intermissions or alone time were not his friend. He was too restless for that. He had to keep moving. Engage. Go mano v. mano with someone, that’s what excited him. But with no outward thrust, his energies turned inward, where they bounced round the rubber-walled rooms of his mind.

I looked at my cellphone for the time.

“Hey Jules, I’m gonna step outside for a second.”

He acknowledged me silently, with a lift of his hand.

Outside I’d planned to smoke a one-hit. Or two, but now it was close to rush hour and I had to deal with the hundreds of commuters en route to Herald Square. Still, I needed the air since we’d been in the bar for hours, so I took a few deep breaths as I watched the skirts pass. Listened as ghetto chicks screamed into their cellphones and felt the sidewalk shake as the subway cars passed below. There were car horns. The hissing air brakes of a city bus. Hotel doormen blew metal whistles at passing taxi’s. I stood out there awhile.

By the time I went back inside the place had filled up. Patrons stood packed along the length of the bar, and my old spot next to Jules was now taken by a pair of big construction workers. Union guys, with the hard hat and local # printed on their hoodies. I could have weaseled my way in; but instead I kept a disinterested, investigator’s distance. But I could hear Jules.

“Man that Margarito is one tough fucking Mexican!”

“Yeah, I know he’s tough as hell,” responded one of the construction guys. “But I heard Cotto whipped his ass.”

“Brother, Cotto never even hurt Margarito! Cotto’s got nothing (here Jules poked the construction guy lightly in the chest with his index finger). "If Margarito got two more rounds he'd have won.”

Maybe reader. But if Jules had any EQ at all he'd have picked up on the not so subtle gesture the construction worker made when he’d been touched. The drop of his eyes to the spot on his vest. The look back at Jules. The guy may have been Puerto Rican himself. Or black. Could have been about a half-dozen ethnicities really; but Jules didn’t care. For him it was nothing but green lights. Luckily the worker let it go.

“Yeah, I know those Mexicans are tough,” he said as he exchanged a tacit look with his fellow co-worker.

“Mexicans and Filipino’s” the other worker said, “they’re toughest pound for pound. But they ain’t real big!”

All agreed on that deep point and emphasized it with a hit from their drinks.

“...Yeah, now you see,” Jules chimed in. “Now we’re really talking. I appreciate this brothers." (here Jules jabbed with his index finger again) “Like last nigh...”

“Hey, watch that finger buddy,” one of the workers said.

“What?” Jules asked. “Yeah, alright. Anyway, I like how we’re really talking here. Now listen, let me ask you guys, as long as were on this subject. I want your opinion on something. Last night we went to this concert--Dave Douglas, you know who that is?”

Of course they didn’t.

“Well, we go to this concert and I wind up sitting next to this real corporate bitch and her..”

Oh my god Jules, you’ve gotta be kidding me.

“...husband and we get to talking about these debates on TV, right? One thing leads to the next and somehow we get on Obama. Now I don’t know how you feel ‘bout this guy. I mean, seems like he’s got a stick up his ass and all, but at the same time he certainly got handed a pile of shit from old silver sp...”

If there was a time for me to intervene, this was it. Not only was Jules moving at breakneck pace down a possibly very slippery slope, but he’d already begun to fling that index finger around again. Wouldn’t be long now, one way or another. I watched things play out with a sort of fascination as I considered what obligations I may have to this wild brother of mine.

And the answer wasn't exactly immediate.





* NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images and are included simply to enhance the story. No relation to the writer. Copyrights may exist.

Not exactly on point, but not so far off either (particularly with oil over $100 a barrel):