Friday, October 2, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
"Livin The Dream"
I laid sideways on the top step, scrunched myself up a bit and rolled myself down to the next step, then the next, and then the next. Finally I arrived at the landing halfway up the staircase.
Nobody had noticed, so I reset myself at the first landing and rolled down the rest of stairs to the bottom, I made sure to thud good when hit the carpet at the bottom. Still nobody noticed so I cried.
My parents came around the corner, my dad picked me up and they were both laughing. They did not believe for one second that my roll down the stairs was some type of dangerous accident. My plan was foiled. If this were a hockey game I would have been given a two minute penalty for diving.
I just wanted my parents to show me they cared. They did of course, I just needed reassurance. Life is nothing if not a long winding path of reassurance.
For never being too sure of myself I've done alright, that is mostly because I surround myself with many that did not require reassurance, or who went confidently about finding reassurance in a way that worked for them.
It had been a hot summer, we were all looking forward to our first year of High School.
Smitty threw the frisbee to me, it was a close game. We had been playing Frisbee hockey on the front lawn of Knox Church for the past hour. One net was the between two posts of the cast iron fence, the object was to throw the frisbee past whoever was protecting it. At this time it was Dave, OB for short. I faked high and threw low. Dave rolled, grabbed it in mid air and tossed it back towards our undefended net for a goal. OB and FrontseatFrac, so called because no matter where he went in car he had to have shotgun.
It had been a hot summer, we were all looking forward to our first year of High School.
As Smitty ran back to our goal and picked up the frisbee, a steel-toed platform shoed, bright yellow muscle shirt wearing, wild long haired beast came down the lane looking like he had just killed something with his bare hands, while singing death metal. His eyes were angry and his muscles were pumped. He was a few years older than us.
Smitty just stood and stared, the wild man walked up to him and said, "Give me the Frisbee." Of course the frisbee belonged to me so Smitty obliged. Suddenly it was on the church roof, 50 feet up . Game over, called on account of some crazy prick showing up out of nowhere. OB moved closer to me and said, "I know him, it's Lenny Lafont he's 17, he's drunk and he likes to fight."
Giving up the Frisbee was apparently not enough of a sign of submission as Lenny moved in closer to Smitty and said, "You stupid , freckle faced piece of shit. Why don't you take a swing at me!" Smitty had a bad temper, his face turned red with rage, but he held himself back as he knew he would be pounded by this drunken muscle machine.
Lenny then turned his focus on FrontseatFrac, Frontseat was a bit heavy, which I think comes from sitting in the front seat all the time instead of walking but what do I know. Lenny got up real close to Frac and said, "You fat fucking pig I should just pound you into the ground!" Frontseat quivered, as I would have, as I did.
There was only four of us, and Lenny had already threatened two of us, next in the semi-circle was Dave and then I was last. The tough guys never leave without punching someone out, so I figured I would be the exclamation point on the end of Mr. Lafont's violent steel platform shoed outburst.
Lenny took a step towards Dave and started with some new insults. "Nice long hair, you a fucking girl? You wear dresses" Dave just stood there a bit sideways one fist clenched.
Almost on cue, down the lane comes Donny the dickweed, to assist in the beating, the neighborhood ahole. A skinny loser, but Lenny's laughing buddy. Donny slapped Smitty across the face and turned to Lenny, "What's up buddy? You going to beat up these retards or what?"
Lenny decided to hurl another insult OB's way, as Lenny was looking for a bit of challenge and OB was definitely the biggest of all of us. Lenny puffed his chest up and poked Dave in the ribs, "You are faggot! You should wash your greasy long hair more often." As Lenny turned to me he hurled one last shot at OB. "Nice skinny legs you got there."
My beating was upon me, suddenly a flurry of kicks and punches by OB hit Lenny Lafont in every place that would hurt. They grappled on the ground, dust flying everywhere. Dave had Lenny in a headlock.
To my right another flurry of action broke out as Smitty and Frontseat slammed Donny to the ground and laid in some boots. Dave slowly let Lenny out the headlock while saying, "If you try something I'm sorry but I'm going to have to beat you up again."
I always liked that about OB, he would apologize to someone for beating them up before he did it. Kind of like a well seasoned hitman. Not proud of what he has to do but business is business.
Lenny stood there with his nose bleeding and he asked OB for a hanky. OB had a hanky. Amazing. I don't think I have ever seen one before or since, well maybe as a shitball accessory for a suit at a prom. OB handed the hanky to Lenny like he was feeding a Cobra, since there are really no rules in fights. Lenny took the hanky and thanked him. Frontseat and Smitty put the boots to Donny a couple of more times and the thug train headed back up the lane.
We all turned to OB and thanked him.
I said, "OB why did you jump him?"
OB answered, "He said I have skinny legs, I don't like personal insults. Anything but personal insults."
Yes personal insults were really never appreciated in my hometown.
I grew up in Peterborough, it’s only about 75 minutes from Toronto, but it is it’s own beast. In Peterborough you are more likely to get a punch in the mouth than a hello. This was the 70’s, not a lot mattered growing up in the 70’s. Not a lot that made sense anyway. Cars mattered, the cooler and the louder the better. Hair mattered, the longer and shinier the better, Shoes mattered the higher, and more steel reinforced with optional pointy tips the better. There were lots of scraps, it wasn’t all about winning,it was all about the fighting.
You could fight for no reason at all. Manufacturing a fight involved a few select ingredients. Personal insults are a good start. Like calling somebody "PoodleHead," another sure fire fight starter was any phrase that started with, “Only Homos…” Like "only Homos wait for buses"…Only Homos wear jackets, "Only Homos chew gum," my personal favorite, "Only Homos breath." Only homos was cited as the number one cause of fisticuffs in Peterborough from the years 1975-1980.
The other surefire way to start a fight might be the “What are you looking at guy.”
It would go like this, you could be anywhere, and some guy would just decide it was time to beat you up. No reason, you didn’t have to anything. Suddenly you would be in this Deniroesque drama with some wild eyed dude.
He would somehow catch your eye, and say,
“What are you lookin at?”
To which you would reply.
“Nothing.” He would answer, “So I’m nothing am I?”
You would reply, “No you’re not nothing. I didn’t say that.”
He would say, “What did you say, are you saying I’m too ugly to look at? Is that what you are saying?”
You, “No you are not too ugly.”
At this point, you didn’t have to say anything else.
The guy would just build. “You think I’m attractive, you gay or something.”
“No I don’t," you would answer.
“Why you got a problem with gays?" He would say.
“No,” you would answer.
“Well what’s your problem then?” tough guy would say.
At this point, you might as well offer to beat yourself up. Because it is going to happen.
I've said, “Well I’m not going to fight.”
The answer to that is usually, “Don’t worry you just stand there, I’ll do all the fighting.”
I was not a very good fighter. I had my first fight in Grade one and I lost that. And in my hometown if you can’t fight you better hang with someone who can. I realized I needed some protection.
My protection was Dave he answered my prayers after my first fight in grade one. It wasn’t really a fight. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Standing in front of Francois Gendron during recess. Francois came from a poor family and he lived in a rough neighbourhood. He was a scraggly thin faced kid. As an added bonus to being poor, he had one hand that was a balled up claw. I’d never seen anything like it. I could not help but stare, I think Francois noticed because he gave me a closer look at it. The slap hurt, I went down hard on the gravel of the schoolyard. Francois stood over me. I cried and cried. Dave walked over and asked me what was wrong. I said, “Francois hit me.”
Dave turned to Francois, “Is that right? Did you hit him.”
Francois said, “So what if I did.”
Dave answered very calmly, “If you did, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to beat you up.”
Francois laughed, but only for a second. The next second he was on the ground where the laughs were, only blood.
A bond was created that day. Dave as my protector and me as his friend. I certainly got the better of the deal.
Dave/OB was a champion/legend/hero/whatever else matters in guy world. The world could use a lot more Daves.
Nobody had noticed, so I reset myself at the first landing and rolled down the rest of stairs to the bottom, I made sure to thud good when hit the carpet at the bottom. Still nobody noticed so I cried.
My parents came around the corner, my dad picked me up and they were both laughing. They did not believe for one second that my roll down the stairs was some type of dangerous accident. My plan was foiled. If this were a hockey game I would have been given a two minute penalty for diving.
I just wanted my parents to show me they cared. They did of course, I just needed reassurance. Life is nothing if not a long winding path of reassurance.
For never being too sure of myself I've done alright, that is mostly because I surround myself with many that did not require reassurance, or who went confidently about finding reassurance in a way that worked for them.
It had been a hot summer, we were all looking forward to our first year of High School.
Smitty threw the frisbee to me, it was a close game. We had been playing Frisbee hockey on the front lawn of Knox Church for the past hour. One net was the between two posts of the cast iron fence, the object was to throw the frisbee past whoever was protecting it. At this time it was Dave, OB for short. I faked high and threw low. Dave rolled, grabbed it in mid air and tossed it back towards our undefended net for a goal. OB and FrontseatFrac, so called because no matter where he went in car he had to have shotgun.
It had been a hot summer, we were all looking forward to our first year of High School.
As Smitty ran back to our goal and picked up the frisbee, a steel-toed platform shoed, bright yellow muscle shirt wearing, wild long haired beast came down the lane looking like he had just killed something with his bare hands, while singing death metal. His eyes were angry and his muscles were pumped. He was a few years older than us.
Smitty just stood and stared, the wild man walked up to him and said, "Give me the Frisbee." Of course the frisbee belonged to me so Smitty obliged. Suddenly it was on the church roof, 50 feet up . Game over, called on account of some crazy prick showing up out of nowhere. OB moved closer to me and said, "I know him, it's Lenny Lafont he's 17, he's drunk and he likes to fight."
Giving up the Frisbee was apparently not enough of a sign of submission as Lenny moved in closer to Smitty and said, "You stupid , freckle faced piece of shit. Why don't you take a swing at me!" Smitty had a bad temper, his face turned red with rage, but he held himself back as he knew he would be pounded by this drunken muscle machine.
Lenny then turned his focus on FrontseatFrac, Frontseat was a bit heavy, which I think comes from sitting in the front seat all the time instead of walking but what do I know. Lenny got up real close to Frac and said, "You fat fucking pig I should just pound you into the ground!" Frontseat quivered, as I would have, as I did.
There was only four of us, and Lenny had already threatened two of us, next in the semi-circle was Dave and then I was last. The tough guys never leave without punching someone out, so I figured I would be the exclamation point on the end of Mr. Lafont's violent steel platform shoed outburst.
Lenny took a step towards Dave and started with some new insults. "Nice long hair, you a fucking girl? You wear dresses" Dave just stood there a bit sideways one fist clenched.
Almost on cue, down the lane comes Donny the dickweed, to assist in the beating, the neighborhood ahole. A skinny loser, but Lenny's laughing buddy. Donny slapped Smitty across the face and turned to Lenny, "What's up buddy? You going to beat up these retards or what?"
Lenny decided to hurl another insult OB's way, as Lenny was looking for a bit of challenge and OB was definitely the biggest of all of us. Lenny puffed his chest up and poked Dave in the ribs, "You are faggot! You should wash your greasy long hair more often." As Lenny turned to me he hurled one last shot at OB. "Nice skinny legs you got there."
My beating was upon me, suddenly a flurry of kicks and punches by OB hit Lenny Lafont in every place that would hurt. They grappled on the ground, dust flying everywhere. Dave had Lenny in a headlock.
To my right another flurry of action broke out as Smitty and Frontseat slammed Donny to the ground and laid in some boots. Dave slowly let Lenny out the headlock while saying, "If you try something I'm sorry but I'm going to have to beat you up again."
I always liked that about OB, he would apologize to someone for beating them up before he did it. Kind of like a well seasoned hitman. Not proud of what he has to do but business is business.
Lenny stood there with his nose bleeding and he asked OB for a hanky. OB had a hanky. Amazing. I don't think I have ever seen one before or since, well maybe as a shitball accessory for a suit at a prom. OB handed the hanky to Lenny like he was feeding a Cobra, since there are really no rules in fights. Lenny took the hanky and thanked him. Frontseat and Smitty put the boots to Donny a couple of more times and the thug train headed back up the lane.
We all turned to OB and thanked him.
I said, "OB why did you jump him?"
OB answered, "He said I have skinny legs, I don't like personal insults. Anything but personal insults."
Yes personal insults were really never appreciated in my hometown.
I grew up in Peterborough, it’s only about 75 minutes from Toronto, but it is it’s own beast. In Peterborough you are more likely to get a punch in the mouth than a hello. This was the 70’s, not a lot mattered growing up in the 70’s. Not a lot that made sense anyway. Cars mattered, the cooler and the louder the better. Hair mattered, the longer and shinier the better, Shoes mattered the higher, and more steel reinforced with optional pointy tips the better. There were lots of scraps, it wasn’t all about winning,it was all about the fighting.
You could fight for no reason at all. Manufacturing a fight involved a few select ingredients. Personal insults are a good start. Like calling somebody "PoodleHead," another sure fire fight starter was any phrase that started with, “Only Homos…” Like "only Homos wait for buses"…Only Homos wear jackets, "Only Homos chew gum," my personal favorite, "Only Homos breath." Only homos was cited as the number one cause of fisticuffs in Peterborough from the years 1975-1980.
The other surefire way to start a fight might be the “What are you looking at guy.”
It would go like this, you could be anywhere, and some guy would just decide it was time to beat you up. No reason, you didn’t have to anything. Suddenly you would be in this Deniroesque drama with some wild eyed dude.
He would somehow catch your eye, and say,
“What are you lookin at?”
To which you would reply.
“Nothing.” He would answer, “So I’m nothing am I?”
You would reply, “No you’re not nothing. I didn’t say that.”
He would say, “What did you say, are you saying I’m too ugly to look at? Is that what you are saying?”
You, “No you are not too ugly.”
At this point, you didn’t have to say anything else.
The guy would just build. “You think I’m attractive, you gay or something.”
“No I don’t," you would answer.
“Why you got a problem with gays?" He would say.
“No,” you would answer.
“Well what’s your problem then?” tough guy would say.
At this point, you might as well offer to beat yourself up. Because it is going to happen.
I've said, “Well I’m not going to fight.”
The answer to that is usually, “Don’t worry you just stand there, I’ll do all the fighting.”
I was not a very good fighter. I had my first fight in Grade one and I lost that. And in my hometown if you can’t fight you better hang with someone who can. I realized I needed some protection.
My protection was Dave he answered my prayers after my first fight in grade one. It wasn’t really a fight. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Standing in front of Francois Gendron during recess. Francois came from a poor family and he lived in a rough neighbourhood. He was a scraggly thin faced kid. As an added bonus to being poor, he had one hand that was a balled up claw. I’d never seen anything like it. I could not help but stare, I think Francois noticed because he gave me a closer look at it. The slap hurt, I went down hard on the gravel of the schoolyard. Francois stood over me. I cried and cried. Dave walked over and asked me what was wrong. I said, “Francois hit me.”
Dave turned to Francois, “Is that right? Did you hit him.”
Francois said, “So what if I did.”
Dave answered very calmly, “If you did, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to beat you up.”
Francois laughed, but only for a second. The next second he was on the ground where the laughs were, only blood.
A bond was created that day. Dave as my protector and me as his friend. I certainly got the better of the deal.
Dave/OB was a champion/legend/hero/whatever else matters in guy world. The world could use a lot more Daves.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Dreams
People often ask me why I came to the US. It is pretty simple, I fancied myself a talented standup comedian and writer. I figured I would come down to New York and it would not be long before my expertise was recognized and I would be the next big thing.
I haven’t become the next big thing entertainment wise. I have however gotten bigger around the waist. Most of my adult life I have spent amassing material, a lot of it about the people I have met. The people that most others avoid, I have to get closer. Not necessarily to see what makes them tick, but to listen to them tick. To record them for posterity, for I feel that the greatest loss when someone dies is their stories that will never be told again. They are not downloaded to some hard drive in the afterlife and shipped back to the living. No, they are lost, unless someone else records them.
So far I have recorded a large amount of material, much of it since I came to the United States of America, I just haven’t found a way to find my audience.
Possibly I will be able to do this through writing. As I just can’t seem to keep the performances rolling. Mostly because audiences made up of friends and acquaintances quickly dries up. When I first thought of coming to New York, I figured being funny and having a good five minutes was the most important thing.
Being funny is handy, having lots of friends to come see you is much more important, at least in New York. Most shows in New York City are bringer shows. You have to bring a required number of friends in order to perform. These friends all have to pay cover charges, and buy two drinks minimum. They also have to have strong stomachs as they will have to sit through roughly 18 horrible comics before they get to see you. The only club where you don’t have to bring anyone is or was the legendary Comic Strip. To perform on their amateur night you need only line up every 6months, get a number, which corresponds to a date within the next 6 months. Where you get to perform your five minutes.
Lining up in the driving rain was not fun, but it is easier than finding from 5 to 20 friends to get on stage. When the clock hit 5pm we were ushered in, and given slips of paper with numbers on it. My number placed me to perform roughly 5 months down the road. I did my best to prepare for it. I worked my best five minutes at some coffee shops, I ran my set list backwards and forwards through my head. I felt ready, nervous but ready.
The show starts at 8pm. I arrive at the Comic Strip around 7:30. The woman in charge of the show, Starla I think, took us all aside and told us the rules. Five minutes, watch for the light, don’t go over time, and listen for your name. Then she read the order the comics would be going up in. My name was not read out. I told her, she said, “Well you are not on this show.” I showed her my stub from 5 months before. She looked really pissed and just said, “Listen for your name.”
It has been a long day. I had a root canal that morning and my tooth was throbbing giving me quite a headache. I did not want to take any painkillers though, I figuring performing would give me the rush I needed to push through.
There were 8 other comedians, I watched them go up one by one. The first guy, the audience was receptive, he did well. At about amateur comedian number 5 I started to get myself ready, figuring I would be up within the next half hour. It was now 9:30 pm.
The MC announced that a comedian who was doing his first HBO special had just dropped in and was coming to the stage. I forget his name, but he was very funny and he did his whole 45 minutes and it rocked the house. Cool, that is good energy, I am looking forward to catching some of it. The next three amateurs perform, the audience is a little tired it is now close to 11pm, I feel good I’m ready. I think I can get them. The MC announces that Dom Irrera is coming to the stage.
Dom Irrera is very funny, doing excellent impressions and jokes at a fast pace, he is a very accomplished and impressive comedian. He also performs for 90 fun-filled minutes. The MC announces my name, it is now 1am on a weeknight. I hit them with my best joke. Silence, I hit them with my surefire second joke, even more silence. I push myself and finish my act. I don’t think one person laughed. The night is over.
I have bombed. I can blame my tooth, I can blame the late hour, but in the end you can only blame yourself. I felt like a loser. Starla took me aside and gave me a quick rundown on my act. “Your jokes are too long, there is no punch line and your timing is off.” I thanked her and left with another comedian that had come to watch. Joe was his name. I felt defeated, not the defeated like, I’ll show them I’ll get better and show them next time. Just defeated. I think it was my last performance in a Comedy Club in New York City.
It still haunts me. There was a way to get the audience, I just didn’t find it. Hockey is hard but comedy is harder. That was over 8 years ago. I have performed since then, mostly one man shows and in my underwear (because Chicks Dig it), but I have never really done much stand up.
For now I'll stick to blogging and writing.
I haven’t become the next big thing entertainment wise. I have however gotten bigger around the waist. Most of my adult life I have spent amassing material, a lot of it about the people I have met. The people that most others avoid, I have to get closer. Not necessarily to see what makes them tick, but to listen to them tick. To record them for posterity, for I feel that the greatest loss when someone dies is their stories that will never be told again. They are not downloaded to some hard drive in the afterlife and shipped back to the living. No, they are lost, unless someone else records them.
So far I have recorded a large amount of material, much of it since I came to the United States of America, I just haven’t found a way to find my audience.
Possibly I will be able to do this through writing. As I just can’t seem to keep the performances rolling. Mostly because audiences made up of friends and acquaintances quickly dries up. When I first thought of coming to New York, I figured being funny and having a good five minutes was the most important thing.
Being funny is handy, having lots of friends to come see you is much more important, at least in New York. Most shows in New York City are bringer shows. You have to bring a required number of friends in order to perform. These friends all have to pay cover charges, and buy two drinks minimum. They also have to have strong stomachs as they will have to sit through roughly 18 horrible comics before they get to see you. The only club where you don’t have to bring anyone is or was the legendary Comic Strip. To perform on their amateur night you need only line up every 6months, get a number, which corresponds to a date within the next 6 months. Where you get to perform your five minutes.
Lining up in the driving rain was not fun, but it is easier than finding from 5 to 20 friends to get on stage. When the clock hit 5pm we were ushered in, and given slips of paper with numbers on it. My number placed me to perform roughly 5 months down the road. I did my best to prepare for it. I worked my best five minutes at some coffee shops, I ran my set list backwards and forwards through my head. I felt ready, nervous but ready.
The show starts at 8pm. I arrive at the Comic Strip around 7:30. The woman in charge of the show, Starla I think, took us all aside and told us the rules. Five minutes, watch for the light, don’t go over time, and listen for your name. Then she read the order the comics would be going up in. My name was not read out. I told her, she said, “Well you are not on this show.” I showed her my stub from 5 months before. She looked really pissed and just said, “Listen for your name.”
It has been a long day. I had a root canal that morning and my tooth was throbbing giving me quite a headache. I did not want to take any painkillers though, I figuring performing would give me the rush I needed to push through.
There were 8 other comedians, I watched them go up one by one. The first guy, the audience was receptive, he did well. At about amateur comedian number 5 I started to get myself ready, figuring I would be up within the next half hour. It was now 9:30 pm.
The MC announced that a comedian who was doing his first HBO special had just dropped in and was coming to the stage. I forget his name, but he was very funny and he did his whole 45 minutes and it rocked the house. Cool, that is good energy, I am looking forward to catching some of it. The next three amateurs perform, the audience is a little tired it is now close to 11pm, I feel good I’m ready. I think I can get them. The MC announces that Dom Irrera is coming to the stage.
Dom Irrera is very funny, doing excellent impressions and jokes at a fast pace, he is a very accomplished and impressive comedian. He also performs for 90 fun-filled minutes. The MC announces my name, it is now 1am on a weeknight. I hit them with my best joke. Silence, I hit them with my surefire second joke, even more silence. I push myself and finish my act. I don’t think one person laughed. The night is over.
I have bombed. I can blame my tooth, I can blame the late hour, but in the end you can only blame yourself. I felt like a loser. Starla took me aside and gave me a quick rundown on my act. “Your jokes are too long, there is no punch line and your timing is off.” I thanked her and left with another comedian that had come to watch. Joe was his name. I felt defeated, not the defeated like, I’ll show them I’ll get better and show them next time. Just defeated. I think it was my last performance in a Comedy Club in New York City.
It still haunts me. There was a way to get the audience, I just didn’t find it. Hockey is hard but comedy is harder. That was over 8 years ago. I have performed since then, mostly one man shows and in my underwear (because Chicks Dig it), but I have never really done much stand up.
For now I'll stick to blogging and writing.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
"Yo Yo my (insert racial slur)!"
I live in a fairly black neighbourhood and sometimes I hear conversations that seem to contain only one word. I will substitute "BottomFeeder" for the word I hear most.
I was watching TV and I overheard from the street below one half of a conversation.
"Yo my bottomfeeder, yo yo. What's going on bottomfeeder. You still working bottom feeder?
I heard about all your bottomfeeders, they is some dumb ass bottomfeeders. Bottomfeeder, yo my bottomfeeder, I seen that bottomfeeder working up there, isn't that where all them bottomfeeders end up. Ok, talk back later my bottomfeeder."
Only a bottomfeeder can call another bottomfeeder a bottomfeeder. Good to have rules I guess.
The closest thing I can come up with in another community is the use of the word girl. In the gay community (the male one) they call each other girl. It is not a deragotry, but depending on the inflection it says more than the word. A quick excited, "Girl!" Means you shock me in a good way with that outfit.
A long drawn out "Girllllll." Mean you better step back and take a good look at yourself, or at what you just said.
Then there is the "Girl" spoken seductively. Like I'd like to get all up in that.
"Girl?" can mean, what are you trying to get away with, or that is not a very attractive outfit.
That to me is an excellent use of a word that does not offend anyone, and can mean many things.
I have heard about taking words back, and I guess that has it's virtue, if the word was ever virtuous. I think there was a woman's movement to take back the C word. The one problem with that, you can't take back what was never yours. The C word was invented by men to totally disarm a woman as quick as possible.
That is the same problem with, "Bottomfeeder." It was not created by those who use it so freely to address and describe each other. It was created to oppress and control by prejudice and racist people.
There have been studies that show if you frown, sad feeling will follow, and if you make an effort to smile happiness will follow.
Furthermore, negative thinking and anger only beget more negative thinking and anger. I know this to be fact, as I can be a pretty negative thinking angry guy.
But back to my neighbours and my neighbourhood conversations. I think the casual use of the word bottomfeeder needs to stop, and some intelligence needs to prevail.
You don't hear Polish people, "Yo you my Polack, how is my Polack today?"
Or,
"How are my wops today?"
Even calling someone a redneck more than once in a casual conversation would cause a severe beating from said redneck.
Why is this These people know and understand the limitations they would be placing on themselves in today's society. They care.
I think until my local bottomfeeders realize this they can only descend further into the swamp of stupidity which is slowly becoming their existence.
So my homies please look for a new way to describe and name each other, something that you would want to claim ownership over and something that will lift you up.
Girl is taken, boy is not a good choice. How about something like "Peacelover," or something simple like mygoodman. I can only cross my fingers.
G Spot Out!
I was watching TV and I overheard from the street below one half of a conversation.
"Yo my bottomfeeder, yo yo. What's going on bottomfeeder. You still working bottom feeder?
I heard about all your bottomfeeders, they is some dumb ass bottomfeeders. Bottomfeeder, yo my bottomfeeder, I seen that bottomfeeder working up there, isn't that where all them bottomfeeders end up. Ok, talk back later my bottomfeeder."
Only a bottomfeeder can call another bottomfeeder a bottomfeeder. Good to have rules I guess.
The closest thing I can come up with in another community is the use of the word girl. In the gay community (the male one) they call each other girl. It is not a deragotry, but depending on the inflection it says more than the word. A quick excited, "Girl!" Means you shock me in a good way with that outfit.
A long drawn out "Girllllll." Mean you better step back and take a good look at yourself, or at what you just said.
Then there is the "Girl" spoken seductively. Like I'd like to get all up in that.
"Girl?" can mean, what are you trying to get away with, or that is not a very attractive outfit.
That to me is an excellent use of a word that does not offend anyone, and can mean many things.
I have heard about taking words back, and I guess that has it's virtue, if the word was ever virtuous. I think there was a woman's movement to take back the C word. The one problem with that, you can't take back what was never yours. The C word was invented by men to totally disarm a woman as quick as possible.
That is the same problem with, "Bottomfeeder." It was not created by those who use it so freely to address and describe each other. It was created to oppress and control by prejudice and racist people.
There have been studies that show if you frown, sad feeling will follow, and if you make an effort to smile happiness will follow.
Furthermore, negative thinking and anger only beget more negative thinking and anger. I know this to be fact, as I can be a pretty negative thinking angry guy.
But back to my neighbours and my neighbourhood conversations. I think the casual use of the word bottomfeeder needs to stop, and some intelligence needs to prevail.
You don't hear Polish people, "Yo you my Polack, how is my Polack today?"
Or,
"How are my wops today?"
Even calling someone a redneck more than once in a casual conversation would cause a severe beating from said redneck.
Why is this These people know and understand the limitations they would be placing on themselves in today's society. They care.
I think until my local bottomfeeders realize this they can only descend further into the swamp of stupidity which is slowly becoming their existence.
So my homies please look for a new way to describe and name each other, something that you would want to claim ownership over and something that will lift you up.
Girl is taken, boy is not a good choice. How about something like "Peacelover," or something simple like mygoodman. I can only cross my fingers.
G Spot Out!
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