clean retina

BLUE, GINGHAM BUTTON-DOWN (throw a rock and you’ll find it)

In Frida, upper body on March 3, 2018 at 8:15pm03


1. Hey! Sorry, I’m late. I was in the middle of an “Iyanla: Fix My Life” marathon. Anyway, we shall begin. If you could choose your accoutrements what would they be?

Let’s keep it casual and go with my everyday look.  I’d choose a crown, a suit of armor, a classic Jordan and a lightsaber.





2. I see exactly where this is headed.  What – and I think I know the answer – is interesting about you?

I’m currently chronicling my life on a blog with the hope of one day corralling the weird, mysterious, magical, whimsical, oh-shucks, confusing, trying and darn-right tough bits so I can pen them into an autobiography. Did I say “weird”? ‘Cause I’m weird, man. Like, really weird. And yet, I’m humble. Watch me dance!


3. No thanks. Do you understand without ever doing anything interesting or of merit, the mere idea you’re saying, aloud, one day you’ll warrant a big, fat book all about you is about as narcissistic as it gets? Oscar Wilde put it simply, “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth.” Substitute “shirt” for “man” and you know where I’m going. Don’t get me wrong. I understand it on some level. The blog gasses you up. You press “publish” and for a brief moment, you feel as if you’re tattered, sweat-soaked, clinging to Hemingway, as Pilar, headed for North Bimini, fights against the swelling, unrelenting Atlantic. In the meantime, Hemingway, chest pounding, rushes to get “For Whom the Bell Tolls” on the page because if Pilar should capsize and he should perish, maybe, just maybe some sad soul will find enough of “For Whom…” washed ashore and have the sense to send it to the lovely, talent-detecting missiles, otherwise known as Charles Scribner’s Sons.

What’re you talking about? I’m probably as interesting as they come. I might just be the most interesting, dynamic, original anything there is. Did I mention I’m weird? ‘Cause I am. And humble. ‘Cause I’m that too.


4.  You should let a trained professional get to the bottom of why you keep declaring both. Now, I know inside of your vainglorious thunderdome you’re a real force to be reckoned with; however, from the vantage of the majority, you’re basically… brace yourself… not at all weird rather, an egomaniac shrouded in mock bonhomie. 

I don’t believe you.



5. Are you not aware people put you on to simply blend in? You possess neither bell nor whistle and that’s the way folks like it. But if attention-whoredom’s your game, I can look into getting you a gig on Connie. He lives out in Oxnard, has a bowl mullet, loves the ladies who, in turn, think he’s disgusting, spends most of his free time rollerblading and referring to himself in the third person, wears nipple clamps and likes to only button the first two buttons of any shirt, starting from the bottom, which equals maximum chest exposure. Being worn by him will definitely get a few eyes on you. How about it?


6. See? Right there. That’s what I’m talking about. You’re not open to reality-

Reality?! Who the hell knows what kind of grimy scene Connie’s into?! Can’t you get me a gig on Bezos? Musk would look great in me. Dr. Dre I could make some fantastic memories with.

7. I see we’ve traveled into goofy territory. They’re actual innovators, dear. We’re talking Hyperloops, Falcons, Snoop, Eminem, Kendrick, Beats and this little delivery service I’m almost positive can deliver your id to your front door if you should order it. Also, all three rather be seen in a snug, black T-shirt of which you’re not – but I get the feeling this fact won’t stop you from going to a frat party masquerading as one, if you know what I mean. My point is, it appears you assume greatness as if it’s your birthright, to the point of blinding yourself to your own reality. But instead of realizing you just might be a bygone busy signal in the form of a shirt, you expect the world to look on as if McQueen S/S 2010 is in their midst.

And what’s so wrong with, say, Tyler? He goes to work, comes home, eats a balanced meal and settles in to play Fortnite. He’ll hang you up, treat you right… I guess the question is: Like the majority of your brethren, can’t you simply rage against the machine under a biz-cas hoodie while under you is a T-shirt peeking out at collar level? 

No. Never. I must live out a weird, adventurous life deluged with magical magic, therefore warranted by an autobiography that has to be back-ordered worldwide because it falls off the shelves the moment it’s put on. Don’t you see? I long to cloak greatness. I need people to know I was here. I want Baldwin to put “Giovani’s Room” on the page while in me.


I want Chien-Shiun Wu to contradict the law of conservation of parity while in me.


I want Copernicus to realize the “Sun-Centered” system while in me.


I want Boz to walk into a room and reveal a marketing strategy, any marketing strategy while in me.


I want Carl to share a few things with the Dalai Lama while in me.


I want Sylvia to tell climate change deniers to “Get over it” while in me.

Dr. Sylvia Earle

I want Galbraith to work through the night, molding Cormoran into the most captivating detective there is while in me.


I want Maria Tallchief to perform “Firebird” while in me.


I want Einstein to experience the annus mirabilis while in me.


I want Bruce to write “The Incident on 57th Street” thus happening upon a major turning point in his songwriting career while in me.


I want Charles Richard Drew to introduce the first blood bank while in me.


I want Maya to recite “On the Pulse of Morning” while in me.


I want Frida to break away from the mental clutches of Diego and discover her oeuvre while in me.


I want Starman to soar through the cosmos with Mars the final destination while in me.


I want Cynthia Erivo to sing absolutely anything she pleases while in me.

And when it’s all said and done, I’ll demand thee James Maitland Stewart narrate the audiobook because the tale told will be both distinguished and benevolent.


8. Yo, Walter Mitty’s sock, can you come explain how it works?! Listen, dear heart,  none of the above will ever happen simply because you feel it’s owed to you or because you’re weird. Your “Emporer’s New Clothes” run is over and I’m here to tell you we can all see your junk. Now, I know you’d like to be both coddled and lionized while being ushered into this new reality but, God willing and the creek don’t rise, that’s also going the way of the dodo. The world’s finally breaking away from the status quo, finding, anymore, the crowd doesn’t have to go wild in an effort to make you think you’re important when you’re simply not. They don’t have to pretend your words are sage when, in reality, they’re poorly sourced, filled with half-truths, dipped in contrived humility, coated with saccharine embellishments and very much ignorant. Instead, you’ll have to do this little thing called stepping outside of your comfort zone and opening your eyes to an entire world happening around you, as opposed to retreating to where it’s safe, homogenous and replete with scantly earned accolades while expecting everyone and everything to come to you with the hope you’ve chronicled it all in a big, fat book about yourself. Does any of this resonate?

Well gosh, since you put it that way… I mean, painful truths are never easy but this is my new reality I guess. With that said, prayers up the answer to my next question is “Oh, hell no!” Will Trump ever wear me?

9. Noop. You’re not his scene. However, Dinesh D’Souza might, Sean Hannity’s a strong “maybe” I think, Stephen Miller will most definitely use you as a security blanket and get ready for Steve Bannon to pop your collar and layer the shit out of you. We good? I still have one more season of “…Fix My Life” to get to.

Call Connie.



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