First of all I need to correct something I wrote yesterday, it was not Tuesday, It was the day after Tuesday, which I still can’t spell correctly.
It’s 9:15 on Thursday (which I have no problem with spelling). I’ve come back from another meeting, with it’s Kirkland coffee. This one was the best so far.
I was thinking about shutting the fuck up for a couple of days last week. I realized two things: I’m incapable of that, and this little thing here is too enjoyable for me to just cut out. Sure, i’ve got the journal that Susie gave me (and the Pilot G2s), but it’s like that Ben Affleck thing I saw and liked so much “no one wants to play to an empty house”. His brother, by the way, much ,much fucking cooler, i’m from Boston, so this matters (a lot).
I have so much to report on, let me sort it out (mentally).
There’s this Indian kid who signs people up for for Spectrum internet and free EBT phones in front of rite aid on liberty Ave. He told me about coming to America and living on the street when I was there trying to get my schizophrenic roommate Karl a phone, and he figured out how to get me free internet (fucking a). He told me about his temple, and how they’d feed me if I was hungry, and I have yet to be in that position. I told him I read the Bhagavad Gita aloud on acid one time, blah blah blah… good kid, he claims his name is Bob, but I’m not sure about that.
I started a new thing where I go outside with my headphones on and slowly walk around my neighborhood, smoking cigarettes. Outside is great, man…I was in my room for most of the last few months that i’ve been here on 127th street. Granted, it was really hot out (it’s nice now), but I was missing out big time. I always at least give Bob a fist bump, he’s often busy accosting someone to get his numbers up.
it goes like this: I walk past Bob on my way to Lefferts and Liberty, where they sell the five dollar Native American reservation smokes. I get these five dollar smokes (menthol, long), and swing back to grab a tall boy Coca Cola at the rite aid where Bob works.
Today, I decided to listen to Peter Gabriel somewhere between Bob and the smokes. I love Peter Gabriel, thanks to my parents who are early MTV kids (there’s no discussion of early MTV without “Sledgehammer”).
Well, I have a Peter Gabriel playlist that I made long ago, maybe before Spotify was making these for us, I think i’ll link it.
What came on first was “Biko”. I’m less interested in summarizing what the song is about than I am what it did to me, so we’re going to go to Pi for a summary, real fast.
The song is a tribute to Stephen Biko, a prominent anti-apartheid activist in South Africa who was killed while in police custody in 1977.
The lyrics of “Biko” speak about Biko’s legacy, his struggle against apartheid, and the broader issues of racism and injustice. The song also highlights the importance of Biko’s message, emphasizing the need for unity and equality in the fight against oppression.
- Pi, (9:38, Thursday)
So, you should go listen to this song and read the lyrics. I’ve never given homework to anyone reading this little blog, but I actually am right now.
I don't know about you, but the situation in Gaza bothers the hell out of me, every single day. If you can’t draw the parallel between the former apartheid state of South Africa, and the one in Palestine… I don’t know what to tell you, bro.
“and the eyes of the world are watching now” — “biko”
Man, this shit fucking leveled me. I was leaking, snot, all of it. I was sobbing on the street in queens, I am right now, again just thinking about it. I didn’t even bring my sunglasses, either. Raw dog emotional breakdown over a cheap menthol 100 in the center of my neighborhood.
So, I walk back towards where Bob is in his full grey suit, (that he wears everyday) just trying to stop crying. I think I played it off because I started telling him about the film “Glengarry Glen Ross”, about being in sales with that whole Alec Baldwin “coffee is for closers” monologue. I must’ve looked like I was crazy or on drugs (I am crazy, not on drugs).
I started bitching about this phone I got the other day, because it’s awful. BAM, here comes Bob with a solution and I've got a pixel 8 pro in the mail for super cheap. Apple can eat shit, by the way.
I’m a dipshit, though, at least I have a phone at all. At least I have a lot of things that I really haven’t done much to deserve. I’m a dipshit, also, because there are people being slaughtered 24 hours a day, 7 days a week and all I can do is write my little blog about how a prog rock genius’s tune made me have a cry this morning, put a few things on my Instagram story and feel bad.
I’m not entirely sure what I can do, honestly. I’m not about to get excited about Kamala Harris, though. I’m not about to say anything short of Joe and Kamala being mass murderers, along with every politician in Washington who has AIPAC support. I know the DNC is happening, I know how uplifting it is for people (lil Jon was there!) , even people very close to me, but I can’t stomach it. My intelligence is personally insulted, which is one of the things that really pisses me off more than most other things you can do to me.
I’m completely inadequate at doing any kind of justice to what I've written about this evening.
I’m grateful for Bob, he seems like some kind of benevolent entity placed in my path by whatever is placing them and consistently has been for as long as I can recall.
So, I usually have my little Ko-fi link right here for cigarette money , but i’m a white male in New York… i’ll be just fine, with my little instagram stories and whatever else I think means anything. These people are not very likely to be anywhere near as ok as I am:
