as of today, my parents have been married for 29 years. and that is worthy of celebration. out of my group of close friends, i am one of maybe 4 whose parent's are still together. no secret families, no stray babies, no ugly fights and abuse. they have a beautiful, loving, nurturing union that i am proud to be a product of.

thanks for keeping it all together, mom and dad.

love,

alex

When I was in fifth grade, I discovered that my second grade teacher lived around the corner from me. I loved this teacher, but, since I was most certainly a preteen hellion with a love for destruction, I thought it would be a good idea to lead the neighborhood kids in setting her garden ablaze.

So we did.

And of course I was the one who struck and threw the match. And of course when the firemen and cops inquired about who was responsible, these amazing friends led them to my door. By this time, I was in my room playing Donkey Kong, and attempted to play dumb when questioned by firefighters and cops.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

In addition to being a badass and potty mouth ("Shit" was a particularly big deal for me, then), I was also terrible liar.

My dad gave me his usual "I'm disappointed" look, seeing all through my act.

The cop concluded, "Well, since you were here the whole time, I guess I'll have to put all your friends in jail for lying on you."

In addition to being a badass, potty mouth and terrible liar, I was also a a punk bitch at the core, as well as a crier.

I broke down and confessed, apologizing profusely. My mother definitely slapped me in front of the police. My eyes said, "Help me!" Their eyes said, "Fuck no, kid."

I was forced to sit through a 53,000 hour-long fire safety course. I was also grounded for a month, during which time, I became an expert at Donkey Kong 1, 2, and 3.

That put and end to my brief stint as a pyromaniac. This was also the summer that I discovered the words, "fuck" and "motherfucker."

And its's been downhill since then...

I used to tell my friends that Anita Baker was my mother. I can remember trying to convince the kids in my kindergarten class that my mother wrote and sang "Sweet Love", as if they knew or cared who she was.

Apparently, as a toddler, whenever Anita came on TV, or her records were played, little Alex would scream and dance and, generally, lose my effing juvenile mind. I could recognize her voice, "sing" her songs, and mimick her crazy woman side-to-side shoulder rock like a champ. I've been told that if anybody touched one of her records, or moved it out of my reach, I'd raise hell. I laugh when my mom brings this up, because can actually picture it...considering the way I used to fag out for Janet at the age of 4.

I still actually feel a way when I hear "Sweet Love." Check out an amazing performance of the song:

file this under geighbabies. thanks.

it's always such a great feeling to travel outside the city (not to Jersey, yuck.) once in a while. now, I LOVE engaging with and photographing new yawk's crazies and social rejects as much as the next person, but the occasional break from it all is beautiful. sitting on this super-clean Megabus to DC without being asked to support nonexistent basketball teams via the purchase of peanut M&M's (always peanut) is relaxing as hell.

I've never seen my parents argue. I've never even seen them raise their voices at one another. This is not to say they never disagree about anything, but they have enough respect for the family to keep private matters behind closed doors.

I attribute this to the fact that my Father is perhaps the most relaxed human being I've ever met, only showing anger when my sister or I did something incredibly stupid. And even then, from him, we usually received a hard, unnerving stare that said more "I'm disappointed in you," than "I'm about to send you home to Jesus." That, and a lecture. The longest lectures ever. Always. Many times, we'd secretly wish he'd just slap us one good time and get it over with. When it did happen, he disciplined us as if he felt sorry for us, or because he knew that his "beating" vs. Mom's attack was a favor, indeed.

As I mature, I have realized that this is why I can't remember the last time I raised my voice at anyone in anger. My Dad and I aren't passive, just nonconfrontational and, usually, rational. Now, I'm thankful for this trait. Unlike when I was younger, I'm certain the level-headed approach has helped me steer clear of many potentially bad situations. I can remember hearing Dad comment once, in regards to deciding against anger, "What's the point?"

True words, indeed.

Thanks Dad.

While en route to crown heights (the REAL origin of all Jamaicans, NOT Jamaica, shit) on the 4 train, a homeless enters the car and solicits change from the passengers, without much luck. While walking through the car, his bag brushed against a Jamaican man's arm, causing him to spill his coffee. (Yes. Coffee @ 12:30am)

He shouts some Jamaican obsenity. Something about curried goat, perhaps. Idk.

By now, homeless man is toward the end of the car but makes his way back.

"Whatchu say bitch?"

Jamaican man reminds homeless man that his big ass bag made him spill his coffee.

Homeless man: "You think you better than me because I'm homeless?"

Jamaican man: "Whatever. When you collect 50 cents, pay me for this coffee."

Homeless man then launches into a rant about how he'll smack the hell out of Jamaican man. Jamaican man is apparently "a bitch that just so happens to have a place to sleep." Homeless man promises that he'll come smack fire out of Jamaican man's mouth.

"I'm not even gonna punch you. I'm gonna slap you cuz you's such a bitch."

At this point, iPods are removed, I've stopped reading, old ladies are craning their necks to observe. A hoodgirl laughs aloud.

Homeless man: "Yea, bitch. You're goin home to let your husband there fuck you, cuz you're a faggot. With a place to sleep. That's it."

Jamaican man holds the pole and shakes his head, as if to say "you're not even worth it." He stands there as homeless man with "nothing to fuckin lose" calls him "faggie boy," and threatens to "abuse him" in front of his husband, the other Jamaican man with him, who was staring at the floor at this point.

"That's right bitch. You try to disrespect me in front of people because I'm homeless, but I'll manhandle you in front of your husband, bitch. And you gon' like it, bitch!"

Homeless man is laughing now.

No response.

We're all laughing now.

Homeless man eventually leaves.

"Later, bitch."

A woman laughs and gives him, $5.

And now that homeless man is probably 5 cars back, Jamaican man is running off at the mouth.

But of course.

I, however, am slightly disappointed that Jamaican man didn't shank homeless man with that sharpened jerk chicken bone I know he had in his multicolored linen pant pocket.

Oh well. There's always next time.

this picture touches my soul.

just got in from grabbing dinner. been craving a large sausage w/ extra cheese from Papa Johns, about as intensely as Usher craves dick when Manteka is on the rag each month. but, because of this lovely URI, i've been urged to avoid dairy until i'm 100%. i was walking so and so to the train so chinese was out of the way...

i settled upon (insert ultra-colored-person-friendly fast food chicken spot...NOT KFC). ugh. i crossed over to the other side of eastern parkway (which, i discovered is where all the real brooklyn crazies reside). per usual, there's a fuckload of cops, and half the street is blocked off. of course. approaching (ultra-colored-person-friendly fast food chicken spot), a choosy beggar asks if i can spare "50 cents to a dollar?" i decline.

we enter. i'm overwhelmed: it's way too black for me.

i keep asking, "what happens? what do i do?"

so and so sighs.

"how does this work?!?"

i mean...there's "regular" chicken, then some Louisiana mess, then there's meals vs combos. i can't take it. while in line, a hoodrat looks at me, then quickly looks back at the menu.

the woman at the counter instructs the employee: (with a stank face) "NO ICE, MISS! it's too cold fa ice..."

the chick behind the counter digs into her titties and adjusts her bra.

so and so: "did she just...?"

yup.

hoodrat looks at me again. looks away.

chick behind the counter adjusts her bra again.

a different chick behind the counter asks me, "do you know what happened out there?"

me: "no."

chick: " yes you do, you're just not telling me."

i gasp. "i promise i don't know..."

then:

hoodrat: (very sincerely)"why your lips so pank?"

me: "um, i don't know. ask my mom....?"

so and so: "wait! what just happened?"

first chick adjusts her bra again.

"can i take yo orda?"

i order. leave. bum outside asks, "sir can you spare 50 cents to a dollar?" i decline.

three west indians/africans offer me taxis. i decline.

so and so and i hug and he departs.

the end.

on the train earlier, i fumbled with my camera as a precious lamb of God with the most matted, nappy, and crazy-looking loooong wig and OVERdone makeup ever sat beside me, then ran off the train at the very moment i got my camera situation worked out. i'm talkin like....

going for this effect:


...but with eyeliner going back to her temples. like...back to the top of the cheekbone. (AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!) ...trynna give a dramatic, sultry eye. she was 100% serious.....FAIL!


but. i promise you i will NEVER miss such a magnificent photo opp ever again.

~chris.alexander

at this very moment, a crazy colored man is walking down the street past my apartment, talking to his dog. loudly. he's professing his love to his dog:

"see, see, i know why dey say a dog is a man's best friend. cuz i love yo dirty ass, and you neva desert me like the rest of these no good mothafuckas 'round here. i memba when you was a puppy and you'd shit all ova da flo...i neva told you, but i thought that shit was so cute..."

no. ma'am. take your crazy ass back in the house so i can go to the bodega. nutbucket ass jerks like you shouldn't be roaming free. even in brooklyn.

and.

this is muy random, but i googled "puppy shit" searching for a clever graphic to accompany this fuckery, and i found the following pictures. and i, for whatever reason, laughed out loud @ each of them.

1. a puppy sitting on a cat. why is this so funny to me?


2. a puppy toupee!

3. crazy white woman with a puppy on her hip. this is hilarious because my first reaction would be to slap the bland fried chicken out of her.

gay moment over. goodnight.

Well, kids. It's Monday and you know what that means!!!

Right?

(Crickets)

Well, fine.

I have news. I've found the 2nd coming of James Brown. Yes. That's right. The other night, I ran into Sweet Dick Willie in between his illustrious, pimptastic set over on the 3 train platform.




He's the only soul I've seen bold enough to venture into territory once ruled by The Godfather of Soul. He's giving you...Sleepless in A Seattle Dumpster...with the unaffected, too cool for baths school lazy magnificentaciousness only previously demonstrated by the likes of Star Jones' breasts.

Now let me be clear: Sweet Dick Willie isn't attempting to jack Father Brown's stage show. That's off limits. I mean, let's be real, who can conduct a symphony with a change cup while keeping such splendid motherfuckin' Wondercurls in check like Sweet Dick Willie?? Not YOU, Ashanti. He's coming to rightfully claim his title of "Sickest Urine-Moisturized Curls." And you don't want none.

Can you imagine all the panty droppin' and heart stoppin' that will take place when he peels that cap off and unpins those Wondercurls!?!? (I see you CaShawn. Clean up that puddle you just made.)



He initially tried to escape my camera. He peeped me trying to immortalize his glory and slowly walked away. It was probably best that he only let two Wondercurls slip from under his hair net. After all, he can't be held responsible for you spontaneously combusting because of overwhelming envy. Right?


Still breathing?

Good. Now. Next up we have a European lovely sporting a heart-stopping sheer black Freakum Dress in Times Square. I spotted her minutes before witnessing the splendor of Sweet Dick Willie's Wondercurls.

Her first name aint "Baby." Mmkay?

Don't rub your eyes. You are seeing clearly. That is a 3D design on the front. Notice how it jumps out at you, grabbing for your affection. The same artwork on some size 4 broad wouldn't be nearly as magical.

+

the fringe along the hem designed to give you aspiring girls something to hold on to as she takes you to the next level

+

the overall style in which this Sausage Casing Freakum Dress has got her bodied calls

=

Don't be mad, get a pen and paper, bitch. Learn something.

Good day.

~chris.alexander