The Nostalgia is Gone

I'm admittedly in a funk ... but it's due in large part to all the shit I put on my plate this week. Why do I schedule a move out of my apartment, an appointment to the vet for a sick dog and the installation of new flooring all in the same week? Because I'm an idiot.

But whatever - my point is this ... blogging is lackluster nowadays and it's boring me. It's why I haven't posted much lately, but I've also noticed that the blogs on my blogroll also go weeks without a post and I'm realizing that this thing is just plain losing it's appeal.

The passing fad that was myspace is now becoming the passing fad that is blogging - and I'm afraid I'm done. As done here as I am with myspace. I just don't care to blog anymore ...

I really don't. JACK will soon be laid to rest - until he expires, you're welcomed to comment and the like. but I think 210+ posts is all JACK lived for - really.

My Perfect Mate

You: light skinned or darker, 5'9" or taller, HPTW or within range, 7" or longer (but, Dear God, not MUCH), Associates or better, 24 or older, 40 or younger, swagger or some semblance thereof.

You've got a pair of Tims and at least one suit jacket; Neither collects dust, and you can tie a tie. (Any knot will do)



Orange is orange, no matter the shade, and you never EVER call it tangerine ... or pumpkin.




You can dance - but you don't always throw down some cardboard everytime you hear 'your' song.



You can have mannerisms at times, viturally undetectable, but your purse NEVER falls out no matter how much you run your mouth.



SOME people know; not that it's any of their business, but they're your support system. You might wear a scarf if it's cold, but you don't own a boa. The only feathers you own are in that old triple fat goose no one knows why you still own. But you own it - fuck em. It fits.




You talk a good game, but you listen intently too. You can have a drink, or two or eight - but never need to crawl home or be dragged around by your arms. You speak your mind, but think before you do so ... and never use 'I'm just being honest' as an excuse to be rude and inappropriate. (Unless it's warranted - but then you don't need an excuse). You know that 'conversate' isn't a word and that 'literally' means, uh ... LITERALLY. (Seriously, your head was not 'literally' spinning around ... I don't care how crazy that mfer was driving you).




You know there's a God and give him his props ... but don't let church or denominational doctrine affect your direct link to Him.



You own a belt. You use said belt. Around your waist.



If I measure your waist ... your pants are somewhat close to that size. I'm the only one who sees your underwear - but you don't expect me to always have to be the one to wash them. I mean, I *will* ... but you manage to master the coalescence of detergent, water and washing machine.



(If you already didn't know what it meant, you're looking up the word "coalescence")

You're handy around the house and if the gutters are full of crud you don't scream like a bitch when we reach into them to clean 'em. And ... I cannot stress this enough ... You have your friends, and I have mine. You like my company but don't need to be 3 and a half inches from my face all day. Because, baby ... I'm a need some space too. Thanks.

Photo Blog & Caption Contest

It's been a hot minute since I've posted on a regular basis - but don't you think for one minute that I haven't had my camera at the ready EVERYWHERE I go. In this special edition post I present to you Jacks Camera - and my Caption Contest, where you get to post your best caption for a photo and I rank the entries and pick a winner.

So, submit a fucking entry, ok? I have feelings too!

(But not so much so that I won't put THIS mfer on blast):



Look, I'm Puerto Rican. There are two correct way to use flip-flips. The first is when you go to the beach. Those things are IDEAL for walking on sand so that a) you don't burn the bottoms of your feet, because sand sitting out in the sun is scalding hot - it's like asphalt and shit. UnBELIEVEABLE - and if you've ever ventured on on a beach barefoot on a 90-degree day at about 3PM, then you know what I mean. That's some shit you do ONE TIME.

The second correct usage of a flip flop is to beat the shit out your kids. Especially those flimsy ones that bend when you wave them. I'm not talking about the flip flops with 1/2" of foam, neither. I'm talking about the once with about 1/8" of cheap foam left, all dirty and black underneath .. with a dirt imprint of your mommas foot ... and yellow thongs on top. Those. Those kind. And how they ALWAYS hit the floor bottom-down, I'll never know. That bitch could toss a "chancleta" on the ground and it's ALWAYS just ready for her to jam her foot into it and walk away. They're like cats those dirty, yellow chancletas.

I digree: My point here is this - men wearing flip flops for a leisurely stroll around the city is RETARDED. Everyone from the tropics knows this.




I got tested last week. Clean as of May 18, 2009. (Thank you Trojan!). Anyway, this paperwork here CLEARLY says that my name will not appear on any documentation, right? That's good. I prefer the anonymity - so long as they a) don't fuck up my number and b) don't fuck up my number. You feel me?

But the thing that got me was that while I was sitting there reading this disclosure, a phlebotomist comes out of the back and yells out, "Steve?" And Steve got up to go back there to get tested.

So, I have a little message for her:

Bitch! Come on out here again and yell "JACK?" My ass gonna sit there looking around at everyone else wondering why JACK ain't here. Besides, I also had number 24. Notice that in the picture? 24. CALL ME 24!




Seriously? I mean, you STICK all these mother fuckers with needles, I understand. But smelling salts taped onto the sharps container? You couldn't find a better place for this thing? Bad enough I thought at first it was a suppository - I dunno ... you tell me, folks. Strange place?




Speaking of strange places ... This was posted on the post in the alley behind this dude whose house I went to for some, uhhh - "festivities." Never again! (Besides, he couldn't perform - what's up with that nowadays?!?)

(They should really reconsider this poison, though - I saw only 1 squirrel on that entire street!)

your immediate reaction? Yuh, mine too. It's a great cause, and I'm glad you're crazy over dogs, but you really should have studied marketing. Or maybe you did and the fact that I'm posting this is proof? I dunno - I just thought I could maybe have my neutered pincher be a daddy after all ... *sigh*



!!!CAPTION CONTEST!!!

(because seriously, this shit is retarded)

Happy Captioning!

Evolution of Indifference - Chapter 8

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7

Chapter 8 - Flashbacks

When I was a kid, I had a vision. I'm not sure whether or not you believe in such things, but this vision was as real to me as the pitter patter of the keyboard as I write these lines. Yet, as real as it was, I saw it only in Black & White.

The vision defined my worldview and while many of you would probably have investigated it to find out whether or not it was true, I simply KNEW it was true. I didn't need anyone else to confirm it for me, and since I didn't really want to discuss it ... I simply didn't. For many years, I kept it inside, knowing that I wasn't just different, but I was also unwanted. Hell, as if the life I lived being given away to my aunt and uncle wasn't enough - I had this vision to prove it.

It was like that time I turned around in bed in the middle of the night. By this point, I had moved out of my aunt and uncle's house and moved in with my mom and brother. (That happened when I was 9) There in the middle of the night, I saw with my own eyes a something that solidified my belief in all things spiritual. My brother lay prostrate about three feet above his bed, levitated in a perfectly horizontal position, his blanket hanging on either side of him just touching the top of the bed.

I was in church at the time and was all about the spiritual realm, so I immediately turned back over, said "that boy really IS a freak" and went back to sleep. I'm not lying - this really happened. If you don't believe in shit like that, I suppose you think you're reading fiction - that's fine. What was similar about this and my vision is that I never told anyone what I saw. That was pretty typical for me growing up - I never told much.

I saw my mother pregnant with me, and crying. I knew it was me in her womb, but I was watching the events unfold as the five-year old me ... walking around like a casper no one could see. But I could see it all - there was my mom at the top of a staircase. She was on the second floor, in the hallway. It wasn't an elevator building - a walk-up. Not sure how many floor there were above us, but we were definitely on the second floor.

There was a two step walk-down to a landing, a turn right and an entire flight of stairs to a 1" X 1" tile floor, alternating in white and color, white and color. What color, I don't know - I just know that it wasn't black. My mother walked very slowly toward the top of the stairs, reaching for the banister. And she threw herself down the stairs, crying the whole way ... and took me and her womb with her.

Till this very day, I remember that vision. And I remember that spirit of "knowing" that I carried with me ... knowing as a child that my mother really didn't want my pregnancy. It explained to me why I lived with my aunt and uncle - it explained a lot. Like, it explained why she began to charge me rent to live in her house when I was 15.

And I thought about these things a lot when I was in college, smoking and drinking and drugging myself into these pensive moments. And many times I would wallow in those stupors and accept that I dealt with a lot more shit than the average Joe.

Amazingly, I thought a LOT - but I never cried about it.

Thinking was my therapy.

Ranting a la JACK (Take II)

I'm a fat bastard.

I have gained weight in the last 12 months to proportions that embarrass me. 20 pounds. 20 goddam pounds. At 5'6" .. 20 pounds is so much worse than you're imagining. This schedule of back and forth between two different cities every week pretty much sucked all desire out of me to go to the gym. and I haven't gone.

But you know what - Spend 6 hours a week driving ... and you'd be amazed at how many bags of Mickey D's end up strewn about the car.

And leave it to my kids to hand my ass back to me about my weight. While working on her homework, I ask my daughter "What's a kilogram?"

"It's a lot, a lot ... A TON - like you!"

My face went stoic-blank. And I simply blinked. OK, so I know what she meant ... and I'm a beached whale in her eyes.

Later in the day, we're listening to Lady Gaga and dancing all around the living room. My daughter says,

"Stop shaking your butt!"

"Baby, that's just me"

"That's right - your butt jiggles even when you walk."

With that - I'm back on my diet and gym routine. 10 pounds per month is my goal. If I can't lose the weight, I'm amputating a leg.

Ranting a la JACK

I've not been blogging as regularly as I used to - so, there're a lot of things I need to get off my chest ... and you get to read them all at the same time. Lucky you. But I'll keep it to three issues right now.

Issue 1
On Sunday April 19, 2009 the following Crime Alert was sent out to all University faculty, staff and students:

A student reports he was stabbed on April 19th at approximately 4:30 am in the 1200 block of Michigan Street. The suspect is reported as a black male approximately 6' 200 lbs wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt. The student appears to have non-life threatening injuries.

Later that day, another Crime Alert came through, this time as an update:

Crime Alert-April 19th update...The student who earlier reported he was stabbed in the 1200 block of Michigan street now says his injuries happened due to an accident in his residence hall room and no crime occurred.

ENTER JACK: Why the fuck you gotta lie, though? I mean, I'm not sure what the fuck kinda "accident" gotta happen that you get stabbed and don't want to actually fess up about what happened ... I really don't even WANT to guess. But, whatever it was ... you's a dumb ass bitch.

And why the pseudo-perp gotta be Black? Why? To be REALLY honest, my first reaction when i got the first crime alert was this: "stupid wanna be nigga can't even stab right." That's right - I said it. I was mad that the dude wanna be wielding a knife and is too afriad to use it. I pictured this stupid nigga in saggin' jeans (the designer type with all this embroidered design along the back pockets and faded down the legs) who wann talk all hard ... but who only struts when he walks to keep his pants from sliding down to his ankles while he walks. A nigga who goes home and bakes and shit. Soft.

And then ... later that day ... Wasn't even a stabbing out in the street! I shoulda known the story was a fake. Black men who wield knives don't. fucking. miss.

(Now, guns is a whole 'nother issue - those stupid mother fuckers NEVER shoot the right person. But stabbing?! Niggas got that)

And who the hell buys gray hoodies anymore? COLOR is in!


Issue 2
My parents came to my graduation. It was great. I made dinner reservations for the night before. Except, my parents have been divorced since I was 7 ... and I had *no* idea that on the even of my graduation, the night I made dinner plans at this fancy restaurant, would have been their 40th wedding anniversary.

Why?!? My dad brought mom a gift and she swore up and down it was an anniversary gift ... even though my dad bought a gift for me, one for my son, one for my daughter, and one for my mother-in-law, too. But mom insisted that HE REMEMBERED!

Now, I love my mom - so much so that I've got to admit that she's a little bit 'touched.' Always has been. Her view of the world is always a little bit skewed, and this was no exception. The next day after my graduation, we went out to eat again and she sat touch close to my father ... and apparently, there was some touching underneath the table ...

But do I believe this, since it's my mother who told me?

Yes. Why? Because I'm her son - and if it's inappropriate to tell me something, she's going to do it. Because she's contrary that way.

So, yuh - THANKS, mom. I got my master's degree and you and dad copped a feel. I'm glad I could be there for you. Just whatever you do - don't end up having another kid. 1) you're pushing 60, and 2) you're not exactly what we call 'good with kids.'


Issue 3

This stupid graffiti in a stall at a northern Indiana truck stop:




It reads: A nigger has risen to the highest office in the land and he still requires government housing.

Here's something that really irks me about racism - why is it that White people (I know, you're thinking that I'm assuming it was a White man ... but you didn't see this truck stop ... it was a White man) aren't all out with it? Like, why didn't this mother fucker SAY this out loud ... because I sure would've LOVED to hear him say it.

And why is it that the fact that the President living in the White House rent free is suddenly an issue? Isn't Obama the 44th President? Yuh, I thought so.

The issue of government housing ... in it's truest form, "The Projects" isn't a group of luxury condos we just LOVE to live in. I lived in The Projects in the South Bronx ... and I can tell you that there was not ONE of my neighbors that thought "omg, we LOVE it when mice crawl out the radiators." If you're allergic to cats, you're fucked ... because we all fuckin had one. And if you happened to end up with a cat that wasn't a mouser, you got another one who was. Declaw? No - not because we were too poor to invest in our animals ... but because we wanted to make sure that fucking cat got them mice and got them GOOD.

Have you ever tried to take a mouse away from a cat? I liken it to what it would be like to take away from me that mother fucker who would recite that graffiti to me as if he were saying something.

I'm not surprised, mind you - I have friends who really have trouble with the idea of the latency of racism ... great friends, in fact. But there it is ... in the proverbial black and white ...

I hate it that it's touted how far we've come simply because people have learned to suppress their racism ... the hearts of man have NOT come so very far if you ask me.

Master JACK

Well, folks - I have officially completed my graduate career, having worked on my degree part time since January 2006. Three point five years worth of working full time, traveling like a mfer, raising kids, fighting PF, getting shit canned, looking for a job, dating THAT mother fucker, putting THAT mother fucker in the past, starting a blog, keeping a blog ... and working on my degree part time!

It's over.

I completed my portfolio and got an A. My final GPA is a 3.733 and I'm done. On Sunday, I walk down the aisle to get my damn degree and all that jazz. There's a hooding ceremony (cuz I'm a MASTER now) and the best part of it all?

My babies will be there to see it all.

Now babies, you done seent daddy get his damn masters degree while he been raising your asses ... so, you do realize that you're going to college, right? Right. Don't make me drag your 18 year old, not-wanting-go-to-college, ass all over town by your ankles. You're going to college. Y YA!

But seriously, it means so much to me that they will be there to witness it ... it's really what it's all about ... making sure the babies have more and better than I am and have. They gon be all dolled up in their Sunday best and we're going to make a big, big BIG deal out of it ... not because I want a damn party

(because trust me, if that was the case, there'd be TONS of libation and kids wouldn't be allowed to witness the revelry)

... but because CHILDREN - IT MEANS SOMETHING TO GET AN EDUCATION.

You're free to hang out on the corner with a 40 in the brown paper bag AFTER you get your degree.

Cuz I love you.

I LOVE YOU, PIGLET (Swine Flu Take a Toll)

Bitch, you owe me

Would you believe I was a prude? It's true. Obviously, I'm not so much a prude anymore. But some of these mfers out there got me wondering if it's just not totally worth it to go back to being that damn prude ... that, don't touch me, you're too close kinda prude.

It's only been about the last 18 months or so that I've really come into my own about my sexuality ... and I don't mean that I've recently figured out that "oh wow, I really AM gay!" Trust me, I so already knew that.

I mean that I used to be this sheltered little bastard who thought that there really WAS a prince charming out there ... I know, stupid. But I held out ... and held out ... and then held out some more ...

And now, fuck it - I just PUT out. And so, THAT'S the kind of coming into my own that I'm refering to. I'm actually doing the casual sex thing - and, although I think in many ways it IS working for me ... in some ways, it is not.

For instance - not every nigga out there invests in a good mattress ... and others still need to invest in a "Topping, for Dummies" book. I mean, some of these niggas out there are a trip and a half. I mean, make it so that it wasn't even worth it to make the trip to his place ... or to the meeting place ... or to whereever.

So, I'm instituting a new rule ... if you're totally whack, I want my money back. Whatever I spent to get there, etc. I want it back. I have several of these mother fuckers to make ... but if you want the template, holla atcha boy ... I gotchu!