He Talks Like a Gentleman...

A Not-So-Freestyle: “Grimy Suit Theory”

I’m sailing on a cloud/they’re trailing below/the weight I bare of gravity that they’ll never know/I’ve stood up every column and I’ve filled up every row/with my city on my back and my family in tow.

Bass lines and bell chimes that keep with the time/committed but not convicted of a victimless crime/Black beanies and martinis stirred but not shaken/missed chances, last dances, and roads less taken.

Dapped up, and dapped down, and coiffed to the side/black-suited and booted up, and dressed to the nines/cufflinks and bowties the inseam’s plaid/ This that Sammy Davis, Rat Pack, sheened-up swag. 

Who I am or where I’ve been, you have no clue/ Still the man ‘cause here I stand, I’ve been there too/Nina Simone, but this time the spell’s on you/Clean up nice like Nancy and shoot ‘em with .22’s. 

I saw “Le chemin de la liberté.” “The Way Back,” in the King’s English. I didn’t particularly want to see it, but didn’t fuss due to the rarity of movies with original English dialogue here. It also featured a decent cast despite Colin Farrell, whom I believe is insufferably cliché. It turns out he was funny, and actually displayed a modicum of what I’ve come to call “badassery.” Mark Strong was also a feature, as a Russian thespian incarcerated in a gulag for some defeatist, capitalistic act of some sort. I felt a certain similarity to Kharbarov, as he was called, which would intermittently seep into the back of my mind in the coming days. His involvement in the plot, though short and fabled bore more significance to me than the epic story he was barely a part of. Through the willing suspension of disbelief, Kharbarov appeared the seasoned prisoner with the near impossible plan of escape; the mastermind missing the final chess piece that had yet to move into place: a strong pair of legs to carry him to the finish, and freedom. But as the brusque and quintessential American character, “Mr. Smith” (Ed Harris) reveals, Kharbarov has been “planning” escape for years. He fed off of new prisoners’ hope, leeching the life force from them. He’d always spoke of escape, but when an opportunity presented itself, he found some sort of excuse, as if the conditions could ever truly be ideal. In the end he was killed by Valka (Farrell) and quickly forgotten. By everyone but me. Even now as I search for the name of the main character, it escapes me, but Kharbarov’s name rings through.

I’ve always seen the world the way I want it to be, but it flees at the sight of the world as it is. Any dreams I have give way to the present or the immediate future. When I do dream, the resulting resonant images are akin to that of medicine lodge visions. Not to be made sense of, not to enjoy, just to exist. I’ve made a horrible habit of dashing my hopes before they’ve even fully formed, so when the opportunity presents itself for whatever reason, I’ve constantly had to make excuses as to why I’m not ready. Now I’ve finally begun to put steps to lofty expectation, and as opportunities have laid themselves out before me, I find myself in uncharted territory. It’s an uncertainty far more enjoyable than that of before. Uncertainty with direction.

You have been sold a bill of goods. Lured into the back of a generic, white, unmarked van of conformity under the premises of candy and patty cake. I’ve seen you walk past the table of vain girls at lunch time vapidly prattling on about Justin Bieber, fake-baking, clothes, and other things of no consequence. You’ve purchased that magazine and with each turn of the page you’ve felt fatter, uglier, increasingly inadequate. I won’t portend myself absent of criteria. I’ve things that catch my glancing eye; freckles, legs, hair, eyes, a smile to name a few in no particular order. I happen to fancy redheads, Asians, and brunettes, but I’ve given a second glance to a blond or two. But what gives me the most pause is self-assurance. Comfort and confidence in yourself. That can be, regardless of height, race, hair color, eye color, or even size, within reason (I’ve my standards, and everyone does, so I won’t apologize for them).

So you’ve convinced yourself that you’re undesirable. Seems like a frightfully clever way to hide. So you have large thighs. A sizable ass. A little tummy. Baby fat. If you’re not content with it, then change it. You can either change yourself or decide not to care, because lingering in the non-existent middle ground is maddening, and unattractive in and of itself. When you’re ready to be happy; and it is a decision; you will be.

So I was walking about in the grocery store near the University. I was in a rare mood, and walking along listening to Clipse, because in my opinion, coke rap is much more bad ass than weed rap. It would seem as though weed rap would goad you into imbibing champagne, rolling up a blunt and doing something inconsequential and absent of thought like watching daytime public access television or “A Clockwork Orange.” Coke rap is essentially harmless, contrary to its contents, in my experience. I’ve had my hood rat phase, and, thank the Lord, realized that I was about as hood as the Huxtables. Don’t let the taste fool you, I can still get niggerish, but to wear clothes that don’t fit and chains that cause back problems, apart from being eerily regressive, would do nothing but belie my cognitive thinking skills. However, reckless crack music is always a good release from over-civility. To rap along with at night when walking home from the bar, throwing up gang signs I know nothing about, save for what I saw about Tookie Williams on the History Channel and Court TV, and even then can never remember what side he was on, or started, or whatever. Even though I might rap along with the lyrics;

“The choppa make a chip outta potato head wimp, then like ranch, I dip…”;

I still periodically play both shoulders and switch sides of the street to avoid shady characters.

Back to the grocery store. I was choosing between (thankfully and finally) reasonably priced mousses in the refrigerated section, keeping my teeth from chattering by ratlling off lyrics along with Push-Ton and Malice.

“Pyrex stirs turned into Cavalli furs…”

I finally made a choice, choosing the strawberry mousse with chocolate sprinkles. Nothing gangsta about that.

“Woman if you love me, please let me know, tie rags ‘round ya neck and learn the sets we throw…”

I turned and bumped into a startlingly beautiful girl. I apologized, and realizing that my apology was most likely louder than would be normal, a result of the music blaring at full volume, hastily and clumsily took out my headphones and dropped my iPod on the floor. Smooth. She smiled warmly, picked it up and handed it to me, and surmised, correctly might I add, with a thick French accent, “Mr. Me Too,” and traipsed off to the cash register, looking back once over her shoulder, no doubt to see me, still standing there, gawking, and mouthing the only word I could gather…”Shit.”

I watched “No Strings Attached” last night. Twice. In a row. Yes, really. I have a massive infatuation with Natalie Portman. Everybody knows it. It’s not a secret. I’ve made avid claims about our future marriage. Regardless of the fact that she’s pregnant. And already has a fiance. If they’re not married already. Minor setback. And the 10 years that separate us in age? Minor, insignificant detail. It’s gotten to the point that I laugh invariably at every joke she makes on-screen. Maybe because it’s actually funny. And not funny in the way that the punchline itself is hilarious, but funny in that Betty White sort of way, as though vulgar phrases and curse words, from her mouth, are delightfully out of place. Regardless, Natalie Portman, herself, for me, is a passing fancy. What I yearn for, is a girl of the like: gorgeous, intelligent, and down-to-earth. That is a resolute and unyielding need.

For some, it would seem that it goes further. Their infatuation is born of its lofty, suppositious nature. They can buy posters of the flavor of the month, watch every movie, and scour TMZ for candid footage. In the same fashion that one could call someone, text someone, or tweet someone or write on their wall on Facebook, knowing that they might never actually have to summon the gumption and the testicles to speak to that someone face-to-face.

I won’t claim clemency or attempt to absolve myself of hiding behind impersonal communication. We’ve all done it at some point. Perhaps that’s why you’ve never had a good Valentine’s day. Why gratuitous public displays of affection sicken you. Why you’ve always referred to it as Singles’ Awareness Day. Why you’ve written it off as a consumer-driven capitalist holiday. The truth is that resentment is born of envy. You’re not a kid anymore, and not everyone is required to give you a card or the obligatory candy-heart, demanding in forcibly feigned affection: “Be Mine.” The truth hurts, but it isn’t meant to please your swine ass sensibilities. You can’t pretend that nothing bothers you or that you don’t feel because, aside from the fact that you do, you’re terrible at faking it.