tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13928026360301463502024-02-19T11:40:50.649-05:00It's Just Kenny!Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-11807173414728848532013-01-10T10:16:00.000-05:002013-01-10T10:16:00.351-05:00[My Life] 10 Days Later…<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So it
has been 10 days since the start of 2013. By this time all the “Happy New Year”
greetings have finally subsided and people are once again returning to normal
life forgetting about all the things they said they would change about themselves
once the clock stuck midnight on New Year’s Day. We’ve all done it at one point
or the other… <i>I’m going to lose weight! I
am going to finally stop smoking! I am going to get a better paying job! I am
going to stop cursing! I am going to blah, blah blah</i>… Within 2 weeks most people, myself included,
are back to our old ways and habits that we hated about ourselves in the
previous years. I don’t know about you guys, but I am so over the prehistoric
concept. I stopped with the New Year resolutions a long time because I
discovered something about myself that other people may not know and that is… I
will fuck up and sometimes I will fuck up badly… <b>BUT</b> it’s okay. WHY? Because everything in life happens for a reason
that we never understand at the time. I know I am not the only one that has
heard this before. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So, this is what I
know about me…<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I tend to take on more work than I can
chew. I am majorly out of shape. I tend to neglect my health. I think I am
one more piece of paper away from being on an episode of Hoarders. I have
major issues in opening up to people and letting them know how I feel. And so
on and so on…<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I know, I know… Who says this about
themselves? Well I am a realist and I know my faults. Now these last couple of
years have sucked donkey balls for me (<i>granted
I do not suck on donkey balls or would phantom the idea of what they <b>WOULD</b> taste like, but I general don’t
think they taste like homemade apple pie</i>). Just reading some of my past
blogs had left me wondering how the hell I got through some of the things that
happen. However, in the last 6 months a new normal emerged and I had to get
used to everything all over again. From going back into the work force and
working jobs in 2 very different fields (non-profit and entertainment) to
buying my first real DSLR camera and discovering how much I want to go back
into the hobby of photography and graphic design that I had long abandon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Book Antiqua, serif;">So this
is my new blog for the New Year, hell it’s been a little over 6 months since I
had the chance to just sit down and write a blog at all. I’ve changed. The
world around me has changed… Life has uphill battles and avalanches no one expects.
So every year instead of trying to set unrealistic goals for myself, I aim to
just be more than I am right now. I will aim to learn more, see more, desire
more, experience more… Using every moment at my disposal to make sure that the
Kenny of 2013 is a little bit wiser than the Kenny of </span><span style="font-family: Book Antiqua, serif;">yesteryear's</span><span style="font-family: Book Antiqua, serif;"> just like
you the reader of this blog should envision for yourself. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am not
one looking to click my boots together and POOF everything about me will become
perfect. I am going to start taking everything one step at a time and even when
I do fuck up, I will learn from it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Book Antiqua, serif;">Oh
and on a side note… If anyone complains about how bad 2012 was, just remind
them that their face </span><span style="font-family: Book Antiqua, serif;">wasn't</span><span style="font-family: Book Antiqua, serif;"> eaten off by zombies during the Mayan apocalypse
that never was. It’s all about the perspective. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Kenny.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comEast Flatbush, Brooklyn, NY, USA40.6437474 -73.93010370000001840.595557400000004 -74.010784700000016 40.6919374 -73.849422700000019tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-33211087619003847172012-06-04T15:03:00.000-04:002012-06-04T15:03:55.660-04:00[My Life] Kenny versus The Mondays<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Mondays suck ass…</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The reality hits you that you have to be an adult for 5
whole days, before you can just lose your morals on the weekend. Ugh… My Monday,
started off with a banging start! It started off last night, when I was going
through some Craiglist job ads. I started to hear a lot of rumbling and
yelling. Usually that kind of noise would come from next door, where my
neighbor’s out of control pregnant teenage daughter would either be assaulting her
or fist fighting with her boyfriend/baby daddy/dick of the day… I don’t know, I
just try and mind my business and hope they are not hearing my porn. However
this time all the thumping was coming from up stairs. I don’t know much about
the family upstairs except for the fact they do not know how to TURN OFF A
FAUCET IN THE DAMN BATHROOM!!! But I digress… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The walls and ceilings are very thin in this building. As I
am sitting trying to concrete on getting this work search done, I have to hear
about why this one guy is going to fuck up this kid if he doesn’t go to his
room. Every time I move from one to another, they seem to follow. It was crazy…
Then like icing on the cake, the toddler next door… I should mention that the out
of control pregnant teenage daughter has a house guest of ANOTHER young lady
with a creepy looking toddler. Yeah, I know kids are supposed to be all
innocent, but there is something off about that kid big time. He reminds me of
the baby from Pet Cemetery and whenever he is in the hallway and I’m coming
out, he sees my cat Kimmiko and tries to reach for her. Now Kimmiko is an
attention whore and loves almost everyone, but when she sees him she hisses and
growls. Can anyone say Red Flag?... He starts screaming his head off like there
was no tomorrow. Oh how I wanted to do really bad things at that point… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">As everything seemed to settle down, someone must’ve turned
the on Hip Hop Chronicles Soap Opera. *Sigh* There has been this on again off
again relationship going on the floor below me. I really don’t know or care
about the details, but at least once a week, I can guarantee on hearing banging
on the door for at least an hour and the couple spilling out there business for
the building to hear. This was one of those nights… I got to hear how she
couldn’t do shit right and how he had a little dick. I could’ve lived the rest
of my life in bliss not knowing that. Cops were called, he ran came back
banging on the door, calling her everything but a child of God… Cops were
called again, this time he stayed, told him to leave and the cycle continues
for another day… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">It was almost dawn when everything in the building became
deathly silent and I was wide awake. Throwing on some running pants I went to
the Dunkin’ Donuts on my block for a blueberry coffee (I am there SOOO many
times that mostly everyone knows my order and has it ready for me right as I
walk to the counter) and I decided to go on a morning jog, something that I’ve
been trying to get back into since I’ve started to get a bit healthier, when it
started raining. It was one of those “Fuck my life moments”, but fit everything
so well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Returning home and wishing I could shower… which is another
story for another time, I spent the morning on EMPTY, I started to finish
planning my long week of workshops, appointment, and trying to move money around
to make sure that in the next 2 weeks after my unemployment stops, I had enough
to pay the rent and bills… on time as well as food. After setting everything
up, I just remember closing my eyes for a second and it was suddenly almost
2:30 in the afternoon. How much I hate the Mondays. I knew I should’ve just
taken a seroqul and went to sleep the moment my mother went off to work. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Kenny.</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comEast Flatbush, Brooklyn, NY, USA40.6437474 -73.930103740.6196509 -73.96958570000001 40.6678439 -73.8906217tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-28963605695333011122012-05-31T08:45:00.000-04:002012-05-31T08:45:44.511-04:00[My Life] That New Normal Thingy<br />
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There are a couple of things in life that I am a firm
believer of. There is no such thing as the Loch Ness monster, Big Foot is
probably some guys uncle out in Jersey and there is no such thing as the
concept of normal. With every second that ticks by, there is something
different on the horizon. Good or bad, we find ourselves adjusting to a new
normal way of life, which usually takes time and patience. And patience is something I am working on,
especially now…</div>
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A couple of years ago in my darkest times, I could not phantom
that I would be where I am today. At that point I was alone dealing with my
grandmother’s accident, unable to finish school and had no idea where the money
for the rent was going to come from, let alone how I was going to feed my
mother and I. That was my normal for a number of months living a life that I
had grown to hate. As the years went by, everything changed where I was
employed, up to date on all the bills and had enough money to splurge whenever
I wanted. But like all things that changed and I had to quick adjust again to a
lifestyle that was pretty much left me
depending on other people. The act alone is something that I truly loath with a
passion. </div>
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There had to be a point where I had to take matters into my
own hands and direct a future for myself when I thought one was not possible.
Before my mentor passed away, he told me that I would be great in social work.
I shrugged it off, but it still lingered in the back of my mind and ever so
often the idea would reappear. When I started to have serious health issues
during the course of last year, a social worker reached out to me and was able
to help me during those difficult times with obtaining health insurance,
medications and other important information that I needed to know. It felt
really good that there was some one that didn’t even know me going out of their
way to make me at ease. </div>
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That is when I decided that I wanted to be one of those
people who gave up their time and energy to help others. I started to attend
workshops and gain certificates in the attempt to have more knowledge in
different fields that I never had before. I took and GRADUATED from a peer
educator class at an organization called AIDS Service Center, which helps those
who are infected, affected and at risk for HIV/AIDS virus. During the course of
the cycle I learned a great deal and hope to share the information that I
received to others by way of PSA (Public Service Announcement) blogs here on
Blogger and Tumblr or just helping those get the info they may need to better equip
themselves. In addition, completing was a big step for me. Last Thursday, I was
in a cap and gown and walked with my other peers in a very special graduation ceremony.
Plus, it felt really good that my mother got the opportunity to see me walk,
since that was the first time I was in a cap and gown in my adult life. </div>
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A year ago, hell 6 months ago… I didn’t think it could be
possible for me to do so. Everything is changing all the time and I am
adjusting to it. So I find myself dealing with a new normal… Last month, I laid
out a plan for the next couple of years of career goals and personal goals that
I would like to see accomplished. I want to continue to gain certificates, work
on my CASAC, go back to school for social work and at the same time pursue a
career in photography and writing. However, the reality is that in a few weeks
my unemployment will end and I am still unsure if I am going to receive this
peer position, but instead of crying over spilled milk, I have made back up
plans to deal with anything that may come up. I see opportunities out there and
I no longer want to waste them on dealing with issues that I do not have the
power to change like I did last year. My dreams and goals are not going to
happen over night, but one thing I know for sure is that I am ready for that
new normal thingy to happen…</div>
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Kenny.</div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comEast Flatbush, Brooklyn, NY, USA40.6437474 -73.930103740.6196509 -73.96958570000001 40.6678439 -73.8906217tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-72640019449003872492012-01-31T10:30:00.000-05:002012-01-31T10:30:32.754-05:00[My Life] Thank you for crotch watching…<div class="MsoNormal">It is always good to take a trip down memory lane, well in most cases. This morning I was going through some old blogs that I had posted on a social networking website from 2009, talking about when I would travel back and forth from Brooklyn to Staten Island everyday on the ferry to be with grandmother while she was in the Burn Unit ICU in Staten Island University Hospital. I hated the commute in every which way. An hour to get to Staten Island and another hour to get the hospital was draining on my mental state and most days I was deeply depressed or angry. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Before this accident, I’ve never been on the ferry. It was a new and unwelcoming experience. The massive rude crowds of people rushing in trying to trample over you for a damn seat and afterwards engaging in all sorts of loud personal conversations that would make Heather Del Rio blush. Boy, Oh boy… Most of the time I would buy a coffee and zone out with my mp3 player blasting some angry hip hop music. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On one such afternoon, I was in my own little world oblivious to anything around me. As I drifted in and out of a cat nap, I never noticed a man taking a seat right in front of me. I was wearing some fitted jeans, not the tight ass yeast infection stuff these people are walking around in these days, but something that actually fitted my body and wasn’t half way off my ass. I usually sit like most guys do. Feet planted firmly on the floor with my legs open, which is nothing special at all. Midway into the voyage, I suddenly felt there were eyes on me. Have you ever gotten the feeling that you were being watched? Not a comfortable feeling at all is it? When I looked up, the gentleman that was sitting across from me eyes were fixated on my crotch. Yeah… I wanted to tell him that it doesn’t do tricks, but thought it would be unwise to do so. So I snapped my fingers and he popped out of whatever daze he was in and looked me in the face. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEAm-tH19dvpZ4oVrfNjU0Jl3GeOlY1zLiwLGYJk_Q_qSFG7RRQlPhvl268XkjPvY0r_-Ee2RMJf0Oj6s-DfhppCixXywZNLzBTVoO5mp1lrOi2uMMX6PW2FotAUqQJY2TKwSrRvc6OzTE/s1600/8434.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEAm-tH19dvpZ4oVrfNjU0Jl3GeOlY1zLiwLGYJk_Q_qSFG7RRQlPhvl268XkjPvY0r_-Ee2RMJf0Oj6s-DfhppCixXywZNLzBTVoO5mp1lrOi2uMMX6PW2FotAUqQJY2TKwSrRvc6OzTE/s400/8434.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The one thing my friends all tell me is that my facial expressions show my feelings no matter how much I try to hide it. At that moment, I didn’t have a warm expression on my face. He turned bright red with what I assume was embarrassment, and unfolded the newspaper to read. Now I could laugh about it, but at the moment I was heated. I started to wonder if I needed a giant belt buckle that said: <b>No eyes beyond this point! </b>But I guess that would defeat the purpose now wouldn’t it. Since I wrote the blog, I’ve taken great care in covering that part of my body while on mass transit. Nothing is worse than a wondering erection where a woman screams pervert and your face is on the front page of the Daily News or someone watching in between your legs like its Direct TV.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stuff like this makes me really make me want to get a car, to avoid nonsense like this. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">Kenny.<o:p></o:p></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comSouth Ferry, NY40.701698100896238 -74.01442884494628140.697631100896238 -74.021724344946279 40.705765100896237 -74.007133344946283tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-15803089136123737782012-01-28T12:16:00.000-05:002012-01-28T12:16:59.894-05:00[Lifestyles] For the sake of employment…<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7AUUQm_5aAUo5iesXt8kgbX9WqRswrgyUjq78dN2dPy7031wOrp34ajJOAFmzMDltyjiBL7w5G9waYF8QMxuKxEbNDTyXMEruaF1FjXH4u_0EfeBUFhoxJadnj6FXYjaBFDrzf9s_PbRc/s1600/40178_418881597044_80500707044_5240034_7321705_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7AUUQm_5aAUo5iesXt8kgbX9WqRswrgyUjq78dN2dPy7031wOrp34ajJOAFmzMDltyjiBL7w5G9waYF8QMxuKxEbNDTyXMEruaF1FjXH4u_0EfeBUFhoxJadnj6FXYjaBFDrzf9s_PbRc/s320/40178_418881597044_80500707044_5240034_7321705_n.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I wanted to share a story from when I was working a few years back… There was this young lady who was a supervisor and there was a major incident that was brought to my attention and needed to be dealt with since I was the senior supervisor in the office. I will let this be known now, that I was a complete asshole to most people in the office at the time because there was a lot of pressure on me to make sense of madness and like they say… Shit rolls downhill. So, most people caught a glimpse of my wrath when I was not pleased for whatever reason. Hell I am surprised how many people talked to me after the job was over. I was in my office space, when she approached me. I asked her to sit and began to talk about what happen. Without giving out details, she had messed up and as I was scolding her about her responsibilities especially since she was a supervisor. Yes, my words were harsh, but if it came from anyone else it would’ve been her job. As I spoke, she began to tear up and I could see she was trying really hard not to cry.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I stopped. I was not happy at all by this. I told her the following:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know you’re not about to cry. Go into the bathroom and clean yourself up and we will talk more. You can show these weak emotions to those who are your superior because it makes you seem unstable and unable to do your job. You’re not being fired, but don’t put doubt in my mind. Do you want that? ::she shook her head:: Then go…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">With that being said, she got up went to the bathroom and came back. Yeah it could’ve been a big argument or she could’ve gone and filed a complaint against me, but I just told her the truth. If you are perceived as an ineffective person at a job, you are replaceable. I kept her from getting fired and even help her move into other positions that was beneficial to her. The truth is that this day and age is tough. Jobs are slowly coming back and there are mobs (<i>me being one of them</i>) trying to make a strong enough impression so that people in power can say “I want him”. When you’re a person of color, there is 10 times the pressure to be stronger, wiser, tougher, smarter than our counterparts. If you’re not, then you have to settle for whatever minimum wage job out there that can’t even pay the rent. Throughout my adult life I’ve held different types of employment (sadly, this is the longest stretch of employment that I have encountered). From retail to office positions and the politics are the same everywhere you go.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The one thing I learned from that job was that sometimes there are asshole out there (<i>me being one of them</i>) that can make your job the living hell. From the customers who complain for the sake of complaining to the dumbass placed in management positions. No one is going to care about you if you can’t produce. What you need to focus on is if you are willing to accept the way things are or risk go on to greener pastures. A risk that could bring you less headache or finical uncertainty… Think about it for a second, what are you willing to put up with for the sake of employment?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">Kenny.</div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comEast Flatbush, Brooklyn, NY, USA40.6437474 -73.93010370000001840.626613400000004 -73.952233200000023 40.6608814 -73.907974200000012tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-73070425926783971052012-01-23T15:00:00.026-05:002012-01-23T15:20:26.920-05:00[Lifestyles] Grade Pending<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj25sIYtJD2MImfjjBzbuNcrNgddnL1MtpyaOSookO3EdSvmxxb0iaAJEfMSGaiG5Lp_DbUg12YbDkDei17o7ZP1B7BVwiTKLQeeHaXMfMzqHS8u_NB3bNS_zGpOApkZPAsTDzK2edLl1OD/s1600/tumblr_lfyvuldVgx1qzx9iio1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj25sIYtJD2MImfjjBzbuNcrNgddnL1MtpyaOSookO3EdSvmxxb0iaAJEfMSGaiG5Lp_DbUg12YbDkDei17o7ZP1B7BVwiTKLQeeHaXMfMzqHS8u_NB3bNS_zGpOApkZPAsTDzK2edLl1OD/s400/tumblr_lfyvuldVgx1qzx9iio1_500.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Listen close and you will hear a story of great woe. Just like the fairy tales of old, this tale begins with the phrase used so many times before with once upon a time in a little place called Canarise Brooklyn. It was a quiet night in which a BOY traveled to and fro in search of a great meal. With his stomach growling he entered a place called <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/new-fortune-cookies-resturant-brooklyn" target="_blank">Fortune Cookies Chinese Restaurant</a>. As the BOY entered the tiny little shop, he did not notice the NYC Health Department “<i>Grade Pending</i>” sign in front, because if he did it would have warned him of the troubles to come. The BOY gave the female shop keeper his order of lo mein with fried chicken and started to count the minutes before he can quench his hunger. As he sat and waited, one of the workers came into view. He was very slobbish, covered in dirt, grease and grime. Like clouds in the sky, the BOY could see patterns form on the workers apron. The BOY shuddered a bit. The worker placed a mop in his hand to the side so he could close a trash bag overflowing with rubbish. It was quite a difficult task. He took his bare hands to push everything inside so he could be able to seal the black bag. Once finished, he pulled the bag out and dragged it into the street for the garbage men to come pick it up in the wee hours of the morning. Once he returned, he entered the kitchen, dipped his hands in the container of lo mein noodles and threw it into a wok. The BOY gasped at this sight. The man, who he just seen taking his bare hands pushing down garbage, was now, cooking his meal without washing his hand. Sicken to the core, the BOY fled in hopes to never return, but he had realized one thing too late. He had eaten from this same place several times before… </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The moral, if you can call it that is…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-size: 16pt;">DO NOT</span></u></b><b><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> FUCKING EAT AT FORTUNE COOKIE CHINESE RESTAURANT LOCATED AT 9004 AVEUNE B IN BROOKLYN, N.Y.!!!<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course there is more to this story. A while back, I wrote a blog called: <a href="http://itsjustkenny.blogspot.com/2011/03/my-life-b-is-for-failure.html" target="_blank">B is for Failure</a>, in which I talked about a Subways restaurant on my block that had a B-rating from the Health department. After seeing that rating, I went on the health department’s website and did my own little research about other places in my neighborhood. Many places had sever violations and it made me really wonder had these places can get away with this. In this little adventure, I did my research once again on the placed named above and was shocked to what I had discovered and the loop holes used so that the public is not aware of this travesty. On the NYC <a href="http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh/html/rii/index.shtml" target="_blank">health department website</a> you can find out <a href="http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh//downloads/pdf/rii/how-we-score-grade.pdf" target="_blank">how they score and grade</a> plus there latest and previous inspections. It’s quite simple really. The age of technology is just a wonderful beast at times. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When you are on the website, you can either enter in the eatery’s name you want to find or the zip code, which in this case 11236, and it will pull up the place or all the restaurants within that area. After filtering based on cuisine type (<i>American, Bakery, Caribbean, Chinese, etc…</i>), I found Fortune Cookies had a “Not Yet Graded” as their current grade (<i>When I first did the search it was actually a C grade, but it has since changed</i>). While going through the inspections on the left side of the screen of their most recent I disgusted by what I saw. To put things in perspective here is the how the health department score violations…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">From the “How we score and Grade” <a href="http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh//downloads/pdf/rii/how-we-score-grade.pdf" target="_blank">PDF:</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table border="1" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoTableGrid" style="border-collapse: collapse; border: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184;"><tbody>
<tr> <td style="border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 6.65in;" valign="top" width="638"><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The points for a particular violation depend on the health risk it poses to the public. Violations fall into three categories: <o:p></o:p></span></b></div></td> </tr>
<tr> <td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 6.65in;" valign="top" width="638"><div class="MsoNormal"> <u>A public health hazard</u>, such as failing to keep food at the right temperature, triggers a minimum of 7 points. If the violation can’t be corrected before the inspection ends, the </div><div class="MsoNormal">Health Department may close the restaurant until it’s fixed. </div></td> </tr>
<tr> <td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 6.65in;" valign="top" width="638"><div class="MsoNormal"><u>A critical violation</u>, for example, serving raw food such as a salad without properly washing it first, carries a minimum of 5 points. </div></td> </tr>
<tr> <td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 6.65in;" valign="top" width="638"><div class="MsoNormal"><u>A general violation</u>, such as not properly sanitizing cooking utensils, receives at least 2 points.</div></td> </tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><i> <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">In September of last year, Fortune Cookie was graded 3 times. Once on the 10<sup>th</sup> which added up to <b>62</b> violation points, the next on the 13<sup>th</sup> which added up to <b>32</b> points and lastly on the 14<sup>th</sup> with only <b>3</b> points. Lucky for the public you can actually see what they were violated for. This is a screen shot of the September 10<sup>th</sup> list violations:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkm5s_z8E79tp4116j88QNKwbaJKKvDb-6C_0qCJ1scfPs1oKgiLKrf_z5CZDfnVeH8kT5MHjZGytTxfEyL2ZLeu93oW0Q4TPyYh0rYZljddSGfNlpml-m5PsKIqcjzm7vkgGzIo5VpNV/s1600/Violations.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkm5s_z8E79tp4116j88QNKwbaJKKvDb-6C_0qCJ1scfPs1oKgiLKrf_z5CZDfnVeH8kT5MHjZGytTxfEyL2ZLeu93oW0Q4TPyYh0rYZljddSGfNlpml-m5PsKIqcjzm7vkgGzIo5VpNV/s400/Violations.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click on image to expand size.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Personal cleanliness… does that creep anyone else out like it did me? I have to assume as a person looking at this, that it only received a 3 in there last inspection because of the city threatening to shut them down and they hired a crew of elves to come in and do there magic… maybe one of those Sookie Stackhouse fairies as well perhaps.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I began to wonder why in the hell did this place have a “Grade Pending” on its store front window when it clearly wasn’t making the grade at all. Everything was kind of confusing until I reread the PDF document. There is a part that I want to make EVERYONE aware of. Towards the bottom of the first page and the top of the second there is this:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“A restaurant has two chances to earn an A in every inspection cycle. If it doesn’t earn an A on the first inspection, it’s scored but ungraded. An inspector goes back to the restaurant unannounced, typically within a month, to inspect it again and the re-inspection is graded. <u>If the grade is a B or C, the restaurant will receive a grade card and a grade pending card. It can post either card until it has an opportunity to be heard at the Office of Administrative Trials and Hearings Health Tribunal.</u> <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Until a restaurant has a graded inspection, it is listed as Not Yet Graded on the Health <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Department website”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I underlined the most important part. A place can either post the grade they had received OR a <i>Grade Pending</i> sign. Establishments, unless they are shut down, can hide their score from the public!!! Ain’t that some shit right there… I was ready to let Facebook, Foursquare, Google and anyone that could hear me from my soapbox about this place. That’s another reason to love the technology age. I started to comb the internet for some reviews and frankly there were very few expect for this one <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/fortune-cookie-open-kitchen-brooklyn#hrid:Yq5z1qEr2_MOb9pmPUZGIQ" target="_blank">Yelps</a>. Here is the screenshot:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBPp3LFpOO8nrCPMuJ9GD4nBCWNTvB2mfJBdDrnSdK3BAZJOaJO_cU_R0gXGK4s_NqlplI_WWMK_duvhcZ4r6D6RtKOPSOKRQWzTJiSta8oenszCO2Fc8cCiqu5FFEHNhRrQuCAvC_Q4Ro/s1600/review+screenshot+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBPp3LFpOO8nrCPMuJ9GD4nBCWNTvB2mfJBdDrnSdK3BAZJOaJO_cU_R0gXGK4s_NqlplI_WWMK_duvhcZ4r6D6RtKOPSOKRQWzTJiSta8oenszCO2Fc8cCiqu5FFEHNhRrQuCAvC_Q4Ro/s400/review+screenshot+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click on image to expand size. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A disclaimer though… While the place reviewed was actual ANOTHER Fortune Cookies restaurant in Bensonhurst, Dyker Heights area, the review mentioned a place called Chopsticks which is right down block and provides a better service than Fortune Cookie, so I knew that she might’ve made a mistake in placing the review there. I also felt that the first review was also talking about the Fortune Cookies restaurant as well, but I am not 100% sure about that.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After being sick for months and unable to stomach even the sight of food. It is disappointing that places like this exist and even shameful that people pack them without doing any research. A few minutes can avoid hours of throwing up or much worse. I suggest that everyone out there takes a moment (especially if you live in the New York area) to review some of the fast food places that you go into everyday. What you might learn may surprise you and save your life.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">Kenny.</div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comEast Flatbush, Brooklyn, NY, USA40.6437474 -73.93010370000001840.626613400000004 -73.952233200000023 40.6608814 -73.907974200000012tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-41753455596471784232012-01-20T19:10:00.001-05:002012-01-20T19:10:00.218-05:00[My Life] Fitness FAIL<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-SW6nUTJpQ2uKHF7vCiIAZJxg_IUPXsx5HCkDVcaLY3MLltLtr64-UIv0w9lVDxmmYkkZMK03xvMjDt6F-lq5NP7oVjkUzspW5VxXTmu37bEfqhqRTSfIbeeCfE51KOpfwPG7-yjXvrH/s1600/189098_200950883257386_165456863473455_681809_7621599_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-SW6nUTJpQ2uKHF7vCiIAZJxg_IUPXsx5HCkDVcaLY3MLltLtr64-UIv0w9lVDxmmYkkZMK03xvMjDt6F-lq5NP7oVjkUzspW5VxXTmu37bEfqhqRTSfIbeeCfE51KOpfwPG7-yjXvrH/s320/189098_200950883257386_165456863473455_681809_7621599_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">On January 17<sup>th</sup>, I checked my bank account online and there was a debit from <a href="http://www.planetfitness.com/gyms/NY/Brooklyn_(Canarsie)" target="_blank">Planet Fitness</a> of 10 dollars. I really, really started to kick myself because of it. You see, the charge wasn’t something that was shocked about getting, since I did have a membership with them. I just hated the fact that I feel like I was wasting money in a time where money is really needed. I’ve only been there once and you might have guessed it… it was t o sign up for that damn sweet membership offer. 20 dollars down, 10 dollars a month… Where can you find something like that in this day and age? Since coming back like Lazarus, where I was on the brink of death and left in an extremely weaken state, I have made great strides to improve my heath situation, but the one thing I have learned is that “the road to recovery is paved with bumps and bruises” so it’s been slow and sometimes painful to deal with. Trust me when I say that I have experienced it all over the last few months.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH-Dqdl0OhTSJXXhcRwlGFDR1__VBXYyZ02HYNC65vfKCHPjgnby3LdQLpqEDcAfHEeUKn-0cDFhNaYAvvKpS5irRNafRAP2CMZ1BN56UBimeNsBPmZ9e4sFpdVEwRz_hR1O2OZSwK1hLe/s1600/IMG_20111223_180547.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH-Dqdl0OhTSJXXhcRwlGFDR1__VBXYyZ02HYNC65vfKCHPjgnby3LdQLpqEDcAfHEeUKn-0cDFhNaYAvvKpS5irRNafRAP2CMZ1BN56UBimeNsBPmZ9e4sFpdVEwRz_hR1O2OZSwK1hLe/s320/IMG_20111223_180547.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Since getting my gym membership, I eat all the time either at home or places like IKEA (<i>The food there is off the chain!!!</i>) or <a href="http://www.facebook.com/BrooklynWingstop" target="_blank">Wingstop</a> which is better than any BBQ’s place around even Dallas BBQ’s right down the street in Downtown Brooklyn. I regained all the weight I had lost, go me!!! Especially since the crackish look was SOOO 1980’s. Being 6’3 and 148lbs was not a good look at all. Plus, I used to (<i>and still have</i>) major body issues. I thought I was too big, while others around me thought I was getting way too skinny for comfort. Even my mother told me that she thought I might be anorexic. Yeah, it was that serious… So now, I have a book bag ready full of the necessaries of the gym, but I can’t seem to drag my ass over there which is only a 15 minute bus ride. It’s been either one thing or the other. The excuses have become: I am waiting for my brother to come with me since I don’t know/remember how to use the equipment; the weather outside is way too cold for me to go out; I am going to go first thing in the morning before the sunrise to avoid the muscle jocks that get off on looking freaks of nature; etc, etc, etc…<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I do have other motives to getting in shape. This coming summer I want to go back to <a href="http://www.fairharbor.com/pl_sight_lighthousebeach.htm" target="_blank">Robert Moses beach</a> out in Fire Island which is clothing option. Yup, a nude beach and I want to be in the best physical shape so when I walk around with Mr. Happy flopping about and I don’t want to be self conscience about my increasing gut. Vanity… Such a wonderful sin, isn’t it? Beside the whole eating right and regularly, going to the doctor and taking my medications every day on time, I just really want to be one of those guys that will make jaws drop with a banging body.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">It’s not going to happen overnight. I know that. It takes time, patience and all the other hippie crap you hear from the infomercials hocking some overpriced equipment. I just need to get that motivation to actually do it. But I will tell you this… If I don’t go to the gym before February 17<sup>th</sup>, I am going to cancel my membership and get one of those Tae Bo tapes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Kenny. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comEast Flatbush, Brooklyn, NY, USA40.6437474 -73.93010370000001840.626613400000004 -73.952233200000023 40.6608814 -73.907974200000012tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-3568144436585129012011-09-11T21:20:00.004-04:002011-09-11T21:20:00.566-04:00[Lifestyles] A Billion Broken Shards<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZf7zGWWivkOUioZO8kUS32iKRenCMjqA74SnUHO9UpVl2AXQmFVkkNmL0GqEcGhf8ymMsxTfTWn38ZiSCxg8DLZhKtsLGHkzCAgE2vmt2rp0ExfrLb7c17d0BBbtkrz3buOM4uoKpYyHi/s1600/twintowersun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZf7zGWWivkOUioZO8kUS32iKRenCMjqA74SnUHO9UpVl2AXQmFVkkNmL0GqEcGhf8ymMsxTfTWn38ZiSCxg8DLZhKtsLGHkzCAgE2vmt2rp0ExfrLb7c17d0BBbtkrz3buOM4uoKpYyHi/s320/twintowersun.jpg" width="223" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I can’t believe it’s been 10 years already. You hear people say that all the time in an abstract way on how time pushes forward while they’re somewhat stuck looking at one still moment in time. In the craziness of the day I still remember every little thing that happen and the emotions that I was going through. Well the emotions that we were all going through in some form or another. I wrote this blog about 5 years ago in which I posted and reposted to several social networking site as each anniversary passed. After this year, I will retire it. As a part of growing and moving on, I need to work on moving passed EVERYTHING that happened that month. I was only 20 when this happen, just a kid that was barely out of high school and had no understanding of what the world was trying to offer me, but on this day 10 years ago all that changed and I was forced just like the rest of the country to walk with fear. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">So here is my story about that day…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I was dreaming… I don’t remember what it was about but I knew I was dreaming until it happen. That damn phone call. It was 7:30 in the morning and let’s be honest WHO would want to receive a call that early. Rolling over I looked at the Caller ID and it was a familiar number. My co-worker Jerry Garcia that just started working at the same store in Queens as I did with my Best-friend as our boss.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>“Hey Kenny… Can you do me a huge favor, please… Tell Kobe that I can’t come in today because I can’t get anyone to drive me into the City and Queens… and that I will try to come in tomorrow if I could get a ride to pick up my check.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>Pissed, I said, “You know that Kobe has a Cell phone, why the hell are you calling my ass for?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>“Kenny come on can you do me this favor?” he whined.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>“Whatever, Jerry I will talk to you later” I said hanging up the phone. I tossed the covers aside, went into the kitchen made breakfast. My grandmother was in her usually seat in the Living room watching Walker Texas Ranger and she was hooting and hollering as Chuck Norris kicked some bad guys ass. Once I finished with breakfast I brushed my teeth and headed back into my room to lay back down.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The timer on the TV turned itself on and the WB11 morning news was staring back at me. Ironically they were doing the weather forecast and talked about how beautiful the day was going to be. But of course no one knew what was to come beside those that put it in action. In a flash I turned the television off and turned on Z100, hoping to hear some music that would put me in a better mood. It was 8:30, when I closed my eyes hoping that would at least get another 30 minutes of uninterrupted sleep before I had to get ready for work and be there on time at 11, but then the announcement came.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">DJ Elvis Duran of the Z-morning Zoo broke into a song and announced that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center building a few minutes ago. I opened my eyes and grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. It was true. As I flip through every channel that had images of one of the World Trade Center buildings on fire.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>“Great…” I whispered. I just knew that nothing good was going to come from this.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">It was just before 9am when I called my boss/best friend. He had just gotten into the store and from his voice he was nursing a hangover. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hey, Kobe” I said, somewhat extra cheerful.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“What happen?” he said automatically. After being best friends for so long he knew my moods.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Well, I got a call from Jerry this morning and he wanted me to tell you that he wasn’t coming in today and –“… before I could say anything else he started screaming.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“THAT STUPID MOTHERFUC-“ Well you get the point he was pissed and swore up and down that Jerry’s ass was out and would be fired as soon as he finished his coffee. Just before I was about to hang up, I remember the plane crash. I took the remote from my grandmother, which she cursed at me about and turned it to network television.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Kobe, have you seen the news yet?” I asked<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“No… what’s up?” he answered.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Well going home might be a problem for you because some plane crashed into the World Trade Center…” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“What!!!” he exclaimed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">He turned on the televisions in his store and he stared at the same images that I was staring at in my home. “Oh shit” he exclaimed. Flames and smoke were gushing out of the tall structure as the people below stood in shock. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I wonder how something like-“ It felt like it was slow motion. Before I could complete my sentence we both saw the second plane crash into the World Trade Center and explode. The words: Oh my God…escaped my lips. It was at that point I knew there was much more to this than just being a coincidence. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Kenny did you see that? Did you see that?” he said. I couldn’t speak as the second tower began to explode in fire and what seems like a billion broken shards of glass crashing to the ground below. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Kobe I don’t believe it?” I finally said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“But you saw it too, right?<span> </span>You saw that plane hit the building right?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yeah I did… I think I did…” I said confirming not only what Kobe saw but what I’ve seen as well. “Kobe I will call you back...” I said after a short pause.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">My first thought was my mother. Was she at work or was she at the World Trade Center? I just need to make sure. Since she was looking for a new job and most of the people in her company were now employed at the World Trade. I grabbed the phone again and called my mother’s cell phone and to my shock, I heard it ringing in a pair of discard jeans on my bedroom floor. I had forgotten that I had used it that weekend and forgot to give it back to her. This day of all days, why did I do something stupid like that? I dialed her work number and all it did was ring and go to her voicemail. After the 7<sup>th</sup> time I was in a panic.<span> </span>She had to be alright… I kept telling myself and my grandmother was no help. She didn’t understand what was really happening or why I was stressing out the way I was. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s nothing…” she kept saying to me in her deep southern drawl. “Your mama ain’t there she is at work”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">But I knew better. As quickly as I could I grabbed some jeans and a shirt and raced out of the door leaving my grandmother no longer watching the broadcast but Walker, Texas Ranger.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Nothing worked. The trains were at a standstill and tempers at the train station were at its breaking point. No one knew anything and the token booth operator was at loss for words. I ran liked the wind to catch the B12 bus to take me across Brooklyn so I can at least find be closer to Downtown where I was praying my mother would be. The bus was crowded full of more people that were more confused than I was. The rumor mill was fluttering around that there more planes crashing and one crashed into a building in Washington D.C. The bus just passed Kings county hospital when some one said that one of the buildings collapsed. That was the first time I cried. Tears were streaming down my face, and a woman patted my back telling me that it was going to be okay. I couldn’t tell you what she looked like or how she sounded, I just remembered her patting my back and me saying something about needed my mother. When the bus finally made it to Flatbush Ave., I was one of the first ones out and rushed to the connected bus stop. At the B41 bus stop on Flatbush Ave. and Parkside Ave. I waited with another crowd of people looking to get into a cramped bused. The bus driver told everyone that there were no buses heading to downtown Brooklyn at that time. Men and women were cursing and screaming at each other, the bus driver and at the world. I couldn’t let this set back stop me. I started to run up Flatbush Ave. and towards Downtown. With my mother’s cell phone in hand I called her job again and received no answer.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">As I passed the Prospect Park train station on the Q train I started to notice something.<span> </span>There were no cars traveling around me anymore and the people coming towards me were not longer white or black… they were gray. Gray people. These Gray people were everywhere as I raced passed the infamous Prospect Park.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>As I reached Grand Army Plaza, I saw a female police officer and went up to her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Excuse me officer, is it true? Did a building collapsed?” I asked breathing hard from running and I feared that I would faint right there.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I don’t know…” she said trying to direct people around. As I started again towards Downtown when the officer grabbed my arm and pulled me back.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Where are you going?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I got to find my mother” I said, trying to pull my arm away.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s a mess down there, you will only be in the way…” she told me, but I didn’t listen or care about what she was trying to say to me. I had only one objective and that was my mother. And so I moved on. Rushing through the sea of gray people, I stopped at an electric store, where a friend of mine was working located on Atlantic Ave. and Flatbush Ave. The store was crowded with people hovering around the television and buying radios, batteries and other things. My friend Mathew took me into the backroom where I was trying to hold myself together. On the television in the back room I saw the last tower fall to the earth and people just started to cry and gasp. The Mayor was calling for those to leave lower Manhattan and I was scared out of my mind. I looked up at Mathew and he looked down at me and we were speechless. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">His mind was on his wife and daughter and I was completely blank. I didn’t know what to do or say. Before I knew it I was out of the door and back on my journey. Downtown Brooklyn was a mad house full of people running from the imaginary boogeyman that was now in your lives. The Gray people were in numbers now, some bleeding, some crying but all covered in ash. As I made my way through the crowded Fulton Street Mall area in Downtown, Brooklyn I tried to close my mind to what was going on around me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">My mother was standing in front of her job. When I saw her, I couldn’t let her go. It was embarrassing to my mother because I just held her and kissed each of her cheeks over and over again right in front of her Boss. She smiled. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Why didn’t you pick up the phone?” I asked my face flooded with tears. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I wasn’t at my desk… we were at the window and saw the planes hit… so we got the hell out of the building. When I got a chance to call the house, your grandmother said that you were coming down here to get your MAMA!!!” she said laughing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>I do not remember the way home or what we talked about, but I do remember that I held her hand all the way home. Over the next few days we found out that many of her friends and old co-workers died that morning in the may lay. I didn’t feel anything for the many died that morning at first; my main focus was my mother and she was with me. But as the images of the destruction started to be over played on national television displaying families, spouses and others calling for their missing love one that was surely dead, it made me wonder what was going to happen next. Even now I am still wondering what is next…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Kenny.</span><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 9pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comNew York, NY, USA40.7143528 -74.005973140.4942638 -74.2853821 40.9344418 -73.7265641tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-52545563518518333612011-09-02T13:35:00.011-04:002011-09-02T13:35:00.753-04:00[Lifestyles] Celebrities and Porn: A Love Story.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCWvZ9em8x8ZN60mDjM_kdDJCUjc0t8atn_l3IBjq7dX6Vw6aJuATqpY7DLO8Ruf6P-j-iXUUHg4gj63B1MM-54-JlXu2Fqn1W5n-0F2ov3P1ox2Zo8UZeqkIhIInjkw5ei6714olQgwis/s1600/Karissa-Shannon-and-boyfriend-Sam-Jones-III.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCWvZ9em8x8ZN60mDjM_kdDJCUjc0t8atn_l3IBjq7dX6Vw6aJuATqpY7DLO8Ruf6P-j-iXUUHg4gj63B1MM-54-JlXu2Fqn1W5n-0F2ov3P1ox2Zo8UZeqkIhIInjkw5ei6714olQgwis/s320/Karissa-Shannon-and-boyfriend-Sam-Jones-III.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sam Jones III. Ever heard of the guy? If you ever watched the first couple of seasons of Smallville you might have. He played the only recurring African-American character on the show until he was written off. You might know him from another show. He also played the gay little brother to Mekhi Phifer character Greg Pratt in the acclaimed series ER. He has spent 10 years of his life in front of the camera in other small roles and I didn’t know who this man was until I looked at his <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sam_Jones_III">Wikipedia page</a>. <span> </span>So you might be asking yourself, why am I bringing this up now? Well… I stumbled on to something interesting about the man, you see he has something in common with the likes of Kim Kardashian, Paris Hilton and other wealthy D-List celebrities out there. He has a sex tape. In 2009, while I was dealing with my own personal issues, he was out there pushing a sex tape with himself and his girlfriend, one of Hugh Heffner’s ex girlfriends. Now it’s his life and what he does with his life is his business at the end of the day, but can I ask a question? When did having sex in front of a camera guarantee you a career in mainstream media? Or why are celebrities embarking in this route in keeping their names in the limelight? 10 years ago, if you were not in the porn industry where you are paid to have sex, having your private moments exposed for the world to see was an embarrassment. Now, people build careers off of them without remorse. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Now, I have seen Porn movies that attempt to merge acting and graphic sex. Some are successful like that “NOT” series of videos (i.e. “Not The Office”, “Not 3’s Company”, “Not The Cosby Show”, or “Not Good Times”), while others tend to leave me wanting to jab Q-Tips into my ears to spare myself the pain of hearing annoying dialogue. Like come on, how many times are you going to look into the cupboard and “inspect” something? Just please bend over so we can get this show on the road for pete sake. Maybe it’s just my impatient personality kicking in. I really don’t want to come off holier than thou on this, because I have no problem watching any of these videos. None at all… But it kills me when I see people who have no real talent, being famous for what they have done laying down with their feet up! Let’s keep it real, would American really care about Kim Kardashian or Paris Hilton if they weren’t seen deep throating a penis? Sometimes you just have to shake your head and wonder…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Kenny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comEast Flatbush, Brooklyn, NY, USA40.6437474 -73.93010370000001840.626613400000004 -73.952233200000023 40.6608814 -73.907974200000012tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-46537454653981517152011-09-01T17:25:00.002-04:002011-09-01T17:25:00.271-04:00[My Life] Punch Drunk Kenny<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3XGi3v4ikERgI2sAp0JodtHa3Cr9rc3vxyxFS8_ri3P41QZR2BhrYeFBEpVRFYW53tD8QnywYid7_qklVnPZaSKuWprNOxWTE9J0Be9Szra7-UMgeNT9A7BJj87NRIkvk2e7VmTqR_IBA/s1600/252456_120053698079019_100002231675758_178026_1306962_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3XGi3v4ikERgI2sAp0JodtHa3Cr9rc3vxyxFS8_ri3P41QZR2BhrYeFBEpVRFYW53tD8QnywYid7_qklVnPZaSKuWprNOxWTE9J0Be9Szra7-UMgeNT9A7BJj87NRIkvk2e7VmTqR_IBA/s320/252456_120053698079019_100002231675758_178026_1306962_n.jpg" width="292" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I like drinking alcohol. The first few questions I ask when I enter a party is: “Where is the alcohol?” and “Who is making my drink?” Damn it, I am 30 and enjoy the moments where I can get so wasted that I look forward to waking up in some back alley, peeing on myself while recovering some repressed memories. But sadly, way too many people have seen me drunk over the last few years. I really didn’t mean for that to happen, but when you’re invited to house parties and bar events, where one thing would lead to another… Shit happens! Plus, I hate being drunk around people who either bother me or I have some kind of issue with because at some point in the night, the temporary wall I’ve built in my mind to hold back my true feelings will come crumbling down and yeah… it’s not pretty. Not pretty at all, but I can’t help myself. I am frankly not a “Let’s talk about my feelings” type a guy. I mostly keep everything in because I find that it’s better to just let it go for the moment but always remember what was done… but after that 4<sup>th</sup> or 5<sup>th</sup> rum and coke, well… The worst I’ve been was at a house party, where I drank that host of the party’s sister “Witches Brew” and had to piece together what the hell happen from videos that were posted on facebook the next few days. It seemed that I went all out and just told <b>EVERYONE</b> how I felt about them one by one and most of my comment were <b>VERY</b> inappropriate (Someone cried and block me on facebook because of it). It was a mess, especially since we had all worked together at the time and when I came into work that Monday morning it was all over the office. Another instance was me getting into a <a href="http://itsjustkenny.blogspot.com/2010/12/my-life-fight-club-kenny.html">fist fight</a>, but that’s a whole other story…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span> </span>So now I try to minimize my consumption since my funds are limited and avoid trouble in its many forms. However, that leads me into a new dilemma. For some reason all this summer I have been, as a former co-worker put it so lovely, in “Super Save A Negro” mode when I go out drinking. The company I’ve kept has gotten themselves so fucked up on the sauce that I had to make sure that they didn’t get arrested, sexually assaulted or too sick to stand so I could get them home safely. All of this ends me indulging in my own fun, which may not be such a bad thing in the long run. Maybe it’s just in my nature to care about my friends because at first I didn’t mind, but it became a constant thing, where babysitting was my job. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 24.0pt;">UUGGGHHH!!!<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sometimes it is not worth being known as the <b>GOOD GUY</b> or <b>PROTECTOR</b>!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Tomorrow night, I am going to go to this bar in lower Manhattan called the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/IHNYC">Iron Horse</a>. It has a nice mix crowd and the bartenders are really cool for the most part and I have been going there for the last few months since one of my friends Andre put me on to the place. In fact I had blogged about the bar before in a blog called <i><a href="http://itsjustkenny.blogspot.com/2011/03/more-perfect-union-crash.html">Crash</a></i>. I am going there to chat with friends, make new ones and hopefully not feel like I have to keep a cape and red tights the “S” on the chest just in case something happens. Alcohol can be a wonderful at times, but a beast on the mind the next day…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Kenny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comEast Flatbush, Brooklyn, NY, USA40.6437474 -73.93010370000001840.626613400000004 -73.952233200000023 40.6608814 -73.907974200000012tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-41691947635413658492011-09-01T07:35:00.006-04:002011-09-01T07:35:00.570-04:00[My Life] Summer Gone By<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYIsolkpTmMIMl7Bp6rLCUeiUWsem5EKeD6btvAB_lNd3PzVVvfxzGmglT1PunnR5JAmWKsM7t42lLy1B__F9XfN4WoYaBnh-UoNGFAmCJpmOQ3bOz02ZbBk5LVsXWYMsRgV3qjWBbfoY6/s1600/0414110651a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYIsolkpTmMIMl7Bp6rLCUeiUWsem5EKeD6btvAB_lNd3PzVVvfxzGmglT1PunnR5JAmWKsM7t42lLy1B__F9XfN4WoYaBnh-UoNGFAmCJpmOQ3bOz02ZbBk5LVsXWYMsRgV3qjWBbfoY6/s400/0414110651a.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I can’t believe that it is already September. Labor Day is right around the corner and the 10<sup>th</sup> anniversary of September 11<sup>th</sup> shortly after that, it is very clear to be that time is moving faster than I wish. Luckily, with all the over hyped drama from Hurricane Irene and the East Coast Earthquake subsiding, I am settling into a new sense of what the hell am I going to do now. With the Summer of Kenny almost over, something I am not going to miss at all even with all the adventures I embarked in, I am trying to figure out what path I should make for myself. But for a brief second let’s have a review.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Here is a summary of some of my Summer of Kenny experiences:</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"></div><ul><li><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Reconnecting with my EX, which naturally ended badly. People are your EX for a reason!!! Why, OH WHY did I not learn that lesson sooner!</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Being in love triangle that left me the odd man out. Great Job, Kenny! I never have to wonder why I am single again!</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Being naked somewhere, which was actually a fun thing, so I really don’t have any problems with that. There is a lot behind that of course…</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Thrown up on, pushed, kicked, screamed at… and that’s just by my friends! Imagine what someone would do if they hated me?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Arguing with strange people in strange places and having it video recorded. I am just waiting for something to pop off on Youtube any day now…</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Stalked by store security at several stores!!! Do I seriously look like Dangerous Black man X???</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Still unemployed!!!!!</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Let’s not forget being sick in bed at least once a week unable to move. Those are fun moments for sure!!!</span></li>
</ul><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">As the weather begin to change and my allergies take over leaving my face so swollen that I end up looking like the great pumpkin, I got to keep some momentum in the movements I am making going. Not only just me, but for my family. I have to continue to be strong even when I am so scared that all I want to do is hide in the corner wishing that everything would just fix itself. </span>So as this season of Summer of Kenny ends to be picked up again next year and the Autumn of Kenny’s Discontent about to begin in just a few weeks all I have to say is…<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 20pt; font-variant: small-caps;">Reprise the theme song and roll the credits!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/A2uzBhzzvoE" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;">Kenny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comEast Flatbush, Brooklyn, NY, USA40.6437474 -73.93010370000001840.626613400000004 -73.952233200000023 40.6608814 -73.907974200000012tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-8643687082582069782011-06-21T13:16:00.002-04:002011-06-21T13:16:00.718-04:00[My Life] Summer of Kenny.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP3-qB1NRln3oOCT2SiyiLao-cpYqQl3E2is9zQ9voXA6tHVHOxwN6FE4RqE9ezkwDUJrol8CAs7OW2NMgR_KLFJzYeZHubF1cGvzJ_1IU7A9Qt5HPmuw6Vu0aXOtyJTQPLHTIB74I0qyE/s1600/0618111800a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP3-qB1NRln3oOCT2SiyiLao-cpYqQl3E2is9zQ9voXA6tHVHOxwN6FE4RqE9ezkwDUJrol8CAs7OW2NMgR_KLFJzYeZHubF1cGvzJ_1IU7A9Qt5HPmuw6Vu0aXOtyJTQPLHTIB74I0qyE/s400/0618111800a.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">At this very moment, we say good bye to spring time and say hello to summer. About damn time if you ask me. Last summer, I was stressed with work and the summer before that I was in and out of hospitals and nursing homes as my grandmother was going through the healing process from the accident, so as you might’ve guess there was no “ME” time to be had. While I am still on my job hunt and fine tuning my budget, for the first time in a long time, I am going to enjoy the weather while it last and this week it is suppose to be really good. I think this summer I am going to stay single or at least limit myself to just maintaining sex friends. After months of dealing with the emotional rollercoaster of a relationship, I am ready to change everything up and enjoy being free of any attachments.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This past weekend, I went with my best friend, some of his friends and roommates to the beach. It was a good time for the most part. One of our traveling companions, who I will call Lex, worked on my last good nerve. Annoying, loud, touchy… all the things that instantly make me what to start cutting limbs, but I used this thing called self control and refrained from anything that would land me in jail. Oh and by the way, do not call yourself a serious graphic designer if all you use MS Paint and cannot name other design programs… Fucktard, but I digress… I spent the day sprawled out on the sand with a book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Moonlight Earth By, Christopher Rice</i>. I watched some of the beach bodies floating around which made me realized how much my body was not up to par with most and not caring… Well, I do care a bit, even though I am slim I would want to have a defined chest and abs instead of the keg I have developing now. I joked, ate some snacks which included honey melons and even went down to the shore line. Everything was great until…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This is what I hate. If you’re going somewhere with a group of people then you need to leave that place with the same group of people unless you state something different beforehand. An hour before we left, Lex grabbed his belongings and wonder off without a word to us. Somehow there was some confusion because my best friend thought he had put everything of value like his wallet and car keys in Lex’s book bag. Since Lex did not have a cell phone, it was urgent to locate him. After some time of searching the beach, we figured out that we actually had everything with us EXPECT for Lex, so we took a vote. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Look around once more or get in the car and go back to the house.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">My vote was to get in the car and bounce. If you’re grown enough to just leave a group of people to do your own thing, then you should have the carfare to get back home. Shit, I don’t go anywhere without having at least 5 dollars in quarters for the bus. It took a minute to convince the rest of the traveling crew, but as time lurched on and the cool air started to sweep around us, we were all on the same page. Hell this is the reason why minorities do not last that long in horror movies. Looking for the lost friend or investigating a mysterious noise is not in my day planner. No Sir… We went back to the house and cooked dinner when Lex arrived without a word about where he has been or an apology. I get the whole: I am a grown man concept, but if you are going to do grown shit, then you should at least own up to it. As he made his way around the floor, I looked at him closed my best friends bedroom door and ignored him for the rest of the night. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">For me, I am not going to spend my time caring about the lives of people who have no consideration of others. So this year I’m 30, single and I am going to enjoy the summer of Kenny without restraint.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Kenny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comEast Flatbush, NY, USA40.6437474 -73.93010370000001840.626613400000004 -73.952233200000023 40.6608814 -73.907974200000012tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-35601721001322976352011-06-21T07:18:00.012-04:002011-06-21T07:18:00.535-04:00[Stupidity is NOT a Legal Defense] Faking Jacks<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><embed flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&hl=en_US&feat=flashalbum&RGB=0x000000&feed=https%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2FKennie0124%2Falbumid%2F5620428856382647825%3Falt%3Drss%26kind%3Dphoto%26authkey%3DGv1sRgCIzOoKGEkMnZjAE%26hl%3Den_US" height="267" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" src="https://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="400"></embed><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I don’t get it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Anytime I see a photo with displaying a whole lot of money, I am thinking of an IRA, rent, paid bills, a down payment for a house, car, investment property… not this fuckery here.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> I really do not understand why people go out of there way and post photos of themselves with loads of money around them when they should know better. I posted a blog about this before called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://itsjustkenny.blogspot.com/2009/07/lifestyles-flashing-jackson.html">Flashing Jackson</a></i> (back then, I think my words were a bit harsher) where I talked about this foolishness, but it keeps happening. In the age of the internet am I the only one who sees logic and common sense rapidly leaving our society? Even worse are the photos with wads of money on top of infant children. Now where are child protection services when you really need them, huh? The fact is money is dirty and can carry germs. Germs that can damage a maturing immune system. But you have these dummies that go out of their way to not only take these picture, but <b>POST</b> them where other idiots try and follow suit. Oh and let’s not even talk about the traces of drugs that still linger on the bills out there in circulation. Someone could’ve had that 20 up their nose sniffing coke or meth 24 hours before you touched it and here you go with it all over you. Really… There are other things that are worse than the money photos and that is of course the epidemic of sex-ting nude photos, which fucks up the lives of teens and high power adults, but that is another blog in the making. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I think as technology and all the things you can with it advances, stupidity increases as well. Let’s be real, it’s not new for someone to get in trouble for what they post online because the internet is funny place. You might think uploading that photo of yourself chopping down on a burger of $100 dollar bills is cute, but you never know <b>WHO</b> is looking at these photos. It could be that perspective boss you just interviewed with for that dream job. It could be law enforcement breezing through profiles and wondering why you’re unemployed (or listed yourself AS unemployed), but got all that money around you. Am I the only one watching the news stories about people being locked up for what photos and videos that they post? But most likely it is someone with ill intent seeing what you have and plotting to take it from you by any means necessary. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Seriously, people need to stop and think like a serial killer every once in awhile just for the sake of prevention. So I am looking for people to explain to why people do suck foolishness. Any takers?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Kenny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comEast Flatbush, NY, USA40.6437474 -73.93010370000001840.626613400000004 -73.952233200000023 40.6608814 -73.907974200000012tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-91471230953787407412011-06-20T17:40:00.001-04:002011-06-20T17:40:27.595-04:00[Lifestyles] Fatherhood<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNNtFTlFUDySAyMW_4QrC8bTPvkTV2PxV_TdsD9FB2TfOjp1P2QfEKeY2P1kgh3FeZEOnbhpSrOK6ygLuFHODqcYxihcB_nOXLUBiafSzVWATS4lx_GxApLP4J33QoJGHt_s3jyKWqaVUb/s1600/217647_1044295362215_1670573324_82997_4173648_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNNtFTlFUDySAyMW_4QrC8bTPvkTV2PxV_TdsD9FB2TfOjp1P2QfEKeY2P1kgh3FeZEOnbhpSrOK6ygLuFHODqcYxihcB_nOXLUBiafSzVWATS4lx_GxApLP4J33QoJGHt_s3jyKWqaVUb/s400/217647_1044295362215_1670573324_82997_4173648_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">So Father’s Day was yesterday. Big Deal… If you haven’t guess by now, I am not a fan of the day, but there are many reason why. Besides the fact that my own father is a fucktard, I see this day and others like it as a way for the greeting card companies to make a buck. Seriously, what is the main point of the day? One day out the year people tend to make a spectacle of themselves running out to get that must have gift for dear ole dad to show him how much you care. I figure, if you are being a good father, then you do not need a day where people tell you that. In fact, when you take the role of a parent it is your duty to make sure that the next generation is better than your own. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My generation was great, but yours will be spectacular…</i> What happen to that mindset? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I am not going to knock others for doing what they do because of the tradition, but I hope other people feel where I am coming from. As the role of Fathers has changed throughout the generations, there are men stepping up to the plate and there are men slithering out of sight to avoid any responsibility, but that is not new. I have wondered about the state of “Black Fatherhood” in this country and how it impacts the next generation. There can be several lengthily debates surrounding this. Some things I would agree with while other ideas I believe to have as much accountability as a pound of horse shit. Over the years, I’ve seen the good men work there asses off in being a good father, teaching their children to be grown adults and doing what they have to do in supporting their family and better society. On the other side of the card, I have seen and experienced for myself men who chose not to do anything for the lives they produce. What you hear the most about is the latter and I hear the complaints roaring. When I hear guys complain about paying child support or about their Baby mama drama, I cringe a bit. Child support is there to benefits the well being of a child. Even if you’re not in your child’s life you are obligated to make sure that you seed eats, has a roof over it’s head and is able to live a healthy existence until the age of maturity. Yes the cost of living is going up while the living wage in most states is either at a standstill or going down, but that is no one’s problem but your own since no one told you to splash off without protection into someone and creating your own problem. The system is there for everyone to use. For example, if you feel that the woman you have a child with is misusing the funds that you are sending or that is being subtracted from your paycheck, you can go to court and either get joint or primary custody. Of course it is not as simple as I had stated there is a lot of work that is involved, but there are measures in place that can be utilized. While it gets on my nerves when men complain about the subject, it equally gets on my nerves when women get on their soap box and preach about dead beat dads. Get it together…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>just like I would say so any man about their baby mama, keep in mind that YOU CHOSE TO LAY DOWN WITH THE MAN, do not get mad when you realized too late that he wasn’t worth shit. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I know there are going to be a few people out there who will assume I am a touch bitter. Perhaps, I might be. I guess as I age, I hope to see a different view of everything…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Kenny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comEast Flatbush, NY, USA40.661889627193354 -73.92949141809083440.644755627193355 -73.951620918090839 40.679023627193352 -73.907361918090828tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-2139218905323706222011-06-03T17:32:00.000-04:002011-06-03T17:32:43.149-04:00[My Life] Adventures in Unemployment (Pt. 1)<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Before the sun was up, I was fussing around my bedroom pulling out dress shirts, ties and pants, looking for something that was not too this or too that. Nothing too color loud. Nothing that was too fitted or too loose. After a few minutes of tossing this and that aside, I finally found something that I could wear to the job fair. I set up the ironing board, grabbed the spray can of water and starch and went to town on making this outfit look like I just bought it from Macy’s that morning. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By 5:30 in the morning, I was in the bathtub letting my mind wonder as I listen to the world spring to life outside my bathroom window. Usually when I take a bath, I live it up. I would have the laptop on this little bathroom seat that my mother had bought years ago for my grandmother with some kind of movie playing. I would soak in eucalyptus scented Epsom salt, white distilled vinegar, coco butter body wash and olive oil. To top my experience off, there would be a cup of tea with cookies by my side. Yeah, I pamper myself when I can now… However today, I just kept it was simple as possible. After an hour or so, I was greasing myself up with some coco butter Vaseline, then with this lemon lotion I got from Bath & Body last summer and finally some raw shea butter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, in my rush to get in the tub, I forgot my towel and underwear, so I peeked out of the door to see if my mother’s bedroom door was close. As I tip toed to my bedroom naked as the day I was born but smelling 10 times better, my cat Kimmiko comes running towards me at full speed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGp8JFfUdK_6ZmHWRobUretK_P9EoPaQesO1BNVn2vpnWg_T_8BZjiWxY6T-q0kgwkjcOU9DFginuu4neihbScRCsFWDf9RlKMoca48tjw0XGLeE0kYAkqHdXdU6iig4Rr2sB18FbZbLiT/s1600/tumblr_lepamnNzSl1qahhxwo1_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGp8JFfUdK_6ZmHWRobUretK_P9EoPaQesO1BNVn2vpnWg_T_8BZjiWxY6T-q0kgwkjcOU9DFginuu4neihbScRCsFWDf9RlKMoca48tjw0XGLeE0kYAkqHdXdU6iig4Rr2sB18FbZbLiT/s400/tumblr_lepamnNzSl1qahhxwo1_400.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">You see, Kimmiko has this habit of wanting to rub up on me especially after a bath or a shower, leaving all her hair and smell on me. Isn’t that lovely? Smelling like house cat is not going to impress anyone. I dashed into my room closing the door behind me, hearing her hit the door with a loud bang. I put on some jeans, a shirt and a hoodie, collapsed into my computer chair and started to over my resume for the 100<sup>th</sup> time. After a few minutes I went into the kitchen and made my mother breakfast; some scramble eggs, blue berry pancakes and crispy turkey bacon with a side of whole wheat toast. After that I took my mother’s clothes she was going to wear and ironed them out for her. By this time she was up stirring around the house, getting herself ready.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">There were a few things I needed to do before I headed out to Canarise for the job fair. The main thing was to print out my resume. This was something I would’ve done the night before, but my feet were once again swollen and it was painful to move around. Thanks Diabetes… The house PC which was connected to the printer, for some reason would not align my resume correctly, so I had no choice but to use my laptop. I brought this printer, a Lexmark all-in-one plus fax for 40 bucks on Black Friday 2008… I took it out of the box, about 2 weeks ago. I know, I know… <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why the hell did it take so long for me to us it? No real answer, but the funny story with that is I had to get a USB printer cord because none came with the printer. Imagine finding that out years later.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Since this was my first time using my laptop to print anything, I had to take the time to install the software. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After installing the software, an error message appeared. <b>NO INK MUST CHANGE CARTIAGE</b> was displayed and I really couldn’t believe that in the short time I had set up the device, my mother had used up all the ink in the printer and didn’t tell me. So at 8am, I was stuck with no resume to present to anyone at the job fair. Great… I grabbed my keys and headed out. Of course, some one left the incinerator door open and the smell was over powering. The smell was like death mixed with rotten baby puke on top of day old shit. Holding my breath, I hopped into the elevator, where someone had urinated everywhere. Clearly, my day was not going the way I wanted it to at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I ran up the block to the Rite Aide to see if they might carry my brand, but their shelves barely had anything on them. After grabbing a coffee and butter roll from Dounkin’ Donuts, I went by Radioshack to see if I could get the ink there. As I turned the corner, I was greeted with a closed gate and tumbleweeds. I went back upstairs and finally changed into my clothes for the event, wondering what I was going to do.The Job Fair was going to start at 10am with an expected turn out to be in the thousands. I had planned on arriving there at 9am, calm cool and collected with a nice little McDonald coffee. Unfortunately, at 9am I was dressed, ready to go, but stuck in the house waiting for Radioshack to open so I could finally get ink. By 10am, the Radioshack associate explained to me that Radioshack only carry HP ink, not Lexmark. Yeah… I had to think of a plan B and quick. I told my mother that I would meet her there, went on a mad dash through folders looking for just one hard copy. Lucky for me there was a copy of my current resume in some department of labor papers. I gathered my belongings and hustled over to the Sutter Ave. train station. Underneath the platform, there is a little drug store which makes copies for 25 cents per page. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The young lady behind the counter smile at me as I asked for 20 copies of each page (<i>My resume is 2 pages, I have no clue if that is a good or a bad thing, but it is what it is</i>).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Nervous?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah… It’s been too long and I really need to get something.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I wish you good luck!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I swear she was the best. She offered to even staple each page for me, but because I was in a rush, I told her it was okay and brought paper clips. I went to the train station and as I was going up the stairs some random dude started to call out “Yo, Slim!” in my direction. Since I do not make it a habit of responding to the cat calls of men, I continued up the stairs and into the train station. None of the bloody machines were taking any bills and the token clerk was not in the booth. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shoot me now</i>, I thought. It wasn’t even 10:30 and I wanted the day to be over already.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUxjzMn_acAPGQnoJj-H5y-G55PjS5sP1HBFxmymO6_EXuIL5g-JZNgAb1-uLSN8cknxp-PxRKP-qUawZA2NBxQSWMC3iYwf70Y8Dp2fcujsZXWdlHmxA9VBYL2qDSYvbBza4D7An28661/s1600/39510_418881632044_80500707044_5240035_1818282_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUxjzMn_acAPGQnoJj-H5y-G55PjS5sP1HBFxmymO6_EXuIL5g-JZNgAb1-uLSN8cknxp-PxRKP-qUawZA2NBxQSWMC3iYwf70Y8Dp2fcujsZXWdlHmxA9VBYL2qDSYvbBza4D7An28661/s400/39510_418881632044_80500707044_5240035_1818282_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Finally she came from behind one of the locked doors behind the turnstile and wobbled back into the booth. Once she refilled my metrocard, I ran around the corner from the station to the B15 bus stop. The B15 is one of the most unreliable bus lines out there, never really sticking to the time listed. This was not one of those times however and a bus was speeding down Ralph Ave. As I waited those few minutes for the bus to arrive, the guy who had called at me earlier walks by me, saying that he could have gotten that card for me. Don’t care… </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 16px;">As the bus rolled on, I grabbed one of the free double seats and planted myself by the window. A woman, who was… well, a nice way to say it is plumped, wedged herself in. While others around me were listening to music, talking on their phones loudly or just looking like they had lost their puppy, I was elbow deep in my messenger bag sorting out the pages. Even when the bus arrived my stop, the New Lotts Ave L train, I still was sorting and paper clipping everything together as I walked up to the train platform. I used travel to Canarise all the time a few years ago, in fact I knew the area where the Job Fair was being held very well. It was held at the church one block away from the nursing home my grandmother had stayed in during her final months. I walked over to the long entrance line in the parking lot of the church, took a deep breath and waiting for my turn to head inside.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Kenny. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-58388364752759973472011-06-02T09:02:00.000-04:002011-06-02T09:02:38.981-04:00[My Life] Sum of all things…<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXfv9KIYJCrtTH3kgXx_URVUSxBSiAh2JmvFji3o1jS475_8u-785Y1DH4aGuAGLuoKW0AtnwWJU-4UqIfs_19Y-Qor0KcvS1QkNoX27FstPoZZkMoKcbZ8_L41TpYspa2kzCROJHCQyiE/s1600/76782_10150096247036343_515616342_7628630_3348144_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXfv9KIYJCrtTH3kgXx_URVUSxBSiAh2JmvFji3o1jS475_8u-785Y1DH4aGuAGLuoKW0AtnwWJU-4UqIfs_19Y-Qor0KcvS1QkNoX27FstPoZZkMoKcbZ8_L41TpYspa2kzCROJHCQyiE/s400/76782_10150096247036343_515616342_7628630_3348144_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Some people think I am: Rude, Disrespectful, Nasty, Cruel, Mean spirited, Emotionally unbalanced, Cold hearted, Weak, Violent, Depressing, A drunk, A prude, Insensitive, Vengeful, Harsh, Prideful, Conceited, Cocky, and a loser. While others think I am: Loving, Head strong, Passionate, Life of the party, Truthful, Shy, Kind, Quiet, Leader, A winner, Hard worker, Funny, Sincere, Loyal, Reliable and a good listener.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I feel I am the sum of all the things that others believe I am to be. Now you might wonder why I would believe this… Well, because at one point in time I gave them a reason to believe it to be so. While talking to a friend the other night, the topic was discussed about how I was not always the nicest person to the people around me when I was working as a supervisor. In fact I was downright nasty, rude and known throughout the office to blow up at people without a second thought. I had made people cry, nervous and a few other things, but at the time I didn’t care. I was so stressed by the amount of problems going on around me, from office politics, office romances and conspiracies that I was trying to (<b>a</b>) keep my job by making sure people were doing what they needed to do without me on their backs and (<b>b</b>) identify the people who were trying to get me to lose my job and get them let go. Let’s just say that every day was an uphill battle and the only thing that kept me going was my paycheck each week. While I might’ve been this villainous person to most people, there were a few people who I would hang out with afterhours who knew I was nothing like what the people in the office thought I was. Yeah, It’s hard to get others to overlook their first impressions of you, especially in a work environment, but when it is all said and done you can make really great and long lasting friendships.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Even though I said earlier in the blog that I feel like I am the sum of all things… I know what others think do not determine how I feel about myself. Yeah, I know I am not the nicest person in the world and can get a little extra sometimes with my anger, but I can be that friend or that shoulder to cry on when there is no one around. When I awake in the morning and look at that mirror, the only person that I need to worry about liking me… is me! I find that there are those in our society that have a hard time seeing this way. Far too many let others dictate who they are in life, instead of just BEING who they are and letting the chips fall where they may. Not everyone is going to like me… Too bad, so sad… and I damn sure don’t like most people. In my 30 years, I’ve learned that life can get so complicated with bullshit that it makes you forget that time is so short and you have to enjoy life before it is taken away.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Kenny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-1905384696369287602011-04-26T15:40:00.001-04:002011-04-26T15:40:00.943-04:00[My Life] No Room for Carebears<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I still feel a bit numb. I really suck at being an adult most of the time…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Last year, I was knee deep in work drama bullshit, juggling my spiraling emotions and obligations while dealing with life in general. The year before that I was at Staten Island University Hospital emergency waiting room with half my face burned waiting on news on if my grandmother was dead or not. April 27<sup>th</sup> will mark the 2 year anniversary of the accident that lead to my grandmother’s death. The fire was not the direct cause, but the infections afterwards were too much for her body to bear. It took seconds for a spark to climb up my grandmother’s sweater sleeve and spread across her upper body causing 3<sup>rd</sup> degree burns. It took seconds for me to react in putting out the flames, calling 911 and keeping her calm until the ambulance arrive. Sadly, it took seconds for a fire to change my life forever. I watched for months as one of the women I loved most in this world, fade away from me and there was nothing I could do about it. I could not understand why I survived with just minor burns while she received the brunt of it all. I am haunted by those images, the resulting smells and my disfigurement and almost every time I close my eyes I can still see her looking back at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">After her death, people would come up to me, telling me that she was in a better place, even though I could not phantom how being DEAD beats being sick, I would smile and nod, hoping they would just leave me alone while I suffered. I was constantly told, constantly told that I did everything right and sometimes shit happens… and I look at them with tears in my eyes like a child asking: “Why?... Why does shit just happens?” I looked to mother to make things right. To undo what was done and make everything all better, but in my selfishness, I did not realize that my mother was just a child too. She was a child who lost her mother and I didn’t know how to comfort her like she had comforted me in the past. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">When death happens in a child’s world, the parents or some adult figure gives them some sort of comforting words to make the pain not disappear, but understandable. Yet, nothing is really understandable because no one knows what is next after this life, so we say things to force us into a false sense of security. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh happy joy… </i>What sucks about adulthood is that you know about the same amount about life as you did as a child. You just learn how to sugarcoat things to make them appear better than it actually is. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">No, Johnny… there are no monsters in the closet… There in plain sight.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div></span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><br />
</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBEN4jD27_4RYtdnHpftSYuMHvrjETBD3HDRiVQFnefa95VWHTbqFph7lVKPMXK8RZSk4h77rE0KHQIXkfacEPQyqKrPPwBWACP-dUYZh0EpXCShCmDmHbPBOAVyox5xWPcPWsP02QCxwU/s1600/Evil+Mickey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBEN4jD27_4RYtdnHpftSYuMHvrjETBD3HDRiVQFnefa95VWHTbqFph7lVKPMXK8RZSk4h77rE0KHQIXkfacEPQyqKrPPwBWACP-dUYZh0EpXCShCmDmHbPBOAVyox5xWPcPWsP02QCxwU/s320/Evil+Mickey.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"></span></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Kenny.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-92086353289780727172011-04-08T08:02:00.001-04:002011-04-08T08:02:00.201-04:00[My Life] Lie<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I was talking with a friend of mines the other night and I told him a story about one of the many fights I used to have with my grandmother a couple of years ago. I brought my dirty dishes into the kitchen where she was busy in front of the sink washing and watching the movie Rush Hour on DVD. “Grandma, can you wash this dish for me, I’mma be right back…” I asked her. She took the dish and I ran to the bathroom like my life depended on it. I was back in least than 3 minutes, looking for the freshly washed dish because I was going to get some more food. In the cupboard, there the dish was and when I pulled it out, it looked the same as it did when I handed it off.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Grandma… Did you wash this dish?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yes…”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Umm… no, you didn’t. You just put it back in the cupboard”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“(My full name) I said I washed it” she yelled at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“No you didn’t… You just put it back with the clean dishes. That is so nasty…” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_Sj7aQz2MtBwQ4DpS4tRC-GCR1wAm2FZF-gL11DNC9MROLThsSSfg8E6vqDWfNoEA86P_AX15sV3Tm0YnDvOdgXq_9I44KEY5iGRhLnQik3dFE2bOswHBgWlNX5AG0E6n40eJVd2GGL6/s1600/164028_181005205265500_175747939124560_471344_7536229_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_Sj7aQz2MtBwQ4DpS4tRC-GCR1wAm2FZF-gL11DNC9MROLThsSSfg8E6vqDWfNoEA86P_AX15sV3Tm0YnDvOdgXq_9I44KEY5iGRhLnQik3dFE2bOswHBgWlNX5AG0E6n40eJVd2GGL6/s320/164028_181005205265500_175747939124560_471344_7536229_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She narrowed her eyes at me and asked: “Are you calling me a Liar?” Now, that might’ve worked when I was a teenager, but as a grown man, not so much. “Yes!” I replied. “You Lied! That means you are a <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LIAR</b>!” She rolled her eyes at me, grabbed her cane and shuffled out of the kitchen cursing the day I was born. My mother ran into the kitchen minutes later asking me what happen and I told her that grandma was going through one of her moments. “You two are going to drive me fucking crazy” she said, rolling her eyes which seems to be a family trait. Just for my own security of mind, I took out all the dishes and rewashed them. Overkill I know, but that is also another family trait. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I have to admit that remembering the story brought a smile to my face. Even though my grandmother has passed on, I still remember all the good AND the bad about her. For some reason people forget the bad things that a person did when they were alive and just relive only the soft and cuddly moments. She had major faults just like everyone else and had no problem showing them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But there is a reason why I brought up this story. Why do people ask you the silliest question of “Are you calling me a liar?” when you catch them in a lie. Little white lies, tall tales, all those fabrications or just a way to avoid the truth, right? I don’t know why my grandmother lied about something as simple as a washing a dish, but the bigger questions is why did she challenge me when presented her with the truth. Was questioning me going to for some reason make her the right one? I know that I am not the only one who has experienced this before; I just find it so damn interesting.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Kenny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-67697136493482741382011-03-23T10:36:00.002-04:002011-03-23T10:36:00.234-04:00[Lifestyles] Thank You for Stalking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtiVxpxULUi-0Bn0uh8gveLzTQbjfnPPYogWuNsvMo4XvD72t83Do1YI6KocqzncfTOC_fIMcOmnjDsaoYeZLAaAGCYjc2bnk0OOZhIcAVsivAjwDICrzMmirgjpkgIEGqzV2C4qIuGzmB/s1600/3876.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtiVxpxULUi-0Bn0uh8gveLzTQbjfnPPYogWuNsvMo4XvD72t83Do1YI6KocqzncfTOC_fIMcOmnjDsaoYeZLAaAGCYjc2bnk0OOZhIcAVsivAjwDICrzMmirgjpkgIEGqzV2C4qIuGzmB/s400/3876.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I was walking home from the Western Beef on Monday, the time of course escaped me and it was earlier than I thought it was. As I was passing the Family Dollar, I thought it was a good idea to finally pick up something that I had been looking for which was Milk of Magnesia. I wanted it for 2 reasons; I’ve been having problems with my stomach for the last few months and I heard that using Milk of Magnesia can help clear up complexion problems like blackheads. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">This Family Dollar had gone through a metamorphic change last year when it went from a crappy rundown little hole in the ground to a stylish brand new crappy hole in the ground with a freezer that doesn’t smell like dead rats. I’ve shopped there many times, ever since it was one of the first stores that opened up 10 years ago when the neighborhood started going through an urban renewal that transformed the old abandoned sanitation garages underneath the 3 line train track into ugly furniture and franchise stores. When I entered the store, it was almost a ghost town, with probably 2 or 3 customers wondering around. I scanned the store to see where the healthcare or bath products were located which was in the front of the store, isolated in its own U shaped area. While I was looking through the shelves, I noticed this little African man started buzzing around. I turned my head towards him and he suddenly started to “face” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To “face” is to straighten out the products on the shelves, place them correctly under/above the tags and remove what doesn’t belong</i>) one of the shelves. That’s odd, I thought. With spider sense tingling, I went up to him because I needed to make him useful. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Do you have any Milk of Magnesia?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Um… um, no… um, we sold out of it” he replied with this deer caught in the headlights expression.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Okay, do you have anything similar?” I asked not letting up. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Um… I don’t think so…” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">He walked me over to the same area that I just left and pointed to an empty shelf, exclaiming that there was nothing available. However just below that empty shelf were bottles of Milk of Magnesia, so I pointed to products and asked: “What is that?” His facial expression was priceless. I picked up the bottle and walked away from him without another word. As I went around the store, picking up knick knacks here and there I noticed that the he would still wonder around. By the time I finished shopping the little African man was behind the counter with another employee figuring out facebook mobile. As the other employee rang me up, the African man asked me if I found everything I was looking for. I ignored him, thanked the lady for my changed and walked out of the store. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Shopping while black is nothing new to me. When I was a teenager going to school in lower Manhattan, I would shop at some of the stores in the area and I always got the feeling that someone was watching me. At a grocery store on East 14<sup>th</sup> street (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I don’t remember the name since they long went out of business</i>), I went to buy something to snack on and was detained by security. Of course they let me go, but I was so embarrassed that this man pulled me out of line and asked me to remove everything out of my pockets. I swore to myself that I would never go to that store again, no matter what and I kept true to my word on that. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Recently, when I went to Trader Joe’s in the city, looking to see if they might have certain herbs and spices that I can’t seem to find in the stores in my area. I went into my bag to get out my notebook that contained the shopping list when out of the blue one of the workers came up to me and asked me if I needed help. At first I thought that was really nice, I politely told him no and that I was okay and continued looking for stuff. About 2 minutes later another employee proceeded to do the same thing. I was in the middle of a crowded aisle with people gleefully snatching stuff off the shelves at a staggering pace (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They have a lot of good healthy stuff there I recommend people check the place out</i>) and this employee seemed to come directly to me and no one else. After the 3<sup>rd</sup> time, I felt like I was being singled out. I started to notice a security guard walking around me. Now there was a very diverse clientele shopping around there, but every time I moved around there was a security guard standing to the right or left of me or an employee smiling in my face asking me if I needed something. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Was it just paranoia? Probably. Was I being stalked? Who knows. I put everything back where I found them and walked out the store.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Kenny.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-65992812579960930672011-03-16T23:32:00.001-04:002011-03-16T23:32:00.965-04:00[Lifestyle] The Ides of March.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdtbtPby1bWFEheZ3CmUJomE1YfbiXd6bzi8twazyrGhQbOEOGy4-DJeu75H0fQt08PzEb-jEsd92KAGzYhkQ6FvfGlRqkONc9SEYf8Q1m8-l60Ejae0-ni-m7rJFGeHQNueJll4UW_UkX/s1600/Ides+of+march.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdtbtPby1bWFEheZ3CmUJomE1YfbiXd6bzi8twazyrGhQbOEOGy4-DJeu75H0fQt08PzEb-jEsd92KAGzYhkQ6FvfGlRqkONc9SEYf8Q1m8-l60Ejae0-ni-m7rJFGeHQNueJll4UW_UkX/s400/Ides+of+march.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Have you ever heard of the saying: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Beware the Ides of March?</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It stems back to when Julius Caesar was assassinated on March 15, 44 B.C. on the Senate floor by his friend and many enemies. I remember hearing that saying when I was a teenager in my high school Latin class. The teacher explained that the phrase meant you have to be careful with the company you keep because not everyone has good intentions. Today, that should reign true more then ever. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">At every given moment some one is betrayed by some one they know and/or love. It could be an affair, revealing personal information to a third party or some kind of action that removes the trust two people have for another. So how do you deal? In the movies, we either see a happy ending or no real ending at all. On television, there is a conflict and within the next 20 minutes there is some kind of resolution and the preview for the next week show comes on where everyone is skipping into the sunset. Rarely do we see the process that goes into repairing the consequence of a betrayal. We see the thought, the action, but never really the detail that goes into repairing the tears created. What do you do? How do you forgive? Can you move on? They’re mindless questions that have a true purpose.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">In my life, I always have my guard up when dealing with people. Well… I shouldn’t say always, because there have been times that I allowed someone in. It only takes one time for me to realize that I can’t trust a person or that person is not looking out for anyone but themselves and will not mind selling out others in the drop of a hat. I only put myself out there one time and in that one time, I foolishly did not listen to that part my brain screaming <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!</b> I thought it was going to be much different experience then it was, but in the end I was left broken emotionally. A part of my soul died, because every time I look back and see the events unfolding I want to crawl into a corner and mourn. In my 30 years, I have learned that there is really no instruction manual when it comes to life, we deal with things as they come and hope for the best. But what if the best doesn’t come and you’re left wondering why your heart is on the ground torn into pieces...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Kenny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-61842316902315991832011-03-15T11:25:00.002-04:002011-03-15T11:25:00.215-04:00[My Life] B is for Failure<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Last week I was tired and didn’t feel like cooking dinner. I wasn’t in the mood for Chinese or Pizza and the fact that it was a gamble that if I eat either one of those, I would be hovering around the toilet for most of the night, made the choice of not getting them much easier. On my block there is a Subways restaurant. Every once in a while I would get a foot long sandwich, but this day I felt like getting a soup. There was one guy behind the counter helping a customer when I walked in. I took my place at the end of the counter and waited peacefully as the man ordered almost everything in the garnish section into his sandwich. As he was finishing up, a couple walked in talking to each other loudly, not really paying attention to the fact that other people exist. After the man paid for his order and took a seat by a group of chair in front of the store, the couple stepped up to the register and the female asked the Subway employee if they had a certain type of bread. The guy nodded, and she proceeded to ask for a sandwich completely ignoring the fact that I was stand just a few feet away. I looked at them like they were stupid and was about to say something when the Subway employee pointed in my direction and said that I was next. The woman looked at me, rolled her eyes and continued the idiotic conversation with the man she was with. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Well</i> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fuck you</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> too, heffa!</i> I thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1e2WeoLpGgR2iCvVA9A2DuVC2F4GbY1HOxRH-3BM7w13f6BIy8yGDRF9ZfSRD-WoD_AbqabGRZuIFlDlgCeNhUJ_fY61haiGjTmPhTYi5d_JBZ9fwJBH0IeX2gsUhyphenhyphenB0DrwcpSonGehA9/s1600/0309111941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1e2WeoLpGgR2iCvVA9A2DuVC2F4GbY1HOxRH-3BM7w13f6BIy8yGDRF9ZfSRD-WoD_AbqabGRZuIFlDlgCeNhUJ_fY61haiGjTmPhTYi5d_JBZ9fwJBH0IeX2gsUhyphenhyphenB0DrwcpSonGehA9/s320/0309111941.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I order a chicken noodle soup and some of those hippie potato chips they have in stock. As I was leaving, I noticed the Department of Health rating posted on the door. A “B”. I hesitated for a second and wondered, why did this place get a B rating? I rarely notice those ratings before, but this time it stood out to me. My first thought was to return the soup, get my money back and just make something at home, but since I already left and have never been sick before by the food at that establishment I thought against it. When I got home, I crashed on the couch and tuned into a Blog Talk Radio <a href="http://www.blogtalkradio.com/ellengee/2011/04/07/the-evolution-of-perspective"><i>program</i></a> that one of my internet friends host every Wednesday and I went in on the soup. After I was done, the thoughts of the B rating were completely out of my mind… Well, that was until the next morning that is, when my stomach started acting funny. I made some peppermint and ginger tea my mother brought me a few weeks back which did the trick. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Before I started the rest of my day, I thought maybe I should look into that Subway B rating since it was from the last place I ate from. I went to the New York City’s Department of Health and Mental Hygiene <a href="http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh/html/rii/index.shtml"><i>web page</i></a> and after reading about how they <a href="http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh//downloads/pdf/rii/how-we-score-grade.pdf"><i>graded resturants</i></a>, entered the restaurant name and my zip code into the search query. Not only did I see the results for the Subways restaurant on my block, I saw ALL of the results for my zip code.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 16px;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">From the DOHMH’s “How We Score” PDF:</span></div><blockquote><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>“If a restaurant scores 28 or more points on its graded inspection, the Health Department will continue to inspect it roughly once a month even after it receives a grade card. The inspections will continue until the restaurant scores below 28 or is closed by the department for serious and persistent violations.”</i></span></blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The Subways had 17 violation points and as started to go further down the listing I saw other places I frequent had many more, one place getting 24 violation points. Let’s just say I freaked out a bit and made a mental note to pay attention those signs in the future, because when it comes to my food, a B rating is not good enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Kenny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-8548117764388769132011-03-15T08:02:00.003-04:002011-03-15T08:02:00.326-04:00[Faith] Thanks for the Tsunami GOD, Great Job!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 16px;">The earthquake and resulting tsunami that destroyed parts of north eastern Japan, threaten a nuclear reactor and ended the lives of thousands is still heavy on the minds of the people in this country and around the world. At every moment we are shown the destructive path the water took, the families ripped apart and the lives of the people forever scarred. To top it off Japan’s economy is rapidly going down the toilet even as that country’s central bank tired to inject billions into the economy to no prevail. It’s a horrible scenario all around and I hope the country can return to a new normal, but with every news report detailing the damaged reactor and radiation leakage, I do not see that happening anytime soon.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">In the mean time, there is this going on...</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4OW_92rFmgo2vr8auB-Z5nBcE7s6d-9AA379Ztn-uubSTgbPvxpkLL8XRfxw2DVSU2UOf-4wHlesMwMxu7pCd8FUFUBuFgqy8MELqJf_VhmOo5kbMiSjV20B5aFUYHtHlVwuK-5OsX-_D/s1600/japan+comment.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="107" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4OW_92rFmgo2vr8auB-Z5nBcE7s6d-9AA379Ztn-uubSTgbPvxpkLL8XRfxw2DVSU2UOf-4wHlesMwMxu7pCd8FUFUBuFgqy8MELqJf_VhmOo5kbMiSjV20B5aFUYHtHlVwuK-5OsX-_D/s400/japan+comment.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">What pisses me off the most are the scum that take advantage of a tragedy to invoke the name of a GOD in glory for what has happen. During this time of reflection is when you see these people get on their soapboxes and preach that this was a good thing because their GOD allowed it to happen so that his chosen people or whatever can wake up the non-believers wherever they may be. The people from the Westboro Baptist church who protest the funerals of fallen soldiers, homosexuals and anyone that had some notoriety when they were alive with signs like “GOD HATES AMERICA” and other slogans are a prime example of what I am talking about but there are people like this woman in the video below who are also out there with less media press.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/rRyEsAiNtEc" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Here is a woman going by the name Tamtampamela on Youtube. After I watched the video last night, I went through a couple of her other videos where she talks about how the Aryan race would be triumphant in a race war because only Aryans are a race of free thinkers, how President Obama was the Anti-Christ trying to destroy America and the gave a list of the 10 democrats and liberal republicans who will bring his “reign of power” to the world and let’s not forget that the World of Warcraft video game was inciting Satan and his minions to go against GOD. I viewed her channel. There was a lot of girlish color (Pink and Lavender was apparently her theme). She had a little over a dozen friends, a little bit more than two dozen subscribers and thousands of comments… Yes, she had thousands of comments with more coming in at every second with people condemning her about her most recent video that I posted above. This morning when I started to write this blog, I went to her page only to find that her videos were removed and account deleted. Maybe she was a troll like many people stated. Maybe she felt threaten by the comments from enraged youtube viewers. Maybe youtube deleted her account because of the statements in the video. Whatever the reason, I don’t care, I am just glad that this media avenue for her is closed for the moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Personally, I want to know why people have this mindset… To think it is cool to vocalize their belief that their GOD did this destruction out of the love in his heart. Over the last few years I noticed that after any natural disaster, like the earthquake in Haiti, there was always a choir of religious nuts preaching that because they are not Christians, this was GOD’s wrath. Where is the compassion from these people? I don’t care if you are Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Hindu, Atheist, etc… we are all supposed to be equipped with basic human compassion. Sometime I wonder if it is just too much for some people to bear.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Kenny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-33961430952350636432011-03-07T13:04:00.000-05:002011-03-07T13:04:12.394-05:00[My Life] Keywords<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">So apparently you can find my blog if you are looking for a sex party with trannies.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">SoYeah… Go Team Venture!…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF4Z12zHp6opbOIO4zYJ_OZAMdJBrvw43yYRgPlG2-C8gzlxgCWNLMHLVVFoWfDr3qEacNDb5-d08kgS97l3cHIhSsz0s6X-m0em45jKZCfTFTPsltZpXWtZj4SM2VWy9JXKI3ZNtuOLxn/s1600/go_team_venture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF4Z12zHp6opbOIO4zYJ_OZAMdJBrvw43yYRgPlG2-C8gzlxgCWNLMHLVVFoWfDr3qEacNDb5-d08kgS97l3cHIhSsz0s6X-m0em45jKZCfTFTPsltZpXWtZj4SM2VWy9JXKI3ZNtuOLxn/s320/go_team_venture.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’ve been taking my blog seriously for the last few months since I’ve been unemployed. It gives me a chance to develop some kind of income while trying to tune up my writing skills. Plus it is a way for me to return to how I was before 2009, when I would post blogs once or even more a day. Flash forward to this morning. While going through some of the stats of my blog on blogger, there is a section where you can view what keywords that people type into the search engine for your site to come up. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbFMXXooM4ZMkKONFZ5bLXQBhDH7vRJNeaVJ2ibSC4fOKqb4v1hdfljlf72BsjRc2PXXNlLgKeBRMy0LNK1h6-eVp0JGBH9oFUSgGd-_qHRpCELNQElUV2lLKSIlSh5IN_9dU3Q6hJuYlW/s1600/Search+keywords.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbFMXXooM4ZMkKONFZ5bLXQBhDH7vRJNeaVJ2ibSC4fOKqb4v1hdfljlf72BsjRc2PXXNlLgKeBRMy0LNK1h6-eVp0JGBH9oFUSgGd-_qHRpCELNQElUV2lLKSIlSh5IN_9dU3Q6hJuYlW/s320/Search+keywords.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As you can see from the photo the phrase: “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">3 train sutter and rutland sex group ceo</i>” appears. Now, imagine my surprise when those words came up on that list. I am looking at the screen thinking where the hell they do that at. I know that I never posted anything about a sex party or orgy, but I have posted a few blogs about my area and my train stop Sutter Ave./Rutland Rd., maybe just maybe that was what was being picked up. So I highlighted the words, opened a new tab in Google Chrome and proceeded to do a Google search. The very first link that popped up was the twitter account of a female by the screen name “Mssexibooty19” promoting a sex party. WOW… So, this just got very interesting. It wasn’t like I wanted the information to go, but it was weird learning of one in my area. After clicking the link, the photo of a “hood girl” came up, with a number of troll like tweets on her profile to different people about her parties and sex video tapping. I checked out her AOL Lifestream photos where this “hood girl” was pleasuring someone orally and another one where she is once again giving some one lip service while another man was behind her getting his jollies. I don’t know why people are so eager to put their very private moments on the internet for the entire world to see and something that could come back to haunt their future… but hey more power to them since it’s not me. Sadly, I know a few young girls and grown women who are trying to make their way into the porn business for different reasons and join these bottom of the barrel companies or they proceed to do things for themselves and make home video and upload them to websites like Xtube. At first I was thinking she is just trying to be the next Pinky or something like that, but from beneath the ground up. The last photo I check out was of the “hood girl” posing on what I thought was the same roof the other photos were taken on, but looking at the “hood girl” close up, I realize that she was actually a transsexual. Another surprise… I closed the tabs and went through the “O” in Google search to see where my blog came in to this travesty. After going through 15 of the “O”’s in Google I could not find anything. I scratched my head and checked out the other keywords that came up on the blogger stat tracker list and my website would come up on the first or second page. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">So I am sitting here confused and wondering… How did my blog ever get connected to a listing containing this? I guess I will never know and to be honest… a part of me really doesn’t <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">WANT</b> to know.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Kenny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-74459094077066758502011-03-05T19:09:00.000-05:002011-03-05T19:09:12.014-05:00[A More Perfect Union] Crash<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvpIBqZ6Ssm9-iiER3MMFKadah1k3FITSfpBbFPy0tmG7Nzd49ezGF8CtzQ0vaKVX04lY4YQLIJbFDiYb4CV4Q3V4hT6piI0JtZb6O1KkzFXu7YdhSOXQBc2GxsWN1SK3TtEHan6Sya2Dy/s1600/poster_crash1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvpIBqZ6Ssm9-iiER3MMFKadah1k3FITSfpBbFPy0tmG7Nzd49ezGF8CtzQ0vaKVX04lY4YQLIJbFDiYb4CV4Q3V4hT6piI0JtZb6O1KkzFXu7YdhSOXQBc2GxsWN1SK3TtEHan6Sya2Dy/s200/poster_crash1.jpg" width="134" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">One of my favorite movies is <b><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0375679/"><i>CRASH</i></a></b>. From the writing, the actors that portrayed the diverse characters and how each of those characters interact with each other in such a hostile environment to the symbolism of what each person represents. While we move around crashing into each other’s live, how many times have we take stock in what we are crashing into. The main reason I love the movie is because it is relatable when it comes to the topic of race. The reality is every person has some sort of racial prejudice inside of them. They might not want to admit it, but it’s there. Only when we acknowledge it can it be address and we as a society can move forward.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Late this summer, I linked up with a two of my friends Andre* and Jake* so we could go to this bar called the <a href="http://ironhorsenyc.com/"><i>Iron Horse</i></a> down by the South Street Seaport in the city. It’s a cool place with a very chilled atmosphere and mixed ethnic crowd. Now my friends were celebrating their last day at our job and I was along for the ride. We were basically getting nice and tight. Drinks were flowing, the mood was right and the bartender, a young curvy Asian woman was on the bar swing giving everyone a show while pouring drinks in some of the patrons mouths. Try to picture a coyote ugly theme… and yeah there was a school yard like swing on the bar. So it’s about midnight or so. I was maybe on my second rum and coke, while Andre and Jake were spinning the shots wheel and shooting down whatever the little peg stopped at. Even though I secretly wanted to do the shots wheel as well, I thought it would be best if I didn’t go over board since I had to be at work later that day. I have to admit, we were an odd trio. Andre is Puerto Rican, three apples high, skinny and unapologetically gay. Jake, also three apples high, African American, straight, very mild mannered and cock diesel. He is the type of guy where you might think he is not going to do nothing in a fight until all of a sudden he body slams 3 dudes at once. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Between midnight and 1am, Andre and I went out outside to smoke a cigarette and get some cool air. While I was sitting on the cement fence next to the front door, Andre was very drunk venting about all the pent-up feelings he had, when his OCD kicked in and plucked a lint ball from on top of my head. Right in front of us was this guy who laughed. By looking at him, he was short about 5’8 and you can say he was maybe in his early - mid 30’s, chubby the nerdy black rimmed glasses. He wasn’t African-American, Caucasian or Latino. My first thought was he could be Middle Eastern, but I didn’t want to jump to any real conclusion. Andre asked him what was so funny in a polite way and he mumbled an answer. An answer that I thought I heard, but no… I thought it had to be a mistake in what he said. So I asked him to repeat himself and he said the said the same thing. “You two look like Gorillas in the mist” That second time he said the remark snapped me out of my good mood. I thought of all the world horrors happening to him and him alone after I snapped his the jaw in half. I stood up, towering over him with my fist clenched. Gave him a dirty look and walked off, because knowing myself I would’ve made things worse if I had stayed. At first Andre didn’t understand what was going on, he followed me down the block asking if I was okay and I told him that I was good and just needed a moment to calm down. Before I could finish my cigarette, the man came towards me apologies asking if we were cool. I told him yeah, but he needed to get away from me. In that moment I was the bigger person… well in maturity that is. He walked off back to the front of the bar where Andre was and moments later I followed suit. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVqLFLJj70jKWeEu7CdU6y3DYBT6cGzrEScpsE876b22a5KYsCuNk9FCyws8bTBhnoUahXf8y9g0Vf564ZJHPookwCzfetk1e6pxkNfh2akJz_vk7r2gxoCzooPBUddQHZtYitP2tA3sq/s1600/15453_1195475565842_1197034867_30477291_5700899_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVqLFLJj70jKWeEu7CdU6y3DYBT6cGzrEScpsE876b22a5KYsCuNk9FCyws8bTBhnoUahXf8y9g0Vf564ZJHPookwCzfetk1e6pxkNfh2akJz_vk7r2gxoCzooPBUddQHZtYitP2tA3sq/s320/15453_1195475565842_1197034867_30477291_5700899_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">At this point, Andre and this man started to go out it. Trading barbs and insults with each statement escalating the emotions between the two. Andre face was turning red, hell his whole chest was turning red… Did I mention he was shirtless? …because that’s kind of important, but a whole other story which will remain untold on this blog. The man showed that didn’t understand what he said was wrong and instead of thinking before he spoke to us or accepting the fact that what he said was entirely wrong, he wanted to try and prove a point and be a complete ASS! As the man started to defend his comment to us, I really, really wanted to hit the dude, however my main focus was making sure no one (especially my friends) got into trouble, starting a fight or ending up doing something extremely stupid and be thrown in jail, so I grab Andre and dragged him inside. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">While the night continued, things cooled down. Andre was for all intensive purposes GONE in drunken joy, Jake was enjoying the view of the female bartenders and I was trying to let the earlier event go, but I could feel the man’s eyes on me every now and then. At the bar, I ordered my 4<sup>th</sup> rum and coke and I looked around for Andre, wondering where this little Puerto Rican went. You know when you get that nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach? I started to get that feeling and headed to the front of the bar where I could see the man and Andre once again getting into a heated argument. I rushed outside and stood in between them. If this dude took a swing I wanted to make sure that I protected Andre since he was smaller than the guy and weighed less, but I didn’t know then like I know now that he could take care of it himself. I tried to maneuver him away, which was difficult because his drunken state made him quite squirrely. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Less than 10 minutes after getting back into the bar for the second time, I was sitting with Jake at a table next to the jukebox telling him what happen outside while Andre was dancing/grinding on some woman at the end of the bar (A whole other story as well), when suddenly the man came up to us extending his hand trying to be friends. Jake gave me this look. “Is that the dude?” He asked. I nodded. The man looked at Jake and kind of froze up. Remember, when I said Jake was diesel? Yeah… I don’t think the man realize how big Jake was until he approached us. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This had become the last straw to me and I really didn’t care at this point about hurting feelings. I told him to: Just fucking leave me alone before I get really upset. He held his hands up as if to give up and walked away. Thankfully that was the last time I had seen him. After that night I became good friends with Andre and Jake and even though we are all leading separate happy lives, we meet up now and then and enjoy the time. While last year taught me a few lessons, the most important one being that even someone I might have the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>MOST</u></b> in common with (from career goals to social surroundings) can try and will, stab you in the back or try to sabotage everything you are trying to do, I learned that we are all crashing into each other for a reason. Sometimes that reason is unclear to us at first… Many times people and I am including myself, do not recognize how important the every event is to us, since it defines who we are and what we stand for. Now, I don’t believe the man was a racist all, but maybe his lightly intoxicated state allowed certain thoughts to project from his inner being. I was glad that I used better judgment in dealing with the situation and it taught me that when confronted, even with a clouded mind, I can avoid the urge to strike and go down to there level.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">*The names were changed to protect their own individual identity<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Kenny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392802636030146350.post-62693195228792359232011-02-24T13:39:00.000-05:002011-02-24T13:39:39.798-05:00[Lifestyles] They live among us<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A couple of years ago, after I retrieved the mail from the mailboxes from the lobby of my apartment building, I waited by the elevator which seemed to take forever to come. As I waited there, my neighbors, a mother and daughter, who I rode down with were chatting about something that I wasn’t paying any attention too. When the elevator door finally opened I held the door for them. They said “thank you” and smiled. The truth of the matter is I didn’t like this pair at all. They’re both glorified baby sitters, making their general incomes by watching children from around the neighborhood, which I have no idea why anyone would leave there child with them. The daughter has 3 children of her own with the youngest by this crip gang member I used to be friends as a child. Now, we barely speak except for greetings, but I could care less for that. Every now and then, I would watch as the dysfunctions of their family would play out for the whole building to see. The mother screaming at her grandchildren, throwing them out of the house and locking them out for hours in their underwear so they would have to sit on the cold stairs and use the incinerator as a bathroom, hitting them with belt or whatever she could get her hands on. The daughter, the children’s mother, was no better as she was always in the hallway with her “boyfriend” the crip, smoking blunts (which I caught her kids doing as well) or getting into fights with her daughter that were sometimes physical. When I called the cops on them once after seeing the mother hit her grandson with a 2 by 4, my grandmother scolded me harshly about minding my own business. She didn’t want any problems especially from “those people” as she so loving put it. So just like everyone else in the building, I pretended to not see what was going on.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As the second door to the elevator was about to close, it suddenly stops and retreats back as the first door opened and a man, who only moved into the building a short while before, steps in. He greets everyone with a hello along with a smile and pressed his floor number. The condense space was suddenly became extremely quiet. No one seems to move or even breathe as we rumbling passed each floor. When we reached his floor, which was before ours, he turned to us and said “Have a good day”. After the man exited the elevator, the mother turned to her daughter and asked: “Who dat?” in a heavy island accent. “I don’t know” the daughter replied. “All that’s left in this building are strangers… Strangers and faggots” They both started laughing over there stupidity, with the daughter looking in my direction to join them. I said nothing, waited for the door to open and left them. As I was unlocking my door, I could still hear them laughing and I thought to myself that it was strange how they would condemn others or make fun of people with a family they have.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">However, they were right about one thing. The apartment building had become a place full of strangers. After the new landlord took over my building, a lot of things changed. People who had lived there for decades like my family were moving out, the rents were being raised to dramatic amounts and different <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>kinds</u></b> of people were moving in. I underlined and bolded the word “kinds<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">”</b> for a reason. Since the previous years I had worked in real estate, I could spot people who were a part of a certain program to get their apartments. Either you were receiving section 8, part of homeless shelter program or a member of a HIV/AIDS housing program. Since rent payments come straight from agencies, many landlords would take applicants because those were guaranteed payments. Suddenly there were crack heads and overtly gay men running around the building, much to the dismay of some of the residents. When my mother and I, had to clear up a mistake on their part concerning the rent (They said we were missing payments, but we had the receipts that proved that the money order was not only given to them, but cashed as well), one of the men in the office told us they were going to the building so much better. So what happen next? They fired the superintendent who ran the building like a tight ship. He would not allow people to smoke in the hallways, made sure that repairs were taken care of and confronted people who he knew did not live in the building. He was like this evil Puerto Rican watchdog that never let up. Within a year after he was dismissed, a disable elderly man was robbed, shot and killed in his apartment. Gang graffiti started to be placed on the walls though out the floors followed by all night parties in the hallways. The mailboxes in the lobby were broken into several times especially around the first of the month. A veteran was jumped and robbed, then had his apartment broken into several times. The “new” super, wasn’t new but actually managed the building the next door, another property acquired by the landlord, refuse to deal with the problems going on in my building. Heat was a rare during the winter months with complaints falling on deaf ears. The last time my grandmother had left the house by herself, a man she didn’t know tried to touch her. I don’t know what would’ve happen if it was for a neighbor who knew her and helped her in the building. When I asked her who this guy was she refused to tell me, but never went outside without my mother or me next to her. A drug dealer moved in next door which brought police pounding on our door by mistake one Sunday morning. Finally in 2008, someone shot and dumped a man’s body behind my building. The news story about his death contained only 88 words and gave incorrect info, but that was it. Nothing was ever resolved. As this urban renewal around my block started bring in new stores like Raidoshack, Dollar Deals, Family Dollar, Pay Half, etc. the people in this neighborhood are not embracing the changes but wallowing in self misery.<o:p></o:p></span></div></span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUd-oVwLCz5Ob8dGLAq9T7I61wJ0NwaNm03TW4bUBDzzkqPPlFzlKj9K3LbcbMric10ZUP3UM-ZLxHrsQWkv6RTm3TdBAsB6fcVlsu5ruqnS-P6knp-CODNnAwTXaWtaz2rR6CxwYwD0VU/s1600/Urine%252520in%252520the%252520hallways.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUd-oVwLCz5Ob8dGLAq9T7I61wJ0NwaNm03TW4bUBDzzkqPPlFzlKj9K3LbcbMric10ZUP3UM-ZLxHrsQWkv6RTm3TdBAsB6fcVlsu5ruqnS-P6knp-CODNnAwTXaWtaz2rR6CxwYwD0VU/s400/Urine%252520in%252520the%252520hallways.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">Awhile back I wrote a blog called</span> {<a href="http://itsjustkenny.blogspot.com/2009/06/welcome-to-neighborhood-now-get-out.html"><b><i>Welcome to the Neighborhood... NOW GET OUT!</i></b></a>}, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; font-size: 16px;">I talked about the drug dealers that moved next door to me and the sexual predators around the neighborhood, but I have another little story to share about this guy… since I do not remember his name; I am going to call him Frank. Frank moved into the building shortly after the new landlords took over, with his pregnant daughter and son-in-law. There were quiet, kept to themselves and made movements only at night. When I was around them, I always got this feeling that something was not quite right with them. I thought his daughter had the deadest eyes, like she was walking around but no one was home. I would see Frank every now and then over the years, but shared no words with him. Last year, when I would come home at crazy hours of the night from work, I would stop at the “L” (The shopping district around the elevated train station) to get dinner before I headed home to crash. Walking home, I would see Frank panhandling in front of the McDonalds. The first time I saw that, I didn’t pay it any attention, but after seeing it a dozen or so times where he even asked ME for change, I knew something was fishy. I would wonder how can he afford to live in the apartment building if he is out here panhandling when new apartments go for a thousand dollars a month.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Towards the end of last year around late summer/early fall, I was walking into my building, tired from work. Like second nature, I went to check the mailbox the moment I went pass the foyer and there was Frank standing there in the lobby with 2 other men I had never seen before. One guy was tall and lanky with a beer bottle in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. The other guy was short wearing basketball shorts, a wife beater and had a number of tattoos, one being a Puerto Rican flag on his neck. The 3 men stood around, nervously pacing when another guy came into the lobby. Frank took him to the side and the two other men just stood there talking to one another. I had my headphones on blaring music and wasn’t paying attention to what was going on. As I waited for the elevator, another tenant approached and as I opened the elevator door for everyone, when Frank and the short guy refused to go in. The tall guy looked at them and shook his head in disgust. In the elevator, the tall guy went off about Frank. “Fucking crackheads” he started. “Talking shit, how they trying to be dealers when they smoke up everything.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">DING! DING! DING!<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The red flags were going off like crazy. Frank was crackhead. Even though I didn’t care about it, everything started to make sense. As the taller guy started to really go in about Frank and his life, I kept thinking to myself that this was more information that I wanted to know. Everything done in the dark comes to light. Behind every door in this apartment building holds secrets that no one want other to know. Over the last two months, 5 people moved from the apartments on my floor. The landlord sent crews to pretty them up, but I have a feeling that they is just going to move more and more people like Frank into the building. Shuffling more and more of the destructive bottom 10 percent of our society from place to place who brings nothing good to the lives of others. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh and by the way, I don’t know if it matters or not, but Frank is white.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Kenny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03565005106316496057noreply@blogger.com