SVP4LIFE's Blog

I really hate to do two serious blogs back to back. Most of you who check me out on the regular know I like to do something silly, then serious, then back. I like to give the full range. But here is something else that is bugging me...

When I was a kid, my stepfather was three things, a collector of porn, a drinker and Yankees fan. He inadvertently introduced me to the first two and the last item on purpose. I remember a chilly day in 77, where I sat next to him, watching Reggie Jackson make fools out of the Milwaukee Brewers in a double header. I'll never forget it, because after that day, I cared about baseball.

Football would be foisted upon me years later-- again by the alcoholic stepfather who was a NY Jets fan, and a rough English teacher who insisted we be ready to talk about the NY Giants on Monday as we were ready to talk about Canterbury Tales. Crazy, huh?

Now, here is a confession. If there is one thing missing in my make-up as a guy, it's the fact that I just enjoy a good game. I, unlike so many of my friends, don't remember Pete Rose's batting average in '70 or how many free throw records Michael Jordan has or any of that stuff. A large part of the season just disappears to me. Also, I've never been big on college sports.

But for either the sake of my work as a stage manager, or just because someone decided to give me free tickets, I have attended every kind of live sporting event possible, with the big exception of NASCAR. As a stage manager, I have been on the floor during Knicks and Nets games and in the press boxes of both the old school Yankee and Shea stadiums. I have a taste for it. I don't lose a lot of sleep over it, but I have come to love it, in my own way.

So here is my question-- how would that happen if I were a kid now? How in the world, with the price of tickets and food at these venues, does a middle-class family take kids to a ball game without then having to cut back on groceries or some other essential for a month?

I mean, all these new stadiums are very sexy, but who can seriously afford to go, much less treat a min-van full of kids to the trip. What used to be a nice family outing, and dare I say an American tradition is now a huge investment?

Meanwhile, captains of industry who could easily afford to pay for their seats are often 'comped'. Networks load the stars of their shoddy sit-coms in prominent seats so that they are seen at the games, while those same actors probably know as much about the sport in question as I do about performing a triple bypass.

So here is my prediction-- the sports industry does not become more accessible will begin to unravel. Millions of kids won't be introduced to the concept of being sports fans because their folks just can't afford the luxury. Remember, that is not the same as playing sports-- which of course takes a whole other level of nurturing and commitment from many involved parties. In the end, the only kids who will care will be the ones who a participating with the hopes of turning pro. I'm imagining that we all know that in terms of percentages, that one is mighty low.

Pro athletes bring the fans to the stadium, but the fans support the franchises. It's a shame the front offices have forgotten that.

SVP

I really have to reiterate how sick I am of everyone jumping on the Obama isn't for the people bandwagon. And I'm not just talking about Fox News. The on air talent at Fox News have an excuse in that they are being paid large sums of money to denigrate the President and derail his agenda. Feeding the fires of racism and ignorance with clever misdirection and omission of facts are what they are supposed to be doing. And that's fine. What I'm sick of is being out somewhere and being challenged by the average brother on the street who has all this negative trash to spew.

Where were you when Bush was creating this mess? Where was all this animosity towards the White House? Where is the sense of reverence that should come with us finally having an African-American President-- something I often feel a pang of disbelief over to this day? Are you really so filled with self-hatred that only a caucasian President is allowed to drive you off an economic cliff?

Obama has had less than a year to clean up a mess that is not just eight years in the making. Most say it is the Bush Administration that beset us with this toxic economy, but the truth is the groundwork was set during the Reagan years. The first Bush kind of pushed things along, but even Clinton can take a piece of the blame by simply not clamping down on the banking industry hard enough during his reign. Of course. who during the Clinton years would have guessed what would follow him. I almost want to blame Clinton for lulling us to sleep, but the truth is we lulled ourselves to sleep, by being so preoccupied with sports, video games, American Idol and of course, our sex lives.

That's right, much of what we are going through right now began with Reagan, who empowered the banking industry with the first of many waves of deregulation. By the time Bush II got there, the mechanisms were already in place.

Now, I am not saying that Obama-- or any man for that matter-- should be followed blindly. I'm not saying he should be treated like the Messiah, either. Obama himself has said he welcomes challenging debate, and should be engaged when making decisions that will alter the lives of millions. But it should be respectful of the position he has attained and it should be done with some acknowledgment of what has really happened prior to his arrival.

And yes, I've seen the scary videos about the Federal Reserve and world-wide conspiracies with the ominous music and so on. I could take the same video camera and editing equipment I used to make the Reluctant Hitman Video-- throw in a bunch of historical facts and data and make it sound like the world was coming to an end in exactly 14 hours. Doesn't exactly make it so, now does it?

And yes, there are some things I disagree with, where Obama is concerned. One of them being his ever present need to be inclusive with these conservative jackasses! More than anyone else, he needs to know that these people are not going to just let him pass a new healthcare plan. First of all, the insurance companies are fighting them tooth and nail. Second, the insurance companies have a lot of teeth and nails because of all the money they have been allowed to take from us all these years!! Third, the conservatives will if they have anything to say about it, will never let this happen, if for no other reason but the fact that if Obama manages to provide affordable healthcare for everyone, then the Republican Party ceases to have any chance of ever being relevant again.

What irritates me even more is all these people out here talking about how they don't want healthcare reform if it means they have to come out of pocket. They don't want to have to take care of someone else. Well, here is the news flash for them-- you already are. The fact that you don't feel it because you have a good job and are paying into a good health plan is not the point. Every time someone goes to the emergency room only after feeling half dead instead of getting immediate, regular prevention-based care by a physician when their symptoms flared up six months ago, you are paying. Every time a family bankrupts themselves over medical costs, you are paying. When a head of household dies needlessly, forcing that family to seek public assistance, you are paying. Every time an able bodied person gets hurt in an accident has to claim disability because they don't have coverage, you are paying.

Just because you have healthcare today, doesn't mean you will have it six months from now. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS LOSE YOUR JOB AND YOUR HEALTHCARE SITUATION CAN CHANGE ON A DIME. Of course, the general public could be a lot smarter when it comes to nutrition and the overall maintenance of their bodies, but what about when your body just flat out betrays you? It happens, every day and all over the world. And in this country, more often than not, when someone gets that terrible news that they have cancer or some other lethal ailment, the insurance companies do everything in their power to NOT PAY OUT! Terms like 'pre-existing conditions' and 'treatment considered experimental ' are thrown around and before long, people who thought they were covered are told nope, sorry, you are out of luck on that one.

I hurt myself pretty bad recently and was told I needed physical therapy. Despite the fact that I was paying upwards of four hundred dollars a month, my insurance company told me that they were only paying for 3 of the 15 sessions the doctor recommended. AND THIS CAN HAPPEN TO ANYONE BECAUSE NOW THE INSURANCE COMPANIES CAN DO WHATEVER THEY WANT. We are all at the mercy of the insurance companies, and right now the only way to fix this problem is for the government to step in and do the right thing, just like they did when Social Security and Medicaid were first established. It is difficult process because so many politicians, Republican and Democrat have been bought off. All the more reason for the average guy on the street to get wise, stop criticizing the one man in government who is trying to fix the problem and get involved. Healthcare in the country is not a black and white issue, but it very well may be a rich vs. poor battle. And as a wise man once said, a society is only as good as it treats it's most vulnerable citizens.

So, how good are we?

SVP

So despite my constant ridiculing of these idiots-- there is apparently a scam artist using some of the photos I have posted to create a page. This shameless jackass calls himself 'CALVIN'. I can only assume he is using the page to scam sisters out of money, since if they ever meet him in person it will be massively clear that he is not the person in the photos. And just to avoid my having to get 80 comments from skeptical sisters-- no I don't have a twin. In order to prevent any other misunderstandings, I am not going to list some surefire ways you, the Internet surfer will know for a fact that I am who I say I am and ANYONE else using my photos is lying.

5) You can find on Facebook under the same name.

4) If you Google Brookwater's Curse, you will find images of the books and me. You might even find pictures of me holding the book and being interviewed by Crazy Al Cayne.

3) You can see me doing sketch comedy on the samenightmoviereview.com website.

2) You can go to my own website-- www.brookwaterscurse.com

1) And the number 1 way to know I am who I say I am is-- I am not asking YOU for any money-- well, unless you decide to buy a copy of one of my books.

Thank you! God Bless. And fuck you 'Calvin'. Get a real JOB before I call the US Marshal's office. SVP

This story happened a long time ago. It was also originally presented in my blog over at www.brookwaterscurse.com back in 2006. Since I have so many new BP friends, I thought I would give you all a laugh by sharing this one. If nothing else, it will keep our minds off of losing Ted Kennedy and what that means for the struggle to reform health care. This one's a tad embarrassing, but I trust you will all appreciate the humor behind it. Here it is:

For those of you who missed the recent blog members responses to last week's story, (and by the way, special shout outs to Melinda, Emdub, Sbau and Lane), you missed Melinda asking how is it that I know what used to go on in the old school Times Square porno movie theaters back in the day. Well, contrary to popular belief, I am no expert. But I did go. Once.

Needless to say, this was a long time ago, before I or any of my old buddies from my teen-aged years had steady jobs, cars, wives, kids, our own places, real bills to pay, a pot to piss in or a window to through it out of. We were fuckin' kids. The kind you see on the congregating in the subways, keepin' up a whole bunch of noise and tryin' to act all tough. The kind of kids that you stare at and think to yourself, "Wow, was I really that fuckin' clueless, loud and annoying?"

Of course, in my case the answer is no. Many of my friends did things that were illegal, immoral and harmful to themselves and others, all in the name of searching for a good time. But I was sort of the Cuba Gooding Jr. circa Boys in Da Hood in my group. Except, I didn't have a Nia Long waiting somewhere for me. Occasionally, some older woman trying to get back at her husband or boyfriend would pull me into her apartment and have her way with me, (that's actually how the I lost my virginity in the first place), but otherwise, in a world full of flashy crackdealers with gold chains, gold fronts, (not to be confused with GRILLZ), and cars, I went for months at a time without anything vaguely resembling a girlfriend in my life. That's probably why I won the award for Brooklyn's Most Boring Teenager back in '85. But I digress. So I had a lot of guy friends, both from my block and school, who like me, were broke ass muthafuckas trying to get through high school and maybe go to college. We worked shitty part-time jobs and weren't even trying to sell drugs, even though we had other friends who were and we actually wished them well, (even though I think we all knew in our hearts how things were going to turn out). We weren't out to start shit, but if you stepped to us the wrong way we'd make you wish you'd left us alone. Not that anyone really would step to us. There was something about being in a group of five, or ten, 'manlings' that made us seem formidable.

But while white ladies would clasp at the pocketbooks and run across the street and the police would occasionally stop us to 'have a little talk,' my friends and I, with a few exceptions, were really quite harmless. In fact, most of us were smart in some way, funny, and really had two things on our minds--beer and sex. Some of the guys from the high school crew had been to one of the many porno theaters on housed on 42nd street at the time and reported having no problems getting inside. I had never tried it before, either on my own or with my other crew from the neighborhood, but I had been very successful getting myself and other people into R-rated movies since I was twelve, (that's when my facial hair first started to come in). Even though I was only seventeen, and didn't have a fake ID, I figured I'd be fine and I'd get away with it like I got away with a lot of things back then. In any case, I chalked it up as something I should experience at least once, laced up my Air Jordans--the first, all white ones-- and met the guys at Dekalb Ave. There were five of us that night; Dre, Vaughn, Kane, Coe and me. We got to 'The Deuce' and wandered around like lost sheep, and arguing about every little thing. This night, like many other nights with these guys, was like an episode of Fat Albert with swearing.

"Fuck you man, I wanna go here," Coe said as he pointed at one spot. "What's the difference? It's all the same shit,"Kane retorted. "Yo, I wanna see some shit wit Vanessa Del Rio,"Dre demanded. "How about that movie with Dre's Mom doing a midget,"Vaughn, who was always looking for an opportunity to embarrass someone said.

Being the rookie in this scenario, I kept my remarks brief and simple. "Somebody please make up your mind,:I finally said after a great deal of nothing in particular had taken place.

And make up their minds they did. Only problem was when we found a spot and got on line, we saw a sign that said '$4.99 w/ ID.'This prompted Coe, who approached the ticket booth first to ask the tiny lady behind the glass, "So I'll get my penny back, right?"

Coe's decision to be a wise-ass at that particular moment did not help our collective cause. No sooner had his ill-chosen words left his mouth, than did a large brotha with a walking tall stick walk up to us. "Get a penny back? Do any one of you raggedy motherfuckers even have ID?" he demanded. As we fumbled, he looked us over. Finally, before anyone could even produce their IDs, fake or otherwise, we said, "You know what, don't even waste my time. You aint comin' in here and don't try across the street, cause I'm radioing them now. You little motherfuckers better go see Rambo and get the fuck outta here!"

Expelled from the front of the porno theater, we roasted Coe for blocks. "You fuckin' blockhead,"Kane screamed as Coe continued to apologize.

It would be another twenty minutes before we found a theater that we could all agree on and didn't have any large men with sticks in front of it. While all taking turns to warn Coe to keep his mouth shut, we purchased our tickets without incident. Then, we entered a brightly lit hallway that led to two theaters. Without much conversation, we picked the one on the left. Entering the dark room I was immediately greeted by a big white ass being projected on a screen. "This must be the place,"I said quietly.

If there was any security in this place, they obviously failed to notice the only five assholes to arrive in the theater and sit next to each other, and none of the dark, lonely men sitting by themselves starring blankly at the fleshfest noticed us. But I was sure someone would eventually ask us to leave, and after a while, I began to wish for it. That's because the movie that we had walked in on was not a regular "Oh, you must be the plumber. How would you like to lay some pipe?" porno movie. It was a masochism film. It may have even been a snuff flick, I'm not sure cause after a while I had to avert my eyes. It was awful. Girls were being beaten, pierced, and burned in ways that even I, the vampire novel guy, don't want to get into. And the scary thing is, because my friends didn't seem to be reacting, I began to think that maybe they were enjoying this.

"Yo, what the fuck is this shit?" Kane finally said, as I thanked God that I was wrong to worry about them.

"Yeah, I just wanted to see some fuckin'! I'm not with this shit!" Vaughn said. Suddenly, up on the screen there was an extreme close-up of a thick needle piercing a young girl's nipple. She screamed and there was blood everywhere. This image sparked a debate as to what we were going to do next. Everyone was hissing at each other in harsh whispers as I got up.

"I'm going to the bathroom, you assholes figure it out," I said.

My eyes adjusted as I reentered the bright lights of theater's entranceway. Then I found a small Mexican man and asked him where the bathroom was. Upon entering, I realized that I should have just held it. That bathroom smelled like the inside of a bottle of ammonia mixed with a month-old corpse and to this day, I'm convinced that if I had used one of the stalls instead of the urinal I would have found a portal to hell itself. I survived the bathroom trip and, according to the doctor's blood tests a few days later, I was OK.

I found the boys filing out of the theater. The big question of course was, 'now what?' The general consensus was that we had been had and we needed to just leave. But we had paid five dollars and there was the theater on the right.

"OK, but if there's any more of this demented shit in the next room, we are fuckin' out," Dre announced as the rest of us agreed fully. We filed in and sat down, this time two behind two, with a seat between each of us. It took no time to realize we had struck paydirt. It was an old school porno; shot on film instead of video, with some sort of a plot that four black kids (Kane is half-white, half chinese) from Brooklyn certainly didn't care about, and people actually trying to act. But we got to see some flesh.

Of course, my tastes have matured to the point where I'd find porno with no women of color disappointing. Also, the women had enough pubic hair to hide a band of Zulu warriors inside their bushes, but at the time beggars could not be choosers. It was porno, plain and simple, with no one being stabbed or shot. And for the most part it was OK. I still felt uneasy; I wasn't sure if it was just from being there, or from having seen the brutally sick, obscene stuff from the next room. But about twenty minutes into the movie experience, my uneasiness found new form as a flashlight beam slammed down hard on the four of us. Through the light, the voice of the big walking stick guy who had shooed us from the other theater boomed out at us.

"So you guys made it!" he chimed as we sank into our seats. After letting us sweat for a second or two under the flashlight beam, he announced that he wasn't going to do anything. Then he hopped up to the front and began making shadow puppets behind the screen, partially blocking the image of yet another white girl's bouncing ass as it was being serviced.

I never went to a porno theater again, but during my early years of college, I did go with the guys to a place called ShowWorld. It was there that I got to see, among other abnormalities, live sex acts. Thankfully, I didn't run into flashlight guy there, but I did have a picture taken with black porn star Ebony Ayes, which if I'm not mistaken, is hidden somewhere safe at my mother's. You'll have to excuse me for being a horny, lonely ass kid. That's all in the past now. Times Square is all cleaned up now. ShowWorld is a comedy club, and the last time I looked at that porno theater The Lion King was housed there. Unless you go in the hood, you can barely get a decent lapdance in this town. Which is OK, cause now that I have a job, a motorcycle, my own place, and a vampire novel for sale, I don't really need to play myself out in public like that anymore. But hell, truth be told, I think it was wise to get all that shit out of my system while I was a kid. Thankfully, I've matured to the point that outside of the occasional guys night out, I find that I'm happiest exploring that side of myself in the privacy of my own home, preferably with a special live female participant who has genuine feelings for me and doesn't make me feel like a cash register with a penis for a handle. Of course, when that isn't available, an assist from a good DVD takes the edge off nicely. In any case, hold the pubic hair, please. I'm so happy the awkward days are behind me. And I'm thankful that except for being mildly aroused by the sight of shadow puppets, I have come away from those experiences unscathed and quite normal. OK, maybe only sort of normal.

Ah, FACEBOOK-- The place for Friends-- and endless debates in my case. I recently made a crack about Republicans being dumb on the aforementioned social network, which sparked a heated discussions on my page. The only thing was, by the time things were in full swing, I was too busy with work and then going to a Mets game. So you can imagine my surprise when I turned my computer on and saw my FB page all blown up. Naturally, some people had people had valid points and some slightly askew. The problem was, my one crack had set off a this whole thing on MY PAGE. I had to choice but to, as the kids would say, REPRESENT! OK, maybe not just kids at this point, but you get my meaning. I decided to share with you all, my Black Planet Family, the remarks that I used to close things out this week. For the sake of this blog, let's just call it, SVP's Reasoning Behind Disliking The Republican Party 101. Enjoy:

I want to thank you all for your {Facebook} comments-- but just so we all understand each other, I'm going to break down where I'm coming from.

First, thing I’ll discuss is Health Care. As someone who had gone from insured to uninsured to sort of insured over the past few years I can tell you that if private sector health insurers take a nose dive as far as I'm concerned, so be it! These parasites have let too many people die already, so if these greedy bastards end up out of work I say let them go make solar panels, or something else we need.

The Economy: Obama is trying to fix it. Republicans don't want it fixed until they can attach a Republican hero to it. And since they stole so much money during the Bush years, they can apparently sit the recession out.  It's selfish, bullshit, bipartisan and unpatriotic. No one is hurting more than the working class right now, because of this nonsense. People need to stop being so complacent and hit the streets in protest!

The Birth Certificate!: It's not like I don't have some conservative views. Its not like I don't agree that black folks need to be accountable for some of what is holding our communities back. But being black in this country means not being able to let your guard down-- even when you are PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. Imagine being born in Hawaii and having to prove it over and over. Imagine being the most powerful man in the country but being criticized because you killed a FLY! Imagine questioning the logic behind the arrest of a Harvard professor who is a friend of yours, and whose only crime was being in his living room and the agency behind the ridiculous incident demanding an apology from you!!

On top of trying to be what I feel is a socially responsible leader in a time when such a thing is so desperately needed, yet so opposed by the rich and wealthy, Barack Obama has had to deal with an unparalleled amount of disrespect! So while I know Republican friends of mine Al Rider are not racist, I have no choice but to conclude, from the way the Republican leaders run their party. that they either are racists or at best have no problems catering to the racist element in our society. Furthermore, Fox News, AKA the Republican Propaganda Channel plays a large part of this. As a conscientious person of color, I find it abhorrent and that is why I openly criticize this party. Which brings me to...

SOTOMAYOR!! Every American should be embarrassed at how the Senate Confirmation Hearings were handled. It's very clear that most of the Republicans asking questions at that hearing had never even spoken to a person of color, much less and educated Latina woman except to arrange for something to be carried, delivered, or served. And what was their argument? Her prejudices will affect her judgment? Isn't that what every person going into a courthouse has to worry about when facing a Judge that doesn't look like them, not to mention a judicial system that can often be circumvented as long as you have money?

Now, I need to insert a quick side note. Frankly, there are some things that Ron Paul has brought up that I feel are worth a listen. Despite his rumored lack of respect for people of color, and his ties to Ronald Reagan, (who everyone knows I am no fan of), there are times I find myself wishing for a consensus. Unfortunately, outside of the box thinkers like Ron Paul and Dennis Kuccinch will never get their day in the sun, because God forbid we elect a president who isn't sexy. For the record, I never said Democrats are the end all and be all.

But for a person of color, unless you are Michael Steele or some other puppet who is willing to put aside history so you can be on TV plugging Massah's Talking Points, either going independent, or you hanging with the Dems is the only thing that makes sense. Being who I am, choosing between Democrats and Republicans is like being a woman choosing between the husband that forgot your Anniversary and the Ex-Boyfriend who used to beat your ass.

SVP

Quick Intro: After the seriousness of my last blog-- and 80 sobering and supportive responses-- I figured I should lighten the mood. So here is an oldie but goodie that I originally published on my main website a few years ago. If you like this one-- you should take a visit over to www.brookwaterscurse.com and join the blog.

NOW THE STORY: Working in the TV biz occassionally means long bouts in your life where you have no health insurance. At least that was the case with me back in the mid-nineties. Another thing about a lot of those jobs of yester-year; if I didn't make it in, I didn't get paid, (hey wait, that part hasn't changed). So unless I thought I was going to die, I wasn't going anywhere near a hospital. Unfortunately, that's exactly what happened. It was my first bout with bronchitis and it was horrible! I had a steady 102 degree fever and I was coughing like Doc Holiday in a sandstorm.

When I finally lost the ability to speak in the middle of the night, I knew it was time to head to the emergency room at Brooklyn Hospital. The only problem with going to the emergency room when you have bronchitis is that you don't look as alarmingly, blatantly, in your face fucked up as the rest of the people there. This makes for a long wait, as the people walking into the hospital with their lower intestines in their hands are usually treated before you are.

The first nurse I got to see worked the Triage room, which meant she was the first rung in the screening process ladder. She was the gatekeeper who gets to figure out if you even deserve to see a doctor. In this particular case, she was also a very impatient West Indian lady who couldn't figure out why I wouldn't just tell her what was wrong with me. When I finally took her pen and wrote down the words, 'I CAN'T TALK!' she got the message. Literally. After using her ice cold stethescope to listen to my lungs, which sounded like Folgers coffee was perculating inside them as I breathed deeply, she apologized for snapping at me and sent me back to the waiting room.

About an hour later an ambulance pulled up, and some commotion of the 'Boy N Da Hood' variety started taking place. A young brother on a gurney was hustled through the waiting area doors. His body was one big bloodstain. The gurney disappeared as what couldn't have been less than twenty five people, the friends and family of the gunshot victim, piled into the waiting room. A couple of police squad cars had trailed the ambulance and the four occupants of those cars had also entered the lobby. The tension was high. Miserable hospital employees ran around grunting and groaning. The cops hung back with a weird air of superiority about them as they seemed to chat amongst themselves about nothing in particular. Females associated with the wounded boy cried and screamed while the wounded boy's thugged-out friends made declarations of vengeance and claimed to not care if the cops heard them or not. Then a doctor, a very George Clooney in ER type doctor, emerged from the back. "I'm sorry, we did what we could. He's gone."

The boy's mother throws her hands upward in despair and lets out a horrible wail, as others run to comfort her. Every male in the entourage looks down at the ground for a moment, then they slowly file out of the emergency room, some exchanging looks with each other that said, "You know what we gotta do now, right?" It was actually a very sad scene. But as this melodrama unfolded before me and the rest of the sick people who had nothing to do with this, a homeless drunk, who until now had gone unnoticed, stood up. "I wish someone would shoot me," the drunk cried out with a measure of defiance, "with some Cisco."

(For those of you who don't know, Cisco was an old school, flavored alcoholic beverage that used to turn men into instant degenerates long before crack. It was like a wine cooler mixed with just enough Drano so as not to be immediately lethal. It's amazing, the things that are sold in our neighborhoods.)

As the scene transformed from a sombering reminder of urban blight to a gag you'd see while watching an episode of Good Times, I'm ashamed to admit that I actually found myself having to repress real laughter after the drunk's comment. Of course, that broken glass in my throat feeling that comes with layrngitis snapped me right out of anything that even vaguely resembled amusement. About four hours later, my name was finally called and I was asked to leave the big waiting area and join about five individuals in a smaller room. It was almost like being asked to an after-party following a major event at Madison Square Garden, but with no drinks or snacks. The only thing was that now that we were in such close quarters you couldn't help but learn something about your fellow patients, as we were each grilled by the hospital staff. To the left of me was a guy with what looked to be a stab wound in his leg. While he was clearly the worst off in the emergency room VIP section, he was also the most impatient of the patients. About 30 mins. after I had joined this group, Stab-Wound guy would actually sneak out after a while, which would confuse the one doctor who had been talking to him.

There was an attractive young lady, who claimed to have fallen down a flight of steps. Anytime a hospital staff person spoke to this woman, they seemed determined to get her to say her boyfriend beat her up. But she would not oblige, and stuck to her story. Two other people had bizarre injuries and another woman to my right appeared to be like me; sick from germs, not flying bowling balls or some other craziness. Enter into this delightful scene two policemen.

They were short, white and I'm guessing each in their low-thirties. Walking between them, sporting a shiny pair of handcuffs and a large, blood-stained bandage on his neck was one of the biggest black men I had ever seen. I'm not saying the guy was necessarily a steriod user, but he was big enough to be a stunt double for the Hulk. Of course. you had to wonder how these two policemen--more like Hobbits with guns really--managed to catch this behemoth without some sort of spell or Jedi mind trick. Well, thanks to the intimate setting, and the fact that the two mini-cops decided to handcuff Godzilla to a chair two feet in front of me, I found out the story. As most stories people tell the police start off, The Behemoth was walking down the street minding his own business. Then, without warning, two men tried to rob him.

Naturally, I'm sitting there thinking, 'OK, wait, somebody tried to rob HIM? Is he joking? Who would try to rob this rhino? In a city full of helpless old people who can barely walk, why would anyone rob him? Well this is what he said: "These two motherfuckers I seen in the projects yesterday rolled up on me, and shit..."

"So, you know these guys?" one of the Keebler Elves in blue asked.

"Nah, I don't know them," he responded, "but I seen them before. Anyway, yesterday I was wearing my chain..."

Ahh, I'm thinking. 'Chain'. There's the magic word.

"...so one dude pulls a nine and these dudes are like, 'yo nigga, run that chain, and I'm trying to tell these dudes I don't have it today. Then they're like, 'well whatcha got?' I make like I'm gonna hand over some cash, and when dude reaches out, I catch his hand and pull him to me."

Someone cue up the Superman music please.

>"So, I'm fightin' these motherfuckers and the gun goes off. That's how come my neck is bleeding."

" So where did your gun come from?" the other Smurf, I mean cop asked.

"That was their gun, man. That's what I was trying to tell you guys when you showed up. I took it from them and they ran," he concluded.

The two cops looked at each other. They actually seemed to be buying it. While one cop chastised Gigantor for not being clearer with his explanation when they first accosted him, the other went to use the phone. Then, after some more conversation about why they can't just let him go now, the cops left. So there he was, handcuffed, alone and sitting right in front of me. With his apparent strength he could have easily freed himself by shattering the chair he was handcuffed to by slamming it into a wall. Then he could have used the jagged pieces of wood to claim anyone of the sick people in front of him as a hostage. And who would have been a better hostage than someone half his size who could barely talk? Of course, with my luck, I'd have been the person he would have killed to show the cops that he meant business, before he took one of the women. In retrospect, I'd have to say that's actually preferable. If I had been taken hostage and lived, my boys would have never let me hear the end of it.

As it turned out, Gigantor was not interested in escape. He actually started to make small talk. "So how is everybody?" he asked as the chair he barely fit in creaked under him. It's a good thing I couldn't speak, cause I don't think, "We're in a hospital, Conan, how do you think we're doing?" would have gone over very well.

Eventually, Big Man noticed the pretty girl who, last I heard, was still maintaining that she had fallen down a flight of steps. Undaunted by either her state or his own predicament, he proceeded to go for his, as the kids would say.

"So what's your name?"

She answered just above a whisper.

Did she have laryngitis too? I asked myself.

"So what happened to you?" he asked. "I fell down a flight of steps." " she finally answered.

"Oh, that's fucked up. I'm sorry. So where's your man?" Another inaudible answer. But she actually cracked a smile. Just goes to show, the gift of gab does increase your chances of getting laid. "So when this is over," he said and he rattled his handcuffs to indicate what he meant by 'this', "can I call you?"

I don't know what happened after that, because suddenly, the gates of heaven opened as my name was finally called.

The doctor examined me for about ten minutes before filling out two prescriptions and sending me on my way, bringing this episode to a rather anti-climatic end. I don't know what became of the possibly-wrongly arrested behemoth, or the apparently clumsy but pretty object of his affection. Who knows, if I had come back to the hospital nine months later, I might have found those two in the maternity ward gazing through the glass at a cute, clumsy, and unusually big bundle of joy.

Everything happens for a reason, right?

SVP The Dark Humor Man