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I am a writer of dark magical realism. All that is visible but rarely seen, all that is real but seems surreal, all that is dark yet radiates light.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010


I somewhat agree.  Not all thoughts are charged with prana, some are just for burning off steam.  If all my thoughts created my reality, the whole of you would be dead.  Aside: I would be the only one left standing, and even I would be laying in the bed.  Some days, it seem like that's not where life should just start and finish, but remain.  Best believe, if I know you even a little bit, you have been cursed out, ran over by a bus, and eaten alive by fleshing eating ants in my head.  You have been killed and five minutes later resurrected.  You were horrible two minutes ago, and three minutes later, our conversation was pleasant.  There is no need to be your own thought police.  It's your brain, use it for what it's made for: to think.  Please think.  Think before you speak, and sometimes think instead of speak.  Watch what you allow to ruminate, it's when you pray, you create.


Lesson learned: It's all good to collect knowledge, but it's something else to be wise.  It's great to cut and paste quotes.  But it's something else to take those sayings, apply them to your life, and come back and remix them with your thirty plus degrees on them.  Anyone can tell you something, but the proof is in the showing.   If you are a wise remixer, who has lived life 360 degrees, then you  have the ability to write like J. California Cooper.  Until then, keep reading; keep searching; keep growing.


I don't have writer's block.  I have writer's hazy.  It's when you have all the ideas in the world, but don't know where to go.  And then on top of the hazy, you feel a little lazy.   I have three partially started stories.  The first one is an embryo, and I go back and forth on whether or not to abort.  I let a few people read my humble beginnings.   People were either bored, confused or they loved it.  It's a slightly complicated story--you have to have a reasonable vocabulary, imagination, and attention span to dig in.  Basically, if you had to look up "non sequitur",  this story is not for you.  I like the idea, but I don't love it.  It was born out of a jumble of words and I'm still forming it.  It was supposed to be about a soul that goes to hell. Well, not really hell but something to that effect.  The second two are love stories. Aside: I never wanted to write a love story.  I was told it would be rewarding.  They are just fertilized eggs introducing the female protagonist.  They are too soon in their inception to say if they will ever reach implantation.  Perhaps I will merge them together to create twins.  I haven't decided.

Times like this, I reach for the tarot cards.  I love my tarot cards, the spirit that reads with me is seventeen years old and she is from Estonia.  It sounds crazy, doesn't it?  How do I know this?  It would be a short story to tell, but it's a story I will not tell. Anyway, I ask her for information about my book career all the time.  She and I were not on speaking terms for a few months because I didn't like the messages I was receiving: they were all bad news.  I got over it.  Bad news is better than no news, so we have been in deep conversation as of late.    I ask her, "What would happen if I finished this book?  What would happen if I finished that book?" The messages I receive are so confusing.  Tarot is hard to decipher when you are reading with fear and ego.  So I decided, though I often ask people's opinion, there is really only one person I trust.

Aside: She wants me to write a love story.  Love?  Killers, Psychopaths, Evil Souls, that's me.  She even wants me to turn my soul that goes to hell story into a love story.   I ask her how, and she gives me The Tower.  What does that mean?  I'm not  talking about the definition of the card, but it's contextual meaning.  I mean, what does she mean?  Oh, I give up.  I don't see it.   

I asked my sweet Estonian spirit if she could speak through this one particular person.  Astonishingly enough, she agreed.  Let's see what happens.  What are the magic words to fulfill my dreams?


The man pictured above is a 40 years old and lives with his mother in the projects.  Despite the obvious encumbrances, this Don Juan still thinks of himself as a winner.  He has placed handwritten personal ads in phone booths detailing his Mrs. Right.  The ad can be found here: http://www.nypost.com/rw/nypost/2010/10/26/news/photos_stories/102510-MALIKTURNER-DM-3070135.jpg

At first, the list is laughable.  He has standards and criteria?  How dare he.  With displaced indignation, I thought: with his looks and address, he should take what he can get!  But then I reflected back on all this Law of Attraction talk.  So he wants a White/Hispanic, gorgeous, financially independent, big titty freak.  Good for him.  At least he knows what he wants, and who am I to have a negative judgment?  I hope he gets it.

Aside: Why do the ooogliest men/women have the highest standards?

Wednesday, October 20, 2010


My approach to dating was always like a job interview, on to the next one, until I find the mutually benefiting fit.  I didn't like dating in my younger days, getting new outfits, and getting my hair blown out was a financial strain.  I was always in hurry to couple up and mate, each outing was really a chance to contemplate our fate.  And the decisions I made back then.  It wasn't them though, it was all me.

After taking a two year hiatus, (okay like five, but I was in a not a decent man around drought for three of them, and kept fluttering around repeats trying to catch vapors) I reapproached the dating scene with a different mentality.  There would be no special shopping trips, my hair would be worn as is.  I would view dating as fun, not a necessary chore to find the proverbial one.   My first time out the bullpen, I found Boo.  He has outstanding qualities: great looking, nice body, smells good, perfectly smooth skin, and with a little communication a really good dick.  But he's young, and in transition, and I was supposed to try multiple dating and keep digging.

Though my good friend advised me not to tell him, I was honest with Boo.  I let him know he was my number one, but he would not be the only one.  I went on two horrible dates with two horrible men: bad looks, bad body, bad smells and bad skin.  I barely wanted to hug them, I wouldn't know about the dick. One seemed halfway gay, but that's another story.  They had their good qualities, and I tried to focus on them.   Yeah, they were older and financially able.  But they were also old, and needed to be put out to pasture and let out the stable.  Maybe they would have looked better to me, if it weren't for Boo.  Hell no, who am I fooling.   He's the prototype, I'm not even turning my head for anything less than a 2.0.

I am not completely sure what the purpose is for open relationships and open dating.  I can't speak for everyone, but one person I know in an open relationship said it's hard to find all that you need in just one person.  I disagree.  In my opinion, everything is in everyone, you just have to scratch past the surface and go deeper.  In terms of appearance, I really only find one type of man attractive, and Boo's looks fit.  It's so nice to smile when I see him walking towards me.  I can see him walking through a crowd and think to myself- Yup!

As long as everything keeps going the way they are going, Boo and I will merge into one.  He's becoming my right hand, and my most favorite friend.  I've already made him my book critic, I'm about the purchase a grammar and punctuation book and pass it on (I love to write, but hate to copy edit).  I like the way we disagree all the time, but still like each other.  Usually when I don't agree with a man, the deal is done.  So, Boo is it.  Everything is moving but the money, and soon that will too.

Aside: Boo and I went to get readings from my favorite santera.  I love her, she tells you the good, the bad, and the ugly sometimes with a remedy.  Everyone else I have gone to has been full of shit.  She reads much better than I do.   I'm still learning and practicing.  And I can't help you with anything, take your future as is.  Anyway, she told me I would meet another guy similar to Boo in appearance pretty soon.  She told Boo he would meet two additional women.  She has never been wrong, to be continued...

Boo says he feels the same way, but he feels he's lagging behind, I owe him two dates.  I wish he would.  My theme song is playing, "I'll bust your windows out your car".  He loves his Batmobile too.


This book was recommended to me by some guy at Barnes and Nobles.  He was bemoaning the decline of traditional African American literature with the rise of urban fiction which he termed, "shit lit".  Now my book can be categorized as urban fiction, but I chose to not be offended.  This ended up being a good pick for me for two reasons: I love the way the author seamlessly blended the 1950s Black English spoken by her characters with her standard narration. (I read on some writer's board characters speaking in colloquialisms is distracting. I say bullshit.) The book was about a crazy abusive mother.  The mother, Rozelle, was even worse than the mother in my story, as she was completely unrepentant.  Oddly enough, both twisted broads had the same tragic beginning.

What a story.  All of the reviews are true.  The book is a masterpiece, stunning, and an excellent debut.  I am looking forward to purchasing other books from this brilliant author.

Lesson Learned:  Write Better!


HOMO THUG was the next item I selected from the African bootlegger.  I chose this book because it was about a man who is coming to terms with his sexuality.  My book features a man that has sex with a transgendered woman, and this is where the similarity ends.  My character is more of a sex addict/deviant versus a true homosexual.  Yes, there is a difference.

I knew in advance this book was poorly edited, (they didn't even bother run spell check) so I have no comment in that respect.  I decided to suspend any criticisms, and just enjoy the story.  The reviews on Amazon were rave.  I suspect black women enjoy reading about down low black men.  For some sick reason, I must confess, I like it too.  I know you are out there, and I see you.

Eh, the book was okay.  I would call it page turner though, due to the subject matter, not because of the writing or story.  The writing sucked, but the story itself has its moments.   The ending was lame. But if the reviews on Amazon were better for Part 2, I would have probably picked it up just to see how the life of this tragic man ends.  The book reads like an autobiography.  I feel the protagonist Michael Frasier is a fictionalized version of the author.  The transgendered sex scenes were described in such vivid detail.  If you have ever been curious about how sex is with a transgendered woman, he takes you there.  The character's grappling with his sexuality read so real. If you are contemplating a same-sex date, you will relate.  It veers off into secret society, and there is a very thinly veiled caricature of 50 Cent and G-Unit for all of you Illuminati/Gay Agenda conspiracy theorists.

If you like books about down low black men, and you don't mind poor grammar and punctuation, then I recommend HOMO THUG.  All you ever wanted to know about prison shower scenes between male and shemale can be found in the pages within.

Book Review: Shame on it All by Zane

I wrote a book that is sitting in a binder in a top floor apartment in the Brooklyner.  (Aside: This guy I went on a date with lives there, and since he sold a screenplay, I gave it to him for an "expert" critique.) In other words, it went nowhere. Some people told me it was my subject matter: transgenders, voodoo, murder, psychopaths, child abuse and graphic sex that put literary agents off, but I disagree. While in these dark times, light and fluffy is probably an easier sell, intrinsically I know, if the problem is anywhere, it's in the telling (showing, whatever). Through a little research, I found my manuscript contained quite a few grievous literary errors. Some of which are embarrassing, others I feel if you keep reading, you will see how they make the story flow. I haven't taken an English class since forever, and when I decided to write, I decided to write, hence, comma splice, comma splice.

When trying to win, I like to look towards the winners. I refuse to be like Pinky and the Brain, sitting around talking about how the world isn't ready yet. It's not that the world isn't ready, it's that your shit probably isn't that good, and nobody cares. I want mass appeal, not just the approval of ten of my equally going nowhere peers.

I was walking past an African bootleg stand, and decided to pick up a couple of books, the first will be reviewed here. If you are going to write about urban erotica, one has to look to the queen of the genre- Zane. She has what I want: books that chart the NY Times Bestseller list, a publishing imprint, a cable TV show, and a movie in the works. I read, "Addicted" when it first came out and I draw a blank. I chose, "Shame on it All" because the vendor assured me it was great.

So, I read it, and I didn't get it. What stupidity! Now this is what you call drivel, I thought. What was I missing? Where is the appeal? I read a snippet to my boo while we were driving in his car. He said it made his dick kind of hard. Oh yeah? I asked if he would read the book. He said, "No."  But why?  You said it made your dick hard.  That's good, no?

A point to ponder...Eureka! I got it! And Zane got it! I read an article about her, and she said when her teenage son told the girls at school that his mother was Zane, they swarmed her house. With that information in mind, I see why she is successful. When I was in high school, I would have found a book that featured such gems as "dooky stained drawers", "position 69", and a Mandingo sucking his own dick, titillating too. If I were a dude or a woman that was sexually repressed, I would be excited reading a passage about giving head, and sucking on some breasts.

Lesson learned from Zane: know your audience and know it well. She is a very smart woman though her books are so incredibly silly. And while I will not be purchasing another book by her, (Aside: okay, maybe "Sex Chronicles" because her constant plugging throughout the book did kind of pique my interest. Her tactics work.) I do applaud her for being a savvy business woman. I see why she is a winner.

Beyoncé - Video Phone ft. Lady Gaga

Because Ciara looks like a hungry tranny in her bathing suit and I hate Keri Hilson!!!

Willow Smith - Whip My Hair

When I first heard Willow Smith was coming out with an album I was skeptical. I had a feeling she wasn't really talented, just a rich kid afforded the luxury of fulfilling all of her whims and dreams. Her first single, "Whip My Hair" did nothing to dissuade my skepticism, to my ears it sounds like a saccharin fueled autotuned poptastic spastic mess. And then my thoughts shifted. While she isn't a child prodigy a la Stevie Wonder or Michael Jackson, she is still way better than say Miley Cyrus. She is younger and therefore less annoying than Justin Bieber. So while I still don't like her hair (she didn't have much hair to begin with, so no points for bravery for shaving one side and getting a trim). And I still don't like her song(or the video, she can't dance). I realize there is a huge market for auditory carcinogens, and applaud her and her parents' pristine business acumen. Little Willow looks very diabolical and clever.  I bet she and Jada are laughing at you suckers who like her single. I bet half the song is really sung by Jada. You can tell and sell the sheep anything, they just want to feel a part of something. The Smith family, I applaud you. Go ahead, Willow, get that money and whip it real good!

Monday, October 4, 2010


Sometime last year, I picked up an Emily the Strange Talking Board from the discount table of Barnes and Nobles.  I had played with an Ouija Board years ago as a kid and have no recollection of anything remarkable occurring.  My interest was renewed when I read a bunch of scary Ouija Board stories on a message board.  I thought they were all bullshit, but hey--you never know.  When I first got the board, I ran through my friends and acquaintances to see who would be willing to play with me.  I had no takers.  People really believed in Ouija Boards and were threatened by its supposed powers.  I was going to play by myself, but the instructions stated the game needed to be played with at least two people.  Besides, juvenile behavior is way more fun with a co-conspirator.

After a little cajoling, Remix (the fine specimen formerly known as 3MB) agreed to play with me.  Aside: I love the way he perfectly relates to my inner twelve-year-old.  He had a case to be solved, it involved a missing item and four suspects.  He needed a name.  Perhaps the Ouija Board would be able to provide it.

We set up the Ouija Board on his coffee table late one Saturday night.  He had been drinking.  A no no according to the Ouija Board directions I found online (supposedly it makes you more vulnerable to psychic attacks from unknown entities), so I made sure to sit closest to the door in case he got possessed and tried to attack me.  He didn't have a lighter to light the white candle I had brought to call only pure spirits with good intentions.  He wouldn't let me make a protective circle of sea salt on his floor.  I forgot the Florida Water.  He didn't have any incense.  So I said a prayer, closed my chakras, grounded myself, and visualized being surrounded by a bubble of pure white light.  He was on his own.  If anything went terribly wrong, I knew of a lady who could probably fix him up for a small fee.

We dimmed the lights, cleared our minds and asked the spirits to come talk to us.  He asked his question first.  The planchette started to move and spelled out the letters H and G. I was excited; it seemed like it was working.  I asked if any of the suspects had those initials and he said no.  I asked if it could be possibly spelling out a nickname, tag or something to the effect and again he said no.  I was disappointed.  I asked the spirits to give us another clue but this time the planchette didn't move.  We remained silent, deep in concentration for a few minutes and all of a sudden the planchette started moving with a tremendous burst of energy.  Energy that emanated from Remix.  He laughed.  I didn't find it funny.  He was ruining my psychic investigation with his foolery.  Well, it was kinda funny; I guess.

After a few more minutes, I inched closer to the door and asked the spirits to show themselves.  I called for good spirits, bad spirits, who cares just come and show your power--crickets.  We gave up, put the Ouija Board away and went about our night.  Nothing eventful happened: no weird dreams, no strange noises, flickering lights or anything of the sort.

This was a few weeks ago, and the board remains in his bedroom, on a shelf filled with magazines and other miscellaneous items.

The Ouija Board stories were all bullshit, just as I thought.