WE... (are the United States of America)

 
So, finally the POTUS (also known as the President of the United States), gave his third State of the Union Address. In an unexpected move, he gave prominence to the populous movement that surrounds him. He covered all the topics on the line: health care, job creation, and anything else far and in between. I personally think he gave a great speech. I also think Mr. Barack Obama is one of the best speakers we have ever witnessed; this is what got him elected in the first place.

Some of us who follow politics predicted this type of conversation with the American people. WE knew that the over whelming number of petitions signed in the last several months could change the thought of our elected officials (and the ones trying to campaign for our vote.) The truth is that WE made the President say what he said tonight. With every signature we sign to say that we demand change, WE send a message to Washington.

WE didn't want a dirty pipeline running through over 1000 rivers that we use as drinking water. WE didn't want our government to have control of the content that we control on the internet. WE do not want huge corporations to have influence over our elected officials and WE don't want our government to be run by lobbyists.  WE would like to have a say in the entire process. This is why WE don't wait around to vote every other year (or the four years it takes to elect a President.)

WE have shown this country that WE have a voice. WE know there is a risk with every roll of the dice but WE understand the chances we have in this game. This is why WE are stronger than all the media, the Democrats and he Republicans, and all the corporations that WE deem unfit to control our lives.

WE are the United States of America so let’s make it happen.

TEASER ALERT: The first chapter of my novel

Chapter One

                   

          A horrible nightmare awakes me; the one where you arise falling to your untimely death, right before you take one last gasp of stale air. My mouth is  dry; yearning for one drop of saliva, like a drifter in a desert; searching for an oasis. There is not an ounce of life left in my throat; my head throbs; I  feel it get heavier and heavier with every heart beat. Shivering like I used to as a kid when  terrible migraine headaches would punish me. I would get fevers,  and  sweat profusely even though my body was cold and shaky from the chills. I would sit in my dark, quiet, room for hours waiting for it to all go away.

          This room is bright and loud however. My eyes won’t open yet but the sun was trying to ease its way through; the cars honk outside and Puerto Rican music plays; the sheets are made of some strange fabric-I can’t tell- but I know this is not my bed. I attempt to open my eyes again, but the light is too intense. I feel around, but realize my right arm is numb from own my weight on it for hours. My left hand is clenched on  my sweaty stomach. I can tell that the sheets are silk now, but feel like deep satin, because of the dampness that they’ve accumulated. I inch my hand slowly in front of me and come across a body with soft and dry skin. It’s a woman; I know because  of her  curvy hips, but nothing is clear to me.

          I can’t remember anything, and I don’t know where the hell I am. The one, two, three thumps of the drums  grow louder; small children laugh and talk in a mixture of Spanish and English on the vibrant streets surrounding us. Using my left arm as a visor I try to force myself to see. Through the burning pain I  notice a large aluminum window in front of me; slightly ajar with the Venetian-blinds half way down.  The way the light is shining I can tell it must be around noon; the sun rested at its highest point, but that means  absolutely nothing to me now. I can see the woman, as she lays with her back towards me. She has long, dark, curly hair and a tattoo of a black widow on her boney left shoulder; a crimson tear replaces the spider‘s usual body mark. Her skin is dark like caramel candy and I can smell her fruity perfume . She is naked and so am I.

          Suddenly, I feel the bed shake from behind me and hope that my mysterious new friend has a pet; maybe a cat  begging for its breakfast . There is definitely something lying on the other side with us. My nerves are functioning better, and I make a move to slowly turn around, only to notice someone else’s delicate hand rested upon my bloodless frame. She has bright, red nail polish and several gothic- style rings on her slightly chubby fingers; her body is heavier-set; she also has the same black widow sketched into her wrist. 

          I try to find clues in this anonymous jungle of a bedroom . The walls are painted pale-yellow and a framed picture of the Virgin Mary stares at me from the center of the room; her holy pupils interrogate me like my mother‘s used to when she knew I was up to no good. Rosary beads hang from the door knob that look as if it leads to a bathroom. I am reminded of my thirst, and ache for the water I imagine running from a gleaming faucet.  The two stale bodies don’t budge at all even as I try to find my way out of here. I lack any sort of energy, but  need to get out of this black hole of a living space. . 

          Finally, as if pulled by a spirit, I jump onto my bare feet. However, way too much movement has betaken me and I feel dizzy.  As  my head spins , a full collage of the room emerges: cheap Catholic relics, several liquor bottles, an array of panties, a plethora of drugs,  crucifixes and crosses, used sex toys, dirty clothes, push up bras, KY Jelly, and assorted school books. Who are these filthy girls that I share this morning with? I look back at them; almost identical with their light-brown, gorgeous, naked bodies; both barely breathing, but alive .  There’s a used  condom next to them; at least I know was safe in my unconscious state. Wasn’t I?  The thought makes me sick.

          Rushing towards the toilet, trying to hold it in, the taste rushes to my tongue, and as I fall to my knees, a little part of last night splashes into the water: tequila, beer, and  maybe something else. I puke again and taste the Novocain- like flavor of the infamous  flour; definitely cocaine. The on-slaught feels like it will never end, and I look up to see the twinkling of stars that blister in the air, as the dust gleams within the glare. The bathroom is just as bad, if not worse, than the bedroom. It smells like a port-a-potty and looks as if it hasn’t been cleaned in 6 months or maybe longer. I need to get out of here before the girls get up but I don’t know where anything is; my clothes, my phone, my wallet are all missing.

          I poke my head out the glass paneled door- painted over with a tacky orange acrylic- to see if anything is discernible. My plaid boxers are on the antique dresser next to an Arabic, huca-bong and my straight-legged khaki pants are at the end of the bed. My white Hanes undershirt is on the window sill and my button up Calvin Klein pastel dress- shirt is on the old wooden floor next to my shiny tan shoes and a small, pink, vibrator. The slimmer woman starts to become restless so I hide my head back inside; peeking back in, it appears that she has only made an adjustment. Her  small perky breasts show themselves to me; there is blood stain on her six-pack stomach; her face hidden by the thick pillow. Rearing my body back into the bathroom, I catch a glance of my self in the mirror. My lip is busted,  and my right eye bruised; my short black hair is scantly; my tone physique is battered . Now that its evident that I’m injured, my mouth stings like alcohol on a gun shot wound. 

          Taking a deep breath, and making a quiet attempt to grab all my clothes; trying to take the route of what goes on first: underwear, pants, undershirt, shirt, and…?  Socks! I can’t find mine so I grab a pair of purple, cotton, ankle socks with fluffy balls on them . One of the girls begins to wake up  as I’m putting on my shoe, one foot up, hopping with the other out the bedroom door. She sees me as I run into the hall way , right through their messy apartment, into an unfamiliar building, through the front door,  down two flights of stairs, past the faces of Latin tenants who look at me as if they’ve never seen a white boy in their corridors  before.  As I slam through the EXIT door, my ankle gets stuck on a loose nail and the back of ankle begins to bleed. 

          Outside, the sun is ten times worse.  It’s close to autumn but it must be the hottest day of the year so far. It’s Saturday-I think-but the unfamiliar streets are strangely empty. I’ve never been in this  colorful of a neighborhood, but it’s not where a well-suited guy like me would normally hang . The bodega I pass sells rice, beans, and plantains; a banner for a reggae-ton concert wreaks with tackiness; the clerk gives me a dirty look. At the corner, the street signs say 109^th Street and Third Avenue. That’s Spanish Harlem from what I can remember. The passer-bys stare at me and then I realize that my shoe is still in my hand; my feminine socks for all to see. What time is it? I reach into my pockets only to find a small switch blade and a dollar-fifty; my Gucci wallet and Blackberry phone are both gone; a fear rages inside me.

          The questions continue to tackle my wounded brain; Were these whores?? What did the black widows stand for? Prostitutes sometimes have similar tattoos to show who their pimp is; sometimes gangs have a sign that everyone must have; either way is trouble. I’ve never walked around  with any sort of weapon and now I own a pocket-knife with the initials T.J.S. in red  ink drawn on the side. I check to see if it works, the blade flies out just as a little boy passes me on the sidewalk. He sees it and immediately runs and screams to his friend; all I can see is his backwards Yankees hat slowly disappear. Its time to get out of this neighborhood.

          My body continues to feel nauseous as I search for the nearest subway. Lexington avenue must be around here so I can catch a Six train downtown, and a bus back home. There’s a newsstand up ahead so I try to figure out what time it is. The New York Post headline reads: STOCK MARKETS CRASH. After further glance, the date catches my eye. Its Wednesday, September 14^th,,2008, and I’m supposed to be at work giving my biggest presentation ever, and  it is now that I realize that I am fucked! Suddenly I hear a voice scream my name, “Sammy!” It’s the bigger girl  from the apartment wearing nothing but a towel and flip flops. She’s found me and there’s no where to hide; I make my way west, and she decides not to make an effort She screams my name again, and I now remember how this all started; how I met God and the Devil in the violent night; and how I decided to change the rest of my life in one single evening. New York City will never seem the same to me.

Apathy: The Bad Habit to Quit in the New Year

The year 2011 came and went, with many absurdities, and gave birth to 2012. Faced with a presidential election, the end of the world, and on-going debt crisis, we struggle to believe that the next 365 days will get any less crazy. We can only hope and pray that this year will bring us to some sort of resolution. But like many of the goals we make in January, we soon realize that they are easier to break than hold true to.

In the first six days of 2012 we have not seen much change in the "psycho" factor that we have grown accustomed to. Politicians are still playing politics, and the apathetic are still being apathetic; not considering the fact that their voices could actually make the difference. We still hold the Kardashians on a higher level than we hold ourselves, and until that changes, we can know certainly that we will still have our Thanksgiving dinner at the kids table. The grown-ups on the other side of the room are deciding for you where their going to spend your money, and just so you know, its not where you would fork-over your allowance.

We all sit here on our sides and judge what our leaders are doing. We say, "Barack Obama is killing this country" or "The Republicans are a bunch of phoneys", when we should be telling ourselves, " I have the power to make something happen in the United States." You should never let anyone tell you that your opinions are irrelevant. There is, in fact, a legitimate reason for government. It is for the people to decide when businesses or organizations are screwing over the nation. That's when our elected leaders are supposed to come in and take some sort of action. The sad part about today's officials, is that they work on the same side as the one's we are trying to protect ourselves from.

I honestly can not tell you what my goals  for this upcoming twelve months. Just the thought of it is a little bit overwhelming. Personally, I can say that I have an amazing woman who I am going to marry in June, and an album that I will be working on until then. However, I'm not worried about me. I'm trying to look out for you. We need to take care of ourselves but we also need to be concerned with everyone who surrounds us. You never bite the hand that feeds you and I'm hoping you wouldn't serve the one's you feed with poison.

Some say that 2012 will mark the end of the world based on a Mayan calendar that was created millenniums ago. I'd like to think that this is a start of something new. We are finally starting to open our eyes, and we do understand that we are the greatest threat to this Earth.  And, just like our family, whom you can love or hate, we still need to look out for each other.