East Boogie

Here's a little send up to where I'm from (East St Louis, Il). You gotta represent. This list was started by Qwonny (1-23) that added to by Brad Reed (24-31) then by me (32-44).

"This is for the true E.Saint Louisans." Qwonthafia Cofield

You're know you're from East St. Louis if ................................................................

1. You eat a "st. paul" sandwich from the "rice house"

1a. If you call a chinese restaurant the "rice house"

2. You used to got the skating rink [Skate King]

3. You have been to an East side game and they were fighting players from Cahokia

4.You've had some chicken wings from the rice house.

5. You used to go to Club 64 before the Mono and Casino

6. You have caught the metro link from the JJK or Washington Park station to go to the St. Claim mall

7. You have bought shoes or clothes from Hoods Lot

8. You remember when Bill Clinton came and talked in front of Walgreens

9. You have been at McDonals late night, and you were in line for about an hour

10. You visited E. Saitn recently and said about time it is starting to look like something

11. You have caught the #1 State Street bus of the #4 Alta Sita bus

12. You are tired of the Rio getting burned down

13. You used to go to Lincoln Park every Sunday

14. You used to hang out at Schnuck's parking lot on the weekend

15. You used to go to Fair St. Louis on the landing on the Fourth

16. You have been to Six Flags with Ms. Hopkins from Clark

17. You remember when Yvette Young was Lansdowne Middle School

18. Somebody you knew have been killed because of jealousy and project conflict

19. Somebody you know has been in a Nelly or Chingy video

20. You think people from Washington Park are too hood.

21. You have witnessed many St. Louis Jimmies get whooped in the club

22. You know that E. Saint Louis is in Illinois and St. Louis is in Missouri

23. You have to keep defending your town because of haters

24. You knew the East Side vs Lincoln games were the social events of the year.

25. You knew that the prison used to Assumption High School

26. Your main source of news was the Monitor

27. If you got the hookup on your license from Art May

28. If you've ever had Nero's pizza

29. You've had to explain to someone what a snoot (from Sandy's BBQ) was

30. You knew damn well not to be in Belleville or Granite City [or Cahokia] after dark

31. You were a regular in the Pink Slip

32. You know to slow down on St. Clair before you go under the train tracks cause the po-po be waiting there with your speeding ticket.

33. You have friends/family in prison (not county)

34. You've ever personally seen a dead body on the street that wasn't on TV

35. You know someone that was murdered.

36. You know people who are way smarter than you that just didn't quite make it out of the hood

37. If you go to the Illusion for the shrimp

38. If you know what Red Fox is

39. If you grew up on Pertle's Ice Cream (best ice cream eva!)

40. If you still think Dunbar is the best elementary school eva!

41. If you're still a little sad that Lincoln isn't a highschool anymore because you would never be a fricking Flyer as long as you fricking live.

42. If everytime you go home, someone else you grew up with is dead.

43. If you remember when the levies broke.

44. If you know that Crab Rangoon has the cream cheese and wontons have meat (what is the rest of the nation smoking on this one)

45. You think Young's on 23rd St has the best chinese food on the planet.

46. You know who Boss Man is

47. If (even half asleep) you can hear gunshots and tell how far away the person who is shooting is.

48. If you don't think selling drugs a big deal

49. You think everyone that went to Crossroads is kind of snooty

50. You think there is absolutely nothing wrong with being from East St Louis


I saw NERD Saturday and it was awesome!!!! Well, standing out in the cold and rain at UC Riverside for 3 hours with a bunch entitled (surprisingly overweight) and assimilated teenagers wasn't exactly my idea of fun, but as soon as Pharrell and Shae and some unidentified black man who definitely wasn't Chad step on stage, jumping up and down screaming Anti-Matter, it was all to the goody-good. This is my 3rd time seeing them and they just keep getting better and better. The first time I saw them in St. Louis at an Ampitheater, Pharrell stage dived without a shirt. Nice. The second time I saw them in Chicago at the Riveria, the Black Eyed Peas opened and rocked it, and they came on and rocked it even harder like BOOYAH! We got to meet them after the show (3 black girls in a sea of Asians) and he asked me if I wanted a hug. Is he for real for real? Pharrell for real? Hells' yeah if you're offering. And he gave me and my friend's hugs which he did not do for anyone else. This last time in Riverside (about an hour outside of L.A.) He was pulling chicks on stage, jumping around and singing on key like real performers are won't to do. A great time was had by all.

Chris Brown Snaps and Slaps a Bitch? That Ain't Right.

Can't a lady give her man an STD without receiving a beatdown. Well, I guess not. We'll never really know why Chris Brown decided to dot Rhianna's eye, but that ain't right. He's going to pay for it, too - through lost endorsements, revenue, respect ... jail time. Chris Brown is not a rapper or an actor (Wesley Snipes) or an athelete (Dennis Rodman / David Justice). Will is career survive this? And so what Rhi Rhi gave you the clap. You was probably cheating on her anyways. And just because you used condoms and apparently she didn't that one odd time she decided to get back at you doesn't mean you get to pull an Ike Turner. That ain't right. I'm betting you just made a whole lotta music heavy weights mad, not too mention some rude boys. You better hope her cousins don't find your ass. I don't see anyone speaking up to be on your side on this one cuz. That shit just ain't right.

I Loved All My Hoes

My friend told me that I have a habit of sleeping with my friends. That's not entirely true! I only slept with the ones that would have me. For the record, there is only one that wouldn't and even he tried to resend that offer. But alas, IT IS TOO LATE!! That boat has sailed! On to greener pastures and the like. When I go off to marry Pharrell and have little Williams babies and he produces the songs I write, my first will be about how much I loved ALL my hoes. That's right. I loved all of them. That bowlegged, 1st grade, puppy love, see you in the supermarket, longed for you from afar muther, yeah, damn right I loved him. That move to Atlanta and get a gold tooth, run up your mother's long distance phone bill late night phone sex, show up unannounced at Christmas mofo, yeah, I loved him. That knuckle head unfocused loser that I corrupted in heathen delights that tore my heart out and put it in a blender that flunked out of U of I because class interrupted with his internet porn schedule, yup I loved him too. That sophomore I molested and abused and led on and left lying alone in my bed when I wandered off into the hallway bored after 5 minutes, naw I didn't love him (but I feel bad ... way ... way down deep). That big football playing mutherfucka that followed me around like a puppy dog and fucked everything that moved and talked with that country twang and somehow always seemed to be on an impromptu road trip, yep I loved him too. That smooth faced pretty boy Arion called Gnat King Cole (Why? LMFAO, nunya fucking business) that taught me the round and round, I loved him too. That blue eyed devil with the chip on his shoulder that gave me that gift I quickly returned, yep, I loved him too. That life altering mofo that got under my skin and into my head and pissed on my soul and turned me out, yeah, I loved that bastard, too. That colleague, that commiserating, philosophizing genius cheating sense of wonder, starer into your essence cuckold, yeah, I loved him too. That road dog, ace boon coon, laugh a minute, same wave length sarcastic asshole intellectual reformed drug dealer twin, yeah, I loved and truly miss him. That gorgeous, great kisser, what kind of underwear you got on, big secret having, everyone instantly falls in love with him mofo, yeah, I still love him. That Latino, let me touch your boobies, drool from across the room G.I. Joe mofo, yeah, I love him. That tall drink of cornfed Kansas water that drunkenly peed on all my DVDs thinking he was in the bathroom, that slow stroking mofo, yeah, I loved him too. That half black, half Korean mofo that only dated Korean chicks until I got my hands on him, I loved that muther to death all night long. That chocolate gigolo that was TOO good in bed and called out orders like a football coach and flipped and turned and drilled you like an experienced oil rigging ballroom dancer, sure, I gave him some love, too. That all state track star that spread them rumors about how I ride you into the sunset, yep I loved him too - well as much as you can love someone you want to shank to death. I loves me all my hoes. Don't lets nobodies tells ya different. Word to your mummyfucker.

Follow the Leader

Janie always reeks of Marlboro Ultra Lights and juicy fruit. Pirouetting through the hustle of people in the lobby like they’re cars on the freeway, she comes to the bank of mailboxes, kisses her fist to the one marked J. Ascher, enticing it to open. One … two … three hits and it pops ajar – the thighs of an anxious virgin. She licks her bloodied busted knuckle and smiles.

Help me to the door deary shit breath Delores Kravitz from 4B whispered as she passed all sugary politeness and poison apple, and Janice was off to usher the craggedy old hag to the revolving wheel of death. Digging for gold in her delicate nostrils, Janie finds the appropriate trinket for the occasion and ceremoniously adorns it on the nappy sweater of the unsuspecting Delores. Loading her into a stall, Janie pushes the door forward enough to trap her halfway in the building and halfway out and backs away aLL chuckles and sinister delight.

Halitosis Delores stands there for a minute with all her bags ready to go. She turns around and starts tapping on the door like a Jehovah witness when she realizes her neighbor left her there to starve. Janie pop locks her way back to the door-challenged woman – this … all a part of her plan.

She gets in the adjoining cell, pauses to crack her knuckles and starts pushing the door like a frenzied older sibling trying to get their little brother to fly off the merry-go-round. Delores ejects onto the street all cartwheels and flowery bloomers. Janie meets her on the street with fervor. Waving her arms in the air and jumping up and down in her orange Tuned Air Nikes like this should have been the best time of doo-doo breath Kravitz’ life.

Delores grimaces in her face like she has just escaped a carnival ride gone wrong and is trying to politely decline a second go round. She gives Janie a twenty to never be in the same vicinity as her ever again. Janie snatches the twenty, French kisses the woman on the cheek and skulks back into the lobby, head down and hands in pocket like she’s sane after all.

She’s passing me by before I can pretend I wasn’t laughing. Standing in the shadows like a pedophile, I say a little prayer of thanks to have caught a whiff of her shower clean Degree as she discos to the elevator door. Adorned in low-slung khakis with tattered cuffs and an orange sleeveless tee that says Smell the Magic, she digs her drawers out of her ass and karate kicks the elevator button. She doesn’t even glance in my direction as I enter after her not uttering a sound.

I stand in the corner like a kid in time out and she pushes the button for my floor before pushing her own. She knows where I belong. My naked feet twist on the floor as my nipples get hard from the air conditioning. My mind wanders to times of her mouth being the reason my everything got hard. She pops her gum as the mechanical elevator whore tells me it’s the sixth floor. I slink toward my apartment like a dog who’s been caught diddling on the carpet. She fingers the phoenix dragon tattoo on her left deltoid as the doors close.

I rub my bare belly and close the door. I slide to the floor realizing my anger is hardening my erection. I beat off like a guilty thirteen-year-old, like a death row inmate thinking of his mother. The gut-wrenching hysteria seizes my abs before the tears come. I lie on the floor like a toddler after a spanking, watching the little TV across the way. My direct feed into the seventh floor. My only link to her world.

She grabs her billfold off the end table by the door. The end table that took me two months to carve and perfect only for her to tell me it was ugly. She hooks her wallet to her belt loop via a long chain. It’s only after she grabs her navy hooded zippered sweat jacket that I realize she’s leaving.

I pop off the floor like someone who forgot to cash a winning lottery ticket. I wipe my cum on a palm frond and scramble for my boots and a shirt. My jeans rip on the replacement end table she sat on my stoop as a mock peace offering. I knock the piece of shit table to the ground. I see her stare at the floor on my TV screen. She grabs a book bag from her collection and runs to the elevator. I throw some Altoids in my briefs, grab my leather jacket and motorcycle helmet and run out, but it’s too late. She’s already passed my floor.

I run down the stairs and bust out onto the street. I see her rounding the corner. I head to my bike to discover my tires are slashed. That bitch! I sprint down the street after her. I turn the corner all piss, vinegar and profanity. I see her flirting with a cop and I stop in my tracks. She’s all rubbing his face and flashing pearly whites. He’s probably new on the beat because he’s fingering his gun like it’s his partner’s dick.

I prop my flexing ass against the brick wall and pull out a pack of Camels. Three cigarettes and a session of people watching later, I look up and she’s gone. I stalk down the street, rubbing one set of fingers against the wall, clinching my second to last cigarette like its gold with the other set. Ten steps later she’s ten feet in front of me coming out to the liquor store with a box full of liquor bottles and an overstuffed JanSport. She walks down the street handing out pints of Crown Royal and Hennessey to every bum she passes like she’s Santy Claws. I take a bitter last drag of my cancer stick and smile.

Five blocks later, she drops the half full box on the steps of St. Vincent. Alcoholics Anonymous screams on the marquee. A blonde lady trips on the box on her way out. She finds herself chest first in Seagram’s gin and cognac. Her thought processes are written all over her face. It doesn’t matter if she’s eight years sober or eight days. She’s gonna sneak a drink.

Janie is already crossing the street not bothering to look both ways like somebody should have taught her. A cab almost hit her and the driver honks the horn at her like she should care. She flips them off and the driver gets out of the car. She hears the door slam and turns around. A what the fuck are you going to do little man look is smeared all over her face. He gets back in the car.

She backs away to the sidewalk, watching me stand in the middle of the street. Her long dark curls dance in a breeze only she feels. The evening sun frames her eyes like the mask of Zorro. She stares at me in annoyance. She stares at me in indifference. She stares at me like she didn’t know I was there. She turns around and runs like a spy trying to evade capture. I run after her like a dog chasing the car of his owner, like a kid who doesn’t want to be left behind. She runs into Morty’s Jesuit Hospital. I arrive in the elevator bank in time to see the doors closing, framing her flipped bird.

I watch what floor the elevator stops on and head to that floor. The tenth floor turns out to be the lung cancer ward. Two chatty Cathy nurses head my way and I dart in the first unlocked door. Dr. Seymour Fitztakuffs is cranked back in his desk chair sawing logs. His hand has been under his law library lamp so long it’s turning red. I hang my leather jacket on his coat rack and slip his lab coat over my You’re not my mother … quit fucking up my life T-shirt. I put his stethoscope on my ears and head out.

I creep into the ICU with a chart I snatched off some stiff’s bed in the hall. All the curtains are drawn back and all of the patients are standing in the middle of the room, circling Janie like sharks. She’s got an air mask on taking hits of oxygen. She opens her backpack and drops it to the floor. All brands of cigarettes tumble out and the patients scramble to obtain their specific brand. Janie crawls on the nearest bed, lies back as if in post coital bliss and inhales deeply.
A brunette bombshell with porn star hooters tugs on my sleeve. “That’s sick,” she says wheezing from Emphysema, speaking of the spectacle of patients.

“Sure,” I say into her breasts.

“They give me two weeks,” she utters in a raspy whisper, placing my hand on her chest.

“I may not have that long,” I say.

“That’s a shame,” she says dragging her oxygen tank and me into the handicap bathroom. She ruffs me up against the wall, stealing harsh kisses. She pushes me onto the toilet and I almost fall in. She drops to her knees. She fingers my nametag with one hand while fingering my crotch with the other. “You’re not Dr. Fitztakuffs,” she says squeezing my crotch tighter in her hand. “I know him.” She puts her air tube on me. I inhale and my eyes roll in my head. “Nice, huh.” I nod in ecstatic agreement.

She proceeds to do the only interesting business to be done on your knees. “Mint,” she giggles hoarsely after her first effort at deep-throating. I pull up my shirt and place the stethoscope on my chest, my heart screams to escape. I rub her head, put the stethoscope to her cheek, lean back on the cool porcelain and try to live in the moment.

I’m just about ready to blow when Janie opens the door laughing at some joke I never heard with an empty water gun in her hand. She takes in the scene like a FBI agent weary of the job. She slams the door. Porn star is too engrossed in the job. She’s still busy bobbing and weaving like a pro when Janie returns with a loaded water pistol and douses my face. I only have to lick my lips once to realize it’s urine.

I knock two-weeks girl to the floor while blowing my load. It must have looked like a porn version of the Matrix. I run after her, pants around my ankles, wang knocking around my navel like a dog with its head out the window. The death row inmates are too busy getting their nicotine fix to applaud me on my ample member. I pick up my pants and my pride and run to the elevator. I hit the button and the elevator doors pop open. I head to the stairs.

She is taking the stairs flights at a time like a trapeze carnie whore. I’m taking the stairs five at a time; its my twenty-fifth step and my lungs are an inferno. She’s out the ground floor door and out on the street. I burst into the night right into a full frontal assault. “Ahhhhhhhhh,” she primal screams while spritzing me with pee. She spins dead on into rush hour traffic.

She scales a beamer with her orange battery powered piss pistol, waving it above her head like a talisman. She’s jumping up and down on the sunroof of a Jag, when I run out into the street screaming, “Wait!”

Gears shift like a tank, Deftones blare in hairy ear lobes, sweaty biceps and work gloves grip a state owned steering wheel. Tires screech and my crumpled body clears the truck like an Olympic high jumper before kissing the asphalt and emitting a sigh of defeat. Refuse rains down on me like comets – cool and wet. “He’s a doctor,” somebody screams. She hitches a ride on the back of a bread truck never even looking back or uttering a sound. She rides down Broadway eating a blueberry bagel as my eyes close to the smells of Marlboros and juicy fruit, garbage and blood.

Know Your Audience

Okay, I talked recently about knowing who you're telling a joke to will be a factor in determining if its funny.  Well, I should follow my own fucking advice.  Okay, for those of you that read my blog entry "Anonymity ... Fuck it! I can't spell!" already see where this is headed.  For those of you that haven't, go back a week.  Anyway, I only verbally told that story to one person (Qiana).  She immediately started laughing like I knew she would because "...and then he whipped his cock out"  is fucking hilarious. Now, I made the mistake of telling this same story to a new friend of mine who did not think this story was hilarious and threatened to stop hanging out with me socially because "weird shit" would happen around me.  Now you have to mind two things.  

1.  This crazy penis story happened at a joint SHE (AKA new friend) took me to, though she was not there during this incident.  

2. She laughed hysterically when I told her the T.I. big bush story.  Like laughing hard!  She had me laughing so hard I nearly asphyxiated.  Matter of fact, I called her today and she answered the phone laughing hysterically because I sent her a link to the blog and she caught the visual and my caption and her first sentence to me was "When I think of you, all I think of is balls."  And we cracked up again.  So, it only stands to reason that someone who thinks T.I. giving away sweaty ball t-shirts complete with serial numbered pubic hairs would find a story where the punch line is "and then he pulled his cock out" a tad bit funny.  But alas, she did not.  Now, she made fun of me and we laughed heartily, but I saw it in her eyes that she was afeared.  It's one thing to see a picture of T.I.'s monster bush.  It's another thing all together to be front row center and smell the musk of sex and genitals.  Well, I guess you either live life on the sidelines or on the stage.  We all know where I like to be.