The Bone Loves Anesthesia!

The Bone has been absent recently! Sorry about that.

You know what The Bone loves? Doctors and nurses. I love me some hospital, that's for sure. When I was getting injections into my neck for a slipped disc, I got to know the folks so well they would shoot me up only halfway with the Propofol and let me zone out for a few minutes before giving me the rest. I sure enjoyed those three or four minutes of bliss.

So, I've always been interested in medical things, and I love the attention I get in the hospital. But there's a dark side as well. Once I caught my doctor (my regular, go-to doc) checking the internet for information about some symptoms I had. The internet! The same place you get your free Boning!

Also, due to an incident in my formative years, I'm a bit interested in getting dosed. The idea of ingesting something and going on an unplanned adventure is appealing, even though the genesis of my screwed up wants was terrible indeed. And just how much blood does a baby hold? 270ml, according to the internet. That's about 9 shots of tequila if the person pouring is a bit heavy. So, if you can handle 9.2 shots of tequila, you could technically vampire to death an innocent little baby. Congrats!

Anywho, here's a free poem. This will hurt me more than it will hurt you:

Oh, yeah! I just remembered this is an ekphrastic poem, from Vic Reynolds' "Becoming Light" artwork. His website is down, but he was an art teacher at Wayne State College and one of my favorite profs, even though I never took a class with him.

Becoming Light

Your doctor wants to do something

to you.

He wants to see just

         how

            much

    blood

your baby has inside her.

He has the most savage of ideas.

None more noble than

tinkering with your

synapses.

He wants to see if you can become

                     meat.

He’s keeping a chart on you beside your bed.

He claps his hands when you react

a certain way

         from

    the medicine

he gives you.

He has vials of it,

some smoking, all colored in bright steaming

rainbows.

He says they will

deliver you.

When the needle goes in and you are startled,

he scribbles in notebooks and binders.

He would like you to become what he

              interprets

              as stable.

He wants you to know that although you are nervous,

it was never

your

fault.  He can make it

go away

if you let him.  And you have to,

because

He’s a doctor.

And he’s becoming,

he’s becoming immortal –

he’s becoming giddy;

and he’s becoming light

as you are becoming

nothing

but  whispers

and

vapor.

Watermelon, Guns, KFC, Oh my!!

I’m a Nigger

My skin is darker than most,

and because of this fact

I cut my melon eating in public

in half.  Although I enjoy collard

greens, I don’t grow them: I

buy them at the store.  Finding

condoms large enough is a

hassle for me.  I thank the

store clerk who is kind enough

to carry my electronics purchase

to the door for me, even though

he doesn’t hold it open when I leave.

And in my closet at night I chase

KFC with 40’s of Mickey’s and Colt .45’s.

Although I’ve never owned a gun,

old ladies assume I have one tucked under

my baggy stonewashed jeans.  I don’t wear

baggy stonewashed jeans, but I have been

known to wear a joint behind my left ear.  I’ve had

an Afro, braids and relaxed funky hair just

like the song.  And although that isn’t wrong,

I cut it off so I could be hired at a Web-

for-hire business.  I work with two Hispanics,

two whites, a nigger like me

And a New Yorker.

Being "black" is exhausting. Literally, it takes years off a persons' life. Do the research!

This poem is, in part, a reflection of that statement. Can you possibly understand how unsettling it can be to eat certain foods in public? Like my son, Jake, said in a poem once, "Fried chicken is the shit!" and it is. But sometimes I feel like a caricature eating it. So, I start this poem that way, along with having some fun poking at the perceived economics of poor black folk. Then...the penis.

My penis has been fetishized in the past. It started in 2nd or 3rd grade, with an unnecessary "examination", endured through a situation where a couple friends and I peed on the school and everyone wanted to see it (we weren't taking showers yet at school), and culminated with an unfortunate date I went on through OK Cupid (don't judge!). When I was in grade school, everyone thought I could dunk a basketball. It was a rumor I nurtured until it was proven I couldn't (I didn't know karate, either, and wasn't a ninja). If I knew then what I know today, I would've used that fetishization to get a few more dates.

One day, while shopping at Best Buy in Omaha, Nebraska, I bought a stereo. I was escorted from the register to the door, and the guy didn't hold it for me (this was back in the day when BB didn't have auto doors in Omaha). I had to wonder...

Then I poke fun at guns and malt liquor. I have seriously had folks roll up their car window when I pulled up beside them. This would've been around 1993-4, but I hear things haven't changed much.

About hair. Throughout the years, I've done fun things with my hair. Why? Well, you can't really say much about a black person's hair--it's verboten. So, I've had fun with it (and pot)!

And after graduation, I moved to San Antonio, TX. I found great employment at BusinessWire, a company that did (does?) rapid-release earnings statements over the internet (this was newish at the time). I found it very odd this young black kid was working in a downtown skyscraper. I enjoyed the diversity there, but not so much the person from New York. She was...different, unsettling. So, I poked fun at her (you may notice a shout out to Pace Picante Sauce in this).

So, that's the bone for today--and now it's inside you. Where it can do the most good, where you can feel its smooth exterior and wonder at the marrow inside. Maybe a dog can find it.

watermelon/gun pic courtesy of https://gunstreamer.com/watch/45-auto-vs-357-magnum-in-full-sized-handguns-episode-11-watermelon-test_SkZYTHhDOmku2VN.html

JD Green Rocks the FunkyJazz, Yo!

Last month, I was freaking out. Pretty hard, yo. You see, as a recent discoverer of my own race, I needed suggestions for some good, greasy FunkyJazz. Now, what is FunkyJazz you ask? Well, I'm not sure. But, I know The Brooklyn Jazz Essentials are FunkyJazz. They were reccomended by a, er...fellow Cave Canem Fellow. And, they were supremely Funky and Jazzy. But I was still on the lookout. Then Thelonious Monk was suggested, and that scene rocked my world as well. And then...

On Facebook I found out a CC Fellow JD Green (http://jdgreensoul.com/) had just released her new FunkyJazz album, "diurnal movements". I skipped to Amazon and downloaded it, and, um...wow. Although not greasy at all (in fact, it kinda sounds like Vegitarian Jazz -- light on the grease, heavy on the healthy on the heart) it sounded so good I added "diurnal movements" to my playlist, which includes BJE and Thelonious among other classics.

The first thing I noticed about this album is how clean it sounds. It's like JD is singing right into my ear herself. It's very uncluttered music, which I really appreciate.

The second thing I noticed was the song Funky Soul. Now, what I was looking for was FunkyJazz, but hey. Beggars can't be choosers, and when music is this good (and it's just the "interlude") it's like not even having to make a choice. I used to listen exclusively to Tool, A Perfect Circle and the like. Now, instead of dark Cerberus-style music, my home is filled with love and light. My sons are happier, and the wife is glad I'm listening to music that can both be meditated upon and the background of our, umm...lives. You know, cleaning, cooking and the like.

The best thing about this album is the lyrical quality of the lyrics, especially in the song Commute, which you, dear readers (all five of you) have GOT to listen to. Now, first off, it is a poem committed to music. But it's a really, really good poem, with some really, really fantastic music. I feel guilty listening to this song, because I'm a married man, and the hottness of voice makes me blush, especially when JD hits the nail on the head with the song's reference to old-fashioned candy. That brand of lyric really hits my God Module. Here's some lyrics (I hope the artist doesn't mind):

first kiss

From what I remember

it took some doing

we had to practice

I needed steps, directions

and your willingness

eased my smile.

Was it over the course of days?

Uh, unh, a week.

Each day, after school

your Auntie in the Probe ("Probe" may not be the right word, if not, my bad)

we in the kitchen

smiling but serious.

Ready for the lesson.

Yes. Ahem. Very sensual, very smooth, very I Want to Take Lessons Like These. JD makes old-fashioned candy the perfect metaphor for new love. This song (checking in at over 8 minutes) is reason enough to check out this awesome, awesome album. Do it for America, people. And thanks, JD, for working so hard that folks like me with no musical talent can enjoy some very, very fine FunkyJazz.

-- thebone