On Trial for a Murder He Died In

This past Saturday around 9 or 10pm
I watched Twitter closely
as I spotted the first tweet announcing
the jury in the Zimmerman trial had reached a verdict.
At the moment, I was playing a card game with my friend,
but I knew this moment in history was worth multitasking.

Minutes later the verdict was announced:
Zimmerman found innocent on all charges.
Acquitted.
I felt sick.
I understood from the proceedings of the trial
Zimmerman would not catch every charge thrown his way,
but not a single one?

My immediate rage was directed at the jury,
six white women who did not convict this man.
Then I realized what proof they had to go off of,
and aimed my disbelief towards the prosecution.
Could they not gather the necessary evidence
to send Zimmerman to prison?
Did such evidence ever exist?
What more could have been done?

All cylinders fired as I finally turned
to Zimmerman and his attorney Don West.
They smirked and laughed in the wake of their victory.
A tweeter mentioned, "You'd smile too if you just beat a murder case."
Albeit true, it doesn't make it any less disgusting.

Many people across various social media outlets
have mentioned that this is not a racial situation,
but that it is a failing of the justice system and process.

Believe or not, I spotted one person of color
not necessarily defending Zimmerman
but presenting his case in a light I found interesting,
and in fact almost fell for.
The gist of his argument goes as follows:

• We only know Zimmerman's side of the story, not Trayvon's.
• There was still cause for reasonable doubt for the jury (as far as motives are concerned).
• When faced with a situation involving a suspect perceived as dangerous at night and alone, most of us would have acted first before even allowing ourselves to be placed in danger. Strike first or lie flat, I suppose.

In the heat of my anger,
I allowed his points to cool me down.
It wasn't until the next morning
I began to debunk them.

• Rachel Jeantel, a witness in the trial, portrays Trayvon's side of the story, though secondhand.
• Zimmerman was told not to pursue. The purpose of a neighborhood watch program is to WATCH, not to take action. Zimmerman should have stood by and continued to watch Trayvon at the very most. Pursuing a possible suspect puts yourself in danger, a danger which Zimmerman obviously felt equipped for.
• With that in mind, Zimmerman pursued Trayvon ready for a violent confrontation before Trayvon displayed any violent tendencies. Zimmerman was prepared to strike first because he already viewed the kid he was following as a no-good hoodlum. 

As a whole, the verdict leaves me feeling unsafe.
While the trial was not a matter of color,
the crime without a doubt is.
Zimmerman, a large-enough white* man,
looked down on Trayvon, a black seventeen year old,
as suspicious for walking around a gated community with a hoodie on.
To me, it screams racial profiling.
Apparently there had been break-ins around the gated community,
but who's to say it was all by one criminal?
Who's to say the race of these home invaders?
Did Zimmerman have a description to go off of, to look out for?

The most vile part of the trial and media's take on the situation
is the criminalization of Trayvon Martin.
Pictures of him throwing up the middle finger and sporting gold grills are shown.
I'm almost positive those pictures were flown around last year
and it ended up being another kid who looked like Trayvon in the pictures,
but I may have my facts wrong on that one.
They attempted to bring up old charges such a theft on school grounds
- which were dropped - and suspensions he racked up in high school.
If these reports of Trayvon's past are true,
it does not matter.
Zimmerman did not know Trayvon personally.
He did not know his record.
There is no proof Trayvon ever tried to break into someone home in that neighborhood.
In any case, one with a criminal past does not a criminal forever make a person.

Back in April, I stopped blogging after the Boston Marathon bombing.
I had just spent a week in Boston and left the day before the bombing occurred.
I was in shock. I didn't know how to handle the situation.
The same week,
the gun regulation law requiring background checks was overturned.
There was one other piece of unbelievable news that week,
but my memory is failing to recall it.
The point being, I was scared.
Scared to the point of not knowing how to react.
And so I spent the next few months without writing.

After the verdict in the George Zimmerman case,
I was perhaps ten times as scared in comparison to the bombing.
The bombing was malicious and affected the country,
but it was an isolated incident.
The killing or imprisonment of an innocent black man or woman
is far too common and directed to the community at what seems like all times.

Realizing this is what turned my fear into rage, my rage into a seeking for justice.
As it happens, my yearn for justice reminded me why I wanted to become a writer.
My goal as a writer has always been to educate others of the struggles of the not-so-privileged, of those different from them. I see how important that goal is now. When we don't understand each other, people are convicted of crimes before they're  even made a suspect, people are persecuted for their beliefs, people are told they don't deserve the same rights or that they are an abomination.

I want to live in an America
where every citizen can
respect, understand, and love each other.
Judging from the verdict
of the Zimmerman case
- the mere fact such an event transpired -
I realize we are far from it.
But I still need to work towards it.
I hope you'll do the same
in your own way.
Word.



[pictures taken from Buzzfeed's photo coverage of the NYC Trayvon Martin march]
*edit - Zimmerman's father is white American and his mother is from Peru, making him "white Hispanic" or any other term you can call to mind. - 7/15/13, 5:17PM

Humpday: Do You Really Know Your Type?

Believe it or not, my dear friends (and associates), I've received a question from a reader via the Ask Me tab above.
Seeing as it falls into relationships and sex, why not discuss it on humpday?


Anonymous writes: "Is there anything wrong with repeatedly putting out what kind of girl/guy you're into? Why or why not?"


Is there anything wrong with saying
what demographic or features in a person
you find yourself especially attracted to? No.
Is there something wrong with
only responding to people who fit
that criteria like a puzzle piece? Yes.
Allow me to elaborate.

Let's say Claire is looking for
the classic tall, dark, and handsome fellow.
She finds it very alluring and desirable.
Her height is 5'11", 6' 2" in heels.
She's not gonna meet too many guys
taller her unless she's looking to scout ballers out the NCAA.
When a 5'7" man approaches Claire,
"No hobbits need apply,"
are the only words out her mouth.
Maybe she sees height as a sign of masculinity.
In which case, I would argue
if all men inherently possess
the same amount of masculinity by birth,
shorter men would logically
have more masculinity per square inch.
But that just sounds like we're talking about qualities of meat.
No person can decide what height they'll be,
not even with platform shoes or heels.
Claire might have just passed off on the match of her life,
or more immediately, the best sex in her young adult life.
Besides, doesn't she know that the best things
occasionally come in small adorable packages?

Quincy is a black man that lives his life like a Childish Gambino song:
Forget these white girls/I need some variation/Especially if she very Asian.
He's received flack from his parents,
asking why he doesn't just find a nice black girl
instead of "experimenting with all these other girls."
Quincy has dated his fair share of black girls,
and none of them seemed right for him,
cultural differences or something to that effect:
"Nigga, what the fuck is a Yu Yu Hakusho?"
But he's deadset on finding the perfect Far East girl
that will understand him and all his quirks
and fascinations with Chinese, Japanese, and Korean culture.
Obviously, an asian girl is not what he really wants,
but he's limited himself to them
because those are the only people he believes who share his interest.
A pity that Jessica, the latina three blocks from over,
will never find someone to enjoy Death Note with.

Those are probably the best examples I can give you.
If your type include facial features being a certain way,
no way around it at all,
I really don't know how to help you, you vain S.O.B.

Just think about it.
Do you really know who you're into?
Has seeking out that cooker cutter image been working out for you?
Or do you need to just go with the flow,
see who sparks your interest?
Sources say they've been surprised.
I wouldn't know myself;
I'm still out here casting wide nets over the city of Baltimore.
Word.

How Poetic: 2 Poems, Price of 1 Post

Music Shall Set You Free

Hypnotic,
the trumpet
blares
from the speakers

Mindsets
become fixed
upon
what perplexes them

Loose
from the
constructs
of mental blocks

Drumming
leading a
march
to what troubles

Clarinets
clearing the
way
for shining light

Truth
but a
guitar
string pluck away

Bass
plunging into
depths
known but unknown

There
your childhood
innocence
sits but shattered

The
cause staring
blankly
with dark eyes

Leading
the band
with
its sweet soprano.

__________________________

Economic Break-Up

A stranger in my house
is a woman I used to call my spouse
but she was a louse emotion-wise
whose demise is no fault but her own.
I could not condone her rampant ways
leaving me nightly to display abilities
on the dance floor leading to the possibility
of infidelity.

The mortgage is shared
and afford to bare without the place
is not a stance I care to take
while she refuses to go
and continues to shake
any scare I manage to produce.

Divorcees sharing a flat
turning all my up at bats to fouls
with any lady I convinced
doesn't hide her feelings beneath a cowl
and she reaping the benefits of being stuck
with me out of luck
because men do not give a single fuck
outside of the bedroom.


_______
Word.

Bar Review: NYC Gay Bars... and a NJ Bar, Too

Well, it seems like this month is all about new series.
I almost feel like a network executive
testing on pilot episodes on the masses.

If you remember two years back,
I challenged myself to visit a bar
not necessarily frequented by my Loyola students
in an effort to experience different ways to get drunk
...or different scenes and cultures in the community, that too.

This past weekend,
I had the pleasure of exploring four new watering holes.
With my knack for over-sharing via the internet,
I feel it my duty to let you guys in on the atmosphere
of these venues in the event you ever have the opportunity
to come across these swell places.


Thursday Night:

Rockbar - 185 Christopher St., NYC, NY

Venue Size: One-level hole in the wall bar
Special Event: Karaoke Night
Drink Special: N/A
Atmosphere: Dim lighting with Christmas-like lights strung along the walls and columns; one bar; limited tables with stools; mini-stage (not in use that night)
Locals: Greenwich Village gays and the ladies that love them of all ages
Time Spent There: 9PM-10:15PM
What I did there:
Having always walked pass this bar
during my random outings to the Pier on Christopher St.,
I decided to try it out since I had time on my hands.
I walked in solo and surveyed the area.
Seeing no immediate place for me to sit or stand,
I ducked into the bathroom to compose myself.
Reemerging, I headed to the bar and ordered
my standard, a Rum & Coke: $8 for a tall glass.
It was strong enough to sip for 30 minutes.

I inched towards a wall spot near the DJ booth
less than a yard away from the bathroom.
A tall, older black gentleman sashayed
across the room with a tip jar.
I'm not exactly sure why;
I tip bartenders myself.

The karaoke selection was massive,
drawing from an online database.
Singers chose top 40s, 90s R&B,
country, ballads, and the occasional slow jam
as they stood among the crowd and belted
instead of gracing the stage I soon presumed was for drag queens.
The quality of singing was mediocre to mind blowing.
These are gay men we're talking about here.

I ordered a second drink to calm my one-man jitters,
a Coors Light draft: $5.
I almost went up to the DJ booth to request a song.
I almost struck up a conversation with the gaggle of gays next to me.
However, liquid courage takes a while to grasp me.
By the last swallows of my beer,
the tall black queen with the tip jar
danced in my direction while making eye contact with me.
I acknowledged him with an "Oww, get it,"
before giving into awkwardness and fleeing the scene.

Overall, it was a nice place to waste an hour.
Definitely more of a group hangout.
3.5 out of 5.

Rogo's Bar & Grill - 734 Willow Ave, Hoboken, NJ

Venue Size: Two-floor establishment
Special Event: Thirsty Thursday
Drink Special: $12 pitchers, $5 rail drinks, $3 drafts
Atmosphere: Brightly lit; front bar with plenty of tables to the side; back room featuring billards, beer pong, and darts; multiple sport games on various screens; second level left unexplored
Locals: Mostly mixed crowd of white, black, and Hispanic men and women
Time Spent There: 11PM-12:15PM
What I did there:

Wanting to support a friend who works as a promoter
and see a few high school peeps,
I ventured out to Hoboken after my time on Christopher St.
There was a clear sports bar vibe to the place
as soon as I walked in the door.
Failing to immediately see anyone I knew,
I dove into the bathroom once again.

Before ordering a drink,
I walked to the back room and found the party.
I greeted the promoter as I noticed
beer pong and pool all ready in progress.
Hiphop and dance music blared from the speakers
as the DJ spun on his laptop.
I chatted with another friend or two
before attempting to get a drink at the bar.

Even with two bartenders,
the long bar and many patrons seemed too much for them to handle.
With people posted up all along the bar,
it took me about 7-8 minutes to get a drink
while I pretended to be interested in a basketball game.
Seeing the demand, I opted for a double Rum & Coke: $5.

Not knowing what else to say
or having anyone to play pool or beer pong with
- many of the people I knew were associates at best
and already with closer friends -
I held up the wall and laughed along
as one friend played darts with his lady friend.

Soon reaching the end of my drink
and beginning to feel like a creeper and a loner,
I attempted to order a second drink.
After two minutes with no clear sign of being seen soon,
I left the bar and walked back to the train station.
I needed to catch a connecting bus
before its service ended for the night anyway.

With a more steady group to hangout with,
it could have been a chill, drink heavy night.
3.75 out of 5.

[edit 4/9/13: apologies, to you all and Rogo's for the prior mistake in special prices; it has been corrected.]

Saturday Night:

On a whim, my older cousin called me just before 8PM,
"Get dressed; you're coming out with us."
 I knew not where I would be going,
but within two hours I found myself meeting
a very colorful group of straight people.


Pieces - 8 Christopher St., NYC, NY

Venue Size: Chic bar, slightly bigger than hole-in-wall
Special Event: N/A
Drink Special: N/A but cheap drinks
Atmosphere: One bar with few additional tables; pool table and mini-stage
Locals: 20s-30s gay men and the average New Yorker who loves a queer environment
Time Spent There: 10:45PM-12:05AM
What I did there:
My cousin's friend was my tour guide
on this magical night.
We entered Pieces, were I was assured cheap, strong drinks.
Airplane! the movie played on multiple screens with subtitles
as a hip-hop cover of Popular from the musical Wicked played.
This place immediately seemed like the place for me.
After checking my coat
and being handed a Rum & Coke,
I was not disappointed.
What looked like a single but tasted like a double was only $5.
I took my place among the group
and stared at the gay men dispersed about the bar.
It was by no means packed in the bar,
but it was full enough to seem like a good place to be.

A hipster-gay walked around with a tray of dollar shots.
I didn't purchase one,
but the girls who tired it didn't seem disappointed.
I ordered a second drink, hoping to loosen up
around the strange group around me.
As one guy talked to me about 90s rock bands,
I nodded along, watching him roll to cigarettes.
I was invited out to chat with them.
It was then that I thanked them for being
so welcoming and awesome to me.
The drinks were good; I felt myself loosen up.
I had them guess my sexual orientation.
Upon realizing of my queer nature
they seemed to like me even more,
though one girl seemed half disappointed.

We walked back in.
I continued my conversation with the guy about music
before having one of the girls try to introduce me to a guy.
Appreciation the gesture, I pointed out to her
that the guy was nearly pass out drunk.
She agreed and continued to talk to him
to allow me to dance with the other ladies of the group.
Before I could order another drink,
I learned we were on to the next venue.

Pieces is a good time.
I saw posters for drag shows.
4 out of 5.





Stonewall Inn - 53 Christopher St, NYC, NY

Venue Size: Two-floor club
Special Event: N/A
Drink Special: N/A
Atmosphere: 1st floor bar with tables, 2nd floor bar with dance floor
Locals: GAYS, in extra all caps.
Time Spent There: 12:20AM-1:30AM
What I did there:

Without given the chance to properly survey the 1st floor, I was dragged to the second floor by my gay bar tour guide and possible new fag hag.

I stopped off in the bathroom before hitting the dancefloor.

Upon my arrival, a stranger (female) came up to me.

We danced the night away for at least 5 minutes, if not more.

My tour guide found me again and 

dragged me to the bar to help loosen me up.

Rum & Coke: $8 for a tall glass.

She danced with me as well, almost forcefully. 

We danced the night away for even longer.

The gay guys there seemed diverse and good looking.

Unfortunately my liquid courage rarely works through flirting.

I continued to dance, forgoing a second drink:

a bit because of the price,

but mostly because I was having a good time without it.

Around 1:30, my cousin began to fall asleep.

The group decided it was time to go.

My cousin insisted that I stay with the group of 25-30 year olds,

but I knew I had to leave with her.

I'll never know what the 3rd bar 

could have had in stow for me that night.

I don't feel right rating this bar

since I experienced only a fraction of what it had to offer.

But for what it's worth: 3.75 out of 5.

Thus ends my first windup for bar reviews.

Let me know if you found them helpful

and if you have any bars that I should try out.

Word.

Friday Rush: Beyonce

The Friday Rush is another new segment I'm trying out.
I basically figure on Fridays folks are usually rushing
about preparing for their night out
or shutting the world out as they stay in.
In either case, I figured I could use Fridays
to quickly talk about popular fads or people.
In other words, this is my attempt at being trendy.

This week: Beyonce.
Listen, the queen of this pop/R&B ish
has been busy keeping her fans and haters alike
on the edge of their seats and tweets.
Besides, Wednesday, she and Jay-Z
celebrated their 5-year anniversary.
Since Jay-Z isn't doing much
but looking after his daughter and the Nets,
his wife reaps the benefits of praise this week.

Her HBO doc "Life is But a Dream"
gave everyone a look into her life
from recording to break downs
to her marriage to Blue Ivy,
whom all the girls and gurls [read: gays]
were happy to catch another glimpse of.
Add bonuses include:
1) hearing unreleased Beyonce tracks
2) hearing Beyonce curse and act the country Texas girl she is.

Bow Down/I Been On:
The song drew criticism,
many people believing Beyonce was becoming too cocky.
But may as add as an occasional Beyonce stan,
that MANY a rapper claim to be the best and/or
better than anyone else in the rap game
without so much as a receipt of their "superiority."
Beyonce was simply doing the same,
but with more credits to her name.
If you're the best and you know it,
there is no reason for you not to clap your hands.
My condolences to Keyshia Cole [a R&B recording artist with a dying fanbase]
after she attacked Mrs. Knowles-Carter on twitter for the track.
Since that week of the single's release,
Keyshia has been receiving hate-tweets and more
on par to the disdain many Beyonce fans have for Keri Hilson.
But this is all just "Black Twitter" going-ons.

Lastly, Grown Woman/Pepsi commercial:
On Wednesday, Beyonce released via her tumblr account
- yes, that she operates herself, a true blessing to her fans -
that at 9am Thursday a video would hit the interwaves.
Like a sheep, I woke up at 8:45am this next day,
groggy like any other non 9-to-5er waking up that early
for what would hopefully be a new single.
It was not.
It was a damn Pepsi commercial with a teaser track.
However, the teaser and commercial itself
more than appeased my annoyed spirit,
and I soon found myself replaying the video for 7 minutes.
Seeing Beyonce relive each of her singles
as she stared in a mirror...
it just entrances you somehow.
It's rumored that the full song, Grown Woman,
will be released this coming Monday,
but I'll believe when I'm alone in my room lip syncing along.

All this is leading up to her new album Mrs. Carter
and her worldwide tour, which will hit the states this summer.
Will I be in attendance?
No, I don't have hundreds of dollars to spend on a front row ticket
which is the only way I would want to experience a Beyonce concert.
Will I buy the album when it drops?
Well, it will definitely be in my iTunes the week it drops
one way or another.

Beyonce is out here getting her money
and stringing us along like dopy eyed pups.
Those who mind will call her out for it,
and those who don't will continue to
catch everlasting life from her.
Or you can fall somewhere in between,
that's cool, too.

In short, Beyonce is the diva the world deserves,
 and but not the one Destiny Child needs right now.
Word.

Double Chin

Alright, fine. I'll admit it.
I've gained some weight since graduation.
I will not disclose how much,
but yes it is on par (if not past) the freshmen 15.
There has to be some phenomenon called
the post-grad 30 or something right?
...crap, I said I wouldn't disclose.

For the most part, no one's made a big fuss about it.
That was until I returned back home for a week.
"You look bigger."
"Look at that round ol' face of yours."
"You getting fat, yo."
Yes, from the subtle to the flat out,
I expected comments on my weight.
It's only fair, they didn't really get the chance to
when I gained the freshmen 15.
I was still transitioning out of the
urban baggy clothes phrase into preppy-wear.

But girth aside, I really don't mind it.
As long as I can still dance my ass off,
I could weigh 300 pounds for all I care.
...okay, not really, but you get my point.

It's my face that bugs me.
That round face comment,
it's kinda true.
My cheeks poke out above
my sideburns as they reach my goatee.
But really, the worst part
is the slow formation of the dreaded...
DOUBLE CHIN. [lightning strikes]

There's something so demeaning about a double chin.
I suppose it's the true sign of overweight/obesity.
You can hide rolls in big clothes
or lumps under a veil of black,
but not even a turtleneck will hide
that twin beast hanging from your face.

I've discovered that as my double chin began to fully form
- or perhaps it was just when I consciously noticed it -
my eyes were drawn to the chins and necks of other people.
I noticed that even some of my "average" build friends
indeed too had the beginnings of what was sure
to become a full fledged double chin,
and there was nothing I could do to help them.

I mean, seriously,
has no exercise or machine been created
to target face fat.
The market for that is WIDE open.
Do you know how many people
would kill to see their jawline defined,
to see cheekbones they hadn't seen in years
without the use of cosmetic surgery?
Why must the face be such a hard to reach area
when losing weight?
I'm almost certain that's one of the last places
you start to see results in when working out.
Then again, I'm no doctor,
so what do I know.

All I know is,
I feel sorry for every female and asian man
who lacks the ability to grow facial hair
in the vain attempt to hide their extra chin.

So to all you doubler chins out there, keep your head up
- no seriously, it doesn't look so bad like that -
at least you're not a member of the no neck committee.
Word.

Humpdays: Vicariously

In an attempt to structure myself,
I may or may not implement
themes to certain days.
Clearly Wednesday Humpdays are an easy start.
So, without further adieu....


There is no better remedy for
returning from a long night of aimless drinking
whilst suffering from a lack of nerve to approach someone
than a strong nightcap and a good Netflix queue.
You turn off the lights,
cozy up in bed under the sheets,
and prepare for a marathon of your favorite Cartoon Network show.
[It's a recent add to Netflix. Overly spectacular, I know!]



Shortly after your favorite character's catchphrase - we'll use "Oh My Glob!" in this case - you hear moaning.
Realizing as a grown young adult
that many cartoons carry strong sexual undertones, you recognize the source of the moan as not your laptop.
Curious as George, you pause the show.

The next sound instantly alerts you to what's happening: the clacking of a headboard against the wall.
Your roommate is once again "getting it in."
Immediately, you are plagued by a strong case of hate.
Your brain racks for ways to cockblock,
maybe by blasting the ending credits of your show
at truck volume for even the neighbors to hear.
Oh god, can the neighbors hear the sounds of intercourse, too?

Snapping back to reality,
you realize you should be happy for them.
From the sounds of it,
they're pretty happy themselves.
Then you feel like a perv,
listening for over a minute all ready.
Jaded, you take another gulp of your nightcap.
"Fuck it," you think. "I'll listen for rhythm's sake,
see how good they really are."
And also because your lonely self
could use the pointers.

And so you continue to stalk your roommate
and their partner through the paper thin walls
without even readjusting yourself in bed.
Your room suddenly turns black
from the laptop conserving its energy
from lack of use in the past five minutes.
You enjoy the sex sounds
like a dull married couple
enjoys the music of the rainforest
but tenfold.

Then you hear her scream in ecstasy.
The deed is done,
and you can only stare at a wall in amazement.
Hearing one of them squeak out of the bed,
you frantically type the password into your laptop
and attempt to watch Adventure Time as quietly as possible.

The next morning
- when you wake up past noon
and spot your roommate on the couch -
you casually mention the poor quality of the walls
and smirk at each other like the devilish 20-somethings you are.
It'll be a vicarious night you won't forget for some time to come.
Word