Relief

I Need to Get This Out:

A Poem:

Bianca, Please! Let The Eye Count the Ways?

By Dr. Chester M. Hip Hop, AKA Bill Shakes-a-lotta-Booty-Brittney Spears.

From forth! the loins of a Virgin(?)ian and a Koopa Dragon!

A child of African-American descent him fathered

For he also! mounted poor Anthony's cousin, er..... Bianca's band-wagon

Poor parenting was her previous, oy blackest lover of men, bothered.

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Love? Maybe goes a long way towards the younger,

As schoolgirls invited to their party of rollerskates,

Such middle schoolers metamorphose into older, yet stronger

Yet willing! Bianca, only the Slicker now masticates!

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AH!-lbino! Bianca's totally white hair,

Her eyes of a solid Rogue-ish, parent-defying, red

Her seven foot tall body, savoir faire?!?!?!

Her agelessness?, my tallest anti-dwarf, laid to the biggest bed.

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For So long as The Eye hath watcheth carefully

So will the The Harassment be wrougthen continually!.

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Here are my notes from Work/Play: (Quotes are LITERAL reprints from the most enticing piece of advertising in Charity history!)

"A Night of Relief: Tsunami Relief Benefit"

My invitation read "The Day after Christmas, disaster struck in South Asia. But like many catastrophes, many around the world thought "what if?" those who have live in the ravaged areas thought "What now?" Come and help make a different in the lives of the thousands who have suffered from this tragedy. So many need your help......... "

What if? Wow. I pondered.....what if?.....what if this section was spell checked before being sent to the publisher, what if I trusted my dollars to these young entrepenuers, what if the rave wasn't the propa way to raise money for a disasta, or if the keg wasnt tapped by 430 AM......ignore the Tsunami......um spin tables out of Fiddy Cent!!!AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

"what now?... Join us for a Night of Relief!"

The victims?, The Horror?....

The Rave is the only fix for this DisastA!

Wow I thought. This is my shot, my one chance, I had to do something REAL for my pathetic life. Popularity, Women, Creativity, Music, History, Body Surfing, Thinking, verifiable charities......Not worth it....... So I put on my golashes (plastic boots.... left overs from old people) and Star Treked out in the snow with my personal invitation, furry hood, hat, heavy gloves, lightsaber, and Barbie First Aid kit. I wanted to make the entire journey to South Asia Myself. I wanted to save lives!This was my time to shine, my independence, and my time to aid. My snow shoes and parentially crocheted sweaters were a trivial matter, if I was going to party.

I needed to see exactly how I could help. How could I lose Myself in Tsunami Aid? What or Who was this "Choonz"? Is he prejudicial against natural ganstas, like me??? What sort of music is "tribal progressivism"? Would my fellow man drop their dollars like they're hot? Boy Was I in for the Night of my Life.

Choonz: The Final frontier?

First I decided that to help the victims I should go to:

"Room1: Relief (Ages 21+)"

This room must be only for the most dedicated donatas/legal drinkas. I was in for some true excitement as my adventure started off. I quickly found that "no strangers to our area these DJ's will be layin it down propa on the House tip." I pondered what a DJ was, were they aid fighter pilots?...........Or would I really get to meet the DJs, the REAL presidents of REAL South Asian Republics, Chad Roy of um Indo-Albany or sumtin and Depth of Viet-Syracuse???? These organizers are SO generous.

I entered the palace/warehouse and found that my invitation was correct in saying "these two will mix it up from downtempo to deep and funky and even a lil taste of some hip hop. (President) Chad and (Prime Minister) Depth will have the room groovin w/ their extended set" and boy were they, as they left their Head-of-State Turntables to go propa-diplomatic on a few female show artists.

I was now a true believer, as these two spinned their electronic devices.... the speakers hurt my sensative ears with their fly jams...... and danced with the scantlely clad female show artists in the palace. By hiring and then bumping and grinding with these girls, they were saving another generation from empowering women, un-employment, and servitude in the wake of disaster. The electronic drums drums added the tribal effect. Well Done Mr. President and Prime Minister!

I had never seen such wonderous neon lights before. Or the strobing pounding feeling dat da beat brought to ma body...... It reminded me of the time that the lights were turned on, for the first time at the age of 12, in my basement cage and I saw my parents cane me with bambo for the first time....the memories.

I walked up to the bar for some refreshment. The gentleman of the bar seemed nice and I sat to order a drink. After two hours of staring into space at the rave, I felt it was time to pull off my heavily furred hood. I ordered whatever choonz was, only to get asked:

"May I see your ID"

I calmly waved my hand from side to side, like the Oswego Rainbow greeting. "You dont need to see my ID. Go about your business"

He furiously waved back, more in agitation than in reciprocity of the joy I had just sent to him. He responded "No I really need to see your ID. It's NY state law and I can't have kids like you go running around drinking and doping on all these evil substances, having sexual relations, hopping national borders and then driving, and not carrying a proper indication of who you are, with a photo liscense. I just serve the product, I dont believe in it."

"You dont need to see my ID. Go about your business"

So I put my hand on my head and concentrated harder. I began to debate with myself. “We needs it. Must have the precious relief. They stole it from us. Sneaky little bartender, wicked, tricksy, false. No, not master DJ Depth. .. Master’s my friend. You don’t have any friends. Nobody likes you. Not listening. I’m not listening. You’re a liar. And a thief. DRUGGIE. Go away. . . . I hate you. . . . Leave now and never come back.”

The ID tender watched with a bit of fright. He began to choke, mysteriously with no one around, grasping his neck to relieve the pressure. Instead, I turned to one the pixie waitresses. Mama told me never to use the word c*cktail.

I asked her if she wanted to see my golashes and then told her she was the chosen one. Her look of disgust underscored the intimidation that one often feels when seeing such large plastic boots for the first time. She couldn't handle it.

The strobing lights, the pulsating bodies, the drugs......what a moving symbolic depiction of the disaster! I realized what a powerful statement the Four Party Negotiations, three men and one woman, were making by kissing and feeling each other in the corner. How progressive! I wondered how the packages could be delivered to the most isolated areas, and these Four Party Negotiations were the exact answer.

I ran to help the woman negotiator's pain, but she mumbled something about a "profalactic"? I checked in my Barbie First Aid Kit, that I brought to be the First Aider to the victims, and couldnt find what she talking about. Instead, I sprayed them all with Barbie perfume, trying to get rid of the sweaty, throw up, stench. Tribalism did not need stinky bridges! The guys groaned more, never stopping, but I did manage to get a show of solidarity from the girl, as she exclaimed that she too was "a Barbie Girl, in a Barbie (Relief) World." Mother did not prepare me propa for my journey.

I resolved myself to the fact that the negotiator was refering to nuclear proliferation and she was just acting the part in a revealing play. Adam, Adam, Adam and Eve needed to know that the Garden of Eden could be reborn again and again in the corner/wake of the disaster. I saw just how that could be done.

"Room2: Tsunami (18+)"

Despite some of the strange looks, I continued to record this powerful aid event on my three foot long steno sketchpad, drawing and painting stick figures with carefully recorded illustrations of the make and brands of their various alcoholic beverages. The people were similar in depiction and most of them lay trampled on my artistic floor, with X's for their eyes. Consider it payback for all the rejected love letters, stick girl 23! I write the history, because, like DJ (Senator) "Kemp, [I] always put no less than 110% into my sets. I always know what tracks to lay down to get the floor goin."

The Aiders were enjoying their alcohol, herione (She Ra is a good example), E? (E! entertainment news was here too?), some girl named MaryJane (Watson? Spiderman's girlfriend is backhoeing around without him????), Coke (Pepsi (C!) is not served here), and other drugs (that have forced the impoverished peoples of the Third world into a brutal back breaking subserviance, probably to Walmart(Copyright!). But if you just think....once the partay is done, we'll be giving a lil' of their toil back to dem, through odd cleanup jobs, disposal of used needles, throwup piles, recycling the cans and bottles, and most importantly drug production, etc.), we will turn their economies around!

I noticed that more than a few of my aid friends were dancing with glow-in-the-dark wrist bands and glow sticks strapped all over their heaving bodies. Red, Green, Blues and Oranges flashing to da beat. I now understood how I could join this symbolic dance. I brandished my lightsaber and too began to wave my hands around in a non-rhythmic fashion.

First I tried "Da Robot," continuing to move as I normally do, with rigid hand movements, ubrupt uttering of non-sense, and sudden jerks with my head. Yoda has taught me well. It came naturally as I flashed my neon-deadly weapon side to side. The crowd watched my techniques in amazement as I fell to the floor and belly flopped forward, balancing my sabre on my back. When I left my parent's deathstar, I was but the learner, now I am the master, of neon flashing techniques. That was the night I became a break dancer.

I akwardly stumbled, faking a karate flip to my feet, and continued to flail my elegant weapon of funk around, until I realized that the floor was a bit sticky from the blood and gore that I had created. I was ostracized for a bit, and the big bouncer even tried to make a move towards me, until I claimed I was his father and cut off his hand. Needless to say that the majority of the crowd was waiting to get on E! (entertainment news?) anyways, so the whole "incident" as the evil empire/police refered to it, went pretty much unoticed and as far as they knew it, just another partay of South Asian tribal culture.

By 5:15 AM I felt as though the crowd's ability to aid the victims was diminished. They looked tired. I was wide awake, suffering from Double Vision, numbness in various portions of ma body, and had an overall feeling of weightlessness. Other than my battle canteen full of juicy water, and some pills given to me by a trusted stranger, I cannot really think of why. Yet my inspiration for this event reached its climax. I pulled the plug on the mixing table and grabbed the announcer's microphone. I was overcome with an emotional choonz. The Speech.......

"My Choonz!: Check my Flow, Yo:"

"I see in your eyes....."

a raver interrupts "No Mr. Frodo!"

"........the fear that would take the heart of me. A day may come when the courage of men fails. When we forsake our friends, and break all bonds of fellowship. But it is not this day. This day WE FIGHT! There can be no triumph. Without loss, No victory, Without suffering, No freedom, Without sacrifice!"

The applause, even from the Head of State DJ's, brought much needed aid.

Sacrifice? Wow, this night was full of it. But what would be the ultimate sign of relief?

The group was so spaced out, drugged up, and so overcome with tribal culture, that we all agreed that the shortest, weirdest looking person up in this piece should be cannibalized immediatly as a sacrifice. We easily built a fire from the useless rap records, and began our aid. It was ugly for a while, organs flying, banter in strange tongues......but we couldnt see, hear, smell, evil anyways, so eventually we had both sacrifice and relief. I was the Lord of the Reliefs and for a time the ravers carried me around on a table, with makeshift palms and glowsticks to highlight my Choonz. I was their emperor in the wake of the disaster. I was at the top of progressive tribalism, a world diverse enough to include cannibals, Barbie, the ugly, and the true meaning of the Force, of Relief.

Waiting for the Next Disasta.........

The winner of the Quiz next time, if I can finish grading the thirty to forty responses! Keep sending them, no matter who you are!!!