Being that I am an all out attention whore, I was kind of excited to be interviewed by a journalist concerning this little old blog. As I got ready to meet this 20 something journalist I brushed my teeth, put every dreadlock in proper order, and looked at myself in a full body mirror and said something feminine to myself like "all my weight goes to my hips and my thighs!! Fuck!!". I raced to the coffee-shop where we were meeting and I was pretty much relaxed, until I openly wondered if she expected me to do some of the things that I talk about in my blog. I mean, I have broken someones jaw, cursed out a preacher, poured a full pitcher of beer on more ignorant females than I care to recall, and try to put a beating on David Spade, but if nothing of note happened during our conversation would she consider me a fraudulent disappointment?? I arrived on time for our scheduled noon interview, looking in the crowded coffee shop for a woman who gave a self description of herself as a "thick looking Lauryn Hill". Whenever someone says that they resemble someone famous they never end up looking anything remotely close to the celebrity in question, so I was looking for a female version of Biz Markie or Mr.T, possibly with dreadlocks.
For a few moments I thought she had stood me up, until I felt someone tap me on the shoulder and say, "HumanityCritic, I'm Darla. How are you doing??" I turned around and she did indeed look like a beef eating version of Lauryn Hill, and goddammit that's a good thing. For the next few minutes we had what I thought was a marvelous conversion, and she laughed at all my jokes, not in a "you are a funny guy that I am interviewing" way but a "I might give your chubby black blogging jackass a piece of this journalistic ass for good measure" way.(Putting a new spin on the term "crossing the T's and dotting the "I's") We talked about the state of Hip Hop, blogging, I took the high road and didn't diss bloggers that she asked me about and who I thought sucked complete ass, the amazing intelligence of my readers despite my immaturity, I was having a great time. The conversation took a pretty weird turn when she said, "I read your blog all the time and obviously you have father issues. I understand where your coming from, but don't you think your complaints are silly compared to someone like me who barely knows her father? You are lucky in my opinion." I paused for a few moments, not only because of the immediate U-Turn our conversation caravan took, but because of the blatant venom in which she delivered said diatribe.
I tried to emotionally gather myself because my mind said "Attack", but I knew that I was being interviewed, even though I did openly wonder if pouring hot coffee on her would hurt my career or help it. So in the most relaxed tone I could muster I said, "Why should people compare their pain? But if I never had a father at least I could romanticize about a fictitious meeting where he apologizes for his sins, I forgive him and we live happily ever after. While I, the miserable fuck in front of you, has to go to his grave actually thinking that his father despised his very existence. Enjoy your motherfucking coffee!" You know that dastardly lump that appears in your throat when the act of crying is actually around the corner, well that motherfucker decided to come by for an unexpected visit. The conversation lasted a few more minutes, it got back on course, but obviously I had talked myself out of panties once again.(She actually wasn't wearing panties, I know, I'm a pervert for looking. But if you guys think that I am anti-Bush, you were wrong that day.) I don't what it is, I have had guns pulled on me, my heart ripped out of my chest by women I would have died for, and put myself in situations that would make someone put you in a straight-jacket in a padded room, but nothing breaks me up like my relationship , or lack thereof, with my old man.
The passing of Richard Pryor this past Saturday evoked memories of my father that have been the strongest since his passing three years ago. Let me explain. My father would show kind of an eye rolling interest in the good grades that I would get or certain sports accomplishments, but the two things that we related to was discussing "sex" or "Richard Pryor". I couldn't tell you how many of his female clientele at his auto repair shop that he would pimp me off on, not making sure his baby boy had another notch on his belt, but to hear about said encounter and live vicariously through me later on. I know that telling your father the blow by blow details of how you thrusted like a man possessed on some random chick while you stared at her wedding photo is a bit creepy, but detailing said events were the only times that I felt in any way relevant to my father.
Talking about about Richard Pryor brought me similar feelings of validation, going over his routine ver batim with my father and laughing the whole time. Richard was a genius, to be funny and exposing the audience to bitter truths that they didn't want to think about is an amazing talent to have. If you listen to a lot of his recordings you can tell that in certain parts of his show he is just riffing, not necessarily doing a planned bit but just having an impromptu discussion with the audience. Fashioning myself a wannabe writer, Richard was influential to me because he showed that you can be expose yourself, insecurities and all, and do it with reckless abandon because 9 times out of ten other people can relate totally. He also taught me another lesson when it comes to life or writing specifically, and that lesson is "Fuck em' if they don't like it!!"
Richard will always be an inspiration and he will be missed, but I know he would understand it when I say that I hope that him and sex aren't the only topics that my future child and I relate to. Rest in Peace Brother...