Sitting in a one-room brunch restaurant with a simple, slightly rustic décor, I began my customary panorama of the environment. I’m much more of an ambiance critic than a foodie, and this place checks a few of my boxes: peaceful atmosphere, happy & well-mannered guests (though notably all over 50), eclectic varietal of timeless jams and classic hits playing politely overhead; however, it seriously lacked color. At least until I showed up.
If anybody was alarmed by my entrance, they didn’t show it. Or more accurately, I didn’t notice it. Somewhere in the bottom of my mind I found myself concerned at just how quickly and easily my white-blinders slipped back on upon my return to Midwestern suburbia. I would have let my mind wander that path since it was so desperate to dwell on anything besides work; but I was distracted by a friendly (and supe-cute) waitress presenting a menu with reasonable prices, and a diverse (but not overwhelming) selection featuring eggs & omelets galore! Q approves.
Returning a more judgmental eye to the ambiance, the walls are adorned with whitewashed aluminum-“wood” signs with the culinary puns and fun quips you’d expect for a small, privately owned restaurant with a (most likely) pricey lease in white suburbia. “If you want breakfast in bed, go sleep in the kitchen” was my favorite. You get the sense that the owner’s wife wouldn’t allow him to open a restaurant with barren walls and she spent weeks scouring Targets, Amazon and Hobby Lobbies bargain shopping for the perfect decorations. It’s charming, though nothing novel; unless you’re me… A quarter turn to my left, tucked away in the corner in possibly the least prominent spot on the wall, hangs the only brown “wooden” sign in the possibly overdone white-washed building and it reads, simply, “Happiness is homemade.”
I dwelled on that sign for my entire meal. Happiness is homemade. Well done, bored suburban mother with too much time (and too little taste) on her hands. Amazingly, you managed to give me more with my flapjacks. I love accuracy in advertising! 3Q-review!
This was the third day in a row that I had been blessed with my Kid’s company in over 14 months. Though each rendez-vous dwindled in duration–from one hair appointment (mine, not hers), to one Netflix Locke & Key episode, to this final goodbye of just a few short minutes–they were more precious to me than all moments before or since our living arrangement expired.
Sitting on the sectional across from me, her question was forced, but not contrived. There air around us was heavy and silent; paradoxical, but not uncomfortable–just as it had always been. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I wondered if that would ever change, or if we had simply grown so used to the discomfort that it had become our norm; with the shackles of pretense no longer causing us disquiet, our respective empathies had negotiated a peace of concerned indifference. Is this my teenager’s interpretation of paternal love and fidelity? Serendipity!
The question that so gently interrupted our warm blanket of silence was the exact catharsis that I needed to find closure on the Houston chapter of my life. I struggled to find an answer for the Kid but none was forthcoming. My silence was approaching the uncomfortable seconds so instead I just verbalized how I felt about finally seeing my daughter again.
“Yea, I’m excited, but mostly I’m nervous and scared. You want something for so long that when you finally get it, it’s like ‘Okay, now what?'”
I was surprised at just how apropos that response turned out to be.
So I’ve been working full-time for about 22 months straight with no vacation; and I am weary. Since my last bout with unemployment (pre-pandemic) and its compadres, poverty and stress, I’ve been trudging through a marsh of shit jobs to get my life back on track. Now that I’ve acquired a position that’s more aligned with my skills and abilities, the fatigue from my long journey has finally caught up to me. I have moved beyond tired, passed through exhaustion and settled into weariness.
Unfortunately, my career does not give two shits about that fact and I have to somehow stay alert, calm and ready for anything and everything. Staff member quits without notice? Got it covered. Airline cancels flights at midnight and sells out the hotel at the last minute? Okay, thanks. Director of Operations makes a surprise visit and wants to talk for a few hours? Sure, no problem. Colleagues act like snakes in the grass and want to discredit my name? Fine, bring it on.
I don’t know what it is about me that makes people think they can elevate their status by tearing down mine, nor do I understand why people want to believe that I am a dishonorable person even though all evidence is to the contrary.
Like so many things in America, it’s probably a liability of my race. It’s easier to believe that a black man is dishonest and untrustworthy, regardless of education, appearance or behavior. Folks have been programmed to mistrust me since birth so I don’t know why I am repeatedly surprised when my superiors are swayed by low-rent gossip. Well as the late great DMX once versed,
Same ol’ shit dog just a different day. (It is not a fucking game!) A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. So if it’s fuck me, *****, you know it’s fuck you!
Escape Room Tournament of Champions — I didn’t even know Escape Room was a franchise film, but apparently there are enough of them to have a tournament of champions? Well, can’t be any better or worse than the Saw chapters.
Old (An M. Knight Shymalanmalan film) — I know I’m gonna see it. And I know I’m gonna be mad at the end. I know this. We all know this, because it’s motherfuckin M. Knight Shastamanana. But I’m gonna see it anyway. And you know what, I’m not even mad at Mr Knight because it’s not his fault that we get so hyped up over his movies. It’s those magical movie trailer editors! They’re like gods of negative film. I bet working on an M. Knight Shyymilimi trailer is akin to winning Best Picture at the Academy Awards. And hot damn, do they deliver every time! Too bad M. Knight Sucksalot can’t do the same.
Top Gun Maverick — Really, Tom? What? Couldn’t find a studio to blow millions of dollars producing another high-octane, high-explosive Mission Impossible film? Are fighter planes even cool anymore? Nobody is dog-fighting in the sky these days. You’re essentially teaching a class of future cargo plane and commercial pilots. Modern war is all guided rockets and cyber-terrorism. This is dumb. Why? Why did we make this movie?
Snake Eyes: GI Joe Origins — Yes! Give me more, Harsbro! Give me all the G.I. Joe flicks you can shake a Roadblock-weapon at! I don’t know why this franchise is having such a hard time getting off the ground. It’s been 12 years and this is only the third film. Fast and Furious was on their 4th film when Rise of Cobra was released. Their lead actor made four more films and then died before this massive toy company with literally nothing better to do could churn out two more scripts based on already-made content?! C’mon, Hasbro. We’re not going for an Oscar nod here. Just give us some steroided, stereotyped, uniformed badasses and blow some shit up. It’s not that complicated!
The fliQ
I’m not a huge fan of the modern day horror genre. That’s not to suggest that I don’t like scary movies; merely expressing a disappointment in what passes for horror since…oh, the 90s. I recognize that part of my bias comes from growing up. I simply don’t scare as easily as I did when I was a child; but as my asshole big brother and sister will attest, I suffered from an overactive dark imagination which was easy prey for horror films. It was a serious liability growing up in a home where every member of the family from the parents on down were Friday-Nightmare junkies. Freddy and Jason haunted my dreams but through sibling shenanigans, Chuckie hunted me while I was awake… I wonder whatever happened to those “My Buddy” dolls? Hasbro had a good idea there trying to make dolls appeal to boys. Then here comes that little demented psychopath plush puppet to fuck everything up. There’s no way that toy franchise could have survived the release of Child’s Play. I know mine didn’t. RIP motherfucker!
Chuckie wasn’t really after that little boy in Child’s Play. His real victim was the Gender Neutral Doll Revolution. Sadly, boys will never play with dolls again. Thank God Toy Story saved action figures for us or else…no, perish the thought!
So I’m not a huge fan of horror movies, but I like John Krasinski. I mean, who doesn’t? If you ever watched The Office, then you love John Krasinski. So much so that you will support him in any future endeavor, which, honestly, is the only reason I ever watched the first film, A Quiet Place. Needless to say, when he died in the original, I was ready to throw up my hands and throw in the towels on horror movies all over again! WTF, John?! You get me here just to break my heart?! Really? Fuckin rude.
Thankfully, he redeemed himself with a nice, long, bearded cameo in the opening the scene of the first movie which is, get this, Day 1 of…the creature attack that they never specifically labeled in the first film. So we finally get some answers as to where the hell these things came from, and if you’re like me, that question was in the back of your mind the entire feature length of part one. While I thank Mr Krasinski for both this reveal and his adorable daddy cameo, this actually brings me to first gripe about the film. Don’t worry, there are only two gripes, and they are both minor. All in all, I enjoyed the sequel almost on par with the original. Combined, the two make for a good story, except for this one incongruity with the opening scene.
If you’ll remember at the end of the first movie, mother and daughter had just slain the first Slasher. That’s what I’m calling them because, again, I don’t think they were ever labeled in the first one. Well all the raucous from all that slaying somehow managed to call all the slashers in the vicinity to their location, post-haste. The film ended with the badass look of determination on that cherubic young girl’s face as she wielded her sonic amplifier machine and all the slashers were closing quickly on the cameras outside. The assumption being they were either going to be violently ripped apart in seconds or miraculously conquer these hitherto unassailable, yet surprisingly pretty basic creatures.
Well, naturally, when you get a cliffhanger ending like that and the box office is big enough to produce a sequel, one expects to pick up exactly where you left off. OR, at the very least, jump ahead in time so that our assumption of a miraculous victory can be left to our own imaginations… Well, John discovered a third option in story-telling: forget your previous ending entirely, then write a new one after the misdirection of your long-bearded cameo flashback. The film did in fact pick up exactly where the first one left off; it just completely ignored the fact that there were murderous humanoid knife creatures approaching our protagonists. Instead, when they emerged from the basement mere minutes after double-tapping that toothy razor freak–all was calm, clear and quiet. I can forgive the incongruity, but only because you gave me that cameo, you handsome devil!
My second and final gripe came at the end, and it’s really quite minor, but it kinda plays into my disappointment with modern day horror movies. I like a little ham in my scary movies, it lightens the mood a little so you don’t spiral completely into debilitating fear. But there is a difference between “ham” and bad writing/directing/acting. [small spoiler alert]
At the denouement of the film, our adorable deaf heroine (who seems to be considerably less “deaf” in this movie #sideeye #slightjudgment) makes a grandiose, quite-protracted display of incapacitating the creature as it stalks towards her. At the same time, in a parallel sequence, the hitherto whiney, wimpy brother makes a similarly slow stalk towards his now-prey. The girl’s hammy acting was quite adorable, but given the life-or-death circumstances which she found herself in, it was also unrealistic, uncharacteristic, and thus, unbelievable. Furthermore, and this is really the bigger point, it was quite literally the only moment of exaggerated acting in the whole film, which caught me completely off guard and disconnected me from the entire climax.
I suppose that’s a pretty big #fail but again, I can forgive it because of the extended Djimon Hounsou cameo that they gave us just a few scenes prior. You da man, John. You da man. So all in all, A Quite Place Part 2 is definitely worth a look-see if for nothing else than a little closure on a oringal, nuanced tale of horror.
I don’t know the rule behind Father’s Day. I remember it as some Sunday around my sister’s birthday. It held some significance for me while my Old Man was alive, but for the past 17 years, it’s mostly been a day of shame and frustration that I hope to survive unnoticed. Ashamed, because of how I became a father. Frustrated that makes me an unqualified dad. Ashamed, because for years I allowed someone else to dictate the terms of my love and relationship with my daughter because it was easier than doing it myself. Frustrated that I may be emotionally inept. Ashamed, because I chose to be willfully ignorant rather than actively involved in my Kid’s fist decade. Frustrated that history has built a wall around my daughter’s heart and life. Ashamed, because I feel like I am never doing enough to make it right. Frustrated that I can’t find the words or a way to communicate with my Kid. The shame continues to compound on itself, making it nearly inescapable. I must journey to the depths of humility–damn close to insecurity–just to escape it. So if you ever want to talk to Q in his most humble form, just hit me up mid-June. #realtalk
It’s difficult to hide from common courtesy, however, so inevitably someone(s) will wish me a “Happy Father’s Day” on that Sunday around my sister’s birthday. I accept, but each one is like a knife in the heart that’s custom engraved in calligraphic text with the question that haunts my existence: “How can you call yourself a father, Q?”. I honestly don’t know the answer to that question, nor to my follow-up rhetorical of “What is a father?”. And 364 days out of the year, I can whinge over my crisis in relative solitude because, well, quite frankly, no one thinks about men as “fathers first”–and maybe that’s part of the problem–except on that one Sunday around my sister’s birthday…
Fortunately, as many of my friends and loved ones have become parents themselves, the courtesies extended my way have declined over the years. In fact, this year, I only received seven knives which was down significantly compared to the past two years when my Kid lived with me, and the four prior since I moved to Houston. I am thankful for that, preferring to avoid death by a thousand existential cuts; however, the silence reminds me that said day of celebration is also an intimate, immediate-family-affair, and in that, I am both lacking and lonely. On the bright side, although a couple hurt like Tessaiga knives, most of the courtesies were Tenseiga blades offering healing cuts to life. [That’s an Inuyasha reference for any light anime nerds like myself.] So this year my penance was paid in Seven Cuts, and as the Bowery King once said, “Well, sometimes you gotta cut a motherfucker.”
from my best friend-cousin with whom I share all dad woes
from my boss right before he asked me to work a double-shift of 17 long hours, which I happily obliged because it saved me from going home to be alone with my thoughts
from my sister
from the Chief–an old hometown friend who’s also the sweetest, most thoughtful person in the world that literally texts me on EVERY major holiday
from Mama Berr–one of my adopted moms who just loves the shit out of me for no good reason
from the Kid
from the Kid’s mom
Now, the last two are perhaps the only two that are to be expected; however, they are also the only two that I was both surprised and dreading to receive. They felt more like swords than knives, custom engraved in wingding font with ever-changing, unfathomable, unanswerable questions. I don’t understand the courtesy in this act of delivering these three simple words on this arbitrary Sunday; especially considering that discourtesy and avoidance is the norm practically every other day of the year. For all intents and purposes, I am (or I feel) actively rejected as/from the role of father by both parties. Therefore, I don’t understand the point or purpose in acknowledging me simply because of some commercial holiday. Is it out of respect? Is that what I am supposed to feel–respected? Because I don’t. I feel ashamed and deeply hurt that a “happy father’s day” text–ostensibly the bare minimum–is all that I’m worth. Is it out of obligation? That seems absurd. What obliges you to me? Certainly not DNA nor any obvious affection. There are no monies or favors beings exchanged. Our lives are wholly separate and unentwined, by their own design. So why the charade? Questions without answers. But before I spiral into madness, I have to ask myself, how would I feel if I received no text at all? And that question, I can actually answer.
I would feel relieved of hope. If you or a loved one has ever received a terminal diagnosis, then perhaps you can understand what that feeling is like. Hope is powerful. Hope is uplifting. Hope is fragile. Hope is dangerous. It raises a veil between expectations and reality, preventing true acceptance of a circumstance or situation. Acceptance is only obtainable after being relieved of hope. I cannot accept this distance, strain and separation between my daughter and me because I still have hope that she loves me. To lose that hope would be an irreparable heartbreak, but it would also open the path to closure–a path that I do not have the strength to trek. So every year I hide my shame, wallow in worry and hold onto the hope that I am still–ostensibly–worth the bare minimum.
My next Father’s Day is on some random Sunday in mid-September. I hope to feel the Winds of Change by then instead of a Windscar, but if it’s gonna be the latter, I hope she slays the thousand demons I carry with me like Naraku… That’s another Inuyasha reference. #sitboy
A lot of people wonder why I bleed my heart out online. Honestly, I wonder it myself. I rarely gave it much thought before I moved to Houston. But now, I worry in wonder of how my daughter may perceive and receive it, should she come across it, which I hope she does. Since I never post the good stuff anymore (like way back before adulting happened), I assume I come off as a broken, not-so-old man who whines and cries instead of just getting his shit together. I mean, that’s how teen-me would see me-me if I read this dribble. And that’s a fair burn, Kid… a little hurtful, but it’s cool.
Nevertheless, I write and I post. I could never answer my own query as to why? It just felt right, I supposed. Then, on a random Friday afternoon in 2020, I got a little high just before kicking HADES’s ass in the final battle of Horizon Zero Dawn. That is impressive for a number of reasons. 1) I haven’t been able to get high for a number of reasons that won’t make objective sense to you but I don’t have the time to tangent here. 2) HADES wooped my ass from around midnight last night until 3am and my prideful gamer booty was still sore today. 3) It took me three years to beat HZD due to my erratic video game attention span but I resolved to beat every one of my (worthy) PS4 games before I allow myself to buy a PS5. It is a cruel trick to play on my psyche and my pride to prevent me from blowing $500 on a video game system that I don’t need or want right now. I am constantly outwitting myself. It’s how I’ve stayed alive this long.
Anyway, in case you’re curious, below is a clip of the ending cutscene that got my temporarily unguarded minded stumble-thinking upon the answer to the question that I wasn’t asking at that moment. Backstory: Aloy is a clone orphan from a primitive tribe in a far-off dystopian future that saved the rebirthed humanity from a second extinction by the mighty robot armies. She did it mostly for the selfish discovery of her identity, having been cloned from long-dead super scientist, Elisabeth Sobek, and not possessing any “real” parents. The other voice in the clip is GAIA, Elisabet Sobek’s AI program charged with rebuilding the world after extinction.
https://youtu.be/hzygUKcatwc
With the current dynamic of my daddy-daughter relationship, I don’t get to see or talk to my Kid, but for the first time ever it’s her choice and no one else’s. I can do nothing but endure. So that’s what I’m doing. I write and I post because it’s all I can do to show [her] whom I am in this absence. I leave my pain as an anthology so that if my daughter is ever curious about her identity, she could easily search mine to see where she comes from. I wouldn’t know how to do that except with my written words, and through my actions. So I write, and I post.
GAIA echoed the QUERY I’d been asking myself since the spring of 2004: “What do you wish for this Kid in life?” I never knew how to answer that question until now. A long time ago, probably around the time that Facebook opened up its platform to non-college students, I accepted that I would not be involved in shaping the young identity of my Kid. I’ve had to try and make that same acceptance a second time around, which was exponentially harder, and it broke me. Full stop.
Then, on a random Friday afternoon in 2020, I realized, with the help of a video game cinematic and, maybe, tons of support, nagging, praising and advice from my truest friends and family—my Famiends—that I don’t have to make that acceptance at all. All I have to do is let her see me, inside and out, unfettered, unfiltered and unashamedly dedicated to being her father, under disillusionment and through depression, past success and on into forever. I don’t hide my pain because it’s a part of me and, if I may be pretentious for a moment, I hurt so beautifully—it deserves to be seen. I could probably do a better job of posting my nonsense thoughts and comedic monologues (for solidarity’s sake) but I prefer melodrama to fantasy (in my writing, not in my life…although that belief might be worth exploring/exploding).
So yea, the current daddy-daughter dynamic fucking sucks. It’s the worst damn reality I’ve had to endure since my teenage dream was napalmed and then nuked in 2003 and 2004, respectively. Nevertheless, as long as I am here, accessible, open-armed, and sacrificially loyal to the point of appearing desperate, then she will have the only “real” lessons worth learning.
Love. Fortitude. Imagination. Curiosity. Loyalty. Pride. Compassion. Build yourself upon those virtue blocks and you will have a life worthy of remembrance and, as only a parent will wish, with enough joyous moments to outshine the bad. Honestly, I hate to plagiarize another’s work, but Dr. Sobeck said (some of) it quite beautifully…
“I would have wanted her to be curious, and willful—unstoppable, even—but with enough compassion to heal the world…just a little bit.”
I feel as if my life is lacking in love—love in a general sense, which I suppose means love in every sense. Familial love, platonic love, romantic love, random love, sexual love (lust), even unrequited love. All are in short supply with depleted reserves. The most intriguing and, consequently, the most troubling of the empty tanks is the unrequited one because this means that I don’t even have love to give which could then fail to be returned to me.
I treat this predicament as if it is separate from my depression, preceding it and now (of course) feeding it, but a parallel and separate trail not even connected to me. It’s like some beast or monster is walking on either side of me, scaring away and devouring all the love I might otherwise receive (or send) were I walking this road alone. I may be naïve in that belief and I wouldn’t judge anybody for disagreeing. I’d like to disagree myself and to simply blame my current emotional state for blocking my blessings of love. Perhaps the beast is Depression, but that would mean he’s been with me much longer than I care to admit… long enough to have met my daughter and attack her love. That thought is infuriating… so let us Woo-Sa and move on so as to avoid another angry rant.
I can see now that I had been running on stored reserves of love for quite some time (years, perhaps?) with no reliable source to refill them. I tried to fill them with hope but what is hope fueled by if not love? No luck there. I tried to fill them with belief but my confidence has taken such a beating this past decade—I’m not the cocky, young negro that thinks he can conquer the world that I once was. The religious types would say I should put my belief in God, not in myself. I tried that, more than once, and I recognize that it works for a lot of people but not me. I’m a spiritual person, not a zealot, and this I shall remain until a burning bush speaks to me directly. It’s time for God to put his faith in me. Sorry, not sorry.
Occasionally, I will reach out to some humans with my frail heart, possessing uncertain expectations and a faith that is tenuous at best. If I am received, which is not always the case, their kind words or attentive ears do little to restore my hope and serve only to carry me through the most current desperate moment. For I know once the moment passes, I will feel alone once more. I choose the word “feel” instead of “be” because (cognitively) I know that people care about me—possibly/probably even love me (in their own way), but this knowledge stays trapped in my mind, jealously hoarded from my heart.
In one of the meditations that I do every morning, I am reminded that everyone is doing the best they can within the framework and capabilities of their own mind. I am encouraged to relinquish grievances, regrets and resentment and choose forgiveness—both of self and others. Even my therapist reminded me that it’s dangerous to hold others to my expectations of love. But how does one receive, accept and, more importantly, recognize love without a blueprint? Especially when you can’t feel it in your heart because some fucking monster is gorging on your happiness. Bitch ass beast. Don’t let me catch you in my lane. I’m gonna put hands on you.
Wouldn’t that be great? If we could manifest our mental and emotional issues into physical form and then beat the shit out of them! Oh, what a world that would be… maybe I’ll write a story about it.
It’s like watching your life through the window of a house with no doors. Everything looks normal on the outside but you can’t hear what’s going on. You scream but the sound doesn’t escape your mind. It’s a damn well-built home. Any passerby bold enough to peer into your abode may wave, but they would only be confused by the curious construction, consider you eccentric, and keep walking. You’re trapped and alone, but rather than plan your escape, all you can think about is “How the hell did I get in here?! Did someone build this house around me? How could I not notice? Why did I not simply leave before they built these walls with a roof?” The only conclusion is that you built it yourself, but you don’t know shit about construction, Q. How did you do it?! It’s maddening!
The obvious solution is to break the window. But the single room home is empty. White walls. No furniture. No blunt objects. Not even shoes on your feet. You’re nude—no wonder they keep walking! Nothing you can use for escape except your wits and your fists.
You don’t trust your wits. They were too dull to notice the damn house being built in the first place. So that leaves your fists. You punch the glass only to discover that you’re weakened. Malnourished. No fridge or food in this colorless room. How long’s it been since you’ve had sustenance? How long did it take to build this prison? Long enough, it seems. Or perhaps the glass is tempered?
It’s a paradox either way. You’re weakened, that is certain. If the window is strong, it will be harder to break, and your knuckles will bruise and bleed in the attempt. If the window is weak, it will shatter indiscriminately, and jagged shards will undoubtedly pierce and scar your arms. Reality dawns. You must use your wits to feed your spirit, and then you must fight this invisible foe…but there is no escaping unscathed.
You look forlornly out the window and wonder at all the smiling faces and welcoming arms, “Is there anything out there for me?”
