In years past, the faceless image of the super ripped dude on the mailer, his golden tan abs rippling with the unspoken promise that you could one day look like this if you were taking the right nutritional supplements, would have been sufficient to draw me into the nutrition and fitness store that recently opened up by me, but nowadays the $20 off a purchase of $50 or more was the enticement I found most alluring. Clearly these marketing geniuses had covered every angle. As soon as I walked in, a super cute 22 year-old girl came out of the back, walking casually but purposefully towards me, asking if I needed help finding anything. And because my fear of appearing impolite slightly outweighs my fear of interacting with people, I told her I was looking for a whey protein supplement, hoping that she would just point me in that direction and not do the hard sell but figuring that outcome unlikely when she put her hand forward and said, “Oh, by the way: Hi. I’m Alexis.”
“I’m Gerard,” I lied for no real good reason, and instantly felt anxious about the lie while mentally noting her surprisingly firm grip. I should probably include the detail here that though I hope it won’t always be this way, in this particular chapter in my life my wardrobe choices are made primarily for comfort, which is a euphemism I use to explain some pretty unflattering styles I’ve elected to be seen outside the house with lately. I’m also shaving and bathing for comfort, as long as we’re being euphemistic, so by being matched up with this smartly attired, energetic girl, I was already at a considerable disadvantage. Sensing my vulnerability to a host of upselling techniques, I grimly steeled myself for the engagement.
Relief came over me as someone else came in to the store. It was this creepoid who I had noticed driving around in the parking lot in kind of an ominous way, and before I had a chance to fantasize that Alexis would go interact with this unrepentant weirdo to preemptively safeguard against shoplifting, this other really cute 22 year-old girl came out of the back, honing in on him like a Tomahawk missile with a smile and an outstretched hand. “Hi, I’m Stephanie. Can I help you find something?” I wondered how many of them were back there. Was there a black chick? Did they keep a couple of hot guys on reserve, just in case a lady or a gay guy came in?
Alexis asked about my workout routine, eliciting from me the confident disclosure that I do some light running and swimming three or four times a week. I silently assured myself that by not mentioning weights at all, I had deftly eliminated from Alexis’ sales pitch repertoire several rows of plastic neon-colored jugs containing the Get Huge-type powders and mixes. This strategic move had me suddenly feeling like a chess grandmaster. I don’t exactly have my act together in other areas of my life, but the few hours a week I spend working out is the only time I feel I have even a modicum of control over anything, and in talking about a subject on which I was knowledgeable, I began to feel less intimidated. Maybe even emboldened. If I could display this kind of poise while buying a car or negotiating a conflict with a co-worker, I’d be a completely different person.
Meanwhile, it escaped my attention that by acting interested and impressed, Alexis had subtly built up her own advantage, as she was about to use my own strength against me like a judo champion. Given the benefit of hindsight I can see now that I had underestimated her, but swollen with my newfound expertise, I audaciously filled out the rewards card form she breezily pushed across the counter to me as she ran my debit card, and I impressed myself by savvily maintaining the Gerard ruse. It hadn’t taken me long to get cocky, and my cool demeanor abruptly dissolved when she quizzically mentioned that the name I had written on the form didn’t match the name on the card.
“Stolen card,” I breathlessly blurted in a panic, dreading the phone call I would have to make to the bank to report that someone had stolen my identity. I tried not to think how it was probably gonna look suspicious that the false charge was for a product I’ve been purchasing faithfully every six weeks for the last decade, and instead imagined myself looking graceful and athletic while sprinting towards the white sunlight beyond the glass door. See, I wasn’t just some guy in sweats, Alexis. These were my workout clothes.
Archive for the 'junk drawer' Category
as young as we’re ever gonna get
fix up look sherpa
“May I have your attention.”
These words, spoken not as a request, but as a chilly demand implying dire consequences for any who might fail to comply with it, were the first sound the students heard after the crack of her pointer on the blackboard. Many times during the upcoming semester her students would imagine the small woman whose hair was held back in a tight bun employing that pointer like a riding crop, living up to her campus-wide reputation as an instructor unafraid to fleck her charges’ metaphorical hindquarters to drive them to their talents’ outermost limits. Under her tutelage, her pupils would learn every fiber of the curriculum, but perhaps more critically, they would conjure within themselves a fearlessness forged in the crucible of knowing that any danger they might encounter in the real world would be a trifle when compared with the famous withering glare she directed at any work she deemed below standard. If she was harsh, it was only to prepare them for the relentless onslaught of trials she knew awaited them at their schooling’s conclusion. And though controversial, her methods would be vindicated once the world saw the unprecedented heights of originality, humor and attitude reached by the Class of 1993 of the Spencer’s Gifts T-Shirt Design Academy, though they would later be known as the Class of 68: You Do Me And I’ll Owe You One.
the head dracula
I had just passed Building 28, how was I suddenly in the 50s? It just skipped the thirties and forties altogether. I’ve delivered pizzas to some labyrinthine-ass apartment complexes, but there is none more confusing than this one assisted living facility in the really rich part of town. If I had wanted to spend my life weaving through some huge maze of bullshit to get anything done, I’d have filled out the paperwork to go back to college. Suddenly a teacup doberman in a diamond collar ran in my path, with multiple overmatched staff in ponchos in hot pursuit. One held up his hands like a cop as they crossed in my headlights, another held up his hands in apology. Relieved to see that my brakes still worked in the rain, I then looked up through the part of my windshield that the wipers can’t get to and saw above the crescent the sign marked Building 37.
The man answered the door in a smoking jacket looking just like Veronica’s dad from Archie comics. I probably should have clarified earlier that this assisted living facility is for people who can still cook their own meals and play golf, not like a nursing home. Before I could even say “Hello sir, I have an olive, tomato and mushroom pizza for you” using my talking to someone at the bank voice in a likely futile stab at a good tip, he got annoyed and said, “I had requested delivery from a female driver.” In fact, my making this delivery had been the subject of some controversy back at the pizza place, one complicated by my gambling debt to Wanda, and Wanda’s and my differing rock-paper-scissors techniques. You’re supposed to show what you got as you say the word “three”, not one beat after counting. I thought that was so obvious that I wouldn’t need to specifically mandate that before we played, but on an aborted first try she saw that I was planning to play paper. Probably did it on purpose. Remembering that Wanda couldn’t lock up until I get back, though, I accepted this oldster’s weary, resigned offer of a drink and wiped my feet on the way in.
“Have a seat,” he said. “That scotch is older than you are. Better enjoy it.” Those were the first of volumes of words that came from him as he paced the room over the next twenty minutes, telling me how his son had put him in here so he could take over the company. I got the impression that he didn’t entertain guests frequently. He kept the money in his hand, sometimes waving it tantalizingly in front of me as he got worked up and began to season his speech with gestures. Finally, he slumped exhausted into the wingback chair opposite mine and said, “I wouldn’t even be considered a young President. A young heart attack victim.” He blinked a slow blink that contained the hint of a wince which conveyed decades of accumulated hurt. I was then fully aware of his awareness that he had already begun his life’s final transition, that would end not with a new stage of life, but between impermanent stays at advancing levels of convalescent care. The end of his life would be mired in a transitory state, and he was in the process of giving up hope of ever emerging restored from the tunnel’s end. This interminable passageway was the stage, not a path to some hard-won achievement. I know what that’s like. When I was a kid, there were a couple years after my brother was born but before my sister graduated where my bedroom was in the hallway. Didn’t have any posters or anything, and I had to wheel my bed in every night. Now we were both depressed. He then stood and opened his smoking jacket a bit, raising a hand like a cop at my apprehension, I the only company he could still wield influence over. Displayed were the most comfortable-looking pajamas I had ever seen. They glowed. “These were originally owned by Pat Sajak. I accidentally wore them home from a week-long National Cookie Day party at Ludacris’ and he said to keep them.”
All right, gentlemen, it looks like everyone is here. I’d like to begin by mentioning how appreciative we are that everyone was able to make it on such short notice. I trust you all understand that we would not have called you away from your obligations elsewhere had not the subject of this meeting been as urgent as it is time-sensitive. For your troubles we have provided some delicious finger sandwiches, which will be made available when your cell phones are returned to you at the conclusion of this briefing. Now to the business at hand: I am pleased to announce that several decades of tireless work by our research and development team has at last yielded the achievement that should put us comfortably ahead of our competitors in the firearms manufacturing business for a generation. That’s right, boys. We’re talking about a gun that shoots knives.
To be sure, such a paradigm-shifting breakthrough is bound to raise quite a few questions, but please keep your hands down until the end. Hopefully this orientation will provide answers to most of them. To wit: is the gun that shoots knives extremely dangerous to use? Is it prohibitively expensive to maintain and keep loaded? Moreover, is it messy? The answer to all of these questions is most definitely in the affirmative, particularly the last one, as these slides of the gun that shoots knives being tested on live javelina hogs will attest. But despite its horrible impracticality, we believe this remarkable creation will have appeal due to the considerable status and respect commanded only by owners of a weapon that virtually guarantees a closed-casket funeral for its targets. In fact, you might say the gun that shoots knives is perfect for when you’ve worked really hard on an important presentation, only to have some cutup in the back possibly ruin it all by making snide comments under his breath. Am I making myself perfectly clear, Johnson?
I’m sure I don’t need to tell anyone that we’re gonna need to keep a lid on this thing for as long as we can, so no talking to the media, even the friendly outlets, as the gun that shoots knives is still not completely ready and we don’t want a repeat of ’88. The final stage of field testing dovetails with the first stage of our marketing strategy, which as per usual, is to leak a few of these to some gang members. After a few reports on the evening news about Bloods and Crips killing each other with guns that shoot knives, we fully expect to corner such coveted demographics as males between the ages of 33-39 who have a samurai sword prominently displayed in their dens, sexy female assassins between the ages of 16-48, and divorced cigarette boat-owning males between the ages of 48-55 whose online dating profiles say they’re seeking females between the ages of 22-26.
thou shalt call me zeroaster
Come see the one-man show that’s taking off-Broadway by storm-Stories From 101 96th Street! You’ll laugh, cry and even sy*h as Live Erotic Theater Quarterly‘s 1996 Newcomer of the Year nominee Sandy Montenegro inhabits the off-the-wall neighbors who inhabit the zaniest apartment building in the Bronx! You’ll have plenty to talk about on the long train ride home from Ralph’s Coffeehouse and Artist’s Space in Pelham Park after you get to know this dazzlingly diverse array of characters:
Mark on the fifth floor: “I mean, hey- can a guy get a pastrami on rye around here? Fifteen years I been comin’ to this deli; you’d think I could get a little service, don’t you think? I wear cheap clothes and my combover isn’t fooling anyone, right, pal? Yeah, you might say I’m a real jerk. I play my music too loud and have really noisy sex, where I yell at the woman to kick me like a horse right as I’m about to reach my peak. Be a real shame if somebody told my peers on the school board about my weird kink, but that doesn’t stop me from acting like a total asshole to people who have potentially damaging information, including audio recordings and infrared camera footage.”
Ivette on the third floor: “Yeah, papi, you might call me an around-the-way girl. Rap videos have been made about the way I take clothes out of a front-loading washer at the laundromat. Sure, I might be good-looking, but I act like it too, see, walkin around with my nose in the air and not giving anyone the time of day when I run into them in the lobby while checking the mail. There’s only one thing I like more than smoking cigarettes on the fire escape real slow and sexy, and that’s kicking a guy like a horse right as he’s about to reach his peak, and I’m the best at it. Yeah. I’m bad.”
Luther the superintendent: “I don’t gave a damn when you need it, I’ll get to it when I get to it, man! Look, I’ma have to call you later, aight? Sorry about that; the nerve of these tenants! They think it’s the end of the world if they go a few days without running water. I’m as sorry as anyone that you’re being inconvenienced, but I couldn’t very well come back early from Palm Beach without cancelling some pretty nice dinner reservations, so my hands were tied. Hey, not for nothing, but we’ve all got problems. I can’t keep my Jaguar out of the shop, but do you hear me complaining about it? Besides, it’s not all bad. Just the other day, a guy in one of my buildings invited me to do some freaky, freaky stuff with a girl that’s known for kicking a dude like a horse right as he’s about to reach his peak, and I’ve always wanted to try that. Mother of Mary, it was everything I ever dreamed of and more. They told me that a threesome was a longtime fantasy of theirs, but they had had a hard time finding someone. Apparently one of their neighbors had been in the running until they began jumping to conclusions and harboring totally unfounded suspicions about his astronomy hobby. Between you and me, they seemed like a couple of snobby jerks.”
Audiences called Stories From 101 96th Street “an… effort,” “disturbingly racist, but in a way that was strangely ignorant of Asian stereotypes, unless there’s something I’ve been missing this whole time about them and Ritz crackers,” and “Uh, could you keep it down? People are trying to do the crossword here.” Get your tickets today, because this tour de force isn’t likely to be around long, and costume designer Rod Butterscotch really did put a lot of effort into creating a prosthetic ass big enough to meet Mr. Montenegro’s specifications for Ivette.
My son, sit down and let me talk to you; there are certain moments in a father and son’s journey that must be acknowledged, and the son becoming a man is one of them. Seeing you in the bloom of your youth, I’m reminded of -and perhaps even a little wistful for- my own younger days. I had an apartment with a couple of guys, and a pretty sweet job doing construction. Whether we were watching football on television or having the girls from across the hall over for an orgy, we ate pizza, pounded beers and smoked dank every night. Every now and then we’d overdo it, then have to take of the next day off work so we could get rid of the shakes with a couple of seven a.m. brewcephuses. Sometimes, the sanitation workers would see me rushing to get the trash out before their truck arrived, and this happened often enough that they even gave a name, “el retrasado,” to the celebration dance I would do when I accomplished this task in time. Those were exciting times for me and my roommates. As young Amish men on Rumspringa, our wild behavior was fueled by a keen though unspoken awareness that we were unlikely to ever employ that kind of irresponsible decision-making again. It occurs to me presently that those days were long ago, as shown by the fact that my eldest son is now preparing to embark upon his own time living away from home.
You may have experienced some curiosity about the outside world while growing up in our cloistered community. Your time outside will likely raise more questions on this subject than it answers, but that is the price of wisdom. When a man chooses a path, he isn’t just picking one destiny, he is forsaking all other possible destinies. Do not, however, feel envious of those many paths not chosen, for just as you might later wonder what might have been if you had accepted that offer to become a roadie for Cypress Hill, you will also come across unfortunate souls who through tragic circumstance, never had the freedom to know of alternatives. I’m proud of the man you’re becoming, and this time in the world will do you good. As you already know, life here is perhaps uniquely demanding and requires a serious commitment. Knowing what else is out there will help you decide whether to choose baptism and accept these demands for the rest of your life, and I trust that whatever you decide, you will do so with your eyes fully open.
Hold out your hand, Othniel; I want to give you something that served me well on my Rumspringa. It’s my old pager. Be careful who you give the number to, however, as not everyone you will encounter has had the same upbringing as you. Remember that learning to co-exist with others will prove invaluable long into your life, and those skills will never be tested more than they will among the English. Know when it is necessary to tuck your chain in and hide your Walkman, but remember that misunderstandings can also be avoided with diplomacy. Extend a measure of patience and mercy even to those who would drink up all the Hennessy you got on yo shelf. Surround yourself with the kinds of friends who you can trust to tell you if you’re being wack, for if your ass is a busta, 213 will regulate.
It’s a different world than where you come from, and you should get out there and experience all it has to offer by sowing your wild oats. Though the high-waisted jean shorts and Cross Colours short sleeved hoodies favored by modern women are not always ideal for corporal evaluation, they do leave a bit less to the imagination that the ankle-length solemn dresses you’re used to around here. You’ll soon learn that the world is full of girls that you will be proud to address as “mah tenderoni,” but don’t forget that sometimes what you’re looking for was here all along. Yes, I’ve seen the way you look at Stoltzfus’ girl Hannah. Indeed she comes from hearty stock; not even the most modest attire could conceal the fact that with her sturdy haunches, she looks like one of those rap guys’ girlfriends. Very well, then; your satchel is packed and you are ready to depart. I will see you upon your return, should you choose it, and I will be glad to put you back to work. Having your own bathroom for the first time will no doubt prevent your butter churning muscles from losing too much of their strength.
rime of the instant mariner
“Greetings, gentle shopkeep,” the well dressed man said as he entered my humble workshop. He was as grateful to get out of the driving rain as I was to receive some unexpected business. “I was glad to find you. Many of your fellow craftsmen in this village have closed up shop early and gone home.”
I shook my head to indicate that I shared his disappointment in my peers. ”It takes a man of extraordinary discipline and fortitude to ply his trade in the face of trying circumstances,” I commiserated, surreptitiously placing my hat under my workbench and my keys into my back pocket, then kneeling behind a shelf to quickly refasten my grease-stained apron. “What may I do for you?”
He unwrapped a handkerchief to reveal an object of considerable interest, as well as considerable beauty. I furrowed my brow and grunted, trying not to betray my puzzlement, for my ignorance of this gewgaw would not have been greater had he brought forth a priceless bauble from Peking or the jewels of Araby. I wondered if I would be able to help him.
“Ho! Fret not, my good man. I do not expect you to have much immediate knowledge of this item, not in this remote hamlet. In my travels it came into a state of disrepair, and neither my driver nor my attendant nor I can seem to make much sense of it. To return home failing to deliver it in acceptable condition would cost me… quite dearly, in fact. This puts us at your mercy, but I can deduce from the way you look me in the eye that you are honorable man; and from your neat, organized workshop, that you are a man of prodigious handskill. I will gladly pay you in advance simply for trying to fix it. The name on the door said Bayard Sanyan. Is that you?”
I nodded proudly in affirmation, wiping my hand on a cloth to make it more presentable. As he shook my calloused mitt, he pressed a few gold doubloons into it. The firmness of his grasp contrasted with his digits’ softness, which was as that of a silken pillow, having been protected by the fine leather gloves I had noticed him removing. Corinthian.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Drakkar Reverendston. If you can get it running again, there will be plenty more where that came from. Bought it from a gypsy. He called it an e-cigarette.”
I told him I’d do my best, then felt a sense of foreboding over what manner of man I was entering into business with as I plugged it into the USB port. Maybe it just needed to be charged.
Let’s face it; the fact that you’re home right now watching judge shows means you likely fit into one of two categories. If you were injured in a car accident and need a tough, smart lawyer who will battle the greedy insurance companies for every last dollar you have coming, hang tight; their ad will be along shortly. Probably next, in fact. For the rest of you, though: pick up the phone right now- don’t waste another second! Call Mountain Stone Academy and take your first step to an exciting career in the profitable field of drug muling! If you own a beige or white four-door sedan with clean plates, and a nice golf shirt tucked into a pressed pair of chinos, then let our experts get you on the path to getting out from under those bills by calmly telling customs agents that you’re just coming back from a routine safety inspection of your company’s newly opened plant in Monterrey!
Now, I know what you’re thinking- “Hey, TV jerkface! I’ve been burned by commercials like this in the past!” Hey, here at Mountain Stone Academy, we’ve heard the story before; hell, we lived it! You went to trade school and found a great job, then your company broke your union and shipped your job overseas. You went to bartending school, but found yourself drinking the profits to comfort yourself after hearing the customers’ depressing stories, which really seem to have grown both in intensity and frequency the last six or seven years. And just when you thought you had found your golden ticket by graduating from that televangelist’s Apostle-Anointing Institute, a couple years ago you had to close up shop, having found it impossible to compete with Tea Party rallies for your flock’s attention and hard-earned donation dollars. But at Mountain Stone Academy, we’ve got the statistics to prove that this time will be different. You see, after being repeatedly boned by the traditional, “lawful” marketplace, more and more people just like you are giving a second look to today’s black market. Hey, if the government’s not gonna extend your unemployment benefits so they can afford to continue hemorrhaging money on an unwinnable drug war, shouldn’t you at least get a piece of the action?
Come on, where do you wanna be six months from now? Still sleeping on that couch? Or impressing your new bosses with your ability to throw off the dogs, having learned from our pros how to properly line your trunk with coffee grounds? Before long, you’ll be capitalizing on challenging advancement opportunities, and Mountain Stone Academy will be there with post-graduate classes to further your development as a smuggler, as you’ll need to undertake continually riskier jobs to keep proving your loyalty! Remember, you’re a lot more valuable, and therefore harder to kill, if our Hollywood makeup artists have trained you with the technique to make a busload of teenage sex slaves look like a group of senior citizens returning from their tour of Chichen Itza. So what are you waiting for? Call the number on your screen and open the door to your future with the newfound confidence and self-respect that can only come from mastery of coveted workplace skills such as staying cool under pressure, not freaking out, and keeping your fucking mouth shut, cabron.
dual dollar charles
Hey, listen for a minute, Morales. Don’t look up; just keep bagging that evidence and try not to attract the other officers’ attention, because I’m about to give you your first advanced lesson in detective work. This is no ordinary home invasion, kid, and I’m not just talking about the anthropomorphic bears, either. Look around: no signs of forced entry, and nothing missing? Plus, remember those three bowls of porridge in the breakfast nook? Sure, it makes sense that the papa bear’s bowl was piping hot, but look at these other two. I mean, the mother bear’s bowl being cold while the baby bear’s bowl was just right? Look at the difference in the two bowls’ size and think about it: how would the mother bear’s porridge, which was considerably larger than the baby’s bowl, have cooled off faster? Unless… she served herself first! Now tell me something, Morales, what kind of a mother feeds herself before she feeds her child? I’m telling you, between this and the parents sleeping in separate beds, there’s something this bitch isn’t telling us.
To make it as a police detective, you’ve gotta have a few things. Most important is a luxury condo with a great view. Women are attracted to intense, mysterious, brooding men, and you wanna have a nice environment to bone your many beautiful sexual conquests in; it’s common courtesy. Now, that part you got down. And I gotta say, that seaside view you got with your place is so great. Tons of girls are gonna want it doggystyle so you can both enjoy the sunrise as you make sweet, tender love. Who’d you use, by the way- Sheila? What’d I tell you, Morales, best interior decorator in town, huh?
But also vital to a good sleuth are natural curiosity and a keen observational eye. Me, I was meant to be a detective. Let me squint into the distance for a minute and I’ll tell you why. When I was a child, my mother had a strict rule that I, her only child, was not allowed to touch her collection of porcelain figurines from the Franklin Mint. A new one arrived in the mail every month, and as the collection grew, the amount of space in my home I was confined to diminished to the point where I had just a small path to take me through the display tables that lined the hallways from my bedroom to the bathroom to the kitchen. That’s the kind of upbringing that good snoops come from. Plus, I picked up some great fingerprint-dusting techniques by watching her verify that I was following her edict not to touch the figurines, and if a perp ever comes at me with a belt, let’s just say I know some great defense positions that will minimize the number of really good stingy hits he can deliver before backup arrives.
But I digress. Anyway, this case is fishy, and we’re gonna get to the bottom of it. Who knows; there might be a connection to that missing-girl case. Just a hunch. I don’t wanna play into any stereotypes about bears here, just playing the percentages. Oh Christ, Morales, don’t give me that look, you know perfectly well what I’m talking about.
tv time machine
Welcome back to Turning Points, the show where we discuss the pertinent issues of the day. Once again, I’m your host, Thom Rolfhoulk. I’d like to thank my co-hosts Klaus Illimianstonson and Marcia Slecckpfeldt for their insightful reporting on President Gerald Ford’s re-election campaign, and the lighter side of the women’s lib movement, respectively. I’d also like to remind our viewing audience that we will return to our usual roundtable panel format next week, and to assure you that our program will air in its entirety after the conclusion of the football game between the Houston Oilers and Los Angeles Rams.
Our final segment tonight concerns a topic that this program has thus far avoided commenting upon, out of concern that it may have been merely a passing trend. But it appears as though the civil rights advances of the past two decades are here to stay, and that warrants acknowledgement and recognition. Just as innovations such as quaaludes, toaster-ready pastries and suburban key parties have greatly improved our lifestyles, our rapidly changing society stands to benefit from the integration of other cultures and ethnicities into the mainstream. If we continue apace, soon people of color could be in your living room as guests, instead of in your kitchen on a bottle of pancake syrup.
Studies show that the swiftly approaching end of racism, as well as the cessation of discriminatory home and small business lending practices, will make it easier for ethnic minorities to amass and pass on generational wealth, just as we whites have done for the last two centuries. As soon as 1992, the resulting racially mixed neighborhoods will be as common as this ashtray, making the need for busing and affirmative action policies a thing of the past. It’s a change we should all be eager to embrace, like flying cars or the pills we’ll all be taking as meals by then. And if the viewing audience will forgive my use of a few Chicano slang terms I overheard from the caddies at my country club, this “jive turkey” in particular thinks a future of increased access to affordable higher education, better jobs and reduced incarceration rates is one that could prove to be quite “outta sight,” indeed.
Who knows- before long, our forward-looking nation’s face of leadership could look quite different. So here’s a message to our country’s enterprising young black men: work hard, stay in school and follow your dreams, and one day you could be occupying the Oval Office, unburdened by the possibility that a major political party will question your citizenship, obsess over your unusual-sounding name or accuse you of palling around with terrorists, so aim high. That’s all for this edition of Turning Points. Please join us next week, when we’ll be discussing pet rocks or lava lamps or some shit.
