Hello again beautiful people,
It’s a new year, thank gawd and with a new year comes NEW SHIT
THAT”S RIGHT, same fucked up world, New Fucked Up Shit.
I’m being dramatic, it’s really not that bad…it’s not…I’m fine. I am. really.
Ok, I got that goofiness out of my system. I’m actually gonna level with you this time around and tell you a story of an event that I’ve always secretly had the desire to take part in, but never actually thought about what it might look or feel like. I have to admit, it felt better than I could’ve imagined. Alright, here it goes…
It was, in fact, a dark, rainy night in Los Angeles when I pulled my car into a questionable, albeit signless parking lot next to NoBar in North Hollywood. January 10th 2017, for those who didn’t know, was the one year anniversary of the death of the iconic David Bowie and my lovely friends planned on drinking, reminiscing and playing Bowie tracks on the juke box all night. A perfect night, if I may say.
After driving up from Orange County after a particularly positive and productive band practice and still in my high school football shorts and cross-trainers, I made my way towards the bar.
It was after hopping a puddle on the uneven residential streets of suburban NoHo that I heard a distressed scream echo from the alley behind the bar and its adjoining complexes. This obviously female scream came from someone who was not having a good time. Someone who may even needed help.
I looked in the direction that the noise had come from and saw two people struggling against the wall. One of the figures escaped and ran in my direction. Phone, keys and wallet in hand, I broke into a run, discovering in the process that she was being chased by a guy.
This guy was running at me like he was going to run me over. A boldness I have to admit that I admire, but having played contact sports from the time it was legal for me to hit someone, I was no stranger to this sensation. In fact it was extremely familiar. One of my favorite feelings that I can remember was laying my shoulder into some poor mutherfucker who had the misfortune of being smaller than me, wrapping my arms around him and driving him to the ground; feeling the air escape his lungs and the fuckin’ fight retreat from his soul. As this current mutherfucker barreled toward me, I lowered my shoulder, wrapped, lifted his feet off the ground, and drove him to the uneven, gravel-ridden pavement of the alley behind NoBar.
I then situated myself in a completely dominant position on top of his waist, just below his stomach, finding the time, and energy to calmly place my belongings in a neat stack off to the side where they would not be crushed in struggling with this piece of trash. I was prepared to get into a scrap; start throwin’ ‘bows, as it were. But none were thrown at me, so I only took hold of his wrists lest he reach for some weapon I had not seen. Any fear of that had escaped me.
The mutherfucker in question then proceeded to plead, beg and implore with who I would later discover was his ex girlfriend whom had since filed a restraining order against him, while I was on top of him yelling at him him he 1)wasn’t going anywhere and 2) that it was far too late for forgiveness. The only thing I managed to hear from her was
“Keep him down. Please don’t kill him.”
He screamed that he loved her and that he was sorry. I once again screamed at him that it was too late for that until I finally had the chance to look up and see clearly the face he was talking to.
Her left cheek was swollen as if she was keeping a baseball tucked inside her cheek, and blood was running out the corner of her mouth, down her chin. I clamped the bottom of his jaw in one hand, the back of his head in the other, and made him look up at her.
“Look! Look you piece of shit! Did you do that? Did you hit her?” I had never felt my voice that genuinely fierce before. It felt good. It felt really good. The piece of trash actually replied.
“Yes.” The response was pathetic.
I reached an open palm over my head and brought it down hard across his face. I hadn’t ever struck anyone in the face with the intent to hurt before that moment. Once again, it felt good.
He continued his incoherent babbling as we struggled and I told the girl to call the police.
In between talking shit to me, saying he didn’t know who I was (chyeah, like THAT fuckin’ mattered) calling me a bitch (to which I remember getting real close to his face and screaming “I”M NOT THE ONE ON THE GROUND YOU PIECE OF SHIT”), he mentioned something about having a son.
Some sort of manic, disbelieving laugh escaped my mouth as I growled in his face, “You actually procreate, you mutherfucker?” My open palm crossed his face again, harder. Then I dug my forearm into his neck and pushed his face against the wet, gravely pavement and told him to shutthefuckup.
Sheets of drizzle continued to soak us. I couldn’t feel the areas where my skin grated against the gravel. I knew I was probably bleeding but my shins had gone numb. The struggling didn’t stop. In fact, the mutherfucker underneath me was periodically overcome with spurts of boldness, taunting me and telling me that I’d better just kill him. I could have. The thought crossed my mind of how it might feel to drive my elbow into his cheeks and shatter the bones in his face, or to bring my fist down on his nose over and over again until he was unrecognizable. But I didn’t.
We stayed in a perpetual struggle until two police cruisers showed up. They told us to get on the ground, and stay on the ground with our hands spread. Of course, almost as soon as I was off of him, this piece of shit tried to run. Fortunately, due to our yelling, we had attracted a bit of a crowd. He was cut off by the bystanders and put into handcuffs. I was asked, not told, to stand up. The reason I wasn’t told was because when an organization with authority (i.e. The fuckin’ cops) had arrived, I was docile and compliant. I had decided that whatever happened after that point was in their hands.
Two more police cruisers showed up, cuz that’s what happens when the cops show up, and compliantly, I was put into handcuffs. If you’ll permit me to brag, I was not put in one pair of hand cuffs, but two. One pair for each officer that had be assigned to hold the 6′ 240lb suspect (because at that point I was still a suspect until they got my statement). They didn’t know what was going on, my pride wasn’t hurt. After a minute or two, the cuffs were removed and my statement was given. My hands and shins were bloody as I suspected but the falling rain felt good and a dirtbag was in custody.
I cleared the lights of the last police cruiser to see my beautiful friends coming around the corner from the bar. The first thoughts I could muster were something like “Oh good, they know I was involved” and “don’t worry, I’m ok” and “I could use a drink.”
I’m recounting this story because I want it to muster a vigilance in men everywhere. If asked I’ll tell it again and again.
The world is filled with piece of trash human beings, particularly on the male side of the species. There are males (not men) who think they are owed something, that women are weak, that they can take what they want without consequences, that they can take liberties without being called out.
I’m asking you, men of the world, to call them out. Don’t go looking for them, that’s not our job. Karma/The Universe/God/Whatever You Believe In holds the balance of the multiverse in its hands, that’s what will seek them out. Our job is to remain vigilant, remain aware and to act when (not if) the situation arises. However big, or small, Act against the bullies of the world, for they know not their place. It’s next to every other human being.
Things said, things done by shitheads to anyone will not be suffered while I live on this earth.
I ask you to join me.
Until the next time, cheers Beautiful People,