Movie

TAOTFH: Heaven’s Boogie 2: Alpha and Omega

Humble thineself…

DVD cases litter the floor around my cot. The Karate Kid sat, opened and beaten from years of wear. Rocky III served as a top for a plastic cup filled to the brim with discarded sunflower seed shells. The Space Jam label has long since slipped out of its plastic sleeve and found its way elsewhere, presumably the trash can of one of my bunkmates. Three years have passed since my first and second deaths, and the subsequent recollection of my first dance-off in Heaven eats at me nonstop. My mind immediately recalled the dubious nature of my defeat to Jesus, ultimately costing me a space in Heaven. Three years…three long, frustrating, grating, discontent years have done nothing to make me any more consolable; I grew more apoplectic as each day slogged along. I ejected Stomp the Yard from my laptop, and ran my thumb across the trackpad until I pulled up a date saved and marked urgent in my calendar: January 20, 2018. My right eyebrow twitched slightly; it was the only demonstrative representation of what echoed in the annals of my mind. Jesus will be on the receiving end of the most merciless and vengeful beatdown He has-and will have-ever experienced. I never broke my gaze from that calendar as I reached for The Dark Knight Rises.

This committee, comprised of the 12 Apostles of Nazareth, was not able to come to a unanimous decision regarding your acceptance or denial into The Kingdom of The Lord…

Jesus was a sucker for that, man. And also, how the hell was it fair for Him to be judged by His dusty group of sycophant, cowardly moochers? I’d like to think that if you gave your Boy up to the Feds after He spent the past 10-plus years feeding you bums, the least you could do is act like His Twist is innovative and fresh. You think The Outlawz ever told Tupac he rhymed ‘Hennessy’ with ‘enemies’ too often? No, they shut up and let Pac pay their Pacific Bell bills. I saw John’s face during that battle; it was the hollow enthusiasm of a man grateful for the free meals but tired of them all being unleavened bread. He seemed the most likely to be swayed. At one point, he placed a clenched fist over his mouth, stifling laughs as I pretended to spin Jesus’ head on the floor while doing a Bob and Weave like a St. Lunatic. I figured if I could get any type of stalemate, there would be strong consideration for letting me past those gates. John was my best hope.

How many special people change?

How many lives are living strange?

Where were you while we were getting hiiiigh?

Was it my youth and its expected ignorance? Was it the social awkwardness that was misconstrued as antisocial and discriminatory? Was I just an asshole? How did I wind up here? Did I not respond to my texts quickly enough? I know who Stacie Lane is…does God have a problem with Stacie Lane? I feel like that’s His problem, not mine. I own my shame, God (if that’s even Your real name); perhaps You should do the same. You sat there and saw Your Son appropriate my culture and beat me based on a group of His peers emboldening said appropriation; I saw You bend Your arm, looking to nestle Your pasty face into the fold…

Slowly walking down the hall

Faster than a cannonball

Where were you while we were getting hiiiigh?

For three months, I became Bruce Wayne in that underground prison. I ran around the entirety of the large square compound, envisioning my calf muscles willing my legs to push through the sandy California shores alongside Rocky and Apollo. I did ab crunches upside down from the bunkbeds adjacent from my own cot like a young Curtis Jackson, furiously preparing for either a battle or a brawl. But mostly I sat. I sat on the edge of that cot, glaring at my laptop screen. Rage burned the tip of my earlobes as Jesus’ immaculate portrait stared back at me. A ring of light shown about His entire upper body, and my pupils projected the hellfire that churned about in my stomach. The other tenants in the Purgatory Appeals Program walked about daily, and, without a word, acknowledged what we both knew to be true: win or lose, there was no way I would be returning.

Jesus threw His robe into the overzealous audience and Steve Jobs dropped the beat…

That’s when I realized it was all a demeaning and twisted construction designed to humiliate and shun, not to humble and genuflect. Shattering disappointment sent waves through my lower body, causing me to stagger slightly toward the dancefloor. My focus, once singular, ricocheted throughout the entirety of my psyche and made my shoulders droop heavily at my impending embarrassment and exile. It became abundantly clear: THIS was the purgatory that was described to me upon my arrival into the Appeals Program. However, there would be no proving myself worthy of living forever amongst the blessed; there would only be the opportunity to lose at the hands of Jesus every five years (unless I die immediately upon my return to Earth). I danced my heart out, vacating my thoughts and ignoring the faces and snickers of a crowd in on such a cruel joke. Unfortunately, my impiety never warranted Hell. No, it deserved something much harsher.

Final Round: The Fly Hobo of Uptown D.C. vs. Jesus of Nazareth

Jesus walked slowly to the dance area in a black robe and red and black Converses. Prince and Lil Peep flanked Him as Gordie Howe held an Apple HomePod over his head. “No Problem” by Chance the Rapper filled the air and Howe twirled around like one of those girls at boxing matches with the big ass cards waving about. I knew I didn’t want another battle with this Man, and I now knew I’d never ever get to see those Golden Strippers. I sat on my floating stool and took in the pageantry and theatrics one last time.

I walked slowly toward the center of the dancefloor, shaking slightly. I could make out the faces of so many people I revered during my lifetime, from Alicia Tyler to the old Taylor Swift. I had a scorching desire to walk amongst them, but found composure in the realization that I would never be able to. Jesus and the shimmering aura that followed Him stood three feet in front of me, and I knew what I had to do. As He extended His hand in a hollow and condescending gesture of sportsmanship, I held back tears while my left fist hurdled towards His perfect jawline…

I didn’t stop swinging until He was on the ground. The tears fell freely now, and I reached for a set of brass knuckles I had stashed in the inner pocket of my joggers. The next blow landed clean across Jesus’ nose, sending His holy blood and mucus onto my t-shirt. Another shot caught Him directly in His mouth. The crowd looked on, stunned frozen at my audaciousness. But no one dared intervene. They- much like Jesus- understood exactly what was happening: I had enough of their system. I stood over a bloodied Messiah and through puffy, welling eyes, watched Him mutter in a hushed and forced voice, “you don’t have to do this, My son…”

I blinked back more tears and raised my fist again for one last blow.

“I never had a choice.”

“Wake up the dawn and ask her why

A dreamer dreams she never dies

Wipe that tear away now from your eyyye…”

It had only been about two days since arriving here, but I know I did what was necessary. This home is not ideal, but I broke the vicious cycle that would have been my eternity. The lesser of two evils is evil itself, and not the evil that lurks behind veiled intent and dishonest promises. I’m oddly content at this realization, and it allows me to carry out my days with some sort of purpose as I toil away. No longer present are the daily Sisyphean efforts disguised as penance. What lies all around me is tangible self-actualization, and with that, peace.

And someday you will find me…

Caught beneath the landslide…

In a Champagne Supernova in the skyyy…

Read Part One Here

Jesus knows my heart; He also knows these hands intimately. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

The Beating She Deserves

I ain’t go to reason with her; I want to beat the hell out her…

If she has the nerve to agitate me, then it’s within my right to remind her that I’m not above showing her what I’m capable of, right? I feel demeaned; like less of a man, even, when she stands there with the comfort to tell me what I CAN’T do. What recourse do I have at this point? She’s bringing this on herself.

She wants Sanaa and Omar. Beating her because I love her makes all the sense in the world, and I really don’t care if you understand. That picture she’s been clinging to went from an ideology to a tangible goal…with me. I’m just as taken with her, too. It’s just…it’s just…I just can’t tolerate disrespect. I wasn’t raised to tolerate it, and I have to prove myself as a man. She left me with no other option.

Believe me, I’ve gone through every situation at least twice before I decided she deserved to get her ass beat. Of course the general public won’t condone this behavior, but they don’t understand that our situation is one that is unique and very sensitive and dear to me. How can I provide the security, masculinity, and passion she desires if I back down now? I can’t. And I hope you understand; if you don’t, I apologize.

She wants Sanaa and Omar. You know, that conflict that drives them apart, then together forever. Beating her because I love her makes all the sense in the world, and I really don’t care if you understand, if I can be totally honest with you.

The courts knew and supported my decision. Hell, they cleared an area and turned a blind eye when I finally went through with it. Not a single word was uttered to either of us as I lifted my right hand again and again, smiling victoriously at every hit…

Am I less than a man? A coward, perhaps? Circumstantially, how could you ever know or judge? Do I not deserve the benefit of the doubt, as well? She chose me; I was just fortunate enough to register on her radar. For that, I am so grateful. However, I am steadfast in my decision to beat her senseless…

She wants Sanaa and Omar. You know, that conflict that drives them apart, then together forever. She chose this game, and will suffer dearly for it. Beating her because I love her makes all the sense in the world, and I really don’t care if you understand; this is OUR issue, not yours.

How can I do this to the person standing before me in my shorts and a t-shirt that refused to hide her belly button? Her bun became an unkempt mess trying to avoid this and, while it turns me on, I refused to stop. I just hope she understands she deserves this. I can only hope she gets why this is happening to her. She asked for it constantly.

She wants Sanaa and Omar. You know, that conflict that drives them apart, then together forever. She chose the game, and will suffer dearly for it. She wants to play for my heart, oblivious to the fact that she owned it already. But I guess beating her because I love her doesn’t make any sense to her; YOU don’t have to understand, but I hope one day she does.

I guess she thought I’d be “cute” and let her win. Nope. Ain’t no friends on this basketball court. Although I do love when she fouls me…

I hated it had to be her; I love the post-game showers though. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Blackface

I’ll get to Dear White People in a second, but in honor of Halloween, please peep what is quite possibly the greatest Twitter exchange EVER (read from the bottom up):

Okay, back to what I was saying.

Dear White People was supposed to be a brilliantly biting satire that held a mirror up to White America to let them know they could be kind of ugly at times. I really wanted to seek out the first white person in the theater, sit beside him, and cast knowing glances in their direction after each resonating scene. The movie was supposed to end with me standing directly in front of the screen at its conclusion and yelling ‘see?!? Do you get it now?’ with my arms crossed to everyone and no one at…the…same…damn…time. This was supposed to be a film that was ingenious in its creation and flawless in its presentation. Dear White People was supposed to be writer Justin Simien’s Tour de Force, and it is…in the previews. It’s not that Dear White People missed its mark; I’m just not sure what the hell they were even aiming at.

Without giving too much away, the story centers around a group of college students at a majority-white Ivy League school. The focus is on four in particular: Coco, a woman from the South Side of Chicago that eschews Black culture and has a myopic view on what it actually MEANS to be Black; Sam, a rebellious Mulatto woman entrenched in Pro-Black idealism; Troy, a well-to-do son of the school’s Dean of Students; and Lionel, who is just gay. Because gay is the new Black (insert blank stare emoji here). There are obviously white people as well, but we’ll get to them in a few.

Now that you know the characters, let’s look into their internal conflicts. Of course Sam has a white man on the side while dating a Black co-ed to maintain her ‘All Black Everything’ illusion. Of Course Troy has a white girlfriend. And OF COURSE Lionel and his struggle with being homosexual is the primary storyline. Because gay is the new Black and TOTALLY relevant when discussing race relations (insert blank stare emoji here). CoCo just doesn’t want to have anything to do with any of them because…Black. That’s all I gathered. Nobody ever explored what led to these feelings so…yeah. That’s all I got.

In what I thought was an excellent piece of character development by Mr. Simien, it becomes apparent that Sam, the Rebel and Troy, the Company Man, share an inherent understanding of Black culture while being at either extreme in regards to their personalities and interactions. Kudos for that. Even a trashcan gets a steak sometimes, apparently.

Maybe attending a Historically Black University sapped my understanding of on-campus race relations- I admit my base of knowledge is limited here- but each of these four characters has some romantic connection with someone outside of their race. I just wonder if this is realistic and question why every character needs to have this connection, either closeted or public. Addressing inter-race relations is all well and good, but why make it such a conflict with EVERY major character? But again, maybe that’s just me.

As I said before, the primary storyline is about Lionel and his struggle to find an identity and his place on campus. Lionel is gay and his sexual identity supersedes all of the other storylines that I thought the movie was SUPPOSED to be about. This post is neither the time nor the place to speak on why Gay Rights is important; the same is true about a film entitled Dear White People. Because white people can be gay; they can’t…do I really have to expl…man…moving on…

Now let’s get to those white people. I wanted ‘These White Folk Crazy’; instead I got ‘These Black Folk Really Want To Love These White Folks But We Have Trouble Loving Each Other’. Where were the figurative taps on their collective shoulders to remind them that some of the things they do need not be done? What are white moviegoers learning about their behavior? They damn sure learned about OUR behavior. Honestly, the only thing I imagine white people took away from Dear White People is ‘Dear White People…you might not want to wear Blackface on Halloween’. And that’s a shame.

I wanted so much more from Dear White People. I expected edge. I never got my ‘see, White People? See?!?’ moment. The writing suffers from tending to the wrong audience: Black people. It becomes apparent halfway through that Dear White People is for white people in title only. It’s much safer to point out Our collective identity crisis; God forbid tilting the conversation towards the white audience. We can’t risk having THEM in disillusionment and self-contemplation. This was supposed to be Our moment, solely because Our moment finally wouldn’t be about Us. Damn shame Justin and his team weren’t brave enough to fully follow through with it.

F–k ‘Dear White People’. I hope they make a re-boot like they did with ‘The Incredible Hulk’. Matter fact, I’ll do it. Let’s call it ‘Dear White People: For Real This Time’. A.J. Armstrong is the writer of ‘Dear White People: For Real This Time’. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities