Friday Morning

I haven’t seen RomiE since Pride, which feels like forever, but has only been a couple of days…I got to smooch him last night. After work last night I came running over bouncing from bus to bus and smooched him square on his noggin…more than once, actually… and in the vicinity of everywhere.

Actually being that it is Friday morning, I have the morning off from school and he has a half of day at work.

Summer school started on the 7^th. I’m taking one class; Sociology 201—3 credit hours; Monday, Wednesday and Thursday mornings. I'm working to get some of these Gen.Ed's out the way. As of today I’m believe I’m fairing rather well; there was a paper, done—a presentation, presented, and a midterm, passed. Plus the teacher likes me. Which shouldn’t fraction into deciphering my grade, but having the teacher like you tends to make their grading quill a tad bit more lenient. Praise God.

But RomiE should be on his way home…with pizza. Giordano’s deep dish.

I invited RomiE to my family picnic on the fourth with my dad my brothers and all their relatives who are VERY straight. My Sweet Pea, Aaron Garrett Popcorn, is tagging along with me this year too. I invited him last year and he seemed to enjoy himself well enough I thought what the hay, it won’t be fun without Aaron this year, so he’s coming. My lesbian is going to be there. She’s like family anyway, so it’s more mandatory that she goes, esp since my VERY straight brothers are exceptionally fascinated by that whole woman-kiss-coochie thing, they insist that she come. Pussy is way too extreme of a body part for me.

And talking about extremes, Brownberry, the bread people, have this whole wheat bread that Jerome and I bought in bulk January, and it’s been sitting on top of the microwave ever since. Well just last night as I came scampering from across town to view my Brown Baby, I was hungry. There wasn’t too much in the fridge and the options even lessened in the cabinets but we had eggs and there was that bread. Two months ago, when I came to my RomiE’s hungry I looked at that bread and said it HAD to be spoiled. But when I opened it there wasn’t moldy spore in sight. So I ate it. Last night when I saw it sitting there, unmoved from the last time I had moved it, I KNEW it had to have sprouted fur and became a liquid…but it hadn’t. Quite the contrary, it was still wheat bread. So I ate it.

But I wonder, and this is probably a question I should pester the folks at BrownBerry with: How is your bread doing that?

I looked to see whether or not the bread had been doped up preservatives…but it hadn’t. Or at least the packages didn’t admit so. And I would like to believe Mister BrownBerry wouldn’t falsify such information. I would sue. Maybe BrownBerry is really what wheat bread should be like. Maybe REAL wheat doesn’t spoil….EVER! I guess the only creatures evolved enough to survive a nuclear bombing are roaches and BrownBerry wheat bread. This is something I definitely have to look into. I’m curious. It’s been half a year and That bread is still standing.

RomiE's home...

Not your Hair, huh?

What she'd be better off humming is: I'm not this album.
Has anyone heard India.Arie’s newest CD, Testimony: Vol. 1, Life & Relationship?

It has been “tradition”, as farfetched as I can stretch that word, tradition, to buy and support India’s work since her debut in 2001. In fact, a little Ken trivia for ya, India.Arie’s Voyage to India was the very first album I ever purchased—Acoustic Soul was burned. But the objective was that I had THEM. I was collecting them. Like trinkets, I was savoring them…for posterity…for my grandchildren. Alas.

My sister, who loves me, but could never bring herself to admit it, Karen, bought me the CD. It was on sale at Circuit City. And after reviewing Testimony: Vol. 1, Life & Relationship featuring the hit single, I am Not my Hair, lets just say….India, please, kick it up a notch! Even the title is wordy. VomiT!

But in the weather today, on the home front, my lesbian is going to teach me how to swim this summer. Supossidly I’ll be taking my first dive into the pool at Ridge Park this Sunday but there’s been debacle about going to the Taste of Chicago and Rainbow Beach in the spirit of gayness on Sunday. The park’s opening hours cascade with the other events. Alas. I haven’t purchased a pair of swimming trunks yet, so If by Sunday swimming is till up for debate we’ll just reassign Lesson 1 for next week.

But in the weather today, on the personal front, I did go shopping as I promised myself. We (as in myself) bought shoes, T’s, socks and drawz…so far. I shelled out 300 bucks for 7 pair of jeans and 3 pair of khakis…4 pair of which didn’t fit/and or I didn’t care for the style, at Gap.com, so they MUST go back; and FootLocker, where I, of course, purchase some foot gear, stiffed me twice on a pair of Sketchers I’m itching to sneak my feet into—they’ll be arriving Tuesday.

As for the underwear, the collection is starting off small and modest. Very modest. As of now I don’t own a fancy pair of anything yet, everything’s still boxer brief-ish. I’m still getting warmed up.

Words. Words? Words!!

It’s actually a part of my Columbia College Curriculum as a Fiction Writing major to envelope myself with words—immerse myself in the landscape of the language. Since I FAILED a core class last semester, due to lack of progress, due to inadequacies in my performance, due to Polly not granting me my grade, I would like to jump start junior year by familiarizing myself with a body of prophetically-appealing, thought provokingily auspicious, everlasting, ever-growing list of words that I would like to formally introduce to you as, in laymen’s terms, the Good Word List. Take a gander!

Suspect, Douse, Con, Par, Deterrent, Deviant,

Posh, Sham, Soot, Priority, Galore, Corroded,

Stained, Drained, Fussing, Mandatory, Demolish, Ample,

Sway, Glop, Gouge, Spit, Vomit**, Rump,

Pinch, Zap, Mayhem, Bada Bing, Garble, Burbling,

Sort, Tussle, Pluck**, Quark, Acquire, Fraudulent,

Beseech, Brie, Gaudy, Opt, Belligerent, Deliberate,

Repent, Cure, Wares, Bother, Nimble, Slander,

Formula, Morose, Mundane, Error, Evade, Avenues,

Gruesome, Genesis, Genocide, Guts, Adage, Belch,

Interrogate, Kudos**, Privilege, Moonshine, Haggis, Sever,

Hippie, Stingy, Perhaps, Scrooge, Moxie**, Ruckus,

Clap, Surge, Alas**, Jabbed, Roped, Meager,

Render, Muck, Murky, Herald, Puss, Twit,

Snuff, Alleviate**, Candor, Cocktails, Calamari, Duffer,

Automated, Leggy, Decipher, Implosion, Damaged, Deranged,

Verbal, Cornball, Acorn, Syphilis, Arose, Bladder,

Burst, Unzip, Spite, Smitten, Debacle, Squalor,

Smug, Nifty**, Thus & Such, Embellish**, Arbitrary.

If you’re dying to know a secret—I’m not one to gossip, but if you’ll listen I’ll tell ya—I hate that picture.

I’m sure you’ve all seen it, esp those who keep themselves abreast of all the Ken and RomiE trivia there is—bouncing from blog to blog—flipping from mine to his and, initially, vice versa. If you’re itching to know something about Ken, Mister Brown’s “estranged” other half—Ken hates that picture! I mean really…?—Look at it! Of course RomiE is as fine a brown as any boy can aspire; but me?—I look like a fag! Which doesn’t really say much provided that I am quite the homosexual, and though a gurL mustn’t be made to reveal all her secrets, that picture is quite the blabber-mouth.

But sure… I love ‘em.

When he first posted the picture I immediately went into objections, Please, I asked him, take it down, its ugly. When he saved it as the backdrop for his desktop, I again obejected, please, I asked him, take it down, YeRomiE, its ugly. But because his head is so full of meat (which is a running joke between RomiE and I about how, when he wears caps, he can never quite reason his head underneath the hat) he clearly refused on both accounts.

As of today they stand as monuments in place of, in remembrance for, what “was” and the possibilities thereafter, the pictures on his blog and desktop. And however no one’s gathered enough nerve to call Jerome out on it and say: Hey, Mister Baby, I know you’re mourning over what you “think” has ended, but that picture, Jerome, is bogus! Please take it down, I understand that it’s more my responsibility than anyone else’s and since I can’t fathom denying him what he feels is so pretty, I now advocate that he keep them up.

I salute you, even, by posting the picture myself. Hoorah!

I don’t think it’s over. What I think is that you’re concerned about me riding off into the sun with some large man with chocolate nipples and you wanna make sure that doesn’t happen during your lifetime. So by “getting your man back”, which infers that you lost him, you can prevent me from leaving. What I’m needing to stress is that I’m not going anywhere, baby. You haven’t “lost” me. That picture?—the one that I hate so much, is tolerable because I know we’ll be around to take better. Rushing into something that we’ve, primarily, you’ve insisted couldn’t work, or isn’t working, twice, is risking another high altitude of hopes for crushing a third time. I love you Jerome. Love doesn’t die after divorce nor does it “accelerate” after marriage. I would like to take my time with you, is what I’m thinking. I would like for you to take your time with me. We’re both scrambling to figure this out and finding nothing for the solution. But if I’m to honestly listen to myself, the advice my head’s been feeding me, and the promise I made to myself to listen to that advice, I’m thinking we deserve time.

I need a new look. I’ve been wearing the same beard and overalls since the days of Yonder, and I’m thinking its about time to shed some of these old feathers.
My mother has always told me if I ever decided to carry an empty cup downtown I would make a killing with the change.

But the problems been I’ve never been a dresser; not even remotely fashion inclined. I’ve never cared for clothes that way. Fashion’s always been to hard to follow: today Tyra’s wearing *Pip* tomorrow she’ll be wearing *Pop*, who has time to keep up! Please understand I’ll enchant and bedazzle when necessary but I’ve arranged my lifestyle to never require such a wardrobe. I think my best outfit is when I’m naked but I’d be fined and arrested had I aspire to look my best everyday. Chicago wouldn’t understand.

So what I’ve done is stay modest. Very modest. I’ve been shuffling around Chicago in the same kicks for 3 years now. Of course neither shoe has a sole, and they’re both sporting a reputable mark that looks somewhat like a hole but they walk comfortably for having serviced me a billion miles of sidewalk.
I think being beautiful on the inside was more my focus. <------ which is such a lie!!!

I told this one guy, who was normally use to seeing me on special occasions up to par, that, after he caught me roaming Chicago in less than adequate attire did he approached me later to remind me just how inadequate I looked that, upon him punctuating his sentence: Ken, you looked homeless (Period) did I remind him that the beauty of my spirit has always and forever out weighed the beauty of my face. *snap*

Sure that was crock of Hippie shit but the ideas were valid, beauty should come from within and shine outwards versus you finding it on sale.

I’m poor!! I can’t afford prada shoes! And even if I could I’m really afraid of being conceited. Its easy to fall in that whole Diva-Fag-MeLLoDramatic mindset. RomiE had taken me shopping ONCE and I RUINED the entire dressing room snapping my fingers at the attendants, demanding to see more. More, damn YOU!!!

Diva! I don’t think the earth could handle me.

What I need to do is begin small, purchasing only the staples of a good wardrobe—the necessities…the needs. Starting with underwear. I want a good collection of underwear cuz I don’t have any. I’ve worn my little man-panties so thin they’re sheer. So that’s where I’mma begin.

I’m thinking boots, I’m thinking coats, I’m thinking T’s and Polo’s, I’m thinking Marshalls and Tj Maxx! I’m thinking FootLocker, 2 pair for $89.99.

Lets see what happens.