My First Job Interview in a While: Gangsta Disciples

After I escaped my job of working in a freshman dorm cafeteria by simply not going, I didn't bother to get another job, because I thought I'd get paid to write. This didn't worked so well, since while I've gotten the opportunity to scribe for you, I'm so damn poor. So, I need to get a job.
Taking into account my situation: no money, angry disposition and that I'm hoping for a shitty apartment in the city, coupled my my job skills (read: none) made me realize my ideal position. I decided to be a street gang member.
After noticing graffiti reading "74" in the bathroom of the Panda Express off Michigan Avenue, I realized downtown Chicago seems to be Gangsta Disciple turf. Now, I always considered myself more sympathetic to People as opposed to Folks, but a job's a job, and I filled out the online application. It had a bizarre ethics exam, by the way.
A few days after I had thrown my name into the hat (do-rag?) I got a phone call from my neighborhood's HR rep. His name is Tyrone, but everyone calls him "Rhino Banga," but mostly just "Rhino." He told me all this on the phone, which was good because my expression was akin to confusion and consternation mixed with a profound disappointment in myself that I had not come up with my own street name. I knew I'd have to get this and some other shit done before I had my job interview, which Rhino and I had set for the following week.
This was going to take some effort. First, I needed a handle, one that showed I was tough, but also not so white. I also wanted to build in my affinity for big asses, but that can be difficult to also make tough. In the end I chose "Wyld Copshooter," which conveys I am a joy to be around and have gunned down police officers, possibly wildly. This took me about 30 seconds to decide upon.
After that, it was time to dress for success. Since generally I dress in T-shirts featuring superheroes and jeans from Target, I knew I'd have to step out of my comfort zone a little. I'd need to think baggy. I went to Urban Outfitters, thinking the store was made for this sort of thing, like Uniform City has scrubs. I found out I was wrong, but was thrilled to find out where I can spend $30 on a pre-faded tee. After that let down, I went to a sports apparel shop. My usual sportswear involves knickers, so this would be a stretch. Knowing the GD's colors to be black and silver, I picked up an Oakland Raiders jersey and some baggy sweatpants. I considered getting some boots with fur, but opted for Nikes instead, maintaining this color scheme.

More or less the look I was going for.

Being a person who can use "laconymal" in a sentence (even though it rarely comes up), I've always thought diminutively of ethnic slang. I created a Snoop Dogg station on my Pandora and listened for about 35 minutes. I was sure I could talk street, now.
That was my first and only day of prep. I spent my remaining time before the interview drinking a variety of red wines and watching Fraiser reruns. In retrospect, this might have put me in the wrong frame of mind.
The big day was at hand. I went into Rhino's office, which was much more decorated than I expected; I didn't even know there were velvet Tupac paintings. Other than that, it was a typical mid-level manager's office:

You're on the right track. Just less honkey.

three-ring binders, a picture of the ho and kids, that sort of thing. So there I was sitting on the opposite side of Rhino's desk (which was pretty nice for plywood) and realized how nervous I was. About being shot.
"So... Brandon..." Rhino starts.
"Oh," I chortle, "you can call me 'Wyld.' That's with a 'y,' like in Wyld Style." I'm already making a good impression!
"Wyld. Okay. So, Wyld..."
"'Copshooter' is the surname to that, by the by," I say, crossing my legs at the knee and smiling as though I'm sharing a private joke with Rhino.
"'Copshooter?'"
"Oh, yes. I will be more than willing to shoot a po-leece man." I even head-bobbed when I said "po-leece." I was acting like David Hyde Pierce.
"Right. So. What makes you want to be a GD?" Rhino doesn't have the street accent I was expecting, so my brain couldn't even process the sentence.
"Huh?"
"What makes you want to be a GD?" Now that I think about it, he isn't dressed so much like a caricature from a rap video, but I chalked that up to his being a little higher on the totem pole.
"Oh. Well, I believe in your business acumen." Now I'm sporting my Alec Guiness circa before Star Wars.
"And what, exactly, do you understand this 'acumen' to be?" Rhino asks. I think he suspects I'm so full of crap I could burst.
"Drug trafficking, robbery, extortion, murder, specifically of Latin Kings, Black P. Stones, et certera." At this point I looked just plain self-satisfied; Wikipedia has always served me well.
Rhino makes a note, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, a grin I now know meant, "this son of a bitch got that off Wikipedia." What he said was, "oh, yeah, that's definitely what we're all about up in he-ah."
Sarcasm: for the fist time, lost on me. "Yup. I might even get a tattoo."
"Really? And what would you get that would show up?"
"An inverted shepard's cane."
"Because you hate Vice Lords," Rhino beams at me.
"Because I hate Vice Lords," I uncross my legs and switch knees. I've done it. I've gone full-on Truman Capote.
Rhino composes himself. "So what got you interested in this little operation of ours?"
Having done my research, it was time to name drop. "I studied the lives of David Barksdale and Larry Hoover and thought they are just great men."
Rhino dons that grin again. "And what job skills do you have that would be any good for this line of work?"
Suddenly, my heart was exploding in my ears. Wait, wait. What would Aaron McGruder write for me to say now? Umm. "I can hide all sorts of things in my body cavities."
Rhino doesn't miss a beat. "And?"
"I can shoot okay while holding my pistol sideways."
"Uh-huh."
At this point, Rhino just lets the silence hang in the room. He doesn't make a note. He doesn't even move. Under his gaze, I start getting nervous, realizing my encyclopedic knowledge is actually just bullshit. "Ummm," I say, waiting for that to fire off a synapse in my brain, which is now far too busy being nervous about either whether or not I will get a job or shot.
Rhino sets down his pencil. "Cracka, I've had enough fun. Get your white ass out of here before I shove something unpleasant in your body cavity."
He might have said more, but I didn't hear it as I was already gone.
So, that's how that application process went. In the end I spent $400 on clothes and made $0. Apparently, designer sweat pants can get expensive.
So I've been thinking, where can I go where I can have a fraternal atmosphere laced with abject senses of duty and fear, where I can shoot people, wear colors and live in deplorable conditions? Next week, I'll see if the Army wants me.
-Black Ranger

Shits with a Slight Chance of Giggles

I told my students today that they were all sheep, almost simultaneously they all baa’d in response, “no we’re not!” I asked them to explain to me in what way they weren’t mindless animals and they proceeded to tell me about their personal experiences. Unsurprisingly, after we went through four different scenarios these teens realized that they all pretty much had a collective dismal feeling, regardless of the details pertaining to their individual perils. I understood at that moment that the comment that I intended to be an insult afforded me an opportunity to engage my students and assure them that despite their differences, they were empirically not alone in their struggles but I berated them for listening to shitty music and dressing all alike instead.

I could blame my ageism for not helping them but really it’s my lethargic impersonal engagement tatics that never exceed past a student-teacher relationship. I’m finding (much accredited to my ageism) that the youth, nowadays, aren’t really worth the extension of kindness. Let’s face it, kids today live in a world where, literally, anything is possible to which I implore to many a student that “ANYTHING CAN BE ACHIEVED!” but no, it’s far cooler to have bad grades and knock up your 13 year old girlfriend which I completely abscond concern to. I fantasize that my kids are aspiring historical Purists commited to reliving second century Rome, emulating a population of a lower working class supporting a aristocracy, or in this case, capitalist graphic tee company that prints snarky tee shirts and wallets for these students to waste their parent’s hard earned cash on.

To the four “emo” students I have, I advised that they should share quotes from their “feeling” dairies to each other and possibly be alone together but no apparently two boys can’t be friends and not keep their dicks out of each other as I was told by these: make up wearing, tight jeaned, sensitive souls that my idea was too “gay”. I wrote resumes for my students and scheduled interviews at local fast food joints and movie theaters knowing that these places have the propensity to hire felons, as many of my students are. Alas, my students declined the interviews because the theater and fast food industry wasn’t a suitable “first job" environment. Obviously my job’s social demography adheres to particular mindset where education isn’t really valued but I’m not too upset because I get my revenge by selling the really bad ones to gypsies.

Green Ranger out

Things on the Internet You Should Fear #1: The ACA

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How I'm Going to Parent

Someday, because the Saffron Ranger doesn't believe in genetically enhanced designer children, I'm going to have kids of my own. Naturally, I look back on the fond memories of my childhood for ideas on what to do with my own kids. I'll play catch and Mario with them, read them Tolkien before bed and teach them how to ride a bike. I might even not laugh at them when they fall (both on the bike and in life in general).
I'll also try to avoid things I didn't appreciate so much when I was younger. I'll try to be nurturing of their interests, communicative and I will not actually sell them to gypsies; the threat will still be used, as nothing got me in line faster than being reminded of the possibility I could be auctioned off to a bunch of vagabond circus folk who would make me clean up horse shit and repair turbans.
Unfortunately for my kids, I've also gained some ideas about parenting from popular culture, which, I suppose, raised me more than my public education ever tried to. Here's some of the more important principles.
#1: Unethical Psychology
A lot of what I've seen here relates to fast food, much like Morgan Spurlock (Supersize Me) claiming he would punch his kids in the face whenever they saw the Golden Arches. This is called "Positive Punishment" because it's punishment that positively works, but only possibly alienates you from your children. While these instances amuse me, I won't embrace the notion entirely. I will not tell my kids masturbation causes stupidity or blindness, because that's wrong (being, I'm assured by my internet research, a lie). I will also tell them the truth about drugs: people will like them more, until they run out of drugs to share, and that shit's expensive. Parenting is about honesty.
It's also about fear. I'll be anywhere, the beach, the mall, the trailer park and I'll be amazed at the white trash all around me. What really wows me, though, is the parenting. Some fat woman will, without fail, be yelling at her kids. She'll threaten her kids with all sorts of harsh punishments, which, inevitably, are as lacking in her parenting as vegetables in her diet. Those little shits know, they know they can get away with it because Mom isn't getting off her fat ass to smack them or take their Pokemon cards away. It's just not happening.
This is where I'll be different. I won't threaten my kids with punishment when I want them to behave. No, I'll make them ever aware of how important it is they not step out of line. Most parents, mine included, simply always followed up with their stipulations: do that and this will happen. I don't want my children to grow up with such a cause/effect mentality. I want them to be incessently wary. They'll just be too busy to be bad. I don't mean to say I'll be like some drunken hillbilly who could, at any moment, fly off the handle. I'll just raise them in an environment in which they can always be on guard of the worst happening to test their mettle. My kids will know that at any moment, well, not so much that I'd hit them, but more that combat is always an option. They will have to be fully aware of their surroundings as they could be dangerous. Keep your wits about you and answer the riddle correctly=dessert. Incorrectly? Run a mile. It's not waiting for the other shoe to drop; it's knowing it is squared off with your (kickable) ass. This sort of rearing breeds success.
#2: WWBatmanD?
I think this is one of the most important moral questions of our time.
And it's not just for kids, either; it's for parents. When you think about it, Batman has parented no fewer than three Robins, and he only got one of those killed, and according to Meatloaf's Law of Uncaring, two out of three is reasonable.
If my child asks, "Who are you to tell me what to do?" I can paraphrase, "What are you, dense? Are you retarded or something? Who the hell do you think I am? I'm the goddamn Batman!.. Er, your Father!"
They keep making a ruckus at, well, anywhere, and I'll give them some Bat-corporal punishment.
They want to drive the car, well, no one drives the car.
But I can also teach them important lessons, like, the law sucks. I can show them that there is a difference between it and justice, but, no matter how angry we are, we need not resort to violence. I can teach them that, in Bruce Wayne's words, "...this world only makes sense when you force it to." Wait, no. I double-checked and the bit immediately preceding is, "My parents taught me something else, twitching in a pool of their own blood." Huh.
Before that, though, TDK (as his friends call him), was letting Superman know how lame he is for bowing down to any authority figure kind enough to give an order. Lesson: don't be America's bitch.
Batman actually has a biological son now, and it took him about five panels before he screamed at him. Reason? The little snot was crying about not getting his own laptop. Batman told him he was dishonoring himself and his sensei. The text was in read, which must be pretty harsh.
Overall, I think Batman is a parent's best role model.
#3: Setting an Example
I was once asked, "Brandon, if you had to chose between your kids liking Batman or Star Wars, what would you pick?"
I gave this little thought. "Both, or they're out of the house."
While I probably wouldn't be that inflexible (but they have to prefer DC to Marvel), I guess I do like the idea of my kids being like me. I like the idea of them loving the things I love because finally someone will agree with me. Which should happen more often, because I'm always right, but them's the breaks.
I want the chance to educate my children in what's important to me in order to give them good lives, to evidence the value of my own, to make the world a better place. I'll also teach them not to expect the world to go along with it.
A part of me wants to tell my kids that they will be beaten down by mediocrity, scorned for success, marginalized for talent and punished for brilliance. In this respect, Marge Simpson has offered the most succinct advice. "Kids," she said, "aim so low that when you fail, no one will even notice."
I think about his statement, and it makes sense to me. I've seen it myself, all my life. But Homer's (and, I kid you not, my own father's) words echo in the back of my mind, "OK, son. Just remember to have fun out there today, and if you lose, I'll kill you!" Regardless of the humdrum-ness of the world, kids should be encouraged to succeed. I'll just have to show them how. My only problem is, going into film, the easiest way to do this is probably with porn.
Oh well.
So there you have it, a little method to how I will, insanely, raise my kids. Mostly, I want them to know I'll be there for them, or, as Woody Allen put it, "When I was kidnapped, my parents sprang into action. They rented out my room."
-Black Ranger out

My Obscene Amount of Power Over the Ignorant

I was watching Stripes the other day, which, combined with my play-through of Ghostbusters: The Video Game, reminds me how much I love Bill Murray and Harold Ramis. There's this scene in Stripes, Ramis's best in the film, in which he's teaching ESL because he's poor and can speak English better than your average person who can't speak English. Asking the group if any of them knows some English, a timid Italian man raises his hand and offers, "Son of bitch! Shit!" Which is quickly echoed by the rest of the class. This is followed with Ramis and his students, well:
Ramis: I met her on a monday and my heart stood still
Class: They do run run run they do run run
Ramis: Somebody told me that her name was Jill
Class: They do run run run they do run run
Which qualifies them to sing along with their taxi's radio.
Which is funny shit. So, this got me to thinking about my possible post-graduation plan of becoming an English teacher abroad. [insert "study a-broad" joke here]. And while I do, sincerely, want to be paid to do something I do everyday for free (correcting people's grammar), I also want to subvert other peoples' cultures. Maybe I could go to Japan and tell the girls that they don't have to think in terms of what will make them most Japanese, but rather what will make them happy. I could tell the boys they don't have to suppress their sexuality any more than they have to exaggerate it; they needn't have nosebleeds or tentacle rape monsters. They could be themselves, honestly. Or I could tell them I'm glad America dropped the Bomb for no good damn reason and they all need to get their buckteeth fixed. Zing! I'd be like a goodwill ambassador version of Robin Williams in Dead Poet's Society, except, you know, funny and racially insensitive. But mostly funny (through racial insensitivity).
I've wondered, based on my recent cosmopolitan experiences in Chicago, how far I could take this, and if it's a humane idea. In my commuting to the Windy City I arrive at Union Station and take my lunch at the food court. While we all know food courts are havens for international understanding, the one at Union Station is exemplary, teaching me all I could ever hope to know about the world's major food-producing cultures. There's Burrito Beach (Mexicans love the runs at the beach), Jamba Juice (only black people seem to work there, which makes me think there's a racist hiring manager somewhere who assumes "Jamba" is an African thing), Pizza Hut (the traditional Italian kitchen is a thatched roof shanty) and Nuts On Main (because Americans know it isn't a real snack food 'til it's covered in candy). Best of all, though, is the "Cajun" joint. It has Chinese food. And people. And is 0% Cajun. What really gets me about this place is those people. I've come across the gift culture of Chinese people before. They are generous, after a sense, but that sense is they expect something in return for the little junk trinket they gave you that they promise they didn't just pick up in Chinatown that morning. These counter jockeys are likewise free with the food, hawking samples at passersby. What has become a joke to the commuters is the siren call accompanying the offer of General Tso's chicken, a raspy, cartoonishly accented beckoning of "Yummyyummyyummy."
I hear this most every time I walk by and I can't help but wonder, "What mean son of a bitch taught this guy English? Who told him people talk that way?" One of my first visits home from college, I referred to something as "neat." My dad bemoaned the money spent on my education if I was going to talk like that. I rephrased to "herculean," but I realized his point: there is an edge of the contemporary in not sounding like an idiot.
World, watch out. I laugh at people sounding like idiots. Ostensibly, I groan, but when a kid on the train is arguing you can't just turn nouns like "sandwich" into a verb, I laugh out how damn dumb he sounds. Imagine, I teach 60+ Japanese kids to say, "I am very happy to be undercutting your economy." Or, less subtle, "I could make some Cajun foods for yous. It's yummyyummyyummy." I'd tell them "Cajun" is the American word for "Nihongo." The "foods" I read on a tip jar at a Chinese buffet and always found it funny.
I know I'm coming down on Asians really hard, but they are the likeliest victims of bad English instruction. This is understandable, considering Asian languages are pictographical, entirely different syntaxically and inferior to American English. Then again, all languages are, because those languages didn't coin the word, "television." This gives me a sort of, oh, I don't know, Jacksonian power over my potential students, and looking at the examples of poorly-taught English in my own land, it arouses a feeling for them I suppose I feel for most Asians exploited in American culture. No, not arousal, despite the unequal representation of Japanese girls in our otherwise fair-minded adult entertainment industry. No, I'm talking about pity. Because, seriously, no one should be told it's ok to yell "yummyyummyyummy" in public.
So, I think I'll just limit my cultural sabotage to more constructive measures, like telling kids they can be creative and free-thinking. I know I could tell them that the best way to learn the parts of a car is to wash mine, but I'd just feel bad. I think it's best for everyone involved if I can just get them to lighten up a bit, and maybe they'll turn down the whole "wearing band-aids and black lace to try to stand out in my homogenous and public gang rape-loving culture" trend. Maybe I can help them reach a level of English enabling them to not be a nude sushi table. Maybe not. My conscience is still out on that one. Either way, I think I'll forego my God-given right to indoctrinate impressionable children for my amusement, and, being lame, help them realize their potential.
Unless, of course, I end up teaching in Germany. I know better than to cross those crazy krauts.
-Black Ranger