Blaming Gangster Rap and Al Sharpton (A Short Story)

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“You’re playing too much gangster rap,” Scott said.

The evening’s DJ night at Bohemian Spot was over. At the bar’s register, Scott handed Don his pay.

Scott owned short brown hair and wore a beard.

Don owned chocolate-brown skin and wore a goatee.

“I don’t get it,” Don said. “Weren’t people dancing all night?”

“Yea, but you have to admit,” Scott said. “Things have been slow.”

“All of Downtown Sanford has that problem.”

“Yea, thanks to troublemakers like Al Sharpton.”

“That was months ago when Sharpton came.”

“He hurt Sanford.”

Scott’s words annoyed Don.

“Let me get this right,” Don started. “Some guy kills an unarmed kid. A kid who wasn’t causing any problems.”

“He was casing homes,” Scott said.

“That has never been proven.”

“Yes, it has.”

“No, it hasn’t. George Zimmerman stalked and killed an unarmed kid who wasn’t causing any problems. Then, he didn’t even get arrested. Yet, you expect people not to bitch about it?”

“Nobody gives a shit about a punk kid. Sharpton saw the opportunity to pick on Sanford. He’s a race baiter, man.”

When Don heard the words “punk kid”, he felt like decking Scott.

“Whatever,” he said.

Don walked over to his DJ equipment and started packing.

Then, Scott said, “Just stop with the gangster rap, dude.”

Don remained quiet and continued packing.

 

As he drove home, Don’s anger boiled inside of him. He still fumed from Scott calling Trayvon Martin a “punk kid”.

Yet, Don still wasn’t backing down from his beliefs. He still believed the controversy over white George Zimmerman killing black Trayvon Martin kept people away from Sanford. Maybe, the rallies scared some white people away. Maybe, they feared attacks by black folks hell-bent on revenge. Maybe, some folks refuse to spend their money in a city they see as racist. Who knew? Yet, the truth was obvious. Ever since the controversy, fewer people were seen in Downtown Sanford businesses. Bohemian Spot was no exception.

Oh, that’s right. Because of his mixed heritage, many news outlets were calling George Zimmerman a white Hispanic.

Another thing, Scott’s accusation of gangster rap was bullshit. Tonight white girls couldn’t get enough of the music Don was playing. Over and over, they kept requesting hip hop songs.

Maybe, the white girls were the problem. Maybe, Scott was pissed because those same white girls were ignoring his ass.

Thinking about Bohemian Spot, Don had second thoughts about going back.

 

The next afternoon, Don was enjoying a meal at Pizza Buffet.

His cellphone ranged. He saw the number of Bohemian Spot’s owner.

“Hello,” he answered.

“I heard you were playing a lot of gangster rap last night,” the owner said.

All of a sudden, Don lost his appetite.

The owner was Vivian Miller, Scott’s mother.

“All of it wasn’t gangster rap,” Don said. “It was a mixture of rap music.”

“People aren’t digging your music, Don,” Vivian said. “How about we go back to playing whatever?”

“You remember what happened with that, don’t you?”

“What happened?”

“When I played whatever people wanted, some folks kept picking music nobody wanted to hear. Don’t tell me you forgot about those guys who kept asking for metal all night.”

Don never forgot it. As the whole crowd was upbeat and happy, some dudes continued requesting angry metal music, music that killed the happy vibe.

Oh yea, typical of young white patrons who requested music all night, those fuckers never tipped.

Because of the constant metal requests, Vivian allowed Don more control of the music.

“Don,” Vivian said. “No more gangster rap. Unless the patrons ask for rap, don’t play it. If they ask for it, you play one song. Next, you go back to playing pop music.”

“All right,” Don said.

Then, he clicked the phone off.

The talk about gangster rap continued pissing him off. Like he said earlier, most of the rap Don played wasn’t gangster. Most of it was dudes saying “nigga” and “bitch”. Gangster rap usually contained graphic violent lyrics, music Don rarely played.

Then, to himself Don said, “These people wouldn’t know gangster rap if it shot a bullet in their ass.”

 

Later at home, in his bedroom, Don was sitting at his desk. With his laptop, he was scrolling Facebook. A post by his friend Shelly caught his eye.

George Zimmerman is a racist murdering thug. I hope he goes to prison for a long time.

Shelly was a young brunette who sometimes attended Don’s DJ nights at Bohemian Spot.

Don looked at the comments responding to Shelly’s post. He saw Scott’s comment.

Too many black youths embrace hip hop culture. Hip hop culture promotes violence and disrespects women. Trayvon Martin was the perfect example of today’s black youth. He was a black kid who embraced hip hop’s violent culture.

When he DJs Bohemian Spot next week, Don wondered what was going to happen. He feared he just might knock the fuck out of Scott. After accusations of too much gangster rap and Scott’s racist Facebook comment, Don again started having second thoughts about returning to Bohemian Spot.

 

The next day, Don was on the phone with Vivian again.

“I’m going to have to let you go,” Vivian said. “I’m sorry; people just aren’t digging your music.”

“Whatever,” Don said.

Immediately, he clicked the phone off.

 

The next week, on the night he was supposed to DJ, Don drove by Bohemian Spot. He was curious on how well the night did without him. Yet, as he peeked inside, he saw something odd. He was expecting to see Scott at the bar counter. Yet, he saw the blonde-haired Vivian.

Also, the bar was almost empty, worse than Don’s DJ nights.

Don parked his car and walked to One Love, another Downtown Sanford bar.

As he drunk draft beer, a light-skinned black dude sat beside him. This was Joey, a regular on Don’s night.

“Did you hear?” Joey said. “Scott got arrested.”

Don’s faced formed a nasty grin.

“What did he do?” he asked.

“Strangled his baby mama.”

“You got to be shitting me. The same guy who badmouthed hip hop and Trayvon Martin strangled his woman?”

“Yep.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. They got rid of me because they said I was playing too much gangster rap.”

“That’s bullshit. If you ask me, I think the reason you were booted was because they were trying to be cheap. They didn’t want to pay a DJ.”

“That’s because they were losing money. Customers complained about Vivian’s idiot son. Yet, she kept him there. But oh no, their losing money was all gangster rap and Al Sharpton’s fault.”

Joey started laughing.

Then, Don said, “I feel good tonight. That hypocrite racist piece of shit is in jail. Let me buy you a beer, bro.”

photo credit: Kaylith Zeurra Official Gangsta Fair – Photo contest – Kaylith Zeurra via photopin (license)

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Rain Continues Ruining Attempts to Mow the Lawn (A Short Story)

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“You’ve got a jungle growing out here,” Marvin said. “You need to cut the yard, Anson.”

Marvin was standing at the door of the house. After visiting his older brother Anson, he was now leaving.

Marvin’s brown-skin was a shade lighter than Anson’s.

Anson looked at the yard. Marvin was right. The yard needed cutting bad, especially with weeds growing up beyond a person’s ankle.

“I mean,” Marvin started. “You’re supposed to be the yard and plant expert.”

True enough, Anson had worked in a retail store’s garden shop for several years, which gained him knowledge about plants and yard work.

“I had so much on my mind lately,” Anson said. “I’ll get to it.”

Then he looked at Marvin.

“See ya, bro,” he said.

“All right,” Marvin said. “Take care, Anson.”

After closing the door, Anson figured out a plan. Right now, it was too late to cut the yard. Tomorrow was Saturday, his normal day off. First thing in the morning, he’ll cut the yard.

 

When he woke up the next morning, Anson heard the rain drops overhead splattering onto the roof.

“Oh, Christ,” he mumbled.

He looked out his bedroom window.  Rain poured over the backyard.

A thought ran across Anson’s mind. Even after the rain stopped, he knew it was not a good idea to cut the grass. From experience, he knew wet grass clogs the blades and turns off the lawnmower. When this happened, he constantly had to remove the grass and pull the string at least twice to rev up the lawnmower’s engine again. Today’s plan for cutting the grass was now cancelled.

On his cell phone, he searched online for the weather forecast.  The forecast for the next day predicted rain for the afternoon.

Tomorrow morning, Anson decided he’ll again attempt mowing the lawn. The ground might be drier then.

 

Later that day, his cellphone ranged.  The phone showed his buddy Sean’s phone number.

“Hey, man,” Anson answered.

“What are you doing tonight?’ Sean asked.

On the other side of the phone was a bald white guy around Anson’s age, fortysomething.

“I don’t know yet,” Anson said.

“Keith Craig is in town tonight.”

“Oh yea?”

“He’s spinning at Eruption. A huge crowd is supposed to show up.”

Keith Craig was an Orlando DJ, who was now internationally known.  At a small joint called the Love Factory, Anson remembered seeing Keith Craig playing house music back in the nineties. Back then, Keith sported long brown hair. Now, he sported a bald head like Sean.

“You wanna go?” Sean asked. “I’ll pick you up.”

“Yea,” Anson said. “I’ll go.”

 

Because of a wonderful time at Eruption, Anson slept from early morning right into late afternoon. Just like yesterday, he woke up to raindrops falling on the roof.

Again, the day’s plan for cutting the yard was canceled.

 

The next day after work, the weather cooperated. Not one drop of rain fell.

In the garage, Anson poured gasoline into the lawnmower. Finally, he can cut the damned yard.

Then, his cellphone ranged. Anson took the phone out of his right jean pocket. On the phone, he saw his Uncle Ellis’s phone number.

“Damn,” Anson said. “Now, what the hell does his annoying ass want?”

Anson answered the call.

“Hello?” he said.

“Hey, Anson,” Uncle Ellis said.

“Hey.”

“I need you to do something for me. I need you right away.”

When it came to favors, Uncle Ellis never really asked. It was always I need you for this and I need you for that.  Instead of asking, the favors seemed more like orders, which always crawled under Anson’s skin.

“Are you there?” he heard Uncle Ellis say.

Anson wondered why the man never told Marvin the things he needed done. Besides, Marvin was the primary beneficiary of Uncle Ellis’s life insurance policy. Anson thought because Marvin was his favorite nephew, Uncle Ellis should be calling Marvin all the time. Yet, here he was calling Anson, the number two on his life insurance policy. In other words, unless Marvin dies, Anson wasn’t going to see a penny.

“Anson?” he heard Uncle Ellis say.

“Yea,” Anson said. “I’m here. What do you need me to do?”

Again, another day of cutting the yard was canceled.

 

The next day after work, Anson finally gained the freedom to cut the yard.  No rain fell and nobody ruined his schedule. Yet, Anson didn’t stop at the yard. The long summer daylight offered him enough time to also trim the hedges growing on the front right side of the house.  Also, with enough time, he weeded the small rose garden existing under the house’s front window.

Afterwards, Anson cooked himself a steak dinner including green peas and mashed potatoes. For the drink, he served himself a glass of Sprite.

Over the meal, he prided himself on today’s accomplishments.

 

The next Saturday, Anson drove over to Marvin’s place. Because he was in the neighborhood, he decided to drop off some mail.

Even after his moving out, Marvin was still receiving mail at the house, a home he and Anson both inherited from their late mother. Yet, Anson was the main one taking care of the house’s responsibilities. All Marvin ever did was run his big mouth about what needed done, things like cutting the yard.

As Anson drove up to Marvin’s rented home, he looked at the rose garden in front of the house. As a favor to Marvin’s live-in girlfriend, Anson planted the garden. What used to be a well-trimmed garden full of lively plants were now weeds and dying roses.

Hot steam rose inside Anson.

After parking and getting out of his car, Anson walked over to the garden. After looking at it again, his foot ached to land right up Marvin’s ass.

When Anson ranged the door bell, Marvin answered the door.

“Hey, bro,” Marvin said.

“What happened to the garden, man?” Anson asked.

“What?”

“The garden. Last week, you did all that talk about the yard at Ma’s house. Yet, here I see y’all didn’t even take care of the rose garden I planted for you.”

“Well, man…”

“Uh huh, talking shit as usual.”

Marvin looked away from Anson.

“Look,” Anson said. “I brought some mail for you.”

Marvin opened the door wider.

“Come on in,” he said.

 

photo credit: SFB579 Namaste British Summer via photopin (license)

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Cruising Confederate Park’s Men’s Public Restroom (A Short Story)

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During the evening at Orlando’s Confederate Park, Dan drove his car into a parking spot. Aged 43, grey strands showed in Dan’s brown hair. A white polo shirt covered his beer-bellied body. Also, he wore light-brown slacks and grey loafers.

For a few moments, Dan sat in the car and stared at the public restroom. Like typical public restrooms, the spot presented two entrances, one side for women…and one side for men.

Dan looked at his watch. The time was now 9:07 PM. He knew the restroom closed at 10 PM.

In the past, Dan used to take his daughter to Confederate Park. When he used the restroom, he always saw the solicitations for sex acts written on a restroom stall’s wall.

Recently, protest over the name “Confederate Park” continued to rise. The word “confederate” offended many people. Because the Confederate South fought for the continued enslavement of African-Americans during the United States Civil War, many people thought the words “Confederate Park” promoted white supremacy.

Dan thought the protest was bullshit, complaints from oversensitive people.

Yet, during the rising protest, friends and acquaintances told Dan men really did meet at Confederate Park.

Dan opened his car door and walked out. With the remote button on his key-chain, he locked the car’s doors. Next, he headed towards the restroom.

When he entered the building, he looked around. Nobody was there, which handed Dan relief because he didn’t think he could go through this.

He always remained quiet about his homosexual side. Once during a Miami business trip, he ran into a young Hispanic guy at a bar, an olive-skinned guy who said his parents were from Cuba.

After some drinks, Dan invited the Hispanic guy to his hotel room to smoke pot. The guy took him up on his offer.  Yet, smoking pot soon led to kissing. Eventually, the kissing led to the bed.

After that encounter, Dan never saw the young Hispanic guy again.  Also, he forgot his name.

There were more business trip encounters like that. Yet, Dan always kept those encounters secret.

Cruising public restrooms was a first for him.

Figuring no one was showing up, Dan walked out of the building. Then, he looked around. His eyes wandered over the empty playground. Then, they wandered over the empty basketball court.

Dan looked at his watch again. Now, the time was 9:24 PM.

He walked back inside the restroom and decided to wait.  If nothing happened, Dan figured he would just come back another night.

Suddenly, a thought hit him; cruising public restrooms was a crazy idea, something beneath him.  Dan thought only low-lifers cruised public restrooms, sickos who didn’t have the decency to rent a room.

Again, Dan walked out. Again, he looked around. He still didn’t see anyone. Yet, he was glad nobody showed up. The idea of cruising public restrooms continued sickening him. Those sickos probably didn’t even use condoms.

When he was almost to his car, the sexual cravings continued swirling inside Dan’s body. Then, he thought the heck with it.

Dan turned around and headed back towards the restroom.

Inside, he saw a black stud washing his hands. The stud wore a blue t-shirt and faded blue jeans. Also, he wore white leather sneakers.

The stud turned around and looked at Dan.

“Hi,” Dan said.

“Hello,” the stud said.

Dan never tasted “chocolate” before. Yet, this didn’t mean he never would.

“I heard this is where I can find some action,” Dan said. “If you know what I mean.”

The stud smiled.

Then, Dan said, “I’ll give you twenty bucks for a blow job.”

Then, the stud asked, “You want to pay me twenty bucks to give you a blow job?”

“No, I was thinking I’ll give you a blow job. Then, I’ll pay you twenty bucks.”

“Let me see the money.”

Dan pulled out a twenty.

Then, he said, “Right here. A nice twenty dollar bill.”

Then, the stud pulled out a police badge and said, “You’re under arrest, buddy.”

 

Soon, two other plainclothes cops arrived. Both were white guys, a dark-haired guy and a redhead.

The redhead sneered at Dan.

“Well,” he started. “If it isn’t Dan McGuire.”

“You know him?” the black cop asked.

“No, but I know about him. Representative Dan McGuire. Voted against a gay rights bill.”

The black cop looked at Dan.

Dan lowered his eyes towards the floor.

Then, the black cop said, “Are you kidding me?”

Dan looked at him.

Then, he said, “I thought you were going to rob me.”

“What?!” the black cop said.

“You’re a huge black man. I offered you oral sex because I thought you were going to harm me.”

The black cop looked at the redhead cop.

Then, he said, “Can you believe this shit?”

Then, the redhead said, “Unbelievable, isn’t it?”

 

In his office space, Detective Bobby Jones was being interviewed by Heather Vandenberg, a brunette female reporter.

“My partners and I were in the area investigating a burglar case,” Detective Jones started. “Then, I noticed Mr. McGuire walking out of the bathroom. He turned around and walked back in. I saw him do this two times. Next, I told my partners I was going to the restroom.”

He continued the story about the interaction between him and Dan McGuire.

“I had no idea who he was,” Detective Jones continued. “I didn’t know until one of my partners mentioned it. I’m just shocked. A guy who voted against gay rights was caught cruising a men’s public restroom.”

 

Days later, in front of the building containing his office, Dan McGuire held a press conference. A small crowd of reporters stood in front of his podium.

“First, I want to thank those who continue supporting me, “Dan said. “I am now going to answer the accusations aimed at me. Like I mentioned previously, I feared for my life. I thought the undercover officer was going to harm me.  He was a big guy. For saying that, I was called racist.

“It angers me when accusations of racism continue to haunt Republicans.  Just because I’m a Republican does not mean I’m a racist. Accusing me of racism is nothing more than neo-liberal smear tactics.

“Republican peers have asked me to resign. I will not resign. I will fight these charges against me. Why? Because I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Next, Dan raised his right index finger in the air.

With his finger moving with each word, he said, “I…am…innocent.”

photo credit: Darwin Bell clear and easy instructions via photopin (license)

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My Blog Address is Now Patrickscottbarnes.com

Even though the service is free, I got tired of looking at wordpress.com at the end of my blog’s address.

Also, experience from a previous blog taught me domain names bring more traffic.

Another thing, you won’t be seeing ads on my blogs, unless I’m getting paid for it.

Since I had the money, I figured why the hell not. Go ahead and get a domain name. Plus use a name Central Florida folks always recognize, my full name.

No more Patrickscottbarnes.wordpress.com.  Now, it’s Patrickscottbarnes.com.

To celebrate, here’s some booty pics. Enjoy!

Latina Booty Pose at Orlando's AeroShowing Her Back at Orlando's The BeachamClosing Time Booty Pose at Orlando's The BeachamBooty Shot at Orlando's The BeachamBackstage Booty at Orlando's The BeachamWearing Red at Orlando's The BeachamUh...somewhere in OrlandoLatina Booty Pose at Orlando's The BeachamBackstage Backshot at Orlando's The BeachamEbony Booty Pose at Orlando's The Patio

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75 Multiracial Photos of Orlando Nightlife Women

These pics are from the following Orlando Nightclubs: Aero, The Beacham, The Patio, The Social and 64 North. During the weekends, I am hired to photograph these places.

Enjoy the pics.

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Selfie Pics with My New LED iPhone Case

Last week on Amazon, I ordered a Neatday LED selfie case.  You place the case on your iPhone.  Then, when your camera phone is in the selfie mode, you turn on your case. Next, the LED light from the case provides enough light for a selfie pic, a good thing for taking selfies in dark areas.

I first used it on a Thursday night.  Then, during my weekend photo gig, I used it.  I need more practice with taking selfies. My eyes are always aiming elsewhere.  Anyhow, enjoy the pics.

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50 Multiracial Photos of Orlando Nightlife Women

Friday and Saturday nights, I photograph four Orlando nightspots: The Beacham, 64 North, The Patio and Aero.  On these nights, The Beacham plays mostly hip hop. The Patio plays a mixture of hip hop and pop music. Music from the Patio is heard inside 64 North. Aero, a rooftop spot, plays electronic dance music.

Sundays, I photograph both The Beacham and The Social. On these nights, The Beacham plays current Latin music. Also, hip hop and reggae is played. The Social plays the traditional Latin music.

Currently, I use a Canon 80D. From my camera, I Wi-Fi some pics to my iPhone. On the iPhone, I edits pics using the free photo app Snapseed. Then, I upload the pics to Facebook.

For the blog, I retouched some photos using Photoshop’s Lightroom.

 

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