Role Model

Every once in a while in my nephew’s presence, I’ll notice him staring at me and smiling. Studying my behavior, watching my every move as if to mimic it later. He’s looking up to me if you will.  I’m his uncle, Godfather, and role model. Three titles I’m honored to have and do my best to uphold. I’m assuming the feeling would be amplified if I had sons and daughters of my own.

Fat Joe and Lil’ Wayne might be able to make it rain money, but that doesn’t impress children. Doesn’t impress  my nephew. When he was younger he thought I could actually control the weather and make it rain or make it stop. Beat that. He outgrew that notion, but still he innocently thinks I can do anything. Whenever he discovers the things I can’t do he laughs in disbelief and surprise.  My inability to swim or dunk are currently his favorite things to laugh about, but I’m still a superhero in his small eyes. I must admit, it feels great.

With all of this in mind, I can’t help but to wonder about the hundreds, thousands, or millions of men who run away from this responsibility. It doesn’t make sense to me. A common excuse is that they  grew up without fathers. I could be wrong, but I would think that would be motivation to step up when their turn comes around.

I don’t like to put everyone in the same tiny box. Maybe some men have their reasons for abandoning their children. Maybe even, they spend the rest of their entire lives regretting it. Unfortunately though,  what isn’t shown will always remain unknown. More importantly, what we should realize is that whatever the reason, good or bad, the kids may never understand. Even when the kids become the adults, they may never understand.

I must go now. For the time being he also thinks I’m a NBA 2k11 legend and is requesting my help. Unlike controlling weather, this I can at least try to live up to his expectations.

- Vic Louis

Famous

I was watching music videos the other day. Had my feet up, enjoying the great feeling of paying off a nut-pinching loan. A video by Big Sean(?) came on and I saw that the name of his album is “Finally Famous.” Despite the album title being a bit of a stretch and far too soon, the word “famous” stuck.

I figured there’s a few ways to become famous. Be rich and act clueless (apparently America loves that), play professional sports and dominate, get a high government position, get a low-key government position and get involved in some scandal (usually adultery or taking bribes), become a movie star, create an electronic device that the world acts like they can’t live without, sleep with someone important and release it to the media, become a serial killer, be a head mafia figure and elude the FBI for years. Ok, after thoroughly thinking it through, there are more ways that I first thought.

Anyway, although I desire to write great scripts that agents and viewers will love, I’m all set with the negative attention that sometimes comes with fame. I’m quite content with the fact that something comes up if you Google my name.  I’ll just take that and the money, please. I don’t want to be harassed by paparazzi. As obnoxious and stupid some celebrities look when they attack a paparazzi and break their camera, I can’t really blame them. Imagine if you were just trying to cross the street while picking a wedgie, and a bunch of strangers are snapping photos of you. Some photos in which will be used for negative purposes. I like my privacy and don’t appreciate anyone who would go out of their way to invade and/or expose my personal life. My family, my health, my relationship, is all personal and I should be the only person who decides who that information is shared with. It shouldn’t be left to any schmuck with a camera.

2:53pm

My mind is a weather vane, going in which and every direction the wind blows. I can’t do anything to stop it, it’s too high for me to reach. My thoughts are unstable. My confidence is flimsy. What was once built with bricks is now held up by sticks tied with sneaker-laced knots.  A simple decision like which pair of boxer briefs to wear, takes minutes when it should only take a second. I change my shirt five times before I even leave the house. Don’t ask me why since I have no one to impress. I don’t because I ceased to exist three years ago. Three years ago from this very day.

It was a warm and sunny Sunday. Though it sounds like the opening to happy story, it couldn’t be darker. There was nothing different about that afternoon, but before the short-hand struck III on the clock everything would change. I wasn’t there, but I might have well been.  Seeing it on the news, reading the police report over and over again left a permanent image. A bad movie stuck on replay, no stop button to push, no power plug to pull.