mistadobalina

the character of a city is really about the characters within it, right? i wonder who's the local flavor for oslo? who gets people shakin' their heads in san salvador? who rocks the streets of addis ababa spoutin' duran duran lyrics for cash?

more importantly, what old coot lived in prehistoric times to become the town crazy when everyone around him was bashin' heads, rapin', and shittin' themselves?

oh yeah, he was standin' upright. duh.

washington post, 2008

mr. mark doesn't have enough lyrical memory to be mr. marky mark in your town.

i missed the bus

does anybody else start their calendar year in september? i can't really get past thinkin' september is the beginning of the year. years and years of that panic, anticipation, renewal, and hope that one fine lady in my home room class would take my virginity has led to me greeting the big s month with the same degree of newness. i don't know if i'll ever get past it. i still sit on the metro in those first few days of september, hoping that a lady from my new "home room" will take my virginity. i'd substitute the location for work, but since i'm self employed, i've already already banged the secretary and the boss. usually around 3pm on wednesdays after tisha campbell pops her head in on a rerun of martin.

washington, dc, 1996

mr. mark would love to have his new home room in rio. as in vanessa del. nasty.

my favorite things

what's the strangest thing a human can collect? i'll tell ya, it's otha human beings. that's why you don't see it so often. when it comes down to it, most humans be grabbing all the other resources, but spend their lifetime tryin' to get space between them and otha humans. and definitively, a slave owner and a serial killer aren't necessarily human collectors, since their desires aren't in keeping their collectibles well kept.

no, no. i'd say the closest you'd get are foster parents; the folks i'd really like to see on antiques roadshow. keep doin' yo thing.

taiwan, 1989

mr. mark has no idea why his dad thought stamp collecting would be a good idea when he had a perfectly good hobby of keeping bugs in jars. duh.

no endz, no skinz

damn. those battle scars from the pre-adulthood days of crushes and heartbreak stay with you forever. i can get over a bad date as a 30-year-old. but the time i put into ana j., the big bootied argentine...boy those memories haven't faded. she was too nice to me, because it gave me false hope for a day where we'd she let me touch her butt while we tango'd (i of course envisioned wooing her with a surprise tango routine...jaw would drop, her knees would shake, a muscle flex or two would rip my shirt). when she gave up the digits, she set me up for failure. again, envisioining long phone conversations where she'd ask me to recount the amount of times i'd seen the goonies, or how many pairs of glasses i'd been through in my 8 years since having them. instead, i was offered a constant ring tone and her wonderful mother who apparently never knew where her daughter was. i eventually made it over to her place one night to smoke pot and listen to blues traveller and argentine folk songs. and while i watched her play guitar, smilin' at her mistakes, i envisioned a time where i would be with a queen who would be playin' songs for me, askin' me about my life, and letting me pat her butt freely.

i didn't envision askin' her to be quiet for a little bit and takin' my hand back so i could grab the remote and turn up the last few minutes of no reservations. damn, why you be so annoyin'?

go back to your 16-year-old mind at times. it'll make you appreciate your booty grabs better.

rockville, md, 1995

mr. mark wonders why you have some chinese family still tellin' mr. mark "there no ana here" whenever he calls, ana?

crossroads

where's the place you can say you've seen heaven? i mean, you can't be all that cynical...there's gotta be a spot that just made sense to you. the andean crests of south america? the utopian environment of tibet? the hometown bbq's of your youth?

i've had about two dozen moments in my life that i can say i've felt real peace. i keep searchin' and there's so much that gives me a real passivity here on earth. i go back to a moment i witnessed a year ago. my stepfather was bein' teased by my family. he was surrounded by his wife, stepchildren, and grandkids. playin' with the grandkids a bit, they went runnin' around and started screamin'. my mom shot a sarcastic note to everyone, "probably can't wait to get some peace when you get up to heaven." we laughed and the moment passed. my stepfather smiled and quietly nodded. he spoke to himself while lookin' at his grandkids and i believe i was the only one that heard these words expressed so calmly, "no need. i'm already there."

enough to make a brother weep, right? i started thinkin' about my moments and sometimes find myself watchin' a three's company rerun, don knotts doin' his thing. and there i go. "no need. i'm already there."

mendoza, argentina, 2006

mr. mark didn't cry just there. it's mad dusty in here, yo. that's all.

"comin' to you live from somewhere..."

we goin' live! hip hop from mom's basement will be live on stage thurs., july 30, 2009 at
source
1835 14th street NW
9:00pm

it had to happen eventually

washington dc, 2006

Episode 7- Scorpion Fingernails

Hip Hop From Mom's Basement from Mr. Mark on Vimeo.

they get me everytime.

cession at da doghillee

if all dogs go to heaven, do we have to pick it up there too?

even in the former soviet bloc you can't get away from it, son.

prague, czech republic, 2009

mr. mark is thinkin' that everyone's poop gets picked up in heaven. even pavarotti's.

peaceful journey

i finally figured out that kids are a way of acceptin' death. i mean, it's the one way to ensure your legacy and feel like you left somethin' behind. and there's an ethereal quality in knowin' that.

i would, however, have my kids sign contracts to ensure that they don't fuck up my legacy. like, no branch davidian style theatrics, no franchises developed that sell burgers, yogurt, or tacos that have zany spanglish names, and absolutely no pictures of them in tevas or birkenstocks. unless i have jesus as a child. and as a latin, that may be a possibility.

brooklyn, ny, 2003

mr. mark would like to talk to bruni about what disco smelled like.

Episode 6- Bathroom Graffiti

Hip Hop From Mom's Basement- Bathroom Graffiti from Mr. Mark on Vimeo.

oh, the mystery that is woman...

"that's when civilians were made of metal"

self portraits. how do you see yourself? i think it's a good exercise to try every once in awhile. you'll find some real surprises with what you find ineffable in your character.

like the fact that you're a muthafuckin' vampire robot, son! damn...fresh like '87, suckas.

md, 1983

mr. mark is not affliliated with skynet, people. his shit's all about peace...occasionally breakin' into vending machines and bitin' kirsten dunst's neck.

paparazzi

there are some times in life when you just wish cameras hadn't been invented.

chapel hill, nc, 2009

mr. mark's nightmare periodical would be called "scarred" and it would have multiple pictures of early teen acne.

faces

we hear about opposites attracting. we hear about similarities attracting. what happens when partners physically look alike? i saw this one couple recently that looked like brother and sister. i would've figured they were until i saw their hands in eachothers back pockets grabbing a little muffin squeeze. different strokes, but if you're looking for intimacy that is a mirror reflection, isn't it cheaper buy yourself a shish taouk, say some vain words, and grab your knob at home? oh, mr. mark, who are you to comment on love? but, it just bothers me, yo. like in this creepy, angelina jolie way. did we all forget about that, by the way? she looked like she was nailin' her brother for awhile and then had her boobies all up in billy bob's mittens. we're forgettin' some weird things about her, peoples...

don't call me out on jealousy either. i'd freely admit if i had the likes for ms. aj. now, ms. katheryn winslet. that's one brit i'd throw a shot in even if it was in the family.

damn, yo. i've said too much again.

la paz, bolivia, 2006

mr. mark would never like to be invited to the house of yes.

you know my steez

i've said it before and i'll say it again, i wish that black "x" from a night out impressed the ladies as much as i thought it did 14 years ago.

washington, dc, 1995

mr. mark no longer has people come up to him for autographs. it just happens. and they just happen to be related to him.

case of the pta

woody allen and groucho marx always bringin' up "never wantin' to belong to a club that would have 'em for a member." i'm thinkin' i wouldn't wanna belong to any club that would have me as a teacher. you don't have to be in a classroom to pass on guidance and whatever wisdom you possess. these kids out there...they're sneaky, yo and they grab any nuggets of info they can out of you. five of 'em will come at you with questions to which you have no answer. what are they trying to do? would i really know what the size of a white dwarf is? i don't know how to stop an epileptic fit. will i marry your grandmother? not without a picture first, dog.

it's called entrapment and kids mess will fuck with you time and time again.

washington, dc, 2008

mr. mark is waiting for any former students to come out of the darkness one day with their autobiography "nonsense: how mr. mark lied to me."

be true to yaself

one of the saddest things i see is when older guys and gals occupy the social scene with looks that reflect what the opposite sex found attractive when they were 13. it's funny, but a lot of men neglect to realize that women aren't as interested in six packs, long hair, and a laissez-faire attitude towards the principals of the world when they've dated the lot and realized how much it actually makes them think you're ridin' the short bus. loads of men forget that most women are pretty fuckin' smart and will go for sumthin' that resembles real attraction (intelligence, wit, talent, just a damn good man). the only similar thing that women want from their 13 or 31-year-old man is confidence. and when you're rockin' that long hair, prepubescent legs (shaved), and the attitude of a ne'er do well...your confidence is locked for sho...in that you're 13 in the body of a 31-year-old.

be yourself, dog. you as a 13-year-old was charming. now you just look like a tool. get off that short bus, yo.

the source, 1992

mr. mark does have one rayon shirt left in the closet, hon.

lookin' for the perfect beat

i kind of miss sneaking out, don't you? things were given a lot more resonance when you had to earn your travels. going out doesn't seem so alluring now that i don't have to grease the sliding window to my bedroom so that it doesn't creak when it opens. i don't have to search for someone who has a small resemblance to me to use their id to get into something. and i no longer have to wear a scarf for days on end because of an unfortunate hickey that i "earned" from wendy g. under the bleachers of paradox in baltimore on a sweaty august eve (yup, try wearing a scarf in the swampiness of a midatlantic summer). no...friday nights now provide big crowds, douchebags who are ready to hump my girlfriend on the dancefloor while i take a leak, and a massive bar line where i have to squeeze in to order a $15 red bull and vodka.

i kinda think i earned my fridays with a computer i paid for, some tikka masala which i put my money down on, and rest, a snuggle session, and a shitty jerry lewis movie with a gal that i earned my keep with. it may be boring, but it's about as real as a sneakout mission and i get to showcase the hickey's however i want.

baltimore, md, 1996

mr. mark hits the town on weekdays when he can practice his moonwalk on empty dancefloors.

labels

lists. what's the hardest one you'd have to make? i'm thinkin' it's more of a 20th century invention. when you used to have a life span of 32 years, you didn't really concern yourself with figurin' out what the best in life could be. you shoveled coal when you were 8, married the last mcdougal sister when you were 17, and pushed out a few puppies before you even knew how to categorize what form of plague you'd be least excited of dying from.

nowadays, we can't stop ourselves from creatin' desert island musts, when really in the face of survival, you ain't gonna be concentratin' on which frank zappa album you'd best. our lives are pretty cushy, yo.

i do have to say that the long goodbye, for a few dollars more, and his girl friday are kinda prime picks after a long day of shovelin' minerals. good lookin' out, quentin.

unknown, 1994

mr. mark should be on your top five list.