Episode 11- Honest

Hip Hop From Mom's Basment- Honest from Mr. Mark on Vimeo.

as jim morrison whispered to martin sheen at the beginning of apocalypse now...

reflections

it reverses as we get older, doesn't it? i don't know how many younga pictures of me i grabbed and threw in a drawer whenever i had a tenderoni over during my teen years. actually not too many since i didn't have many honeys come over during my teen years...but i practiced.

regard to the less, mom spent much of my childhood with a camera locked on me. must not have been too different from your youth. i don't know why the look of a child in a bathtub doesn't disturb parents...they just keep snappin' away. collections and collections of me. not that i ain't flattered, but when the sausage starts out as a slice of salami, you don't need a visual recollection of the journey.

nowadays, the parents are the kids. you take care of 'em and there you are with the camera clickin' away.

mom cookin' thanksgiving feast. -snap-
mom playin' with grandkids. -snap-
mom asleep in waiting room while elderly hubby is operated on. -snap-

wait. gettin' old's kinda sad and scary. maybe she don't want that recollected to her.

washington hospital center, 2008

mr. mark will never get old 'cause goonies don't die.

aaron hall says...

who'd be your guidance giva? we get scared about askin' for it, don't we? actually, we talk ourselves out of everythin' sumtimes. that fear grabs a hold and before you know it, you've convinced yourself that you're gonna stay in the banking game, you ain't gonna take that long-awaited trip to tonga, and you won't find a way to meet get a date with the ice queen at work. but surprises await are there to curb them fears.

my southern french ami, antoine, went to cannes years back. young filmmaker that he was inspired to receive guidance from anyone who would listen. met tim roth at the screening for the film he directed, the war zone. swallowed up that fear and asked mr. roth if he had time to talk with an aspiring artist. mr. roth took mon ami out to lunch the next day and provided guidance and a hollywood tab to an unforgettable lunch.

give yourself some huevos, people. time to make your life yours.

esquire, 1994

mr. mark will never talk himself out of buying that cardigan again. it was the lead singer and it was for charity.

regulators

there's an age that you reach where your some of your artistic tastes match your parents. and that ain't too bad. gotta admit that there are some mature pieces that you couldn't fully appreciate when you were fillin' in your peach fuzz with a sharpie. i gotta tip my hat for keepin' me informed about mr. blades...

however, there are artistic choices that you make as an adult that even your parents prove their weight in cool. a david cassidy collection? even my parents would've chased me outta hill valley.

san juan, puerto rico, 2009

mr. mark and steely dan. don't hurt him.

black nostaljack

there was a time when memories were allowed to be that. apparently, the future won't allow nostalgia. not when you can view your favorite childhood movie as a director's cut at the drop of a dime (it was cloak and dagger and it sucks as an adult). not when you visit where you lost your virginity via google maps (it was the bench in front of wendy's and it's got a guy with a soul asylum t-shirt sittin' on it). and not when you can reconnect with someone on facebook who should've stayed a memory since it's depressin' to find your cherished pot buddy now holdin' down fort as the assistant manager at ruby tuesdays (and he's still rockin' the long hair minus a lot of folliclelage).

damn you technology. you make my memories smell like poo.

nyc, 2003

yet, mr. mark looks better than before. and he's just gettin' started. owwwwzah!

retrospective for life

one of the toughest things about bein' a parent has got to be your own sense of failure with your kids. your kids screw up, that gets forged into you screwing up. i don't blame too many people for not wantin' them. we're so messy as human beings, i can't imagine having to raise someone in my image. unless you're really cool. if you're tony hawk, toni morrison, or tony the tiger, that's an image that would be pristine to be under. and if you're tony the tiger's son, what's the legacy you create? frosted flaked drink?

now i'm just confusing everything. maybe some of us should remain abstinent.

gaithersburg, md, 2006

mr. mark would know every tactic that his kids would pull to sneak into the house.

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.

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.

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.

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.

throw your set in the air

my gang is literary, son. you step to us, you gonna get an a-m-y-t-a-n sign your way.

book clubs be adults way of claimin' yo set.

santiago de chile, 2006

mr. mark's crew will meet tomorrow to discuss gettin' all up in that salman rushdie book signing.

the cure for stagnation

what's your refrigerator door test? we all have our skepticism for our triumphs, but if you had to be your own parent and grab one great accomplishment to post on your door of life, what would it be?

that thrilling photograph you took of the perfect sunset? your two wonderful children? maybe just a highlight reel of unwittin' your neighborhood bully in 7th grade? the need for validation...it never leaves.

parents fuck with your skull, yo.

ocean city, md, 1998

mr. mark's workin' on gettin' more magnets first. uh-uh, ain't limitin' him to just one, son.

Episode 4- Paternity Testin'

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

Mr. Mark do it better than Povich.

who am i?

do we ever stop wanting to be someone else as we age? i would say that we get mad comfortable in our shells as we mature. you get to know yourself and understand your qualities. really, what makes you unique. and that's beautiful.

but then you find yourself lookin' at that older guy sittin' next to you at ben & jerry's with a much younger woman, thinkin' "that can't be his daughter." and it can't, dog, 'cause no father stares at his daughter lickin' an ice cream cone like that. and that just depresses me.

get a grip. treat that midlife crisis in your 20's, kid.

the source, 1992

mr. mark thinks cellulite is becoming, forgotten milfies.

protect ya neck

after 30 years of life, i haven't broken a bone. and i don't know if that's somethin' to be celebrated or criticized. i mean, a broken bone really says somethin' about your character and your past. you adventured. you played sports. you hopped fences when you weren't supposed to. a broken bone doesn't happen when you're safe, or when you play life vicariously. a broken bone doesn't happen when you aim for high score in altered beast or when you think things through during an argument rather than punch a brick wall. a broken bone means you obey traffic laws, you don't ride a bike in the city, and you pay your dues on time. a broken bone prevents you from repeating certain mistakes 'cause a broken bone is a life lesson.

but it looks like it hurts too much, yo.

san francisco, ca, 1998

mr. mark does get shin splints though.

rollin' with kids and play

what do you do with your saturdays now? we were all linked with the cereal and cartoon explosion up until a certain point. I quit around the time kid 'n play got into it and i found out that cap'n crunch wasn't a real cap'n (hint- cap'n is spelled capitano). hormonal time was malltime and lazy saturdays dancing in front of a video camera. the 20's were for sleeping off hangovers and then chasin' 'em again later that night. where are we at now? yard work? shopping at ikea? ny times crosswords and npr?

i'm thinkin' we all need to revisit our saturdays with cartoons and video camera dancin'. as adults, our weekends should sound like paul simon, but that doesn't mean you can't get down to animated interpretations of "still crazy after all these years." god, i love that song.

get out that camera and dance, son.

potomac, md, 1991 & 1995

mr. mark would like to know where he should plan on getting a new chaise next saturday.

hey lover

sometimes i feel like there was more of a formality to our relationships when we were younga. i like you, you like me, put a check in the box, make fun of me in front of my face, whateva. but now, we put all these signals and shit in front of everything.
"what does this mean?"
"wait 8 days before calling."
"he left the condom inside me."
well, some signs are easier than others. regardless, it'd be nice to go back to the earlier method where a simple "i like you" and check in a box set you on your path before "i love you" and profolactic scavenger hunts became a meaning for so many different things.

potomac, md, 1992

mr. mark would like you to check "yes" or "no" to liking this blog entry.

smooth operator

there was a time when we all thought we were untouchable and the camera's shutter click was a masturbatory signal that heaven had been captured.

and then we look back and realize we had the wrong wardrobe.

stupid kid. hook up some kenneth coles and bring your digi into the 3rd floor of club love, son.

potomac, md, 1991

mr. mark would actually like to find his san antonio spurs starter jacket again. he don' wanna catch no cold.