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.

on my block

if it's the moral issue concerning the legalization of drugs, how come we don't get up in arms over the saturated fat kingpins of the fast food circuit? i mean, the contents in most of our fast food establishments kill more people than the use of recreational drugs and creates a large degree of waste in our environment.

maybe i just wanna see the hamburgler, wendy, and that burger king slangin' on the block. i figure hamburgler carries a ruger around in his pants, while wendy gets her crew to chainsaw competition. the king guy...i don't know. i could just see him smilin' while he slices up miscreants like the dahmer that he is.

city paper, 1995

mr. mark eats at subway since jarred lost his big poppa status.

reflections

how often are you told you look or are like this person that your friend knows? i don't know how to take it either. they could be talkin' about this guy from their high school that they used to call "duck boy" who would never change his socks. i don't think we'd want that. you have the right to investigate these things. if someone is willin' to make that claim, then they have to be willin' to show proof. if you're not satisfied with the results, then you can ask them to get their life together because they're projectin' their negative image onto you.

just don't say it in front of duck boy. he'll cry into his socks and that moisture is jus' gonna exarcerbate things.

boston, ma, 1998

mr. mark thinks you do look like an angel though.

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.

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?

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.

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.

love sick

ouch. that's the impression we get as we get olda and date. yum, yum is the sound that comes out of our mouth searchin' the magazines and media images feulin' our young minds into believin' that luv is around the corner with any suitor or suitress that we fancy. ain't gonna happen.

but you gotta earn those bruises on your own and that ain't sumthin' that i'd teach the young people about. you gotta realize what's important in your partners. you can get someone with a good heart to turn tricks for you in the bedroom. you can't get a good heart out of just anyone.

really, you just want someone who's gonna laugh at your jokes, smile at your foibles, and call you out in the most lovin' of ways when you get to that asshole moment. the sentence "baby i love you" is wonderful. however, when the statement "but, you're being an asshole and i'm leaving now" follows after you've been actin' a fool, that's real. and in reality, the two of you shouldn't have to tip toe in the relationship and if they can call you on your shit while givin' you strength, you gotta keep that, dog. and that ain't sumthin' you're gonna find in the pages of a magazine.

nonetheless, i'm still here for you theresa randle.

esquire, 1995

mr. mark no longer believes that angie harmon will scratch his back on a sick day.

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.

put your head out

amazing the fazes we go through in our teens- underground music...lying...vandalism...suicide attempts...

the source, 1992

mr. mark thinks parking garages are an adult way of rekindling that last option.

the night scene

if there's a heaven, are there underground scenes up there? for some reason i picture angels to be the ultimate in gettin' the scoop. that's why they always on your shoulder whisperin' in your ear, dog.

washington post, 1997

mr. mark doesn't think you should trust any club called "angels" though.

i'm the magnificent

as a kid, it was somethin' with a kung fu grip in the backpack. as a teen, it was usually a wethered condom in the wallet. as a young adult, it was a license carrying your own home address on it. now...well, we still got them things we keep on our person to showcase who we are, whether it's true or not. keys with some euro auto emblem blazin', a few pics of your kids, that same condom. shoot, maybe that'll never stop. you end up walkin' with a cane by the time you're ready to go and we all know the kind of stroll that's called.

i carried this joint in my back pocket my senior year provin' how cool my weekends were. hopefully, nobody smelled the bluff.

washington, dc, 1997

mr. mark carries his cell phone on him. he just wishes it would ring.

crewz pop

in tribal life, are there subcultures that scoff at the actions of the majority? is there a small group of outsiders in the amahuaca tribe sittin' on the sides, watchin' a tribal feast, and saying somethin' like "no wonder the world hates us?"

friendsville, md, 1997

mr. mark likes the idea of living in trees. that's all.

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.

who? me?

maybe comedy is the ultimate cultural exchange. laughter goes a long way in sharin' our experiences and findin' a path towards understandin'. even if that laughter is stemmin' from your observations of crowd and performer-

"you white folks are out of your fucking mind."

pittsburgh, pa, 1998

mr. mark only lets you pull his finger for a laugh. a pez candy will pop out.

who me?

what's the great cultural exchange? some say a trip to the third world will benefit both you and the occupants. i don't think you need to go that far. i think just as much can be said with a trip to a southern juke joint or a pilgrimmage to a black comedy club. i think white people need to get over their fear of findin' out the truth about how they do things-

"white people read a blog like this, 'wow, this is interesting. reading is just such a thrill.'" (push up fake glasses, wait for laughs)

it's called insight, y'all.

laurel, md, 1996

mr. mark's white half listens to burt bacharach records after writing his blog entries. his brown side hums to celia cruz.

the formula

if you could party with any celebrity, historical figure, or fictional character, who would it be? i feel like a lot of you would say holden caulfield, but he's such a drag. slick rick would be a hoot. wallace shawn made a whole play out of a dinner with andre. i'm thinkin' a civil rights wife, like a betty shabazz or coretta scott king. probably really good listeners, probably could get down to jr. walker & the all stars, and they've probably got your back the whole night. but really, i just wants a good listener.

and someone to share my steak fries with.

washington, dc, 1996

mr. mark would be tempted to share his evening with einstein if he can hold his liquor.

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.