Posts Tagged ‘Ska’

Trying to Remember…

May 12, 2017
I brought a photo album that my grandmother put together over to where
she now lives which is a waiting room for death.  Assisted living is
what they call it.  It was nursing and convalescent when I was a boy.
You walk in and a room full of old people look up to see if you are
the person that they have been waiting and hoping to see.  I’m not the
guy they been waiting to see.
So my grandmother has essentially been my mother my whole life and my
mom was kind of like a mom and not like a mom at the same time.
Anyone 16 years old, should never have a child and so I don’t totally
blame her for lapses.  I go to see my grandmother when I can.  Within
the last three years, her husband died, her dogs were put to sleep and
her house was sold.  Dementia has been taking hold of her and it get’s
stronger all the time.
“Did you see my mother wandering the hallway?  She’s got two guys
that she runs around with and if they ever catch her with the other,
there’s gonna be a fight.”
“No, grandma…  I didn’t see her…  I brought this nice photo album of
your garden and your dogs.”
She looked at it as if she had never seen it before.  She thought the
dogs looked cute.  A Bassett Hound and a Dachshund, both became
adopted pets which I initially purchased for my adult daughter when
she was a girl.  It got me to thinking, how will I chronicle my life?
Nobody takes pictures anymore and presents a slideshow on Christmas or
Easter.  You take pictures on your phone and upload it to social media
and when your phone falls in the shitter, those pics are gone forever.
The only thing I hate more than taking pictures, is being in pictures.
So putting together photo albums like my grandmother did going back to
her youth, World War II, the birth of my dad and uncle, my life and
then my children’s youth, won’t be possible.  I guess I’ll need to
write shit down and let one of my kids read this stuff back to me and
ask if this stuff really happened.  I’ve had an interesting life but
then again, a lot of people have also.  They can write their own
fucking blog.  This one is mine.
To look at me, you might not guess right off that I play ice hockey .
After a few minutes, you might notice scars on my face and a cracked
front tooth and wonder how I got so beat up around the face.  Some
people ask.  Most never do.  You might never guess that I have an
upright bass and play Ska/Reggae music, sing and write the music I
play.  I am fluent in French and have surprised a few people when the
French language is spoken and I join in.  I really don’t like French
culture, French people and I’ve never really wanted to go to France.
I’ve used it on visits to Martinique and Quebec.  I have three
children.  Two by a woman of African descent by way of Cuba and one by
the other by way of Jamaica.  I know you’re thinking… Ah yes.  Black
women, Reggae…  Of course.  The woman I’m with now is white and blonde
and I’m not liberal in my political views.  With that said, let’s talk
about hockey.
B texted me and told me that for sure there were going to be two
goalies at the rink near downtown.  He’s a cop on the night shift and
I own a restaurant/bar so we play pick-up hockey during the day time.
We usually play at a rink near the airport but I decided to meet him
out at the rink just west of downtown.  The Zamboni guy whose name I
never learned, recognized me and asked me where I’ve been.  I used to
play at the rink two to three times a week.  I found skates that were
more to my liking and so I stopped going to the downtown rink.
“Everyone is at J’s skate…  You know that.  Nobody comes here on
Wednesdays.  Just then M walked in.  M, is a bus driver and is black
and a goalie.  He is a virtual Rain Man with statistics of all hockey,
NHL and minor league.  He has a voice like the Chef from South Park.
He could sing, Old Man River, with his deep baritone voice.  Next
walked in B and his friend K.  K just finished playing midgets about a
year ago.  K has good hands and a quick shot.  I talked to him about
playing juniors in the past while sitting on the bench, waiting for
our shift.  K says that he just wants to get on with life and that he
doesn’t think that juniors will lead him anywhere.  One more guy
showed up and so I decided to stay.  Two on two half ice with a
goalie.  A good work out with a lot of passing and turning.  My game
is one of passing.  I believe that there can never be enough passing.
Good things come from passing.  There is a time when one should pass
and when one has to pass.  Those that know the difference are good and
smart hockey players.  K and I played against B and young guy wearing
a practice jersey from a USHL team.  He was young, average height, had
a good shot, good speed and good hands.  He was probably no better
than K.  I covered B and K covered the USHL kid.  I passed and dropped
down to create a cycle in the corner.  If you’re not familiar with a
cycle, picture that you have the puck and you’re skating towards the
goalie.  Rather than shoot the puck at the goalie, you make a right or
left turn and skate up the boards towards the blue line.  You then
look over your shoulder and drop the puck behind you along the boards
to your team mate that is coming up the boards behind you.  You make
that pass and then circle back so that you’re now following the guy
who was just following you.  He can drop it again or cut to the net
and get a pass on his way to the net.  I did this over and over and
scored a bunch of times.  I wondered how a kid from the USHL and B who
has played over twenty years since he was a kindergartener, could not
pick up on what I was doing.  We wore ourselves out doing this for
about an hour.  I looked up in the stands and little four and five
year olds were watching us.  I looked up to a small boy sitting next
to his mother and asked him if he was faster than me.  The mother
smiled and the boy nodded.
The weather was just warm enough to lay my equipment out in the
backyard.  Nothing is better to kill the stink and sweat of wet hockey
equipment better than the sun.  It’s not a fact, just my opinion.  I
walked over to a little Mexican restaurant with the newspaper and had
huevos rancheros…  The newspaper opinion section was down on Trump for
firing the head of the FBI.  The whole Democratic Party is calling for
a special prosecutor to look into Trump’s involvement with the
Russians and the Russian’s involvement with our election.  Interesting
to note that the same politicians who were astounded by James Comey’s
firing, were all calling for his head back when he was investigating
Hillary Clinton’s missing emails, use of a private server with
government business.  Today, Trump is painted to be just like Nixon.
Nixon wanted the special prosecutor fired and had to fire someone who
refused to do the firing on his behalf.  Nixon found a man named Bork
who fired the special prosecutor.  Bork was shot down as a supreme
court justice nominee due mostly to being the hatchet man for Nixon.
So Trump fired a man the Democrats felt  had done too much and that
the Republicans felt had not done enough.  Sometimes when you’re a
nice guy, it backfires and everyone hates your and finds you inept.
Better to be respected than loved.
I finished lunch, went back to the restaurant and got ready for the
night.  Washed left over dishes from the night before, bar and dinner
dishes.  Washed the floor, set tables and then went upstairs to my
apartment and practiced the bass in preparation for a gig Friday night
at my own place.  I had a rather quiet Groupon night.  Two young Asian
girls as cute as could be.  They’ll need to be carded for the next
thirty years since they look like junior high girls now.  They had a
charcuterie plate and a few empanadas and giggled a lot through their
chatter.  Another couple sat at the bar and agonized over which wine
to buy.
“What can you tell me about this wine?”
I make up plausible bullshit.  Truth is that 95% of the people who
come in cannot tell the difference in any of the wines.  They sniff,
they swirl and it’s all something they learned in Napa.  The husband
was chubby and kind of pushy.
“What do you have that’s a special?”
I’m always ready for that question.
“Everything on the menu is really special to me…”
I know what he meant.  Looking for something for next to nothing with
his Groupon.  His hips were wider than his shoulders and he was sort
of a whiny bitch.  His wife talked to him about the fact that he stole
her pillow a few times during the night.  I’m behind the bar and feel
compelled to ask at least one question.  His wife answers while he
studied his phone.  She seemed nice and genuine and out of his league.
That happens a lot.
The last table was a chubby woman across from a MILF.  The MILF
looked like she just got done with a yoga class.  The chubby woman
looked frumpy and looked at her friend while ordering instead of
making eye contact with me.  They ate a little, drank a little, paid
their bill and then sat for an extra hour.  I often wonder what  women
can talk about one on one for over two hours.  I was just happy as
hell that it wasn’t a Thursday because Thursday night I go to play
hockey after closing up and two women loitering for an extra hour is a
definite hockey cock block.
They left and I turned off all the lights to the bar and put on the
Anaheim/Edmonton game and ate and had some wine.  When one of the
Anaheim skaters skated in front of his net, in front of his goalie and
the Edmonton forechecker shuffleboarded the shot past the Anaheim
goalie who was just standing their like a scare crow, I thought
Edmonton was on it’s way.  On paper, they have almost what Edmonton
had beck in the eighties with Gretsky, Messier, Coffey and Grant Fuhr.
The Ducks woke up and crushed Edmonton in the second period and
stymied them in the third…  Dommage.  I’m hoping for Ottawa but feel
like Pittsburg is going to repeat.
Slapshot line of the day- Maurice, you make sick when you talk like that..

Between Calais et Marseille

November 25, 2015

Seth knew he was an atheist at a young age.  Being half Jewish and half Muslim left him no choice but to be an atheist out of fear that he might have developed two personalities, each a different religion and wind up attacking himself.  It was upon the death of his father around the age of ten that Seth’s mother dropped the bomb of his life on him.

“Chaim was a very good man and he loved you like a son…”

“Mom?  Wouldn’t he love me like a son if he was my dad?”

“If he was your dad…  But he wasn’t.”

It was with that conversation that Seth learned that his real father was a handsome Algerian man who spoke perfect French, owned a restaurant and had a thing for Seth’s mother.  Soon after conception, Seth biological father sold his restaurant and moved to France, leaving Seth’s mother with an issue- a pregnancy from an affair.  Seth’s mother led her husband Chaim to believe that Seth was his son and so everyone lived happily ever after.  For about 10 years.

Seth learned to play the guitar and he liked to write poetry.  As he grew older he became aware of the world around him and became more and more socially and politically aware.  Seth had a job at an independent coffee shop where he strummed his songs and read his poetry and held meetings of like- minded people.  These like-minded people protested things like the World Trade Organization, police brutality, gay rights, transgender rights, rights of prisoners and most recently, rights of refugees to live democratically free with all the rights bestowed upon born Americans at birth.  Seth was approached by a French student who happened to be at the coffee shop the night that Seth was performing some of his acoustic songs about bringing refugees home to their home away from home in America.  It was all set up for Seth.  The French student contacted someone who knew someone who was putting together a peace rally to raise money for Syrian refugees living in tents near Calais, France.  Seth was to be flown, fed, paid and put up for a weekend in France for a festival.  Seth would be given a 30 minute acoustic set on a Friday, Saturday and Sunday, get paid and return to the United States.  It was a dream come true for pretty much a closet musician who wrote songs that almost nobody ever heard.

Seth arrived in Paris with his acoustic guitar and a back pack.  He wore a pork pie hat and loose clothing.  Seth wanted to try Absinthe while in Paris since he was a huge Hemingway fan.  After several drinks of Absinthe and a discussion with the English-speaking bartender on what life might have been like for Hemingway, Seth was as they say- fucked up.  Seth staggered to the train station and boarded a train for what he thought was headed to Calais on the far north of France near the Belgium border where battles to defeat fascism took place.  Instead Seth boarded a train headed for the far south city of Marseille.  Unbeknownst to Seth, while there was a huge peace rally designed to raise money for refugees fleeing Syria, there was a huge neo-Nazi, skinhead, National Front rally being held in Marseille.  It was at about 2:00am that Seth was awoken from a deep sleep by five British skinheads that were headed south in solidarity with their French fellow racists to be part of huge anti-immigration rally.  They grabbed his guitar case out of his hands and took it out of the case.  It took Seth a solid five seconds to figure out where he was, how he got there and what might be potentially going on.  The five bald young men in boots, tight jeans and bomber jackets studied the guitar.  They knew they were in the company of some sort of hippy, peace-loving American and they were going to make his night miserable if they were correct on profiling him.

“Oi mate…  What ave we here?  A guitar, is it?  Where you headed with this instrument, mate?”

Seth remembered getting his ass kicked by jocks over the years and knew a severe ass beating without any chance of anyone coming to his aid in a contained sleeping compartment could mean death.  Seth played it cool.

“I’m headed to the same place as you…”

The skinheads were a bit perplexed.  This thin smelly American in baggy clothes suitable for a street panhandler in Seattle did not quite look like what was going to be at the far right rally.  They studied the stickers on Seth’s guitar case.  There was a hope sticker with a picture of Obama, a rainbow sticker, equality sticker and several other very liberal looking stickers.

“What’s all this on your case, mate?  Looks loike you ave a strong loike for Obama and rainbows and such.  Did you get all this at skin rallies in the states?”

It was a coy question and Seth rolled with it.  Seth could read the looks on the five young men’s faces and knew the cat was going to have to bark like a dog if he wanted to get out of the dog pound safely.

“This case…  I bought this from a music store just before leaving the US.  I went to a pawn shop and bought it for really cheap.  I told the guy I needed a sturdy travel case for my guitar and he came up with this.  I literally bought this thing yesterday to make the trip.  I haven’t had time to take all the bullshit off that was put on by someone who used to own this.”

“No worries, mate.  We ave ands…  We can elp you with that…”

As the young men picked at the stickers with their thumb nails, took drinks from a bottle and became rowdy, one of them demanded Seth play them a song that he was intending to play at the rally.  Seth convinced them that he once was part of a Ska/Reggae band and was now a solo artist from the states who was for Donald Trump, sending Mexicans home, telling gays that they cannot get married and so on.  Seth was pretty convincing and he kind of needed to be.

“Shit…  Look at shit that Obama has got us into…  Trump is the answer to everything that’s fucked up in America right now.  I’m tired of the gays, ghetto rap, illegal immigrants, feminist, Obama loving liberal shit…  Yup, it’s time for a change.”

“Roight, mate…  So play us a li-ool something you came up with that you are thinking of playing in Marseille.”

Seth was quick on his toes to create something out of nothing.  He modified a strummy folk song he wrote called, “Bring Them Home” into a fast Ska tune called, “Send Them Home”.

It’s time to stand up and do the right thing maybe the white thing

They’re fucking here due to the Arab Spring and here’s the next thing- Send them home,

Send them home! We’ve fucking had enough- Send them home.

 

It was catchy and danceable and the English skins loved it.  One of them asked him to play another song.  Seth became nervous.  He blew his load on that one little ditty and didn’t quite have another bullshit song in him.  The thought suddenly came to Seth to sing The Marseillaise, the national anthem of France.  Seth learned it so that he could strum it and get everyone in Calais to sing along and then because they were as close as you could get to Great Britain, the national anthem of France would morph into, God Save the Queen.  Seth busted out another Ska beat and began to sing in French.

 

Aux armes, citoyens! Formez vos bataillons! Marchons! Marchons! Qu’un sang impur Abreuve nos sillons!

God save our gracious Queen Long live our noble Queen God save the Queen Send her victorious Happy and glorious Long to reign over us God Save the Queen!

The skins listened to the recognizable song in French and sang along to their own national anthem with arms around each other, drinking and shouting. When they arrived in Marseille, Seth was whisked up to a stage that Skinhead bands shared for the weekend long festival. The drunk British skins demanded that between sets that Seth be allowed to play his national anthem medleys and his anti-immigrant song. A barstool like seat was set up for him on a stage looking out at thousands of people. Seth was buzzed again from drinking with his new “mates” and played the songs without thought. The crowd of thousands began to gyrate to the song doing a Ska dance called a “skank”. It was surreal. Seth finished and was patted on the back and hugged. He drank with a bald girl with black lipstick at the festival who eventually fed him, shaved his head and fucked him several times in her hotel room. Seth woke early the next morning to find a bunch of skinheads laying around the hotel room on floors and couches. Next to him was the girl who made love to him and then another guy on the other side of her. Seth gathered his things and slipped out without awaking anyone. He bought a ticket for Calais and arrived a day and a half late. Seth was the second to last performer to sing his folk song for the refugees and those supporting the refugees. Seth looked out at the crowd of thousands who had smiles and were attentively waiting to hear his song, “Take Them Home”. Before going into the song, Seth pulled the microphone closer to his mouth and jokingly said a few words first.

“If you’re an American in Paris… Don’t drink Absinthe before departing for Calais… You might find yourself shaved bald on a train headed to Marseille instead… Long story but I’m here now…”

 

Mod Night- Then and Now

July 30, 2013

Many people, who knew Matt Luc, knew him as either Matt or Luc but not both. Matt’s father was a fan of Westerns and the fictional character named Matt Dillion on the television show, Gunsmoke. Luc’s mother was a fan of the French Jazz violinist Jean-Luc Ponty. One person, two names.
Luc showed up at the hip little club run by an old Mod friend who was intelligent, smooth, musically talented, physically capable black man, immersed in an urban white wonderland of chic lighting, boutique finger food, alternative music to alternative music among twenty somethings who had defected their mundane, predicable suburban upbringings for something beer commercials are made of. Mike wore a pork-pie hat and smiled at Luc from behind the bar as he entered.
Luc scanned the dim room looking for people he knew when there was a Soviet Union, leaded gasoline, Ronald Reagan and… Joan Rivers. Those that remembered Luc remembered a moody Los Angeles kid prone to fist fights, a transplant that never really was a Mod. He was a former Punk Rocker who was drawn to the energy of Ska. Luc stood in the doorway in the same Florsheim penny loafers he wore thirty years ago, with the same Two-Tone checkerboard socks he wore in high school. He wore a fitted black long sleeved shirt, black pants and a black Porkpie hat. The song, That’s Entertainment by the Jam had just started playing through the speakers in the club. The unmistakable strum of the first chord on guitar and the bass line.

Two lovers kissing amongst the scream of midnight
Two lovers missing the tranquility of solitude
Getting a cab and traveling on buses
Reading the graffiti about slashed seat affairs

A song can bring one back like a scent, a photo or something said that brings on déjà vu. Everyone in the room had the scene in common. The idea of an all-nighter dance party with drugs and alcohol and the hope of casual one time sex was what drew the Mods together on Mod Nights. They had been trying hard to capture something that happened twenty years earlier in England. Thin lapel suits, parka coats, bobbed haircuts, dessert boot shirts, Vespa scooters and toe tapping, finger popping Northern Soul, psychedelic rock with intermittent Ska. Warm summer nights, dancing and eyeing someone who caught your eye. Who are you? Where are you from? How did you get into this scene? Where are you going to go to college? What will the rest of your life look like?
Not many could have imagined aging, shackled down by marriage, careers, offspring and bills. Luc took a sip of his drink and thought about coming of age with his convertible Fiat, his Lambretta Scooter, his sanctuary of living on a quiet tree lined suburban street that he returned to after nights of dancing and romancing. There was peace in the stability of returning home to sleeping grandparents who at that time, had the responsibility of paying bills, working full time and worrying about the world, the country and where the economy might be going. We were going to live forever or at least a really long fucking time. Thirty years is a long time and when you’re eighteen, it might as well be forever.
The scooter girls, the lead singer from the local premier Mod band, the guy who was known for looking Mod, the guy who nobody could ever imagine in anything but a sharp three-button suit, who was the glue that kept it together back then and now. They all listened to music, some danced, some drank, all reminisced on a warm summer night. The way it used to be.
Luc never said goodbye to anyone. He walked out as he walked in. Once in his car, he put the windows down and forwarded the More Specials CD to a song called Enjoy Yourself and drove back to reality.

It’s good to be wise when you’re young
‘Cos you can only be young but the once
Enjoy yourself and have lots of fun
So glad and live life longer than you’ve ever done

Enjoy yourself; it’s later than you think
Enjoy yourself, while you’re still in the pink
The years go by, as quickly as you wink
Enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself,
It’s later than you think.

The Detroit Coast

July 27, 2010

In MTV’s never ending quest to take everyday people and set them in a biosphere of human reality, they chose the city of Detroit for their next hit television reality show. The extraordinarily good looking, toned and tanned young men and women of South Beach, Venice Beach and so on, were pretty much cut of the same cloth wherever they went. It was too much of the same thing over and over. Athletic individuals blessed with good looks and good genes, were always going to party hard and get laid easily. A twenty something aged producer who had helped create other reality shows for MTV, was able to sell them on placing real Detroiters in a real home, within the city limits of Detroit, within a stone’s throw of the Detroit River.
In a city that had more than 900,000 vacant lots or abandon homes, MTV was able to buy up a whole city block for about the price of buying a single family house in a modestly well to do suburb in most cities of the United States. Once the property was purchased, a twenty foot iron fence with sharp fleur de lis decorations on the tips, made the fence impossible to scale without impaling one’s self. This fence went around the perimeter of the entire city block. Security guards in cars and on foot, stood guard around the property around the clock while construction crews built a beautiful single family house within a matter of weeks. Perfect grass without any weeds was laid out from rolls of sod. Trees, bushes, flowers and even a sidewalk that lead to nowhere were all part of the set to make the home look as real as possible for the real people who were about to move in and share their lives together. On television.
From the back yard, there was ample southern exposure for the young residents to lay out by the in ground cement pool. From the patio that was equipped with a monster sized, deluxe grill and patio furniture, the skyline of Detroit’s downtown was nearby to the south. To the east was the shore of the Detroit River. To the north and west was the urban blight that most people were familiar with who lived in and around Detroit. Vacant lots or abandoned homes that had been burned and were decaying over the course of some forty plus years since the riots were visible from the fabricated home within the compound. Weeds grew waist high in cracks of the streets and sidewalks. For the most part, there were no homes with anyone living in them. There were a few where residents that remained and maintained their homes despite the fact that they were isolated and secluded from anything that resembled an inner city neighborhood. Some of residents that lived by the MTV home marveled and wondered what was going on as they sat on the front steps of their homes, drinking malt beverages. Was Detroit really about to have an urban renewal? Were suburban whites going to move back to Detroit to take advantage of the dirt cheap land and build homes, parks, schools, grocery stores, community centers and maybe a Starbucks? Was Detroit about to undergo a massive change the way Chicago did back in the 1990’s? No, not at all.

Trent- A twenty two year old African-American born and raised in Detroit. Trent works as a fitness instructor and personal trainer at a health club in Royal Oak. Trent also works as a bouncer at a Royal Oak club on weekends. Trent drives a Chrysler 300 with 18 inch rims and a sound system that could rattle the fillings off of someone’s teeth a block away. Trent likes Rap music and is hoping to record some of his own stuff. Trent is hoping being a celebrity on the show will afford him the chance. Trent is tall and slender with a shaved head and a stud earring on his left ear. He has several tattoos and thinks he looks good in the color red.

Gwyneth- Not Gwen (she opted to use her full name like the celebrity of the same name once that celebrity became famous), is twenty one years old and a senior at the University of Michigan. Gwyneth is really a sophomore due to the fact that she had dropped so many classes to avoid flunking out. Gwyneth jogs and works out at a gym occasionally. She was born and raised off eight mile road about ten miles west of the city of Detroit, in an insulated burg of other predominantly white people. Gwyneth loves the club scene in Royal Oak and sometimes likes the oldies night in Ferndale when they play the old school stuff from the 1990’s. Gwyneth is average height with small perky breasts, narrow hips and a shapely posterior. She drives a Ford Focus that her father bought her and really likes to listen to Lady Gaga.

Tommy- A twenty three year old from Warren, Michigan who was living with his mother, stepfather, stepbrother and stepsister in a small ranch house about two blocks north of eight mile road. Tommy considers himself a Guggalo or disciple of the Insane Clown Posse. Tommy is thin and devoid of muscle tone with a sunken chest. He has a goatee and a moustache. Tommy has somewhat of a mullet haircut with a blond tail in the back. He wears sleeveless flannel shirts over Insane Clown Posse t shirts that are also missing sleeves. Tommy has a tattoo of a clown with a hatchet in his hand with the letters ICP across his right shoulder. Tommy has a cracked front tooth and is the father of a four year old daughter who lives with her mother and her mother’s family in Wyandotte, Michigan. Tommy sees his daughter on supervised visits once a month. Tommy works as a busboy at a Red Lobster in Warren. He is hoping to be a server soon. Tommy rides a bicycle.

Sukhunta- Age twenty two who is a second generation Cambodian woman who was raised in Berkley, Michigan. Sukhunta attended Wayne State and is now a primary school teacher in Detroit. Sukhunta is contemplating being a special education teacher and wants to visit England. Sukhunta loves Ska and Reggae music. She drives a Vespa scooter most of the year but when it is too cold and snowy for that, she drives a mint condition white AMC Pacer that she purchased from a guy on line in Arizona. Sukhunta loves James Bond movies prior to 1976, all classic movies prior to 1970. Sukhunta is short and plump with a bobbed hair style and makes her own clothes.

Amir- A twenty one year old man born in Lebanon who was raised in Dearborn. Amir runs one of his father’s mini markets in inner city Detroit. Amir is engaged to marry a girl whom he has never met from Beirut. He talks to her on Skype and sends her emails daily. When his fiancé finishes high school, Amir will go with his family to have the wedding in Beirut. Amir loves baseball despite never really playing it and drives a fifteen year BMW with 162,000 miles. The car once belonged to his father.

Trina- A twenty two year old female born in Detroit. Trina is voluptuous, busty and has a large ass that she calls, The Juice. Trina works at a hair salon off of Woodward. She has twin boys age five that stay with her and her mother in Detroit. Trina loves to sing and dance. Trina has full lips and almond shaped eyes. Trina oozes of sexuality and confrontation. She wears her hair slightly red and curly like corkscrews. Her nails are long with decorations on each nail. Trina is hoping to be signed as a singer upon becoming a celebrity on the show. Trina drives a 1998 Chevrolet Caprice with two baby seats in the back.

Amir is standing in front of the mirror about to brush his teeth. He is curling his lips at the condition of the bathroom that he must share with Trent and Tommy. Amir finds a curly hair on his toothbrush that had been in a plastic case. He has concluded that Tommy plucked one of his own pubic hairs and nestled in the bristles of Amir’s toothbrush. Amir is very upset.
“This is fucking bullshit… That motherfucker hates everyone except other trailer trash motherfuckers like himself. He’s gonna get up and light a fucking cigarette, make some fucking coffee and swear at his mom on the phone before making a fucking mess, getting on his bicycle to go clean fucking tables. The guy is a fucking moron… You all must have picked him for comedy. Any day he’ll be in jail for stealing someone’s fucking dog and trying to get away with it on his ten speed… Fuck it… I’m not going to brush my teeth today. I’m going to be like Tommy and not brush my teeth…” said Amir.
A man behind a camera asks Amir why he’s so angry so early in the morning.
“Why? You asking me fucking why? I wait forty five minutes for Trent to finish jacking off or whatever the fuck he does in here while blasting music. I mean, he’s got no hair so it ain’t like he’s combing it, right? Okay so you shit and shower and shave… Does that take an hour? One guy never does anything but piss and shit and the other monopolizes the bathroom and then when I gotta get in here and rush in like ten minutes to do all I need to and then there’s a light brown fucking pube imbedded in my goddamn tooth brush. It’s no fucking mistake. That motherfucker hates Muslims. He fucking asked me if I sleep in a tent in my backyard in Dearborn… I’m like what the fuck are you talking bout, man? He said he saw some shit on television about Bedouins in Morocco that are nomadic and sleep only in tents. I’m like, yeah motherfucker. I’m milking fucking goats and selling oil… Fuck it… I’m outta here,” said Amir.
Amir goes to the kitchen where Trina is talking loudly on the phone while eating Frosted Flakes and painting her toe nails. Amir wants to pour himself a glass of milk and studies all the glasses up to the light to see if they were truly clean. Trina sees the faces Amir is making and says something to him.
“All them glasses is clean. You ain’t gotta be coming all up in here making them faces. You don’t like the way I clean em, you got the sponge and soap right there, you kin wash them yo-self. I ain’t the maid in this bitch. It was my turn to warsh them and I did. You see me eating Tony the fucking tiger off the same dishes I done washed the night befoh, right? Aight then… Don’t worry bout that and just pour you some milk. Come in up in the kitchen, cain’t say hello or good morning but gonna be inspectin the damn dishes like he from the health department… Is it you or your people just ain’t friendly in the morning?”
“My people? Let me ask about you about your people and let me hear how that sounds to you…” said Amir.
“Then take yo monkey ass out here… You be all smiles just as soon you git to yo daddy’s store and you selling forty ounces and Pampers… Yeah, thank you come again, motherfucker…”
“Fuck you, bitch.”
“Say something else and I will get up out this chair.”

Gwyneth enters the kitchen and awkwardly hugs and kisses goodbye a guy she picked up at a club the night before. Gwyneth isn’t sure of the man’s name. Trina has her own room but Gwyneth has to share a room with Sukhunta. Sukhunta is upstairs complaining about having to hear Gweneth making sex sounds in the room. Sukhunta is wearing a pair of black leggings and Doc Marten boots. She is listening to The English Beat at a low volume and is trying to decide which skirt she wants to wear. Another camera crew films her getting ready.
“Um… I have no problem with sex. Don’t get me wrong. I love sex and I think it’s great but when you’re like being woken from a deep sleep to the sound of someone being tortured, that’s just a little gross… Okay? I mean why didn’t she just go to his house? Is it because he’s living with mom and dad still? Couldn’t sneak her into the basement or something? Nobody just goes to motels anymore. You go to some motel off Gratiot. It’s like forty bucks and you get to watch people fuck on television while you go at it. No… Ms. Congeniality has to get shit faced and bring the soup du jour home and then I wake up to smell of farts, tequila and rotten breath from them across the room. You know what? It’s just courtesy. When you believe you’re at the center of the universe, you just don’t worry about bothering others I guess… What do you think? Plaid skirt or the checkers? I really want to wear the checkers but I don’t know if the principal will think it’s just a tad too casual. I dunno… I’m gonna be late again.”
The show lasted a full season. Trent wound up sleeping with all three women at one point or another. Tommy and Amir got into a fist fight and Tommy needed to get stitches. Tommy said he would be back with a gun but nothing came of it. Trina was almost dismissed for having her twins spend the night on nights when filming was supposed to take place. Trina’s mother had a new boyfriend and wanted some alone time with her boyfriend and had Trina take the twins for a few nights in the house. Gwyneth was having issues with depression and went for extended periods of time when she could not face any of the other residents in the house. Sukhunta emerged as the sane voice of balance and reason who could effectively talk to all the other residents and find a way to be friends or at least co-exist to some extent with the others. Occasionally they all went out for Greek food or to a hockey game at the direction of the MTV crew but for the most part, it was chaos and that was what the public liked most.
The show did very well and had lived a life span of a year. The next big new show was going to feature hidden camera gags on unexpecting people at large. The MTV crew was in negotiations with George Clinton about doing a Hugh Heffner-esque show about an old Funk musician living with several barely legal women who agree to share him equally. The Detroit house was all set up for the next great idea.