Finding my way

I wrote this at almost 4 a.m., therefore I did NOT take the time to proofread this yet. But I needed to share.

I'm was lost for quite some time.

There was a time when I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life. I graduated high school with the intention of spending four years at Florida A&M, where I would become the master of all things journalism. After college, I would move to New York--or any decent-sized city that was a far away from Palatka, Fla. (distance- and remsemblance-wise) as possible--and start my own music or movie magazine. But the more I wrote, came up with, an copy edited stories, and the better I got at it, I knew that I would never have a fulfilling career with it.

As a result, I somehow managed to turn a two-year stint at Winn-Dixie into a nearly decade-long "career." Sans the health insurance and benefits. During the latter half of my money-handling, chicken-frying, bread-baking period at the W/D, my funds dwindled, the majority of my friends moved away and moved on with their lives, and I became satisfied with the meager situation I had worked out for myself. Actually, the better term would be "worked my way into."

It's perplexing and, to an extent, frightening that signs could dangle all around me and friends could throw out all the hints, yet I barely noticed anything. So caught up in keeping or finding a steady eight-hours-a-day job just for the sake of having a steady, eight-hours-a-day job, I didn't realize that I was one of the only people who memorized Saturday Night Live sketches (not the Lonely Island parody song). Never took into consideration that I had movie movies on my shelf than pennies in the bank. That I once took the utmost pleasure in cranking out short short stories every week for my eighth grade peers to peruse. I never put two and two together to come to the conclusion that what I did with blogs and social network status updates, I could expand to larger media.

After intense internal battles, countless previously empty words and one hell of a bombshell dropped in my chunky lap, the urge to write hit walloped me like Gucci Mane wallops hip hop music's reputation. But not only did I get the desire to churn out a screenplay, I got the desire to be funny and finally get paid to do it. I am a funny bastard, and I say that without any traces of ego. Why should I not be SNL's star performer, the creator of It's Always Sunny in Orlando, or Moses in the 2012 independent film Othello 2?

No matter the dream, it can come true if you believe. And know what the hell you're doing. So in order to make a fraction of what many of you might consider my unattainable goals attainable, I have purchased from half.com my first screen writing book. After work tomorrow, I will begin my extensive research of Second City and Groundlings improv comedy troupes. Because although I can write and make people laugh, these skills need molding.

God it feels great to have some focus in my life and to have goals set for myself. I love that I get ideas for stories and scripts from the most random conversations, people and objects. Although I curse this new found canyon of ideas for keeping me awake at 3:13 a.m. blogging, I'm more excited about my future than I have been since I received university acceptance letters in the mail in 2002. It's been quite a long time coming, and I have a feeling it will be a long time going, but I am quite content.

Don't take it the wrong way

I wrote this at almost 4 a.m., therefore I did NOT take the time to proofread this yet. But I needed to share.

Dear Reader (please don't be so presumptuous as to assume YOU are the person I am referencing),

I hope this letter finds you in great health and spirits. I'm writing to let you know that I have been inspired to write a story. Not a short short story. Not a short story. But a hell of a story that I would like to turn into a script. It would make me the happiest man int he world if this idea blossoms into a story and then a script and then a critical and commercial cinematic gem.

But I have a problem, one which might derail this unstable dream of mine. The story I want to tell is about you. It's about you, me, him, her, and them. Putting this story on paper, I will undoubtedly air some laundry that won't be Gain clean. I beg you to see things from my perspective, though. I don't mean to damage you feelings or our relationship, but the story that's been placed in my heart is far too weighty for me to continue to allow it to be spoken in hushed voices behind everyone's back. Especially when this Everyone is involved.

I apologize if my telling of this story sours your feelings toward me, but please hear my other reason for bringing outsiders into our business. My writing this tale isn't purely for recognition. It's therapy. The best therapy someone with no insurance or money can afford. There was a time in my life when I was confused, hurt and angry. Not many people understood me, so I don't know why I was surprised you didn't either. Although I would consider us friends now, there were times when I didn't like you. I didn't like you, me, him, hear, and I really didn't like them. Because therein lied the source of my confusion, hurt and anger.

At the risk of sounding repetitive, I would love it if you were not cross with me once you read what I have to write. This will not be a work of pure fact. There will be embellishments. I will take traits from numerous people and mold them into a character you might mistake as being 100 percent you. I hope you know how solid our relationship is now and how much I treasure you and what you've done for me. I just really need to write what I've been suppressing for so long.

Please stay with me,

Brandon D. Oliver

Better Late Than Never

Early in June I got a text message from Amanda telling me to make sure I take June 26 off from work. The message said, that since she was going to miss my birthday, she was planning something legendary on the 25th and would not be in any shape to go to work the next day.

Amanda told me she, Matt, Chelsea, Adam from CT and I were going out to dinner and then birthday shenanigans would later ensue. The dinner reservations were at 9:30 p.m. and I was hauling ass to get to Staug (St. Augustine for you not-in-the-loop folks) so the restaurant wouldn't discard our reservation time. When I get to the Hopcrafts' apartment, I notice the place was candle lit, there's a long table in the center of the living room, and Amanda had a look on her face that indicated she'd been up to no good.

SURPRISE...HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

It is imperative that I talk about how much planning went into this party and how great everything looked. The powers that be managed to wrangle up about 11 or 12 people for whom I really care and probably had better, more productive things with night. Since Amanda and Chelsea were at Bonnaroo music festival during my birthday, they put together a swagtastic gift bag complete with Adult Swim merchandise, Family Guy lottery tickets, two condoms and two 40 oz Buds. The latter of that list is the most impressive because you can't get 40 oz beer in Florida; they went out of state to get that gift. Then there was the wall, which the Hopcraftshave fashioned into a giant chalk board, that had personalized, non-generic birthday messages, such as "TWSS," "Red drink," and for whatever reason, a pennis drawing. I know how i spelled that. And when I thought "these guys and gals have really outdone themselves," Amanda brings out my buddy Andrew who drove all the way from Tallahassee. And then -- yes, there's more -- Amanda and Chelsea manage to get Jake Seymour, my favorite teacher from any school I've attended, on the phone for a brief chat.

So if this humongous, booze-filled, dick in a box-like gathering wasn't great enough, after dinner we headed out for phase 2. The group headed to the Clover Room, a hole-in-the-wall bar/club near the beach, where my night and ears were rocked by Silver Lake Drive. If you don't know who SLD is, you need to Youtube them immediately. One of my classmates is in that band, and they do astounding covers of songs of varying types. Hearing them play "Crazy," "You Got Me" and Dirty Diana is audio equivalent of watching hot naked Brazilian women on a trampoline. And then there's the liquor; try to keep count: Two-thirds of a 40, three cups of sangria, two gin and tonics, three gin and OJs, a Jager Bomb, an Irish Car Bomb (that I don't remember drinking), and shots poured into me by dancing bartenders when "Pour Some Sugar On Me" came on.

Fast forward to the day after; I now know why Amanda practically ordered me to take the day off. I slept until almost noon, and the latter half of that sleep was with a cat on and or next to me. I got "sick" three times, and at 10:10 p.m. on June 26, I'm still a tiny bit hungover. But I did get to eat a $2.99 breakfast, after all the "sickness" was out of me.

I haven't blogged in a while because nothing note-worthy has moved me to write anything longer than a Facebook or Twitter message. But I had to share with anyone who would listen or read what a great time I had. I tried not to make it obvious, but the past few years for me have been awfully shitty, and in January 2010, I felt lower than I would have ever thought was possible. But instead of letting me wallow in self-loathing and sorrow, certain family members and friends have done everything they could to lift my spirits. Whether that be letting me move back home, buying a huge bottle of Seagram's that literally had my name on it, or writing me uplifting messages on social networking sites, these people have helped me turn my life around and have forced me to see the positivity in life and in myself.

When I saw my friends gathered together, saw the extensive planning that obviously went into throwing this all together, the only thing I could do was take a moment to myself and thank God for allowing people to be so thoughtful. So if you were present for either of my birthday celebrations, had anything to do with them or merely considered showing up, thank you for being awesome.

B.Rand

Now we get mad?

In light of the fallout over John Mayer's Playboy interview, let me just say that we (black people) waited too long to get mad. And we decided to get mad at the wrong person. Black people, we have a big part to play in this mess.

Some (not all) people of color got very pissed at Mayer for simply saying "nigger" and stating that, sexually speaking, he preferred white women. But let me clue everyone in on something. Ever since I can remember, full grown black adults -- celebrities and normal folk, alike -- have been disrespecting each in the same manner.Yeah, I said it.

"That nigga trippin." "You my nigga." "Nigga, you gon play Spades or what?" Sound familiar? And don't try to spout off that -a vs. -er mess, because it's the same damn word. Just misspelled for the sake of slang and an imaginary since of camaraderie. So please let's not wait until 2010 to get upset when a famous white person says nigger (without actually calling a black person a nigger) when we've been calling each other that since the slave days.

Blacks calling blacks nigga/nigger might be bad, but what I find worse is how we address black women. And even worse is many black women's acceptance of such misguided terms of endearment. Black people started off being mad, even protesting, when women were called bitches and hoes in music. But somewhere, somehow, black people grew complacent. And then we grew to accept it.

Now it's almost a commonplace to hear someone -- man or woman, black, white or purple -- refer to a woman as a bitch or ho and no one raises a brow. Words cannot describe how irritated I get when women express their friendship with another woman by calling the other woman her "favorite bitch." Or when I hear women singing, word for word, Baddest Bitch and applying it to themselves as means of empowerment.

How can you be mad at someone for saying nigger when you call yourself nigga, bitch and or ho or when you're shaking your ass to "Bad Bitch?"

As for Mayer's dick being a white supremacist, lighten the hell up and look past the not-so-politically correct metaphor. What Mayer is saying is that his sexual preference lies with white women. Don't act shocked and dismayed. He was just being honest. Mayer said he'd be down for dating and inevitably sleeping with black women, but so far in his life, he's only slept with white women.

Isn't it sexually natural to prefer one's own race to another? Aren't there black men and women who state their disinclination of dating and sleeping with white people? Yes. So why are people getting their panties in a bunch because John Mayer prefers white women? Do you really think black women were breaking down the walls to get to his member? And if you really want to make Mayer all-inclusive, then hunt his white ass down and ride his melanin-deprived dick until the wheels fall off.

Over 200,000 people have died in Haiti. Genocide is still taking place in Africa. Despite the Saint winning the Super Bowl, New Orleans is still trying to rebuild. With all the life-threatening issues going on in the world, why are we most worried about what John Mayer said? Hell, with the exception of saying nigger, I'm not upset with him. Had he used different phrasing, his interview would have been either the funniest interview this year or just another article that no one, including Playboy "readers," would have read.

Find a new cause,

B.rand

One hell of a decade...

Here we are. The last day of one crazy decade. The Aughts have been filled with some crazy events: terrorist attacks, natural disasters, celebrity meltdowns, Youtube. But what I most notice about the double 0's how much I, and the people around me, have changed. At midnight on Jan. 1, 2000, I was a avid church-going high school sophomore who secretly and internally let out one great sigh of relief when Y2K didn't cause the world to implode. Right now...I'm whatever I am now, but I know I am not what I was then. During the 00's, I...

Moved out of my parents' house
Seriously debated moving back in with my parents when times got really tough
Made some friends I now consider to be brothers
Got my first F in high school
Got in two auto collisions
Attended FAMU, hated it, begrudgingly took a liking to it, loved it, made friends with people completely different from myself while there
Learned you can't handle ANY kind of FAMU business over the phone
Developed a thicker skin and much higher standards
Discovered my passion
Discovered what is definitely not my passion
Began secretly judging people when they use poor grammar
Lost a little of my faith
Lost some family and friends (whether by death or drifting apart)
Became a cousin quite a few times and an uncle twice
Got a lap dance from a moderately attractive stripper who wouldn't shut the hell up
Expanded my mind and became more accepting in almost every sense possible (ALMOST)
Began to think of family's mortality
Started drinking
Smoked weed
Saw half of a Ting Tings concert
Came to the realization that I am certainly self-destructive and might be a fuck up
Forged post-high school friendships (or acquaintances) with people whom, while we were in high school, I didn't quit like
Realized the genius that is Tarantino, Lee and Burton
Got some tattoos
Saw some friends naked
Ghost-rode the whip
Almost killed a bi-racial student journalist while playing freeze tag
Learned to appreciate sports and politics
Did some dipping of the skinny
Got my niece to not be afraid of me
Became more confident, yet more self-conscious
Gave my life to The Famuan and didn't feel bad about it at all
Killed people...with laughter
Ate a candy peppermint pig on numerous occasions
Became a movie geek
Learned how to cook thanks to Food Network (Shout out to Giada, Rachel, Bobby, Paula)
Realized where my parents were coming from when they used to say "Music today just isn't the same"
Lost a tooth
Still didn't learn to swim
Stayed single while countless friends got engaged/married
Got really drunk at Colin's wedding and passed out on the way home
Fit five people in a two-door Honda Civic coup and scoured Tallahassee to find Speakerboxx/The Love Below
Voted for the first time
Voted for the first black president and cried like a baby when he won (BTW, I didn't vote for him because he was black)
Shot nude photos for a photography class...and got a B on the project
Became determined to one day take a road trip, do improv comedy, write a book/screenplay, and visit a foreign country with my homies, among other things
Embarked on a one-hour road trip JUST to visit Krystal's (Harold and Kumar will do that to you)
Bore witness to one of the worst attacks in American history
Had a great Easter 2009
Was annoyed with the bad times but absolutely loved the good time
Peed off a balcony on numerous occasions
Took part in a semi-nude chocolate pudding slip-n-slide party that evolved into breaking and entering into an apartment complex's pool where numerous people got naked and everyone turned the hot tub water brown with pudding
Wore my hair in more styles than I care to admit
Had great times with my cousins at our reunions...especially in Daytona
Was present at my first bonfire
Witness a friend vomit on himself AND my damn chair
Got kicked out of a store simply for browsing and returned three days later with my sister, cousin and their friends, gathered nearly $500 worth of merchandise, had the cashier ring it up, and "all of a sudden" decided I didn't want to pay for it. Don't fuck with the Olivers

I know I've done more with my life during the past ten years, but these times stand out to me. Even in the bad times, I was fortunate enough to be surrounded with friends and or family. The B-rand of today might seem more crass and foul than the Brandon of yesteryear, but images can be deceiving. I am more patient, more understanding and wiser than I once was.

I have a greater appreciation of people, places and experiences because I know tomorrow isn't promised. My parents might not be alive tomorrow. My big chance might not exist tomorrow. Even monuments and cities, once thought unshakable, might vanish tomorrow. So I think what I'm trying to say with all of this is that the 00's have forced me to live more in the moment. Why waist moments when our time is running out?

What stood out about your decade? Do tell?

Happy New Year
B-rand

Paranormal Activity

Every now and then, a revolutionary comes along and, against all odds, breaks box office records and wows the movie-viewing public. "Paranormal Activity" was made with a measly $15,000 budget about three years ago. It finally found a studio to distribute the movie, but from the lack of PA commercials, I gather there was barely a budget for marketing the movie.

But what PA had going for it was positive word of mouth. From Yahoo to IMDB to RottenTomatoes to countless Facebook friends, I heard that PA was the bee's knees of low-budget horror movies. So scary that grown men admitted to screaming like 12-year-old girls in the theater. So unnerving that people wondered if they'd be able to fall asleep that night. With such positive reviews from so many outlets, how could I not watch this movie?

I met up wit two of my co-workers at AMC theaters in hopes of watching PA and being so terrified that I would lose control of one or two of my bodily function. I don't know what movie everyone else saw, but I saw 86 minutes of boring, poorly-acted, poorly-scripted bullshit. I will (without giving away the plot) run down the stuff that left me emotions and wallet feeling like they just got molested by a creepy uncle.

*Poor acting. I know the movie's minuscule budget didn't allow the power to be to hire Morgan Freeman and Maggie Smith, but I know they could have found some talented yet unknown actors to on the two lead parts. Instead we were stuck with boring, untalented Micah and Katie.

*I knew how to resolve the movie within 20 minutes. All one person in the movie had to do was kick another person out of the house for good and I think things would have been alright.

*Horrible pacing. Since there actors couldn't act, I just had to have faith that the action in the movie would more than redeem the action. I was wrong. I sat there waiting for something to happen. Nothing happen. And when something did happen, the movie ended 20 seconds later.

*It wasn't scary. I've seen my share of disturbing, vomit-inducing photos and videos, both real and fictional. So my fear tolerance is ridiculously strong. But I tend to let things slide when I watch horror movies. I let down my guard and let myself get slightly spooked by what I see. Not here. The movie was so cheesy that I found myself laughing during most of the "scary" parts.

*The length. You read correctly earlier. The movie is only an hour and and 26 minute. Had they extended the movie and added material after that one scary part at the end, I think it would have made up for the foolishness with which I had to deal.

*Why now? All this time a certain something as been going on for a long time with a certain person in this movie. And it waits until now to come to a head. Why not that other time. (If you've seen the movie, you'll know what I mean.)

I know I am very critical about movies, but when everyone in the theater gave a collective "That's it? What the fuck?", I could rest easy knowing I wasn't the only one who thought PA was a huge shit sandwich.

Operation: Take Back the Night

As far as I know, Halloween isn't until Oct. 31. So when I went into the Magic and Fun Costume Shop (on Tennessee Street next to Blockbuster and across the street form AJ's Bar and Grill in Tallahassee, Fla) on Oct. 6, I figured I could go in, browse the items, make a sound decision, and come back when I had money and set-in-stone plans for Halloween. Apparently, that's not what the owner had in mind.

My amigo, Andrew, and I had loads of time to kill that Tuesday, so I suggested we go to the costume shop so I could try to find a costume. After about 30 or 45 minutes, the owner started following Andrew and I around the store, quickly telling us how great a product was as soon as either of us picked it up. But 20 minutes later, his patience wore thin.

"Have you decided what you want to be?" the owner asked.
"Well right now, I'm shooting for a Black Mexican, a pirate who can't swim, or an obese ninja," I replied. "But I can't decide. I'm just looking right now, tho."
"OK, but here, we're all about transforming people. And if you're not willing to be transformed, we don't want to waste your time, and we don't want you wasting our time."

The owner quit talking, but he made sure to stay at the end of the aisle, to remain close to us. Just in case we needed any help, of course. I wish I could say I found it odd that, with a store full of customers, he continued to keep his eyes on only us. But Real recognize Real; I knew what was up. But it seems he couldn't keep his tongue or frustration subdued any longer.

"Have you decided yet?" the owner asked again.
"Not yet," I nonchalantly replied. Again. After being talked down to for the past 20 or so minutes, I was doing my best to tune this man out. "I'm still looking, and I don't think Andrew's even going to dress up for Halloween."
"OK guys, I need you to do me a favor," the owner said in a matter-of-fact tone. "I need you to go outside and don't come back in until you know what you want."
I stood there shocked. Not shocked that I was followed around a store. Not even shocked that I was asked to leave. I was dumb-founded by the fact that we were being temporarily kicked out. For fucking browsing.
"Are you serious?" Andrew inquired. "Why?"
"Because I don't like you two. I'm the owner and I want you both out of my store."

Although Andrew decided to take the low road and curse the man out, I decided to get my buddy and leave without a fuss -- after depositing a mouthful of saliva on the front steps. To the owner, and to many others, it might seem that I wasn't forceful enough. Even Andrew thought I should have stood my ground, got in the man's face and stated my case. But I refused to play into that asshole's hands and be the ignorant nigger he probably thought I was. I know the deal. I've seen this kind of arrogance and ignorance before. And I know there are no customer service agents to call because this is a locally-owned shop.

But what he didn't know is that Phyllis Oliver is my mother; Carol, Wilma and Debra are my aunts; and Tia is my sister. None of us willingly lay down and get violated with piss-poor customer service. If you want to be nasty with us, we will both take the high road all the while getting just as nasty with you.

Immediately after being told to leave, I got my sister on the phone and told her what happened. Although our conversation lasted for under a minute, we set up a plan for how to stick it to the man. Three days later, she, our cousin Amber, and their friends Cynthia, Chelsea and Malcolm met me at the costume shop. We we went in with the intentions of wasting as much time as possible. Try on as many costumes/wigs as possible. Ask as many questions as possible. But always being as congenial as possible.

Amber picked up a fake severed limbs, a female Freddie Krueger outfit and another outfit. My sister got the female boxer and sexy gangster outfits. Chelsea had the gold digger and opera singer. Cynthia had the naughty cop and 60's flower child. Malcolm had the six-foot-tall Stewie Griffin. Even though they didn't take long to try on costumes, and the sign clearly stated we could try on up to six costumes, the owner came by and rushed them with their costume fitting, further exemplifying the poor customer service that led to this ruse.

After an hour, everyone made their choices and headed to the check-out counter with the intentions of ringing it all up on one tab. I felt bad for what we were doing because all the employees were very helpful and friendly. It was the owner who unknowingly fucked it up for everyone else. After the cashier hand-keyed and bagged our $488-worth of merchandise, my sister and I "all of a suddenly" decided we didn't want any of it.

I've never seen a person's emotions go from pseudo-friendly to boiling red in 1.4 seconds before, but I saw it then. The owner quickly pointed at the six of us, told us to "get the hell off" his property, and that if he saw us on the property again, he would call the cops on us for trespassing. Seeing that we were completely unfazed by his threat, he whipped out his huge, 1997-era cell phone and called the cops that moment. Knowing to get out while the gettin's good, we piled into our cars and drove away, completely satisfied that we were able to stick it to the man while not turning into Sambos and coons in the process.

The moral of this story is to be nice to the people who spend money or will potentially spend money in your store. Just because you have a monopoly on the costume business after the only other party store was forced to temporarily shut down, doesn't mean people will put up with poor service. And if you want to fuck me, I'll fuck you back. With no lube.

Deuces.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oGaFPJmMNbw