So, I was on LA’s Westside the other day and passed an old clothing store that is no longer with us. And that is when I asked myself, “What the hell is going on in dressing room #5?!” So, I was on LA’s Westside the other day and passed an old clothing store that is no longer with us. And that is when I asked myself, “What the hell is going on in dressing room #5?!” Let me go back a few years and it will all make sense. It’s about 4:25 a.m. in the morning on a Thursday, I’m in bed wide-awake, and I know why. It’s because I have a substitute teaching assignment at a high school in Compton and I’m not the least bit thrilled about it. Why? Because those Compton brothas is keepin’ it a little too real for me. I used to be one of those persons who believed in teaching for the love of our beautiful Black children, but now that I was a part-time substitute in the Compton Unified School District.
Man please! You remember Training Day? Remember those gangsters that shot at Denzel after he stole that drug money from Macy Gray? Well that’s Compton and those are the type of dudes that go to the school where I was supposed to be subbing.
The problem is too many children aren’t learning because they have to put up with the five or six students per class who don’t want them to learn. It’s not my job to discipline them, that’s what they have parents for.
That’s why I like high school over middle school because the real bad asses don’t even come to school and to that I say, “Fine! Good riddens.”
Let me get back on track here. So, I was lying in bed next to my wife
Cheryl begging the Lord for understanding as to why yet another one of my many film projects has burned up in flames. This last one was a doozey. I explained it to my good friend in Maryland as being all dressed up for the Prom and the limo not showing. I was going to send my kids to Howard on that script, but somebody didn’t like it. What the hell do they know?
So anyway I’m lying in bed, praying to the Lord for understanding as each minute on the clock brings me closer to dealing with those “kids” down in Compton. My last adventure down there included me stepping between two students ready to fight. It was crazy. In retrospect I’m thinking, “Hey Ken you could have gotten your ass beat and they’re not even giving your health insurance. To hell with that!” That’s my new mantra. Hell, I’m just the sub and I want to live to see another day.
So anyway, I eventually get up and walk into my living room where I hear water dripping from my ceiling again. This is the fourth time in three years that water has leaked into my apartment. So, I wake up my wife who now knows the flood drill and we begin rearranging our furniture and what not.
So I call the owner and talk to the building manager who comes down and drills holes in my ceiling to let the water drain into several buckets, etc. My wife decided to take the day off to help out and I’m kinda glad she did. So, we sat in my office and paid bills, talked about my new screenplay and my future and all that while the plumber knocked a hole in our living room ceiling to get at some pipe. I really like the old dude, but he’s becoming a regular at Apt #1 and that’s not cool.
Lying on my desk is a flyer/coupon for Off SACKS. It’s one of those discount designers clothing stores where the savings are oh so great. Yeah right! Designer fashion from where, Turkmenistan?! Those types of stores are so full of crap. You get in there and they’ve got “fashions” from designers I’ve never heard of or knock offs like Bolo instead of Polo or BKNY instead of DKNY and then a bunch of stuff you wouldn’t get caught dead wearing to Mardi Gras.
So anyway, this quasi coupon had 20%-50% savings on everything in the store. Why? Because two out of the five stores are going out of business. That’s why! And I’m thinking to myself, well that’s what the hell happens when you purchase wholesale fashions from countries like Turkmenistan! Who the hell trusts wearing a Bolo shirt even if it is 30% off? After one good w