[I have to plow my way through the glut of media stuff in order to hear my own voice.]

It's amazing how much noise the DVD player makes so it's a little quiet now that the movie's over, even with the TV still on. I'm just noticing how my ribs are sticking together again, and while I'm twisting side to side Vic's changing the channel and comes up to The God Channel where they're running an infomercial on saving the children in some other country for 65 cents a day. I hate those fucking infomercials. I used to have a sponsor child in Ecuador years ago, when I was squatting in Baltimore. I thought it was mad funny that I'd be sending this little girl one dollar bills I spanged in the monthly envelope. She sent me a letter once, and I sent her one back, asking her how much, if any, of my money she was getting directly.

I got mad when the white dude with the beard walking through the landfill the kids were pulling soda cans from - what do you call nickelbacks in Belize? - said, "you've probably never seen a place like this," cause I was thinking maybe I haven't got dinner from there recently but I'm a frequent flyer, bitch. Shaking my head, noticing Vic's actually watching the commercial cause I see that little concerned track mark swell up on his forehead and his mouth fall slightly more open.

"They do make a compelling argument. I actually want to find myself the phone."
"Keep watching," I reply stunned, "and you probably will."
I think about his flesh daughter, living two states away and wonder if he feels compelled to call her. I wonder if he's ever gonna send his 65 cents a day to her like he's s'posed to, or to his son he never even met. Course child support costs hella more than that. I stand up as he changes the channel. It's the white dude again, but he's not in the landfill, but at a barracks, and Vic laughs a little.
"He sure gets around. That's why he's asking for so much money, they have to fly his ass all over the place!"

"I think I'll die the next time someone calls it a mangina." Sometimes, Nico isn't into old school.
"How do we say I'm a dude, and to me that means I have a dick and a hole besides my ass? Can't go into a bar and ask someone to come home and fuck my wangina."
"Oh, why? Are you afraid you'll offend me if you coin a term with pan-Asian reverb?" He's already scooting across the kitchen, telling me I'm not perpetuating negative cultural appropriation if he has permission from a card-carrying pan-Asian, before I can lob a cube of tofu at him. He dodges it, but gets backsplattered by sweet brown sauce when it hits the floor.
"This hatin - " dodge " - has to - " dodge " - stop, oh agony, agony!"
"Have a fucking vigil. Candles are in the top drawer."
"Top draw? I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with that area of the kitchen."
My accent comes out when I'm relaxed or riled up. "You motherfucker."
"Go buy some Rs, ghetto leprechaun."
"Why was that necessary. What. That's disrespectful." My talk just punctuates his laughter.
"You're adorable."
"Go fuck yourself."
"Who's Yisself? Oh, he must be the new Iranian kid who moved in next door."

Then there was the perfect campaign. This old guy made us think this was the most pressing issue of our time, more pressing than endangered species or a Democratic majority in Congress. This little crew of us, we'd bike over to the optical parts place, stopping on the way at this old man's house. He was this mean old white man, he was probably satan, I never got a chance to see if his hooves were cloven because he would sweep his driveway with his hands still in the pockets of his jacket. The killer bees, he announced, had been smuggled in from Africa, he heard it right on tv. Then they were sent into a frenzy in an underground lab, taunted with miniature ice picks until angered. He was unclear if the lab was actually below the earth's surface. He brandished his broom for emphasis, declared that in eight years they'd all be up here, that's how migratory patterns worked, see, stinging everyone viciously and wearing off all the vinyl siding. We would take his words as gospel back to our homes and the streets. Did you know that we'll be invaded by killer bees? They are called killer because though they probably don't kill people all the time, they probably gang up on cats and dogs and kill them. Don't worry, they'll be here in eight years, maybe ten. By that time we can probably move out of the neighborhood.