Loose Expectations of Dump's Sophomore Term

So many phrases and descriptions can fit the bill when I talk about Donald Dump. In lieu of casting away one obscene word after another, I believe it's only fair to spit a few words before he steps into the White House for a second round. It's only fair, for the next four years will only bring a cacophony of ambivalent happenings one day one. A "dictator" he wishes to present himself as, though in what creative ways can we think of? A far-right play date with bottles of baby lotion? The immediate rush to kick migrants out the country by any means necessary? Waving the white flag for the sake of TikTok?

Might as well roll the dice on this one into the sewer, even I'm stumped as to what the upcoming 47th U.S. president plans on executing. The rapid-fire delivery of executive orders only provide the tipping point on what the Dump administration advocates and supports.

For the record (for all else is off), witnessing the second Dump administration assemble is like watching the beginning of a bad movie unfold. You know the plot will play out foolishly; certain faces will show up and somehow disappear; the script is basically the same except for some key changes; Jon Voight coughs his way through a midget orgy. Where else can this wicked fantasy take us?

There's no need to wonder, for the wet dreams might come up dry when Dump commands his loyalists to do his bidding tomorrow (1/19/2025).

L.A. on Fire, Losers Loot the Lost, and The Nation Can Only Watch

Chicano protests and the L.A. riots of the past don't compare to the sheer catastrophic scenes unleashing on the SoCal atmosphere like the 2025 wildfires. 

A horrible start to a new year, the denizens of Los Angeles reacted with little time and preparation to abandon their homes and run for safety. One insane inferno after another, the L.A. county underwent a fiery blanket of hell within a few blinks. Charged by wind gusts and topographical inconvenience, the destructive flames bring down thousands of homes, businesses, and structures across 22,000 acres, now charred with almost no remains to come back to.

Families are losing their collective sanity and soul as the flames continue to rage a few days after the initial spark on Tuesday, January 7 of 2025. Like I said, horrible beginning for the new year, and the terror only grew from there. Palisades was the first, then the domino effect smashed the left face of Los Angeles with additional fires - Eaton, Hurst, Sunset...the list goes on.

I sit here watching CBS News 24/7 for live coverage of the apocalyptic area. Looking like a cinematic product familiar with Hollywood productions, the cameras unveil outstanding and heartbreaking moments of loss and perseverance. Reporters share captivating interviews and angles, masked to shield from black smoke and falling ash; firefighters and other local officials continuously battle the flames with water drops, fire trucks, and chemicals; residents fleeing with little to no personal goods on them, a result of the fire's increasingly rapid pace.

Save for a few ads to satisfy someone's wallet, mind you. That's the ideal time for a quick smoke and kick-in-the-step with a hip-hop playlist I'm accumulating. At the time of this writing, I've listened to Muddy Waters Too several times already. Lalala.

To be fair, it took me four different networks before comfortably landing on CBS News, who cared for the event more than others. The View gossiped about their bullshit, locals news handled nonsense, etc. Indiana news focused on an ice sculpture.

But what I noticed today (1/11/25) is that looters are taking advantage of the situation by breaking into broken homes and taking what they can with them - any remnants of a charred home, now in the hands of some fool who may now be in the hands of law enforcement. As it should be, at least in this case. Homes burning to the ground, only for some hungry assjunkie to rub their greasy palms over unrecognizable territory. "Punished to the full extent of the law," L.A. Mayor Karen Bass commented while briefing the press on the area's condition. Let's see what they do.

While half the country covers the land of the free in snow, its prized and glamoured Los Angeles corners a smoke bubble of shattered hope that just might cost America huge chunks of cash.

------------------------

My heart goes out to those affected by the Los Angeles 2025 Wildfire. Stay strong, L.A.

Photo by Levi Jones; modified by C. Anthony Rivera

Typewriter Meat: Disgruntled Employee Smashes in Manager in Broad Daylight

Mistrop, Illinois. 7/28/2025.

Solomon Canterbury, 36, faces homicide charges for alleged murder today when reports broke out regarding a mishandled argument at Cultural Blabber Inc. in downtown Mistrop.

Michelangelo Niyami, 63, served as Communications Manager and Editor at Cultural Blabber for over a decade, with Canterbury working under his leadership. A disagreement on Mistrop city finance shares led Canterbury, according to witnesses, to verbally abuse Niyami in front of co-workers and certain superiors. Niyami fired Canterbury on the spot, though the latter returned two days later with an eerie agenda.

At 10:42 AM this morning, Canterbury stormed the front doors of Cultural Blabber Inc. on Country Street and and River Avenue with a typewriter. Security didn't register his identification due to the recent termination, which prompted Canterbury to enter the main editing floor where Niyami assisted weekday writers and image specialists with no halts. 

Without a beat to acknowledge Canterbury's presence, the former employee lifted the 1888 Scotsman Jr. Typewriter II and pushed its weight onto the back of the manager's head. With one blow, blood splattered on an employee's workstation (and the employee themselves), yet Niyami remained his stance with a slight bow. Red streaks ran down his ears.

Canterbury, enraged, swung down two more bangs, with the second sending Niyami down onto the desk. Each blow registered pieces of brain matter and skull into the vibrant vicinity; three employees yelled in fear while one fainted. Another called for police.

"You're an Editor, right? So, edit!" Canterbury shouted while driving the fourth and final contact onto Niyami's exposed head. Blood appeared on Canterbury's face when the authorities arrived, who reported that Canterbury walked without resistance.

"I don't understand, maybe he was just done with the guy and had to send a message. Sadly, this message is a one-and-done deal. [expletive] shame, it's a shame," an officer commented.

An eyewitness account touches on the cruel event. "Mon's always had a temper, we all knew that. But Canterbury was tough, too, you know? He'd send Mon a sheet of notes and expect fixes within a day. Maybe the pay was getting to him? Sure, but, I don't know. I never saw a typewriter bend before," she claimed. The witnesses wishes to remain anonymous.

As for Canterbury, he's seeing a judge next week for his actions. Stay tuned for more information.

- Marco Jimenez, Contributor

Bicker @marcojemenvc

VOCAL CONCERNS, ISSUE 710

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Image Credit: Annie Spratt (@anniespratt)

Self-Driving Madness: Independent Cab Kills Man in Robbery Attempt

 Mistrop, Illinois. 5/22/2025.

When Socrates Taxi Services announced that self-driving cabs would start roaming the streets, the metals in my fingertips began to tingle, startled once again at the sight of self-controlled vehicles let loose to the public. It's as if folks begin to disassociate themselves a week after a crime is committed, only to breathe some new air like a zen master ignoring the bleak corners of life.

But did everyone believe that Socrates Taxi Services (STS for short; not officially but because I don't want to type it out every single time) would present itself as a "safe and reliable service for the people and the future" for whatever it's worth? The answer doesn't matter much to me, time is short on my hands, but I will say that Jack character had it coming.

50, divorced, and desperate for some extra cash, Jack "Macca" Bechtel approached a Socrates cab on Roland Ave. with a loaded pistol in his left pocket. He stomped toward the driver seat, tapped the glass, and spoke aloud, "Shut down! Shut down now, you hunk of junk!" Witnesses watched as Bechtel tapped on the driver's window a few times before he pulled out the weapon. With no door handles to pull the Socrates vehicle open, Bechtel knocked on the window with the pistol's butt.

"Sir/Madam/They, please step away from the vehicle," the cab said aloud, according to witness. Look, I wasn't there, so I pulled all eyewitness claims to formulate this. Sadly, those preppy Maters and O'Briens over at PMH were quick to arrive on scene to report this all. So, yeah, I'm a little late to the party, but I digress, because the Socrates Taxi shifted its door handle into a pistol and fired three rounds into Jack's head.

He fell to the ground. Surrounding bystanders either fled or stared in awe, though screams uttered and terror filled the air. A blood puddle began to form, catching the attention of PMH, and some cheeky cop who gasped like a schoolboy who said "assface" for the first time.

"We apologize for any inconvenience," the Taxi said, withholding the weapon.

The Toys of Richman Gomez

As I'm reminded of today's idiocracies with an overindulgence of ads, cheap marketing techniques by influencers, and videos of a hippo and a cherub kissing one another (Baldur's Gate 3?), the memory of a CTA ride comes flooding back.

At one point within the last year or so, I steadily and carefully avoided taking the CTA buses to prevent any futile encounters (public transit is filled with them). A day arrived when I was forced to take it due to some weather conditions. For whatever reason that compelled me, I hopped on a public vehicle and sat in the back. I surpassed quiet folks, with only a few minding their own business in the same section. All seemed well for the time being as I distracted myself with some reading, until a particular man approaches the final row of seats, the same section where I am at.

Enter Richman Gomez, an amateur crackhead failing in his late 20s-early 30s. The image (above) was taken in secret, with Gomez lighting up a small crack pipe while shielding himself from public view. The young man takes a few hits while occasionally looking over his seat for any witnesses. It's a shame that this embarrassment failed to take note of his hidden photographer, sitting just a seat away from him.

Admittedly, some panic was ravaging through my body as I took this shot. The man was in to smoke and out within a couple of stops, eventually getting off around the Portage Park area. A million possibilities started to fly by regarding his next steps, but then I halted the thinking process.

Perhaps it was because it would lead to a dead road, a journey with no reward, from the start through the middle and until the end. With how Chicago treats its broken and lost souls, hope is not on the table. In truth, I don't believe it ever was.

I recall once when someone mistakenly said, "The Shitty of Chicago," in the middle of an improv show. Despite the setting, the idiom fits, especially with how the city's current mayor is handling the migrant crisis, crime rates, racism claims, and other political fiascos. It's hard to refer to Chicago as a city now without reminding myself of the hilarious mistake that happened long before the mayor's obligatory inauguration.

Verily, I cannot give a solid reason as to why I called this individual Richman Gomez. I once ran into someone who shared some similarities, though the connection is incredibly hallow. There's some reliability behind his toys as we can see in the image, and that dependency can only go so far until he's inhaling a different kind of dirt.

P.S. Reminder to bring Febreze onto the CTA for future rides.

Note: Photo has been edited for obvious reasons, though it does appear to be rather suggestive after looking at it from a different angle. Therefore, the original copy belongs only to me. Smiley face.

Apologies to My Blog

06/29/21

A lot has shifted in the past few months, that I tend to forget that I have this blog. It's a shameful thing to think, too. For so long I used this blog to stretch my skills and build a portfolio. Back then I didn't have any credentials, and almost no freelancing gig is going to provide a position to a kid who just writes here and there. So, I kept writing short stories and applying like mad hell until I landed something.

It wouldn't be until just last year when I applied for The Nerd Stash. I had enough SEO experience to feel confident about this one, and it was a worthwhile effort. Within a week, I had published a few articles as a test run before Jeremy, the editor-in-chief, decided to officially bring me on board.

Before I knew it, I was reviewing games and composing news articles that would get published on the same day that I submitted them. Now I almost do it daily, with an additional position at Guide Fall to keep myself busy. I write everyday about video games, and that certainly does put a smile on my face.

I somehow managed to blend my hobbies with my growing career - I never thought that'd be possible. I always wanted to design video games, but I don't possess the artistic sleight of hand to make a creature spring to life. Once, I dreamt of becoming an astronaut, but the idea of being in the vast vacuum of space is a terrifying concept to me; I see myself shitting my suit...and you only get one suit while you float amid planet Earth. Of course, when I was young, I really wanted to be a Jedi. It is possible, but I'll save myself the embarrassment. At least lightsabers are becoming a reality.

As aforesaid, I do write everyday, and it's almost always pertaining to video gaming. They're news pieces, listicles, guides, reviews, anything you can think of when it comes to the industry.

09/02/2022

More than a year after I updated this post, a lot has developed. I won't get into too many details but essentially: I still write for TNS and GF - so I'm technically a full-time writer during the week; couple of hospital visits conflict with my nonsense (as I currently type with an itchy splint); starting to collect some vinyl records, etc. 

However, that being said, I miss committing my time to just composing onto this blog. I've encountered so many intriguing folks that I'm proud to have had made into characters who walk along Desolation Row. I'll never forget about the moment I wanted to start this blog like it was yesterday...some guy on the Blue Line looks to me while I'm listening to music via ear buds, tells me to take them off, then says:

"I gotta lay this on someone, and I can’t keep this bottled up. I’m headed to the casino right now to do something illegal, but it kind of isn’t really illegal; I’ve done it before and nothing has happened. I just needed to tell someone that, because I’m gonna kill myself if I don’t tell anyone. Okay? Thank you. Don’t tell anyone. Thank you.”

Of course, I proceeded to return to my buds after he went back to his psychopathic world. But little did I know, that interaction would inspire me to write about people, but just change their name while rearranging their faces. 

I think I'm ready to publish this post now. I honestly don't know why I neglected the first half of this writing. I know writing elsewhere has something to do with it, but even now I still type, and I'm still having a blast experimenting with my wordplay.

Be excellent to each other.

-C.

The Electric Butterfly

I've thought over and over again about how to approach your death. There's always the promising lyrical ballad or a special character in a story, but I'm sincerely at a loss.
Losing a friend is, no doubt, a tough experience, but that certain trauma is elevated when the killer was herself. Her inner demons got the best of her. And now I can't see her anymore.
So I decided to throw on some tracks that we would listen to and began to reminisce on the good memories. This is a recollection of my late friend, Anita. 

Backyard by Mad Caddies

Probably the earliest track that I can recall, Backyard was one of the tracks on the Mad Caddies' album "Keep It Going" that we played whenever we hung out with the crew. I liked to mess around with you because you were usually the only girl in the group, and you understood my sense of humor. You fit right in with all of us, and I was getting excited about learning more about you. 
Now, whenever that song or album begins to play, I think of that cute smile and laughter you didn't shy away from showing. Especially when you pulled out the ukelele and started playing to our general annoyance. We didn't tell you to stop - perhaps because we all just adored you. The soft strums on that instrument echoed throughout the smoky room, trading lyrics and looks as we remained in a peaceful circle of friends and brothers.

Today by Jefferson Airplane

One day, you messaged me in regards to looking for new music to listen to. Knowing me, I went back to the 60s to look for an extraordinary song that went nicely with her tendency to be a hippie of sorts. It inspired her to draw something impressive, though I can't bring to mind what exactly it was. But the song represented her more peaceful and loving side. It's a slower song by her standards, but I remember her telling me that she enjoyed the tune. I don't know why but to me that was a big compliment. The mates would criticize my taste in music (mainly toward the synthwave playlists and anything from Bob Dylan), but she admitted that it was a great song, and I felt closer to her because of that. 
I couldn't show her much after that due to moronic drama among friends, but I like to think she'd listen to that song and find a place in her soul to be at peace. 
The sole image of you with your eyes closed as you listen to a song is stapled into my memory.

Redemption by Zacari & Babes Wodumo

One time, we all got super colorful and comfy that we threw on the Black Panther soundtrack and just relaxed on the couch, passing tea and passing time. I was thoroughly excited to listen to it since we were still on the big Marvel hype train to Infinity War, and everyone in that house was a big fan. The tracks were playing and we were vibing to it until I looked over at you and noticed that a dark cloud was overlooking you. I've dealt with the cloud before (still do) but it disturbs me to see it affecting others close to me. So I moved over to you on the couch and sat next to you, asking if everything was okay. You told me the truth, and I offered my shoulder. Easy breathing and easy being, we barely spoke and simply listened to the album, which was playing "Redemption" at this point in time. For a good chunk of the listening session, we remained in that position, and I didn't want to leave. It wasn't romantic or anything stupidly superficial - we were just in each other's presence at this moment. I felt pretty okay, and I hope you did, too. I know how it feels to be truly alone, but she didn't deserve half the muck that life struck her with. 

I still don't feel complete, no soulful satisfaction from composing away the grief. Then again, 2020 was a harsh year (and 2021 isn't looking any better), but I wish she spoke to me about what was bothering her. I last sent her a message on Instagram, asking to hang out. And now with nothing to show for a response, I'll never know what she was thinking about when she was taking the coward's way out. I didn't go to the wake but I don't do wakes well, and all of our "friends" were going to be there, so it wouldn't have ended well. I'm still talking to them, but I have no hope. They stopped talking to me, and only started to get my attention again because of your death. A death in the broken circle of friends shouldn't reunite them to make things right. How can we make things right when you're gone? What's the use? 
I hate that I spend my free time thinking about the past, but it gives me a chance to remember the good times that we had. 
I'm happy we reconciled at the end, though. I'll see ya again one day, hun. 

 

She sways and swirls
Swinging a light-up hula hoop
In the edge of nighttime.

Sitting and watching
We're all in amazement
As she dances to the beat.

I stare as her figure shifts
Emitting shapes and lines
Too bizarre for pure screening.

My eyes lose focus
And her movements form into
An electric butterfly.

The EDM tunes ring in-line with her routine
Creating electricity that mentally shocks me
I'm merely at a loss for words.

The tune concludes
And you sprung into final form
As we applaud the talented and lovely Anita:
The Electric Butterfly

In the Stillness at Nighttime

When I was moving out the apartment, I figured that a new chapter would commence as the summer season was beginning its exit. It certainly did. After the brief vacation at the hospital, I was able to snag up a job, and continue writing for the websites to keep the fingers and words afloat. Since then, every day has been a different mission of varying calibers of thought and action.

It all feels so new now. I wake up to sunshine instead of the higher sounds of lawnmowers outside the basement spot, and I can easily step outside to smell the morning air. To think that none of this would be possible for at least another decade is a nice thought to process - one with satisfactory contemplation and reflection. It's good to stay busy in lieu of staying still.

As I sit at this new place of mine, listening to The Five Satins, I continue to wonder what other paths life could've dealt me with. I wake up with mild fear, but it soon morphs into serenity whenever I look back and think of the things before today. The plaza down the street can provide some fun tales to tell now that I'm closer to the madness of civilization, so I'm looking forward to discovering more individuals and quest items that tell a story of their own. Perhaps, one time in the stillness at nighttime, I'll be able to uncover a new adventure that's worthy of being written down.

Today in Nerd History...

43 years ago, the realms of cinematic creativity had evolved from the mind of an up-and-coming writer/director by the name of George Lucas. He would go on to develop the epic space narrative of Star Wars, spawning multiple sequels, spin-offs, and side quests down the line.

The original film was released in theaters back on May 25th, 1977.

I wrote a little piece about Lucas and his development with the movie in an article on The Nerd Stash where a few images from behind the scenes are featured along with a brief history on the film's impact in nerd history.

Much love.

May the Force be with you.

Hanging February

Hanging February

1

The Social Feed Bleeds

February. The time to show extra appreciation for the one you hold most dear, a time of red festivities, a time of joy and love. It was only the first week of the month when I heard the news from my baby brother. Antonio Bonilla, a very close friend of mine from grammar school, passed away today. I couldn’t fathom the news, so I looked him up on Facebook and saw endless posts of sympathy and tears. It wasn’t fully realized to me until his mother posted on his page, expressing great distress that her son is dead. I stared at the phone and couldn’t look away. Flashes of our moments shared together swept through my mind, and the memories of Xbox, west coast hip-hop, Six Flags, and porn filled my head when I sat alone on the bed and cried. Cried so much that my chest pierced like a sharp needle fucking with my heart. I had lost a friend I’ve known since 1^st grade, and I never got to say goodbye.

2

The Truth

Antonio’s mother shared several posts that revolved around her son’s death. Revealing to us all online, Antonio was in the backyard of his girlfriend’s home, having a rough night after one too many drinks. He called out for her, seeking help, seeking love. She was home, so was her family, but they decided to ignore him. Antonio was a Latino, his girlfriend was white, and not the good kind. Her family despised him, mostly due to the color of his skin. I wouldn’t label them as racists, but the anger I have bottled up over the years after his death have sprouted honesty within me; I’m here to declare that those white bag of arrogant cunts ignored my friend’s cry for help because of race, and because of that he tied a rope around the porch and his neck and he jumped, choking and crying while they neglected him. Before he decided to commit, he reached out to dozens of friends, but not one of them seemed to care or even reply. I didn’t receive anything from him that night, and that’s what broke me. I had a dream about him, though I only remember it vaguely. He was in it only briefly, but he wasn’t happy. He seemed troubled, as if something was greatly eating at him. When I woke up, I thought of reaching out to him, but my lethargic ass completely forgot about it, at least until I looked on Facebook that one horrendous night. His mother didn’t hold back on her grief: she called Antonio’s girl a bitch online, blaming her for his suicide, and there wasn’t much to do except start a petition to implement a suicide law. The idea was to charge anyone of negligence if someone is threatening to kill themselves and with the other party not responding in some way. This never went into effect, but I did my part in signing for it. And I also did my part in attending his wake.

3

Daddy?

I dressed in a black button-up shirt as I attended the wake on my own. I walked into a room filled with people from Antonio’s life, family and friends, and some friends I haven’t seen in forever. Cory, Donovan, Ivette, Danielle, and a couple others were there. We greeted each other and just shared snippets of life with Antonio. It felt nice to catch up and look back on life with them, but I knew I had to face the casket sooner or later. After immense hesitation, I sauntered over to the opened underground bed and stared at the make-up covered, eyes and lips shut Antonio Bonilla. He looked good – kept his figure, fancy suit, he looked the same. I wanted to hold his hand and sing Coldplay to him, like the one time he did while we snacked on food before switching over to the Xbox. “I’ll miss you, man,” I quietly said to him, one hand on the casket, the other clenched. My throat was getting tight, so I couldn’t say anymore without bursting into tears. I gestured the sign of the cross and turned away, walking toward the back where they were playing a montage of pictures featuring Antonio and his peers throughout life. As I am walking by, a little boy ran by me and hollered “Daddy!” a couple of times before someone picked him up. A relative mentioned the mother, Antonio’s ex (not the bitch) and baby mama, covering her mouth and walking out of the wake when she heard her son call for Antonio. It was too much for me to take in. How are you going to explain to your kid that your father took the coward’s way out? What will the child think of, knowing that his old man was so young and so alive, only to be taken away by a noose on the porch? Will the kid remember his father? My anxiety was kicking in, so I decided to leave. I caught a glimpse of his mother, who was staring into space when I expressed my sympathy to her. She only turned her head and said, “Life is too precious to be ended so quickly.” She then walked away from me, maintaining the spaced look. It was my time to go.

4

February 2^nd

Whenever this time hits the calendar, I become severely depressed. The death of Antonio took a major toll on me. Around the time of his death, suicide was on my mind a bit, too. I sort of have depression, though I don’t like to label it. My mind becomes poisoned with vicious thoughts and emotions that I see ending myself as the best solution. But after February 2^nd, 2015, everything seemed to change. Suicide wasn’t on my mind anymore. Instead, I loathed the idea of it, and I hated myself for evening considering it in the first place. Life is one beautiful bitch that I don’t always want to fuck with, but the amount of preciousness in it one can appreciate can alter even the darkest of days. I wanted to kill suicide, I wanted to shout at his racist girlfriend across the planet and blame her until she went deaf, and I wanted to pick up his son and just talk to him. A noose on a porch of a racist family caused this muck. I don’t believe in forgiving these scums. Because of them, February is a month I no longer look forward to. A storm brews within this month, and I get burned to the fifth degree whenever an image of my friend pops into my memory.

5

Cold



I feel cold when I talk to people

Only here and there

I shake and rattle

Here and there

Only to fall asleep with a cold mind



I feel odd when I walk outside

Only here and there

I tremble and become lost

But only here and there

Only to be less kind



Everything became less and less

Everywhere

I only smile half the time

But only here and there

When a wave of brightness flashes through me



But then again, it’s merely here and there

A bad thought comes, darkness everywhere

Darkness consumes the light

The light is fading

But it never goes blank



Here and there, a spark ignites within

It’s indescribable, but it makes one feel whole

And well, shameless and content

And here and there a smile appears

So big that it’s everywhere



That’s when darkness subsides

When a frown fails

And a little blue in the sky shines on

That’s when it’s okay

Here and there

Yet, everywhere



6

Fare Thee Well, My Old Friend



Antonio,

I wish I had the chance to say goodbye before you lost yourself to that noose. I wish I called you after that strange dream. I wish we were still close buddies like we once were back in the day. Oh, you son of a bitch, you and I were like brothers at one point. I always wondered what you did after graduation. It just sucks because the next time that I saw you was on that casket, permanently sleeping. I feel lost sometimes when I think of you and what happened that night, and the days that followed. I’m not as nice as I used to be, and I don’t pray anymore. I’ve lost the notion of hope. I lost you, man, and it sucks major dick. You died a son, friend, and a father. I feel like I should be over this, but I simply cannot. You were the first friend I lost after graduation. I just wish I had found you in time again. If I ever become a well-known writer some time in the future, I’ll help your son find meaning in life, and I’ll make sure his life is well attended to once I gather the courage to talk to your mother again. It’s a dream for now – I only desire to turn that dream into a reality.

God fucking dammit. I suppose life does move on, but who the hell reminds themselves of that anymore? We all know life moves on, but life just keeps moving until Death stops you. I can take my time to grief and remember you for as long as I please, but I know one day some form of redemption will be at hand, and I’ll be there to clutch it for you. I don’t know what it is, but I’ll do that for you. It’s the least I can do.

I think that’s just about as much as I can write. Just know that I’m thinking of you, dude. You’ll never be forgotten. I love you, brother. Rest easy.

Fare Thee Well,

Cristian Anthony Rivera

Bless Unleashed Review

I've recently been writing for The Nerd Stash pretty much ever since Quarantine was initiated for everyone. It's given me an outlet to write and publish news pieces and reviews that are film and video game related, which has grown into my creative agenda of attending to other projects as well.

I just did a part 1 of 2 review for the new MMORPG Bless Unleashed. Definitely a nice title to check out if you have an Xbox One, and it's free-to-play as well. If you're looking for something to occupy yourself with, this might be worth checking since we're basically stuck inside for this season.

Stay safe and stay indoors.
Much love.

Samurai Jack Returns to the Pixelated World

My news piece for Samurai Jack's next adventure was just published on thenerdstash.com. Check it out here.
Much love.

The Joke

"Jesus!" I thought, and by even picturing what my commute would be for a job that didn't give a rat's ass about me. After four years at Columbia, I was more than accustomed to utilizing the public transportation, and also the scene of many bits I've transcribed onto this blog. Hundreds of hours have been spent on those trains and city buses - many characters, but not one as such as tedious, pointless, and emotionally aggravating as my one-month position of a busser of a privileged restaurant near the lake front. The nameless restaurant will be called The Joke for this piece, sense it seems very fitting, at least for me.
To make a short story even shorter, here's the narrative brass tacks for the sake of venting and time management. Through a friend, I was brought on the first day to bus tables during the summertime of 2019. I trained for a few days as both a runner and a busser, paid and everything, and then it was time to get the actual payroll a-comin'. For some supernatural/insane reasoning beyond my control, the hours were being piled in for the already existing employees while I was rewarded with one-day shifts. For these shifts, I would be cut by 10, done by 11, on the train by 11:30, and home between 1 and 2 in the morning. I wasn't given breaks, instructions on how to get meals, and was neglected by the servers like some new kid walking into school and all the other brats are questioning his presence. Mocked by other bussers, talked down below a social class radar I would assume from the managers (with the horrendous and ill-tempered General Manager never acknowledging me - only with directions and demands). They were nice when the shift would begin, and when I was cut. In one month, they told me I can look for another part-time job since business is slowing down, and very nicely to be exact. After that brief talk, they never gave me another shift. They kept sending me employee emails, but I didn't dare glance if my name wasn't on the schedule.
Also the head chef is definitely an Angelica from the Rugrats cartoons: whiny, bitchy, and just why does she keep yelling at her fellow cooks? Are all head chefs this foul and unnecessary? There was almost no respect and complete favoritism. At the previous restaurant, it was mostly respect and love among the crew. And I'm aware that not all restaurants are the same, but you don't have to make things more stressful than they already are. I'll name her Thorny Cunt, because despite being a cute brunette with attractive tattoos and an oftentimes steady personality, she was also a real thorny cunt.
Recently, in the cold, I traveled to the woods with Rosie, a companion of mine who was down to watch me torch my uniform and toss it into the river. The obvious vices were in hand, along with a mini portable speaker to say, "Bon voyage, you rat bastards!" to the beat and heart of various tunes. It didn't last long, only to be disappointed when the wind would interfere with my cheap pyrotechnics.
We both went home and I contemplated on my actions and the justification for them. They were almost pointless, just like my employment at The Joke. I imagined myself one day stumbling in there and going straight for the bar. Bartender asks what I want, I tell him/her/it that I want the best beer here and an order of fries, I've heard they're very tasty here! Walks away, puts in order, and I'll be in the mode of what I can do to cause mayhem there. I can say the beer tastes like asswater with soap, and I smash it against the ground and exclaim, "Are you trying to poison me, you drunken slime?!" I can comment on the fries being undercooked and start pretending to feel grossed out of my mind, telling the other customers they're being tested like animals and the chefs are high on heroin in the back - there's drips of lazy slick in the food, men in suits! I could go streaking to the back and search for that assjunkie busboy who mocked my cleaning skills, the moronic son of a gun. OR...I can step onto the deck with two water bottles in hand, screeching that, "I'm the king of the world! AHHHH!"
But these are merely figments of pure fiction only I can dream and write about. Wishful thinking? Perhaps? Joy of thinking of doing? Absolutely. One day I will visit The Joke, talk about my employment, and get super hammered because it's like pulling broken teeth when discussing small matters with these folks. But a final cheers to a damned job is the fitting end, at least for these humans. I like my imagination more than my reality sometimes, and I suppose that's the lesson I can take away from this. Obviously search for a better job and work on my mental muck as well, but what more can I ponder on something that brings both questions and frowns to my day?

Lance on Wattpad

A creative movement I worked on back in my junior year college has been fully uploaded to Wattpad. I wrote it during a writer's block moment at a time where I needed to craft something for a grade. I can't recall what exactly inspired this particular piece, but it's nonetheless something that my peers might expect from me: weird stuff.
It's a short story about a young man who gets into a messy situation just by going to the wrong place at the wrong time. All four parts are up.
Enjoy, guys.
Much love.

https://www.wattpad.com/story/202649551-lance-or-ill-lit

For Marion

The news was merely delayed when I first heard about it. My mother wanted me to ask my ex why there were so many officers on site near her house, in close proximity to Nagle Avenue. I told her I would, soon discovering that it involved Marion-Mario Tahiraj, a former Taft classmate and cinematographer that I had the pleasure of knowing. I remember back when he brought a vape after getting busted for possession. We shared the brand new pen under the tables at the cafeteria, hoping that the pigs-in-training wouldn't notice our fatuous activities. There was also a time when we were in the same group for a massive history project. We filmed it, with Marion coordinating the camera, music, editing, and further touches to finalize the assignment. Our teacher, Plencner, rewarded us with a B, and to me it was an achievement since no one else was up for making a film in such short time.

After high school, like most of the bastards moving up to higher education, we went our separate ways in an amicable but unacknowledged fashion - we simply stopped talking, no drama in the mix.

College rolls by, breaks in-between, the usual collegiate route.

Then the 18th of January in 2016 comes by, my friend is killed in vehicular warfare with a tree, due to the intoxicated irresponsibility of Mishel Lame, both were admitted into the same hospital, where Marion was pronounced dead.

There's not much I say can about Marion, only that he was sincerely a great guy to be around with. And despite how many times I try to imitate Herbert's voice from Family Guy, Marion would always do it better.

Take it up with whomever is up there, dude.

Much love.

https://link.kikitime.com/post/78e1f1f8-1dbd-4a44-9a8a-e1b053a9eae3

Heart-stopping Contact

Retrieved Post from Deleted GREAT AMERICAN TRAGEDY Blog, a blog I worked on back in early college.

Heart-stopping Contact

She said that she wanted to look into the storefront to stop for a while in order to catch a breather. I didn't blame her, our lungs desperately needed a break from all of the smoking that we shared.

The storefront showcased three mannequins with different attires, all within the square of bright red to enclose the window's darkness by shoving it away. Whoever was in the back walking from one end of the hallway to the other was oblivious to our stance.

We didn't move much, only to keep our temporarily loose balance intact. But as we stood in front of the window, I caught a glimpse of her everlasting eyes as they stared into mine. I felt the world spinning still for one quick second, I felt my heart stop for two, and the eye contact merely lasted for three. Those three seconds. Those damn three seconds killed my high, because I felt the intensity of instant love, yet I had to ignore it. I was becoming scared of the notion of falling in love in again. Okay, perhaps not scared; perhaps not in the mood or mindset for it. I tried to fight off the thought for a while, but that wonderful image crept back into my mind for the remainder of the night.

She smiled a little and then proceeded to advance our walk, away from the storefront. I shook myself awake from the heart-stopping contact, given the fact that I lost my breath, pulse, and heartbeat altogether.

And the worst thing is, she'll ask me if I'm okay, and I'll continue to lie, like I always have.

Heart-stopping Contact - https://link.kikitime.com/post/44ef17ed-b62d-4d39-8bc7-feb588624d96

Take A Book, Give A Book

In Chicago, and perhaps elsewhere, remains a little phenomenon where denizens craft a wooden casing display and shelf and store out in front of their house, storing literature for those to take and simply give back. In regards to where and when it exactly started is unknown; one by one they would pop up around the city within residential blocks. They’re hard to spot due since there are so few of them, but when one does locate said wooden display, they’ll find themselves shifting through the load to find a treasure they weren’t expecting.

The whole idea of it is to spread literature, kindness, and sharing amongst human beings. If you are carrying a book on you and you just so happen to stop by one of these, you could trade in the one you have in exchange for a fresh read.

Each box is different in its style and presentation, but they all consist of the same task by storing in books of any genre for the public to approach, inspect, and hopefully take a book with them. It works better than a library since you won’t be charged for turning in the rented book late. There’s no rule where it states that if you take one, you don’t have to trade one in, though that seems to defeat the purpose of these.

I spot these on my daily walks I take instead of going to the gym. They’re usually about an hour to two hours long because I’m enjoying myself with my headphones cranked all the way up. I never see anyone by these wooden boxes, but I imagine I’m just missing them, minutes before my arrival or after.

I snapped a couple I’ve found in the last month or so. As aforesaid, they’re few in number, so it’s a rarity to find them, and it’s not like there’s an app or a website to look on and see where all the nearby boxes at. Maybe there is, but I believe that takes away the adventure aspect about it. They’re meant to be surprises on your journey, like finding a five-dollar bill on the floor or seeing an old friend along the road. It’s not expected, it’s not planned, and it’s not even a thought preconceived before you step out the door. It’s one of those joys in life that are hard to find but easy to embrace.

Mayhap I’ll bring a book that I’m interested in having any longer on one of my walks, with hopes of running into a box to make the trade I haven’t been able to perform.

Mayhap one day.

https://link.kikitime.com/post/e71d8a25-d3b1-400c-98e2-88c8cdbefa58

Firefly

The weather is ever-changing around the globe as issues and shifts in global warming continue to rise. It’s caused even the most beautiful seasons in the Windy City to feel like hell on more days than one can think of. Though the picture has little reference to the whole notion of global warming, it was a curious thought that struck me when this little buddy left me to fly away to their mate.

I can’t decipher the sex of it, but its beauty remains nonetheless revered. To those who may not know, this little beetle is a lightning bug, or more technically a firefly. A flying insect that emits a glow from its abdomen area, producing a noticeable green glow in the nighttime when the sun disappears.

As a child, these cuties would show up in great numbers, creating this summer scene where the dark sky with orange pollution and stars in few sights were combined with flying dots of green. A peaceful atmosphere disturbed only by noise back then.

This past summer, however, finding these glowing critters became a challenge: it was hard to find them in and around the city. If I did manage to find them, they were only in the single digits as opposed to the dozens I was familiar with. And I was out for a chunk of the summer instead of writing (as I should’ve been) and playing an insane amount of video games into the twilight time.

But no matter what I did, from taking lengthy walks with my headphones on to meeting up with friends, I couldn’t seem to find them as much as before.

It got to the point where I didn’t even see one at night. Maybe I’m just tripping, maybe I’m going blind or something, but locating any of these little ones has sorely declined in memory.

Recently, one just happened to be flying near me. As per usual, I can’t recall what exactly I was doing – probably on another long ass stroll around my neighborhood if anything – but I was able to flow my hand to the speed of the insect to match it, catching it, or more so allowing it so land on my finger without struggle or harm.

It stayed a bit, glowed as expected when needed, and eventually it extended its wings and went away. It wasn’t dark yet, but its presence was enough for a quick photoshoot. A firefly amongst the masses, only to appear by itself.

Firefly - https://link.kikitime.com/post/ec140e55-9db3-4b1a-8640-a1047069c1aa

Joker on the Railway

It was just one of those days in the town, dazed and probably confused, where I, or we, strolled through some busy streets after an outdoor event, where I looked up at some point in time and saw something interesting: today it was the Joker. Not a cosplayer domed up on a fix or even Phoenix himself, but a soft toy about 3 feet tall that included all of the iconic features of the notorious comic book villain, from the creamy makeup to the sinister smile. He's staring down and laughing at the street as he clings onto the rail tracks, at the city that resembles one of Gotham City and vice versa. A Joker stuck, laughing below with cars zooming by.

I quickly snapped the scene before I walked away to shelter, now a physical memory of mine of a smile that mirrors the crazies of the city. A smile invented by society, even now so merely grasping it up high, only to laugh and stand in the end. 

Ha ha ha ha.

https://www.kikitime.com/post/eb86c65e-14ad-496c-9632-f4801a55619c

THAT LOOKS LIKE A GUN

My sister and I were shopping for groceries at the Wal-Mart near our residence on a normal day in the lives of two millennials getting goods for home when a random encounter took place before our eyes, as we were prepared ourselves for the checkout at the register when this black lady in her aging 50s approached the area for the mini-aisle you glance at as you gather your stuff onto the registry belt for purchase about a suspicious item that sparked her outrage: a blowtorch for grills and whatnot that looked "like a gun".
I filled the belt with our goods as this woman walked alongside an employee, where she pointed out the item hanging on the rack that stood less than five feet from me.
"This one," she said as she took out one copy of the item behind its family of replicas, "This is something the police are gonna point out and do something about - that looks like a gun!" she exclaimed openly as the residents of Skokie and northern Chicago readied their checkouts. I was placing food onto the belt when this annoyed citizen approached the side aisle by me, bitching about how this item that should be taken off the rack entirely, and nothing else. At the time it seemed futile to me, and it still does because of a firing item that is used for cooking and grilling and hopefully not for any other outdoor use (otherwise the user would be getting themselves into a whole heap of useless trouble). Maybe she had a low-life offspring that got into gangs and got themselves shot or some unfortunate incident had occurred at a family barbeque, but for a place that sells all kinds of goods for reasonable purposes to the public, it seemed absolutely stupid to me for this mess to cause a scene when everyone is just going about their routine.
"No one cares," the elderly woman said aloud after the agitated customer left with the employee to see "the manager", leaning on her cart with a smirk of privileged sophistication as she connected with me about the annoyance with the situation - her and along with a few others that sort of just snickered at the situation and moved on.
My sister didn't say much but kind of chuckled at what unfolded, but I couldn't help but wonder why a person would act in such a way...until I encountered her once again in the parking lot, standing by the curb mumbling to herself right outside the Wal-Mart as cars drove on by. I didn't know how to interpret her because I couldn't figure out her dialogue, but she sure as hell wasn't happy with the outcome of her situation, and the air and people of Skokie shall pay the price of some open-mouthed complainer who won't shut up, all in due to some blowtorch that just happens to look "like a gun."
Is there sympathy to be expressed? Mayhap. But to those merely shopping, in the peace and comfort of a Wal-Mart that intends to do no harm to the consumers, not really.
I'm naming her Patty, because I can't think of a better, more suitable name for this individual.