I’m turning into a bitchy mass of scabs. My face is healing slowly. Laughing or smiling kind of hurts and while I am eating solid food now, it’s a bit of a joke to see it happen. If it didn’t hurt so fucking much, it’d be kind of cool that I now look like a completely different person. The swelling has gone down just enough that I don’t look freakish (well, no more than I ever did), but is present enough to give my face a different dimension and character. It’s kind of creepy. Looking in the mirror feels like someone stole my face. It’s alright though. Another week and I should be fine. Right now, I’m content to hobble around and fumble at things with my scabby fingers. My body’s going to heal, I’m not worried about that.

What’s going on in my head is a different story. I no longer walk down my street at night, opting for roundabout ways to get where I’m going and when I do go anywhere, it’s some fucking tense ass shit and basically removes any interest I had in doing whatever I was going to do. I compulsively scan everyone I pass, looking for the guy that mugged me. I had to go somewhere last night and it took five beers to get me brave enough and even then, I still carried a box-cutter in my back pocket. I own a gun, but I’m not that crazy yet.

I’m moving soon, but only around the corner where it’s at least always busy with traffic and businesses. It’ll be marginally better but I plan on moving again, within the neighborhood but to a more gentrified block or street. I’ve had it with living in the fucking ghetto. The area I’m in is a cancer. It’s eating itself alive and for all I fucking care it can swallow itself whole and die.

Last night, some asshole tried to mug me and ended up beating the shit out of me instead. I was walking down the street that I live on in Prospect Heights around eleven at night. Halfway down the block, I noticed this big black guy was walking towards me. I moved to the side, towards a metal fence to give him room to pass and it was a big mistake because he zeroed in and cornered me against the fence and whispered “Gimme your wallet”. Had I chosen the other side of the sidewalk to give way to, I would have had a chance to run into the street, but I’d boxed myself.

It all happened so suddenly and quietly that what was happening didn’t register. Instead of the little voice in my head telling me, “Dave, you’re getting mugged, give up your wallet before you get killed”, all I understood was that someone was fucking with me and I needed to get out of being stuck up against the fence. I tried to move out of the way, but the guy grabbed me by my shirt and proceeded to pound the shit out of me. I knew I was being punched in the face and around the head, but I didn’t feel any pain at all. I can’t remember if I hit him back. I’m inclined to think I didn’t because my knuckles seem unmarked. I do know that I did a lot of struggling and yelling.

Somehow I ended up on the ground with a couple of feet between me and the guy, enough for me to get my footing and tear off down the street. As I got up, someone in the building next to me turned on a light and yelled out the window and the mugger moved off in the opposite direction from me. It’s not like I stopped to watch him go, I was too busy running for my life, but I think he just walked off, probably into an apartment building nearby. There’s a lot of thug motherfuckers that live on my street, spending their days smoking blunts, playing dominoes and acting like badasses. I’m pretty sure he was from that crowd which basically means I’m fucked. I got away with my wallet and everything else except my glasses, which were likely sent flying with the first punch.

I made it inside and checked myself out. There was a good amount of blood coming out of me, most of it from my mouth and hands. I had two fat lips with the top lip split in two places, a fat bump on my forehead and a shitload of cuts and scrapes all over with the worst on my hands and my right knee. The thumbnail on my right hand had been torn off. My shirt was torn up. I was a fucking mess.

I called 911, but the cops don’t give a shit. So, after many icepacks and hydrogen peroxide baths, I tried, unsuccessfully to sleep. As I lay there, trying not to bleed on the sheets, I couldn’t get my mind off that guy. I ran through all the possible scenarios and as much as I would have wanted otherwise, I realize that I was in way over my head and that I’m lucky to be alive or not in the hospital. It’s not a good feeling. I’ve practiced Aikido for about ten years and before that, Karate. None of that meant shit. All of it went completely out the window because my guard was down. Once it was down, there was no chance of getting it back. Even so, I should have just handed over my wallet. I can’t explain why I didn’t other than it all was too fast. If he’d had a knife or a gun, I have no doubt whatsoever that I would be dead or at the very least, severely injured. It’s not a good feeling.

I’ve lived in this neighborhood for about a year and three months. During that time, I have been the victim of three crimes, one, last night, being violent and almost getting me killed. My head is aching and there’s a big part of me that’s keenly interested in getting my ass on the next train back to Vermont. That’s not likely to happen though. I feel guilty about it, but I hate the people that live there. I just do. I’ve been robbed, beaten, threatened, called a “Cracker” one too many fucking times. Walking down my street, it feels often like I have a fat red and white target painted on my back what with the way people look at me. I don’t like the anger that I have and I realize that a part of it is irrational, but I also realize that a large part of it is grounded in reality. I’m polite. I keep to myself and yet all I get is abuse in one form or another from a bunch of angry racist fuckheads who, en masse, find it perfectly acceptable to take their aggressions, in whatever form it may be, out on the nearest unassuming white male. I don’t know what to do with it. It doesn’t feel good, but I never did anything to deserve this bullshit. It’s a very shameful feeling, but it’s still hate. I wish I didn’t feel it, I wish I could compartmentalize and rationalize it better, but I also wish my forehead wasn’t throbbing and I wasn’t required to eat through a straw.

For the second time in a year, I have come home to find that someone broke into my apartment. The window in my bedroom was completely busted out and broken glass was all over the floor. This time, however it looks like the thieves were scared off. While the window was broken, it was still locked and it seems nothing has been taken. There was a moment last night when I came home for about fifteen minutes and when, on opening the door, I thlought I heard a noise. But as loud as my neighbors can be and as paranoid as I am, I didn’t think anything of it. I never went into my bedroom, so it’s possible I’d scared them off or at it had at least already happened. I didn’t notice the window until this morning.

So, that makes it the sixth time in the past 2 years (two occuring while I lived here) that my apartment has been robbed. Who knew I’d be so popular? I’ve called the police, who can do nothing and the landlord isn’t returning calls. My building’s super tells me I likely won’t see anything fixed for a few days, as it’s a holiday weekend, so I’m essentially trapped indoors till this is resolved. I have a huge gaping hole in my bedroom. This is Brooklyn, I’m not going anywhere.

So I’m now of the opinion that Michael Jackson is going to get off (the child molestation rap, that is). I really do think he’s got to be a pedophile, but the case against him sucks, big time. He’ll get off on reasonable doubt and high-tail it out of the country and hire new people to make damn sure his kiddie-humping tendencies never again come to light.

I really, really want to see him burn and while I’m no fan of pedophiles, the real motivation behind wanting to see the book thrown at him is that some day, I know that I will feel compelled to read the no-holds-barred biography, unauthorized by his estate that you just know is going to come out after he’s kicked the bucket. What can I say, I want it to be good. I want some action and several chapters of that freakball alien adjusting to prison life sounds awesome. So, fuck reasonable doubt, let’s throw the fucker in prison.

Better yet, let’s throw him in the slammer and make a reality show about it for television. I can just about guarantee that whichever station takes that leap will secure the highest ratings ever. “Michael Jackson’s Real World: Cellmates”, you heard it here first.

There’s some things about prison that are general knowledge. Little guys get raped by big guys and pedophiles generally end up dead or used as the general purpose sperm disposal unit for the entire cell block. Everyone knows this. Being the disgustingly rich media star that he is, Jackson would likely cool his heels in some sort of resort-prison, much like Martha Stewart’s recently served sentence, but I can’t help but wonder what glorious drama you’d get from throwing MJ into general population at a regular prison.

Possible imagined scenarios:

1. Jackson wins prisoners over with a blockbuster bout of moonwalking and spine-tingling renditions off “Beat it” and “Bad”. Forms paramilitary pop army and takes over the world.
2. After getting beat the fuck down upon arriving, Jackson throws himself into bodybuilding and hand to hand combat, effectively becoming the world’s deadliest gloved one. After assuming control of his cell block by crushing all oppostion single-handedly, Jackson maintains control for many years with a “Hee-hee-hee” and the occasional vibrating palm of death.
3. Jackson is adopted by the Aryan Brotherhood, gets shaved, tattooed, grows a Hitler moustache and later on is unmasked as the Antichrist.
4. Jackson becomes the multipurpose fucktool for anyone with the most cigarettes. Much lipstick, dropped soap, laughter, tears and stiches ensue.

The list could go on. You see, he really needs to go to jail. It’s just too good.