Supa is technically 1/8th of The Writing Crew: a talented, lively, mentally-unbalanced group of hardcore writers who formed a personal and professional bond over half a decade ago. Think of us as a Negro, literary version of The Brat Pack. These fools are my family.And just like any family, we are both loving and dysfunctional. We party together, travel, drink, smoke, celebrate, argue, pontificate, engage in questionable romantic entanglements, fall out, fuck up, give bad advice, curse each other behind the other’s back, swear to never talk to each other again, vow our undying love for one another, save each other’s asses, and go to blows with anyone within earshot who attempts to sully any of our names or reputations.. Oh, and we also encourage, support, and critique each other’s writing projects/careers. Yeah.
So last night, a member of The Writing Crew left a voicemail on Supa’s cellie, and honestly she wasn’t screening this time, but in the kitchen whipping up a new batch of Theraflu. (I’m really sick this time, for real)
A little background on the member in question: Dude hails from Brooklyn, and is a brilliant, frighteningly talented, if somewhat psychotic, yet all-around gifted writer. (He's a cross between this guy and this guy.) I mean, the brotha is a visionary. So naturally, he's a little off: He's named after a great African King, and because of this royal connection, he charges an annual fee for his friendship (see? delusions of gandeur, classic schizophrenic. And re: the fee, we never pay). But his ass can write. He’s been holding on to a manuscript the creative world desperately needs, and we’ve threatened him numerous times to stop tweaking and rewriting and editing the damn thing 20,000 times every other month, but that's a whole other sordid tale…
Anyway, the voicemail he left was a strange combination of guttural grunts, slurred words, rambling, and intermittent cursing, and Supa replayed the message six times and still barely deciphered half. The only part I got was where he called me, or somebody, (cover your ears, kiddies) a punk-ass mutha fucker. Supa is curious to know, if any of your friends talk to you like that? Sheesh.
At any rate, he sounded violently drunk, freshly released from jail, homeless, or some unsurprising combination of the three. I hadn’t talked to him since the year began, and regretted missing his call. More importantly, Supa wanted to know if he’d been brought in for questioning regarding the now infamous felonious acts the Writing Crew are alleged to have committed one wild night in or around Pop Burger, a bar in midtown Manhattan; or if he was just simply calling to say hey. Supa tried to hit him back, but to no avail...
So, Fool, if you’re reading this, (cause quite a few of Supa’s friends keep up with her via this blog) holla atcha girl! Promise I’ll pick up this time, as long as I’m not sleep. And yo, there’s no room on my sofa, I’m having the living room remodeled.
Love you too, Skidmarks!
10 comments:
Yeah, you know I love this fool, but, if you are reading this Brah, yo ass is twisted, disconnected, broken. Are ya listening? Get up off your ass and drop the dayum manuscript. Let's not target success posthumously. Okay? And maybe us West Coast girls can come East, meet you in Fort Green at Buttercup (hope it's still there) and celebrate. I mean like what the hell? You can't tweak or edit until you die. But then again, we are talking about a psychotic, twisted, broken, brilliant artists such as yo self. Love ya Skeeter! I'm out.
I'm just loving that he's a cross between Toure' and Larry David, that's almost as funny as my rocket scientist/thug combination.
Us writers are crazy, I hope your boy pulls it together!
wow. lololol. i can't wait for the book. i love books. one of my former friends is a phenomenal writer, too. and clearly the most psycho person i've ever had a conversation with!! geez!
Supa Sister,
You gotta help him because I don't think there is enuff medication that will help at this point.
We don't want him to go the way of all the other modern day geniuses who had meltdowns when their mammoth talents overwhelmed them. You know I'm talking about Lauren, Chappelle, Martin, and the others.
It's time the crew got together and have an intervention or a party. It'll do us all good. Cap Juluca in the Caribbean would be a good place to chill.
So, if Dave's cuzzin is reading this, (said in a tone like a parent yellin' at the kids in the next room) "don't let me have to come up there, all the way from the hurricane coast, to get you back on track."
ok can we have a good ol' picture of the writing crew please!
lmao Supa Sister!!!!! You got my cuz pegged big time. I was with the subject on the night in question, and his frame was definitely in need of repair (severely damaged by a "night" of drinking that started at 3 p.m.)I hooked up with the twisted genius around midnight, and he was still going strong, hen-dog in hand, mumbling unintelligibly, growling and charming the hell out of unsuspecting females. Then he disappeared without a trace and neither I nor the third member of our crew has heard from him since (not to worry: this is not uncommon in our world). I guess he went back to the Fortress of Solutide to tweak his manuscript (and in case you're wondering, he hasn't let me read it either).
Sounds like an intervention is very necessary. BTW, Ja - da Buttercup is CLOSED. :(
ummm...yeah...i'm gonna have to go ahead and ask you to leave me the fuck alone....yeeeaaahhhh.....
gurl I'm sick too :(
drunk dialing...it never fails! Let us know what the ruckus was all about.
@ Mempheus - I'm down for PR or the DR or Bahamas this year. A sis needs some Caribbean sun! Or maybe we should try to avoid the hurricane regions this year...remember Miami...
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