Jason Rodriguez - The Moose in the Closet: Baltimore, Quarters, Conspiracies and Peanut Gallery: Josefrero

Baltimore, Quarters, Conspiracies and Peanut Gallery: Josefrero

Went to Baltimore Con this past weekend with Chris and it was good times, even got to meet and have lunch with Robert Kirkman (who’s friends with Chris) and I realized first hand that he’s an all right son-of-a-bitch. Picked up some books that I hope to talk about this week. I got Batman: Year II for five bucks on Chris’ recommendation and I have to say that after the reading the first issue I wanted to rip my eyes out. It feel like it was written by the bastard child of William Shakespeare and Rob Liefeld who tapped some guy named BatsBitches03 from the Newsarama board to edit it. Maybe it gets better but I have no intention of finding out.

Homeboy Jason Copland (a phenomenal artist) started his new blog, No Quarter. Go check it out.

And I started updating the DC Conspiracy site in order to start getting it ready in time for SPX. Updated the “events” page and added the brand-spanking new “preview comics” page. I still need to add some comics, members and a link to the Counter Culture Festival page.

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I started the Peanut Gallery last Wednesday after realizing the football weak was boring. I’m going to continue it this week since it’s been a lot of fun to write and I know plenty of characters worth talking about.

Jose was the butt of every joke on Woodhull St. The kid was just whacked out. He was also David’s brother, my boy, which meant I had to see him quite often.

For starters he was obsessed with cops – he wanted to be one his whole life. He would pull kids over on their bikes and give them speeding tickets. If they got three tickets he’d impound their bike. And you couldn’t fight the dude, he was bigger than all of us and rode this fucking monster truck sized BMX. So he’d take my bike and I’d run to my father and you could see the rage on my father’s face as Jose explained to him that I’m riding recklessly and he needed to teach me a lesson. Somewhere in the back of my father’s mind he was debating knocking a ten-year-old in his snotbox.

His obsession with cops was an odd pairing with his horribly racist ideologies. He wanted to be Italian so he adopted a fake accent and insisted people called him “Joey”. Dave and I would be sitting on the stoop, listening to music and sipping quarter-waters when Jose would come out, look at the corner at some black kids and comment on how the cops should do something about those “loitering niggers”. Dave and I just sort of roll our eyes. He hated every race but mainly black people and Hispanics (which was amazing because his ass was straight-Columbian). He’d sort of jokingly call me a spic quite often to try and rile me up. It usually worked.

He was worse when he got his license. His family owned a station wagon and he used to drive Dave and I around and drop us of places. He’d drive that fucking station wagon like it was the Dukes of Hazard car. Swerving around, accelerating hard, and honking his horn. But that wasn’t even the embarrassing part. He’d pull up alongside hookers and let them now it’s illegal to solicit. He’d park the car and walk into a convenience store if he saw black people in there, just in case the owner needed back-up. I mean, the guy was fucking nuts.

The family traded the station wagon in for a mini-van and that had to be the best day of Jose’s life. He’d brag to people that he had “the van” and cruise around the neighborhood with the window open, blasting White Snake and occasionally techno music.

He didn’t seem to have any friends – I don’t know how he could possibly have friends the way he acted. He was always hanging around Dave and me, trying to start shit. If he ever caught us doing something stupid he’d actually tell our parents. He was just so fucking lame.

At the age of 18 he became an auxiliary cop which is a little better than a civilian but worse than a C.O.P. (that’s Citizens On Patrol for those of you not down with the Police Academy movies). But man, he’d wear that badge everywhere. He’d pin me against a car and frisk me while flashing the badge, saying I looked suspicious.

Eventually the whole family up and moved to Florida. Now he’s back in New York, living in his parent’s old house, an active member of the NYPD. Although he now seems to be a well-rounded and extremely friendly adult he still insists people call him Joey. Good ‘ole Blue and their screening process.

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Baltimore, Quarters, Conspiracies and Peanut Gallery: Josefrero

Sunday, September 18, 2005

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