Seancrates

Because we probably haven't thought everything out.

How I Believe The World Should Be

I think people should trust each other. Everyone deserves a second chance to regain someone’s trust. Everyone deserves a chance to be told how things should be done because when they did it the first time without any instructions, things got fucked up.

The most important thing is that people should trust each other. We trust the words that we read. We trust the chefs that prepare the food. We trust our grandparents to take care of the kids when we want to go out and live like we used to. We should trust the people we love. Trust is how the world was built, er, and destroyed, but it existed.

 

Bullets/Sirens

How many years does a bullet give? Gunslingers balk at the respect your badge gives. There’s no chaos here, just everything wrong with the world, according to you. Trust me, don’t come here. We’re cool. Leave us and our cool shit alone.

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Three pops polluted the air that early afternoon. The uplifting laughter of children was replaced with shrieks and their names we’re yelled by even more frightened parents. That was unnecessary as the oldest survival technique in the entire world took over: run. A targeted hit. No kids died that day.

You would’ve thought the cops were angry at silence that night. Unrelenting sirens echoed across the neighborhood while blue and red flickers painted every surface. It was annoying. My pillow clamshelled around my head didn’t bring any relief.

This wasn’t a unique night for me. It happens every weekend in the summer. Cops sirens are the heaven and hell. You’re glad that safety is being provided, but at what cost? My production the next morning suffers. My stress levels skyrocket at any other siren that I hear during the day. That’s not normal.

 

Don’t scroll past this important message

I’m in the attention business. That beautiful millisecond of attention you give me on your mobile is where my genius strings you along a journey that has taken months to plan. That slim window of opportunity is where I take siege of your curiosity and poke you towards corporate sponsored self-actualization.

Past the baby pictures, political outcries, and videos of things to do with a can of processed bread, I make sure that we make our connection, and that it’s so deep your own emotions are jutted into thinking that i have your best interests in mind. As much as you’re addicted to scrolling, I’m your Joke, addicted to making money off you stopping your finger from going down to up.

Oh you’re interested in cars? Easy. I’m GMs favorite marketing mercenary.

The new Dodge viper releases in three days, watch our live launch event – Sponsored.

That’s not the end of this jog around the park big boy.

Here’s your chance to drive the viper. Sign up here – Sponsored.

Welcome to the site, here’s a video featuring Dale Fucking Earnheart Jr. – produced by me and my team.

Enter your email sucker. Share this with your friends.

Three weeks later you’re on a Facebook live video test driving the viper – Sponsored.

Oh now you’re buying the car you told you’re friends you couldn’t stop thinking about. Thank you for your purchase. This cost GM 10k. Less if two people buy the car

Selling and executing stories are my strongest skills. Travel along this gravy train from where you are to where you could be. I’d like to believe I’m good at this. Hell, I’m beating my goals on a weekly basis.

Opportunity creation is my favorite business model. You should see the saliva on the side of my mouth, foaming in pure white when I see user base numbers increase on a quarterly basis. – Sponsored.

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Thank goodness for forgiveness. Besides love – which I’ve yet to fully define – it’s the most magnetizing characteristic. You get wronged, and no matter the intent or ramifications, power is still afforded to you after you simply forgive. If you can forgive and forget, then congratulations, you’re now the Arceus of your emotions.

Here’s a secret you may not know about me, I suck at most things. My rice has come out undercooked or mushy more times than perfect. I attribute most of my mistakes to naivety and having no one to offer forgiveness to but me. That’s really easy. If forgiveness wasn’t afforded to me but anyone but myself, you’d only know me as The Dude that slept on the couch from Half Baked.

I learned a great career lesson within the first two months of my first internship. My duties were to hold together the reigns of all their social media sites, for a site that touted them as the “Facebook for sports.” This was back when you just had to tweet a lot to gain followers (this is how it works today too). I just tweeted about anything sports-related. Life was in a cloud.

Approvals are the voice in your head that tell you to pull your hand back from the fire when you were a toddler. When your mortal cortex says that spiraling and whipping form in orange and red has to be tested, approvals comes in are like “No, no no. Here’s a quick lesson on how skin is kept intact.” When you represent a brand to millions of people, you need approvals to second-guess the words, pictures, and images you’re sharing. Guess how many people approved my posts when I was an intern? Zilch.

This didn’t fare well when I decided to share my concern for the viewership numbers of the WNBA. The five-word tweet “Who even watches the WNBA?”, warranted an immediate email from the CEO calling for my head to be delivered in a box. For the sake of saving my ass from controversy, I do appreciate what the WNBA has done for women and will continue to do for them. However, I’m Gilbert Arenas when it comes to watching the WNBA. My supervisor tapped me on the shoulder and said “walk with me.” I wasn’t savvy yet with the corporate, self decomposing meaning of the term which meant to pack up my shit and exit á la Jerry Maguire. We went to the bar, and showed me the printout of his response. He told him that I was a good employee and that I was doing well for the brand. He saved me. Then he said he agreed with the tweet. I personally apologized to the CEO when I got back, and he said he forgave me.

The Brothers Smoke

I was thirteen the first time I pulled the split cigar that was resealed with the finest indo-weed. Thank goodness it was sativa. I’m not sure if everything was funny, if I was funny, or if I was just doing funny shit. My cousin’s anti-D.A.R.E. propaganda proved too powerful, and his wordplay too closely aligned with my impressionable sense of wonder.

“Ok now pull in but don’t inhale it. Close your mouth and then breathe through your nose.” Instructions for the damned and the enlightened.

In spite of the loud laughs from my first experience, I didn’t get high for a really long time after that. It wasn’t because I couldn’t access it, it was simply because I didn’t care to do it again. Let’s be clear about this, no one is truly addicted to weed. If people don’t have it, there’s no Ray Charles sweats or stealing from your family to buy cheeba. That’s ridiculous. Weedheads just drink some water and go the fuck to sleep. In fact, my weed “addiction” started during my senior year of college and even today I don’t smoke everyday, and I can go weeks without thinking of the stash. Even your biggest weedhead can go cold turkey today. It wasn’t until my senior year of college that I really kicked it up a notch.

Ideas like putting the weed in the hookah turned into habits when guests were over. Large smoke sessions turned into having more weed than cigars. First-timers freaked out after the indica settled in and they felt their heartbeat beating through their chest. Pssst, that’s my favorite part. In all of my years, there was one person who I could never smoke with me, my brother.

Out of all the people in the world, I admire my brother the most. He’s one of those guys where you can pair the leadership traits and routines of top leaders and CEOs of the world with him. He can focus and accomplish, whereas my attention spam last about the time it takes for Chris Johnson to run the 40. Whenever he came over, I could tell he wanted to join the cipher when the blunt was lit, but I know my brother needed incentive. Once again, he won’t do anything that’s not for his benefit. Thank goodness for weed regulation.

Out of the blue, he called me up one day to let me know that he had started to take edibles. What of a hell of a way to be introduced to the wide world of body high. Edibles leave me incapacitated. Maybe it was because the first time I had them, I was standing in line at Wal-Mart and I rushed the cashier to bag my shit up because I was in another universe wearing a non-NASA approved spacesuit. It was 4/20. There’s a picture from that day somewhere on my Facebook. I had to host an event after the brownie hit. It took me an hour to change into my suit with the first forty-five was spent sitting down in the bathroom floor.

A couple of years passed by until we smoked the cheeba together, as two millenial brothers should. He was visiting  NYC and guess who had a blunt rolled up ready to go? Me. I’m the blunt master. I’m talking about bring the best blunt roller in your rap crew and we can go toe-to-toe. Swishers please. Since he was heavy on vaporizers, the blunt served too harsh for him and he only pulled it a few times. Throw that in the bucket of our ying and yangs.

Another Attempt At Love

What kind of life do I want to have? I’d much prefer a big ole butt cusped in my right hand, and a burlap sack of money in the other. I have one of those things and that thing is good.

It’s so good.

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You should know you’ll always receive my desire of you. With my body, my heart, my mind, my soul, and my R&B playlists that I’ll play for you in the background while you work. I’ll give you massages, the regular butt naked ones, and sometimes the clothed ones. But only sometimes. Those aren’t fun. It’s ok if you go to sleep during them. I’ll just go catch up on Seinfeld.

Let’s forever blend our bodies together when we sleep. Feel my heartbeat against your warm bare back as you angle your base onto my core. It soothes me. Know that for every song that makes me feel our love, I’m imagining it being our our wedding day playlist. We’re dancing into eternity on blue marble floors in your flowing dress. Your solo part is enchanting.

Forever isn’t long enough for me. How glory filled would it be if we met in Heaven?  I don’t imagine our love here while we live, but instead I ask myself what if our love is surrounded by love? I hope there’s a corner in heaven where they play the best of the Isley Brothers 24/7. That’s where we would meet every Tuesday at 8 on our usual date night.

The Tenant With The Monster Truck

As an adult, being a short male isn’t as frightful as when you’re a youth. When you matriculate through your grade school years, and your frame doesn’t fill out as well as the other kids in your grade, you’re equated as a disease from your classmates. Sports? Fughettaboutit. Easy friends? Fughettaboutit. No mercy was given, even from my own blood. My grandma on my father’s side called me “Shrimp” up until I was 15. This is the life of a Filipino and Black boy who’s father’s side of the family suddenly didn’t show up in the gene factory.

You know what’s great about being small? Compensating for lack of your height in other areas. It’s not insecurity, it’s security. My grandfather’s built an extension at his house in Hawaii so that he could accommodate tenants. I’m not saying AirBnb owes him money for this novel idea but some checks are due. The extra rooms accommodated traveling and sometimes illegal immigrants that worked as seasonal employees or wives who waited for their husbands to come home. They were always Filipino and short. Show me a tall Filipino and I’ll show you some bad pinakbet and pork adobo.

I remember pulling up to my grandfather’s house at the end of the cul de sac in Kalihi, and as I glanced to the right, only to realize that this monster truck was blotting out the sun and was dragging its shadow across the grayish pavement. The matte white and damaged Toyota Truck sat at least 9 feet high and sat on a chassis that attached itself to pure, unfiltered, black rubber. I don’t remember the tenant’s name, but he was only maybe a foot and a half taller than me and I was most likely 4 foot nothing. He walked out and said “Hay, you like me start it up” in classic Hawaiian pigeon. Let’s make this big cat purr. Him getting into the truck required pure dedication. He had to grab the bottom of the chassis, pull his legs onto the tire, push up from there, grab the top of the truck and swing himself into the driver’s seat.

If you want to hear what America sounds like, stand next to a monster truck. The rattling rotations of the pistons as the gas was pressed blasted out hot fumes through the pipes that singed. Like a motorcycle gang all leaving the bar, the truck spoke, and I covered my ears. The 5″2′ tenant, sitting in his truck, laughed heartily.

Free Writing #1

I need to understand my thoughts a little better.

It’s one thing to have thoughts. It’s another thing to have no process to place them in order to make a point. I have nothing for it. I just know what I feel about it.

I know people think I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed. I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed. I can’t even think of another way to say I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed.

My W’s are too few and far between. I should re-evaluate what a W is. Right now, it’s having enough logic to have others even consider my argument. I’m losing on a mental capacity front. I think it’s affected other avenues in my life. Influence is so important to me. It has become my life. I feel free sometimes, but when I’m met with resistance I become nothing. I should embrace resistance.

What’s the solution? Maybe it’s to not argue at all. I don’t want to argue art anymore. I just want to argue process. But first I need to get my thoughts in order.

  1. Embrace resistance
  2. Listen, then react
  3. Consider your argument
  4. Gather your evidence
  5. Counter the opposing argument
  6. If you don’t win, agree to disagree
  7. Always believe you can change the world

Experiment – A scientific activity that tests a hypothesis to see if it is right or wrong.

Problem – How powerful is the force of love?

Materials – A. Human Being

Hypothesis: Subject will gravitate towards love in all situations.

Procedure – 1. Place Human Being (Subject) into “life situations” to see if he/she gravitates towards love.

Life Situation 1: DEATH

RESULTS: Subject has responded well to test. Post-death, after a large period of denying love in all facets, subject gravitated towards center.

Life Situation 2: LACK OF SUCCESS

RESULTS: Subject has responded well to test. Subject became discouraged in certain instances over a period, but gravitated towards center. Subject also left center again to return several times.

Life Situation 3: Love itself

RESULTS: Subject showed restraint at first.Subject was observed to take on small doses of love but not accept it fully. After years of this exercise, Subject finally embraced it in its full capacity. Subject was then able to succeed in life that was off the charts.

 

I can’t organize

 

I’ve always believed that a sign of a leader is to be able to influence and paint a vision of  the future. Leveling up your influence stat is the result of sharing your vision and having the 0.01%. chance that someone else sees this future world. This is one of the top five most difficult things you could do in life. If you haven’t figured it out by now, this is not a business book.

I am not good at influencing others to see a vision. This first became clear to me while I was a union and community organize in Milwaukee. My job was to unite lower income and unemployed people into a community organization to rebel against big companies and demand a plan to lower the unemployment rate from their state government. Sounds easy as pie. It was not. It turns out that when you try to get people without jobs to complain about not having jobs, it takes away time for them to get out the hole their currently in. Most people I talked to could empathize, but weren’t willing to join because of this fact. What was my rebuttal to this? To take it out on the company that hasn’t paid back their bailout money? There is a path to paint that trickles to the individual, but imagine if you’re baby is crying. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

I couldn’t tell people that because they’re black, they were getting the short end of the stick. I didn’t have to tell them. They already knew. I should’ve painted the picture of a glorious black America. Fighting against companies is hard to organize against. Racism is the theme that would’ve been my Sistine Chapel.