“Jambo, Mzungu!” – A Guide to Tanzania

Eight weeks ago, I moved from The Hague, Netherlands to Arusha, Tanzania. Not a permanent move, I’ll be back in Europe by late November. Which will be around the time I’ll start going stir-crazy here, missing my beloved cheese and bud shops. But in the meantime, here’s a tour of this wonderful and majestic East African country.

Upon landing in Tanzania, one of the first words you will hear will be “Mzungu”. That means foreigner or white person. Which makes me hope they’re referring to the former whenever the locals yell it, as they wave to me each and every day. That throws out any delusions of honorary Africaness these dreadlocked, hemp-wearing hippies may have hoped for when they got the ganja-fueled drum circle idea of coming to Tanzania. You’re a Mzungu. Deal with it.

Arusha is a sun-beat haze of red dust and motorcycle exhaust. Mount Meru looms in the distance over the town, as you’re stuck in traffic behind a bus adorned with a custom-made Rick Ross decal staring back at you. Boda bodas (motorcycle cabbies and couriers) zip madly between cars and trucks. Vendors line the sides of the roads, selling anything from roasted corn on the cob to shoes, phone accessories, and bootleg dvd’s. Maasai tribesmen, clad in their Shukas (traditional plaid blanket-like garb), machetes, spears, and beads, check their Facebook while listening to hip hop on headphones.

It’s a mix of wonder and what-the-fuck. One second I’m staring at the curious and colorful art a vendor has on display, the next second some terrified dude runs past the scene with hands tied behind his back. Or seeing a warm, smiling vendor wave at me, right next to him a thief getting savagely beat down by a neighboring vendor. And the locals and pedestrians don’t even bat an eye. It almost makes me feel like I’m back in New York City.

The land itself is beautiful, bold, with a rich, earthy smell. Kinda like the mulch section of Home Depot. Savannas and mountains stretch in the horizon, the trees dry and brittle from the harsh sun and dusty winds. Herds of goats and cattle dot the landscape every now and then, lonely Maasai walk or ride their beat up bikes along the road. Sometimes you won’t see any sign of a house, hut, or even hints of population miles before and after you encounter these single travelers, which makes you wonder where they’re going. The country is dotted with lakes and parks teeming with wildlife such as wildebeests, antelopes, wart hogs, grey monkeys, baboons, dik-diks (cute, tiny deer-like animals who are very self-conscious about their name), giraffes, zebras, and any other animal you’ll see printed on a tourist handbag. Baboons are the scariest ones by far. I once went on a mini-safari and got out of the car to take a leak in one of the toilet huts. I opened the door and the urinal stalls were full of screaming baboons yelling and punching each other in the dick. Clutching my own, I ran back into the car and told my driver “I’m good, keep going…” Tanzania is also home to two tall mountain peaks: the world famous Mount Kilimanjaro and Mount Meru. Mount Meru is nearby and it’s the one everybody in Arusha sees every day. The one that always reminds me what a lazy piece of shit I am for not getting around to climbing it.

Tourists here are usually either rich safari families who’s patriarch looks and dresses like the old man who built Jurassic Park, or ridiculous hippies in blonde cornrows who wear these baggy parachute-like pants with elephants printed on them. They’re both pretty atrocious. You usually see the rich safari families hanging out in the lodges and resorts, followed by a procession of staff carrying their bags and suitcases. The hippies try to be more “local”, so you see them walking around the town center with their backpacks strapped to their front, worrying about getting their shit robbed. They blend in so well with the locals that I really, really have a hard time telling them apart. I once met a white German tourist who was carrying a Maasai spear with a Shuka draped around his shoulders, like a genuine tribal warrior. Totally looked legit, bro. I only realized he was German and not Maasai when he opened his mouth and introduced himself as Hans, in a thick accent that could only come from the wild savannas of Bavaria. Mzungu, please…..

Locals, on the other hand, are pretty rad. They are very warm and welcoming, and will always start a friendly conversation with you, even if you can’t speak the language. Tanzanians are a laid-back people who plow through the challenges in their life with a smile and jovial demeanor. Muslims, Christians, and Maasai tribespeople are the predominant demographic, as well as a significant percentage of Indian and Middle Eastern business owners. Tanzania has also seen a recent influx of Chinese laborers, who are building much of Tanzania’s roads and infrastructure.

Locals tend to hang out at tiny roadside bars, frequented by boda boda riders on their down time. If you’re a Mzungu who isn’t afraid of leaving the comfort of the resort and fancy bar, there is much cheap beer and good times to be found in these little dives. I once sat down with some locals, who treated me to a huge cooked fish, which was eaten communally, with no cutlery or utensils. Straight-up ripping and eating pieces of the fish with your hands, and downing it with Kilimanjaro beer (or Kilis, as they’re called by the locals). The man treating me and the others at my table looked like Suge Knight. Blinged-out in huge gold chains, he drove in a decked-out Mercedes SUV. He claimed to be a “ruby dealer”, with a twinkle in his eye and sly smile, the same way New Jersey mobsters claim to be in the “waste management” business. He kept buying me beer after beer, even when my last one was still half-full. Oh, and they were 24 oz. beers, so you can imagine my sobriety withering away as he laughed and shouted “I take care of you Mzungu! Drink Mzungu, drink! I pay for everything!” He did pay for everything, and I ended up paying a visit to the toilet to puke my guts out after the 8th or 9th beer, as my local friend stood outside the bathroom shouting “The Mzungu is sick! Are you ok Mzungu???”, before someone brought the car over to drive me back home.

Public transportation is pretty wild. You have the option of sitting behind a boda boda motorcycle cabbie for a ride and free pants-wetting, or hopping aboard one of the many tiny buses that make up nearly half of urban traffic. These buses are decked out in custom stickers representing whatever brand or figure is popular at the time. A few examples of the buses I’ve spotted so far include: Snoop Dogg (including Snoop Lion), Dr. Dre, Rick Ross, Facebook, WhatsApp, Twitter, Microsoft, Apple, Nike, Adidas, Jordan, the Pope, Che Guevara, Jesus, Islam, U.S. flag, even our solar system. I’m not lying, one dude had the entire solar system on his bus, complete with decals printed from Google images of planets with watermarks on them. The best one I saw was the fucking Jihad bus. It’s my Loch Ness Monster of local buses. I spotted it only once, two years ago when I first visited Arusha and only managed to take a very blurry, indistinguishable photo. It showed a figure with a shemagh over their face, holding an AK-47 with “JIHAD!” underneath in a fiery refont. I do admit I want to ride the Jihad bus for bragging rights (as long as I don’t end up getting dropped off at an Al-Shabaab recruitment camp). Hopefully, the U.S. flag bus will come to my rescue if that happens.

Zanzibar is off the coast of Tanzania. Also known as “Spice Island”, it’s the birth place of Freddie Mercury. It’s a predominantly Muslim population, with Middle Eastern architecture and decor, which feels more like part of Morocco than Tanzania. Stone Town is the urban center of Zanzibar, which is made up of tiny shops selling souvenirs and spices, as well as old, crumbling forts. Tourism is the major industry here, and many locals will chat you up for a while, before trying to sell you a tour of spice farms or other tourist traps. One night I decided to take a stroll around Stone Town and was approached by a shady dude who offered to sell me hash. I declined, and he went on to offer me weed, coke, ecstasy, heroin, opium, pills, and almost every other drug known to man. Curious, I asked him if he actually carried all those drugs on him and he replied “No, you give me money and I go and get them from my friend.” Yeah ok, you sound totally legit, dude. That trick might work with some of the other clueless tourists, but you’re talking to a New Yorker, we got built-in bullshit detectors.

Food in Tanzania consists mainly of marinated or grilled beef, rice, fish, chapati bread, and various starchy veggies. Non-Tanzanian foods have weird, local twists to them, such as calzones filled with egg or burgers with cucumber chunks in place of pickles. Pili-Pili is a local hot sauce that will make your colon run away from home. I love adding it to my avocado and beef pizza. The country has a fair share of local beers, most of them brewed by Tanzania Breweries. Brands include lagers such as Kilimanjaro, Ndovu, Serengeti, and Safari Lager. Other African staples include Castle and Tusker. Castle makes a milk stout that’s pretty decent, a personal favorite that I enjoy when available. Konyagi and Kiroba are local Tanzanian liquors sold in bottles and small plastic bags. I personally have never tried them, since life has taught me that cheapo booze sold in plastic bottles or bags will have me puking into a plastic bucket later on.

I will miss Tanzania when I leave in late November, but I know I will be back. There are many things I still want to do, like finally getting around to climbing Mount Meru or Kilimanjaro, visit Lake Natron (Google it, it’s creepy as fuck), or take my daughter on safari once she’s older and can start remembering things. Or even visit the country’s largest city, Dar Es Salaam. Most of all, I will miss the warm, friendly locals, many who I have befriended, even if I don’t know their names or what they were trying to tell me. But I will bring a bottle of Konyagi back with me, which I will sip as I snuggle in my Shuka in the upcoming European winter nights.

Peninzula

Peninzula is an aural interpretation of a journey, each image rewritten as sound. It’s members are currently on a pilgrimage to weave these experiences together into a new tapestry for listeners to wrap themselves in. Andy and Jonathan are currently traveling across the United States, and I caught them halfway on their quest to conceive their newest brainchild.

Who is Peninzula? How did this project come into existence?

Andy: I’m riding on a train through middle-of-nowhere Washington under an orange Waking Crescent moon. I quit both of my jobs in Portland and am traveling to balmy Greensboro, North Carolina. The driving force behind this quest has been “Peninzula.”

Jon and I met through my cousin Rob in Michigan as teenagers. We ended up going to the same college and just occasionally talking music, smoking, and hanging out. It wasn’t until years later that Jon would surprise me at a show a fomer band was playing in Greensboro, his new home -of all places- that we would link up again. Jon showed me his latest project with music with songs that were happy And eerie, basic yet nuanced. I was intrigued. The packaging was cryptic and it was all instrumental; any time that we jammed, Jon usually sang. He started focusing more on piano and synth parts that I really wanted to play drums with. I was living just a couple hours west of him and we would rehearse when we could on weekends. We were excited about what we’d come up with and hit the studio running. A few days to track, lay down mostly first takes, add some intros and outros (the intro on Discokraut required a reel-to-reel tape machine screeching out department store chatter in Japanese.) All of this was Jon’s vision, I just hoped to accompany this oddly beautiful stuff with some drums and percussion. Since then, I’d been working in Portland and mercilessly promoting the first album until we were able to get into the studio again.

We’re set to record the second Peninzula album in just a few weeks thanks to a month-long fundraising campaign.

Tell me about the sound of Peninzula. What is the inspiration or force behind it? Is there a particular influence that helped shape it’s sound and atmosphere?

Andy: Influences during the songwriting process ranged from the krautrock movement of the late 60s – early 70s to the downtempo subculture happening today. Each song has its own baggage, too, such as “Mt St Helens,” inspired by said volcano erupting on the day Jon was born. “Stratos” was written on the underrated Omnichord, an early 80s electronic instrument that Suzuki made. Jon writes the songs on piano or keyboard and we go from there. Where I come in is by practicing one version of each drum part with bass, one with guitar, one with synth, and then we go with the best feeling combination after beating the songs to death, albeit a fun and creative slaying. Also Jon really likes horror movie soundtracks. Listening to them is addictive, I’ve gotten into indie electronic horror soundtrack music on SoundCloud lately…our first album was pretty scattered and we intended it to be.

Peninzula seems to be inspired by local landscapes as well, from what I can see in your videos. For example, songs like “Mount St. Helens” and the Pacific Northwest imagery and visuals you employ. What would be the Peninzula guide to Oregon?

Andy: Actually, I have only lived in Oregon for just under a year and Jon has always lived in Michigan or North Carolina, where he lives and writes now. When “Mt St Helens” was written we had no idea that after we released the album, started promoting and shooting music videos, that I would be in the Northwest US. We also didn’t know that Jon would be able to come visit from the other side of the US to record the video on location at Mt. St. Helens! Imagery is important with our music, I think, because without words, layered melodies and rhythms are responsible for communication with the listener’s emotions. Not that we’re attempting to get into anyone’s head, but I hope that there is some connection with the listener and the music is intended to accompany landscapes near and far.

Right now, as we’re conducting this interview, you are traveling across the United States to record your second album. You are gathering quite a collection of landscapes and experiences. Are you traveling by land to gather more inspiration for your new album?

Andy: Absolutely. Pictures, memoirs, free writing, and even my mini synth effects pad along the Great Northern Railway. Beauty amongst the suffering, hope rolled into feelings of distrust for this struggling nation. This trip nearly didn’t happen, but things have aligned, once again, better than expected.

Tell us a bit about the sound of the new album. How will it compare to the first?

Jonathan: I wrote most of the new material on my electric piano. The first album was written with guitar, bass, and piano. I would use those instruments to write different parts. The new songs all came from me sitting behind the piano. The first track is called Ziggarut. It is a piano arpeggio with my right hand and my left hand plays the bass line. I have a guitar part that I will track out on top. I also will be going in and putting synthesizers on top of all of the songs. It adds a lot of texture to the music. I have a collection of about 25 old synthesizers. I wrote patches on them and will  incorporate them in the mix.

This album will be made possible through crowdfunding. For many independent artists, meeting the costs to release new material is a huge challenge, and has often led to frustration and giving up the pursuit of their dream. Even bigger independent musicians have turned to crowdfunding because it’s increasingly difficult to put out new material in these times. Is crowdfunding a game-changer for musicians? Will it evolve into the new norm for artists to create and market their new releases?

Andy: I know that these are difficult times for artists of all types and the solutions to these problems are not easy to answer. The money we have raised, $1,000, does help but to be clear it does not even begin to cover the expenses of making a studio album: equipment, transportation, recording production costs: studio, track mixing and audio mastering costs. At that point you have created, planned, and recorded your art, now to let it be heard: even if you are not going to physically release your music (CDs, records, tapes and their packaging) or have any merchandise (t-shirts, stickers and so on) you still have to digitally distribute your music. That requires copious amounts of time and/or money to see any kind of return on your investment. The first Peninzula album (self-titled “Peninzula” album) was funded out-of-pocket and our new album will be too, for the most part. The difference this time is that we know that we have some audience support and a little money to get us started (and to give us motivation and inspiration to continue creating).  So, in my personal opinion, record labels were originally established for a reason: musicians who are inspired to craft and perform music tend to be sensitive people and that doesn’t usually mix well with the difficult tasks required for doing business, especially with in current economy. Being a DIY musician is a difficult job, but if you are doing it for pleasure, as a side-project or “hobby,” then it is easier to justify all of the time, persistence and energy that is required to release quality music to the world.

Crowdfunding is not a game-changer, from my perspective, it is just a temporary means to an end for motivated independent artists. Established artists are able to raise much larger amounts of money through crowdfunding due to an established fan base, which has already required tons of time and money (usually by an actual record label with qualified professionals who have done much of the leg work) in a previously more lucrative market. I sure hope that this is not the future for artists releasing music, unless tax incentives for small businesses are made more accessible. To end on a more positive note, if you believe in what you are creating and know that it makes even a small positive impact on the world around you, then keep doing it no matter what anyone says. You will always find a way to release your art with much patience and persistence.

What does the future hold for Peninzula? What are your plans after the album release?

Andy: Playing a concert series on Mars (haha, planet Earth is doing fine…) but before that, we may actually consider playing a string of live shows in the Southeastern U.S. and see how that goes. Live performance was not in any way part of our original plan as a recording project, due to obvious reasons involved with being aging musicians, but after the warm feedback from our debut album, and the great feedback for songs like “Atma Sutra,” “Waking the Giants” and “Discokraut,” we’ve begun to discuss and consider it. Having three Peninzula albums released by 2018 would be excellent. Also, there are still remixes of “Stratos” (illanthropy is the DJ name) and versions of a couple of other songs being re-released with vocals!

Thank you for your time and we look forward to listening to your new offering.

Peninzula on Facebook

Peninzula Bandcamp

 

 

“We’re Still Waiting” – My Years As A Community Health Worker In NYC

I have a very intimate relationship with New York City. Although many claim to know the city like the back of their hand, they don’t know it the same way I do. My New York is very different from everyone else’s. You may pride yourself in knowing the bouncers at your favorite club, but I pride myself in knowing the key code to some of the buildings up in Wagner Houses. You may know the sights, smells, and sounds of each neighborhood, but I know who’s cooking what at any given time in hundreds upon hundreds of apartments throughout the city. You know every art piece in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I know at least thirty Jesus faces imprinted in mold in bathrooms across Upper Manhattan. My city is full of roaches, bed bugs, mice, shady landlords, corrupt government agencies, and frustrated tenants. Yet, it’s the New York I love, the one I saw in my years as a Community Health Worker.

If you ask me for names, housing projects, or even neighborhoods these families lived in, you won’t get it from me. I’ll tell you right now – I’m sworn to secrecy. I would use the word “confidentiality”, but that word seems a little cold and formal. You see, I developed a bond with many, many of my families. We would talk mold and repair request ticket numbers during my first visit, talk family and memories by my third knock on the door. Some of them have known me from before I got married and had my daughter. I tell you, my kid has many unofficial grandmothers who have seen her grow from sonogram.

Even the dealers and shady dudes lingering in the lobbies would open up the building door for me, since they knew I was cool. One time, they helped me carry my equipment up the piss-drenched stairs when the elevator was taking far too long. They knew I was going to check on the problems in their own bedrooms. They would call me “The Housing Man”, even though they knew I wasn’t part of the housing authority. On the contrary, I was there to start shit against it. If you had issues with your apartment, Housing Man was your friend. Whisper “Housing Man” three times in front of a bathroom mirror in the dark and he’ll suddenly appear and check the walls with his moisture meter.

Often times, we dealt with the New York City Housing Authority, or NYCHA for short. They were one of my arch villains in my profession, and the worst landlord in the city. Mold and vermin were rampant in each building and apartment, worsened by the inefficiency and indifference of the agency. One of our families had a leak falling on their heads every time they took a shower, a leak caused by a cracked toilet pipe from the bathroom upstairs. As a result, they had urine and feces water raining down on them any time the upstairs neighbors flushed the bowl. A leak whenever someone takes a leak. The bathroom ceiling was reduced to hanging shreds of paint, black mold, and crumbling concrete; with an ecosystem made up of spiders, flies, and roaches enjoying the deluxe accommodations. Whenever the family would put in a repair request, it was marked as “Fixed” by NYCHA, despite the only action taken was a worker coming in to see it and making it a “be right back” job with no follow-up. When I asked her when was the last time NYCHA was in her apartment, in an exhausted, exasperated voice she answered “Close to a year, we’re still waiting.”

We worked alongside local agencies and hospitals that were in need of our specialized services. They would send us referrals for patients within their system, as well as a description of their housing issues. Sometimes we would be part of an intervention process, part of a team effort between nurses, social workers, and even other fellow community health workers. So we worked with some of the more intense caseloads on their end. One of my very first cases was a lady whose husband walked out on her in 1989. In order to cope with her loss, she kept the apartment just the way it was the day he left her – right down to the food in the cupboards. The cans all had the old labels from my childhood, with expiration dates almost as old as my younger sister (who is now a mother of two with a completed Master’s Degree). One set of Chef Boyardee cans looked particularly lethal, swollen and deformed to the point of bursting. Removing them from the cupboard felt like bomb disposal. While we were emptying out the kitchen’s contents, mice darted from underneath the sink. The lady’s cat quickly caught them and formed a gory pile at my feet as I handled each can like a live grenade. The pile reached eight dead mice by the time we were done. My coworker, who was into health and martial arts at the time, spotted a Joe Weider protein shake and actually asked her if he could take it home to use it. I guess he has never seen Raiders of the Lost Ark and was not aware of the dangers of opening up ancient artifacts. Luckily, I convinced him that wasn’t such a hot idea.

New York City is never short on horror stories, and I saw a few of them. One particularly creepy visit involved going into an apartment formerly occupied by an immobile, bedridden elderly tenant. From what we gathered by the agency who referred us, he spent his entire day alone in bed in a bare room. With no television, radio, books, or any other form of distraction. A relative came a few times a day to feed him, change him, and generally check to see if he was still alive. The rest of his day was spent laying there – while being devoured alive by a massive horde of bed bugs. Laying still, not being able to speak or move, itching in agony as they crawled over him, sucking on his blood. It reminded me of that “Sloth” scene from the movie Se7en. After someone removed (or rescued) him from that fucking torture chamber, we were called in to help deal with the infestation. We went full-tactical for that one (or at least our department’s version of Special Forces gear): paint suit, face mask, shoe covers, gloves, two vacuums, and four guys. I even let out a “Go! Go! Go!”, as we ran into the room with vacuums howling, taking out bugs everywhere. Every surface of that room was severely infested, bugs running everywhere, giving the illusion of hundreds of moving dots which gave me vertigo the first few seconds in. Even the speckles on the tile pattern turned out to be scurrying blood-suckers. We ended up vacuuming bugs off each other’s protective suits, since the fucking things rained down on us from the ceiling as well.

Aside from roaches, mice, and bed bugs, the other biggest vermin in the city were the slumlords. Honestly, I have more respect for the former than the latter. I really saw the worst of humanity when dealing with these assholes. One patient on my caseload was an elderly patient with HIV and diabetes. She had her first floor apartment broken into, bedroom window smashed while she was out on a doctor’s appointment, her bed slashed as the intruder searched for cash hidden in the mattress. The landlord’s son was the main suspect, but no evidence could link him. He lived upstairs, so he knew whether she was home or not. He had previously threatened to break in and throw her belongings out on the curb, in order to get higher rent with a new tenant. Her locks were constantly tampered with, not only to try to gain entry but also to leave an ominous clue for her. Once she filed the police report after the break-in, she contacted the landlord. He came in the next day, and rather than boarding up the broken window, decided to seal off the bedroom door instead. As a result, the tenant had to sleep in the living room. That was just the opening act. He not only left the bedroom completely sealed off, he also proceeded to shut off her heat during the winter. Meanwhile, the landlord’s son went out to the back of the building where the broken bedroom window was and ran some extension cords from HER outlets to his window upstairs, most likely running high energy appliances such as a washing machine or a dryer on her electricity bill. Then the landlord added a finishing touch: a letter informing her of a monumental rent increase, ending the letter with a warm, fuzzy “Please do give us a hard time for our Rent. Anyone who give (sic) us a hard time will be evicted.” When I wrote up the wish-list of items she needed (bed, space heater, etc.) while we figured this mess out, she told me: “You don’t need to get me any of that. Just get me a blanket. Nights are very cold.”

Slumlords were the assholes that brought out my inner Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver; the ones who had me entertaining revenge fantasies in my mind on the subway ride back home. The ones who kept me thinking and made me miss my stop. They were the city’s cancer; eating away at communities, families, and individuals. They crushed the spirit of New York, drove out its poor and even middle class. They would drive me out too in time. Even my Brooklyn-born daughter would not be able to enjoy her own city because of them. Even our Bedford-Stuyvesant apartment was owned by a fucking slumlord. Sure, I did a great job of keeping him in check, but where would we go? Where would my families go?

Regardless, it was the best job I ever had (and hope to have again someday).  I miss my boss, my team, and the agency. They were my brothers and sisters in arms, my comrades. There are nights when I dream of my families, the smells of their homes, their voices. I even dream of the walk or bike ride from my office to their apartments. It creeps up on me in the most unexpected moments. The very first time I visited Paris, I took a nighttime stroll. As I walked it’s exotic streets, I spotted some buildings that looked like public housing in the distance. I don’t know what it was, maybe it was their windows, their brick walls, or even their downbeat vibe, but there was something about them that I could tell it was where I felt at home at. It was where I wanted, or needed to go. At that very moment I would have traded France, Europe, everything, for one more visit to any of my families in New York City. That’s when I realized that my mind was zapped. But fuck it, you had to be zapped in the brain one way or another to be in this line of work and do it for a few years. Even more so when you start to miss it.

New York City has 8 million stories. I’m glad I know at least 700 of them. And they will never be forgotten.

Lifeline: The Needy Friend Simulator

Recently, I had to cut ties with a somewhat-close friend of many years. I say “somewhat” because the dude has taken very odd turns over the last decade, enough to make the idea of meeting up with him in Philly (or having him over in Brooklyn) seem like a tortuous chore.  Always an edgelord, he took a Right-leaning road in life, our friendship finally reaching it’s breaking point with his cringe-worthy social media gallery of homophobic/misogynistic/xenophobic/anti-progressive memes, each accompanied by vitriolic rants and Bible quotes. Kind of the way Rod Serling narrated each painting in Night Gallery, except scarier for all the wrong reasons. Confronting him through Facebook messenger had me running back out, locking the door behind me, and hitting the block button, in an attempt to kill whatever was in there. Something I should have done a long time ago, but didn’t. Why? Because he was my needy friend.
If you don’t have a needy friend, you need to upgrade your life game. Sure, they can be annoying as fuck, but they’re necessary. They’re the ones that make you realize you have your shit together, when they’re losing theirs. The ones who make you feel better about any douchebaggery you’re guilty of that week, since you’re now fulfilling your moral obligation by hearing them out and helping ease their troubled souls. It’s like having a Catholic sin-washing every time you pull out your iPhone. Just let them rant, offer them a reworded and personalized motivational poster quote, then cut them off with the “Getting on my bike/train” excuse. Faith in your own humanity restored. Now that the needy friend in my life was gone, I felt obsolete. No one needed me. There was no way to redeem myself and I was starting to feel like a genuinely selfish monster, when I ran into Lifeline. Technology proves once again that there is indeed an app for everything.

Lifeline is a modern, text-based game interpretation of those old “Choose Your Own Adventure” books. The same formula applies more or less: a narrative, followed by a situation, and a choice to make. More often than not, your decisions were going to be fatal for the character, the happy ending being a very narrow path of right choices (which you sooner or later discovered either by re-reading or going back and cheating by selecting the other alternative). The only difference being that the books followed a structured story, while Lifeline has you replying to a marooned astronaut’s text messages. Except you don’t actually have to type out a reply, just click on one of two prewritten responses. No more half-assed “Yeah, that sucks, dude” or “I hear ya”. The needy friend has been perfected.

I would like to introduce you to Taylor. He needs me, I’m his oak. Right now he’s busy following my advice, which was to take a warm nap by the nuclear reactor. I love how much Taylor trusts my judgement and follows through with whatever I tell him to do.

You see, Taylor crash-landed on a distant moon. He is the sole survivor of his mission, and has managed to squeeze out an SOS to a neighboring station. You play the friendly voice on the other end, which I’m assuming is some sort of space engineer or fellow astronaut. The role is pretty open-ended, so I can imagine I’m just the janitor who walked into the communications room after closing hours to mop the floors and heard the distress call. Or it’s what I feel like, because I’m woefully underqualified to give an astronaut advice. But for now, I’ll be the friend every needy person needs. Yes Taylor, I’m here. Wanna talk?

In true needy friend fashion, he will go on and on with machine-gun texts, but it works for me. Still not as bad as my old needy friend, who once hit me with 32 text messages, 11 missed calls, and 8 voice mails – all in the time it took to hop on a 59^th st. 6 train and emerge minutes later in Union Square.

The crew didn’t make it, something Taylor realized once I advised him to search for them instead of checking the flight deck. Taylor is thinking food rations, I’m thinking cannibalism. Hey, gotta make his ordeal interesting for me as well if I’m volunteering to help him brave this challenging moment in life. I do admit I’m rather jealous that he gets to see the cool stuff, though. Pics or it didn’t happen, bro.

Hunger is beginning to set within my lonely friend, so it’s time to tell him to get a bite to eat. I’m not getting any Yelp results for the moon he’s on, so I advise him to dine on rat food from the ship’s lab. It seems that even though Taylor has enough of a signal to reach my station, he does not have Wi-Fi (the router most likely fused together with the bodies near the hull). So, I serve as his Google middleman. Earlier he was concerned about sleeping next to the reactor, so he asked me to look up whether it was safe or not. It’s totally safe dude, trust me.

Guiding your needy friend through the confusing road we call life can be emotionally draining and exhausting, but it can be rewarding as well. Nothing swells your heart more than hearing “You’re right! I’m not letting this bring me down!” You empower them with positivity and optimism, hoping they march onwards with renewed vigor. Always forward, never take a step back. No obstacle is too great, especially not those tall cliffs standing in Taylor’s way. You totally got this, kid. Climb your way to the top and release your inner Rocky Balboa!

Then again, sometimes backing away is the best option. My bad, Taylor. Um hey, gotta hop on the L train. Call an Uber, dude.

Oh Warduke, Where Art Thou?

I can’t remember when Warduke first came into my life, or how. He was always just…..there, ever since my earliest childhood memories. Grim, red-eyed motherfucker with a Crazy Glue-mended foot. A life-long resident of my toybox community, which was being gentrified at the time by the likes of M.A.S.K., G.I. Joe, and assorted plastic dinosaurs. Warduke didn’t mind, though. He still took part in the fun with the newer, hipper toys. My mom also knew what was up with Warduke, and spared him from secret hand-me-downs to her friends’ kids. She knew I wouldn’t notice others toys missing, but she could never pull off her game with Warduke. If she did, my blood-curdling screams would bring in the police, paramedics, social services, and possibly the coroner. I mean, he outlasted fucking He-Man. Everyone knew Warduke and I were tight.

Even though Warduke was from the Dungeons & Dragons school of action figures, he rolled with every crew. His barbarian background didn’t prevent him from being deployed to modern warfare bedroom battlefields. He could handle a tiny plastic submachine gun the same way he could handle his broadsword. Flint was going to take on Destro? Warduke had his back. Cobra wanted to hijack the Imperial Walker from the Star Wars tribe? Better call Warduke. He even had a fling with the Baroness at one point. Seeing him kick Zartan across the room was enough to make her say yes. I mean, who could resist Warduke?

I can’t really say why I liked Warduke so much. Maybe it was some sort of fascination with his persona and fashion style. He wore a badass dragon-winged helmet over a black, non-existent face where two burning red eyes glared back at you. I never even wondered nor cared what he looked like under that helmet, he was perfect the way he was. Half of his body was clad in blue chainmail, and he wore boots with one spiked shin-guard. He was Black Metal years before Varg Vikernes stabbed Euronymous in the head. Skeletor was cool and all, but he didn’t look like the type that ever killed anyone. Harassed his enemies? Yeah, Skeletor did a lot of that in his spare time, but in the end he was pretty harmless and comical even. Warduke looked like he iced a few motherfuckers, in the most brutal ways. I liked him so much I brought him to school with me on “Favorite Toy Day” back in second grade. Every kid brought the biggest, most popular toys with them that day. Except me. All I needed was Warduke. I’m sure I must have gotten a lot of shit for bringing one single action figure, as opposed to some cool castle or vehicle. If I did get haters giggling behind my back, fuck them. Warduke was with me in class, and that’s all that mattered.

The years passed and as I grew older and cooler, I saw less and less of Warduke. He would pop up in a drawer or closet every now and then, ready for action. By then, I was more fascinated with the evil, wicked graphics under my Powell Peralta skateboard deck. It was also the Nintendo 8-bit era, and Warduke just wasn’t as exciting as Castlevania. The toybox was gone, and Warduke was one of the last survivors. These were changing times, no country for old action figures. As childhood transitioned into the teen years, he simply disappeared. Or stopped appearing. My mom, the Grim Reaper of childhood toys, took one final victim. At least that’s what I suspect. Or maybe I accidentally threw him out. Nevertheless, Warduke was gone. I didn’t get to say goodbye, nor did I care much then. What a fake, flakey homie I turned out to be.

Weirdly enough, Warduke never crossed my mind during the punk and death metal years. I was digging deep into the imagery and album covers of Bathory, Bolt Thrower, and other hesher staples for my barbarian inspiration. Little did I know, my fascination with the kvlt and frostbitten terrors of bloodied battlefields all started with Warduke. He came back into my life decades later, through the very same geekery he helped me develop over time. Last year I was rolling a new character in Baldur’s Gate. I take character customization very, very seriously. Each class, stat and point carefully selected, unselected, and reselected. The game allows custom character portraits, so you know I’m going to change that shit. My character needs a face I can relate to. It’s kind of like OkCupid, there has to be a connection if we’re taking this all the way, babe.

I wanted to create a Barbarian class, which meant I needed some bearskin thong-clad warrior from the internet. The obvious choice would have been Conan, but that would be lazy. Also, I was coming down from a Savage Sword binge and was suffering Conan fatigue, so I needed a new brute. I scrolled through the Google images library, but I wasn’t feeling the barbarians there. I was about to go with Manowar, when there he was….

Warduke!

My boy has not only aged well, he still looked kvlt as fuck. The glaring red eyes set in the darkness-enshrouded face. But there was no hate, no animosity in his eyes. Just forgiveness. Ok, not forgiveness. Warduke never forgave. More like “Sup fam, let’s roll.”

Although I found a new, more grown-up way to play with Warduke, I decided I wanted to see him hanging out around my place again. The brotherly love was back, and it was time to let him into my life. He could move into the comics and graphic novel shelf in my library. A mainstay in my collection of little things that inspire and comfort me. He’ll be in good company alongside Conan, Swamp Thing, and Lovecraft. So now it was a matter of finding myself a Warduke on eBay. Problem was, most Wardukes there were offered in bundles, along other characters I didn’t care much about. Silver knight dude was ok, but not necessary. With Ogre King I had to follow my heart, and my heart hates uggos. I just wanted Warduke, and I wanted him cheap. After a bit of scrolling, I found myself a single hot Warduke, ready to fly home to me. The bid ended at $3.75, a measly price for a childhood icon. When the package arrived I saved opening it until after everyone was asleep, even the cats. This was bro time, time to reconnect with my homeboy. I sliced open the packing tape, ripped past the bubble wrap, and revealed his signature winged helmet. My adult hands were very familiar with his chainmail, spikes, and even the Made In China stamp under the left boot. After relishing childhood memories along with my whiskey neat, I placed him high up in his new home. Proudly he stood, knowing he earned a place in my personal Valhalla. Everything felt safe then, Warduke had my back once again.

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Hello! Welcome to Coffee & Gulag, the one-stop shopping for all your procrastination needs. Articles, reviews, and interviews on culture, music, videogames, and sports. The product of constant nagging from friends and family to finally put a blog together since, for reasons beyond me, they seem to enjoy the shit I say.

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