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The Damned Truth: Live is a late night variety show hosted by L.A. Abbott, The Anti-social Socialite. The event showcases comics, sketch comedy, characters, musicians, magicians, and anything else you can think of that is entertaining!

The Live show is every 4th Monday of each month at 8:30 pm at the Upright Citizen's Brigade Theater's Inner sanctum Cafe. 5419 Sunset Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90027

https://ucbtheatre.com/show/5551

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Running Scared

If I don't tell you these stories, it means that they don't exist and everything is fine. If I tell you these stories, it means that I am complaining and making myself out to be the victim. Once when I was a little kid, maybe around the age of attending the 5th grade, I got passionately yelled at by my mother. The hardest that I have ever been screamed at by her to this date. I was playing in the dark. Running as fast as I can down the street. Sprinting really. I was really getting into soccer at the time and just found out that I was actually pretty fast. So I wanted to try out this new found talent. Over and over and over. Back and forth down the street. Then my mother stormed out of the house, grabbed me by the arm and looked deep into my eyes. 'YOU DON'T RUN IN THE DARK.' She looked as much scared as she did mad. Almost shaking. But not quite yet. Besides this time I have only seen her this scared for my well being one other time. 'I'm just running' I replied confused. 'You are a little black boy running in the dark. The police will think you are running from something that you didn't do!' 'But I DIDN'T do anything' 'I know that! But they don't!' Then just like that I got whisked inside. This didn't make sense to me. Isn't this why you and dad moved from New York City to the suburbs of New Jersey? Because it's safer? or more understanding? It began to make more sense to me later that year but while I was in my G&T English class. I was removed from it for a number of reasons. I was too much of a distraction to the other children when I finished my assignments too fast. I got a F for a project that the teacher believed I didn't do because it was 'too good'. My father had to have done it. And the final straw that broke the bigots back was that I stole a colored pencil from the student that resembled one of those American Doll Company toys. And to be honest there was whole baseball team filled of those toys in there. Anywho, it rolled off her desk to the ground, I picked it up and I coincidentally needed canary yellow at the time for my boring ass assignment. So I used it. Sidenote: We should really think about changing the name of those art supplies to something like 'full spectrum of light drawing sticks'. Colored is so antiquated. Pencils too. I digress. Who knows why, but this American Doll started crying and kicking up major dust about this canary yellow. I don't even want to know the back story for her separation anxiety to that color. I always thought 'laser lemon' gave the right enough kick to a picture. Low and behold that was the defining factor of me being demoted to regular english. No! This class actually had more reading and writing assignments and less art projects. How dare they. I was cool with making dioramas about excerpts from books rather than actually talking about them. And now look at me. Reading words from pages. Aloud! But that didn't last for long. After taking the state issued standardized test and scoring in the 98 percentile for reading and language arts, the principle of the school personally wrote an exclamation laden note on the report card that I must be in G&T. And I had to be scathingly 'let' me back in to my lofty class setting. Thank goodness it wasn't the same teacher this time around. But get this! Her girlfriend was the teacher of this G&T english course. So say the least, it didn't go much smoother. That was my real first experience of having the kitchen table thrown at you for reasons unbeknownst to you. Later in life it would become more serious. Like being pulled over by the police for the first time at 17 and receiving 5 tickets. One of which is for the little pine tree hanging from the rear view mirror. Then later in college, while visiting friends at Georgetown when I got boxed in by undercover cop cars and asked to step out. 'WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!' 'visiting?' 'Who do you have to see here?' 'A friend?' I thought this was a ruse by some scumbags trying to squeeze whatever they thought that I had out of me until two regular DC cop cars pulled up as well and actually asked to talk to my Georgetonian friend. After his validation was confirmed I was allowed back into my car. They 'let me go' mentioning that it was a mix up for a similar description. 'Was that real' my friend asked as he broke up sour diesel into a dutch. I affirmed it was sadly true as I turned down his extended hand of his offering. While visiting friends at Rutgers, a cop car hopped the curb cutting off the rest of the sidewalk. Yes! Like in a movie, with the spotlight and loud speaker echoing, 'Stop right there'. A cop car cut me and my friend off at the pass while walking in front of a Krauzer's deli in New Brunswick. My white counter part (Another Georgetown kid) was pissed off that I was the only one that got patted down, claiming this was bullshit. But with my seasoned experience in this situation, I assured him to (respectfully) shut the fuck up or it can get way worse. He trusted me and zipped his lips. The befuddled cop that came up empty asked Headquarters for the description of the perpetrator again. Comically, he let HQ respond over the loud speaker. I was wearing the exact opposite of everything the supposed criminal had on. Khakis. Jeans. White. Blue. Tee shirt. Button up. And much later it was very evident. Walking home from a childhood friend's house around midnight. Both of us were a month away from college graduation and decided to just spend our last spring break relaxing in our hometown in New Jersey. On the very same street that my mother yelled at me as a 5th grader for having fun in the dark, three cop cars cut me off and made me put my hands on the hood of the car. With my house in sight, they asked what I was doing in this neighborhood. And when they asked for my identification, I sternly told them that it was in my back pocket. They told me that I can get it but after insisting they get it because of my fear for something going awry, they let me go. And etc, etc, etc. These are just my stories. I am not asking for a hug or for you to weep for me. I don't need sympathy, empathy or any other type of pathy. I don't expect a parade or a day time special to scream at the top of my lungs that this is wrong. You should already know what wrong is. And even if you don't think it's wrong, GOD bless you. I also don't need you to scoff when someone explains their side of their story. Rolling your eyes and murmuring 'here we go again' isn't a worthy retort. Of course their are two sides to a story, but sometimes it gets exhausting when some whole heartedly only choose one. I just believe that people do need to know that this does happen. There isn't an exaggeration every single time. This exists. And I don't know what is worse. That I have to deal with it daily or that I am so used to it. by L.A. Abbott

@ldotadot

P.S. I am thankful that I am alive to tell my stories.

#truth #thedamnedtruth #blacklivesmatter #ferguson