The concept of a “guest blogger” was new to me. I saw my friends doing the same and wondered just what the hell guest-blogging was. My answer came as soon as I read my first guest blog. I found it unique, informative,  and a great way to explore topics out of my scope. If a blog is a stew, this is an ingredient you can’t leave out.

I contacted some writers whom I felt were truly pushing the envelope of fiction today, just to see if they were interested. I didn’t expect those same writers to eagerly sign on. Deadlines, projects, life… who would have the time to do this? I was amazed at the response. We have some truly amazing people lined up, (some of them are perverts) and I’m honored to have, Mr. Gregory L. Hall, author of, At The End Of Church Street popping my blog’s guest blogger cherry. An amazing writer whose benevolence knows no bounds.

So, without further ado, the man, the myth, the legend, Gregory L. Hall.

 

THE LEGEND OF WHEAT WEE

 By Gregory L Hall

 

             When Ben asked me to write up a blog, I struggled. Do I write as the Funky Werepig? As the author of At the End of Church Street? Or do I color outside the horror lines and rap about some upcoming projects I have and where those ideas came from?

            This morning I stood outside on my deck taking in the crisp morning air. My coffee in one hand. A lit cigarette and my penis in the other. And in this tranquility my mind drifted off to another time decades ago when I first started my comedy career. I was such a dreamer back then, nothing but future ahead of me. I was also a wide-eyed idiot who thought I’d be a multi-millionaire with a HBO special and movie deal after two gigs. Of course I wouldn’t reach those financial heights until I signed my contract with blog talk radio to host the Werepig.

            My topic settled on two simple facts. Whether it’s in the entertainment, literary, political or any corporate career, no one gets there easy on the first try. And no one gets anywhere without someone else reaching down to help you.

            I’d like to share a story about my start and the dude who taught me life lessons I’ll never forget.

            It was Detroit and the year was 1900-something probably.  A lot of drinking back then made me miss huge chunks of time. But in a ballpark guess, the 1900’s would cover it. I was a young comic and I tried to form a troupe. Only two guys signed up. One wasn’t funny but he always had gas money. And the other was Marshall Webb. But professionally on stage he was known as Wheat Wee.

He had gotten the name because he used to do the entire Eddie Murphy ‘Buckwheat’ skit from Saturday Night Live word for word in his act. Some would say he stole it. But he insisted it was completely different because he changed the name of the character to Wheat Wee. His proof in that legal claim was that he was never sued by Eddie Murphy or SNL. I always thought it might have more to do with that fact that most of our gigs were canceled because of empty houses.

            Wheat Wee was several years older than I was and despite our cultural differences, I always looked to him as a mentor. I was a young European-American from the country and Wheat Wee was an African-American from the city. He hated that term. African-American. He used to say “Since when does an entire continent get assigned a skin color? Like them ‘Asian-Americans’! What’s wrong with Orientals? Isn’t Russia, Turkey and India over there too? Listen, Charlize Theron is from Africa! My people are from Cleveland!” No, Wheat Wee hated the term African-American. He preferred the term Anti-White.

            All he ever wanted was enough money to buy a Snickers bar after a gig. He said that was always Step 1- before you can buy a dinner or a round of drinks or a car or a whore, you got to be able to afford a simple candy bar. And he was right. During our early years, we couldn’t even do that.  He used to say “What kind of world do we live in when a man can’t even get himself money for a Snickers bar!”

            It often made me cry.

            Still, I clung to his teachings and used his lessons as golden rules. ‘It is our job to entertain not educate.’ ‘Always take the high road on stage but bring your dick with you just in case.’ And ‘Always watch everything Chevy Chase has ever done. Then do the opposite.’ Using his wisdom, I began to shape the assclown you see before you today.

            Then came that one special February. The Upstage Theatre in Michigan. We had a full weekend booked. And God bless us everyone, we had people. Over 80 people the first night. 140 the second. And at the end of the weekend, for the first time ever, we got paid. A lot.

            I immediately bolted for the pub down the street. I wanted a mushroom cheeseburger and many, many cold drafts. The rest of our troupe, now a half dozen strong, joined me. But not Wheat Wee. He had something he had to do first.

            “I’ll meet you guys there. I’m going to the corner drug store. Gonna get myself a Snickers,” he smiled brightly.

            It was the last time I ever saw Wheat Wee alive.

            Detroit is a tough city. It’s called the Murder Capital of the World and wears that tag proudly. In my years there I had seen firsthand raids on crack houses, automated weapons fired in the middle of the street, and too many other violent crimes to count. People die there. But you never think it’s gonna be someone you know.

            Wheat Wee choked to death on his Snickers. Shoved the whole thing in his mouth at once and tried to chew. I used to yell at him all the time, ‘Little bites, you dumb fuck! Little bites!’ I ate with him one time at McDonalds and he ruined Big Macs for me forever. And now there in some stupid corner drug store in Detroit, my friend was dead.

            I’m told they found half the wrapper in his throat as well.

            Wheat Wee died in February. Ironically, he was also born in February. So that is why some 20 years later, I drink a toast to him on New Years Eve. I always forget in February that he passed but the end of the year reminds me of dying because of the word ‘end.’ So I celebrate his greatness then.

            Wheat Wee made me humble and made me cocky. He showed me how the world really is and taught me the huge difference between dreams and goals. But the biggest lesson is the one I pass on to my boys even today. Chew your freaking food slowly. Savor it. Because choking to death ain’t a way to celebrate anything. –Gregory L. Hall