SUPERSTAR

As always, if you're just joining us, go here and scroll down to “The Beginning of a Nightmare.”

I have used this blog to talk about my life. As of late that just happens to be my husband and his family drama. But I just realized recently that this wasn’t fair. Hey, I have plenty of whack-jobs and religious zealots in my family too. Why haven’t I talked about them?

Ok, it may be because I never see them. All of them live in other states, and lets be honest, they aren’t nearly as entertaining as my husband’s. But I thought I’d give it a whirl.

I have many, many people I could talk about here, and I may do so later, but right now, I will confine it to one person: Star.

Star is my uncle. Have you ever heard the term ghetto-fabulous? Well Star made up the term. He’s a man who thinks every highly of himself, and isn’t afraid to tell the word. SUPERSTAR!

The first time I met my uncle, I was about ten years old. Everyone was at my grandmothers house waiting his return from (wanna guess…that’s right) prison. It seems that he had been in there for my entire life, and that’s why I had never met him.

He arrives there in grand style: loud and flamboyant. If you know my family, you know this is not strange. Hell, if you’ve ever met me, I think you can imagine. He started his act. I say it’s an act, but it’s really just Star being Star. He enjoys talking and likes when people are listening—though he doesn’t always wait for the latter.

Then he started telling his story, he doesn’t bother sitting down. No, he stands, using his arms and his obnoxious voice to spin the tell.

Here goes:

It seems Star was in Detroit (don’t all crooks go to Detroit?) and he and one of his buddies decided to rob a house. Well, they get the gear and stuff they need: guns and sky mask, and head into the house—forgetting to put on the mask.

All the lights are off, and Star gets a bad vibe (Ok, at this point I wish I could have named him Fool, but even after this, I think we have the right man in the role), but they go on in anyway. When they get into the house everything is going fine. They’re getting lots of expensive stuff, and even found some stashed cash. Everything is good.

Then something happens (doesn’t always?) and his partner either falls or drops something, and makes a loud ruckus. To Star everything seems to happen at once: his partner screams, several simultaneous light in the house come on—in several different rooms, and the owner comes out shooting. Star dives behind the couch while his partner gets shot in the gut. Star, in way over his head, shot back, misses and then runs out the door. He trips and falls, twice, but makes it out of the house and down the block before anyone can catch him.

He slows down only when he’s a good distance away and then he hears the police and ambulance sirens. For some reason, Fool, oh, sorry, Star decides to go back. By this time there is a whole slew of people outside in the street watching. He stands in the crowd as if this idiot (shit, this name is taken too) didn’t know what the hell was happening. Of course someone notices him and points him out to the cops and they arrest him right there. He’s charged with the murder of his own partner, because as it turns out, if someone dies during the commission of a crime, then that person is charged—even if they weren’t the shooter.

He laughed and made jokes about it then, in that humbly small living room in my grandmother’s house. My mother just stared at him. My grandmother, never one to suffer fools, told him to shut up and get on in the kitchen and eat some real food for a change.

Me and my sisters stared at each other wondering if this person could really be related to us. Little did we know…

…Oh, the tales I could tell you…