Sex Offender James Joseph Brown

definitely NOT me

I just moved to a new apartment. I almost didn’t get it because I share the same name and date of birth as a sex offender. It’s not the first time I’ve been mistaken for someone else. Usually, though, I get mistaken for a celebrity.

I share a name with one of the most famous men in entertainment, James Joseph Brown, the Godfather of Soul. I love being named after a man with whom I have so much in common. He also got on stage in front of adoring audiences and performed. I find the fact that he had millions of fans worldwide and that I have dozens and most of them are on Twitter and don’t usually recognize me, even when I announce on the microphone, “Good evening, my name is James Joseph Brown,” to be irrelevant. In my eyes we are both superstars of entertainment. He sold out major musical venues the size of auditoriums. I shout to be heard over espresso machines at free open mics in off-Strip dive bars in Las Vegas. It’s pretty close in my book. He also had that batshit crazy look in his eyes when he performed. It’s a look I think I’ve taken to the next level. Tyra Banks calls it the ‘smize’. It’s short for ‘smile with your eyes.’

But I put more passion into it, and smile crazy with my eyes. I ‘scrize.’ Like a true performer. Also because I share the same name as the Godfather of Soul, when people meet me for the first time in person they make embarrassing comments about how they thought I was going to be black. And by embarrassing I mean that they embarrass themselves. Because they think they are the first ones who ever thought of such a hilariously original thing to say. And because more people than you might expect are uncomfortable just saying the word black, and this includes black people. So you need to stop embarrassing yourself people. There are better ways to introduce yourself to me and break the ice. A handshake will do. A how do you do. An ‘I love your work’ will do wonders, even if it’s a shameless lie. Or you could always try a smile, or a smize, or go crazy, in the eyes, and smile at the same time, and try a scrize.

I also share a name with James Joseph Brown, the mining engineer, inventor and self-described member of ‘fashionable society’ who was married to the unsinkable Molly Brown, one of the survivors of the Titanic. (She was played by Kathy Bates in the movie). I love sharing a name with him too because he is proof that this hilarious habit of self-aggrandizing yourself by describing your profession in code didn’t start recently. I mean, this man was ballsy enough to call himself a member of fashionable society just because he liked to wear overcoats and top hats. He was a boss in a mine but he just declared to the world again and again, until it seemed real, ‘I’m now a runway model, watch my walk, bitches,’ (this is actually something I do every day, and I’ve acquired a runway walk that puts my female professional model friends to shame, and I wish I were kidding about this), and for that I actually am not mad at him, not one bit. He was the progenitor of the self-promoter, of the guy who believes so much in himself that you start to believe in him too, no matter how crazy he sounds, and before you know it, he’s made something wonderful of himself. I actually respect that more than every loser I meet who’s just hiding the truth behind a title. I mean, unless you’ve got an online shop up and running, we all know ‘entrepreneur’ means ‘unemployed’ at this point right? Just like we all know if your online dating site profile says ‘family oriented’ it either means you have three kids by different baby mamas or you still live at home with your real mama.

So back to James Joseph Brown, the sex offender, who almost got me denied from moving into my new apartment. It’s not the first time having a common name has led to me spending an excruciating amount of time being profiled as a felon and having to jump through hoops. Specifically because most of the men who share my name ARE felons. Doing a search of my name calls up a rap sheet that’s only slightly less scary than the list of guys I had to come up with at the free clinic when they insisted I list all the guys I had sex with since college. That list at the clinic, by the way, was a joke. It turns out I tested negative for everything. Having me make the list was just the nurse’s way of finding out my type to see if he had a chance with me. I was like, hello, you had me at twisted, unprofessional and elaborately concocted
scheme, what else do I need to know about you to say yes? We clearly have the same hobbies and interests if this is what you do when you should be working.

After my name cross-referenced with sex offender James Joseph Brown I ended up getting a call informing me that they wouldn’t be able to rent to me because of my criminal record. Of course it wasn’t my criminal record. I just had to prove that. In this case, as in most cases that occur in real life and aren’t brought before a judge, you are absolutely guilty until proven innocent. This pretty much happens to me every time I move into a new apartment or apply for a new job. I have had to go in person to the Social Security office, spend days on the phone with Clark County records, and talk to the kinds of people I only knew about from watching Oz (and I only used to watch that show for the hot prison rape scenes). I’m a model citizen. I got caught drinking at a keg party when I was twenty. But it was cleared from the record. So it sort of never happened. Plus I was blacked out. So it didn’t even count. It’s like if you keep your eyes closed when you get a blow job from another guy. Totally doesn’t make you gay. Or if you pay a tranny hooker for sex. Totally not cheating. And you for sure are not gay. Hey, I don’t make the rules. And all I’m really trying to say here anyway is that I don’t have a criminal record, not even a speeding ticket, and I still had to do all this nonsense to prove my innocence. And I think it’s pretty clear at this point, I’m a very innocent fellow.

The gentleman who rented me the apartment was very nice, very understanding. He said, well I’m sure this is all just a mix up, but you understand that we just need to get some documentation to keep the main office happy that this guy isn’t you. No problem, I said, used to handling this sort of hoop jumping with aplomb. Plus I was for sure getting this place. I loved it, and when you have your mind set on something, they’ve really got you by the balls. Tell me how high to jump sir? What exactly do you need? So after working the overnight shift at the casino I dragged my ass out of bed and ran out to make a copy of my license (and passport for good measure) and drove over to meet the real estate agent. He shook my hand, called me buddy, took my documents, and then said, now, if we can just get a picture.

Here, now, was why I was under such scrutiny. Most of the felons who shared my name in the past were ruled out as potential matches because we didn’t look alike. They were a lot older or younger, a foot taller or shorter. Different hairstyles, different races. I began to suspect what had happened. It was easy enough for someone to snatch your name and date of birth right out from under you, but something else was going on.

What did this other James Joseph Brown look like? I asked. The real estate agent, a kind-looking, older latino gentleman said, oh he looks pretty much like you. I took a long time to reply. A long time which he seemed blissfully unaware of.

Just like me?

Sure, he said. You know. He’s white.

Usually all the other James Joseph Browns I hear about are black but since, as I mentioned, more people than you think have an odd phobia of saying the word black in public, it takes way longer than it should for me to clear up just why someone is not able to tell me exactly how they figured out I’m not the James Joseph Brown they thought I was. I drive across town to their office. Oh well this one is, well, he doesn’t look like you. No, he doesn’t, I say, because I’m white. Yes, they reply. And he’s…SHHHHH they urge, as if I’m about to reveal secret government launch codes. We could have gotten this over with a lot sooner. I have better things to do than hustle around town clearing up ridiculous misunderstandings just because you’re afraid to call a black person black and a white person white. I already mentioned lots of people are uncomfortable saying the word black. Not me. Not with this name. First words out of every other idiot’s mouth I meet. You’re not black! No, I’m not. And you’re not original!

Anything else? I asked.

Oh, he has a shaved head too. Kind of like you.

Dammit.

Smile, he said, holding his phone up to snap a photo. He caught me by surprise. I didn’t have much time to get ready for the picture. I wanted to look fierce of course. I wanted to smize. But I didn’t, in this case, under any circumstances, want to scrize. The less crazy I looked the better. As a matter of fact, all I could think was, okay James, whatever you do, don’t smile like a sex offender. Then I thought, do sex offenders smile? Sure, they do, they have those creepy smiles, right? No, that’s cliché, that’s profiling. Surely you know better James. That’s what just happened to you. You’re better than that. Now think like a real sex offender and get this right! Wait, don’t think like a sex offender, that’s wrong! This is all so confusing.

Click. Flash. Shit.

Did I look like a sex offender in the picture? Would I be deemed too pervy looking to rent to because of it? I was probably looking confused and creepy while I was thinking about how not to look confused and creepy. I more than likely had a look that said, I’m thinking up new ways to lure children into my basement to eat fruit loops and read passages of ‘The Lovely Bones’ together before nap time. But that’s ridiculous. Vegas homes don’t have basements. And the apartment I wanted to rent was on the second floor anyway.

Try looking in the mirror and smiling and NOT looking like a sex offender. Now try doing it and thinking, what does a sex offender do to try to NOT look like a sex offender and tell me it doesn’t send you into an endless mindfuck loop that makes you start to drool. It’s like a modern day Buddhist koan. If a sex offender, who’s not really a sex offender, tries to pose for a picture and not look like a sex offender, by thinking like a sex offender, in order to NOT look like a sex offender, do they end up looking even creepier and more suspect than a bona fide sex offender, say for example, sex offender James Joseph Brown, not the singer, not the mining tycoon, and not me, but the one who comes up when you try to google any of the other ones of us? And does the tree in the woods hear it? And does the sound of one hand clapping applaud at the news that I’m now moved in and can write my blog in peace?