She's Just Not Feeling You...

"I'm taking my talents to Tumblr"

2011-08-08T09:52:00.000-04:00

Actually, I've been piddling around over there for a bit, getting to know the place and meeting my neighbors. As my attention span continues to shrink like Arctic scrotums, I'm trying out a concept that's new to me...brevity.

See y'all over there. Bring a bottle or something...
http://so-wise.tumblr.com/

~Kim
xoxo

How My Vagina Ended up on Facebook

2011-05-08T17:05:00.002-04:00

Vaginas are shifty...you never know where they might wind up.

So last night, like millions of ~~hoodwinked~~ Americans, I went out in search of a comfortable place to ~~smell some new boys~~ watch Pacquiao/Mosley pick up their checks. Like may Americans, I found the pre-fight concert the most entertaining, though I couldn’t hear any of it.

Brief rewind: It was my friend D-Nice’s bday, so we went out and had a few early in the evening. I had had a few before having a few, but it was all pretty spread out so my last drink was at around 9 pm.

Brief side story: She has a really cool Nigerian friend who bears a striking resemblance to Jamie Foxx (which was made exponentially more hilarious once the actual Jamie Foxx shows up on screen at the fight). He and I leave the bar together in search of a nearby place to watch the “fight.” Needless to say, everyone I run into thinks we’re together, this Jamie Bumaye and I, which posed a few interesting ethical dilemmas throughout the night. But I think I need to write a Dear Abby letter about how you introduce someone without saying, “Wow, this ngga and me?? Naw!!!!”

Anywho, we settle on this place, a very low-key chill spot where the owner’s dog is known to mingle with the visitors. A place unscathed yet by random riffraff, where there’s literally a framed photo of Angela Lansbury in the unisex bathroom. I shit you not…though a public bathroom would be an appropriate place had I in fact, been shitting you.

A place where you run into mad dudes you know who insist you drink too.

I know my reputation precedes me, but I allege that I was not drunk. If you had seen my bday friend you would have a suitable visual for bent, as the young people say; and I, as I say, was slightly curved, at best. Nowhere near drunk. Scouts' Honor.

I know this because when I stand up to go to visit Mrs. Lansbury (such a shame her sleuth talents were wasted in that violent little town. A city like Newark could really use her), there was no wooz in my step, no stumble or upheaval in my heels. It was after midnight, in between rounds (of the fight, not bar tab), and I made it to through the crowded space to the bathroom without incident.

And it was when I returned to my seat that I checked all four pockets, out of habit, and realized I didn’t have my phone. I immediately doubled back to the bathroom and Jessica Fletcher didn’t have it either. And I could have REALLY used her to help solve the mystery that was about to unfold.

Whatever, I really didn’t think much of it. I was off in a lounge slightly off the beaten path with an entry parlour with a decidedly Elizabethan homage. In other words, it’s not the kind of place where shit ends up on Craigslist…or does it?

After the place clears out, we’ve dispatched the bartenders and owner to aid in the search. We’ve called the number, we’ve turned over ottomans, we’ve damn near done hand-to-hand checks. Nothing.

I’m upset, but upbeat. I’m the designated driver, the undrunk among us and therefore the voice of reason and authority. I’m the grown up, and grown ups tend to assume similar grown upmanship from others. So I steered us in the direction of home fairly confident that my phone would be back with momma by Mother’s Day. But I called her just for moral support, knowing she’d cuss and comfort in a consoling balance. Aaaaaaand of course she playing hard to get. Sigh.

Make a pit stop at the clubhouse and run into this guy, who has a penchant for speaking in jokes. It’s cute. He starts going in on bday friend about her abundant and outgoing cleavage, and yet at that moment I have no idea of the direct irony of the banter.

Two drunk drop-offs and an hour later, I’m home. Thinking ahead, I have plans for Sunday afternoon, so I get on Facebook to send my friend a heads up about my situation, and there’s a message from Random High School Guy: “Wise, is that you in your profile pic?” Odd inquiry, because Random High School Guy is in fact Neighborhood Elementary School Guy who knew me back in ’85 when that pic of me was taken…

Except, it’s not that cute lil kid pic staring back at me.

It’s my torso, nekkid as the ~~handyman’s penis~~ day is long, holding an ice-cold bear bottle.

Suddenly I realize that riffraff are everywhere; a lesson I should have learned from Mrs. Lansbury.

I scroll down and see some felonious status updates: “I just went home with a white guy with the biggest dick every.”

Now first of all, like three statuses ago I was railing on people whose kids don’t know the King’s English and typee likee thisss, so I’m mad nobody thought this was out of character for me, even drunk. The pure comedy tho: one of my boys, actually ‘liked’ the shit. *morgue*

“Who wants it” was another one.

By this time, approximately 4 am, a couple of people have commented but not many. I delete the photo and go into crisis aversion mode, changing passwords, confirming privacy modes, deactivating the phone and the like. I send my crew an email letting them know the deal and making sure nobody got any foolish emails or texts, and realize that my BBM is out of my reach and I have no clue what photos/msgs might be on there. Sigh.

I’m not terribly mortified by the unsolicited unveiling. It would be different if it was me, say, blowing a bone (felatio, keep up), or perhaps if I was splayed out all crazy, flower reaching for the heavens. But it was just my body, neck to thigh, and a Bud Light Lime to cool me off. The hint of a rounded boob, a sucked-in middle, some leg and well, full-on cooch couture. Tasteful and simple-sexy. (Listen, I'm a cell phone self-portrait LEGEND. I am the cellular Annie Leibovitz, for real). Though I’m a woman with considerable insecurities, I’m not particularly shy about my body (WHATEVER! The only reason I'm not fazed is because I look DOPE in it *shruggery*), but the idea that someone else, a piece of shit stranger, is holding power over what OTHERS might consider shameful, makes me furious.

Fuck you, phone bandit and your insignificant dick. I sleep well after the clean up.

Then I wake up to this email: “It’s still up, Weezy.”

Sonofa.

He can see it but I can’t. Shadybook.

“Most folks probably didn’t see it and at least it wasn’t a face shot (and ur face won’t be on ebonylust.com (not a real site…or is it???) However, I THOROUGHLY enjoyed it. lol :)”

“A couple people commented on it. No biggie,” I respond. “And thank you. It kind of IS an enjoyable photo, so no worries…but wow, my vagina was on Facebook!”

So what have we learned today?

Don’t take and KEEP nudie pics of yourself that you don’t want nameless High School Guy to see. Consider it an online 10-year class reunion…you wanna look your best when you run into these Honor Society ass muhfuckas.
Now’s a good time to reevaluate the arbitrary ass people you’ve friended. I am a huge proponent of the FB purgatory, you know, that place where you let those questionable requests go to die. Mostly, I just don’t check it enough to even know that I’ve been requested, or I have no clue who the person is, or it’s someone like an ex whose whereabouts and general shenanigans I don’t necessarily want to be privy to, or it’s a young relative who can’t even spell and I don’t want to be ~~judgmental~~ embarrassed every time I speak to their parents, or it’s someone in apposition of authority who don’t need to know that I was traipsing around in South Beach and not in the office.

2b. I say all that to say, who else would have been up at 4 am to see the debut of Showtime Vagina?...Bammas I don’t know who consequently are paid members over at youjizz.com (real site, NSFW or a computer you share with your kids or spouse if said spouse thinks you have a porn problem), a lonely ex, your 12-year-old nephew, your lonely-horny boss/professor, and of course, grandma.

And that, my fair-weather frienemies, is how my perfectly polite, meticulously manicured, fantastically photogenic juicebox ended up in the devil’s playground.

Euro: Pt II: A Photo Tribute to The Royals' Rumble

2011-04-28T13:42:00.001-04:00

Wow, those Royals sure know how to hog the spotlight. I for one have no delusions that their life is exponentially more interesting than anything even close to my orbit, so I'm not one of you wedding haters. I am however, biased having just run through their backyard last month.

Shit, I love a good wedding, especially the ones where a) you know they'll be separated before they finish paying for it, b) there's doves and other live animals and shit, and c) the bride and/or groom are filthy fucking rich.

I don't get it, really. It's silly to be excited about a royal wedding between two attractive young people with awesomely privileged lives, yet yall tuned in to watch a bunch of ~~sur~~reality weddings, and sat glued in record numbers to watch an actual FAKE wedding between two MAKE-BELIEVE PEOPLE?? Gtfoh, bammas.

I tip my hat to Wills and Kate as I desperately wish I was there ~~elbowing~~ traipsing through the streets of London. Here is my brief London retrospective, a photo tribute, if you will...

Hands down the best subway system I've been on. No rats!!


An unimpressive DJ in an even more unimpressive Leicester Square club.

And I really didnt feel silly for being a clique.

Nope, didnt go on the Eye. Mine are large enough.

Big Ben actually refers to the huge bell, but the clock and tower are what we normally think of.

Imagine getting married HERE instead of your lil AME church home.

Well.

Buckingham Palace

RIP That Bottle

And those.

Hyperaware

2011-04-25T22:06:00.002-04:00

The sun's set, like my mind...made up. But where are the stars promised by the absent moon? Where's the respite certain by the darkened sky? Where is the solace of another day now past tense?
Where the fuck are YOU?

Hotmail: The Uncool Grandma?

2011-04-18T12:19:00.002-04:00

I've had the same primary email address since '98. I chose wisely the first time around and it suits me well.

So when the third person in the last month asked me, "You still have Hotmail?" I responded, "Oh yeah. It doesn't pay your student loans, earn airline miles and get you into exclusive clubs like Gmail, but it still sends/receives pretty well."

The end.

It is also to be noted that I've had the same cell phone number, Sprint account and voice message* since '99. My parents lived in the same house my whole life and never changed their phone number. You could say I'm adverse to change.

Or you could prefer to be correct and say I don't fix shit that's not, as they say, the hell broke. Sure, there are valid situations that require a mass email (that your pesky stalker will still be unintentionally fwd'd), announcing a new phone number. And yes, even I have lived in several different cribs and in different cities even.

But this whole idea that I'm not supposed to still be on Hotmail has me stumped.

It's not like MySpace (which I was never on), where the participation of others is kinda integral to the entire point of the damn thing.

And I can see how say, a tumblr might fit your needs better than blogger.

But again, sending and receiving a bunch of glitter-ass-make-a-wish-care-bear-and-pray-for-the-dying-child-who-fell-for-this-cruel-and-widespread-dangerous-new-dark-parking-lot-assault-Nigerian-scam isn't exactly that exotic.

If I could get a MyFirstName.MyLastName@gmail.com addy then sure, that makes perfect sense. But my gov't name is ~~Caucasian~~ common enough that it's unavailable, prolly snatched up on day one like size 10s at Nine West. Plus my first inclination for an email addy back in '98 wasn't putitinyomouth1977@hotmail, so I'm good with what I got.

So I'm asking genuinely...What's the big deal? Are Hotmail and Yahoo the 8-track of the innanet?? And does Gmail really have more to offer ~~like free strippers and Lotto scratch-offs~~ or is it just some ole technological Jonesery?

PS...I have a gmail account I use to sign into Google Docs so I already know the answer.

*I think the original msg got lost when I got this new phone last month but I'm too bereft to confirm.

“F@ggot” Ass Kobe

2011-04-14T21:23:00.003-04:00

As my eyes first strained to keep up with the scroll across the screen, I immediately knew what he said (duh) and how he said it (unfortunately). Since I wasn’t watching the game that night, I was delighted to finally see the video (thanks, Dan)…yikes:

One of the best parts of watching sports is the real shit that TV cameras often pick up by accident: errant snot, a scrotum shift, a trip and fall, offbeat trash talk. If you’ve ever been to a game in person and sat close enough to be sprinkled by a player’s sweat or even just felt the static cling of their almost psychotic game-time energy, you’ve been privy to some prime (primal?) entertainment.

But there was truly nothing funny about Kobe’s dialogue. So it was hard to chuckle when listening to sports radio today to hear callers weigh in with all manner of oblivious opinions. Though there was a remarkably diverse set of comments expressed, both for and against the $100k fine, what struck me was that most people were not willing to concede that the great offense was that he spewed a gay slur.

“He shouldn’t be cursing at a ref; that’s an authority figure and a lot of players have been fined for badmouthing refs.”

“The cameras caught him and ‘the groups’ are upset, so I get that (NBA Commissioner) Stern had no choice but to punish him.”

“$100,000? For saying what a lot of people say?? That’s not right.”

"Kenyan Martin threatened to KILL Mark Cuban. What was he fined??"

Heat of the moment—I get it—this is how people get when they’re upset—yes, I know…but son was at his place of business, and never mind that Carl the Camera Guy was on the case.

And God forbid I point out that calling someone a “fucking faggot” is fucking vile.

People use this word everywhere, feel no remorse about it, know it’s probably wrong to say to someone who is actually gay, but don’t give it much thought otherwise. I actually buy the idea that people still don’t know better, and that they may not see anything wrong with saying it. But this is precisely why a steep fine and no-tolerance approach is necessary. Not just to make a point, but to make a statement…that THAT statement is not fucking acceptable. This, my gay-as-in-happy friends, is how you help make that point publicly to the recesses of the Bible belt, Midwest and beyond.

Inevitably, the obvious “nigga” analogy was all over this one.

“Kevin Garnett was caught on camera saying the same thing AND the n-word and nothing happened to him.”

“These young guys say it where they come from so it’s not a big deal.”

I don’t see why a conversation about offensive language always has to veer left onto Martin Luther King Blvd and include nggas and their ngga shit, so I don’t want this post to make a wrong turn into the hood either. But I will say that I find it counterproductive for folks to allow hood ass shit to permeate institutions that are meant to uplift. Like (~~HBCUs~~) college, for example. What sense does it make to let a kid come to your school if you’re going to stoop to the level of their high school in an effort to “reach them,” rather than teach them that it’s in fact not ok to wear pajamas and Timbs to class.

If you’re a professional, act like one. And indeed Mamba Sauce did just that this morning (brought to you by Adidas), and is to be commended for taking responsibility as the face of the League should.

Whether or not YOU think so using the word 'faggot' is indeed offensive and there should be no tolerance in the matter. I applaud the League for making a swift and …stern response and I think the amount was appropriate. Just because you don’t agree that it’s not THAT bad, doesn’t mean it isn’t. Maybe you should reevaluate why you don’t think so, rather than accusing the NBA of pandering to the LGBT community. And what the fuck is so wrong with that anyway??

Also, suggesting that because past offenses like Garnett's in '08 weren't punishable that this one shouldn't be either are valid. However, as our society grows and progresses, much like these athletes do, it is to be assumed and even expected that changes will be made, views will have shifted and interpretations of precedents set will be reevaluated accordingly. Bringing up old shit only serves to shift the conversation from the actual, albeit difficult, issue at hand. We should always be asking, 'What have we learned? How do we proceed?'

Asking whether Kobe would have been fined if Camera Guy had caught him saying “fucking nigger,” is a whole other conversation, and it does little to analyze this one. I believe in a case-by-case basis on issues that venture into cultural grey areas.

My question: Why is it so hard for folks to acknowledge that there is in fact something wrong with making slurs against gay people? Is it because so many of us do it without a second thought?

Will this ever be fucking settled?

Euro Pt. I: Quo Vadis

2011-04-13T01:37:00.000-04:00

Broadway: “He would have never got on that train if he knew you would’ve blown him. And I hurt for him for not knowing.”

Wise: “I would have. Unequivocally. But he would have left still, albeit fully aroused. Undoubtedly. And that’s why I am absolutely smitten.”

It reminded me immediately of this spot on Greene Street that I used to go to all the time when I first moved to the City. Except on this night in 2011 the city was London, not New York circa ‘99, though I was quickly drawing a convincing comparative analysis between the metropoli. Located in the Trans-Atlantic analogous neighborhood of Soho, my company usurped my rapt attention.

If I was a younger me, still beholden to the imagined shackles of what-ifery, I would have taken solid and copious mental notes. I’d remember not only the name of the drink that made us both pause in pure delight, but the pleasing ingredients. Instead, I blocked access to the left lane of my brain, the one leading to mindless infatuation, and instead focused on the components that helped us settle into a comfortably relaxed and disciplined conversation: equal parts liquor, laughs, and lust.

Back in the Greene St. days, conversations with a handsome young man would veer ultimately toward career: How long you been in NY? Where did you go to school? Where do you work? Tell me about the company you just started. But fast forward a decade and these convos almost always take the scenic route through a discussion about relationships: Do you date? Is marriage on your radar? I thought everyone wanted kids. Though the talk has shifted, the Vaseline effect of whatever liquor is flowing hasn’t changed. ~~Thank GOD~~.

Have you ever met a famous person and been dumb confused about what the fuck just happened? Like, when you discover that dude from TV who is mad fine is also mad midgety.

Better yet, what about how making real-life introductions with old internet buddies is NEVER, ever what you imagined. They’re not as funny or sexy, the conversation not as fluid when spoken words replace LOLs and #weirdcatchphrasesyallthinkyallmadeup, and they have a nervous tick that was impossible to detect even via Skype. This was not that. The evening began in the hotel lobby when he stood up and was not, as I had ~~expected~~ feared, eye-level to Gary Coleman (RIP).

On the short ride on the subway that makes NY’s look like an underground shithole, we sat close enough to nudge flirtatious elbows, but didn't; a simple statement established boundaries like a pull-down arm rest.

“I started seeing this woman recently, and it was interesting trying to explain how I ‘know’ you.”

[Begin Chapter I of "The Story of My Life: A Tragedy" by So Wise]

The following progression was appropriate: first, a noisy British pub, pretending I couldn’t handle a whole pint of Stella and accepting a half, taking sips of his gin. Struggling to protect the sinking secret that I’m not as awesome when there’s no typing involved.

The crawl then progressed to the Soho spot. It was down this slightly dodgy alley (with cobblestones that didn't quite agree with my heels) and beyond the unassuming façade, in the center of a foyer that felt warmed by an open fire, that we took off our jackets for the first time that evening.

There’s really nothing better than a good drink with someone good-looking.

Even if you can’t have them.

The truth is, I didn’t even allow myself to imagine my face rubbing against the inside of his strong thighs. That would have tainted the pleasure of the improbability. Instead, I relished in the fulfillment of my long-suffering wanderlust and a great drink matched with even greater convo.

There was another bar and another drink afterward, but I choose to end my recollection here, in Soho--UK not NY. Seated, loose, unencumbered finally by the anxiety of whatever conclusions he’d drawn of the me sitting across the table and not across a computer screen. I traveled across an ocean and spent an evening drinking with a man I had had a crush on for five years or so. And he exceeded every expectation, whether real or digital.

Isn’t that what travel is? What it does? Lets you stare into the eyes, study the surface of the lips, examine the intellect and humor, ogle the ~~crotch~~ landmarks—without guilt of covetousness—of a space that is not your own, but is yours to explore.

A decade ago, in the Greene St. days, I would have lost my way in his confident eye contact, stopped his lips mid-sip and pressed them to mine, completely defenseless against his acute observations and effortless sense of humor and sturdy frame and manly ass and familiar Caribbean accent and alarmingly rugged handsomeness. Today, my boundaries and respect wouldn’t even allow me to take a picture with, literally, the man of my damn dreams. A lesser bitch would have been happy to swallow.

London is a lot like NYC, and I immediately felt like I had been there before…yet had no idea where I was going. Still, I was utterly smitten.

Euro: the Intro

2011-04-06T01:16:00.005-04:00

I finally did it.

Finally got over the major hurdle that was Europe. How the hell have I never been to Europe?? Past tense. So much to tell yall about: bottles, cricket, royals, hookers, joints, and the tragedy of a crush fulfilled. Stay tuned, bitches...(cont'd here.)

12:10 pm

2011-03-24T12:07:00.001-04:00

Any minute now my phone will ring. I won't bother investigating the identity of the caller nor will I contemplate an appropriate method of ignoring it. I'll simply pick up.

Or no, maybe I shouldn't watch the time, in the event that there might be a new angle this year. Sometimes things get changed up.

What is constant though is the fact that the caller will make me giddy. My lips will chafe from stretching, my teeth in full display. I'll feel like a kid again -- and Lord knows I need that -- and my mind will race like young me, wild and free through the backyard on a cool spring day.

At 12:10 pm in 5th grade I convinced my teacher to let the class sing happy bday to me. The exact time of my birth.

I am nothing if not motivated by acceptance and love, so birthdays suit me quite well. I make grand gestures of the dates of birth of those close to me, mostly because the joy of celebrating ones life is an emotion I hold dear. But part of me is probably calling in a favor.

Remember me on March 24.

There was one year there was no call. Well, no, there was a call, but I was the one who made it. I had to dial in to get my own birthday wishes.

As time inches toward noon, I'm overwhelmed and overwrought with the pride of a woman much simpler than I. My arrival in this world 30-something years ago, my family squatting like Major League catchers, ready to field me at home plate. Future friends in bassinets sprinkled across our town, across the world even, settled in, preparing to round the bases where our paths will inevitably cross someday. Others still simmering in the gut like last night's lasagna, ready for release. Others still not even a thought or misstep in their parents' daily walk.

At 12:10 pm my mother might call me. To tell me I wasn't a mistake. That missteps I've made are a part of life, and that she's proud to claim me. That my father was a mess when I arrived and that he's proud of me too. That it's ok to miss him.

Or she may wait until the kids are home or siblings pass through so that one call can be made. Kind of like all those calls placed during holiday meals that I missed over the years.

That God has seen fit to deliver me to this world, in this way, at this moment in time, is why birthdays are the best gifts. Ever. Like Easy Bake Oven* or Snoopy Snow Cone Machine* best.

The days and months leading up to today have been a This is Your Life exercise set to dim lights and dark harmonies. But today, even for this one moment at 12:10 pm, I am sure that this is in fact my life, whether I'm pleased with the rough cuts or not.

I trust that the moment is yet to arrive. But it's coming...

(*my parents, anti-dumb American shit Jamaicans that they are, did not believe in either toy and therefore would neither field nor dignify inquiries or requests for them or any other dumb shit that American kids cried for.)

***Updated: The call came in at 12:28pm...and I was notified that it is "Officially my bday," because I was in fact born on a Thurs. She was waiting all morning to call and will call me again when the kids get home so they can tell me how great I am. :) ***

Throwback: WARNING: Chocolates, Flowers & Balloons are Gifts for Girls Under 18

2011-02-14T20:40:00.000-05:00

(First published Feb 12, 2006)
Oh dear…I fear I may be too late. VD (not to be confused with what you got from Random Club Chick back in '01) is in 2 days and I had no idea that there were still guys out there with no idea. In the last 24 hours I’ve had 5 guy friends call sounding anxious and uneasy and frustrated. Lemme make this quick…

I don’t know who the hell came up with the shit, my guess is Mr. Hallmark and Mr. Godiva joined forces…but it’s wack. The same way that Black History Month is wack…like, we need a day to focus on love, of course…but we also need to be in love every day…if that’s our journey, of course.

But really, fellas, no sense in trying to fight the power, bec like with every other cultural phenom, there is intense peer pressure…more importantly, P Pressure…and P Power of sorts.

I think that the idea of Black History Month is indeed absurd. A month? But how else can we force feed white folks a good Jeffersons marathon on TV Land…AND make them laugh when George calls Tom a honky (RIP)? How else do we justify a documentary about The Middle Passage for Christ sake?? We need the month to force the world to recognize, to dialogue, to honor.

VD is the same. We, women esp, need this day to make brothers validate the relationship. We need a day to evaluate how much he values us. We use the day to make brothas pay back all the times we endured wack sex, lent you dough for rent, and let slide those ambiguous text msgs from the Puerto Rican chick on your job.

Be real, VD is for women and Bitch Dudes, typically the more insecure in the relationship. Some take it waaaaay too seriously, expecting a recent grad on a recent grad’s salary to somehow afford an evening straight out of Diddy’s diary. They expect the dude who has yet to proclaim “THIS IS MY GIRLFRIEND” to stand toe to toe with Luther and Shakespeare in expressing that a crib is not a casa.

Ladies, if the most romantic thing dude has ever done was lick crumbs from your cleavie, then don’t expect no rose petals leading to a candlelit lavender bath for two.

Be realistic. There is a definite grey area during the dating stages, but what is NOT done or said is just as important as what is.

Women are analyzing you fellas. Be on point.

But with that said, fellas, step it up! Do something original and out of the ordinary, but don’t send any mixed messages. If she is just your jump off, the LEAST you can do is engage in some foreplay...but do not under any circumstances refer to it as "making love."

I do not believe in overindulgence. I don’t advocate breaking the bank to make an impression. If shorty is expecting more than you have to offer, then either she is delusional or you are misleading.

If she says she doesn’t want anything, give her something anyway. Something sincere. She will give it up, and more importantly, she’ll appreciate it. Yes, sometimes it IS a test. Even if she really don’t want shit, she would be thrilled to know that it came from your heart, unsolicited.

You cannot avoid the drama. If you try, you will fail. It’s a bullshit holiday, I agree. But if you’re dealing with someone when February rolls around, then you have to play the game. You have to understand that this is the one day that she can get away with forcing you to recognize, to dialogue, and to honor HER. Cuz you know any other day you would blast her:

“Yo, why you trippin, yo?”
“Stop pressuring me!”
“I told you when we met I wasn’t trying to get into nothing serious.”
“I’m too focused on my career right now to give that question much thought.”

Bottomline... chances are, in the dating phase, you’ve been getting over without much accountability. She’s having sex with you without knowing that you have an eye out for something better. She is settling for being the “Right for Right Now Girl.” And hell, maybe that’s how she wants it, too.

But VD is the day she is in control.

Surrender.

And she might relinquish the power of the P on ya. And you'll LOVE IT!

So...Weezy Super Bowl Analysis

2011-02-06T22:23:00.001-05:00

First off, never bet against a black quarterback. But my desire not to hear my brother's mouth has me going straight Cheese Head. *praying for the re-institution of my race card*

Dear Xtina,

Cash your check, immediately.

I wonder if the SB Nat'l Anthem folks will try to be funny and write the wrong name on said check?

It's not a SB without a Diddy coon dance. This time a high-end, luxury number.

Seriously Pepsi??

Eminem finally took his rightful place on the cross as the Aryan Jesus of the auto industry, complete with spiritual black gospel choir. Eminem wept.

God bless Charles Woodson's sweatpants.

I'm really glad to see Fox standing by Omar Epps, I mean Mike Tomlin. Is he still on the "House"?

I'm not in the market for a new car, and from the looks of the economy, neither is anyone else in America. So blowing your wad on SB commercials wasn't a wise use of your bailout petty cash.

What percentage of the 100 million straight men watching the SB were like, "WTF is a 'Glee'?"

After last year's Tom Petty debacle, I was rocking to Black Eye Peas and would sincerely appreciate an electric head box and shiny onesie for my bday.

Any time I see Usher on stage I think it's a motown 75 celebration and he's 45 years old. His skinny hammerpants coupled with child support and alimony payments seem to be slowing the boy down these days.

Why did I feel like my Negroness was on the witness stand because I was on Team Green Bay?

In the end, it came down to the end. And frankly, GB had the better asses. And asses, as Kim K. proved in her spot, trump even talent and win against all odds. They don't call them "Packers" for nothing, if you know what I mean.

Why the hell is there a white picket fence on the Lombardi Trophy stage?? Is this white flight foreshadowing? Tea party, stand up!

Great game!

Passion Plea

2011-02-01T00:13:00.001-05:00

Lemme show you something...

Disregard the melody and sink deep beyond the bass of a manic techno/basement bhangra/symphony/ringtone rap; it's there, settled at the core.

Peep how time, which allegedly waits for no man, seems to stand stark still in deference of our consumption of the moving image mass-mediated.

Follow along with the transcript of a lovers' quarrel. Read lips and subtitles for context clues to the subtext of a prolonged misery. The hollering makes it easier.

It is Passion...and it is addictive.

Not like crank-laced weed; that's just the obvious conduit to the pursuit of bliss.

Not tobacco in Newport clothing. Cool, calm, closure -- in that order -- await at the filtered finish line.

Booze is indeed the boss of me. This we all know. Inhibitions and body shots, after all, are attractive in a world of structure and moral code.

But Passion is what we all crave. It is why we over-indulge in movies, music, nacotics, food, love, other people's business -- no matter how mindless.

Because the tone deaf waif on the other side of your headphones is driven. We watch and admire her movements and missteps.

Famous for No Reason folks are motivated...to be famous, I suppose. So much so that we take the ride with them on their journey...without even bothering to ever leave the couch to open our front doors to allow in an opportunity for us.

We group into social media "followings" and scroll through other people's stream-of-consciousness adventures...instead of embarking on one for ourselves.

Passion is the thing that keeps people's attention for hours without end, years without ceasing, lifetimes even. It is the harmony, the carcinogen, the climax, the infatuation that act as roughage for the soul.

Lemme show you... See? I recognize it in others and pray for a similar blessing.

My passion is out there somewhere, lonely, passing the time by flirting with fear and serenading self-doubt, waiting for me to find it.

Please Excuse the Boxes

2011-01-19T00:11:00.009-05:00

If I was in my youngest nephew’s 1^st grade class, and the assignment was to compose a self-portrait, mine would look a little something like this...

That’s me (quit looking at my privates!!), sprawled out naked inside a restrictive box (ok, make it fast!). A more morbid me would suggest perhaps it’s a coffin; but in essence, it is an illustration of my journey traversing the world as the proverbial circle in a square peg. Quite frankly, the more I continue to grow and stretch, the deeper my fingers seem to press against the boundaries of what yall muhfuckas call reality.

Welcome! Take off your shoes, admire the photos on the wall, giggle at my baby pics, sift through my DVR, admire my porn collection and multi-cultural art, rummage through my drawers, laugh if you must but we've come so far so no tears, get nosy and thumb through my journal…if you can find it.

I won’t go all ‘80s-sitcom-jump-the-shark on you and pretend like I ~~wasn’t an infant last season and now I’m in kindergarten [see: “Growing Pains,” “Family Ties,” et al.~~ didn’t pull a fast one and up and disappear for a year. Like folks didn’t try to step beyond the blog/reality line and contact me to make sure I was still alive (shout out to Epsi and CNel). I won’t pretend that during my absence I wasn’t engulfed in a fulfilling yet challenging relationship that consumed me and my desire to write here. That I didn’t become completely bored by most of what I was reading from you. That said boredom didn’t reflect in my own written observations, and lack thereof. I will admit that I’m adverse to change, and that the influx of new jacks and new jack intentions altered the game and therefore my desire to be a part of it. In summary, I miss the old neighborhood (Blah, we're so *here*).

But the world out there, beyond my laptop’s screen, it stretches far beyond the power chord. The world doesn’t shut down, doesn’t standby or depend on my keystroke to function. It is fueled by interactions that I cannot control, rules that no longer require my engagement, rampant idiocy. Foolishness, to which I am particularly hostile.

Simply put, I have no place else to go. I am playing prodigal, running up the blogspot stoop at top speed, slamming the door shut behind me as god awful status and locale updates, reprehensible ring tone rap, loathsome politics, trending topics and technological advances pound on the other side, hunting me down.

So here I am, in fuzzy socks, nursing a jack and ginger, chuckling at all the memories, blowing away the dust from this blog that conceals the words "Dear Diary." Let's see if I remember how to work this thing, cuz I'm feeling real square out there in the world, and this blog here is my circle.

So if you're new here... Welcome! and all that, but please go fix yourself a plate and put your feet up. This is a strict no-coddle zone. Otherwise, you know the deal. Loosen your belt so we can catch up. But please excuse the boxes...I have some unpacking to do.

Bed Bugs

2010-06-29T23:39:00.001-04:00

As fatigue holds open the door to exhaustive defeat, my eyes remain defiant. Open yet closed to the nagging within. My mind will likely remain on though the lights are off. My body will cling to the hope of rest meanwhile alive is the thing that keeps me awake constantly, though the busy work that is my every days rarely pays it much attention.

I should be fast asleep, but for that thing that continues to bug me at bedtime, it is always morning. Mourning.

Shout Outs

2010-06-20T23:34:00.002-04:00

"You're not the only one that has a hard time on Father's Day, Wise."

True.

So shout out to everyone who had to take a deep breath, a drink, a Xanax, a walk, a pep talk, a phone book, a third-party, a few tears, a hug, a cuss out, or think long and hard before deciding whether to pick up the phone to speak to your Pops today.

And double for those of us who no longer have the luxury.

33 and...

2010-03-24T15:41:00.002-04:00

33 years ago today, my parents saved the best for last.

My mother was only three years older than I am right now – in those days considered an old maid and crazy for popping out a kid – and my father was my age, when their last child was born. It’s bizarre juxtaposing their life experiences against mine, yet implicit is the crossroads it presents. Obviously the world was a much different place for a 30-something in 1977. But in many ways I believe I was conceived and raised to be different.

And that I am.

A life-changing occurrence like the birth of a ~~brilliant~~ child sets your life on a brand new course. There was no way for my parents to know or even be prepared for the journey. But somehow they managed to bend with the severe curves in the road, to scale the walls that popped up many times unannounced, and to travel through dark terrain guided by little more than the light of faith and hope.

I have no way of knowing what course my life will take; whether the journey will be long or abbreviated, how the adventures I choose will shape the contours of my journey. Faith and hope will serve as my trusted GPS.

For now, I’ll raise a ~~fifth~~ glass and celebrate my parents’ decision to have one more go of it.

It’s my birthday, and I feel…different.

Oh yes, I'm back, bitches.

FAITH

2008-12-09T16:43:00.001-05:00

We interrupt this extended absense to bring you this msg intended for no one but
me...

Faith. Unless you are a dreamer like me you may find it difficult some times to
place a name to the face. Like me.

I know its there I just can't always find it.

Somewhere along the way, and trust, the way has been long, dark and  mostly
lonely, my faith blended in with the shadows. It took on shapes like the
properties of air or liquid, becoming an element of surprise.

Now you see it. Now...

You don't always understand things immediately. Things don't always make sense.
That's when faith steps in and holds open the door for you. Faith is chivalrous.
Requires little acknowldgement...except that's its entire existence actually.

Imagine if you only existed as a promise. If all you were was your word. You'd
wish your name to be spoken without ceasing. Which is how I pray.

Somewhere along the way as is the case with most dreamers, things become so
muttled. So disfigured that you long for understanding in your waking hours.
Sleep is no longer a suitable symptom. No longer your refuge.

Somewhere along the way I lost faith in people. Determined them worthless and
unthinking. That way my own stupidity seems unordinary and less remarkable. But
I didn't imagine it. It really happened. I really got let down. I lost support.
I lost love. I lost respect. I lost my mind and the will therein.

I lost myself along the way. I am hoping that if I can retrace my steps and
rediscover the hope of faith, there somewhere nearby, there I will be also.

I lost faith in the truth. I know its there. I can taste it like it on my lips
even when it isn't. I do have faith however, that it is truly buried beneath the
rubble of insecurity and frustration and distance.

If I close my eyes right now I will settle solemnly into a dream. I will
immediately recognize the time and place. It will be exactly where I need to be.
It is not always easy for me to focus but in this moment the circumstances are
razor sharp. Its that way, all dark and long and lonely. But ill see clearly the
bends and turns, the finish line off in the distance. It will resemble the life
I ought to be leading.

I will open my eyes, puffy and still damp, and faith will pry the lingering tear
drops from my lashes and I will see again. I will visualize the possibilities
again. I will reconnect with my faith and find my way.

TALL ORDER

2008-11-04T17:11:00.002-05:00

I sort of expected to step out into the morning and find a stream of people coming from every direction. Sort of flushing out into the streets like the first streams from a faucet. Instead it was more like a few here and there along the short walk. I’m not usually among the living out this early, so I couldnt tell this day from another, except that I knew it was special.

I walk inside at the same time as a handful of others, file in single file, third grade style. It’s humid as hell, kinda like somebody’s grandmother’s living room. Fitting, because there’s lots of old people here. I’m yawning on the inside, alert and anxious on the out. Take one look at me in my sweats and hat, my school book in one hand, cellie in the other. I’m simultaneously reading and texting and moving forward toward the finish line. At once a student of history and of this moment’s place in it. I’m living it. It's just after 7 am.

The weight of the moment seizes me, not suddenly, but gradually as it has for a while now. Each step forward is monumental. I’m starving to make a choice. I watch the girl in front of me, because this is my first time here, and she appears a veteran. I pull out my wallet, just in case. I know how they are with the trickery. What they don’t know is that I came prepared for anything. Not only is my bag stocked with snacks and water, but my wallet is flanked by about every piece of identification I own. I only pull out one, meanwhile my thumb presses against my badge. A sticker.

I take my time and survey my surroundings. Everyone is abuzz. Everyone sweating from the humidity. Everyone is friendly. A photographer snaps away, flash bulbs illuminating the scene, highlighting the occurrence. On the sly, I’m posing. I know that odd movements and gestures catch editors' eyes. I photograph pretty well in black and white. Definitely from this angle. I pause, pondering dramatically as if the choice hasn’t already been made for me.

I turn and take one last look before I leave. The line continues to swell outside the door. I did it. Finally. I got up early and it was well worth it.

I don’t usually like their coffee, but I am grateful for the freebie. Thanks Starbcuks!

Oh, and I also voted this morning.

Go Dukakis!

WISE GUYS

2008-10-20T14:24:00.004-04:00

I grew up with dudes who played sports. Came to school in crispy Jordans and shiny mesh shorts that hung just at the knee. There was always a boxer briefs waistband visible. But that was all.

And even if they weren't good at sports they were obsessed with SportsCenter. They talked about it incessantly.

I grew up with dudes who had female friends. Not BFFs tho. Be clear...they'd blaze given the opportunity. But they'd talk shit and cuss and let fly a few bitch and ho references in front of their homegirls with absolutely no offense intended and none taken.

I grew up with dudes who defended said female friends. I could go out and feel like I was surrounded by secret.service. If anyone ever got slick with me there'd be a dude there to handle it before I even had a chance to ask.

Dudes I grew up with had other guy friends. WTF is this lonesome ngga phenomenon? Has it always existed where guys sit at home night after night watching movies by themselves? Where is your boy? You know, the cat that comes over the crib with some brew??? Guys are fairly simple creatures. Easily relateable with few strict requirements outside of loyalty. So I slant a mean skepty eye to any guy who proudly exclaims that he doesn't have any male friends.

Guys I grew up with want pussy. And lots of it. Even now as adults. Some married. That's not to say that they whore around or even step out on their women. But it IS to say they have libidos. Asexual ass nggas frighten me.

I grew up with straight dudes. And gay ones. But very few of this ridiculously ambiguous bitch ngga shit.

I grew up with white dudes who grew up with black dudes. And vice versa. And they have dude things in common like pussy, beer, and the Lakers.

Nggas I grew up with iron the shit out of every outfit they put on. The smell of starch always makes me smile.

The dudes I grew up with got their hair cut religiously, have precision-cut goatees, own no less than two durags, a brush for home, work and car, and two maybe three pairs of dress shoes. And they are not in any way metro.

Dudes I grew up with work. And dance. And don't need to be asked twice for them to fuck you.

They also have issues. But they deal with them. And said issues are rarely deep enough to make them disown their parents or siblings.

There are certain songs and certain artists that remind me of certain people. That's because dudes I grew up with commit classic rap lyrics to memory. Mobb Deep and the "Reasonable Doubt" album are two examples.

Where I'm from dudes smile. And grind on a girl when they dance. Their eyes hone in on fat asses, and follow them around corners until out of sight. They hold doors open no matter what. They don't eat in front of folks without offering. They use pronouns like yo and B. and son and kid and ngga and cracker and money to punctuate every sentence. They called their fathers Pops even if he wasn't ever around. They're emotionally unavailable to any woman except their mothers or sisters or daughters. They refuse to allow a woman to sit in the backseat of a car with two dudes up front. Like, they will fight you over this. They change their own car air filters and flat tires. They sometimes wait til they're reduced to tears to go to the doctor. They feel no kinda way about crying at a loved one's funeral or to express love for their friends and families and women.

Not all dudes are from where I'm from. And that's a shame. Cuz dudes I grew up with are my kinda guys.

Regular.

It may seem silly but I haven't come across this kinda regular guy in a very long while. Times have changed I guess.

Guys who are into poetry and fashion and technology and dvd collections and the mall and upscale eateries are fun. They surround me daily. But where is the guy in sweatpants who always has the game on? The one who will push me damn near off a bar stool if I try to pay for their drinks. Where's the guy who doesn't mind driving when we go out? Who isn't emotionally scarred by my mood swings. Who is conflicted about commitments but doesn't use it as an excuse.

I miss him.

CUZ LA HATES ME...

2008-10-13T10:52:00.002-04:00

As if I havent sufficiently exposed my bare naked ass enough on this damn blog for the last 3 years, Lauren wants more.

Ok lemme see...

1. I remember vividly the day I decided to quit eating boogers cold turkey. I was really little, and I didnt even really like boogers, but I saw other kids doing it. But then it occurred to me that it was pretty stupid, not to mention nasty. So I stopped. I've only regressed a few times since.

2. When I lived in NY during jr year I used to exist mostly on leftover green room breakfast and a slice of pizza every day. One time I was plotting on walking out of the Chinese buffet without paying, but the sons of bitches followed my black ass around like they knew I was up to no good. And when I threw down the container full of sesame chicken and stormed out crying racism, they pretty much just cleaned it up and kept it moving.

3. As my childhood bedroom was right across the hall from my parents, I would on occasion hear them having sex. One time I confronted my mom the next morning in metaphorical terms and she flat out denied it. I was maybe 8.

4. I'm immune to weed. I'm Jamaican, don't smoke, have inhaled, have lived with daily smokers and have never been ~~all that~~ high.

5. I'm fcuking a blogger ~~that half you muhfcukas would loooooove to get at~~ and that's all you need to know about that until further notice. Don't hate.

6. I don't know how to make friends. I'm absolutely lousy at it. I have almost no friends that are not from some sort of controlled situation like school or work.

7. I once kissed a girl on the banks of the Mississippi River. It was all poetic and shit. And fantastic.

8. I write best when I'm drunk but I always pass out before I can formulate a complete sentence. I have 3 writing projects that remain incomplete because I'm ~~a loser who can't finish anything~~ either always or never drunk. I'm probably afraid of success, or more accurately afraid of failure.

9. My dead dad made an appearance last week, and it was a huge help.

10. I'm a really efficient stalker and I did some reconn work the other day that I now regret.

Happy? Huh?? No seriously, I miss you guys. But since we being honest and all I'm not gonna front like other bloggers who disappear and say, "I've been away but I've still been reading all of you." Yo, I aint been reading shit that aint ~~on tv~~ school related. What can I say, my life blows. No need to drag you all thru it. :)

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY

2008-10-08T08:41:00.001-04:00

One year ago...

There’s that moment when the exhaustion burns from the whites of your eyes, straight back to the hook of your damn head.

If you peep over at the clock radio you’ll be at once rendered blind by the hot, fuzzy red, and incredulous at how much time has escaped you. How little is left before you must abandon your bed.

Speaking of which…the sheets are bunched up in all the wrong places. Pillows stationed at random checkpoints, marking spots where you’d posted up for undetermined stretches of time.

Your stomach is folding over itself, and you wonder if this is what happens when you’re asleep...bec that’s what you should be doing at this particular moment.

But who can sleep at 1, 2, 3, 4 in the morning…

“You see what time it is?”

“I don’t care to look.”

The newness blossoms in the wee hours. The fundamental necessity of sleep is rendered optional, when you lose yourself and all track of time within the amusing cadence of the voice in your ear. Laughing, sighing, and making a mockery of your anytime minutes. ;)

911

2008-09-22T20:08:00.002-04:00

I hate calling 911.

It costs extra, for one thing. And it does something weird to my cell phone.

And it’s 5 in the morning. And the operator ACTUALLY asked me if I wanted to leave my name and callback number.

I hate calling them, but I had no choice this time. This shit had been going on for hours. And no sooner than I hang up the call I hear voices outside my window. I live three floors up, and my bedroom faces the wide street. The voices must have moved from one floor down - the central nervous system of drama - and taken to the streets while I was on the phone.

I stand up and discreetly approach my window. Before I peel back the heavy curtain and move aside the blinds, I can hear her. Funny, if I ever did leave a callback number, I wouldn’t ever be able to identify her face in a line up. She’s just a voice to me.

The cops are already here. Three cars lined up at the curb outside the crib, two facing the wrong way on my one-way. One cop doing most of the talking.

“It’s up to you. I told you that before,” he says. “I can walk upstairs with you and get your stuff and you can file a report. You can’t keep going back and being a punching bag.” His words are at once pleading, but mostly exasperated and annoyed. “This is the third time I’ve been called here tonight alone.”

I was late calling because I’m used to their nonsense. My neighbor one floor down is a nutbag. As is the white chick who lives there that he kicks out on average a few times a week.

When I came in this evening I noticed rose petals on the stairs up to the second floor. Weird. it was right in the spot where I almost threw up at the smell and sight of blood, about two weeks ago.

What I know of them is mostly what I piece together from hearing them fight. I gather that she’s from Oklahoma. Maybe a stripper. They share a car. She has a few friends. They smoke a lot of herb. He thinks she’s the “stupidest girl in the entire world. So fucking dumb!”

He’s big and imposing. She’s tiny. I sometimes run into her on my way in or out of the building. We say hello. But I can ever make out her face. The one time I had an extended period to study her – when she knocked on my door to borrow my cellie – a large spreading bruise covered most of her right eye.

Usually they argue, maybe throw some shit around, and then pass out. Tonight they argued, he left for a bit, came back, pounded on the door, and started bitching at her again. “Why the fcuk I gotta knock on my own door, yo?!”

Then he throws her out of the apartment. She’s in the hall quiet. Usually she’s bawling her eyes out and banging on the door, begging him to open it. But this time she’s quiet.

Then he calls to her. “Where the fuck is my [INAUDIBLE]??!!”

“It’s in my black Guess bag.”

“The black one?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see it!”

“Open the door. I got you. I got you. It’s ok.” She’s exhausted. And she’s pleading. But this time it sounds like she’s trying to reassure him. Like she’s talking him down from a ledge. Like he’s forgotten that he can trust her while spiraling in one of his episodes. Cuz it’s obvious that this is what is happening. He's not just a bully. He's a sick (psycho) bully.

“If I you lying to me ima throw your shit out the window."

“Baby, open the door and I’ll find it for you.” I’m thinking, ok weed. He’s looking for his weed and maybe that’ll calm his ass down.

“It’s not in here!”

“Empty out the bag. It’s in there. Open the door so I can show you. Let me help you.”

“It’s not in this fcuking bag and now your shit is going out the window.” And sure enough, I hear debris scraping against the brick outside on its way down past my window.

“Baby, you gave me your shades and I put them in my black Guess bag. Are you looking in the right bag?”

This ngga is flipping out over SHADES. This is when I let my fingers do the dialing.

Outside on the curb in front of my bedroom I look down at the girl talking to the cops. She’s in cuffed jeans and, ironically, a wife beater. She’s barefoot. And from here the tat on her forearm looks like a smudge of dirt. She’s smoothing down her hair, and standing still as she listens. She occasionally fidgets with the large plastic bin with the cracked cover. The one he threw out the window.

I then wonder where dude is. Did he dip out the back fire escape like she did that one time the cops came to their door a few months back?

It’s just past dawn now. The sky is awake, as I imagine is the entire neighborhood. I wonder who else called the cops. I look out at the neighboring windows to see if I’m the only one watching. I’m so sure that the old man in the crib directly across the street – the one who would watch me dress and get fcuked against my window before I got curtains – is up and enjoying the scene below.

But I see only empty windows. Windows that reflect back to me the light of the early morning sun.

“What’s his last name?” the cop asks. I hear her spelling it out. I look down, and then back up. I see a figure in the window across the street. But it’s not the old man. In fact, it’s a young man. Large and imposing. I look closely and through the window across the wide street, I can see the reflection of a man crawling on my roof. I’m on the third floor. The top. I see it clear as day.

This muhfcukas is crawling around on the roof like he’s gotdamn Toby.McGuire with dreads.

He’s laying on his stomach listening, as I am, to the scene below. Within seconds he scales back away from the street like he's in a damn obstacle course and disappears. Then he returns to the front of the roof, this time walking upright. I wish I had spidey sense enough to let the jakes know this loser is up there.

I retire back to bed. The cops are still outside. I can hear them talking. She comes back upstairs. He’s there. They continue arguing, like nothing ever happened. They pass out before I do. I’m up for the day.

TODAY AGAIN

2008-09-11T12:41:00.000-04:00

I'm not going to go into a retrospective of where I was 7 years ago today (116th Street, Harlem).
Not gonna recall everything I saw and did and smelled and felt. It's far too traumatic, as are the images I've been avoiding from TV and radio.

But my mom called me this morning, as she has on every September 11 since 2002. She wanted to hear my voice, because on that day she couldnt (no phones). And she wanted to tell me she loved me.

That's my tribute.

Carry on.

NIGGER, WHO TAUGHT YOU OCTAGON?

2008-09-09T12:41:00.002-04:00

Editor's Note:
The origin of the title: "Nig, who taught you octagon?" is from Chris Rock. He was joking about slaves being forbidden to read and what a dilemma it must have been to try to hide it. So the joke goes that the slave who's driving cracker's buggy comes up to a stop sign and is scared to stop for fear of incriminating himself as literate. So he explains that he knew to stop because he saw the big red octagon...
Get it? My learning that simultaneously eating and hot combing wasnt normal is akin to learning to read and seeing the world in a new way.

I’ve been going to a black hair salon all my life. Can’t think of any reason why I may have ever been in a white one.

Until television brought me there, of course.

If ~~your life is as pathetic as mine and is predicated by a television schedule~~ you watch cable like me, you’ve probably seen Peter.Perfect on Style network. Ok so the concept is that Petey, who is a renowned Bevvy Hills stylist, goes to struggling salons and basically does a makeover on the shop and the owners.

So it’s just like any good makeover show…first they highlight the foolishness. He runs up and through the shops kicking stuff over, and hollering in amazement that they even have a single client the way they got their shit set up.

So I’ve seen a couple episodes that featured black salons. And they are oddly familiar…

No receptionist.

No separate break area.

Stylists stopping mid-perm to take a personal call.

Plastic lawn chairs in the “waiting area.”

Cushion coming all out of the ripped up dryer chairs and shit.

Stylists balancing a chicken box in one hand and a tail comb in the other.

The Dudley products on display out of a cardboard box.

So Peter goes absolutely bananas when he sees this shit. He simply cannot believe that this is a business, much less a profitable one. He can’t fathom a place where there’s not a person dedicated to answering the phones and taking appointments. It is beyond his realm of possibilities that clients should ever witness their stylists having lunch.

So then he takes the poor saps to his salon. They get there and are immediately greeted by a friendly and trendy receptionist who offers them water and champagne and shit. They walk in and it’s like an oasis of beauty and relaxation. Completely foreign.

So this is the part where I start dreaming about freedom...

So I’m sitting in the salon yesterday getting my locs sexied. My fav neighborhood pal found this place in our hood, and I decided to give them a holler. It’s nice inside. There’s some gospel music blaring, and it’s fairly quiet. Not too much shenanigans. I’m pleased. I don’t sit and wait 100 years before I’m called over. I’m immediately shampooed, ~~albeit half assedly~~ . It was serene and pleasant, and very befitting of the modest digs.

But then suddenly homegirl’s cellie starts singing. She goes ape shit trying to answer it. Says hello loudly no less than seven times before slamming it down in frustration. Then some chick comes in talking and talking and talking. Loud. And I’m zoning out. She asks me if I’m ok, because “I’m really quiet,” and I pause. I’m really quiet because I already told your ass that you parting my damn hair feels like you’re pulling up loc’d hair and you pretty much ignored me. And because ain't nothing to be talking about... I'm reading!

I sink into my book and only partly absorb the words on the pages. My mind is actually wandering back to television. And I’m pissed! I think of every time a stylists has asked me if I wanted to order something from the Chinese takeout spot next door.

Every time I’ve passed the hours counting roaches.

Recalled the countless personal phone conversations I’ve overheard.

The sons and daughters who come in like it’s Take Your Crumbsnatcher to work day. Every day.

Every time I’ve walked out with a style I didn’t ask for.

The treks through town before arriving, looking for an ATM machine because I know they don’t take cards.

The times I've almost tripped on pulled up linoleum on the floor.

The times I've left smelling like hair spray and bbq ribs.

It could very well be that I just havent been to an upscale black establishment. This is true. I have a penchant for the hood since most of the places I've lived have been mostly blue collar towns. But damn, why do I feel real plantation about my experiences? Why do I feel like I've been accepting this nonsense as normal?

Why do I feel like the ngga who just learned to read and sees the world in a whole new way? This some ole bullshit!!

TV GUIDE: AN OPEN LETTER TO BARACK

2008-09-02T09:59:00.002-04:00

Dear Senator,

Here's what I'ma need you to do.

Make a quick stop in Nashville. There BobbyBrown will great you with a cowboy hat and boots. Photo op at random local bbq joint.

From there you will meet up with six strangers. You will dip into the hot tub and triple kiss with two blonds. Gender breakdown optional. Mediate a fist fight, then run naked to your jet. FlavorFlav will be awaiting your arrival. You will receive a clock and a few dozen suitcases. HowieMandell couldnt make it, but he sent his donation to your campaign.

Next you will give a speech to 75,000 people. You'll be opening for ClayAiken. MarioLopez will introduce you.

Lastly, AccessHollywood will be at your crib, following your taping of Cribs. NeicyNash will be doing a special CleanHouse segment, right before your Young Voters Matter townhall meeting in your back yard, hosted by JustinBobby and Audrina.

I need you to move fast, Senator, because they havent announced it yet, but clearly these damn Republicans are FILMING A MUHFCUKING REALITY SHOW, starring Juno's mom. And if you don't hurry they will soon produce hit spinoffs into the emerging Double Standard genre.

~Management

PS...Guard your girl...

LOSERS' LOGIC

2008-08-27T00:26:00.004-04:00

I’m bout sick of this shit.

This country was built on accepting an ‘L,’ shunning sore losership. These crackers made the “Indians” quit their pissing and moaning. Whupped field negro ass up and down the dirt road and dared them to sniffle. Put midgets in the circus and sicced the monkeys on them little muhfcukas if they had something to say.

So why, in the name of all that is americangangster,
are these ride or die ass Clinton supporters still mad?

Sore loser crying asses. SHUT THE FCUK UP!

You lost. You picked the wrong pony. If this was March Madness, you woulda put your money on all 12 seeds to win in the first round. You are Myanmar…you won like zero Olympic medals. You are the ’07-’08 Dolphins. The first muhfcukas kicked off Dancing with the Stars. You are the Confederate army. You are the Croissaandwich getting slumped by the Egg McMuffin circa ‘85. You are Kool Moe Dee/Canibus. Your shit is looking real WindowsVista right now. Real CBSEveningNews. You’re like fcuking MarciaClark and ChrisDarden. You are Columbus on his way to New Dehli with no compass. Your ass is the first single off of The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill. Nell Carter’s thong is what you are. The whole lot of you.

Ya lost. LOSERS.

Quit your gotdam blubbering. Shut your ass up, neatly tuck away your Hillary08 placards and scrape the shit out of that tired ass bumper sticker. Careful not to scratch your paint.

Excuse yourselves briefly, don’t be rude and stay gone all day now. Wipe the snot from your upturned nose and write YES WE CAN 100 times in an email. Fire up the blackberry and start sending it. The same way you was fwd’ing that Rev. Wright viral shit.

Your crying ass LOST and no one has told you that there’s no crying in America.

So you carry on in public like a Dallas Mavericks fan. You sorry sacks of shit didn’t make it to the next round. GO fishing. You proclaim all proud and stalwart that you REFUSE to vote for the WINNER. Something like 37% of you?

You don’t know the WINNER well enough, you explain. He’s too new. He’s all talk. Too idealistic. He passes out way before 3 am, he doesnt have the hips for a pants suit and he’s not ready to start on day one. You’re just not sure about his platform.

And yet, you CAN read, yes? Oh ok just checking because the people who voted for the WINNER, we found a way to make out the exotic language posted on his website. It’s the New English and it’s terribly complicated.

[pause for a moment pls…
Dear Ma'am:

Is your quick weave ass on CNN CRYING????? And furthermore are you literally INCONSOLABLE as you’re being intvw’d by Suzanne.Malveaux saying, “You KNOW she’s presidential! Barack has 2 months to prove to me that he deserves my vote. I came here to cast my vote for Hillary.” Madam, if you don’t mind could you please read this post from the beginning. It is written especially for you. My gift to you, a consolation gift if you will. That’s what LOSERS get.
Disrepectfully,
Wise, a WINNER]

Now, let’s assume for a moment that aaaaaaall of the literature on Barack is written in Mandarin. And all of his speeches have been delivered in Wolof. And you only get hearing impaired Dutch TV news. Tough break. Ok but…100% of McCain’s verbiage is in the King’s Plain English. You KNOW for sure, like oprah, that his shit aint for you if you are any semblance of a ~~intelligent human being~~ Democrat. As Jonzee says, because of your shenanigans we bout to all be in the bread line shaking our heads.

I’m Jamaican (shout out to Lightening Bolt *slapping the wall*) so I’m a bit unfamiliar with this loserspeak. Someone please break it down for me…

Why are they acting like he won by a (HarveyDent) coin toss.

Why do they keep boasting she got 18 million votes?? That’s like saying, Kobe averaged 94 points in the playoffs. Ummm...did he also get traded to Boston in April?? Cuz them nggas was the ones in the parade.

Yall walking up in the convention like the rival high school and shit. You aint Danny Zucko, bitches. Sit down in the back and respect the home team. The WINNERS.

It’s been months and you got dumped. She’s Just Not Feeling You! Get over it.

Why don’t you slow learners ask for accommodations since your reading comprehension is on a 4th grade level. You no child left behind asses got the chance to get to know Barack just like everybody else did. What the hell you talking about you don’t know him or his policies?? Here’s a hint Special Ed, the joke of the primaries was kinda that they’re policies were really similar. So that’s like the cliff’s note for you, since you’ve already memorized Hillary’s shit, and I do mean feces cuz you are so far up her ass it’s embarrassing.

Lemme ask you this…Did u have to be convinced when Kerry won the nomination? When Bill beat Gore and ‘nem in ‘92? Cuz you KNOW you hadn’t heard of him before. His ’08 Convention speech tanked and you didn’t know how to locate Arkansas on a state map back then.

WHY??

Is it for the same reason that MichelleObama, a brilliant Ivy League professional and mother and wife needs an image “makeover?” Why that family needs to be framed and introduced to America?? And yet pill poppin, swindling Cindy McShort Arms [if the link doesnt work for some reason, go to nytimes.com and serach "For McCains, a Public Path but Private Wealth"] gets by unscathed??

Wipe your crocodile tears, pick up your dignity and kick rocks.

I’m so over you losers.

FRIENEMY

2008-08-24T22:28:00.004-04:00

What do you do if you hate one of your significant other's good friends?

I know we've discussed this before, but there's this situation that I'll explain in the comments that has a different spin.

Discuss...

ACCENT

2008-08-13T17:39:00.002-04:00

I remember being on the phone with dude and I distinctly looking at the phone all defeated.

Or maybe it was in person, and I stood silent and momentarily frozen, before kicking aside a rock or something.

Either way, it wasn’t no email or text or voicemail cuz I was only in like 7^th grade.

“You got a white accent.”

He didn’t say I “talk white” or that I “sound like a white girl.” He said I had a white accent. And for some reason I instantly knew what he meant.

This obviously wasn’t my first trial. I had been accused of all of the above, what with being one of only five blackies in the “smart” class since 4^th grade. It was either I was acting white because of my achievement (guess they never got wind of that one warning letter I got threatening to kick me out because I got a couple Cs.). Or that I talked white because of my penchant for the King’s English. Silly grammar. Guess they didn’t hear me getting scolded at home for either speaking patois with my brothers, or using slang my parents couldn’t decipher.

But if you ever been around white people you know it’s hard to be around them for long without falling into their cadence, if for no other reason than so that they can understand what the fcuk you’re talking about. It’s similar to how you can tell when white folks grew up in the hood. You can hear it.

But that wasn’t it. It was just, how I sounded. For years I hated my voice. Still do. I have no control over the high pitches or the sometimes low lilts. I do however, have full handle of my articulation and I can sometimes rein in the occasional Caribbean riddim or borough-inspired rough edges. If you speak to me on the phone, and particularly if you know my government, it may be difficult to discern me as a negress. Unless you get me cussing.

So you know how on BlackinAmerica there was a segment on “talking white.” Cause it’s apparently a HUGE problem facing our community. If you’re uninitiated, the argument is that young people who do well in school or speak proper English are often accused of “acting or talking white.” Of course this is rubbish, because the idea is that to be a high achieving is equated with whiteness…and you know where that leaves blackness. In the dark, per usual.

But here’s my question…Is this the whole truth?

Or do some coloreds actually talk or act white?

Hear me out, cuz I’m just typing out loud…

Let’s first consider that there’s a good chance that the good, book-learned black folk, like myself, who articulated this Act White oppression are probably the ones who were accused of doing so. They were the Act Whiters. Might still be. So then there’s a good chance, that like me, they carry some baggage about it. It’s like the newly-brolic dude who used to get his ass kicked when he was little. He still feels some kinda way about bullying, and can hypothesize and analyze the shit out of the topic. Yes?

Ok, so then there’s a good chance that in the self preservation of said White Talker’s ~~superior~~ ego, there’s still a side left unturned. Three sides to every story, no?

Real talk, as someone who’s been accused, I don’t really think that what was being said was that I was trying to be a good student and therefore a white student, and therefore acting white. I don’t think that I was being dragged down by the crabs, then unceremoniously kicked in the belly of the bucket by self loathing niggers. I think that they saw me running with my best friend, a white chick, heard me talking about how we used to go cross country skiing back in the day (but missed the part where it was during gym class, and not on the weekends at my family's cottage in Vail or no bullshit). Peeked into my Latin class and saw me, the only black speck. Heard my accent.

But real talk, some nggas actually talk white.

And some try to act white too.

Yeah, I said it.

And I’m not talking about black folks who like rock music either. Cuz that shit’s ours. And your ipod does not a White Acter make.

I’m not talking about dating outside your race... Though if I wanted I probably could.

Not talking about Hillary or Carlton.Banks... They knew they were black.

Nor am I referring to no suburban negroes... Sometimes you just want a gate and a lawn and to be pulled over by the cops in your own driveway.

I went to a white school, so you know I’ve seen my fair share of brothers and sisters trying to get away with the same shit that white kids do. The hazing. The outdoor partying. The walking barefoot. The shorts in the winter. Their asses ALWAYS ended up locked up or in the hospital. Nggas.

If you closed your eyes you would think that Tiger*Woods was pretty pale. Plus he plays golf. Anyone know who Shane*Battier is? It’s not that they both speak proper English. So does Michael Jordan, but he doesn’t sound like an overseer.

Don't mind me... I'm just typing out loud after all, but maybe, just maybe, black folks aren't as deft as we'd be led to believe. Sometimes nggas be just acting stupid.

"They don't got sheets there?"

2008-08-03T22:36:00.005-04:00

So my oldest nephew is going off to college this month. [insert all types of falling out and carrying on and dropping to my knees praying he don't get locked up, mixed up with no party white girls, or expelled for plagiarism.]

Oh Lawd...not my child!!!

*sigh*

So I ask him if he has all his stuff together and he's like, "No Weazy, I dont even know what I need!"

"Ok, you need bathroom stuff, shower shoes, sheets..."

"They don't got sheets there?"

So apparently the boy thinks his dorm is the Marr*iott. So I told him I'd email him a list of things he'll need to bring. Can yall help me out, please. Cuz I know a lot of yous have done the dorm thing fairly recently. Young asses.

Muchas grassy ass!

~Management's Nephew

WHITE FLIGHT

2008-07-30T12:39:00.005-04:00

I didn’t even want to be there.

But I had no choice really. Between the gorgeous midsummer evening breeze; the looming guilt that would ensue had I driven past the lake on my way home; and the threat of having to buy a whole new wardrobe…I found myself stretching my hammies against my back bumper, and adjusting my ipod*shuffle.

Even so, I wanted to be home relaxing with a Bud*Lime. Reading thesis stuff. But I took my place amongst my fellow joggers, bikers, bladers, strollers, and dog walkers… pumped up my volume and set out to circle the lake. As I’m walking, I’m looking down at my thighs. I like ‘em thick, rubbing together even, but my slacks don’t necessarily. My arms could use some toning, but they aight. Dare I say I wish I had a rearview mirror so I could check out my ass. I can use all the help I can get back there. It’s the midsection that’s a problem. A combination of emotional eating, binge drinking, a penchant (compulsion) for Sub*way cookies, and a lover with the southern sensibility and distinct intention of “fattening me up,” have done me in. So I jog. The effects of those damn clove cigarettes constrict the shit out of my breathing. But I trudge on as best as I can.

One time around is all I’m in for. That’ll satisfy my nagging laziness. Tomorrow I’ll complete my requisite three lap minimum. And I’ll remember to update my music. No offense to Kelly*Clarkson and Sean Paul, but I’ve pretty much memorized the order of every possible shuffle.

I’m about a half mile in, scooting between a group of walker-grandmas. I emerge in front of them and catch out of the corner of my eye an impending white arm. I ignore it, until I see it again, this time pulling slightly ahead of me. I skip a step ahead then pause to pretend like I’m scratching the fresh mosquito bite on my shin. Sure enough there’s this frumpy white woman hopping alongside me at a slightly amped up pace.

See, this what I be talking about when I be talking about shit.

I’m simply not having it. Not physically, not psychologically, not historically. I don’t know if it’s the 400 years of it all, or some washed up athlete thing I'm feeling, but something ignites my engine. I’m sailing now, weak lungs be damned. And dammit if Frumpkin isn’t keeping up. Has the nerve to almost pass me. I’m coming up on where my truck is parked, and what was just a moment ago a consolation work out, suddenly turns gladiator on my ass.

My juices are flowing, I’m in a rhythm. The bitch won't die. Is she even sweating? Is that grey hair? Holy shit, I'm losing to Jonie from Happy*Days. I'm shaming Flo-Jo and Wilma who came before me. What the hell ever happened to white girls being scared of us?! If we can't win a foot race what's left? (a dance-off, obviously).

It’s not easy. I'm struggling. I’m…challenged. It’s very Jesse*Owens 1936 Berlin Olympics, except the only aryan here is in my mind. I’m determined not to let this white woman pass me under not no circumstances. I focus. I coast.

“This is a good pace,” she says. All I hear is Portis*head blaring from my earphones. I notice her gesture to me, and I hit mute to hear her repeat herself. I agree, hit pause again and keep moving. We go on like this for another mile and a half, until I see my car again. I spurn it like a bad fcuk, and move on. A few minutes later, Frumpelstein gestures to me again.

“That was really good,” she pants, and veers off the path toward her car. I wave good bye and trudge on. I’m spent, but I won’t let her know that. ‘Give her about a minute or two to drive off then double back and quit,’ says my inner-scoundrel. Easy enough.

But I fought off easy a couple miles back.

If only there were frumpy white people running beside me all the time.

Maybe I’d get a lot more done.

VIP

2008-07-24T17:27:00.003-04:00

I am VIP.

I’m not on any list. I didn’t tip the guys at the door. Nor do I know the owners. I’m just a loser who happens to win this time. Win big, even.

The preparation is typical. I wasn’t looking for a party, still reeling from the last one actually. Hung over. Swearing off the scene with a sincere exhaustion. But then I caught a glimpse of a flyer. Heard whispers that folks were hanging out. That there's someone I should meet. I decided on a whim to head out. Again.

It’s crazy cuz the preparation is usually a production in and of itself. The outfit, the entourage, the chaser. But this time I went easy, seduced mildly by the music, though miles away. See, the pulses found me. Got my fingers tapping. Had my feet happy. Head nodding. Easy. Soon I was in full effect mode, three-stepping myself into a full sweat all the way to the velvet rope. Again.

I didn’t know the promoter from Adam. Never laid eyes on the club. And yet I slid in like a seamless DJ transition. Like a Fat Man Scoop mix [editor’s inside joke: Why did I forget until this very moment Scoop and the matching sweat suits. Cannot? Oh yes you can, and you will! All my real live bitches throw ya hands up!...] Even fit in with the décor as if I had somehow been privy to the blueprint. It’s fly. One of those rich ngga lounges. It’s all plush love seats and beautiful people. Free drinks and dope music. I’m old school, so I always go for the music. Seduced by the ladidahdi of it all. I’m wopping my ass off.

This place is for frontin'. So clearly, it’s packed. There’s every type of somebody here. The sexy deep oak of a brother in jeans that are a prisoner to his perfect high ass. The seductive beholder of long loose curls and unruly spaghetti straps. The breathtaking chick with the brush cut and impossible heels. Dude too fine to get turned away at the door just because he’s got on a wife beater and Timbs. The pouty bartender with the felatial lips.

I feel the eyes as I walk the gauntlet of who’s who. I barely glanced at the mirror before leaving the crib, yet I’m hyperaware of all the skin I’m showing. Aware that I’ve yet to shed that pesky winter weight. Well aware that I’m thick all over, no vestige unclaimed, my skin chief among them. My reflection is clear to me in your eyes. I walk directly into them, sight unseen. Except from the inside out.

I’m digging this party shit.

I like the way you knew our rhythm before it was even ours. You pulled me close, and I fit. Your hands log carefree miles along my spine. Your fingers find the loopholes in my logic while lining my scalp. Pulling at my sensibilities, and my locs, like I won't notice. You aint slick, son. But your moves are, and I fall in step, again. You dumb down your classical training and Bogle with me.

You grab my hand and I think we're on our way to refresh our glasses. Instead, fingers tightly interlocked, you lead me through a tunnel that seems buried, soundproof and sparcely lit. Your lips graze mine and we exchange a split second of secrets. In that muted moment we're once again tangled. I'm on my back, wrists gripped together and pressed into the sheets. Kisses rained on my forehead, my lips, over my neck, my breasts, my stomach, my thighs. Tiny nibbles on my bottom lip. Gentle sucking that easily becomes more urgent. My own voice is foreign to me, a coarse whisper of moans and unintelligible mumbles, my breath still tangled mercilessly in the cage of my throat. Warm breath on my skin. A soft kiss. The generous offering of tongue, a deeper parting. I'm struggling to maintain some kind of composure, my eyes filling with tears because I'm so damn overwhelmed because everything about this touch, this skin, is just perfect. I'm fighting it, fighting giving in, letting go, and flailing in vain to keep a hold on my last wisps of sanity. Well placed pressure, one hand on my hip.
And I'm gone.
Lost.
Falling. Again.

We climb a narrow stairway and enter another space. This one more beautiful than the first. More exclusive. Intimate. Thrilling. I'm pleasantly surprised by this spot, glad I came. But even this, this next level, is unexpected.

You open my hand and kiss my palm. Hold it to your face, then to your chest. You pull it away for one more kiss, but not before allowing me the thrill of a beat. It is then that I hear more music, a litany of all the sweet things you mean to me. This is clearly our soundtrack. All the songs repeat your name.

You put in my possession your keys, your ID, your phone... your lifelines. There is an entire party whirling around us and yet I see only a tint of brown, your eyes meeting mine, as you tell me to hold tight. The colors of music splash in bold strokes around me. Is it possible that this level is more crowded than the last? In fact, as my head stops spinning I'm realizing the chaos that ensues. Where have you taken me? It's mad familiar, these heavy hues and shrieking signs. This is the place you been telling me about.

Your eyes never leave mine, and I try to follow, but I stumble. Your shit goes flying. I reach to collect them but the velvet rope that clipped me, is in fact a barricade. This is some bullshit.

Yo, but I'm VIP! There's no one to whom I can plead my case.

I can't get past the rope. What they dont tell you at the door is that despite your admission, there is a rope beyond the rope. A space where even you cant reach. VIP has VIP. And I'm losing. Again.

I'm sitting here watching you and I can't reach you. I'm inside, you brought me up to the highest level, you've entrusted me with your life, and I can't even keep it safe. It's my job to see what only a select few are allowed. I've made promises. We've made investments. And there you are, beyond my reach. I can't hold you to me and let tears stream down my bare skin. That's what it's there for.

Your shit weighs a ton, so you step away and make sure it doesnt nudge me. That I don't break a nail or something. You share some when prompted, but it's a rather foreign concept to you. I know this. So chivalrous with the heavy lifting, you are. I stand and watch you crumbling from the stress, unable to help. Maybe it's because I'm half naked that you won't let me. Or because my locs are thinning and greying. Am I losing my strength?

Or is it just that there is nothing I can do? Like there's a wack (down souf) song playing and we just gotta wait it out.

"I'm worried about you."

"I know, mama."

"It's killing me."

"Me too."

"What should I be doing?"

"Just being with me."

"It's not enough."

"Why not?"

"Because neither of us is ok," I say.

"But I'm honestly at a loss for what else to do."

"Just feeling helpless."

"It'll be over soon, babe."

The music plays on. We dance this oblivious dance, as if there isnt a million miles between us. Between us and the next level. Between where we stand now, and from that which we came. I gather both strength and patience in that quiet path we traveled. I collect desperation from the sadness in your eyes, and mostly in your voice. It doesnt stop me from reaching. And dancing. Doesnt stop our music.

I'm glad I came. You're very important to me.

JULY 14

2008-07-13T21:47:00.002-04:00

My mother was born the second oldest of 10 children in Spur*Tree, a small bush town in the parish of Manchester in Jamaica, West Indies. The oldest daughter.

This is an important fact, because by virtue of birth order, my mother inherited a litter of children at a young age when her own mother died a painful death. Cancer. My mother doesn’t speak of her mother very often, so the one time she told me details I listened with an intensity that rivaled only the directions given as child to avoid an ass whupping.

“My mother had 10 children. One didn’t make it. Not long after your Uncle Gilly was born my modda [because shortly after delving into her mind’s museum, the Patois accent appears, heavy, and I feel almost like an intruder] get cancer. Ovarian. She wasn’t a small woman but I’ll never forget how she blew up, so swollen, she musta been bout 200 pound.

“She was laying in her bed in pain and all the children were outside around the house bawling. All you could hear was bawling, and my father singing. He could sing! That man had a voice, boy! I was outside hanging clothes and my father called me and said that my mother wanted to see me. I walk in the room and all I could say was I could feel death coming close. And my mother just looked at me, and said....”

I wish I could remember what my grandmother had told my mother. I’ve blocked it out. I remember it being grave and curt. Not the kind of frilly, heartwarming last words you’d see in a Lifetime movie (so this is how you know I’m getting old right…all of a sudden Lifetime is my SHIT!)

I guess subconsciously I cannot bear to curate those last words. Partly because of the pain so visible in my mother’s voice and face as she recalled it to me. Partly out of fear that remembering might somehow summon a similar scene between me and my mom. That it might speed up the slowdown. Or something.

So my mother was a mother long before she was a mother. Actually I take that back, because my oldest sister is really not that much younger than my Uncle Gilly. My mother, his oldest sister, is the only mother he’s ever really known.

Some years later her beloved father also died. The kids were pretty much grown by then, save for the two littlest, and my mother had had two more of her own. And soon after laying her father to rest she made the decision to leave her children in the care of her closest sister. She moved to Washington, DC, in a immigrant worker program which imported many young West Indians to this country to work as domestics.

As fate would have it, this is where my mother met my father, and where the context of my conception begins.

My mother never passed on to me the issues that so many of my friends have inherited from their mothers. That’s not to say we don’t have our issues. That’s not to say that my mom’s not as crazy as every mother is biologically and psychologically destined. Instead there is a healthy distance, a respectful boundary that she’s established. It doesn’t really exist between her and my older sister. I’m guessing because my sister was born in Jamaica and knows that life. The life, and subsequently the history, from which I’ve always been sheltered.

I imagine that there are things my mother has repressed. Actually, I can’t imagine. The dim echoes of her scant recollections of life with her own mother are haunting. I probably won’t ever ask her about it until she is nearing the end. If God willing we are granted that type of ending. When it wont matter any more, those recollections. When she’ll soon have to face her mother herself.

In the meantime I call her every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, after Wheel of For*tune. Sometimes on my lunch break so I can hear her fussing with my nephews. Or to hear what she’s cooking for everyone. Or to let her vent about her latest shenanigans down at the grocery store. (shout out to Weg*man’s!) To respectfully tune her out when she makes a dead dad reference without warning. To smile wide at every overwhelming ounce of support, every reminder to pray, to stay safe, and to remember that "Mommy loves [me] much, much, much."

In the meantime, I wish my Mom a Happy Birthday, and many moooooooore!

S.O.'SHIP

2008-07-10T15:03:00.003-04:00

Since I'm in a long distance relationship supported monthly almost exclusively by South*west Airlines, I feel compelled to share this PSA that the airlines emailed me...

An Open letter to All Airline Customers:

Our country is facing a possible sharp economic downturn because of skyrocketing oil and fuel prices, but by pulling together, we can all do something to help now.

For airlines, ultra-expensive fuel means thousands of lost jobs and severe reductions in air service to both large and small communities. To the broader economy, oil prices mean slower activity and widespread economic pain. This pain can be alleviated, and that is why we are taking the extraordinary step of writing this joint letter to our customers. Since high oil prices are partly a response to normal market forces, the nation needs to focus on increased energy supplies and conservation. However, there is another side to this story because normal market forces are being dangerously amplified by poorly regulated market speculation.

Twenty years ago, 21 percent of oil contracts were purchased by speculators who trade oil on paper with no intention of ever taking delivery. Today, oil speculators purchase 66 percent of all oil futures contracts, and that reflects just the transactions that are known. Speculators buy up large amounts of oil and then sell it to each other again and again. A barrel of oil may trade 20-plus times before it is delivered and used; the price goes up with each trade and consumers pick up the final tab. Some market experts estimate that current prices reflect as much as $30 to $60 per barrel in unnecessary speculative costs.

Over seventy years ago, Congress established regulations to control excessive, largely unchecked market speculation and manipulation. However, over the past two decades, these regulatory limits have been weakened or removed. We believe that restoring and enforcing these limits, along with several other modest measures, will provide more disclosure, transparency and sound market oversight. Together, these reforms will help cool the over-heated oil market and permit the economy to prosper.

The nation needs to pull together to reform the oil markets and solve this growing problem.

We need your help. Get more information and contact Congress by visiting www.StopOilSpeculationNow.com.

Robert Fornaro
Chairman,
President and CEO
AirTran Airways Bill Ayer
Chairman,
President and CEO
Alaska Airlines, Inc.
Gerard J. Arpey
Chairman,
President and CEO
American Airlines, Inc.
Lawrence W. Kellner
Chairman and CEO
Continental Airlines, Inc. Richard Anderson
CEO
Delta Air Lines, Inc. Mark B. Dunkerley
President and CEO
Hawaiian Airlines, Inc.
Dave Barger
CEO
JetBlue Airways
Corporation Timothy E. Hoeksema
Chairman,
President and CEO
Midwest Airlines Douglas M. Steenland
President and CEO
Northwest Airlines, Inc.
Gary Kelly
Chairman and CEO
Southwest Airlines Co. Glenn F. Tilton
Chairman,
President and CEO
United Airlines, Inc. Douglas Parker
Chairman and CEO
US Airways Group, Inc.
=====

Save Our (relation) 'Ship!

Thank You, kindly.
~MANAGEMENT

CONVENTIONAL INDEPENDENCE

2008-07-03T12:44:00.003-04:00

Independ*nce Day…a time to declare freedom from whatever bullshit you got going on in your life.

I hereby declare Independence from conventions. No, not the cleverly marketed annual gatherings of likeminded professionals… though I’m bout sick of them shits impeding on my time to enjoy the host citieswith these essential ass workshops…I mean, the things that are universally accepted, and expected, without reason or provocation.

I’m standing in the conventional meeting place, where many a family meeting and announcement has gone down…the kitchen. I’m standing amidst the conventional gathering of generations…my mom and her sister run behind my nephews, while my sister in law mans the stove and I sit, drink in hand, in the center of it all.

“Wise, you’re a waste of a vagina.”

Based on the lead-in, I’m actually in fact, a waste of a womb. My vagina functions at an optimal level, thank you very much. I’d rank it up there with the best of ‘em. That’s not the point. Fine.

My sister in law, who declared my womanparts DOA, has two fantastic children. The oldest is my favorite, and the baby is pretty much the embodiment of what I’m sure my biological child would be. And therefore, though he’s beautiful and hilarious, he’s also absolutely and inexplicable insane. Unabashedly out of control. And I love it. For THEM.

I, on the other hand have absolutely no attachment nor desire to be knocked up. None. The irony, I suppose, or perhaps the logic is that I want 4 or 5 kids. My family finds this hilarious. Partly because they know personally how psycho you get when you have kids, but I think partly because, bless their conventional old school hearts, they still don’t see how I could have kids without the belly.

So I’m a waste of a uterus, fine. I can accept that, though I’d argue the uterus is the waste, not me. Either or. But it’s the conventional labels I can’t co-sign. I’m much too contradictory for them.

Because I’m probably the only girl in the world who (on most days) doesn’t want a ring (or wedding for that matter).

Because you will never see my black ass eating a watermelon, neither publicly nor in the privacy of my own home (did you ever see the episode of the Jeff*rsons where George said he refuses to carry a watermelon in public. So if you ever see him with a bowling bag that’s what’s inside?!!)

Because I’m a backpacker who thinks Tal*b is mediocre.

Because I’m an African American alcoholic who hates Hennessey.

So… *cue balloons and confetti and band*…conventions be damned!

I’s free now!!

From what, or whom will YOU claim independence?
Happy 4th!

WHAT IT LOOK LIKE

2008-06-25T17:37:00.002-04:00

"Babe, do I look like I can fcuk?"

"YO. You look like eating pu**y is a bullet point on your resume."

And there it is.

Coincidentally, I've been having this conversation a lot lately. Particularly with male friends, and then followed up and confirmed with females. Do you know anyone who isn’t all that attractive, but gets a whole LOT of ass? Or maybe someone who is super sweet and nice and charming, but gets NONE. Or the complete bitch whose phone STAYS lit up. Or asshole Jack who NEVER sleeps alone?

It’s puzzling at first, cuz maybe you ask yourself if you’d do them and the answer is a resounding no. Or perhaps, you just know them really well, seen the havoc they wreak in their lives and just can’t understand how people keep getting caught up in it.

It’s really not as simple as just, ‘Pu**y’s a hellavu drug’ (tho it is), or ‘Dick can blind you’ (tho it the hell can).

I’m pretty sure it’s simply because owner of said genitalia in question just LOOKS like they can dish it.

I had this real whore of a roommate when I first moved to Brooklyn. She’s a whole ‘nother story for a whole ‘nother day, but the point is she used to get it IN! Every few nights chick would have a new dude in the sack. When my peeps came to visit for the first time, I basically pimped her out to one of my boys, who later said, “Damn, Wise. All I had to do was show up!” She didn’t have much in the way of face or personality, though she was a fitness fanatic so she at least kept it together physically.

My friends and I decided she had Pheromones. That was our thing. Anytime someone would pull somebody who was out of their league, or pull someone at ALL despite facial bustation, we’d say, ‘I think so and so got pheromones.’

Pheromones of course are: chemicals that trigger a natural behavioral response in another member of the same species. It’s like an undetectable fragrance that attracts the opposite sex. But even that’s only half the story.

Take a second please, and think about the people you wanna give it to right now. What is it about them? I’m not talking on a spiritual or mental level. I’m talking purely primal. Urgent.

Now think of the perfectly attractive, nice, cool people in your life who want desperately to hit you up. Why won’t you give it up? Why do you keep that person in the friend lane?

Real talk? Because they don’t look like they can fcuk.

It’s what ego-protectors like myself have been neglecting to say for years now, to the perfectly nice young men who try, to no avail, to get wit it. It’s the answer to the debate about why women (allegedly) prefer thugs to nerds. Why nice guys finish last.

Plenty of nice guys get it. It’s the nice ones who don’t look like they can work it that lose out.

Same with women. Bitches? Men love them because they carry their bitch asses like they can suck a mean one. Fast tail Lil.Wayne looking girls? Yessir. Dudes can see right through the Vase.line face and can tell they’ll do whatever. It’s all in the eyes. Meanwhile, there are scores of genuinely good women sitting at home watching Top.Chef instead of um...getting served up.

So fellas, if you’re not getting none, it’s not that light skinned dudes are back in, or that color contact nggas are back. It’s not that you have no game. It’s not even that you’re ugly or corny. It’s that you look like your bed game is limp.

Mamacitas, you go to happy hour every week with your girls, make up flawless, dress and heels tight…but it be the same one of your girls getting the numbers? It’s not that your ass isn’t big enough. Or that you’re not showing enough cleveland. Or that your weave’s crooked (tho I’ma need you to straighten that up, por favor). It’s just that THAT chick looks like Betty Back Shot. I mean, a dead ringer.

I could be wrong…but let’s find out.

What things make you look twice?

How would you describe Look Like You Can Fcuk Lookin Boy/Girl?

HOME ALONE 2

2008-06-17T17:17:00.001-04:00

[UPDATED WITH AN ENDING...scroll down...]

Tucked away in my parents’ attic, and in the corners of their garage are boxes full of me. All sorts of foolishness with which I cant bear to part. Things that are essential, but that don’t belong in my every day grown up space.

They’re about all I have left that resemble home.

I don’t even ask my mother about her new house anymore. I’m too preoccupied with the disarray of the old one. The only one I ever lived in until I went away to college. The address that my family has owned for longer than I’ve been alive.

It takes me an hour and a few bucks on Air.tran to get home, yet I hadn’t been home for six months. Cuz it’s not really home anymore…

So you know I got two older brothers. Twins. There’s Boss of Me aka C-Boy. And there’s Anger Management. This kid is insane. And I love him to death. To this day people think he and I are the twins. We share our father’s forehead and our grandfather’s imposing eyes. He’s the one person in my family that I know would never ever judge me. He’s the one I call when I need someone on my side.

One day, a few weeks prior to Miami (bday trip. catch up!), he calls me. Needing someone on his side.

“Yo, I’m getting a divorce,” he says, always with the slightest awkward silent pause before knocking the wind out of me. His approach to bad news is a lot gentler than his twin’s, I notice.

“Oh.” I find that remaining neutral when someone is expecting a reaction is the cleaner, quicker way to uncovering their reaction.

“You took it a lot better than Mommy,” he says. My poor mother. The thought of her awake at night, alone in that big house, finds its way to the forefront of my mind, until I quickly sweep it away. Unequipped.

He goes on to tell me about how he actually left his house and has been staying with my mother. It only took all of a week for him to become indignant at the idea of him not living in the house for which he pays mortgage.

“Does Spider care?” I ask, of my 12-year old niece.

“I call her everyday and she says she wants to come stay with me wherever I go.” She’s a daddy’s girl and all, but what the hell do you expect her to say? She’s caught between two parents she adores and can easily con.

I should be more shocked, but I’m not. His relationship with his wife of almost ten years has always been complex. Not unlike our parents’ union. Our parents, who were married for 30+ years. I took for granted that there may not be a trickle down effect. I thought staying together forever even if you’re miserable was a part of the deal, part of our DNA. They say parents don’t have favorites, but in our fam we all know Anger Management gets top billing. So if anyone, I expected him to stick it out.

“It’s really bad, Gum. That’s why I can’t wait til Miami. I need to get the fuck away.”

“I feel you.” There’s a sadness and the hint of desperation in his voice. He could care less about being judged, but I’m the one he calls when he needs someone on his side. He’s my “twin.” No matter what, my home is his home.

“Well if you ever need to get away you know you can come hide out down here,” I say. “I keep a six-pack on deck.” This time there’s no signature pause. In fact, he barely skips a beat.

“Can I bring a friend?”

“This is the last time we’re going to discuss this,” I answered, and with it I expunged the image of my brother and some loose jump off bitch bunned up in my crib.

“I can’t bring a friend?” he asks again, this time a bit incredulous, but mostly full of mischievous. This annoys me to no end. First of all, he has never known me to indulge in mess. I don’t do it. And particularly not a family member’s mess. Anytime something goes down I revert to being the youngest child, banishing myself from the scene of grown folks’ talk. I am the family “Bennett.”

But it also pisses me off because he’s asking me to be ok with being uncomfortable, and that type of selfishness is only underneath the surface of his personality. He’s generally genuinely thoughtful and unintrusive.

“I’m out. I’ll talk to you in Miami,” I say, and hang up. Miami, though the scene of celebration for MY birthday, will be a respite of sorts for everyone but me.

“Gum, I want you to meet my friend.”

“No thank you.”

“Why not?”

“Because her being here is inappropriate, and I will tell her so.”

“Please don’t.”

“As a grown woman, she knows right from wrong. I expect this from you, but not from another grown woman.”

“I’m asking you to please say hello. That’s it. Her and her homegirl were planning to be here anyway so they decided to meet us.”

We lie to each other. That’s what siblings do. It’s not like friendships where honesty is mandatory. We thrive on being who the other knows us to be, not necessarily who we really are. The irony of course is that we know the absolute best and the painful worst of who we are and where we’ve been. Our essence. And maybe that’s why it’s a pain like no other.

But he could’ve lied better than this shit. At least show me some fucking respect and give me something elaborate, where I can at the very least commend you on the effort if not credibility. But this ngga is treating me like it’s my 13^th birthday and not my 31^ST.

I look her in the eye and shake her hand politely, then turn back to my drink and my friends. My friends, to whom I confided about the situation just minutes prior as I saw my brothers walking into the spot.

I won’t go into details about how within minutes of meeting me Jump Off Bitch was in my face about what time we were leaving for the Jay/Mary concert. About how little effort it took to I give her the most vacant blank stare I could muster in response. About how she sat in the row in front of me at the show, next to my brother, who seemed more calm and at peace than I’ve ever seen him. How she rode on the back of the motor bike with him. How there was no other homegirl. How we ended up in a cab together when I wasn’t nearly drunk enough. How I took covert pics of her to send to my sister.

“Are you serious? Wow,” she says. Technically she’s my sister in law – Boss of Me’s wife – but she and I are family. I called her the next day to vent, and she was blown away by the entire scenario. “I know they having problems but he aint outta the house yet, and they’re still married. I’m sorry you gotta deal with that, Wise.”

I sigh. She listens intently as I give her a rundown of the entire weekend. I tell her about how I had the first conversation with her husband, my brother, about his cancer. It was just after the concert and we were waiting on our rides, and he and I held hands and walked down the street alone, huddled together just talking.

“He’s going through something,” she says slightly subdued. “And I can’t reach him.”

“Well, that’s to be expected right?” I answer. “I mean, faced with your own mortality how are you supposed to act? I don’t know how I would.”

“I told him to move out.”

Tucked away in my parents’ attic, and in the corners of their garage are boxes full of me. They’re large and take up lots of space, but no amount of neat folding or concise packing would make room for my memories. Fond and foolish. It is where I grew up. Where I dreamed of leaving. It’s been a constant for me. The place I could always come back to no matter how far away my dreams took me. The place with the walls and voices and laughter and faces that would always feel familiar.

Those memories are about all I have left that resemble home.

THREE'S COMPANY

2008-06-02T13:05:00.004-04:00

So yall already read this, right?

And been read this??

Ok, ok on with it...

DATELINE…Miami. March 2008. Day 1.

We’ve taken this exact photo a thousand times. Me, the shortest, flanked by the Amazons. My best friends are both six-footers, and in about 90% of the photos we’ve ever taken in our 15-year history, I’m making some sort of ridiculous face…compensating for the shenanigans that might be going on above my head.

In this case, we’re collapsing over each other at a South Beach dinner table, the bottle we brought in, underfoot. My eyes are struggling to stay open, though my mouth won’t shut up. I’m laughing hysterically. Gay Bartender’s hands are crossed on my bare shoulder. High as fuck, trying to be cute. Curly’s fingers are deep into my roots, playfully pulling my locs. She’s pointing defiantly at the camera. This is who we are.

DATELINE…Brooklyn, NY. New Years Day 2008.

“We all know I’m the worst. I don’t return calls. I disappear. I shut down when there’s a confrontation. But this is the one time I’ve gone above and beyond to save the friendship and she shit on me.” I sit up on the leather pull-out couch, last night’s clothes draping off of me. The loft apartment is dark, so I consult my phone to see that it’s already afternoon. Gay Bartender hands me a cup of coffee and takes a seat across from me.

GB and I go way back to 4^th grade. 1985 or so. She was the black girl with the white best friend. All four of the other black kids in the class couldn’t stand her. Over the years – and we were together through middle, high school and even undergrad – I blackened her up and we were tight. I wouldn’t exactly say we were best friends, though I distinctly remember the first time she introduced me as such. We were close, but competitive. More like siblings than BFFs. In ninth grade we’d meet the girl who would be joined at GB’s hip.

Curly and I played ball together. She was tall and wiry and I loved lobbing the ball to her over her shorter defenders. But she was so skinny, she used to get her ass knocked around on the boards. She had a colorful personality and wardrobe to match. I’ll never forget the first time I met her she had on some red Cross.Colours jeans and matching rubber bands on her braces.

She and I were super cool, but she and GB were the pair. They were Every Day Friends, sleepover girls who spent weekends at the mall, and trying on make up. As we progressed through high school, they branched out with some shady cats, started smoking and fucking, and I wasn’t doing either. (I was however, getting pretty drunk on the other side of town). Nonetheless, we were a trio, but they were mostly inseparable, and I was more of the frequent guest star.

Years later after college, GB and Curly were roommates in Philly, then moved to Brooklyn. Having lived with GB myself throughout college, I knew that deep drama would ensue.

“I was home for four days, one of which was Christmas. And I have to basically spend enough time with my damn-near estranged mother, my grandmother who is slowly losing her mind, and my sister. And I don’t see Curly and the baby ONE DAY and she’s pissed at me.”

Back in like 2002 Curly had reconnected with one of her high school sweethearts. He lived in Florida then, and she in NYC. They had started making plans, were getting closer, and then one night he was gone. Shot in the head in a parking lot. And GB was nowhere to be found. She was bunned up with this chick that all of her friends hated. A chick who had manipulated her and caused a rift between her and Curly. Their friendship was never the same after that.

Curly had a kid 2 years ago despite several serious red flags. She lived in Brooklyn, a block away from GB, who was there with her, but her heart wasn’t in it. GB was the first to meet the loser who’d become her babydaddy, and was not pleased. Made it very public. Called me, the perpetual referee, to update me on the nonsense. He hit her. Was a coke head. Has a bunch of other kids. She’s convinced he’s gay cuz he came to the club wearing “gay ass sneakers.” Sure enough, the ngga was sitting in a jail cell when GB & I flanked either side of Curly's big pregnant self, walking up and down the hospital block, rubbing her back and timing contractions.

DATELINE…Brooklyn, NY. New Years Day 2008.

“We missed you last night.” I reread the text before sending it to Curly.

“You had fun?” I read her terse response and imagined her sitting in her dark living room watching her genius son identify obscure animals in one of his many wildlife books. I knew she was feeling some kinda way.

“You not being here created a glass ceiling on the fun. What’s up?”

“You know before Christmas I didn’t speak to GB for MONTHS? I would see her online sometimes and after a while I would just stop even saying hi. I sent her an email like you suggested and she literally didn’t respond. Not even to acknowledge that she got it. If that’s what best friends do then I guess I only got one left.”

We’re too old for this shit. These spats run deep. I understand and empathize with both. Because that’s what best friends do. I stand in the middle and listen. A part of me knows that this too will pass as it always does. And it will subsequently return, this chasm, this ugly gash in our family portrait. As it always does.

DATELINE…Miami. March 2008. Day 5.

“So Curly,” I say, before handing her a shot. “I was asking them nggas about 3somes.” Our heads cock back in unison. Bitter faces synchronize, too.

“You and two boys???” she asks.

“I didn’t say a TRAIN!” Our convo is lost among the many in the hotel room. “GB couldn’t believe I hadn’t had one since we got to Miami. Whore.”

“Don’t do it,” she says without turning toward me.

I pause. Listen.

“Drama. I didn’t even like the dude, then this bitch starts liking him when he started feeling me. So we did it.”

“When the fuck was this?” I'm incredulous.

“In Philly.”

My mind scrolls back to that period of our photo album. I didn’t expect to open this can of worms, but now that I’m all up in it I can’t help but simultaneously double over laughing and nervously squirm. “Who was this??”

“Remember Justin? That one from Cali?”

“Ngga, the CHICK! Who the hell was the chick?!”

This is a photo we’ve never taken. In our 15-year history we have never had this conversation. Philly was almost 10 years ago. The weight of this secret hovers above my head and I cant help but make a ridiculous face…as the next round of shots go down.

“GB.”

WE BRIEFLY INTERRUPT THIS EXTENDED ABSENCE...

2008-05-28T22:25:00.003-04:00

"You're father died cuz you're a f@ggot!"
~The ngga formerly known as the One Who Could Get It, on RW.

Rehab, anger management, albino stripper???

Golden Age of TV I tell you!!

[Joy, I'm "banned" from talking to you about it (read: text immediately when you see it)]

GOODBYE CALL

2008-04-22T14:15:00.004-04:00

[READ THIS FIRST]

DATELINE…Upstate NY. Couple days after Thanksgiving ‘07

“Gum. Where you at?”
“Marshalls. What up.”

I shift my phone from one hand to the other, juggling it with my bag and small handful of things. Despite the Black Friday pillage a few days before, I manage to find a generous offering of my beloved CK panties.

“What time you leave?”

“Flight’s at 5 or 6 or something. You know I don’t know,” I laugh. I’d only seen my brother on Thanksgiving Day, and this is his goodbye call. He had called me the night before, teasing me because I was downtown at my favorite coffee shop, where he insisted “No Coloreds Allowed.”

With a flight to catch, and my nephew needing a ride from school within the hour, I’m in a rush. But I browse leisurely as I chit chat with The Boss of Me, as I affectionately refer to my big brother.

“I gotta tell you something.”

Though the phrase is preceded by what I imagine was a deep breath, there is no pause between sentences. But when you hear these words uttered, your brain switches to autosurvival mode, and stops time on your behalf. Allows you to catch a deep breath of your own. So as he speaks on, my feet stop moving at precisely the moment my racing heart refuses to.

“I gotta tell you something so I’m just gonna say it. I have cancer,” is how he actually says it in real time.

“Okay,” is my response, rendered in my own time.

“I started playing ball again, and I just started feeling funny. So I went to my doctor and she was like, 'it’s probably just your body telling you you’re getting older. Take some aspirin.' But I was like, no, I know how my body is supposed to feel. So I switched doctors and new patients are required to do blood work. So they saw something they didn’t like…”

Now I’m pacing.

“So they ran the tests and told me.”

“Where is it?” I ask, now rummaging through the Kenneth Cole computer bags.

“It’s in my blood and it's called...”

I can’t see the price tags. I don’t have on my glasses, but I don’t think they were prescribed to correct the blur from sudden tears anyway.

“I found out on my birthday of all damn days. Basically, I have to take medication for the rest of my life and obviously get regular check ups…”

“37 years ago, you came into the world on the wrong foot. Life’s a breach!! Happy Birthday!”

I sent him that text on his birthday, just a week earlier, and he never responded. Didn’t pick up when I called either.

“And I can’t play ball anymore. Can’t whup Miles’ ass on the court like I do his brother. And no, the kids don’t know.”

I suddenly remember my nephew who will soon be outside his school looking for my car to pull up. I shift my phone to the other hand, now piled high with things I didn’t realize I had picked up within the past four minutes. And I remember that my brother is a dad.

“If there’s one lesson I learned from Daddy it’s to always get a second opinion.”

Our dad took his last deep breath just three years and two months prior. Or I should say the venerable villain, cancer, took it without our permission.

“I need you not to do that.” He can hear me crying. I wonder suddenly if the security cameras have me in focus, racing mindlessly through narrow aisles not intended for shoppers, dumping miscellaneous items in random bins and racks.

“It’s gonna be fine. I’ve been wanting to tell you since you got home, but Ant picked you up from the airport…”

It occurs to me just now that when I walked into my parents’ house on Thanksgiving Day with two big bottles, my brother took the glass I poured only after I had mocked him relentlessly for refusing. Said he had a doctor’s appointment the next morning, to which I said, “All the more reason to drink.”

“And that’s why I called you last night. But now that I’ve told you, Mommy can stop worrying and she can talk to you about it.”

My poor mother. Having to hear this shit again. This time from the son who always took after his father.

“Quit crying. It’s gonna be fine. I need all positives, aight?”

“Yup.”

“You gonna be ok?”

“Uh huh.” Whatever. We’ve made a living lying to each other. I’m hoping I’m the only one with no regard for truth this time.

“Ok. Don’t miss your flight, loser.”

“Yup. Love you,” I say, wandering around the houseware section. I've seen this movie before. I know the ending. The villain leaves, but always comes back.

“Love you, too. Peace.”

But of course what I heard was the hello of a Goodbye Call.

BODY OF WORK

2008-04-20T16:42:00.005-04:00

If I'm to be judged by my body of work, I can live with that. I've shared lots of things with you all, mostly complete strangers from across the world. Nosy sons of bitches that you are. We exchange stories... some inane, others intimate or hilarious or tragic. We're kinda on it like that.

Looking through said body of work today, I tried to get a glimpse of what you see, the Wise you've gotten to know over the past two years. Some of you a lot more recent. Judging from the contents of my crates, I'm pretty consumed by family, love, boy bashing, TV, and the pursuit of premium liquor.

You know that I'm a NY girl, with island roots, the baby of my family. I have a dead dad, and issues thereof. I went to undergrad at Syracuse and hated it, so don't take offense when I hate on your schools too, Jam or La or Jonzee, et al. I have a love/hate relationship with NYC, my home for most of my adult life. Oh yeah, in March I turned 30 for the second time.

I'm terribly random. I admit. But also pretty direct and sincere. Particularly when it comes to the opposite sex. I started the blog because back in '06 I had had a succession of run-ins with young guys who were desperately confused about the women in their lives. And I mean simple, basic shit. This was my public service. But after a while you find your ego in the shadows, looking to shine, and the focus turns away from ridiculous dudes who lie on their dicks, to more personal relevant discourse. I've seen this exact shift in the bloggers I continue to loyally follow.

There's always that epic heart break. The thing you need to share in stunning detail and with jarring vulnerability in order for it to make sense in real life away from the blog. Judging from this body of work, heart break is an important fabric of Wise. Not only mine though. I acknowledge the shit you all share. The shit that fate brings to my doorstep.

Judging by my body of work, I've changed, as many of you have noticed. I'm chilling. Traveling. Boo'd up. Grad schooling it. Life is good.

And it is mostly. But it's also been dramatic. Lots of it not so good.

Lemme catch you up on who I am today, and you tell me what you see...

GOODBYE CALL...

HOLLYWOOD HERE I COME

2008-04-16T22:19:00.004-04:00

And just like that...I'm Back!!!

No, not with a post (duh!) I'm talking about Real.World Hollywood.

I know what I had said before... but I'm in and I'm in big.

Clearly I'm in love with Will. Clearly there's no way he could be that attractive and be from like a really dangerous city. (That wasnt an ex joke, I was quoting the blond bitch. WTF? Classic!)

Associates.

Albino chick and Will in the remake of Glitter.

Yo could you imagine pining away for your signif other...then watching them making out with some clown in a effing hot tub? No mas.

Yeah, still love Will even tho he hates strippers evn tho I dont hate strippers. Remember?

I actually don't hate the pretty dude. He's socially inept, and I have a feeling he's an islander. My guess start with a T and ends in rini. lol

Peasants.

"You're scary." Who ARE these judgy juvy broads??

Clearly I hate Will and the Arizona broad.

Wicked chill.

I'm in! (It really doesn't help that I'm going to LA (where I'll hang my jersey in the rafters ;) ) for the first time this summer!)

THE GIFT

2008-04-03T01:32:00.003-04:00

"Wise, write me something."

Ok...

The thing about birthdays is that they're all about the gifts.

There was the time you told me to keep my schedule clear. You sent me a text that morning with explicit instructions...

"Here are the directions. Be there at 12. I know you. Don't be late! Text me when you get there."

I find myself downtown, my heels clicking on cobblestone, the high noon sun guiding my steps. Even standing under the awning I wasnt sure what to expect.

"Go in and ask for Lisa. She's waiting for you. Take some time and relax and allow someone to pamper you for once."

...Or something to that effect (you know you're recall is laser and mine is aging.) After the most rejuvenating, fantastic facial ever, I walked around for a bit before calling to thank you. It was literally months since I had made the off comment about my skin feeling like shit. You listen. It was easily the most thoughtful gift I had ever received.

What about last week, when I was too weak to lift my head for juice and meds, but not too weak to text you. Sick, jet lagged, chest on fire, hung over. You used your resources and found the one place that delivered to my crib and had lunch sent over within the hour.

Or the time I had a long, stressful week. Long, hectic Friday. Long, turbulent flight. We sat at the bar staring down shots #2. Your hand playfully resting on my thigh. Like it belonged there. Sharing food and laughter. And afterward, exhausted, collapsing on fluffy sheets, legs and lips locked, anticipating a shower.

"Me first." I watched you disappear, disappointed that you left me out. Drifted off while you were away. Nudged awake by anxious hands in my hair.

"Take off your clothes."

How off guard was I, naked and surprised, at the soft crackle of the carefully lined and lit candles that accented the warm bathroom? The bubble bath with water that matched me perfectly, not too hot, not too cold. Or maybe too much of each equally. You left me with a card to read, and to relax, knowing that I hadnt all week.

After all, I knew then...

I knew that every day would seem like my birthday.

It's the little things...

Every day that I wake up laughing at a sweet or frisky or ridiculous or blue or encouraging message.

Going to bed frustrated that I can't be closer.

Busting out laughing at how much we bust out laughing.

Our sweat dripping onto a dance floor.

When I called you first, crying with bad news.

Exploring a new city.

When I lose track of time (and ask you how many days).

Laying in your lap showing you how to twist my hair.

Dancing all hard, and singing all loud, even though you're the Talented One.

Pouring you a drink that I know will get you talking.

Making each other CDs.

When you let me pass out in a cab.

Eating til we're out of breath (not to be confused with being out of breath after running to food).

Each hour you keep me company while I'm in class.

Plotting on travel vouchers.

Every time you ask me to write you something...I know the best gift is you.

(Hmmm...is it YOUR bday yet?!)

BLOGGING FROM THE BEACH (*photo updates)

2008-03-24T20:52:00.003-04:00

Im currently sitting on the beach. Rain soaking my hoodie. The sun playing hard to get.

This couldn't be more like my life right now. Im in the right place just not necessarily at the right time.

20 of my closest friends are within earshot. An empty patron bottle litters the sand as does a few too many smoked down cloves and bidis.

My throats sore from God knows what... Walking through chilly rain puddles in sandals? Disproportions of liquor to water? Singing mary j blige and jay z songs for 3 hours straight on saturday (did that ngga Jigga endorse obama somewhere btwn performing 'Can I Get A' and 'Brooklyns Finest'?? LOVED it!) Laughing out loud til I cough uncontrollably?

Im on the beach but the sun won't come out...

Damn you sure gather up a shitload of debris during the course of 20+ year friendships. Lots of secrets too.

So this is what they mean when they say your family wll break your heart without remorse.

Mr. Wendel, the old homeless guy who does tricks, makes water disappear and "levitates" for tourists can't find a way to "magic" a roof over his head??
I didn't fall cuz I was drunk...but bec I was drunk, I couldn't stop myself from falling.

Im an obsessive crotch-watcher...and this is prime terrain.

I wouldn't last a second without my pda phone.

DatNucca is equal parts patient, hilarious, quick-tempered, sensitive, and sexy. Rrreeeooorrr!

My boy tatted some cat's name on his shoulder and hid it from us for almost 2 years.

Im pretty sure I lost a friend this weekend.

My brothers really never fulfilled their New Edition fantasies until they rented bikes today and rolled thru Miami looking like the NE Heartbreak video.

A confirmation number don't always mean 'confirmed.'

Everyone in my life is plotting on my biological clock...

Including my mother who called to speak to my best friend from college to tell him that she has a feeling he's gonna be her son in law. Ima need that feeling to take a hike.

It is in fact possible to get kicked out of and subsequently banned from the ocean.

Corn nuts??

Boys just never get tired of ass...

Can't really blame them.

Don't worry if a restaurant doesn't allow you to byob. You can. And should. A big one. For everyone.

"Her hair look like chicken-flavored ramon.noodles."
"All around me love's just not working. But I still feel like its the absolute only thing worth fighting for."

"What's a little head among friends?"

"There's more to the story..."

"Omg I was always DYING to ask daddy this...Can you feel it crawling around inside you?" ...
"No. And that's why people die from it."

"Bout time you got curious."

"I definitely thought less of him for it."

"You look like last night's good time."

"Who HASN'T had a threesome since we've been here??"

"Lawd ah cyan Sonny Wise dautah a dahnce so! Jesas hof di Sabbat!"

"Laaaaaaa laaaa la la, wait til I get my money right!"

Im on the beach and the sun is trying to play nice. As am I.

But its getting harder, not easier. The older I get, the more complex the relationships around me. Things are falling apart as others are coming together, and its impossible to find a sensible emotional balance.

Much like a hoodie on the beach.

So do you wait for the sun to show up or do you lay on the beach, shivering, and enjoy the imperfections that make life a beautiful fucking pain in the ass?

You have another shot. Another smoke. And laugh til your throats sore. It'll be better tomoro.

Happy birthday to me :)

NINE'S NOT A TEN

2008-03-18T00:06:00.004-04:00

I'm not saying it's right. In fact, it's abhorrent and skanky.

But LOOK at him...and many other husbands like him who are powerful and largely unattractive.

All I'm saying is, chick prolly ain't wit him for the nooky.

So what's a trollish, insecure and underblown elected official to do?

That is all.

Are Dudes Really That Dumb...or Is The Chick Wrote This Shit?

2008-03-10T23:04:00.004-04:00

My Neil only admitted to one of these, and while I won't blow up his spot, I will say that I was relieved to learn it was a pretty good mistake. ;)

So I wonder what you think of this list. I'll insert my commentary later...
PS...no, I didnt write these)

1.No matter how skinny we are, NEVER feel our back-fat whilst making love

2.Do NOT lean on our hair

3.Be careful with the nipples

4.Don’t ever feel our legs because there is a chance we haven’t shaved them and we will be VERY aware of that fact

5.Fanny farts are your fault, not ours

6.But it helps if you laugh afterwards because then we don’t feel so embarrassed

7.In the morning, do us a favour and leave the room for a couple of minutes because no matter how sexy we look naked or how much we need the toilet we will be very conscious about getting out of the bed in front of you

8.Don’t sweat so much!

9.Phrases such as ‘you drive me nuts’ and ‘fuck fuck fuck’ are banned

10.Do not rip our underwear off – chances are we spent about 3 hours trying to decide which underwear to wear and we would really appreciate it if you noticed. Perhaps a ‘that underwear looks really sexy’ would be good

11.Our private areas are to be treated with respect, you are in no means allowed to treat it like it is your last meal

12.Some girls just dont like morning sex (but some do)....so if you are getting the signs that she is up for it then fair play, but it should be quite blatantly obvious when morning sex is not on the cards - so pack it in and go and put the kettle on

13.….and please don’t attempt to try and do stupid positions like wrapping our legs around our head first thing in the morning cause we are still pretty stiff

14.The key is to kiss our neck, not eat our ears….

15.….and don’t kiss the same place for ages cause it get pretty boring

16.Feet are a no go area

17.What gives you the right to think you can go anywhere near our arse for the first 10 times we have sex……

18.….but don’t be surprised if we go near yours (cause you know you love it)

19.Don’t push our heads down when you want head, cause the chances are we will get pissed off and probably spit your load in your mouth

20.When we are on top, just lie there and enjoy…..don’t start thrusting because then we lose the rhythm and feel like we are about as crap as a virgin (and any chances of us enjoying it have just gone out of the window)

21.Candles and music are good, lights on is a big no no

22. A girl should shudder a bit after she has come (if she doesn’t, you have failed and she will be annoyed)

23.Cupping the face makes us feel special

24.Find out if she has any injuries, then you can reduce the risk of hurting her…..

25.……but pain is sometimes good, just in a certain way

26.If the covers start to fall off the bed, pull them back over as we will be very conscious of the fact that we are in full view

27.Don’t try and take our bra off unless you know for sure you can do it….this leads to a highly embarrassing pause

28.Don’t try and pick us up, no matter how small we are we are at least 8 stone….and if it is less then check ID immediately

29.Know your own strengths, if you are crap at certain things then don’t even go there

30.Don’t say thank you afterwards because then we feel like prostitutes

31.No turning your back on us after sex

32.No morning kisses (we will probably be fully aware of bad breath particularly if we have been smoking/drinking/giving head)

33.Turn round temporarily so that we can wipe the mascara shit out of our eyes

34.Foreplay is essential – if you go straight in for the kill you a re likely to lose major points (and be gentle)

35.Always make sure there are tissues on hand

36.If you try and make us come too early we will not be interested in what’s to follow, but if you do it too late we will think you are crap….timing is important

37.Taking memento’s is not big, not clever, we will notice and you will not be asked back again

38.For fucks sake tidy your room beforehand

39.The fact we are shagging you on the first night does not make us a whore, it just means we feel like we have to have sex with you in order to keep you

40.Be vocal! How are we supposed to know if we are doing it right......

41.If a girl says she is about to come, you are doing it TOTALLY wrong and she wants it to all be over. We say this because we know you will come in about 10 seconds.... (the same goes for when we suggest doing it doggy style)

P.I...

2008-02-28T09:05:00.005-05:00

If you're reading this, I need your help.

I need every single person who's reading this to please leave me a comment with anything that comes to mind...topic...Pimps.

What I need are pop culture references. Anything from TV, movies, books, music that make you think of pimps, that have pimp in the name, lyrics, lines from films, inspired by pimps, etc.

Doesnt matter if someone else has already mentioned the one you're thinking of (matter of fact, write yours first THEN read what others have written). I need to know which are most pervasive and enduring. You can do it. Even you sexy lurkers. Do it anonymously.

Here. I'll even go first...

BAR.ACK STAR

2008-02-11T22:20:00.004-05:00

Yeah, so I decided to go to the concert. And I elbowed my way onto the bandwagon.

So The Bama was in town last Monday, the day before he swept the Pot0mac primaries. Monday happened to be the dead of winter.

FUN WISE FACT... I do neither winter nor long lines. And as I walked up on the arena Monday afternoon, I encountered both. The long snaked around the building where rappers perform when they come to town. An arena. I literally couldnt see where it ended. Luckily my friend and I ran into a professor who let us step in line with him. And we still were out shivering for 20 minutes.

Once inside though it was the most amazing thing I've seen in a long time. First off, it was PACKED. Like, Jay-Z & Mary show packed. So I walk in and confirm that the concession stand is in fact not selling beer (losers), and climb up to the cheap seats. Even way up in nose bleed territory it was shoulder to shoulder.

Second, I don't think I've ever seen a crowd this diverse in a long time. Maybe ever. Not even at something as universal as a sporting event have I seen a crowd of so many different ages, races. Families with young kids. Elderly couples. Groups of black school kids wearing uniforms and book bags. Blue collar folks in their work uniforms. White baby boomers.

And folks were listening. And excited. Engaged.

And with that, I'm in. Because it would be a damn shame for him to gain this much momentum, gather this much anticipation and attention from people who have never given a shit about politics before, to lose. This aint no reality show where millions watch and vote and then don't buy the winner's shit [*cough* Taylor.Hicks *cough*] This is our country and our way of life. People who are engaged today will be engaged after he's in office. They won't stop watching CNN and reading the papers. We will all be watching to see how he does. We'll give time like we've been giving money to his campaign, to pitch in and help steer us back to some semblance of normalcy. Greatness even.

With that being said, and he's already got my vote, I'm still convinced that HC would be a more efficient leader overall. Why? I just do. I think she'd get more done in a shorter period of time. When I was a sophomore in high school some of my teammates voted me captain of the basketball team. I was appalled. I was the youngest, and there were seniors who had put in work for longer than I had even been on the team. They had earned it. Regardless that I may have been more galvanizing and well-liked, it wasnt my time (I did accept junior year). That's how I feel about this race.

But this isnt about efficiency. It's about hope and history. Plain and simple.

And in the end, the young gun is Varsity, and HC is JV.

SUPER STAR

2008-02-05T19:51:00.000-05:00

It's like MJ is in town. Sold out concert. Last one ever.

You KNOW you should go.

But it's on the wrong side of town.

And the scalpers are ridiculous. You'd literally be spending your last dime.

But it's MJ, and you had a curl and glitter glove in '84.

And everywhere you go, everyone's talking about it. The excitement is intoxicating. Contagious.

But, despite the promise you're not so sure how he'll pull it off. He's never played this venue, and every night on the news you hear how rundown the joint is.

Do you go?

Or do you stay your ass at home, not risk getting shot, and pay your rent on time, instead?

That's how I feel about Rockamama, as my nephew calls him.

He's an absolute rock star. His momentum in the last week alone has been nothing short of spectacular. It's impossible not to get caught up.

Truth is, as I look at the issues for which both he and HC stand...I'm in agreement with the NY Times endorsement of HC. In my estimation, 'Mama presents bullet points of the issues. HC presents a detailed outline. In health care, for example, they both pretty much are offering a model of the types of plans available to members of Congress. Difference is tho, HC spells out how it will be funded, who will be eligible. Too often I'm seeing that 'Mama just spills on about how reprehensible it is for us not to all be covered and how we need to change.

But taking nothing away from the man, I'm probably on my way to the concert.

We have an opportunity that may never happen again in our lifetime...to try something new. Even if it doesn't work, if he fails miserably, if he lying like the rest of 'em, we'll know not to do that shit again.

But maybe it's worth a shot.

Might be the last one ever.

[But why I think if he wins the Dem nomination, 1 vote for Bara.ck is like 100 votes for whoever (white) is his opponent? *sigh*]

PPS...Does the news count as reality TV? Cuz I been all over this shit for weeks!

I HEART TV

2008-01-27T23:55:00.000-05:00

[2/3...THIS JUST IN...

In a late addition, I have a new fav. Anyone seen the show on the Country Channel (oh hush!) where the washed up singers are competing to be a country singer?? All I have to say is...Carney.Wilson (remember that video for "Hold On" where they wre walking and she was all struggling to keep up. Ahh, I LOVE her. (she also got the bootleg gastro.)...DianaDegarmo (the young chick who got her ass whupped by Fantasia)...MarciaBrady (who knew she sang beyond the Brady variety show)...ok lemme cut to the chase. SISQ0! (My homeboy works with his mom and she had mentioned he was doing a reality show. YES!!),,,and BOBBYBROWN! All I can say is, can someone pls watch with me!!

And PS...who is the Puerto Rican (Mexican) broad on CleanHouse and where in the mayhem hell is Neicy?!!

I got issues...]

It just rarely occurs to me to plop down on the couch and pop in a dvd and watch a movie.

Cuz I got cable.

Eff a writers' strike, yo. I’ve been saying it for years (roughly around the time Survivor, Love.Cruise & Temptation.Island debuted)…this is the second Golden Era of TV (the ‘50s is considered the first…Uncle Milty, Jenny Benny, etc.).

Sure, I miss Greys and Negro Night on the CW, but here’s what’s been my pop culture Prozac so far this winter (seasonal depression is a bitch!)...

OK…so right now I’m switching btwn that dance crew Randy Jackson show, and Scott Baio. These are two great examples of what I love out of my Golden TV.

First off, Randy done gained back all that gastric bypass weight. What he get the bootleg surgery?? Anywho…Little Known Wise Fact…In my heart I’m a backup dancer. Like, on tour and everything. So I'm all over this (as well as that JLo dancer show, and So You Think..Dance (by why there always gotta be a British commentator chick?)) These competition shows are fun because you get to latch onto the personalities. After five minutes you’re pretty hooked on the crew from Boston who ain’t know how in the hell they were getting back home. Son, the Skate Crew! And of COURSE the Asian one is everyone’s fav. Other than that though, the judges blow (Shane is cool, but Lil Lip Gloss and JC “Sashay,” boo. Ok Lip Gloss isn’t bad.). But what could be better than hearing AC Slater talk all hip hop (and sometimes Mexican).

I’m in!

Now, celeb reality shows?? *SIGH* Just a piece of heaven here on earth. I mean, when was the last time you made a Jonie L0ves Chachi joke, huh?? But put Scotty in front of a camera, add the brother from Wonder Years, a few other lackeys, some bitter exes, and frankly, it’s enough to hold my attention (every week). There is really nothing extraordinary about this show, except that he’s sarcastic, anti-social and neurotic as fcuk, is literally almost 50 and without child or wedding and lost his virginity to Erin Moran. But there’s something to be said about these narrated Look at Me shows (I’m also slightly enamored with Life 0f Ryan). I Heart Them.

But REALLY…it’s the precursor to one of the best things to happen to me in 2008. Celeb Rehab! Lucifer, where to even begin! I guess the obvious place to begin is with Kinicki, but then you’d have to also end there. What a tool that one. But I prefer to remind everyone… because it’s easy to forget that there’s anyone else there besides him, that blond whore one, and the Baldwin… that the little sister from offa Urkle is on it! Yes! The one who went upstairs one episode and never came back downstairs! No, not the cooning cousin lil Richie (who’s now on Young&the Restless and deaf ,or can he hear now??)). The little girl who turned out to be a porn star!! Apparently she’s a weedhead (son, ALL my friends smoke every morning. *shrug*)

I actually did pop in a dvd this afternoon. I had to catch the first two episodes of the Wire. DatNucca and I “watched” episode 3 last week, but I had missed the first two, so my homegirl slid them to me (which I watched out of order. Genius.)

So if you’re not watching this show it’s probably because you don’t have HBO. What can I say? It’s brilliantly written and has the best cast on tv. I’d say easily one of the best I’ve ever seen. I’m partial to Seasons 1 & 4, but as a media head this one intrigues me. LOVE the Sun editor cat. He’s old school yet on point and in touch. And it’s impossible not to watch wide eyed every time Snoop is on screen if for no other reason than that she is so gotdam BMore it’s sick.

People marched in protest outside the BMore premiere, saying it was a negative portrayal of the city and of the black folks here. It is. There are lots of negative folks here from what I can tell. But what that opinion ignores is the human face the Wire puts on them. You protest this piece of art but don't say shit about the other mess on tv and in movie theaters?? The hood has a story. The city has a complex history. And the show is fantastic about showing the layers and multi-dimensions in a human and authentic way.

Plus McNulty’s effing hot. (he grabbed my ass in this pic...and I liked it)

Speaking of hot…how come every straight woman I know is in love with Shane?

Frankly, I’m not into the stringy/skinny/white/chick…but I get it. Either way, the L-Word is my shit! Jenny’s a plum mess…and I can’t WAIT for her psycho assistant to flip out. Max is like, the quiet brooding genius that keeps getting provoked. I’m patiently waiting for her/him to shoot up the Planet. Tina blows. Alice is too wack for the black chick. And why do I find “Flashdance” and “Hear No Evil” to be the best couple ever…except the worst and I’m ready for them to break up.
I still haven’t forgiven them for killing off Dana.

I kinda wish MTV would kill off Real.World. I can’t watch. I know it seems that I’d be all over it, but I’ve just about aged out of the franchise. I just cant (anymore. i was obsessed as recently as Philly ...and kinda Denver) But I CAN however get with the Challenges. My word. See, the whole thing about reality competition like I said, is that once you hook me I’m in. And these are built-in people I’ve seen drunk, vomit on each other, make out, fight, and cry. (Am I the only one who loves CT in all his drunk-violent-brutedness!) And all I have to say is it’s about time they start showing the hook ups. Who cares about the games anyway!

I could go on and on and mention ProjectRunway, anything on Style, etc., but I’ll end with probably my most anticipated show of the “season.” I need to write MTV and ask them nicely to stop promo’ing shit 4 months ahead. Cuz by the time Making.the.Band comes on I’m sure to perish. I cant wait. I was hooked on the last season (1969, are you ready?!) This season's concept is brilliant...Fine ass Will, my hometown boy Q, plus the chicks and the Don?

Golden!

[Here's their single...http://streamos.atlrec.com/wmedia/atlantic/mtb4/gotmegoing_popradio.wax]

BETTER OFF A HOLIDAY

2008-01-21T23:33:00.000-05:00

I just think we’re thinking about this all the wrong way. As usual.

I’m not saying he’s better off dead (per se), but I just think the legacy of M-L-K is much stronger than the man himself would have ever lived to be. AND we got a day off out of it. AND there are black commercials on TV. AND parades. AND black actors standing poised against black backdrops and King speech video loops, chin raised high amongst the clouds, espousing of our greatness as interpreted by the Black Jesus. Ngga, he SAVED us. He is worthy.

However, why do we always hear, “Dr. K. would have been 106 years old today.” It’s an absurd notion. It’s a sad shame that brother got popped out on a balcony by a sniper and shit. That a family was without a father and husband. That the negroes were left without a savior. And so young. And in his prime.

I think the man was remarkable, and I say that, for once, without the slightest hint of sarcasm.

I just think that his legacy today is far greater than his life would have been if he lived to be 106.

So explore with me if you will…What might have been, if he had not been murked...

1. Inevitably, he woulda did a Cadillac commercial. Without a doubt. And the African American Image purists woulda been LIVID.

2. American history would be robbed of the legacy of 1968. After King’s death over 100 cities across the country were literally on fire, from Watts to my town of BMore. That year is widely considered the most volatile ever. But let’s be real for a second. How many black folks CAME UP during the riots?? Looting and whatnot. This was more of a shot in the arm to Black American Economy than any Civil Rights policy EVER was. Dr. K would have wanted it that way.

3. He would have knocked up the white chick.

4. He would have run for President, I’m guessing around ’76. He would have lost miserably during the primaries to the man who would become the least significant President ever. What kinda moron are you if you lose to J. Carter?!

5. He would have done a horrible cameo on Diff’rent Strokes. It wouldn’t even be a 2-parter or a Very Special episode. Just some lame Peace in the Streets plea btwn Arnold and the Gooch.

6. He’d have gone through an afro phase. And Lord knows he didn’t have the forehead for it.

7. (If you were born after 1984 cover your ears) Remember back in the early 80s when award shows were super glamorous, and it was a big deal who the stars brought with them? Like when Michael Jackson brought the chimp that one time? Why do I have a feeling ML would have accompanied like Paul Simon and them African singers he be having with him. Then there’d be pressure to go on the Soul Train awards and shit… NAACP… Vibe…Source…Downhill.

8. His megachurch empire (cuz you know he’d have one), would be under scrutiny and uncover some demons ala Swaggert and Baker.

9. He’d refuse to take sides in the MJ vs. Prince debate and would lose credibility with black folks.

10. …But he’d be front and center in a protest against NWA & Eff the Police.

11. Hello! No January 3-day weekend. And we wouldn’t have my fav commercial of all time… “If you light a candle, for everything he’s done…”

12. He’d be a lock for a guest spot in the ‘Welcome to Atlanta’ video.

13. The gratuitous Puffy remix and subsequent Russell.Simmons power summit appearances.

14. Media showdowns with Farrakhan. No one EVER wins those.

15. Who would we name all those MLK Blvds in cities across the country after? Nipsey Russell Way just doesn’t have the same ring.

16. Oh Black Jesus! Not the MLK book tour, daily Peace & Equality text msgs, late night talk show on TBN, Fitness March dvd box set, Civil Rights action figures (all of this on the brink of personal bankruptcy, you see), nonviolent record label. I can’t.

17. An avid and loyal Atlanta Falcons fan, he’d throw Mike Vick under the proverbial (Montgomery) bus.

18. LBJ mighta pursued re-election, which mighta put Nixon’s presidency in question…and what on EARTH woul journalism students study if not Woodward and Bernstein?

19. There’d be no place for Al.Shaprton, and I sincerely HEART him! (If you’ve never heard his radio show, it’s fanTAStic! Comedy abound)

20. Punching the shit out of a white kid without repercussion after seeing Eyes on the Prize would be a hard sell.

*Bonus...Did you not HEAR me mention the 3-day holiday!! Hope yours was as amazing as mine. :)

[Hey Joy...I really did write this before I left, but my phone wouldnt let me post it. No "intense reprimand," pleeeeease. And Jameil, I totally appreciate your new passive-aggressive approach. Nice touch:)]

YOU GOT MAIL

2008-01-07T17:46:00.000-05:00

I’m pretty sure my mom is about to bail on me.

So I call her last week and she says, “You’ll never guess what just happened...”

Miss Jean from across the street calls her and tells her that some she saw some kid take the envelops out of my mother’s mailbox and run through her back yard. She said she saw it through her window. The kid came to the door like he was offering to shovel her driveway (Damn, I miss old school kids who used to HUSTLE out in the cold. Not these new Xbox young fucks!)…but um, my nephew’s old school. He took care of that snow as soon as it stopped falling.

Now, we’ve lived in this same house for 30+ years, and my mom is in fact, old school. Ever since she retired and is home during delivery times, she could tell you the names of damn near every mailman in order of employment. She still believes in greeting and asking about the kids and leaving him gifts at holiday times and offering him tea when it’s cold out. She’s accustomed to leaving her mail out for him, secured with a clothespin, even when she doesn’t have stamps. He always got her. Her mail doesn’t even need an address. It’ll get to her, as long as it has her name on it.

So my mom goes outside and checks the mailbox and sure enough, it’s empty. On that morning she had run to the bank and thought he had already come through while she was gone. She walks down the paved driveway and peeps the footprints dotting the snow through the back yard.

Miss Jean had immediately called my nephew to go find the boy, but he was at work. (Neighbors having each other’s phone numbers…how old school is THAT!) Luckily, her grandkids saw the boy. Knew where he stayed.

“What kind of mail did he steal, Mommy?”

“My credit card and car insurance payments.”

Wow mom.

By the time she had called the jakes (sn!tching runs in the family??), Miss Jean’s grandson was knocking on my mom’s door. He’s an Xbox kid for sure. About 15 or so. Him and his younger brother are like my mom’s little mentees. Their daddy’s in the bing, and their grandma can’t control them. But they STAY stopping by Mama Wise’s crib before school every morning, and whent hebus drops them off after school, and even spend the night when my mom’s in the mood for noise in the house.

Young Xbox hands my mother her mail. He went running around the block, like a tough old school maverick, and got my mom’s shit back.

“I swear, I’m so ready to be out!” I’ve never heard this conviction from my mother before. Tomorrow she’ll board a plane home to Jamaica and she’ll be gone almost a month. My siblings and nephew will man the crib. The neighborhood will provide an extra set of eyes.

She’s finally gonna start work on the house down there that she and my father had been plotting for the last 30+ years. They’re old school immigrants. Come here, hustle, raise and educate your kids, go back home, ball out. I always knew she’d do it. But I never quite believed she’d really dip. But there’s really nothing stopping her. Her children are grown. She's a widow. Her grandkids the only real attachment now. She’s outgrown her community. She uses the word ‘ghetto’ now, often.

I laugh, cuz it’s funny, cuz that’s a word she’s learned, or conceptualized from incidents like the Mail Fraud. The kid who stole her shit was 12.

When her house is done, she will move. And I’ll be lost. But she’s earned it. She’s weathered 30+ unforgiving winters. Made her connections. Raised and educated me. She’s left her mark. She should go and I should be happy.

And that suddenly opens up the possibilities of a whole world with my name on it.

RIP 2007

2007-12-30T17:27:00.000-05:00

Double deuces go out to '07.

And this wrap up is ganked from and posted in honor of my fav ex-Harlem neighbor that I never met.

1) Was 2007 a good year for you?
Ya know what… I haven’t failed out of school yet, didn’t get shot, didn’t go broke, no alcohol poisoning that I know of. Great year.

2) What was your favorite moment of the year?
Toss up btwn seeing my oldest nephew graduate from my alma mater...
Blacking out at the US-Canadian border...
Boy watching and drinking at the Hard.Rock pool in Vegas...
Or the first phone convo with DatNucca.

3) What was your least favorite moment of the year?
A phone call with my brother, Boss Of Me, in the middle of Mar.shalls.

4) Where were you when 2007 began?
I honestly cant remember. Musta been somewhere good.

5) Who were you with?
Again…??

6) Where will you be when 2007 ends?
Ask me the day after.

7) Who will you be with when 2007 ends?
The Fam and some uninvited special guests *sigh*

8) Did you keep your new years resolution of 2007?
I did pretty well with achieving goals this year. Did pretty well with failing miserably at achieving goals as well. It’s all about the balance, yo.

9) Do you have a new years resolution for 2008?
I do. But I wont speak them. Cuz I’m lame like that.

10) Did you fall in love in 2007?
“Love is a losing game.”

11) If yes, with who?
Amy W!nehouse?? ;)

12) If yes, do they know?
Until we’re drunk and in bed, it appears. :(

13) Are you still in love with them?
*sigh*

14) You regret it?
No regrets (I HATE when people say this shit. Are you kidding me?? NONE?! That’s absurd.)

15) Did you breakup with anyone in 2007?
I did. Though I never actually uttered the words. Sometimes silence is all the convo you need.

16) Did you make any new friends in 2008?
I did. I told yall about a few that are still cool.

Question is, how many will stick?

17) Who are your (most memorable) favorite new friends?
I’m currently very excited about my new neighborhood drinking buddy!

18) What was your favorite month of 2007?
The entire summer was fantastic! August in particular.

19) Did you travel outside of the US in 2007?
Canada and Mexico

20) How many different states have you traveled in 2007?
9 states.

21) Did you lose anybody close to you in 2007?
Thank God no one died. But I lost a very good friend and lover.

22) Did you miss anybody in the past year?
Don’t I always? Distance blows.

23) What was your favorite movie that you saw in 2007?
Didn’t see very many flicks this year. But did catch Notes on a Sca.ndal at the top of the year and LOVED it. Also enjoyed Gone Ba.by Gone and Amer!can Gangst.

24) What was your favorite song from 2007?
Absolutely anything that my youngest nephew learns the words to (which are of course songs I HATE in real life), including (*gasp* Soulj Boy, Beaut.Girl, Duff Bag Boy (ok this my shit! dont let it come on at a party!) and his little school songs)

25) What was your favorite album from 2007?
Mick Boogie/Lil Brother
Alicia.Keys
Wine.house
Common

26) How many concerts did you see in 2007?
LB (twice)
Ghostface
The Roots (twice)
Public Enemy
MC Lyte
Kane
KRS One
Sean Paul
Lupe
Barrington Levy
Black Sheep
Stevie!!

27) Did you have a favorite concert in 2007?
Ummm, did you SEE that I saw Stevie this year?? Hands down best show of my life. In tears, singing every word, burning hot despite being out in the freezing cold.

28) Did you drink a lot of alcohol in 2007?
Except for that one week of sobriety.

29) Did you do a lot of drugs in 2007?
Drugs schmugs. Lame.

30) How many people did you sleep with in 2007?
Intercourse or …?
My Hiatus was well documented. And well over.

31) Did you do anything you are ashamed of this year?
Kind of.

And only a bit ashamed that I didn’t torch this muhfucker... yeah the effing bar I got kicked out of.

32) What was the biggest lie you told in 2007?
That I was somewhere I wasn’t.

33) What was the worst lie someone told you in 2007? (ok, I read this wrong at first)
"Damn, what time's your flight? Cuz, I mean, it's just, my place is such a mess, and I gotta study..." Booo!

34) Did you treat somebody badly in 2007?
Not purposely.

But on second thought, I was less than a friend to someone who’s always been a great friend.

35) Did somebody treat you badly in 2007?
*shrug* Fcuk em.

36) How much money did you spend in 2007?
What are you the Eye Arrah Ess?? (name that female bank heist movie)

37) What was your proudest moment of 2007?
Jena.

Loc’ing.

38) What was your most embarrassing moment of 2007?
A particularly bad night out. A few drunk texts and a photographed penis included.

This wasn’t exactly a good look either.

Not being able to face my mom at a time I know she needs me.

39) If you could go back in time to any moment of 2007 what would it be?
The massage on the beach facing the Caribbean Sea.

40) What are your plans for 2008?
Last year I was on a plane all but two months out of the year. In ’08, I’d like to run the table and be out all 12! And...

Take another step into the world of academia.

Write a kick ass thesis.

Blog better.

Love fearlessly.

*Bonus question for anyone who decides to jack this...

"What were your fav posts of '07?"
This one makes me laugh for so many reasons.

Be easy!!!

XROADS

2007-12-23T21:10:00.000-05:00

It's almost the end of the year? Are you effing kidding me?

I'm hard pressed to summarize '07, because so much happened and didn’t happen. I got a lot accomplished, I wasted a lot of time, I grew up, I stayed the exact same, I moved on, I got stuck, I was rewarded and punished, devastated and overjoyed. Mother has lived...

Looking back at some posts from a year ago, I'm struck by a couple things. I was at Love (the club) not long ago ago...right around the same time I told you guys about last year.

Then there was Thanksgiving. Went home. Enjoyed the fam and friends. Had pretty much the identical routine that I had Thanksgiving '06...travel on Thursday, get home at dinner time, making a pit stop at the liquor store. The crew gets together to cook tacos and drink and ponder our places in the world. Old School party at the one grown and sexy club in town. Face off with him...

---
In Tha Club, Thanksgiving '07...

My cousin and I walk over to the bar and immediately see a few folks. My camera's out and the smiles light up the dark dance floor. Then I see Best Friend Guy across the way, with his girl in tow. I sneak over, lurk behind their backs, turn the lens to me, reach my arms in front of them and snap a picture of the three of us. They turn around confused and erupt in excited 'Oh Shit!s'. I'm only slightly buzzed at the moment, and yet it doesn’t occur to me that Best Friend Guy's BBF (him) is probably also in the building. When it does, I order two drinks.

This year, today, he exists in my life only in memory and hidden photos, exponentially more miles apart than his city is from mine. And while I let go of him in '07, the weight of '05 and '06 float to the surface like the ice in my drink. Like the bodies always do.

When one of my BFFs arrives at the club, he's drunker than I care to mention (let's just say he got kicked out of the party 3 times, and each time managed to find his way back in), and he wants me to be where he is.

I oblige. And no sooner than I do (to the tune of back to back to back Gooses), someone stalks over to where I'm dancing. The presence is familiar... and annoying. He reaches for the tight hug, and I respond with the knuckle tap, unable to make eye contact.

"Wise & Him!" Before I can retract, my boy has his lanky, drunken arms around both of our shoulders, announcing our names as the title it once was. My face gets hot, and I walk, almost stomp away, embarrassed as hell.

The rest of the night I'm extra aware of being watched. And when he finally walks up on me for a dance, I know without turning that it's him. His body still fits on mine the way it always did.

But what's different is that it no longer matches. It's so... last season. Outdated. Unwanted. Old.

As '08 looms, I'm thinking I need to change up my routine. I need to be in different places with different people, instead of always with the familiar ones running into familiarly unfamiliar folks. I can say that judging solely by what is documented on this blog, something's changed with me in '07. As so many of you have commented, I write different. I don't talk nearly as much shit. Who the eff AM I?

I vow that in '08 there will be more of the same... only different.

Hollerrrrrr!

...GET STITCHES?

2007-12-13T12:16:00.000-05:00

Thugs and me, we just have an understanding.

And apparently there is no shortage of them on my block. Y’all remember this guy, the one who helped me “put together my dresser.” Yeah, Thug Love, about that…

So anywho, what can I say? They like to confide in me, tell me their life stories and plans. Maybe they sense that I may one day immortalize their shit for all the world to enjoy. I doubt they were expecting this bullshit ass blog.

So there’s this guy who lives in my building, and by lives, I mean he staying there with his peoples. We bonded one evening when we were both parking our cars on the block. Did I mention he drives a cab, but kinda didn’t seem like he was a cabbie, you feel me?

“You from NY?” he asks, eyeing my tags. “I didn’t know you were from NY.” We had always said hi and byes and chit chatted before, but nothing formal, and I was only familiar enough with him by face. No name.

“Lemme guess, you’re from the Bronx,” I respond. “By way of Puerto Rico.”

“Ya know it. That obvious, huh?”

“Lucky guess.”

From that day Papi and I have had many convos, mostly in the stairwell of our building, or him calling down to me from his apartment window. He’d hear me trudging up the stairs with grocery or shopping bags and he’d always come out and help, or just say hi, or ask me how I’m living.

I learned that Papi just got out like 3 months ago (this would explain the random letters left on the common mail area from the Dept of Corrections), and he’s working and just staying out of trouble. I never ask what they did to go in, cuz aint it always the same shit? Plus they usually tell me anyways. I don’t recall Papi ever going into detail about anything past tense. Mostly just future.

I did ask however, why he left the Bronx, and he just said, “Too much shit up there. But I do miss it though.”

He told me about how he got in a fight the weekend prior, how some big dude (Papi’s kinda thick, but only like 5’8” or so) punched the shit out of his homegirl at some BMore club. So Papi stepped in and did some heavy lifting. I admonished him not to get into shit. He shrugged it off. He regretted it, but had no qualms about defending a woman, and definitely none about the bruises on his knuckle.

“So what y’all be smoking down there?” I ask. “I be high as shit up here from the contact.”

“I don’t smoke nothing.”

“Yeah right.”

“Straight up.”

“They make you piss?”

“Twice a week.”

“Damn. I don’t even go to the gym twice a week. And there’s probably not two days a week that I walk by your door and don’t smell weed.” I’m incredulous. But Papi appears so damn well adjusted, if not thoroughly apathetic and detached.

“Be good. You better stay out of trouble.” That’s always my parting word to him.

“Stay beautiful. And eh, don’t forget I got this Dominican rum for you.”

So the other day I’m sleeping real hard right? And my buzzer goes nuts. This happens sometimes, like when the door is locked and my neighbor Barnyard is passed out and his people can’t get in. They buzz me. Or once a month or so my editor Fed.Ex’s me some shit…but wait, I’m not on deadline. And…hold up, it’s 7 in the effing morning. At 7 in the effing morning on a weekday, I am subconsciously clinging to my last moments of pass outedness. Anybody who should need access to my crib at this hour either has a key or has my damn number. I check my phone. Nothing.

But whoever is downstairs is laying on the damn buzzer. I open up my window to look down onto the sidewalk below and it’s a chick who looks like her…

“What is it!?!” I yell down.

“Police. Come open the door.”

I get real humble real quick. My ass is AAAAAWAKE!

I go splash some water on my face, and with every step I’m running in my mind what the hell I done did that’s finally caught up with me.

Omg, what I do? What I do!

My license?? Did I not pay my taxes?? I KNOW I paid my damn taxes! I ain’t steal nothing. I aint run no red lights on the blocks where they have the cameras. I aint beat nobody ass. I aint even got no internet porn in my possession! Ok, whatever it is I hope to God in heaven that it’s something I can explain. I hope they just here to talk, not cuff. WTF?!

I get downstairs and look out the window. Standing next to Kima is a look alike of this guy…

I nearly collapse to the floor. To make matters worse my eye catches his sleeve…

WARRANT POLICE

So uhhhhh, NO, they not here to do no type of talking. SHIT!

“Ma’am, do you live in apartment C?”

“Y-yes.” [editor’s note…it’s actually #3, but whatev. I was neither coherent nor equipped to be a smart ass]

They ask me this at least 5 more times. Then they both step inside the building and pull out a file. My head is spinning and my stomach tightens, afraid of what transgressions are held within.

“Do you know this gentleman?”

Papi’s gentle face stares back at me from the bad boy bin. My heart sinks.

“No.”

“He doesn’t live with you?”

“No he doesn’t.”

“Do you live in Apt. C?” again, they repeat the inquiries as if about to conclude that 2+2 is obviously 4.

“Yes! My name is So Wise Sista and I live in Apt C. But I live there alone!”

“Have you seen him in this building?”

“Yes.”

RECORD SCREECHES…

*sigh*

“Where have you seen him?”

“I don’t know. He just looks familiar.”

“Who else lives in the building?”

“A kid Barnyard lives on the second floor. Tall light skinned kid with long dreads. And I don’t know who lives there anymore,” I spill, pointing to the apartment ahead of us. “Used to be a white kid.”

My ears are clogged, my heart is effing pounding in them. All I could hear was that they thought I was housing a fugitive and I couldn’t believe they were gonna try to pin this shit on me.

So I spilled. Not on Papi (per se)…but definitely on the Barnyard muhfucka on the second floor with the Psycho White Broad girlfriend who be yelling and crying at all hours of the night, and who moved my effing laundry one time too many.

“Thank you.”

I sprint back up to my crib and slam the door behind me. Confused as shit.

I hear the jakes knocking on Barnyard’s second floor apartment door, but I can’t make out the convo. I also can’t recall if they smoked the night before. I know Papi’s not there, but still. Who knows what the Psycho White Broad might tell. Shit, I kinda told, didn’t I??

I crawled back into bed, got under the covers and called my sweetie, (who will from here on be affectionately known as DatNucca). I hung up feeling reassured that I didn’t sni.tch, but still sad. Dammit Papi…why!!!!

STILL

2007-12-10T12:52:00.001-05:00

[We now interrupt the regularly scheduled programming
(and by programming, I mean my unfortunate hiatus due to the end of the semester.
Jameil has however, graciously granted me some leave time without penalty)...
to bring you *gasp* a post!]

I woke up this morning and the other side of the bed was still.

I still smell you there.

I followed the trail of clothes strewn about the crib, from the bedroom to the kitchen. My bra and coat near the front door. Jeans with a sock still stuck in the foot. The fuzzy one still MIA. I’ll be rocking the fly track jacket you left. It’s still on the floor of the closet.

The movie is still in the player, still unplayed. The photo album still unopened on the couch. The book I wanted to show you, still unread.

There is still a pool of Calgon blue water in my tub. I won’t shower for an hour or two, cause I love that your scent is still on my hands and neck.

The bowl of pineapple still where we left it on the bathtub edge.

Tea candles burned down to the tin casings still line the sink.

The loc gel and clips are still there too. My freshly twisted hair now a sweated out mess. Don’t feel bad, I’ll fix it good as new like you like.

You know what I still feel every time I walk into the kitchen. I spent considerable time washing dishes this morning, yeah cuz we left behind too many unfinished drinks (how DARE you!), but because I just wanted to be in there, ya know?

I still can’t believe I let you, us, smoke on the couch. The scene of many crimes.

The silence is still. No shuffled soundtrack of your ridiculous laugh. I.tunes is still on shuffle though. Prophetic and well-timed as ever. My head still kind hurts...mostly from busting out laughing every few minutes. The one-liners, yo.

I started writing this while you were still here.

It’s still cold in here. Heat still not working. And though now I have no recourse but the covers, I’m still warm.

I’m not used to this, still.

[We now return you to my absense...already in progress...]

SEPARATE BUT EQUAL

2007-11-26T18:34:00.000-05:00

“I understand that he needs to get his shit together," I say. "I’m proud of you for not wavering on that cuz you, pre-Mommy days wouldn’t give a fcuk. But I also think that it’s a mistake to try to front like you don’t have real feelings for him. On a very personal, important level.”

Curly scratches her scalp hard, as she tends to do when someone is talking sense into her.

“But do you really think he would fit in here?” She nods her head over to the center of my living room. “Could you see him chilling with us??”

This time I turn. My body hangs halfway off the couch, an errant beer bottle cap imprinting my back. An ice tray filled with green specks, remnants of our jello shots, a mere memory. One overturned Rasheed Wallace sneaker with a gleaming white sock still in it. A pack of Newports that won’t see the light of day inside my crib. Three dudes huddled, tossing dice against a wall of my school books.

“Drink the CARD-eye (Bacardi…they have a nickname for every fcuking thing), son.”

“Yo B. Ali.cia Keys…you’d eat the box straight no chase?”

“Yessir. Roota AND toota, kid. No question.”

I turn back to Curly, my contemplation complete.

“Does ANYONE fit in with us besides us??”

We’ve all done it before and it just doesn’t work. I mean, I LOVE these kids. Couldn’t get rid of them if I tried. And at one time or another we’ve all figured that this MUST mean that EVERYONE will love us.

So we bring the occasion signif other around. Introduce them in the flesh to the names they’ve heard in countless stories. They already know the faces bec they’ve stared back from photos that dot all of our cribs. Not to mention our distinct differences and personalities make it impossible not to know who’s who.

And it usually looks the same. We’re all together, cooking, eating, drinking, smoking, laughing. If we’re feeling particularly nostalgic the yearbooks come out, or better yet the video from Greekfreak ’96, or a yellowing invitation from the party at Club Baja in ’99, or the cups stolen from the dining hall, or the orange traffic cones copped that one night after…"wait, when WAS that??”

And the signif other, sitting dutifully beside their respective mate, does just that. They sit. And listen. And probably yawn a million bored yawns. But we never notice.

Every once in a while someone will engage them. But 9 times out of 10, and not even out of spite or rudeness, just out of sheer urgent hilarity, someone will interrupt with another inane inquiry. Even my ex, who went to high school with us, and knows these kids well, was overwhelmed every time.

So without discussion or consensus, we all just one day stopped bringing outsiders around. For no other reason than that it’s painfully obvious that without having lived our history it’s just not nearly as comical or heartwarming or entertaining to hear us recall it, no matter how animated and Oscar-worthy the re-enactment.

“I think the days of rating a potential mate based on compatibility with our friends are long gone. I mean, it’s one thing to get your friends’ opinions of the person, but that’s about it.”

“You guys told me not to fcuk with Peter.”

“Unanimously.”

“I shoulda listened.”

“Should have. But I’m sure every one of us would tell you the same thing about 8 Mile. He just doesn’t necessarily need to be dragged kicking and screaming to hang with us when we all get together.”

“Weazy, feel this beat! You aint freestyle all night, ngga!” My attention, again, pulled to the center.

“You beg me to get with it/to spit it/I stay committed/and get more head than Coop’s fitted”

“Ayyyyy! Wise, remember that time I walked in on you and…”

Is this a universal misconception? That your friends and your mate must be compatible or all bets are off?

Some people have Mate-Friendly friendships. You know, the kind of friends who are multipurpose. You can effortlessly bring around a mate, a boss, whoever.

Others, like me, have a core group of friends who are perfectly suitable and welcoming one on one, but impossibly (but never intentionally) exclusive in a group.

Or maybe no friends at all.

What say you? Do you bring your SO around your friends? Is it a litmus test of sorts?

What about when around theirs? Do you feel alienated?

Does it even matter??

THANKS, BUT NO...

2007-11-21T13:26:00.000-05:00

As so many of you have so eloquently pointed out, we oughta be giving thanks every day, not just on another fraudulent government mandated holiday. I totally agree. And every day I give thanks profusely for all things big and small, good and even not so good.

But I don’t know about yall…I’m all about the balance. I’m allotting some time tomorrow to all of the things I’m not thankful for. I mean, maybe speaking them out loud will make them go away or something. Damn, I aint seen Oprah in a minute but I know she’d say it some kinda way to that effect.

10 Things For Which I’m Not Particularly Thankful…

1. Gas prices. Are you kidding me, Hess? Didn’t it cost me like HALF of this to fill up just a month ago?? And am I really paying the same each month for gas as I am for car insurance??

2. The Programming/Scheduling down at Viacom. I don’t know who figured the demographic that is obsessed with The Hills (as I am), wasn’t also the same folks who grew up with ‘Push It’ and ‘What a Man.’ I’ma need you people to do some retooling so that I don’t have to choose btwn LC vs. Heidi or Salt vs. Pep. Thanks! (Monday night TV is however among my many give thankses!)

3. Punk ass Sprint. Been their bitch since ’99, and I’m STILL battling their asses on the regular. But I draw the line at the egregious call drops. My sweetie can’t be driving home (kinda drunk) without being able to reach me!

4. Pneumonia weather. Need I look like the asshole when it’s damn near 60 degrees outside in November no less, but I’m wearing a wool coat, scarf and gloves. But I KNOW it’s pneumonia weather, so I aint chancing it…but I still get sick!!

5. Rakim for his no show on Saturday. I mean, maybe he did show up sometime after 1:30 when I bounced. But damn, God, the show started at 8!!

6. Safeway, for discontinuing the pink chip breast cancer cookies. Don’t you KNOW I’m emotional eating right now?!! Where are they…I neeeeeed them!

7. Baltimore, for so many reasons, but particularly for not sharing in my lifelong tradition of autumn apple cider. I miss Upstate!

8. I’m not exactly thrilled with airport security either. Instead of packing a light carryon I gotta check my shit in if I plan to wear any perfume or lip gloss while I’m at home. And do you mean to tell me I can’t bring a flask??

9. Notsomuch thankful for the random post-30 moles, pimples, hairs, and light spots that pop up in unnecessary and unexpected places.

10. Living in a city close to almost 300 murders this year…but oddly enough not one of the Top 10 most dangerous cities in the country?? (ok it's #12, but still)

Enjoy the holiday everyone!

TEXTSTYLES

2007-11-15T23:35:00.000-05:00

You Know You Text Too Effing Much When…

You can go days without ever actually putting the phone to your ear.

You have two phones, and one’s JUST for texting.

You sit down at a computer and are baffled when there’s no T9 word recognizer popping up (bonus if your thumbs rest on the home keys).

Instead of going over to say to hello to a friend you see at a bar/party/restaurant, etc…you text them and compliment their shoes.

In real life convos you forget that not everyone speaks (texts) in song lyrics and patois.

You have the ringer off but you instinctively know when a text is coming (and look at your phone at the precise second it arrives).

You begin to speak in 160 character sentences.

You text someone who's in front of you just for fun...OR...whoever is in front of you when you text, sends you a text that is the equivalent of 'Call me on 3-way.'

You send intervention texts on someone's behalf.

Driving doesn’t stop your conversation. Nor class. Nor business meetings. Nor being on another call. Nor grocery shopping. Nor sleeping.

You get pissed when someone says, “Here’s my home phone number.”

When Text Sex is sufficient.

You convince yourself that sending a Happy BDay text is akin to an ecard.

Friends add unlimited texts to their cellie plans just because of you.

Your stylus is like a fashion accessory...and when you lose it *gasp* it's like losing your car keys.

You accidentally hit CALL while texting and when it reverts to calling the person you were texting you PANIC and damn near power it off just so that you DON'T call them instead of texting.

You carry your phone charger in your bag cuz you KNOW all that texting eats the hell out of your battery.

Your fingers are crossed that you can use it to cast your vote for President by 2008.

You hear the phone call ringtone and it takes a second to register what the hell it is.

You input certain names in your phones as DO NOT TEXT.

You let the voice mail pick up and respond to the call with a text.

Some friends only require one-word responses.

There are people you text at specific designated times every day...like you're taking the pill or some shit.

You get a series of texts Saturday morning “lol’ing” about whatever the hell you texted the night before.

You fcuk up and send the wrong person the wrong text, but shrug it off, as if it’s normal to mix up conversations in any other communicative medium. (except maybe call waiting)

Instead of carrying a wallet, you just tuck cash into your phone case.

You can type in the dark of night.

You’re fluent and literate in not only drunk text, but also text sarcasm.

You wish you could text your professor or boss to tell them you’re gonna be late.

You consider getting your young relatives cells phones just cuz it would be easier to help with their homework that way.

People text you first to ask permission to call.

DREAMGIRL

2007-11-13T10:19:00.000-05:00

I’m a dreamer, I admit. It was a way of life as a child to sit and dream my way out of my circumstances. Imagine independence and all its spoils. Dream myself a suitable identity and moral character.

Today, all these years later, I can recall so many of those dreams in colors as vivid as a day ago. Maybe because so many of them have been realized. Or perhaps it’s because so many still linger.

Even if you don’t subscribe to the notion, we all harbor desires for one dream or another. The dream job…dream car…dream crib…dream guy or girl…dream vacation…those dreamy shoes.

But do we always accept or even appreciate the dream when it arrives?

In the past week I’ve used the word ‘dream’ to describe two separate circumstances. One of them a writing assignment. I wouldn’t exactly call it the Dream Gig, but I do get to scratch another item off my ‘30 Things I'ma Do Now That I’m 30’ list. But why when confronted with handling up on the assignment, I froze. Couldn’t do it. Looked the gift horse directly in the mouth, down the throat, whole 9 yards. (I have since managed to soldier up, thanks to 90 Millas and My Muse).

The other…*sigh*. I actually called another effing human being a Dream. Come. True. (I know, I know... I’ll pause here for a second so you can join me for a quick vomit). The thing of it is, I meant it, still mean it…but I have no clue what the hell to do about it.

If you’ve ever been called The Dream Girl/Guy, then unceremoniously abandoned like I have, then like me, you're probably a lil dead inside, and you might feel me on the irony and absolute absurdity of it all.

But the fact remains…

A wise (blind with microbraids and a underlip mustache genius musician) man once said…

“So... If it's special...
Then with it why aren't we as careful?”

Theoretically, shouldn’t we be going to the ends of the earth to chase our dreams? Or are dreams fundamentally not meant to come true? Is the subconscious mind a much more liberal and whimsical force than the conscious?

Or is there a dream slayer? Fear.

RESPITE

2007-11-10T12:21:00.000-05:00

I have a friend who used to live in Miami. One who just left Chicago. Another bounced from Vegas, then LA. One packed up and left Germany.

And every one of them muhfcukas is back in NYC.

I'ma need my friends to fan out again, please. I'm not spending my monthlong school/work winter break on the A train. I need a steady surface for my pen and notepad.

If you live in an exotic locale (and by exotic I mean not northeast US), and you have a comfy couch...I got liquor and grocery money. Hollerrrrrrr!

~Management

RIGHT TO BE WRONG

2007-11-07T21:25:00.000-05:00

I could be wrong about this one...so y'all please let me know if I am. Lemme just talk my way through it...

Today, I used the word 'cracker' at least twice via text message. It's offensive. It's inappropriate. And most of all, I know better. Yet, if someone were to fwd said texts to the Deans of my school, let's say, should I be fired? (and never mind that I go to a black school, and that they might just chuckle and have a 'cracker' story of their own)

I regularly employ questionable language, judgment and content on this here blog. Imagine if a hater were to rat me out to a client, or an editor or some other check writer...are my offenses egregious enough to warrant a pay cut??

This is where I get tripped up. Because maybe my offenses really are as harmless as I think. But what if they're not??

What if for once I am NOT the one "with all the answers" (that are sometimes wrong)...and it's far above my head to understand just how bad my words might be?

Which really freaks me out because I fancy myself fairly balanced and decently educated and politically aware.

I am of the belief that people have the right to be racist. There's plenty wrong with it, but I don't see anything wrong with using a racial term when provoked. PRIVATELY. Where the problem lies is when you are racist and intimidate, discriminate or otherwise taunt or subjugate a person based on race. Where it's also a no no is if your racism is on display for public consumption, like via the (!mus) media.

The first time I heard about Bitch the B.Hunter's tape recorded rants about the son's black girl, my first thought was...well, IS she a trife nig? I might be wrong for that. Probably am.

But am I also wrong for thinking that a private nigtastic convo shouldnt end this guy's career? Particularly when you listen to the content and hear the context for him saying it. (He was basically telling the son that he couldnt work with him if the chick was gonna be around because they use the word ngga and he didnt want the chick to record it and sell it to the media).

I do know that I'm not wrong about the media having some nerve to keep trying folks in the court of public opinion. That shit is wrong. Wrong because the media have an unresolved history of failing to explore and understand race and racism with any type of critical analysis, nor responsibility. So to see Bitch on CNN tonight, to hear the tapes online, to see his face on every news program I watch, feels so hypocritical and wrong.

I might be wrong, but I know I wouldnt find it fair to be out of a paycheck for calling a cracker a cracker.

ANGER MIS-MANAGEMENT

2007-10-29T00:29:00.000-04:00

“Wise, did I tell you that Mommy said I have too much hate in my heart?”

“And it only took her 37 years to figure this out.”

My brother. He’s not called “Anger Management” for nothing. Never mind that he’s my mom’s fav [if you’re a parent, save it! I don’t care how my mom tries to spin it, we’re ranked…and on any given day I come in at either 2nd or 3rd out of 4.]…but he’s also absolutely insane. My mom of all people, should know this.

I also rank my siblings. The one I call when I need advice. The one I run to for a hug. The one I call when I’m pissed or need help...

“Anger, yo, I can barely even see straight right now, I’m so fucking MAD.”

“Where you at and who you with?”

“Downtown BMore. My boy is with me. Can you please tell me why I just got kicked out of this bullshit ass bar just now. And by kicked out, I mean literally picked up off my feet like the goddamn Thursday trash, and dropped outside on the curb. AND I AINT EVEN DRUNK?!”

“Oh shit. What you do?”

“Ok, it’s fcuking, 25 cent bottle night, right, so I’m there with like 7 other people. I had JUST gotten a round of Hein.ekens for everybody before last call (11pm), and we’re sitting in this little booth. So three of my friends were not at the table, like either in the bathroom or pool table pimpin, and this bouncer kid come over and sweeps the bottles into the trash and walks away. So I kindly stand up, follow him and ask for an explanation.

"Please tell me why this fat muhfucker yells in my face, [and of course I do the BMore cracker accent] “You can’t have beers stacked up like that!”

"So I say, ‘Ahh ok sir…now mind you, bitch can’t be more than 22…ok sir, but #1, we didn’t know that was a rule; and #2, they’re not stacked up. The people who will be drinking them are just in the bathroom.”

"“I don’t care, you cant have them stacked up like that!” he yells at me again, as if, maybe, I dunno, I can speak the language but can’t understand it. So I take a deep breath and explain again, and this time I tell him that he could have just TOLD us to get rid of them rather than to TAKE them.

"And please tell me why he gets in my face yelling again, and so at this point I have no other recourse than to let his ass have it. Mid-cuss out, Fat Bitch tells me to leave. I laugh, but before I can even turn around good, another big burly muhfucka comes up out of nowhere and picks my ass up off the ground and carries me thru the fcuking bar. Again, as if I am a Glad bag of bottles and stale nachos, yo.”

My brother pauses, and I know in this moment that he is not about to judge or question or chastise me as my other siblings would have. He and I are *here* with it. I know that in that brief pause he has also blacked out on my behalf, and is counting backwards from 10. And I know at that moment we’re both thinking that if he was here he would have handled him on for me without hesitation.

“So what did you do?”

And tears have now accompanied the story, white flashing in my eyes as I recall the still-fresh fury.

“I couldn’t believe what was happening. You know how you see the real drunk white girl get carted out? But she’s ALWAYS passed out when she gets carried out. Or she’s cussing. And I am neither. My only instinct was to pick up my feet off the ground while he's carrying me so that it doesn’t look like I’m struggling and fucked up.

"So he drops me outside and my friends are right behind me. I tell him that I dropped my shoe and the other one is right there and basically throws it at me. I turn to the people in line, SO embarrassed, and I have this blank look on my face like, “Am I the only one who sees this ridiculous shit?” So then the bouncer outside starts calling me all types of bitch, and the ones who kicked me out join in. There’s a little ngga cop standing right there and he does and say NOTHING. I’m fcuking fed up. I stand toe to fcuking toe with the Fat Bitch one and I smirk and flip his dirty ass baseball cap off his head. And I swear to God if my friend hadn’t stepped in btwn us, I KNOW he would have lifted his fat fcuking fist to punch me in my face. And I was BEGGING him to do it. Instead my friends talked me down and we left.”

“Where are you now?”

“Around the corner at the car...”

“Pacing and shit.” He takes the words out of my mouth. I'm SO glad to be talking to someone who understands.

I joke a lot about wanting to fight, and I’m prone to flipping out and all, and I'm constantly being told that this isn’t the way to live (as if I'm truly violent and destructive. I'm not at all).

But I have to ask, Why the fuck not?? Is anger not a legitimate emotion? Is it not warranted in many instances? What’s so bad about being upset…is it the fact that it’s very easy to lose all semblance of common sense and do something stupid?

Ok so let’s assume, that I’m a well-adjusted, level headed adult, who knows right from wrong and makes wise decisions (on any given day I may or may not register about 3 out of those 5). Is it ok then for me to be angry? Can I say out loud that I’m furious without someone stepping in and trying to convince me that this isn’t the way to go?

My brother is on a whole different level with his. Exhibit A:

“So I was at the Cowboys-Bills game the other week…”

“The Monday night game? You went?”

“Yup dolo. You know I always go when Dallas comes up here. So there’s mad Cowboys fans there but I’m like the only one in my section. And the whole game they’re riding me. After the second interception they’re going crazy and I’m chilling. I just keep saying, ‘It's not over until the final whistle and I'm not leaving a second before that.’

So then when T.O. missed the 2pt conversion this white chick turns to me and starts laughing and THROWS HER BEER AT ME. [pause…You’re probably willing to bet that he said something slick to provoke this. Trust, he would tell me if he did.]

“So you call her all types of bitch,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Not even. I mushed her,” he says with the calmest voice ever.

“You mushed her?!"

"Yup."

"Wait..like, you mushed her down or you mushed her back.”

“I mushed her so hard she woulda fell backwards if there wasn’t anyone behind her. Who told her silly ass to be wasting good beer?!”

I’m at this point crying laughing. “So what happened?”

“Her red faced boyfriend rolls up on me like he’s about to do something. Then the Yellow Coats (security) come and get me. I told them I had to go to the bathroom to clean up, and when I was in there I heard someone radio the dude telling him something happened in the next row over. So I slipped out and went back and saw the rest of the game.”

“She poured her entire beer on you.” I repeat. Then pause. Black out for him. Shake my head. And I know at that moment we’re both thinking that if I was there I would have handled her on his behalf without hesitation.

“So that’s why Mommy said you have hate in your heart?”

“No, she said it cuz I almost beat the shit out of the cop who gave me a ticket for playing my music too loud.”

Pissed. And I don’t blame him.

LAUGH NOW

2007-10-22T15:26:00.000-04:00

Wrapped neatly in a shiny red bow, my laugh is the gift that keeps on giving. It is by far among God’s greatest creations. Is there a more versatile weapon than The Laugh?

It is a social lubricant of sorts. A well-timed laugh can ease an awkward silence, and even endear a stranger. It’s widely documented that I generally dislike People, so can you imagine NOT having the option of laughing behind one’s back?? *shudder*

It is a natural punctuation. Small giggles hook long explanations like commas. Drawn out cackles connect compound sentences…like an ellipsis. Inappropriate laughs clank like dangling participles or grammatically incorrectibles. Involuntarily, often.

Ever diffuse a situation with the simple stroke of a snicker? Tension high and thick like butter. Then a loud, languid laugh slices through it like a warm knife. Now that’s power. Speaking of which…

Laughter garners control. While on the one hand it aims to charm and perhaps even disarm, a laugh is lethal when flexed like a strong arm. I’ll admit, I’m not exactly always conscious and calculated about it, but I recognize it when it happens. The effect is fantastic, as power tends to be.

But what happens when you find that the big stick you wield is no longer the biggest on the block? When your laugh is merely the baseline for another? When you’re the one disarmed and charmed? When that other laugh resonates, echoes even, at decibels beyond your capacity?

My legs parted slightly, trembling already, involuntarily of course. A tongue tracing in ALL CAPS along my skin, exclamation points abound. My mind a mess of meandering moments, maybe more or less than a full second. Not sure. Lost, kind of.

Generously self-lubricated and aware that I generally dislike People, but let this one in. Deep, in fact.

To the point of no return. Beyond the door at which control is checked and relinquished.

A shiny red ribbon tying neat figure 8s around My Spot. It’s no joke now. Ask my legs. They refuse to stop shivering. Ask my mind, and you’ll get no answer. Blank stares as I’m climbing blank stairs, no labels or signs to direct me.

My legs parted wide, the trembling now concentrated under my skin where I can’t reach it. And though my hands are useless anyways, occupied by scalp, I don’t want anything altered. Not the rhythm, not the angle, not anything about this particular pubic probe.

Except that would require relinquishing control. And I can’t even do that, just this once.

Cue the well-timed Laugh. Long and lean like an interfering defensive back. Blindsiding the moment...mid-munch.

The abrupt awkward silence. My legs wide shut. Tight. The recall of personal space...and control. Such a versatile weapon.

The greatest gift…and curse.

Damn.

I JUST WONDERED

2007-10-14T21:27:00.000-04:00

Do you ever wonder what your life might be like if your history was altered, even slightly? I don’t normally, but an interesting convo with my mom sent my imagination into orbit.

One of her homegirls from back in the day is finally retiring. Her daughters, who I think are just a bit older than me, threw her a surprise party and knew from all those “back in the day” stories that my mom should be among the invitees.

So Mom’s all excited about her trip to Queens for the party. I arrange her travel and we talk daily about how she feels like a teenager, all anxious and excited to go. She’s doing a lot of reminiscing and I’m doing a lot of listening, because I realized recently that I don’t really know too much about either of my parents’ lives before my black ass arrived at the last minute.

*In my best Sophia from Golden Girls voice*

Picture if you will… Washington, DC, 1967…as told by Mother Wise…

“My father died two weeks before I was scheduled to leave Jamaica for America. I was torn about what to do. I felt like I should stay, but I knew in my heart that I couldn’t stand to be there without him. Half of the family thought I should stay, the other half demanded I go. So go I did.

“Back in those days America was recruiting people from the islands to come and work here as domestics. So when I got to DC, there were a lot of us already here. The Jamaican ambassador used to throw these parties every weekend at his house and all the young people would go. That’s where I met Urseline, Claudette, lawd, so many people.

“So one Saturday I went to the party and I met a guy who was the ambassador’s personal chef. I had seen him at all the parties before and some of his friends were friends with some of mine. Your father.

“All of a sudden I’m at the Ambassador’s house all the time, and getting to know your dad. Then out of the blue I don’t talk to him for a day, then two days, then almost a week.
By the end of that week I get a call from your Aunt Urseline (the one who’s retiring), and she says she has something to tell me.

“Future Wise’s Daddy is moving to NY. That’s why he hasn’t called you. He doesn’t know how to tell you. He quit his job with the ambassador because he said they weren’t paying him right. So he’s going up to NY with his uncle.”

“By the time I get your father on the phone I find out it’s true. For the next year I spent a lot of time on the bus traveling from Washington to NY. That was, what, 1968.”

“So Mommy, did you have to ride the back of the buses and stuff like that?”

“No! That was long gone. I didn’t get any of that stuff when I got here.” [Editor’s note: Yo, FYI- West Indians are notorious for their denial of racism and vicitimization. I’m struck by the fact that my Mom has no recollection of no ’68 riots or nothing!]

“So you moved Upstate and lived happily ever after?”

“No. First I moved to Long Island to work for another year. Then on one visit Upstate I just never went back. By this time I got my permanent resident papers. Naturally, I married your Dad and he got his.”

I’m struck by the Choose Your Own Adventureness of my parents’ history. Had their decisions or circumstances been altered in any tiny number of ways, my entire life would have been also.

What if the Ambassador hadn’t tried to be slick with my Dad’s paper? I might have been born in Howard Hospital, and grown up in an Embassy. Who the hell would my friends have been? Would my professional aspirations be the same? Would my parents have earned more money? Would I have been one of those bourgie West Indians who mentally separated myself from the common folks (read: Trinis. I kid, I kid!)

God forbid, would I be a Bison alum? *shudder at the thought*

Or what about if my mom had persuaded my Dad to come chill on Long Island? Who the hell would I be then? Would I have an obnoxious accent, grown up sneaking my way onto the LIRR en route to some Brooklyn house parties? Would I have been destined for Columbia or worse, NYU? Who would my best friends be? What about my first kiss, my fav teacher, daily routine? If not Mimi D., then whose ass would I have whupped in my only official fist fight? Wait, I’m still a lil concerned about that accent…

Or better yet, what if my mother had chosen to stay in Jamaica after burying her father? Who might my father be then? Would that technically constitute me being me at all under those circumstances?

It’s hard not to look back for guidance on your journey forward.

Even harder not to wonder.

ANYTIME MINUTES

2007-10-04T09:06:00.000-04:00

There’s that moment when the exhaustion burns from the whites of your eyes, straight back to the hook of your damn head.

If you peep over at the clock radio you’ll be at once rendered blind by the hot, fuzzy red, and incredulous at how much time has escaped you. How little is left before you must abandon your bed.

Speaking of which…the sheets are bunched up in all the wrong places. Pillows stationed at random checkpoints, marking spots where you’d posted up for undetermined stretches of time.

Your stomach is folding over itself, and you wonder if this is what happens when you’re asleep...bec that’s what you should be doing at this particular moment.

But who can sleep at 1, 2, 3, 4 in the morning…

“You see what time it is?”

“I don’t care to look.”

The newness blossoms in the wee hours. The fundamental necessity of sleep is rendered optional, when you lose yourself and all track of time within the amusing cadence of the voice in your ear. Laughing, sighing, and making a mockery of your anytime minutes.

I'M TRYING TO FIGURE OUT IF THIS SOUNDS AS FUCKING ABSURD AS I THINK IT DOES...

2007-09-26T14:16:00.001-04:00

I had the most interesting experience yesterday.

I went to an Italian restaurant in the, you know, Italian part of town. I had the lasagna and a glass of wine and that really great bread they like to serve.

But what truly struck me was that there were no strippers there. Sure, there were quite a few overweight, scary looking Italian guys, but none of them carried any visible weapons. And not one single person got wacked.

I may have seen a suicidal son or two dining with sociopathic dads and delusional moms.

But all in all, "that’s really what this society’s all about now here in the U.S.A. There’s no difference. There’s no difference. There may be a cultural entertainment — people may gravitate toward different cultural entertainment, but you go down to Little Italy, and you’re gonna have that. It has nothing to do with the color of anybody’s skin."

Our JENAration

2007-09-20T14:02:00.001-04:00

I swear, I woulda been a Black.Panther back in the day.

Big, audacious ‘fro bouncing, swaying, trying to keep up as I march.

Not sure if I’da been gangsta enough to garnish a shotty, but I woulda for sure been the one with the camera, documenting the resistance.

I woulda had the pen out, blazing, writing out the Ten Point Plan. I woulda broke into whatever campus office and “xerox’d” some copies.

More recently, had I not been forbidden on the grounds of my gender, I woulda been among a million brothers (yeah, trying to get numbers and losing sight of the real cause from time to time, but, whatev). But that’s what it reminded me of this morning when I tuned in to CNN and saw a sea of black-clad Black folks descended on rural Louisiana. Whites, too. It reminded me of the Milli0n Man March and how badly I wanted to be there.

But this morning I got my BP on, and grabbed the mic in front of a dilapidated library still in use by my campus until the new one opens. Just a few blocks from where a 24 year old brother got gunned down at around noon on Monday. In front of a similar sea of black. My peers. The youngens I curse daily on my travels thru campus.

“I’m proud as hell to be a Morgan State grad student this morning, just like I’m proud as hell to be Black every day,” I announced.

If I was a Black Panther, I wouldn’t have been the fire breather. My words were measured, carefully chosen, deliberately spaced out and articulated. I tend to get more hype speaking to Sprint customer service.

I’m the Black Panther with the camera, more interested in turning the mic around to those with no voice. Those who need to shout.

This whole Jena thing reeks of 1957. And back then it was students who marched and organized and got things done. Students, who captured the world's attention. And in 2007 we’re in a position to organize and get things done. And yup, capture the world's attention.

“Now that the cameras are here, let’s have something to say. Look into these TV and still cameras that rarely come here, and instead of dancing and shuffling, open your mouth and say something that means something. And if God forbid, this city reaches 300 murders this year, if there are no financial aid reforms at this school, I better see you all right back here, rallying and shouting. And I better see the cameras back here then, too.”

Take a sec to look at some photos and video from Jena, Louisiana today.

Take a look at the movement, and get in where you fit in. You don’t have to be a Black Panther, just contribute like one.

*drops the mic and walks off*

HOLY EFFING MATRIMONY

2007-09-17T14:24:00.000-04:00

What the fuck is up with weddings?!

So one of my older “brothers” got married Labor Day weekend, and if it was a nightmare for me, I can only imagine the hell they went through.

What I cant imagine, or I guess what I can’t figure out is why the hell weddings seem to bring out the absolute worst in people. People with whom you’re related, no less.

Maybe it’s the conventions that are unreasonable. Maybe it really IS too much to ask your family members to set aside their criticism and just go along with the colors you and your spouse-to-be have selected.

And like, how dare you expect your entire crew to fucking TRAVEL, since the bride to be isn’t from where you’re from.

And who in the hell decided that the groomsmen have to effing bring back their own tuxes?? I don’t care how nice of a gift (ipods) you gave their complaining asses.

The more I think about it, the more I can see how ridiculous the entire set up is. I can kinda see why the NY folks were so pissed that the hotel THEY selected cuz it was cheaper than the one recommended by the couple, was more than a few miles away.

I guess I can let slide the heckling coming from the back rows of the Catholic ceremony, cuz after all, there WAS a lot of standing and praying.

I cant blame said NYers for choosing not to mingle at the cocktail hour at the country club reception. Hell, I wanted to sit alllll the way in the corner on the balcony overlooking a fantastic golf course too, joking about us enjoying this now because it’s the last time our black asses will ever be somewhere this nice. I WANTED to, but shit, the bar and food were on the other side. And I happen to ENJOY mingling with fine folks with dough.

And not that I didn’t tip the bartenders even though the gratuities were absorbed by the couple, but I dunno, that’s the decent thing to do at an open bar. The INdecent thing would be to bitch about it not being top shelf (it was, there just wasn’t no fucking Henney, ngga).

And if a person doesn’t HAVE a credit card, then it’s useless trying to explain the concept of frequent flyer miles. So yeah, might as well hate on the honeymoon destinations of Thailand and Malaysia and simply rationalize the fact that both make at least 6 figures, and have no kids (the opposite of you).

I wont even mention the rings. Them shits WERE insane.

It’s tough when you grew up one way but elevate beyond it…but your friends and fam haven’t. It aint easy being a rock star at a rap show. A Mohawk amongst brush cuts.

And it aint easy keeping your mouth shut when you’re out of your element and asked to follow someone else’s conventions.

But for Christ sake, it’s a wedding. Shut the fuck up, clink the damn glass a few times, get out on the dance floor when you hear the Cha Cha beat drop, eat the damn cake, stop worrying bout the bill unless it’s YOUR AmEx it’s showing up on next month, get drunk, and SMILE.

Is it really that difficult?

WTF?!

BATTLE??

2007-09-11T13:45:00.000-04:00

“Wise, this is Mom. I just called to see how you’re feeling (I had a root canal yesterday), and to remember 9-11. I’ll never forget not being able to reach you on that day. And I can’t reach you now! *she laughs* Love you. Talk soon.”

That morning, I had to email my brothers to get the message home that I was ok. Wondering if like the phones, somehow the internet was also affected by this mess.

A sea of yellow cabs uptown. That’s what I remember most. If you know Harlem, you know cabbies don’t fuck with Uptown. But that day, there was no place else for them to go.

All the Puerto Rican flags hanging from the windows and fire escapes in my hood were promptly replaced with the red, white and blue. U.S. stars and stripes, that is.

You couldn’t walk a block without seeing large glass encased candles lining the curbs.

Will never forget the blank stares from the firefighters from the house around the corner on 3^rd Ave. it was like an open house, everyone coming by to pay respect and condolences.

All the video that the public will never see. The stuff that’s archived by the newsrooms. Stuff we logged but never discussed.

The nightmares that ensued.

The photos plastered about Union Square. Like a citywide yearbook.

St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Packed.

Walking everywhere. Not ready to get back on the subway. And cops and military lining the paths, always.

The dust that hung overhead.

Hearing from people I didn’t even know knew I was in NY.

And today, all niggas talking bout is Cornye and 50??

GTFOH!

Fuck it. I’m buying Kenny Chesney and calling my mom back.

THIS JUST IN...from my boys over at All.Hip.H0p.com (I am SOOO copping Chesney now. If 50 comes in at #3? HAHAHA):

The race for the top of the pop chart started yesterday (September 11) when highly anticipated albums by rappers 50 Cent and Kanye West hit stores. According to early sales reports, Kanye West's Island Def Jam album Graduation is on pace to sell over 750,000 copies the first week in stores, while 50 Cent's Shady/Aftermath/Interscope album Curtis is expected to move around 550,000 units. West's Graduation is expected to debut at the top of the Billboard Top 200 charts next week, while Curtis will battle for the #2 spot with country music star Kenny Chesney. A number of retail outlets have said that West's Graduation is outselling 50 Cent's Curtis by at least 2 to 1.

DELIRIUM AT DAWN

2007-09-10T10:05:00.000-04:00

I don’t even really fuck wit mornings like that…but we been coexisting of late.

So I woke up early this morning without provocation. Shuffled to the back door to water the plants. Sun shining but not hot. Opened the fridge. Scanned the eggs, cheese, turkey. French Vanilla creamer.

Decided to go out for breakfast.

I been slacking on my running. Nursing a sore groin and avoiding a necessary trip to Lady Foot.L0cker. Plus school.

So I pulled on some shorts and a whitebeater (as my nephew says. Yeah, his daddy’s a racist). Loosened the laces on my snug kicks. Clipped on some music and hit the door.

Hitting the pavement felt good. As did the light perspiration that ensued shortly thereafter. Ran up on a crumpled dollar on the curb, stooped to scoop it. Must be my lucky day. I rounded the edge of the park, crossed Charles St. and dipped into the bank. My head spun the minute I stopped moving. Stomach empty. Lightheaded. Had a hard time trying to line up the damn columns on the ATM machine, which is a difficult enough task even when I’m not dizzy.

Ducked back out. Deep breath. Unpaused Wycl.ef. Let my feet move me the next few blocks to the new A’rab take out. Crossing another main street, bouncing in place, I glance back, out of habit. This Bawtuhmore, son. That’s what you do.

And I almost lost my balance.

Almost dropped my keys and cash.

I spun completely. Scanned the side street and alley. Nothing. I sighed and dragged myself inside the spot.

“Lemme get a egg, cheese and turkey on whole wheat, pls. And a small French vanilla coffee.”

I wandered over to the door as I waited. Watched the morning pass by. Got my food and walked home, hot coffee and paper bag in hand. I walked a different route. Toward what I know I had seen a few minutes prior. Lightheaded...

A flash of solid oak. And sweat drizzled thereof.

I’d recognize that back anywhere. And that bouquet of locs.

Right??

Sigh.

9~3~07...(MY) FATHER'S DAY

2007-09-03T11:33:00.000-04:00

Today, my siblings, Mom and I, will enjoy Guin.ness/rum/Nutra.ment drinks,
and play By the Rivers of Babyl0n on repeat all day long.

Wah'gwan Daddy! Yuh nuh easy! Mi miss yuh and long fi see yuh. :)

MORNING... AFTER

2007-08-30T22:54:00.000-04:00

[YESSSS...I'm still SEXIN STRONG, via blog that is. The events detailed in this post provided the real life initial inspiration for my marathon multiple blogasms...Enjoy. ~Management]
===

Last Monday...

It's always best in the morning...after a full night's insomnia. Tossing and turning, anxious for dawn to usher in the energy and hope of another day. The morning…after I’ve been satisfied.

On this morning, I caught my breath and stepped one foot onto the hardwood floor…the contrasting sensation of cold zipping like mercury through my heat.

The blast of water in the shower has a similar effect in the morning…after a full night’s sweat.

In the 30 or so steps it takes to get from the porcelain foot of the tub to the window in my bedroom, my skin has already absorbed the excess mist. Summer is on hiatus at the moment, as the storm clouds bum rush my horizon. Humidity plays sidekick. The muscle.

There’s something about the rain in the morning…after a hot midnight. The earth’s shower. There’s something about its cadence upon impact on my windowsill. On the concrete. Atop the hood of my car parked just across the street.

I stand in front of the window, the vertical blinds allowing only strips of a vertictal view. I see my car and the rain’s onslaught. And I wanna get back into bed. I want the sheets to umbrella me.

I turn toward my shelter, when out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse through the blinds.

A thigh.

Then a forearm.

A cross-trained foot pulled up to a taught...

My eyes are bad, but I can see that ass clearly.

I’m moving my head slowly, left to right…boring a hole through the blinds.

He’s all charcoal skin. Sinewy, shirtless stretches. Dreads tied back. Arms dented with strength.

At the moment, I need to be reached. I need his arms not on the tree parked beside my ride, but rooted on my sides.

Instead, I’m now rubbing lotion there on me, as I do most mornings. After all, ashy ain’t a good look when you’re expecting company.

Every morning I stand in this exact spot, at this exact time, flirting with the commuters down below who have no idea that nakedness dances just beyond the blinds. If only they’d look up.

I’d wave.

Or perhaps there is someone just beyond the blinds just across the street, also 3 floors up, looking directly across at me looking down. If only they’d let me know.

I’d hide.

If only the charcoal man would look up from his morning jog out in the rain. If only he’d turn his attention away from the tree on which he is leaning for balance. Stretching, bending, reaching for the rain clouds.

I’d throw down my house key.

If only I knew he was coming. We’d both be, right about now.

But I never listen to my dreams. When I saw him, around midnight, in a sleepless dream, I rolled over and counted the hours ‘til morning.

He's gone now. A blur in the rain.

I almost run after him.

NC & IL

2007-08-26T20:57:00.000-04:00

No, I havent cracked yet...I just need to interrupt the orgy for a quick request...

Anybody in Chitown or Raleigh, email me, pretty pls.

(Thanks, MDubb!
Brown Blogger, I tried to holler at you but your email isnt on your page)

TONITE'S THE NIGHT LIKE BET.TY WRIGHT...

2007-08-23T00:02:00.000-04:00

And now the second installment in the SEX WEEK series...(part 1)

“My sister said you’re home.”
“Hello to you, too, B. Long time. I thought you were gonna email me.”
“Come over,” Bryan answered. Weazy took a deep breath, knowing that her summer wouldn’t be the same if she complied.
“What, you big sophomore in college now so you can’t come see an old friend who knew you before you were grown?”
“Where are you living now, Bryan? Kinney told me what went down with (grand)Ma.” Within an hour the pair were sitting side by side on Kinney’s boyfriend’s couch in the basement of his apartment. A six-pack of wine coolers separated their thighs. This was their routine. Long talks after long disappearances. There was always so much catching up to do, between Weazy’s college exploits, and Bryan’s drama with his grandmother and uncles.
“So who you let have my cherry?” He finally asked, tossing the last bottle onto the floor.
“Excuse me, your what?” He winked his way through her mild aggravation, leaned over and planted a moist peck on her forehead, then lips. It was perhaps their thousandth kiss. Up to that point it was the staple of their horizontal history. There was always an attraction, always cohesion to their conversations, always quality in their quiet times. There just wasn’t much of a bond. They were friends who happened to make the other wet or hard.

Back in high school they spent days in Bryan’s grandmother’s basement that should have been spent in classrooms. She would brave the winters at the bus stop, counting the minutes until she’d be warmly wrapped in his lanky arms. They logged hours on the telephone. Double dated with Kinney and her barrage of boyfriends. But they were never considered an item. Weren’t prom dates, nor at the top of the other’s Christmas list.

Yet, as Weazy approached 21, and the halfway point of her college years, the yearning was becoming more pronounced. There were college boys with off-campus apartments. Boys with advanced degrees in sexuality that far exceeded Weazy’s desires. She wanted to go some of the way, but was unwilling to go all the way. Not without a map.

At the moment, Bryan’s hands were headed in the right direction. They slid from the side of her face to the side of her chest. Soon her breasts were swept up into his hands, and soon his face found respite there. He unleashed her flesh from the simple brassiere, and before the dank basement air could hit, his mouth covered her tepid nipples. Another of his signature moves, performed on countless occasions. One that elicited the slightest of moans each and every time. This time there was a sigh. And a smile. And a silent recognition and appreciation for the comfort. The familiarity. The fervor.

She pursed her lips to purr and was met with a wet set. With her eyes closed she could practically draw in each line and crease that etched the small pillows he called lips. They had a feather’s touch, and each time her lips met his, she felt the urge to pull away and inspect his for an imprint. Weazy was no slouch. She parted the siege with the precision of the anointed, allowing her tongue to announce its graceful arrival.

If all else failed, kissing was her thing. It was her area of mastery. A kissing bandit of sorts, she found sport in planting juicy ones, wielding wet lips like a sword. Kissing got her out of many a jam. In middle school she learned that when a boy’s fast hands were jogging well beyond her intended destination, a few deep kisses to the neck could buy enough time to distract and redirect her panties up north. It did little but agitate in high school, but college brought on a new life lesson. The penis was not the only powerful pressure point in the pelvic region. And hitting the others with the lips causes a frenzy that can easily divert immediate oral expectations.

Guys had gone down on her and seemed happy to do it. So she never even lifted her chin to reciprocate. Not out of spite. Out of fear and foresight. Fear of getting it wrong, but with the foresight to know that her name would be sullied from one end of the campus to the next. So kissing remained her staple, because even pretending goes a long way.

But with Bryan there was a respect built. A trust that allowed her to give without regret. So when she had given every inch of her tongue to his mouth, she portioned it out across the rest of his body. She straddled his chest and took in the shimmering green tint of his gaze. His mouth was tilted toward her, begging, but she focused her attention instead on the cleft in his chin. She liked the scratchy stubble against her skin. He liked the trail of kisses from there to his chest.
She lingered at the thin wisps of hair there. He squirmed his way to the left until his nipple was eye to eye with her tongue.
She loved to pay homage to the protruding scar on the left side of his torso. He would have preferred she skip that route, but held her hunches in place there anyway.
She tried inching down but felt a long barricade against her backside. Though he was poised to position her center in the direction of the erection, he allowed her to choose her own adventure.

She chose to U-turn.

He lifted up onto his hands, his chest plastered against her back, which now faced him. Her face pointed toward the socks still on his feet. He leaned back onto the pullout couch in the dark basement of his sister’s boyfriend’s crib, and lightly yet with an entitled authority placed two hands on her back. Pressed her forward.

Horizontal. Naked. Knees against ears. Their clothes now a casualty. They waged war simultaneously.

She surrendered just moments before him.

The next night…

“Yo, we 69’ed!”
“Yeah right.”
“Stated. That’s my word.”
“Aight, nigga.”
“Lemme get back down there.”

Bryan had left out the part about how the only reason they did that again, for the second night in a row, was because he couldn’t get the condom on. Weazy was pissed and hurt, because she didn’t know his sister’s boyfriend all that well, and had more respect for her friend than to let her brother’s business get back to her. She told him so when he came back down to the basement with a glass of water for her.

“You couldn’t wait to run your mouth, huh?”
“What?”
“I could hear through the damn walls, Bryan. At least have enough respect for me to wait until I’m gone.”
“Boo.”
“I’m out.”

Out, but not gone. She was back there every night that week. And every night marked yet another failed attempt at shaking loose her virginity.

But on the eighth night…

“I can cut diamonds, boo. Gimme the rubber.” Weazy felt the furnace of hell at her back as she said a silent prayer for this to be it. She held her breath, having abandon the fantasy of putting it on for him, back on Night Three.

In fact, she didn’t even bother sitting up. She counted stripes in the wood paneled walls instead. Then an entire set of teeth appeared grinning in her view. The green of Bryan’s eyes were more sparkling than ever before. They held a promise.

Without speaking, her kissed her with deep undulations, an almost feverish rhythm to his cadence. His hands held her face gently, then tightly. Hands that smelled of fresh latex. Then came a deliberate succession of actions.

Fingers through her fresh perm.
Kisses to her eyelids and nose and ear.
Her head cradled in his arms, in an almost supplicant swoop.
His skin pressed solidly on top of hers.
Her right leg pulled up around his waist.
Then a silent, unspoken knock at her door.
An inquiring look in the eye. Then permission granted.
Then an ambitious thrust.
And a wide-eyed stare. And a gasp.
And the answered assumptions of apprehension and anticipation.

“Where did you find that candle?”
“It was sitting right on the top of the toilet tank,” Weazy answered.
“Why can’t I join you?”
“Because I just wanna be alone for a sec, B.” From his spot on the floor, Bryan reached into the bathtub and playfully splashed water onto Weazy’s skin.
“You didn’t even bleed, boo. The couch is totally clean.”*
“Yeah, well good thing I can’t stain his bathtub, because I’m sitting in a pool of blood right now.”
“The water’s cold.”
“It’s perfect.”
“So are you.” Bryan kissed Weazy on the lips and stood to his feet. Standing in his boxers and bare chest, he looked down at her, shoulders hunched, shivering in the shallow water in the bathtub of his sister’s boyfriend’s apartment.

“Come out soon, boo.”

Weazy’s gaze remained on the faucet before her.

She heard his feet on the hardwood floors descending the stairs and exhaled. She picked up the votive candle with wet hands and examined herself in the flickering light.

If the candle had been a mirror, Weazy would have seen the enormous grin spread across her face like the sunrise. She blew it out and cupped water into her hands and over her face. She began kicking her legs and squealing with the thrill of a newborn. She conjured up the best I’m-sitting-in-a-tub-and-I-just-had-sex dance she could within the confines of the tub. She stood up and stretched her limbs. Swiveled her hips recklessly to gauge the status of her internals.

Stable.

She stepped out of the tub and onto the towel Bryan left for her.

Weazy had no clue exactly what she was stepping into.

But she couldn’t wait. Because at that very moment, she was elated, knowing that her first time happened not a moment sooner than she could have handled.

*In real life I can’t remember if this is true or not. I’m kind of remembering being mortified at him telling me the exact opposite. It’s quite possible that I blocked this shit out, and if that’s the case I’d like to keep it that way.

Care to share your first time? (use your own yard pls, don’t be doing it on my property!)

DIRTY TALK

2007-08-22T10:59:00.000-04:00

[I know I wasn't the only person horrified that bl0gger was on crack this morning. :)]

So since I'm not getting any, I'm gonna talk about sex every day until I crack.

Remember undergrad? There were basically 3 topics that led to bonding with new people...old school
TV, high school exploits, and SEX.

So here goes...


1. HAVE YOU GOTTEN LAID IN 2007?

Oh.My.God. (I'm assuming this means "intercourse")


2. EVER HAD SEX IN A PUBLIC PLACE?

Yes


3. EVER LAUGH DURING SEX?

That shit WAS funny.


4. EVER CRY DURING SEX?

That damn 112 CD still makes me tear up.


5. DO YOU LIKE TO CUDDLE AFTER SEX?

Yes...but then I like to sprawl out and pass out.


6. EVER REGRET SEX WITH SOMEONE?

Yes...but reconciled it by refusing sex from others later.


7. EVER FAKED AN ORGASM?

*blank stare*


8. DIRTY TALK, OR SHUT THE FUCK UP?

The ONE time I dont mind someone running their mouth.
Speak up!


9. EVER HAVE UNPROTECTED SEX?

Never.


10. EVER MASTURBATE TO YOUR FRIEND'S SIGNIFICANT
OTHER?

My friends like ugly guys...so notsomuch.


11. EVER HAVE A ONE NIGHT STAND?

Nope.


12. EVER WATCH PORN DURING SEX?

Says a lot about the sex that I can actually recall the porn.


14. EVER THOUGHT OF SOMEONE ELSE DURING SEX?

Duh.


15. HAS THE CONDOM EVER BROKEN?

Yup.


16. WHAT IS YOUR MOST EMBARRASSING SEXUAL EXPERIENCE?

"I know it's up there somewhere."


17. HOW OLD WERE YOU WHEN YOU LOST YOUR VIRGINITY?

21


18. WHO WOULD YOU LIKE TO HAVE SEX WITH RIGHT NOW?

Who DON'T I wanna have sex with right now.


19. DO YOU THINK THAT #18 IS POSSIBLE?

Very much...if ever I, um, open up.


20. ARE YOU HORNY NOW?

SON!


21. HOW MANY SEXUAL PARTNERS?

Not enough, yet too many.
But for the record, I'm one of those chicks who is mad political about her "numbers."


22. DO YOU LIKE SEX IN THE CAR?

If it's good sex!


23. DO YOU STILL TALK TO THE PERSON YOU LOST VIRGINITY
TO?

Spoke to his sister recently...and I doubt his baby moms would appreciate me calling.


24. EVER HAVE SEX WITH A RELATIVE/FRIEND'S SIGNIFICANT
OTHER?

My friends/relatives like losers, so no.


25. EVER BEEN WITH A CHEATER?

Not that I know of.


26. TOYS, GOOD OR BAD?

Great.


27. LINGERIE?

Waste of time, but ok.


28. EVER SLEEP WITH A CO-WORKER?

Yup, but not at work.

29. WHERE HAVE YOU HAD SEX?
(x)park
()church (wait, you mean intercourse?)
()cemetery
()beach
()boat
()school
()parent's bed
(X)your bed
(X)car
()picnic table
(x)kitchen counter
(X)couch/chair
(x)dining room/kitchen table
()woods (open and/or in a tent)
()hood of a car
(X)bathroom
(x)shower
(x)bathtub
(X)the other person's bed
(X)porch/deck/balcony
(x)in a house with parents home
(x)at a party
(x)on top of the washer/dryer
()with other people in the room
(X)hotel
()concert
(X)grandparent's house
()field
()bleachers
()bookstore stock room
() linen closet

30. How many virgins have you "deflowered?"

None...I hope.

THE COMPLICATIONS OF THOUGHT

2007-08-20T18:16:00.000-04:00

Fuck.

I didnt mean to say it outloud.

It seems it's getting harder and harder for me to divert attention like I used to.

If a question's asked, I answer. Truthfully.

Therein lies the shitload.

I havent prepped. Havent even considered the ramifications.

And now that I've said it I have to own it. Have to live with the impulses to daydream about it.

Sure, I've been in the market, but I wasnt really ready for the investment.

Yes, it's gotten to this point...to where I can't even CONSIDER the possibilities without anxiety.

The complications of another him.