"Niggaz is a beautiful thing!"
- Honeycutt
YES! I know we're all tired of the "Let My Baby Daddy Find His Way To Jesus 'Stead of the Corna Sto'" plays brought to us courtesy of Watermelon and Fish Productions. I'd rather eat glass than watch that lil cock deisel dude from Silkk dons another tight polyester shirt. However, though I don't particularly care for those plays, they do have an audience. A ghetto audience? Maybe, but still, there's an audience. Who says ghetto people don't need to be entertained? Rather than seeing those plays as an affront to all things related to African-American progress, I see them as a symbol that black folks are not the monolith that we were once thought to be.
I will be the first to say that Hollywood likes nothing better than to de-dick successful black actors, however, I do not find that to necessarily be the case with Tyler Perry. I know that a lot of folks have a problem with his portrayal of Madea. I'm not necessarily in that number. As a black, southern woman (and a fellow New Orleanian), I not only have several Madeas in my life, but I have a few of them in my family. Initially, I refused to go see the movie. Then, while visiting some friends, I was "forced" to see it at the insistence of others. It was a very enjoyable movie. I saw his portrayal of her as a tribute to that type of woman over anything else. I was BLESSED to have women (my aunt and my older cousin) like that in my corner when my mother passed away and I'm proud to say that I'm a stronger person for it.
Besides showing a caring black family environment, the black people in the story are doing well for themselves. The overall tone related to black men is not one of negativity. (Even the "villan" gets his mind right.) One of Perry's other characters that he plays is an attorney that is responsibly taking care of his two children while his wife battles her own demons. (And it's always a good day when Cicely Tyson is not playing a slave/servant, lol.) I'm not saying that as black folks, we are obligated to see this movie. I'm just giving a bigger picture to what he's doing.
My frustration with the "new and improved negro" is not new. Nothing goes through me like when I hear a black person say, after witnessing what Huey Freeman would call "a nigga moment", ". . .I was ashamed to be black." Why? Were you the one acting the fool? I rarely, if ever, hear, "I was glad that I show myself to be a responsible, hardworking black individual." We complain about being stereotyped, but when a black person misbehaves, we automatically make ourselves a part of their nonsense.
Hampton University has banned cornrows, braids and dreds for participants in their business administration program. Before you self hating coloreds get on the whiny "well if they want to fit into corporate America" jive, let's think about this: Has Harvard taken such a tact? No? How about Princeton? U Penn? No? Has it occurred to Hampton that the big wigs that would be put off by locs would not be equally put off by seeing an HBCU on a resume? I didn't see silky blonde weaves on the no-no list. Isn't that interesting? We complain about being separated from our history and culture, but we are the first to cut the few strands we can hold on to. I wonder if Hampton would do the same to someone from India wearing their cultural garb? I'm willing to wager that they wouldn't.
*sigh* I guess maybe we'll love ourselves. . .one day.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Going Home: Part II "You Can Go Home Again, But It May Not Be Waiting For You"
The first thing I noticed was the trees. The road from Mississipi to New Orleans is usually full of lush evergreens as far as the eyes can see. Since I was coming from the east, I decided to bite the bullet and face what I artfully avoided on my last trip: seeing my home. Flying over it, it looks like a giant just kicked through the forests. Driving through it, you are hard pressed to see one leaf. There are only a sprinkling of pines that have needles at the very top. If you didn't know that they were evergreens, you would think that it was just a harsh effect from winter. The drive that signaled my summer vacation since the beginning of time had never seemed more unfamiliar to me than it did then.
Driving over the miles of new road on the I-10 twin span are when the tears finally started to flow. The closer I got to New Orleans, the sparser the trees became. In the bayou areas there are NO tall trees anymore. Not one. Typically, driving through all that swamp area thoroughly offended the nose. This time I smelled nothing.
I don't have the key, so I didn't go into my old apartment, but I did decide to drive by the home where I grew up. Something in my heart wanted to believe that our trees, and particularly my mother's crepe myrtle tree, the one I would drive my children to see every day, had somehow survived this catastrophe. That's when I completely broke down.
My mother had a love affair with gardening. Unfortunately, she wasn't particularly good at it. When we moved into our home, she got 3 pine trees. They were the oddest looking things you've ever seen and for YEARS they only looked like little bushes. Finally, almost overnight, only about a year or so before her death, they began to look tall and stately. The story behind the crepe myrtle tree is that my mother begged her mother, for a piece of that tree. It grew on the side of her house and produced these beautiful flowers in the spring. For some reason or another, my grandmother always put her off about it. Finally, when my grandmother became really ill, the tree started dying, so my mother broke off a piece of it and planted it in the middle of the garden. And for years, I described my home to visiting friends as "the one with the stick in the middle of the grass." Then one year, we saw a flower. Then the next year we saw more. Before long, again, shortly before my mother's passing, we had ourselves four full blown trees. At the end of her life she spent time reconnecting with her father and taking care of my garden since he did, in fact, have a green thumb.
My father and I had begun discussing my taking over the house and mortgage payments. My kids would ask to drive by the old house, see the tree and want me to tell them the story behind it over and over. I had visions of raising them in the house where I grew up, and telling them the story of my mother's tree as many times as they would listen. I would do the same for my grandchildren, and they would tell their children and so forth. Now, you barely tell where it grew. The same can be said for two of the pines. One of them, the biggest, is nothing more than a stump.
I think this trip confirmed what I've been saying for a while now: New Orleans isn't home for me anymore. The fact that I have to drive through it again to leave breaks my heart. I know I'll go back to visit, but there is no longer a great host of friends to visit. NONE of my biological family is there. Not one person. All I can do for now is keep trying to make Maryland my new home. I think I can do that for now.
Driving over the miles of new road on the I-10 twin span are when the tears finally started to flow. The closer I got to New Orleans, the sparser the trees became. In the bayou areas there are NO tall trees anymore. Not one. Typically, driving through all that swamp area thoroughly offended the nose. This time I smelled nothing.
I don't have the key, so I didn't go into my old apartment, but I did decide to drive by the home where I grew up. Something in my heart wanted to believe that our trees, and particularly my mother's crepe myrtle tree, the one I would drive my children to see every day, had somehow survived this catastrophe. That's when I completely broke down.
My mother had a love affair with gardening. Unfortunately, she wasn't particularly good at it. When we moved into our home, she got 3 pine trees. They were the oddest looking things you've ever seen and for YEARS they only looked like little bushes. Finally, almost overnight, only about a year or so before her death, they began to look tall and stately. The story behind the crepe myrtle tree is that my mother begged her mother, for a piece of that tree. It grew on the side of her house and produced these beautiful flowers in the spring. For some reason or another, my grandmother always put her off about it. Finally, when my grandmother became really ill, the tree started dying, so my mother broke off a piece of it and planted it in the middle of the garden. And for years, I described my home to visiting friends as "the one with the stick in the middle of the grass." Then one year, we saw a flower. Then the next year we saw more. Before long, again, shortly before my mother's passing, we had ourselves four full blown trees. At the end of her life she spent time reconnecting with her father and taking care of my garden since he did, in fact, have a green thumb.
My father and I had begun discussing my taking over the house and mortgage payments. My kids would ask to drive by the old house, see the tree and want me to tell them the story behind it over and over. I had visions of raising them in the house where I grew up, and telling them the story of my mother's tree as many times as they would listen. I would do the same for my grandchildren, and they would tell their children and so forth. Now, you barely tell where it grew. The same can be said for two of the pines. One of them, the biggest, is nothing more than a stump.
I think this trip confirmed what I've been saying for a while now: New Orleans isn't home for me anymore. The fact that I have to drive through it again to leave breaks my heart. I know I'll go back to visit, but there is no longer a great host of friends to visit. NONE of my biological family is there. Not one person. All I can do for now is keep trying to make Maryland my new home. I think I can do that for now.
Going Home: Part I "Combatting Wild Negrolians"
Initially, it seemed as though I was destined to deal with ignant/silly coloreds this weekened. It all started Thursday when, due to some silly baiting and girlish instigating, I engaged in an inane back and forth with an even more inane chick. My time could have arguably been better spent shooting snot rockets on the beltway. It's no secret that I'm verbally competitive and that is only heightened when a person steps to me on some bullshit and their house isn't in order. In hindsight, I shudder at the fact that I even wasted five minutes on that foolishenss. I believe the saying goes "Internet arguments are like the Special Olympics. Someone will win, but at the end, you're both still retarded."
However, that pales in comparison to what I encountered on my flight down south. I don't know if I've ever shared this, but I fucking HATE all things Texas, including Texans en masse. (For the purposes of this post, they will be referred to as "the Texans. I know there are great individual Texans in this world.) No, I have not had a traumatic experience with anyone from Texas. My father wasn't some Texan who ultimately abandoned me. I just think of Texas as an unnecessary place. If you look at a map of the U.S., the southern most part of Texas looks like excrement from the bowels of the nation. It could be said that would make Louisiana one of the ass cheeks, but let's not focus on that part of the story. My experience with Texans has shown them to be loud, dumb and imposing. People that visit Texas on purpose seem to have the same personality traits.
I suppose the fact that I made it to the airport and through the checkpoint without incident dictated that I would have a shitty flight. As soon as I got to my gate, I could hear a very loud conversation that had all the sounds and symptoms of a transaction that I like to call "nigga business." For those of you that don't know, nigga business is a miscellaneous business transaction that involves a wild negrolian (escapees from the mental plane of Negrolia) usually taking place outside of legitimate business hours, the word nigga is used heavily and it usually accomplishes nothing other than letting the normal folks in the area know that ignorance, like Bebe's kids, will not die. You can be assured that this person is not talking to TD Waterhouse, a mortgage company or even his/her spouse. In 99% of the cases, this person is talking to another wild negrolian. It was further confirmed as nigga business when he proceeded to comment to his listner about my ass. I can assure you, I ws not in the mood to hear this nonsense at 6:30 a.m. On top of that, he was accompanied by a negrolian caravan. A little part of me died inside as I knew what I was in for.
So, we get on the plane. Let me say this first: unless you are an anorexic midget, do NOT fly Continental. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a big girl. Yes, I use all of my seat in the bus, but ONLY my seat. Therefore, the fact that I had to pull a Sherman Klump just to side down was positively ridiculous. Seated next to me was a brother (coincidentally with the wild negrolians) of average height and looked like he was trying to fit into a kindergardener's chair. Thank god for the sister that grabbed the window seat, which was actually kind of a ballsy move since that was nowhere near her seat assignment. Then again, she was a Texan, albeit a friendly one. Plus, the brother was all to happy to be seated between "two lovely ladies". He was somewhat flirtatious, but harmlessly so and polite enough, so we all made the best of the situation. If the 6'2, 250 brother that was actually assigned to the seat hadn't agreed to sit elsewhere, I'm sure a fight would have broken out. (Note: Disregard for assigned seating is borderline negrolian, however, since the situation was settled amicably, I wouldn't classify it as wild.)
As luck would have it, the negrolians had me surrounded on all sides. They kept opening and slamming the overhead compartments, shouting over my head, loudly greeting each other as each one got on the plane. It goes without saying that four of them were late and barely made it onto the plane. I think that it's equally unnecessary to say that the "nigga technology" was rampant in that joint. If you looked up at any given moment, you could see someone typing with their thumbs, presumably sending a bitch a smiley face. ("'Cause bitches love smiley faces." -Ed Wunsler - The Boondocks)
In addition to them, there was a New York negrolian that had obviously strayed from his herd. How did I know he was from New York? Because it was on his jacket, his jeans, his t-shirt and his hat. Something about that was just wrong to me. I guess in case he lost his memory, somebody could have dropped him from the sky onto Flatbush. Then he kept rolling his tongue around in and outside of his mouth in a very odd, wanna be sexy type way and I would swear that he had on his sister's earrings. Just all sorts of stuff was wrong there. He was loud when he got on the plane, but for the most part, the only sense he aggravated was sight. I feel confident in saying that were he in his element, he would be mentioned in this post extensively as well.
Negrolians as a rule, are non-compliant as a matter of course. Negrolians in flight do NOT turn off their electronic devices. Not ever. What is stupid about this? The fact that there is no service at 37,000 feet. What would it hurt to do what the professionals ask you to do?
After the plane took off, the feast began. They had enough food to look like dinner at the Klumps: ham, croissants, cinnamon rolls, juice, thermoses, chips. Is that a negrolian trait? Not really, I'm just hating. That stuff was looking SCRUMPTIOUS.
They were loud and obnoxious the entire flight. These guys had all the signs and symptoms of a low budget successful rap entourage to DJ Whoop Whoop and MC Thus and So of Ya Mama 'Nem Productions. The fact that they were in the sardine section with me let me know that whoever it was, they weren't really big shit. Ultimately my suspicion was confirmed as I left the plane when some miscellaneous hood rat on the passenger waited for everybody to pass so she could ask one of the guys a question similar to "Ain't you Brandy's brother?" or some shit like that. He confirmed their suspicion and she replied, cheesed out, "Ooooooh, I thought you was hiiiiim." Shoot me.
Of course, no rap entourage is complete without the old dudes. They're not necessarily "old" in the literal sense. But too old to be roadies for the shit they were doing. What is it about old round guys that want to be cool wearing smedium shirts then insisting on tucking them into their jeans. (Jeans that are almost invariably heavily starched and some variation of black.) I would almost swear that a couple of them had loc extensions. That pisses me off immeasurably, negrolian or not.
I had the aisle seat, so I kept having to get up for my seatmates to go to the bathroom. One of the negrolians kept "accidentally" bumping my ass with his head. I never in my life wished so hard for a public fart. That was the longest, most uncomfortable flight I've ever been on.
Mercifully, it ended, but during the landing, when you are supposed to have NO electronic devices on, what happens? A cell phone rings. What does the owner do? Ignore and turn it off? Quickly tell the caller that he'll call him back and close the phone? Noooo. This ignant bastard proceeds to hold an entire conversation while we're landing. We landed safely, but it's the principle.
Once we did land, I immediately got on the horn to tell all my people I landed safely and proclaim my hatred for Texas and the Texans. Let's say that Houston Hobby airport is big as FUCK. No nice way to put that. You need to get from concourse to concourse via train or bus. My plane arrived late. We were supposed to land at 9:44. We landed at 9:50, and I couldn't get off the plane until 10:03. I landed at gate C24. My flight departed from B85. . .at 10:30. So I'm bustling to get to the tram to take me to Concourse B. What I am greeted with is a crowd of people that have been waiting forever and a train that made my flight look spacious. There was only one track operating, which caused the trains to be delayed. So I had to run to catch a bus.
I made it to my plane at 10:28. I was afriad I was going to miss my plane entirely, so I was elated to see all those Mississippi rednecks waiting to fly to Gulfport. Were rotten teeth and Dale Ernhart, Jr. jackets in full effect, you betcha, but I was almost home. There was one guy on the flight who had a mustache that, were it trained, would make Rollie Fingers bow down and say "I'm not worthy!!"
The airport isn't even at half speed yet. All the rental car places are in trailers, there are only a few gates and airlines. It's a mess. And even with all that, it was far more efficient that most fully operational airlines I've frequented. It was tumultuous, but so began my journey home
However, that pales in comparison to what I encountered on my flight down south. I don't know if I've ever shared this, but I fucking HATE all things Texas, including Texans en masse. (For the purposes of this post, they will be referred to as "the Texans. I know there are great individual Texans in this world.) No, I have not had a traumatic experience with anyone from Texas. My father wasn't some Texan who ultimately abandoned me. I just think of Texas as an unnecessary place. If you look at a map of the U.S., the southern most part of Texas looks like excrement from the bowels of the nation. It could be said that would make Louisiana one of the ass cheeks, but let's not focus on that part of the story. My experience with Texans has shown them to be loud, dumb and imposing. People that visit Texas on purpose seem to have the same personality traits.
I suppose the fact that I made it to the airport and through the checkpoint without incident dictated that I would have a shitty flight. As soon as I got to my gate, I could hear a very loud conversation that had all the sounds and symptoms of a transaction that I like to call "nigga business." For those of you that don't know, nigga business is a miscellaneous business transaction that involves a wild negrolian (escapees from the mental plane of Negrolia) usually taking place outside of legitimate business hours, the word nigga is used heavily and it usually accomplishes nothing other than letting the normal folks in the area know that ignorance, like Bebe's kids, will not die. You can be assured that this person is not talking to TD Waterhouse, a mortgage company or even his/her spouse. In 99% of the cases, this person is talking to another wild negrolian. It was further confirmed as nigga business when he proceeded to comment to his listner about my ass. I can assure you, I ws not in the mood to hear this nonsense at 6:30 a.m. On top of that, he was accompanied by a negrolian caravan. A little part of me died inside as I knew what I was in for.
So, we get on the plane. Let me say this first: unless you are an anorexic midget, do NOT fly Continental. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a big girl. Yes, I use all of my seat in the bus, but ONLY my seat. Therefore, the fact that I had to pull a Sherman Klump just to side down was positively ridiculous. Seated next to me was a brother (coincidentally with the wild negrolians) of average height and looked like he was trying to fit into a kindergardener's chair. Thank god for the sister that grabbed the window seat, which was actually kind of a ballsy move since that was nowhere near her seat assignment. Then again, she was a Texan, albeit a friendly one. Plus, the brother was all to happy to be seated between "two lovely ladies". He was somewhat flirtatious, but harmlessly so and polite enough, so we all made the best of the situation. If the 6'2, 250 brother that was actually assigned to the seat hadn't agreed to sit elsewhere, I'm sure a fight would have broken out. (Note: Disregard for assigned seating is borderline negrolian, however, since the situation was settled amicably, I wouldn't classify it as wild.)
As luck would have it, the negrolians had me surrounded on all sides. They kept opening and slamming the overhead compartments, shouting over my head, loudly greeting each other as each one got on the plane. It goes without saying that four of them were late and barely made it onto the plane. I think that it's equally unnecessary to say that the "nigga technology" was rampant in that joint. If you looked up at any given moment, you could see someone typing with their thumbs, presumably sending a bitch a smiley face. ("'Cause bitches love smiley faces." -Ed Wunsler - The Boondocks)
In addition to them, there was a New York negrolian that had obviously strayed from his herd. How did I know he was from New York? Because it was on his jacket, his jeans, his t-shirt and his hat. Something about that was just wrong to me. I guess in case he lost his memory, somebody could have dropped him from the sky onto Flatbush. Then he kept rolling his tongue around in and outside of his mouth in a very odd, wanna be sexy type way and I would swear that he had on his sister's earrings. Just all sorts of stuff was wrong there. He was loud when he got on the plane, but for the most part, the only sense he aggravated was sight. I feel confident in saying that were he in his element, he would be mentioned in this post extensively as well.
Negrolians as a rule, are non-compliant as a matter of course. Negrolians in flight do NOT turn off their electronic devices. Not ever. What is stupid about this? The fact that there is no service at 37,000 feet. What would it hurt to do what the professionals ask you to do?
After the plane took off, the feast began. They had enough food to look like dinner at the Klumps: ham, croissants, cinnamon rolls, juice, thermoses, chips. Is that a negrolian trait? Not really, I'm just hating. That stuff was looking SCRUMPTIOUS.
They were loud and obnoxious the entire flight. These guys had all the signs and symptoms of a low budget successful rap entourage to DJ Whoop Whoop and MC Thus and So of Ya Mama 'Nem Productions. The fact that they were in the sardine section with me let me know that whoever it was, they weren't really big shit. Ultimately my suspicion was confirmed as I left the plane when some miscellaneous hood rat on the passenger waited for everybody to pass so she could ask one of the guys a question similar to "Ain't you Brandy's brother?" or some shit like that. He confirmed their suspicion and she replied, cheesed out, "Ooooooh, I thought you was hiiiiim." Shoot me.
Of course, no rap entourage is complete without the old dudes. They're not necessarily "old" in the literal sense. But too old to be roadies for the shit they were doing. What is it about old round guys that want to be cool wearing smedium shirts then insisting on tucking them into their jeans. (Jeans that are almost invariably heavily starched and some variation of black.) I would almost swear that a couple of them had loc extensions. That pisses me off immeasurably, negrolian or not.
I had the aisle seat, so I kept having to get up for my seatmates to go to the bathroom. One of the negrolians kept "accidentally" bumping my ass with his head. I never in my life wished so hard for a public fart. That was the longest, most uncomfortable flight I've ever been on.
Mercifully, it ended, but during the landing, when you are supposed to have NO electronic devices on, what happens? A cell phone rings. What does the owner do? Ignore and turn it off? Quickly tell the caller that he'll call him back and close the phone? Noooo. This ignant bastard proceeds to hold an entire conversation while we're landing. We landed safely, but it's the principle.
Once we did land, I immediately got on the horn to tell all my people I landed safely and proclaim my hatred for Texas and the Texans. Let's say that Houston Hobby airport is big as FUCK. No nice way to put that. You need to get from concourse to concourse via train or bus. My plane arrived late. We were supposed to land at 9:44. We landed at 9:50, and I couldn't get off the plane until 10:03. I landed at gate C24. My flight departed from B85. . .at 10:30. So I'm bustling to get to the tram to take me to Concourse B. What I am greeted with is a crowd of people that have been waiting forever and a train that made my flight look spacious. There was only one track operating, which caused the trains to be delayed. So I had to run to catch a bus.
I made it to my plane at 10:28. I was afriad I was going to miss my plane entirely, so I was elated to see all those Mississippi rednecks waiting to fly to Gulfport. Were rotten teeth and Dale Ernhart, Jr. jackets in full effect, you betcha, but I was almost home. There was one guy on the flight who had a mustache that, were it trained, would make Rollie Fingers bow down and say "I'm not worthy!!"
The airport isn't even at half speed yet. All the rental car places are in trailers, there are only a few gates and airlines. It's a mess. And even with all that, it was far more efficient that most fully operational airlines I've frequented. It was tumultuous, but so began my journey home
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Hip Hop Heaven
First of all, I have been in concert HEAVEN!!! Little Brother was the opening act for Fort Minor at Nations last Friday. I think Ris and I were among the few there just to see LB. I was pleasantly surprised by Fort Minor, but they were quite frankly, unnecessary in my opinion. LB exuded such energy that even those obviously just there to see the main attraction had to give it up for them. Thought it's doubtful that I would go to another concert at that venue, I consider my $20 MORE than well spent. I truly can't wait to see them again.
That being said: WU TANG CLAN AIN'T NUTTIN TO FUCK WIT'!! I found out about this concert only minutes before I left for the LB concert and I was on the computer having tickets Fed Ex'ed to me. That shit was EXPLOSIVE. You ever got high from a beat? I've partaken of the stickiest of the icky in my day, but nothing beats that feeling. I think I'm more partial to this concert because not only is the 9:30 Club a great venue, but I was only feet away from the stage. I mean, "only feet" in the sense that eye contact was made with my baby's fathers Meth AND RZA. Whew Lawd. I swear I jumped and shouted so much I'm convinced that counts as a workout. By the time they got to "Triumph" I was so beyond amped, I was ready to kick somebody. I was in a frenzy when they did a tribute version of "Oh Baby I Like it Raw". Performances like that are why I live for GA concerts. A huge crowd all there to just vibe with the music. That's that shit.
I am by no means a bitch about my personal space, particularly at venues like that, but I feel the need to share some things. For the record, I know the difference between a bump and an ass grab, so I was completely justified throwing a bow to the ribs of the white boy that was all up on me. You into fat black chicks? There are websites for that bitch. Get on with that.
And speaking of white folks. They LOVE them some Wu. Damn! I understand good music is good music and it defies race, creed, or personal experience. However, attending a Wu Tang concert does NOT give you hood points. Pushing me out the way so that you can make my spot your spot is NOT the way. Ask the brawd that did that last night. She got popped in the head the ENTIRE concert. I also physically moved some 6 foot brother out my way. It was actually kind of funny. It wasn't an agressive shove. You know how your mom moves you when she wants you to get out of her way in the kitchen? Yeah, one of those. I think that's why it sort of caught him off guard. Of course I got the "I know this short bitch didn't just move me", but I really don't give a damn. I take my entertainment seriously. If you wanted to be in the front, you should have gotten there earlier. Breez ain't nuttin to fuck wit' either.
By the end, I was so hype, I straight up told this chick to move out of my way. Then, when leaving, a few more guys of the caucasian persuasion were blocking my way. To my credit, I did audibly say excuse me, and got the Caucasian version of the Ice Grill. (Think Zoolander meets Marky Mark.) Yeah, they got pushed. Don't let Wu Tang concerts gas you homie. When I feel like it's time to leave, it's time to LEAVE, and woe be unto you if you stand in my way. Your white boy angst was about to get you straight rabbit punched.
But with those small incidences aside, that was the best time I've had in a VERY long time. Combine that with a superb partner in crime and the bartender hooking me up with a Bombay Sapphire and OJ that made me wonder if he thought I was going home with him, and that makes for a hell of a Monday night.
That being said: WU TANG CLAN AIN'T NUTTIN TO FUCK WIT'!! I found out about this concert only minutes before I left for the LB concert and I was on the computer having tickets Fed Ex'ed to me. That shit was EXPLOSIVE. You ever got high from a beat? I've partaken of the stickiest of the icky in my day, but nothing beats that feeling. I think I'm more partial to this concert because not only is the 9:30 Club a great venue, but I was only feet away from the stage. I mean, "only feet" in the sense that eye contact was made with my baby's fathers Meth AND RZA. Whew Lawd. I swear I jumped and shouted so much I'm convinced that counts as a workout. By the time they got to "Triumph" I was so beyond amped, I was ready to kick somebody. I was in a frenzy when they did a tribute version of "Oh Baby I Like it Raw". Performances like that are why I live for GA concerts. A huge crowd all there to just vibe with the music. That's that shit.
I am by no means a bitch about my personal space, particularly at venues like that, but I feel the need to share some things. For the record, I know the difference between a bump and an ass grab, so I was completely justified throwing a bow to the ribs of the white boy that was all up on me. You into fat black chicks? There are websites for that bitch. Get on with that.
And speaking of white folks. They LOVE them some Wu. Damn! I understand good music is good music and it defies race, creed, or personal experience. However, attending a Wu Tang concert does NOT give you hood points. Pushing me out the way so that you can make my spot your spot is NOT the way. Ask the brawd that did that last night. She got popped in the head the ENTIRE concert. I also physically moved some 6 foot brother out my way. It was actually kind of funny. It wasn't an agressive shove. You know how your mom moves you when she wants you to get out of her way in the kitchen? Yeah, one of those. I think that's why it sort of caught him off guard. Of course I got the "I know this short bitch didn't just move me", but I really don't give a damn. I take my entertainment seriously. If you wanted to be in the front, you should have gotten there earlier. Breez ain't nuttin to fuck wit' either.
By the end, I was so hype, I straight up told this chick to move out of my way. Then, when leaving, a few more guys of the caucasian persuasion were blocking my way. To my credit, I did audibly say excuse me, and got the Caucasian version of the Ice Grill. (Think Zoolander meets Marky Mark.) Yeah, they got pushed. Don't let Wu Tang concerts gas you homie. When I feel like it's time to leave, it's time to LEAVE, and woe be unto you if you stand in my way. Your white boy angst was about to get you straight rabbit punched.
But with those small incidences aside, that was the best time I've had in a VERY long time. Combine that with a superb partner in crime and the bartender hooking me up with a Bombay Sapphire and OJ that made me wonder if he thought I was going home with him, and that makes for a hell of a Monday night.
A Lonely Ho is a Funny Creature
C'mon. . .you know that if you had a man you'd have flowers on your desk. You'd have ballons. You'd have an obnoxious red teddy bear that smells like Jean Naté. You'd be gushing about your evening plans. So stop hating. Stop it with the diatribes on Valentine's Day's commercialization. Stop it with the wack ass poetry. Stop with the men ain't shit poems and the proclamations of how you're a "real" or "grown" woman. Cut that shit out. It's not attractive. It's not mature. It's not HEALTHY.
Rather than worrying about what you don't have, count your blessings. Stop subjecting yourselves to these brothers that you have no interest in (or subjecting them to YOU) just to get a free meal and some attention because everyone else is doing it. Take yourself to lunch. You want flowers and chocolates that bad? I mean, are your fingers broken? Order them yourself, shit. Take yourself to dinner. (Well, maybe not today. Sometimes Valentine's Day dinner theater can get a little nauseating for single folks. Even those with the strongest of stomachs.)
A relationship: nice work if you can get it. But if your résumé needs some brushing up or if you're on a little sabbatical, chill out. It's not the end of the world. There are people in your life who value you. Maybe if more of us treated ourselves better, rather than waiting for a man to do it, we wouldn't be so easily impressed with bullshit. By that I mean the type of bullshit that results in wack ass poetry and bitter Valentine's Day rantings. Just a thought.
So you know what? To all the lovers and the haters: Happy Freakin' Valentine's Day!!
Rather than worrying about what you don't have, count your blessings. Stop subjecting yourselves to these brothers that you have no interest in (or subjecting them to YOU) just to get a free meal and some attention because everyone else is doing it. Take yourself to lunch. You want flowers and chocolates that bad? I mean, are your fingers broken? Order them yourself, shit. Take yourself to dinner. (Well, maybe not today. Sometimes Valentine's Day dinner theater can get a little nauseating for single folks. Even those with the strongest of stomachs.)
A relationship: nice work if you can get it. But if your résumé needs some brushing up or if you're on a little sabbatical, chill out. It's not the end of the world. There are people in your life who value you. Maybe if more of us treated ourselves better, rather than waiting for a man to do it, we wouldn't be so easily impressed with bullshit. By that I mean the type of bullshit that results in wack ass poetry and bitter Valentine's Day rantings. Just a thought.
So you know what? To all the lovers and the haters: Happy Freakin' Valentine's Day!!
Monday, February 13, 2006
Scary
"Imagine seeing him all the time,
Holding another hand.
She’s starin’ me down,
So I figure that he told her who I am.
But it don’t matter either way,
What they do or say cause aint nothin’ changed.
He’s standing with her,
but his soul is calling out my name.In my mind,
I’ll always be his lady.
n my mind,
I’ll always be his girl."
"In My Mind" by Heather Headley
Ok...I love her voice. Therefore, when I saw that she had a new song out, I merely listened to it and didn't give it another thought. However, I feel the need to reach out to Heather and give her some sisterly advice. Heather, THAT'S STALKING BABY! Something has changed chick. Your relationship is now non-existent. Let it GO. What the hell is going on "in HER mind"? I believe health care providers have a term for things only YOU can hear. They're called psychotic delusions. Hearing voices from people's souls is not a good thing Heather. Not even in a song.
His woman, more likely than not, was staring her down because she was worried about not wearing her running shoes that day. Stalkers are quite unpredictable. I think we've all known a woman that decided that the relationship just wasn't over. And they'd mow down anyone that thought it was. Poor girl was probably scared for her life.
She was lurking behind trees at dude's moms' house and whatnot. Am I the ONLY person that found that as an object of concern. His mom didn't really want her to call dude. She was just thinking, "Let me tell this crazy brawd something to get her off my doorstep before she kidnaps my ass. Hiding behind trees and shit. I told him about getting with those crazy hoes."
To all of you that are in a relationship with a woman that finds this song romantic, please understand that this person is to be FEARED. She is scarier than Freddie Kruger. She is scarier than Jason. Yes, she is even scarier than *gulp* Oprah. I don't normally advocate violence against women, but you might want to purchase some wooden stakes and silver bullets just in case.
Holding another hand.
She’s starin’ me down,
So I figure that he told her who I am.
But it don’t matter either way,
What they do or say cause aint nothin’ changed.
He’s standing with her,
but his soul is calling out my name.In my mind,
I’ll always be his lady.
n my mind,
I’ll always be his girl."
"In My Mind" by Heather Headley
Ok...I love her voice. Therefore, when I saw that she had a new song out, I merely listened to it and didn't give it another thought. However, I feel the need to reach out to Heather and give her some sisterly advice. Heather, THAT'S STALKING BABY! Something has changed chick. Your relationship is now non-existent. Let it GO. What the hell is going on "in HER mind"? I believe health care providers have a term for things only YOU can hear. They're called psychotic delusions. Hearing voices from people's souls is not a good thing Heather. Not even in a song.
His woman, more likely than not, was staring her down because she was worried about not wearing her running shoes that day. Stalkers are quite unpredictable. I think we've all known a woman that decided that the relationship just wasn't over. And they'd mow down anyone that thought it was. Poor girl was probably scared for her life.
She was lurking behind trees at dude's moms' house and whatnot. Am I the ONLY person that found that as an object of concern. His mom didn't really want her to call dude. She was just thinking, "Let me tell this crazy brawd something to get her off my doorstep before she kidnaps my ass. Hiding behind trees and shit. I told him about getting with those crazy hoes."
To all of you that are in a relationship with a woman that finds this song romantic, please understand that this person is to be FEARED. She is scarier than Freddie Kruger. She is scarier than Jason. Yes, she is even scarier than *gulp* Oprah. I don't normally advocate violence against women, but you might want to purchase some wooden stakes and silver bullets just in case.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
From Metro, With Love
To my sisters in the fat struggle: I'll share recipes, secrets, hell, I'll even share food. However, one thing we cannot share is a seat on the bus. I am well aware of the fact that I have a whole lotta ass. Therefore, when I see one of my Rubenesque sisters already in a seat, I keep it moving because I know the even though the Lord makes a way where there ain't no way, some things He really just shakes his head at. To the sister that was huffing and puffing next to me this morning, you know that our asses were big when you sat down. All you did was make yourself mad. I'm not twisting up MY parts just because you failed to use common sense. Move to Glenmont if you want preferential seating heffa.
To all of you runners: WAKE UP ON TIME!! As long as I have been an employed woman, I have done either one of two things: 1) Display bomb ass skills that make my bosses adore me, so coming in late sometimes isn't necessarily an issue; or 2) Make sure that I leave my house with more than enough time for wiggle room so that I am not completely flustered and annoyed rushing into work. I saw this brawd come within centimeters of knocking down this old lady. WE are not late. You are. Therefore, don't expect everyone on the platform to run because you're running.
Rude Ass People: Does it hurt to say good morning or thank you to the person handing out the Express paper? DAMN! Don't make me talk about cell phone users. SHUT THE FUCK UP! I don't care that your baby-daddy-cousins-auntie-sister-friend-homegirl-great-uncle-twice-removed-on-the-black-hand-side has two women pregnant at the same time. Maybe I should start adding my own commentary, just to spice things up. I wonder how long the convo would last. You know. . . since now I've gotten all up in their business.
Beggars with attitude: A couple of weeks ago, a dude walked up to me outside of the Metro and straight up said, "I need a dollar." WTF? No joke, he said it with such conviction, I paused a second to question whether or not this man loaned me a dollar and was there to collect. Once I gathered my wits, I was barely able to spit out that he wasn't getting a dollar from me. What part of the game is that madness? A week before, a dude walked up to the group I was walking with, rolled his eyes and said, "Look, ya'll got change?" Though I don't believe that one should be cartwheels and smiles when they are homeless, something about the "bitch betta have my money" approach is ALL wrong. I've SEEN Slickback my brother, and you ain't him.
To all of you runners: WAKE UP ON TIME!! As long as I have been an employed woman, I have done either one of two things: 1) Display bomb ass skills that make my bosses adore me, so coming in late sometimes isn't necessarily an issue; or 2) Make sure that I leave my house with more than enough time for wiggle room so that I am not completely flustered and annoyed rushing into work. I saw this brawd come within centimeters of knocking down this old lady. WE are not late. You are. Therefore, don't expect everyone on the platform to run because you're running.
Rude Ass People: Does it hurt to say good morning or thank you to the person handing out the Express paper? DAMN! Don't make me talk about cell phone users. SHUT THE FUCK UP! I don't care that your baby-daddy-cousins-auntie-sister-friend-homegirl-great-uncle-twice-removed-on-the-black-hand-side has two women pregnant at the same time. Maybe I should start adding my own commentary, just to spice things up. I wonder how long the convo would last. You know. . . since now I've gotten all up in their business.
Beggars with attitude: A couple of weeks ago, a dude walked up to me outside of the Metro and straight up said, "I need a dollar." WTF? No joke, he said it with such conviction, I paused a second to question whether or not this man loaned me a dollar and was there to collect. Once I gathered my wits, I was barely able to spit out that he wasn't getting a dollar from me. What part of the game is that madness? A week before, a dude walked up to the group I was walking with, rolled his eyes and said, "Look, ya'll got change?" Though I don't believe that one should be cartwheels and smiles when they are homeless, something about the "bitch betta have my money" approach is ALL wrong. I've SEEN Slickback my brother, and you ain't him.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Nothing to see here people
I have been MAD busy at work, which really sucks. Evidently someone decided that the whole paying me to sit at work and look pretty thing wasn't very cost effective, so they have been giving me real work...regularly. I'm coping with it, but I think they could have given me some sort of warning. I now sit next to the most cheerful person in the world. . . and I must end her. I mean, she's a real "Happy Monday" type brawd. Happy Monday? I sometimes have to combat the urge to offer her a heaping helping of shut the fuck up. But note I said SOMEtimes. I'm getting better.
I had out of town guests this weekend. I'm really getting the hang of this hostess thing. I'm breaking out of this antisocial rut I've been caught up in FOREVER. I guess this will help this place feel like home or something. I'm going to my first concert in DC. I'm sort of broadening my horizons and checking out this group called Fort Minor. However, Little Brother will also be there, so I'm looking forward to that.
When did the letter h become a vowel? I could scream every time I hear the term "an historic" - a term I have been hearing quite often lately. Did I miss that memo. I know that when the h is silent, then it will have a vowel sound, as in "an hour". Outside of that, using "an" just sounds stupid. Just thought I needed to share that.
I just watched an episode of House where a woman damn near killed herself rather than communicate with her husband. Freaky.
The other night, outside of a strip club (don't ask), I witnessed real life pimping. Some random dude in Urkel pants and MC Hammer glasses was driving one of his girls, evidently from place to place, so that she could find a pole to swing from. She walked into the establishment then immediately walked out. Slickback's response to her was "Ay...ay bitch." I'm sure on paper these words mean absolutely nothing. However, to hear them spoken aloud, in real life and in all seriousness - PRICELESS.
Am I the only one that got WAY too excited to see the MacGuyver commercial during the Superbowl? Ah the memories of youth. I
I had out of town guests this weekend. I'm really getting the hang of this hostess thing. I'm breaking out of this antisocial rut I've been caught up in FOREVER. I guess this will help this place feel like home or something. I'm going to my first concert in DC. I'm sort of broadening my horizons and checking out this group called Fort Minor. However, Little Brother will also be there, so I'm looking forward to that.
When did the letter h become a vowel? I could scream every time I hear the term "an historic" - a term I have been hearing quite often lately. Did I miss that memo. I know that when the h is silent, then it will have a vowel sound, as in "an hour". Outside of that, using "an" just sounds stupid. Just thought I needed to share that.
I just watched an episode of House where a woman damn near killed herself rather than communicate with her husband. Freaky.
The other night, outside of a strip club (don't ask), I witnessed real life pimping. Some random dude in Urkel pants and MC Hammer glasses was driving one of his girls, evidently from place to place, so that she could find a pole to swing from. She walked into the establishment then immediately walked out. Slickback's response to her was "Ay...ay bitch." I'm sure on paper these words mean absolutely nothing. However, to hear them spoken aloud, in real life and in all seriousness - PRICELESS.
Am I the only one that got WAY too excited to see the MacGuyver commercial during the Superbowl? Ah the memories of youth. I
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Left No Forwarding
If there was anything I walked away with from the corny abomination known as "Poetic Justice", it was this quote from Tyra Ferrell's character: "I dress and I rest, because love don't live here anymore." To a certain extent, as superficial as it sounds, I have come to identify what she means. Or I can at least tell you what it means to me.
When I was eight, I knew I was going to get married. At 15, my wedding was planned down to the color underwear I would have. At 19, I fell deeply in love and I was convinced he was the one. I believed that everyone could have that type of love. The subsequent ten years changed my perception.
A couple of years ago, I classified myself as a love hater, but I don't think that's entirely accurate. When my sister became engaged to her husband, I was as excited as if I'd received the proposal. I have a good friend that will be getting married in the fall and, again, I couldn't be happier for her. Believe it or not, I don't harbor any negative feelings toward Valentine's day. I've often found myself being chastised regarding my ambivalence toward love. It's been said that my lack of a relationship is attributable to the before mentioned ambivalence. Could they be right? Maybe.
Last night, while politicking with a friend, he said something that wrapped up my thoughts on love so completely, I would have thought he was reading from the story of my life: I'm not owed anything. Life has been good to me on so many other levels. If I happen to find a soul mate, that would be a beautiful thing. But I don't count on it. This doesn't mean that I can't get hurt. It simply means that I can't be truly disappointed. I think I could muddle through this thing called life just fine with Romance staying on his side of the street. In the grand scheme of things, I can't truly complain. I have two beautiful children, great friends and supportive (even though I want to suffocate them at times) family network. Just because I don't have a man, that doesn't mean that I don't have love.
I've just grown tired of the concept of dating to fall in love. Tired of the waiting for the imminent drama. Tired of having to front like things don't bother me. Tired of the bullshit silk. Tired of moving too fast. Tired of moving too slow. Tired of moving. Tired of feeling like a freak. Tired of feeling like a prude. Tired of hoping that things will go well. Tired of knowing that they won't. Tired of paying for the mistakes of women I've never met. Tired of making men pay for the mistakes of men they never knew existed. Tired of caring too much. Tired of not caring enough. Tired of hearing "I never do this". Tired of hearing "I can't go through that again". Tired of wishing I were more passive. Tired of wishing I were more aggressive.
When expressing this sentiment, I become amazed at how many men, men that don't have a commitment oriented bone in their bodies, assert that I have no reason to feel that way. It seems like my acceptance of my situation is too much for them to handle. They don't necessarily think I should want THEM. I should just want SOMEBODY. How foolish is that?
I happen to think that Hallmark, the Lifetime Network and Danielle Steele have sold a lot of folks some serious pipe dreams. I just choose not to buy into it. We get hung up on what the next person has, or SAYS they have, and decide that we MUST have the exact same thing. We DESERVE the exact same thing. Sike. I cringe when people talk about "making love". That's one bridge I could never quite buy. People have sex. They have good sex. They have bad sex. If they're really good and eat all their vegetables, they have the opportunity to have sex with someone that they care about and there's some type of reciprocity of emotion. However, people start chasing this rumored "love-making", causing issues where none exist. I'll be the first to say that the reasoning behind my disbelief could be due to my never having experienced the act. But that's debatable.
I can either choose to be unhappy and consider my situation a "plight" or I can count my blessings and live life. I've got ME. Does it sound like the typical "independent woman" jargon? Yeah. But you know what? I pray every day for the wisdom to realize my potential and the ability to make things happen. I say a give thanks for the strength to overcome my obstacles. I gets down with me. And, if you're wondering, for those "other" times, my battery operated homie holds me DOWN.
I do what I have to do, because when all is said and done, I want a clear head. I want peaceful nights. I want to possess a spirit that embraces each day. I want to mean it when I say "I'm fine." Is that REALLY too much?
When I was eight, I knew I was going to get married. At 15, my wedding was planned down to the color underwear I would have. At 19, I fell deeply in love and I was convinced he was the one. I believed that everyone could have that type of love. The subsequent ten years changed my perception.
A couple of years ago, I classified myself as a love hater, but I don't think that's entirely accurate. When my sister became engaged to her husband, I was as excited as if I'd received the proposal. I have a good friend that will be getting married in the fall and, again, I couldn't be happier for her. Believe it or not, I don't harbor any negative feelings toward Valentine's day. I've often found myself being chastised regarding my ambivalence toward love. It's been said that my lack of a relationship is attributable to the before mentioned ambivalence. Could they be right? Maybe.
Last night, while politicking with a friend, he said something that wrapped up my thoughts on love so completely, I would have thought he was reading from the story of my life: I'm not owed anything. Life has been good to me on so many other levels. If I happen to find a soul mate, that would be a beautiful thing. But I don't count on it. This doesn't mean that I can't get hurt. It simply means that I can't be truly disappointed. I think I could muddle through this thing called life just fine with Romance staying on his side of the street. In the grand scheme of things, I can't truly complain. I have two beautiful children, great friends and supportive (even though I want to suffocate them at times) family network. Just because I don't have a man, that doesn't mean that I don't have love.
I've just grown tired of the concept of dating to fall in love. Tired of the waiting for the imminent drama. Tired of having to front like things don't bother me. Tired of the bullshit silk. Tired of moving too fast. Tired of moving too slow. Tired of moving. Tired of feeling like a freak. Tired of feeling like a prude. Tired of hoping that things will go well. Tired of knowing that they won't. Tired of paying for the mistakes of women I've never met. Tired of making men pay for the mistakes of men they never knew existed. Tired of caring too much. Tired of not caring enough. Tired of hearing "I never do this". Tired of hearing "I can't go through that again". Tired of wishing I were more passive. Tired of wishing I were more aggressive.
When expressing this sentiment, I become amazed at how many men, men that don't have a commitment oriented bone in their bodies, assert that I have no reason to feel that way. It seems like my acceptance of my situation is too much for them to handle. They don't necessarily think I should want THEM. I should just want SOMEBODY. How foolish is that?
I happen to think that Hallmark, the Lifetime Network and Danielle Steele have sold a lot of folks some serious pipe dreams. I just choose not to buy into it. We get hung up on what the next person has, or SAYS they have, and decide that we MUST have the exact same thing. We DESERVE the exact same thing. Sike. I cringe when people talk about "making love". That's one bridge I could never quite buy. People have sex. They have good sex. They have bad sex. If they're really good and eat all their vegetables, they have the opportunity to have sex with someone that they care about and there's some type of reciprocity of emotion. However, people start chasing this rumored "love-making", causing issues where none exist. I'll be the first to say that the reasoning behind my disbelief could be due to my never having experienced the act. But that's debatable.
I can either choose to be unhappy and consider my situation a "plight" or I can count my blessings and live life. I've got ME. Does it sound like the typical "independent woman" jargon? Yeah. But you know what? I pray every day for the wisdom to realize my potential and the ability to make things happen. I say a give thanks for the strength to overcome my obstacles. I gets down with me. And, if you're wondering, for those "other" times, my battery operated homie holds me DOWN.
I do what I have to do, because when all is said and done, I want a clear head. I want peaceful nights. I want to possess a spirit that embraces each day. I want to mean it when I say "I'm fine." Is that REALLY too much?
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