Sunday, December 30, 2007

RIP 2007

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?

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?

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 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

26) How many concerts did you see in 2007?
LB (twice)
The Roots (twice)
Public Enemy
MC Lyte
Sean Paul
Barrington Levy
Black Sheep

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?


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!!!

Sunday, December 23, 2007


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 ' 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.


Thursday, December 13, 2007


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…


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.


“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?”




“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!!!!

Monday, December 10, 2007


[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. 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...]

Monday, November 26, 2007


“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.”


“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??

Wednesday, November 21, 2007


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!

Thursday, November 15, 2007


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 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.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007


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…

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.

Saturday, November 10, 2007


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!


Wednesday, November 07, 2007


I could be wrong about this 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.

Monday, October 29, 2007


“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?!"


", 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.

Monday, October 22, 2007


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.


Sunday, October 14, 2007


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.

Thursday, October 04, 2007


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.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007


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."

Thursday, September 20, 2007

Our JENAration

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*

Monday, September 17, 2007


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?


Tuesday, September 11, 2007


“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 3rd 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??


Fuck it. I’m buying Kenny Chesney and calling my mom back.

THIS JUST IN...from my boys over at (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.

Monday, September 10, 2007


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.



Monday, September 03, 2007

9~3~07...(MY) FATHER'S DAY

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. :)

Thursday, August 30, 2007


[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.

Sunday, August 26, 2007


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)

Thursday, August 23, 2007


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?”
“I could hear through the damn walls, Bryan. At least have enough respect for me to wait until I’m gone.”
“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.


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!)

Wednesday, August 22, 2007


[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...


Oh.My.God. (I'm assuming this means "intercourse")




That shit WAS funny.


That damn 112 CD still makes me tear up.


Yes...but then I like to sprawl out and pass out.


Yes...but reconciled it by refusing sex from others later.


*blank stare*


The ONE time I dont mind someone running their mouth.
Speak up!




My friends like ugly notsomuch.




Says a lot about the sex that I can actually recall the porn.






"I know it's up there somewhere."




Who DON'T I wanna have sex with right now.


Very much...if ever I, um, open up.




Not enough, yet too many.
But for the record, I'm one of those chicks who is mad political about her "numbers."


If it's good sex!


Spoke to his sister recently...and I doubt his baby moms would appreciate me calling.


My friends/relatives like losers, so no.


Not that I know of.




Waste of time, but ok.


Yup, but not at work.

()church (wait, you mean intercourse?)
()parent's bed
(X)your bed
()picnic table
(x)kitchen counter
(x)dining room/kitchen table
()woods (open and/or in a tent)
()hood of a car
(X)the other person's bed
(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)grandparent's house
()bookstore stock room
() linen closet

30. How many virgins have you "deflowered?"

None...I hope.

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  • So...Wise??

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    I'm older than I look, and stupider than you think. But I'm quite proud of my sharp eye for The Ridiculous, and by Ridiculous, of course I mean Me.