"I'm taking my talents to Tumblr"

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

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

~Kim
xoxo

How My Vagina Ended up on Facebook

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who wants it” was another one.

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

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

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

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

Sonofa.

He can see it but I can’t. Shadybook.

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

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

So what have we learned today?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

And I really didnt feel silly for being a clique.

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

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

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

Well.

Buckingham Palace

RIP That Bottle

And those.

Hyperaware

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

Hotmail: The Uncool Grandma?

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

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

The end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“F@ggot” Ass Kobe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Will this ever be fucking settled?

Euro Pt. I: Quo Vadis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even if you can’t have them.

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

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

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

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

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

Euro: the Intro

I finally did it.

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

12:10 pm

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

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

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

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

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

Remember me on March 24.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Women are analyzing you fellas. Be on point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But VD is the day she is in control.

Surrender.

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

So...Weezy Super Bowl Analysis

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

Dear Xtina,

Cash your check, immediately.

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

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

Seriously Pepsi??

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

God bless Charles Woodson's sweatpants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great game!

Passion Plea

Lemme show you something...

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

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

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

It is Passion...and it is addictive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please Excuse the Boxes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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