Thursday, April 28, 2011

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.



Monday, April 25, 2011

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?

Monday, April 18, 2011

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.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

“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?

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

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 fa├žade, 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.

Wednesday, April 06, 2011

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.)

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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.

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