FAITH

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

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

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

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

Now you see it. Now...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHITE FLIGHT

I didn’t even want to be there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I fought off easy a couple miles back.

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

Maybe I’d get a lot more done.

DREAMGIRL

I’m a dreamer, I admit. It was a way of life as a child to sit and dream my way out of my circumstances. Imagine independence and all its spoils. Dream myself a suitable identity and moral character.

Today, all these years later, I can recall so many of those dreams in colors as vivid as a day ago. Maybe because so many of them have been realized. Or perhaps it’s because so many still linger.

Even if you don’t subscribe to the notion, we all harbor desires for one dream or another. The dream job…dream car…dream crib…dream guy or girl…dream vacation…those dreamy shoes.

But do we always accept or even appreciate the dream when it arrives?

In the past week I’ve used the word ‘dream’ to describe two separate circumstances. One of them a writing assignment. I wouldn’t exactly call it the Dream Gig, but I do get to scratch another item off my ‘30 Things I'ma Do Now That I’m 30’ list. But why when confronted with handling up on the assignment, I froze. Couldn’t do it. Looked the gift horse directly in the mouth, down the throat, whole 9 yards. (I have since managed to soldier up, thanks to 90 Millas and My Muse).

The other…*sigh*. I actually called another effing human being a Dream. Come. True. (I know, I know... I’ll pause here for a second so you can join me for a quick vomit). The thing of it is, I meant it, still mean it…but I have no clue what the hell to do about it.

If you’ve ever been called The Dream Girl/Guy, then unceremoniously abandoned like I have, then like me, you're probably a lil dead inside, and you might feel me on the irony and absolute absurdity of it all.

But the fact remains…

A wise (blind with microbraids and a underlip mustache genius musician) man once said…

“So... If it's special...
Then with it why aren't we as careful?”

Theoretically, shouldn’t we be going to the ends of the earth to chase our dreams? Or are dreams fundamentally not meant to come true? Is the subconscious mind a much more liberal and whimsical force than the conscious?

Or is there a dream slayer? Fear.

ANGER MIS-MANAGEMENT

“Wise, did I tell you that Mommy said I have too much hate in my heart?”

“And it only took her 37 years to figure this out.”

My brother. He’s not called “Anger Management” for nothing. Never mind that he’s my mom’s fav [if you’re a parent, save it! I don’t care how my mom tries to spin it, we’re ranked…and on any given day I come in at either 2nd or 3rd out of 4.]…but he’s also absolutely insane. My mom of all people, should know this.

I also rank my siblings. The one I call when I need advice. The one I run to for a hug. The one I call when I’m pissed or need help...

“Anger, yo, I can barely even see straight right now, I’m so fucking MAD.”

“Where you at and who you with?”

“Downtown BMore. My boy is with me. Can you please tell me why I just got kicked out of this bullshit ass bar just now. And by kicked out, I mean literally picked up off my feet like the goddamn Thursday trash, and dropped outside on the curb. AND I AINT EVEN DRUNK?!”

“Oh shit. What you do?”

“Ok, it’s fcuking, 25 cent bottle night, right, so I’m there with like 7 other people. I had JUST gotten a round of Hein.ekens for everybody before last call (11pm), and we’re sitting in this little booth. So three of my friends were not at the table, like either in the bathroom or pool table pimpin, and this bouncer kid come over and sweeps the bottles into the trash and walks away. So I kindly stand up, follow him and ask for an explanation.

"Please tell me why this fat muhfucker yells in my face, [and of course I do the BMore cracker accent] “You can’t have beers stacked up like that!”

"So I say, ‘Ahh ok sir…now mind you, bitch can’t be more than 22…ok sir, but #1, we didn’t know that was a rule; and #2, they’re not stacked up. The people who will be drinking them are just in the bathroom.”

"“I don’t care, you cant have them stacked up like that!” he yells at me again, as if, maybe, I dunno, I can speak the language but can’t understand it. So I take a deep breath and explain again, and this time I tell him that he could have just TOLD us to get rid of them rather than to TAKE them.

"And please tell me why he gets in my face yelling again, and so at this point I have no other recourse than to let his ass have it. Mid-cuss out, Fat Bitch tells me to leave. I laugh, but before I can even turn around good, another big burly muhfucka comes up out of nowhere and picks my ass up off the ground and carries me thru the fcuking bar. Again, as if I am a Glad bag of bottles and stale nachos, yo.”

My brother pauses, and I know in this moment that he is not about to judge or question or chastise me as my other siblings would have. He and I are *here* with it. I know that in that brief pause he has also blacked out on my behalf, and is counting backwards from 10. And I know at that moment we’re both thinking that if he was here he would have handled him on for me without hesitation.

“So what did you do?”

And tears have now accompanied the story, white flashing in my eyes as I recall the still-fresh fury.

“I couldn’t believe what was happening. You know how you see the real drunk white girl get carted out? But she’s ALWAYS passed out when she gets carried out. Or she’s cussing. And I am neither. My only instinct was to pick up my feet off the ground while he's carrying me so that it doesn’t look like I’m struggling and fucked up.

"So he drops me outside and my friends are right behind me. I tell him that I dropped my shoe and the other one is right there and basically throws it at me. I turn to the people in line, SO embarrassed, and I have this blank look on my face like, “Am I the only one who sees this ridiculous shit?” So then the bouncer outside starts calling me all types of bitch, and the ones who kicked me out join in. There’s a little ngga cop standing right there and he does and say NOTHING. I’m fcuking fed up. I stand toe to fcuking toe with the Fat Bitch one and I smirk and flip his dirty ass baseball cap off his head. And I swear to God if my friend hadn’t stepped in btwn us, I KNOW he would have lifted his fat fcuking fist to punch me in my face. And I was BEGGING him to do it. Instead my friends talked me down and we left.”

“Where are you now?”

“Around the corner at the car...”

“Pacing and shit.” He takes the words out of my mouth. I'm SO glad to be talking to someone who understands.

*

I joke a lot about wanting to fight, and I’m prone to flipping out and all, and I'm constantly being told that this isn’t the way to live (as if I'm truly violent and destructive. I'm not at all).

But I have to ask, Why the fuck not?? Is anger not a legitimate emotion? Is it not warranted in many instances? What’s so bad about being upset…is it the fact that it’s very easy to lose all semblance of common sense and do something stupid?

Ok so let’s assume, that I’m a well-adjusted, level headed adult, who knows right from wrong and makes wise decisions (on any given day I may or may not register about 3 out of those 5). Is it ok then for me to be angry? Can I say out loud that I’m furious without someone stepping in and trying to convince me that this isn’t the way to go?

My brother is on a whole different level with his. Exhibit A:

“So I was at the Cowboys-Bills game the other week…”

“The Monday night game? You went?”

“Yup dolo. You know I always go when Dallas comes up here. So there’s mad Cowboys fans there but I’m like the only one in my section. And the whole game they’re riding me. After the second interception they’re going crazy and I’m chilling. I just keep saying, ‘It's not over until the final whistle and I'm not leaving a second before that.’

So then when T.O. missed the 2pt conversion this white chick turns to me and starts laughing and THROWS HER BEER AT ME. [pause…You’re probably willing to bet that he said something slick to provoke this. Trust, he would tell me if he did.]

“So you call her all types of bitch,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Not even. I mushed her,” he says with the calmest voice ever.

“You mushed her?!"

"Yup."

"Wait..like, you mushed her down or you mushed her back.”

“I mushed her so hard she woulda fell backwards if there wasn’t anyone behind her. Who told her silly ass to be wasting good beer?!”

I’m at this point crying laughing. “So what happened?”

“Her red faced boyfriend rolls up on me like he’s about to do something. Then the Yellow Coats (security) come and get me. I told them I had to go to the bathroom to clean up, and when I was in there I heard someone radio the dude telling him something happened in the next row over. So I slipped out and went back and saw the rest of the game.”

“She poured her entire beer on you.” I repeat. Then pause. Black out for him. Shake my head. And I know at that moment we’re both thinking that if I was there I would have handled her on his behalf without hesitation.

“So that’s why Mommy said you have hate in your heart?”

“No, she said it cuz I almost beat the shit out of the cop who gave me a ticket for playing my music too loud.”

Pissed. And I don’t blame him.

THE COMPLICATIONS OF THOUGHT

Fuck.

I didnt mean to say it outloud.

It seems it's getting harder and harder for me to divert attention like I used to.

If a question's asked, I answer. Truthfully.

Therein lies the shitload.

I havent prepped. Havent even considered the ramifications.

And now that I've said it I have to own it. Have to live with the impulses to daydream about it.

Sure, I've been in the market, but I wasnt really ready for the investment.

Yes, it's gotten to this point...to where I can't even CONSIDER the possibilities without anxiety.

The complications of another him.

DIVERGENT PATHS

Every day I listen to a national radio program, partly because I enjoy the content, but mostly because the executive producer is a very good friend of mine.

Well, used to be a very good friend.

We started working at the network together. Started on the same day, on different programs, but our paths crossed in the copy room and we were inseparable from that moment. She was the best friend I never had. I mean, she was more like me than any of my best friends ever were…and well, I think having a friend like me is pretty cool.

Similar but not. I come from a large, tight family…she from an isolated abusive one. On the west coast. While most of my childhood belongings were (and still remain) stored at my parents’ crib, everything she had was piled into her tiny uptown studio.

She got the job from a hook up. Not that she didn’t work hard, she sure as hell did. She’s one of those people whose life depends on their success. Through that constant hustle she found a well-connected mentor who helped show her the way. I had no mentors, no guidance really.

Difference was, she had no safety net. I, on the other hand, though ambitious, always felt comforted by the support of my family and friends.

We both soon became quite disillusioned by the company, and the field in general. When given the opportunity, I got out of there, and created a new way for myself, with her help. She stayed, despite being miserable, and almost getting shipped off to cover the war. I used to go over and make her breakfast on the days she didn’t wanna get out of bed and go to work.

I listen to this radio show everyday because she has made quite a path for herself. Climbed to the top of the heap. And is doing a hell of a job doing it.

I listen and laugh at the guests on the program that we both met at the same event, or that I recognize as her professors from undergrad, or that I know she idolizes. People she has obviously kept in touch with over the years, and who would need a hint at why they know me.

I do not envy her success. I’m proud as fcuk of her. Wish I could call her up and tell her so. But we had a massive fall out a few years back… one that im pretty sure will be healed after some time. Not enough has elapsed just yet.

But I do envy the fact that she followed thru enough to achieve her status. I don’t know if she’s happy doing it. There are so many other things I know she’d rather be doing. She was always forced to define herself by her success. I had to one time explain to her that running errands for newswriters was not her “livelihood.” But she has finally reached a point where she can look back at her abusers and have some clout to back up an adamant Eff You!

Today as I listened to the program and heard the voice of a vet in the biz - who one time scolded me so badly I had to call my damn mom - I laughed out loud. My ex-best friend is using her resources. Just like I am, only in a completely different realm.

I realized very early on that professional success was not something that would ever, ever, ever make me happy. Not even content. It’s just not that important to me. Nevertheless, I work hard at whatever I do, and try to find projects that fulfill me. But beyond needing to maintain a livelihood that includes a roof over my head and turkey burgers in my freezer, I’m not what you’d call a climber. (that's not to say that I'm content at the bottom!)

Not everyone shares my perspective, which makes it hard living against public consensus. I’m at the age where most of my friends who have been grinding in one way or another are beginning to reach their pinnacles. Dissertations defended. EIC titles. I’ve been there and done that a few times over already. And it doesn’t phase me in the least. I’m back in school now for many reasons, truthfully, the least of which is for the benefits of another degree. But that’s what people expect to be my conclusion.

And unfortunately, some days, like today, I feel unaccomplished.

I’m not career-obsessed. I’ve never wanted to be just one thing when I grow up. That’s just not my passion. Well, except maybe a mom and wife. Maybe that’s why I feel funny today. Because she has climbed to professional success (whether it makes her happy or not), and I have yet to reach my personal one.

YA DON'T SAY...

How many languages y'all speak?

I’m fluent in at least 2...


So.....I went Upstate for C-mas. Ended up staying thru New Years. He did, too.

We met up at a party, threw a few back.

“You know Wise, I don’t think you and I have ever been on a real date-date.”

“You might be right.”

“Would you go out on a real date with me while we’re home?”

“I think you should ask me when neither of us is under the influence,” I answered over my shoulder, and returned to the task of shaking azz against his front.

He called the next morning and asked again…I accepted. A few days later we had a near perfect date.

Dinner at a restaurant frequented by wealthy, elderly white people. Wine from the spot in France where he lived for a hot sec. Cranberry mojito. Nonstop quality catching up, missing the last 2 showings that night of whatever movie he had selected for us to see.

Then back to his mom’s house to watch the porn I got him for his b-day. [FYI – Mom was out of town.] We sat side by side on a plush, shallow futon, hovering over the naked bodies slithering sweaty against one another on the oversized screen of his laptop. My hands to myself. His, respectfully draped above my shoulders. The flick was so ghetto and hilarious… a secession of group sex situations staged in Section 8 digs. Stretch marks, bullet wounds, testicular razor bumps, and ash, all in prominent supporting roles.

I was slightly preoccupied by the glare from the screen that rested on the impressive bulge pulsing in his jeans...and the subtle pool flooding mine. When he warmed his hands on my bare skin, under my shirt as if the stitches of my bra were puritanical boundaries…my only movement was to get more comfortable on the couch.

In my mind, however, I was narrowly ruminating in the pleasure. Not giving in…unwilling to surrender the psychological, let alone physical edge too soon. In my mind, I was on fire, and wanting him more and more in more ways than I care to admit.

But what I said was, “Oh shit, Pres. F0rd died!”

The porn had concluded and had been replaced with SportsCen+er.

“I had no idea he played football,” he said.

It was late, and before I left, I replied to his nonverbal request for a kiss, with an offer of my cheek and a, “I had a great time, as always, Mr. Him.”

This cat speaks French, but I don’t think he knew how to interpret ‘what I didn’t say’…bec he asked me a few nights later, after another night out.

I’m not pressed to give in to him just yet. He still lives there and I still live here. But he did kind of up the ante when I reminded him that we had agreed to “just be cool.”

“Do you think we could ever be more than just ‘cool’?”

I was surprised to hear him ask that. I did a quick bedroll [don’t act like you don’t roll around in bed when someone on the other end of the phone excites you!]…and told him honestly that I had no way of knowing yet.

“I want to see you a lot more, Wise.” Thank God I had on my armor, cuz he was laying it on pretty thick. We made plans to visit soon.

After talking, hanging out and texting every day during the holidays, I didn’t hear from him for almost a week after we left. And in that time I knew exactly what he was not saying.

Thank God I didn’t get caught up in his rhetoric…I’d be going crazy trying to figure out what was thinking and wondering if I should call him and shit. And while I know he was being sincere, thank God I also know that he subscribes to an ‘out of sight out of mind’ sort of defense mechanism. I know without his confirmation that he has opted to come to B-More on the later of the two weekends we discussed. I know that he is setting some boundaries of his own, some distance.

I know that he has a non-verbal alibi. He's a man, after all. If ever his words come back to haunt him, or if I were to display any dependency on that particularly intimate convo, he can always rely confidently on his 'silent evidence'.

If I were to all of a sudden jump the gun and say, “Hey let’s be more than cool”…he will recoil under the pressure and present a defense that says a whole different song and dance than his words. I know this because I know him.

My friends and I can look back and laugh at our younger days when we would've undoubtedly fallen into that bullshit ditch.

Today, I smile and understand. I’m straight fluent in the language of omission...just hoping the magic doesn't get lost in translation.

Plus, talk is cheap! :)

"Do You Know A Carlos?"

>>OK here goes PART II...

But first read Part I...

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 2006...11:51PM

“I remember those days when Hell was my home…”
That’s my 'not sure who this is' ring tone…

“Hello, this is Wise.”
That’s me answering the number that I don’t recognize.

“Hi, do you know a Carlos?”

Awww Lawd. Every woman, at some point in her life will get this phone call. If she’s lucky, she either won’t know dude, or will be long over his azz.

I was prepared for this…or so I thought…

“I’m sorry, who am I speaking to?”

“This is Carlos’ daughter’s mother. I have his phone and I got your number from a text you sent him.”

“Really. I don’t know any Carlos.” [I really don’t. And dudes, trust, if I had known him his biz woulda been out on the corner of Front Street.] “Where is he from?”

“The Bronx. He’s Dominican. They call him Nino?” She was asking, not telling, holding her breath for my answer.

“Naw Mami. I really don’t. And believe me, if I did I would tell you.”

“I’m sorry to be calling you,” she said…sounding like she was slowly coming undone, “but I took his phone, and I saw the text and I just pressed talk.”

“What did the text say?” I ask…still silently scanning my memory to figure out who the hell this might be.

“I don’t even know. Like I said, I just pressed talk. I never EVER called another woman before, but I just been going through it with this man.”

Like I said…up until this point, I could have dictated the convo verbatim. But I could have never scripted what followed. Except maybe the tears that came quickly.

“What did he do?” I ask. Shit, YOU called ME…so the least you can do is entertain me, cuz aint shit on TV. [editor’s note: for real, for real…are TV programmers on permanent hiatus or something?!] damn…digress…

“What did he do?” I ask…sincerely.

“He told me to quit my job to stay home with our daughter, who is 2, and THE DAY I quit he tells me that when he went back to Dominican Republic this summer, he got this chick pregnant.”

“Damn.” I probably only said this in my head, or if I said it out loud she probably didn’t hear me, bec by now she was a sniffling, hiccupping mess.

“I told him I couldn’t stay here with him in the same bed and I left and came back every day to see my kids, and I just got tired of doing that so I told him he had to leave. I put him out. I flipped the fcuk out because he was telling me that he told her it was over, and I didn’t believe him. I pushed him out of the apartment and we were fighting and he beat the shit out of me. I blacked out and woke up spitting up blood. So now I have an order of protection against him, but I don’t have anyone to watch my daughter during the day. She is 2 years old and is autistic and she has special teachers that come to the house, and someone has to be here with her. So I just sit at home all day and go crazy trying to figure out what the hell to do.”

“Whoa.” I’m sitting down now. Listening intently, as if this was one of my home girls. “So why do you have his phone?”

“I took it because I needed to see if he had called the girl. But of course by the time I got it all his calls were cleared out. All except the text messages. That’s how I got your number.”

“I really don’t know any Carlos from the Bronx.” [editor’s note: No offense to any Boogie Downers (dammit Slishy just hear me out)…but I don’t do the Bronx. Literally in my 7 years living in the City I been to the Bronx MAYBE 7 times. And 2 of those times including last month, were at Hostos College, so I don’t think they count.]

“He’s 39 and he owns a bodega?” Again asking…hoping to jog my memory. And I’m really thinking hard now, like, maybe did somebody give me a fake name?

“Naw, I couldn’t tell you the last Puerto-, I mean, Dominican dude I met. Much less from the Bronx.”

“I’m so sorry. I NEVER called a woman’s number before.”

“It’s ok, I know how it is,” I say. “So, why did he tell you to quit your job?”

“I swear to God, he was telling me to quit for a long time and I kept telling him no. But then he said he didn’t trust the babysitter and you know you can’t tell a mother no shit like that. So I quit because my daughter is autistic and now I’m stuck. My job was begging me to come back, offering me better hours, more money and I was like naw I gotta quit, cuz someone needs to be here while the teachers are here with her, and because of the order of protection I cant have him here with her. He can’t come within [however many] yards of me or the kids.”

She continues…”See he went to DR in August and I was pregnant with our second baby.” [chick speaks in Rosie Perez warp speed so I’m trying to keep up] “While he was gone I lost the baby and I was so upset that he wasn’t here, then come to find out he was down there with this young bitch.”

“How young?”

“17. And gets this bitch pregnant. Then he comes home and I find out he’s calling her and shit and yet he’s telling me that he told her it’s over. But one day he comes home after work and where I live there’s not a lot of space to park so when he comes home I leave for work and he parks in my spot. So I come home and we’re moving the cars and I take his phone to check my voice mail because I lost mine. This muthafcukah don’t know how to set up his voice mail so I thought I was calling mine but it went to his. So I set up the password and heard the message from her. So I flipped on him and that’s when he beat the shit out of me. So when he was locked up I called the girl to find out. But I don’t speak Spanish…I’m Puerto Rican…but I don’t speak Spanish so I had my mother talk to her in Spanish and ask her when they met and what was going on. She said they met in August, slept together in August and then she got pregnant.”

“How you know she’s really 17? How you know he aint lying about that too?” I ask.

“Because he showed me her fcuking picture. She looks 14! And I swear to God I don’t know why he showed me that picture because now I have that visual stuck in my head of like, her azz on his balls. Oh my gosh! Plus you can tell the chick is young because she don’t even know her own cycle. Any woman knows you don’t have sex like 2 weeks after your period! Plus she said she was pregnant all quick. I wrote down the calendar of when she said they were together. There’s no way that could even be his baby. She’s just young and dumb.”

“So did she say they were together?”

“No she told my mother that she didn’t really talk to him that much. So I been online trying to look up his phone bill to find out if he was calling her too or if she was the one doing the calling, like he told me. But Spr!nt wouldn’t let me open up the bills because I don’t have Adobe.”

“Oh girl, you can download Ad.obe for free from their website.”

“Oh for real? Cuz I got dial up so you know that shit is gonna take all day. I’m gonna have to go to the library tomorrow. I swear to God I’m so sorry for calling you. It’s so late, too. I am just out of my mind trying to figure out if I did the right thing by kicking him out. Because I am almost all the way through my savings by being out of work, and I don’t know what I’m going to do. A lot of parents with Autistic kids apply for disability but when I tried before they said I made too much money. Now I just applied again and do you know those muthafcukahs said I cant get it because I have life insurance! God forbid something should happen to me I need that insurance. Now they got me over here contemplating getting rid of it! I tried to get an evening job from 5-12, but I also have a 12 year old, but there’s no way I’m gonna leave her in charge of the baby. Especially not at night. I swear I wish my daughter was regular.”

“No Mami. Your daughter is a blessing just the way she is. I’m sure she is a beautiful blessing and you need to just gather strength from that blessing.”

“I know she is,” and she is weeping now, and says, “but she just gets so frustrated because she can’t talk and we cant understand her sometimes. So she gets so upset when she can’t communicate with us. I’m just saying if she wasn’t autistic I could at least leave her at daycare and get back to work.”

“So where is your mom?” I ask. “She can’t watch the baby?”

“My mother has a bad arm and she cant keep her. And I have a sister who don’t work, she don’t do shit but she refuses to help me out. And the thing is I always do everything for everybody else, but nobody wants to help me when I need it. Im SO sorry for calling you!”

“Listen, it’s ok. I understand. Let’s just figure out what you can do to get back to work. I mean, there has to be some kind of special daycare for your daughter. There has to be SOMETHING.”

“I’ve tried and there isn’t. I’ve asked her teachers and all they say is that if she goes to the school there has to be someone here at 3:00 to get her off the bus, and if I work I wouldn’t be here. But if I work evenings I don’t have anyone to watch them. He used to be here but now that I put him out I’m stuck. I gotta go back to work."

"Does he help you out at all?"

"He gives me $400 every week, but I got rent, a cell phone, car insurance. And I'm almost out of my savings."

"Girl, you are better off than most. I know girls in your situation right now who don't have a dime to their name and a man with even less. At least you got your stash," I offer. She's obviously not a slug chick. She just got a snake dude.

I just need to see the phone bills so that I at least know if I did the right thing.”

“You want me to look it up?” I say, already at my computer typing in the website. [I got Spr!nt, too]

“Would you mind?”

“What’s the number?”

[OK this is hella long. This is a good stopping point…and when you come back for the dramatic conclusion, just click the link for Part II at the beginning of the story. But for those with nothing better to do…here goes…]

I look up the bill and sure enough there are a bunch of calls to DR.
NO calls from there.

“Ok, so what you gonna do if he did call her?” I ask…stalling.

“Do you feel safe around him?” still stalling…

“I know your feelings are running amok, but what will happen to you emotionally if you let him come back just to watch your daughter?” still…

“And you don’t got no brothers to whup his azz or nothin’?” still…

“Are you afraid to tell me what’s on the bill?” she says, in an eerily calm voice.

Deep breath. “Ok what you wanna know?”

“Did he call her on Sept 12, the day he got out of jail? 809 area code.”

“He called her at 3:32 pm, and then again at 3:42.”

“I knew it.”

I’m looking thru the phone bill, blogger fam, and dude was quite liberal with the chit chat.

“Most of the calls are at midnight or around then. And they’re also for only like 5, 9 minutes. The longest call is only like 15 minutes. And it wasn’t on no, “Call me right back” either, bec there are no incoming calls afterwards.”

“Any 800 numbers?” she asks.

“Oh calling cards. Nope.” [I later found 2 quick ones]

“I fcuking knew it. This whole time he was telling me that she was the one calling him. What the fcuk is he even doing with a 17 year old? What the hell do they have to talk about?”

“And you know what, he didn’t call at all the entire month of November.” I announce.

“Fa real?” A glimmer of hope. I could hear it. But she kept it real. “Whatever. At least now I know. I asked him what she had that I don’t and he said that honestly it was a bullshit little relationship, just him calling and saying ‘hi, how’s the weather’ cuz he would never leave his child out there like that. But still, he threw away our family for a little girl. Bought her a damn cell phone so he could call her. He is 39, and he said, ‘she’s young, she’s not gonna like me for long. I’m getting older, looking older. She don’t want me.’”

“How old are you?” I ask.

“29.”

“Awww. Me too.”

“Wow. I swear I cant believe I’m talking to a complete stranger. Im so sorry.”

“Mami. You’re good.”

We sat on the phone for 2 and a half hours. Two women bound by an errant text msg. I had her read me the text I sent and turns out I thought I was texting a friend in Philly as I was driving thru.

I was struck by how different our lives were…yet how easily that could have been my life, my man’s phone, my dilemma, my burden. I thought about a very good friend of mine, whose story is not far from this one.

“Well you have my number now. Don’t be afraid to use it again,” I say and mean it.

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate you looking up his bill for me. I’m gonna download A.dobe tomorrow so I can see it for myself. But thank you.”

“Good luck, girl. I know you will make a way to get back to work and take care of your baby.”

“Thank you so much. I can’t believe you actually talked to me for this long. Thank you.”


You know the part on the Brady Bunch after the last commercial, but right before the end credits…that last 30 second punchline? ...Well, this is it…


The next day I went online and looked up Autism day care facilities in Brooklyn. I found a site, emailed the director and the next morning got a response.

I called Mami to give her the info.

As the phone was ringing I realized I was calling HIS phone. I didn’t have her number.

She answered. Surprised to hear from me. Grateful for the info. Turns out she did some more digging and found a spot around her way that might take her daughter.

She’s a lot more stable, now that she knows the deal. She confronted Carlos with a copy of his phone bills. He did the typical Trife Negro move and tried to turn it around on her…accusing her of invading his privacy, threatening to tell the cops that she stole his phone.

Son, how did you get the copies…did you violate the order of protection?

That shut him up.

Obviously she’s heartbroken. But she’s prepared to move on.

But there’s a little piece of me that hopes she’ll call me again and tell me that she’s back to work and back to life.

Do You Know A Carlos? PT II

>>PART I

>>Now for PART II...

I look up the bill and sure enough there are a bunch of calls to DR.
NO calls from there.

“Ok, so what you gonna do if he did call her?” I ask…stalling.

“Do you feel safe around him?” still stalling…

“I know your feelings are running amok, but what will happen to you emotionally if you let him come back just to watch your daughter?” still…

“And you don’t got no brothers to whup his azz or nothin’?” still…

“Are you afraid to tell me what’s on the bill?” she says, in an eerily calm voice.

Deep breath. “Ok what you wanna know?”

“Did he call her on Sept 12, the day he got out of jail? 809 area code.”

“He called her at 3:32 pm, and then again at 3:42.”

“I knew it.”

I’m looking thru the phone bill, blogger fam, and dude was quite liberal with the chit chat.

“Most of the calls are at midnight or around then. And they’re also for only like 5, 9 minutes. The longest call is only like 15 minutes. And it wasn’t on no, “Call me right back” either, bec there are no incoming calls afterwards.”

“Any 800 numbers?” she asks.

“Oh calling cards. Nope.” [I later found 2 quick ones]

“I fcuking knew it. This whole time he was telling me that she was the one calling him. What the fcuk is he even doing with a 17 year old? What the hell do they have to talk about?”

“And you know what, he didn’t call at all the entire month of November.” I announce.

“Fa real?” A glimmer of hope. I could hear it. But she kept it real. “Whatever. At least now I know. I asked him what she had that I don’t and he said that honestly it was a bullshit little relationship, just him calling and saying ‘hi, how’s the weather’ cuz he would never leave his child out there like that. But still, he threw away our family for a little girl. Bought her a damn cell phone so he could call her. He is 39, and he said, ‘she’s young, she’s not gonna like me for long. I’m getting older, looking older. She don’t want me.’”

“How old are you?” I ask.

“29.”

“Awww. Me too.”

“Wow. I swear I cant believe I’m talking to a complete stranger. Im so sorry.”

“Mami. You’re good.”

We sat on the phone for 2 and a half hours. Two women bound by an errant text msg. I had her read me the text I sent and turns out I thought I was texting a friend in Philly as I was driving thru.

I was struck by how different our lives were…yet how easily that could have been my life, my man’s phone, my dilemma, my burden. I thought about a very good friend of mine, whose story is not far from this one.

“Well you have my number now. Don’t be afraid to use it again,” I say and mean it.

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate you looking up his bill for me. I’m gonna download A.dobe tomorrow so I can see it for myself. But thank you.”

“Good luck, girl. I know you will make a way to get back to work and take care of your baby.”

“Thank you so much. I can’t believe you actually talked to me for this long. Thank you.”


You know the part on the Brady Bunch after the last commercial, but right before the end credits...that one last 30 second punchline?…well, this is it…


The next day I went online and looked up Autism day care facilities in Brooklyn. I found a site, emailed the director and the next morning got a response.

I called Mami to give her the info.

As the phone was ringing I realized I was calling HIS phone. I didn’t have her number.

She answered. Surprised to hear from me. Grateful for the info. Turns out she did some more digging and found a spot around her way that might take her daughter.

She’s a lot more stable, now that she knows the deal. She confronted Carlos with a copy of his phone bills. He did the typical Trife Negro move and tried to turn it around on her…accusing her of invading his privacy, threatening to tell the cops that she stole his phone.

Son, how did you get the copies…did you violate the order of protection?

That shut him up.

Obviously she’s heartbroken. But she’s prepared to move on.

But there’s a little piece of me that hopes she’ll call me again and tell me that she’s back to work and back to life.

"She" Is Not Me

She made this bed.

And as I watched her lie writhing in it, restless, cold, stiff…my initial amusement later turned to sympathy.

I have a relentless habit of putting my feet in other folks’ shoes.

So when I saw her on Black Friday I wondered not if, but how much she regretted making the trip.

They walk into an upscale nightclub at the tail end of a private birthday party, just before the DJ would take over. Turns out the person throwing the party was his old football buddy. He walks into a sea of familiar faces, all foreign to her.

All except one.

She walks behind him, her steps subtly strained and reluctant. He is in his element, home, among friends, good people from his past. He’s greeted with genuine welcomes, daps, hugs and cheek kisses, and she watches from a step behind.

And as she rounds the bar, following him to a spot she hopes is beyond the crowd, she sees a face that is all too familiar. The face that haunts her memories of betrayal. The poster child of her insecurity and distrust of so-called plutonic friends.

It was her. The chick who had tried to take her place.

I saw her give the home wrecker the ice grill, a venomous mix of ‘I can’t believe this bitch is here,’ ‘did he know she was gonna be here,’ and ‘I wanna go the hell home.’ I saw her whip out her cellie and compose a flurry of furious text messages.

But she was stuck. Out of town, out of her element, out of place. I watched it all go down. The way the home wrecker used good discretion in turning her back when they entered, then reluctantly greeted him when he awkwardly approached. She sincerely explained that she was there for the private party of the football buddy, who ironically had been her Junior prom date. He settled in at the bar just past her. Just past her, but not far enough for the two women to avoid a direct line of vision.

Home wrecker played it as cool as she could. Downing Moet and ducking in the arms of her plutonic male friends, trying to persuade them it was time to go. But she was in no way being discreet. She was a bit extra flirty, her laugh a bit extra loud…just, extra! And she would not stop smoothing down her hair and checking her makeup. And none of it went unnoticed. Not by her or him.

Backstory:

She loved him. They’d been through a lot, a move among it all. He left her behind for work, and she remained by his side as best she could. It came easily, not because of her devotion but because they had been friends first. Little did she know, he had slowly come to see her as little more than such.

He was a good man, a great boyfriend, never a wanderer… so it came as a crushing blow when she felt his attention slipping away, focused elsewhere, she realized. The confrontation was severe, as was the blow induced by his honesty. Yes, he had been serious all those months that he had been expressing his uncertainty about their future. Yes, there was someone new…the Homewrecker.

She managed to convince him to give it another try. Despite her insecurities, despite the distance, despite their never ending battle about his bubbling social life, and abundance of plutonic female friends. Down South, where she was from, it wasn’t like that. Guys get phone calls and emails and text messages from girls who are giving it up. Plain and simple. She couldn’t get that out of her head…especially not after his one indiscretion.

She knew that there was a reason why he had drifted. They were of different breeds. He, a music-obsessed social butterfly…she, a more subdued homebody. Basically it was their past, a history of having the other’s back, that bonded them for another full unproductive year.

They ended it a while ago. Stopped speaking at her behest. But there were Thanksgiving plans, he reminded her, in an effort to get her to end the silent treatment. She finally spoke up two days before the holiday, and asked if she could still come to his hometown for the weekend as planned. She needed closure. In layman’s terms…another try. He said he’d think about it.

He called in reinforcements, but the decision was ultimately his. He says he feels like he owes her at least that after everything they've been through. Agrees when she says it shouldnt linger any longer. Would prefer to end it on a positive note rather than with the mess the last time they spoke, when SHE finally stuck a fork in it. They drove home on Wednesday after work.

And her plan might have worked had it not been for them pesky plutonic friends and that bitch. All night, he was mobbed by acquaintances, a good number of them women. Dancing and hugging and chatting them up. Sure, he and her were not together, but no doubt the point of this trip was to try to salvage what she could of this relationship. But this was overload. It was Thanksgiving dinner all over again… a constant barrage of overindulgence, and the subsequent nausea that followed. She was overwhelmed by it all and had nowhere to run. If he was still her man, she could demand they leave. Or at least if she was home she could drive herself or get a homegirl to come scoop her.

Instead she had insisted on taking this ill-fated trip, a last ditch effort to hold a man who was too polite, too indecisive, too sympathetic, too guilty, too scared to firmly end it. She exploited his wish-washy nature, and got trapped between the mistress and a hard place.

But it was the exact blunt trauma she needed to move the hell on.

Glad she aint me. I woulda never took that trip.

Me, He, and DC

Gilbert Arenas scores 45 points and I stroll into the arena with 5:43 left in the game, just as he’s taking his final bow. Lebron is already on the bench. Defeated.

Just my luck. A hunnid bucks on tickets squandered like I got it like that. I’m so sure it’s a sign of the night ahead. DC however, had other plans for me.

I’m thinking for sure I’d get back to the whip, parked on a side street just off Union Station, and the tires would be slashed or better yet my Club would be bent in half and left on the street in lieu of the truck.

Not tonight, the car’s all in one piece, unscathed and waiting for me and my boy Cartr. We hop in, thinking for sure there’s a liq store still open in the hood. What kind of town is ghetto azz DC if there’s no after hours liqa sto?? Ok cool, well at least this feels familiar…disappointment, that is. Cuz see that’s the type of luck I’m accustomed to. Much like the left side of my hair, which refuses to play nice like the pretty right side. *sigh*

We drive on in search of a club I had no intentions of ever revisiting.

Back story: Me and my boy drive to DC for the game, and plan to hook up with another *friend* who is in town for a bday party. I dressed for a classy lounge. At the bday boy's behest, I end up at Love.

“I can’t believe I’m waiting in line for a club that will charge me $15 to get in…all for a boy.”

That’s the text I send my girl Curly while waiting outside the spot, with the sound of drunk metrosex white boys humming in my ears. Nothing against Dream/Love/whatever name you know it by. It’s a beautiful club. But I’m not the mega-club every weekend chick. Nothing against those who are. I’m not a nightlife snob by any means…unless there are durags involved, and in that case I’m stayin in and watching somebody’s marathon on MTV2.

Get inside after waiting too long (NYers SWEAR they never wait online at home so they’ll be DAMNED if they do it out of town. I am of that belief.) ...and I am pleasantly surprised to find there’s no cover.

I don’t even head straight to the bar. Cuz I’m anticipating this to be a complete waste of an evening, longing for the reliable comfort of the remote.

But soon my anxiety subsides, as one after another attractive man in v-neck and tie, pin stripes and cuff links, neat tapered edge ups, in fly square-toes parades by. It feels like forever since I’ve been in the company of so many dudes who could get it.

First floor playlist: Beyonce, Jay, Sean Paul.

Me and Cartr make our way up a flight. Settle at the bar. More boys. More booze. More boom.

Beyonce, Jay, Sean Paul.

Third floor. Puerto Rican* night? I had no idea. Cute.

Daddy Yankee and them. And that one reggaeton beat.

“You in?” I text.

“Yeah, 4th floor.”

Bypassing the pointless velvet rope, we climb yet another flight. Smoky. White people. More Puerto Ricans. An (East) Indian contingency.

Beyonce, Jay, Sean Paul.

The bar. The usual. Sipping. I’m feeling content now. The club doesn’t suck. The crowd is cool. The three song rotation is aight.

I lose Cartr momentary.

I take a sip of the Goose.

And something happens.

They play a new song. Dare I recall it as Ole Skool.

I sip again. And this time it’s Timber.lake. I’m sexy.
Ok, this is cool.

I sip some more, and the whole scene changes, and I’m feeling the club and the DC boys and even the girls in their summer ensembles and enviable curls cascading onto smooth shoulders. Even the whites have rhythm here.

I sip some more and I’m actually enjoying myself, glad I came. Not so pissed that we missed free t-shirt night at the Verizon Center.

I sip again, and I see him. In his black button down and tight jeans. Cuban tight, not rock star tight. Shorty has thighs, you see. I make out his bald head dipping in and out of my view. He’s feeling the ole skool, too.

And he’s dancing with some girls, and I’m watching and smiling and taking notes. And he’s consorting with his rainbow coalition of boys, and enjoying himself, and thank God I am too or else this would not have worked.

I politely wait until he wears out some chick and moves on to a group dance. I sidle up beside him, behind him actually, and do that ‘back to back, guess who’s dancing behind you’ thing. And he feels me without looking and we immediately step into a familiar dance that we have yet to rehearse.

He turns to me, and does the ‘hit it from the back’ dance, and I oblige. He twirls me to him for a hug.

“So good to see you, Wise.”
“I’ve missed you.”

I meet his boys. Take the birthday boy by the hand and head to the bar for shots of Patron. Really cool guy I learn, and we exchange biz cards. He’s in Law School at American, and says, we shouldn’t be strangers.

“Where’d u go?” he texts me as I return to him, reading it in front of him.

“There you are,” he says.

“We’re finally dancing,” he says, smiling, shouting in my ear.

“We danced at my crib that time.”

“Oh yeah,” he says. Pulling me in, knowing I’m being bashful.

“Your hair is so long.” I respond by tickling his baldy, the way he always likes. He plays in mine, the way I hate, today. My hair's already a mess.

You ever see the girl in the club who is dancing with some guy, her arms wrapped tight around his neck, like a Christmas bow, her eyes closed, and she’s just swaying to the music? She looks like she’s either tossed, a hopeful ho, or at a 60s sock hop with her steady.

Well, maybe, just maybe she’s just enjoying the moment. Maybe, just maybe, his hands around her waist feel like rest... and maybe, just maybe, I was exhausted, and his shoulder felt like a down pillow and I didn’t care that there were 10,000 other people watching me daydream.

Maybe, just maybe, I had a great time. Dancing. From one floor to the next, laughing and sweating and gyrating, and not caring, and kissing, and singing along, and getting low to songs I normally hate, and smiling. For hours without interruption.

Every time he leaned in, it was like fitting in the last piece of a jigsaw. Our pecks are puzzlingly perfect. Despite a background that is less so.

“When you coming home for Thanksgiving?”
“I get in Thursday night,” I respond.
“Cant wait to see you again Thursday. That is if you can pencil me in.”

Ever the azzhole, I open my cellie, open the calendar and show him that I’m booked. He laughs and pulls me in closer. Kisses my forehead and calls me cute.

And as the Sean Paul morphs into Cham morphs into Elephant Man morphs into Marley...he looks me in the eyes and sings the words to me. So I do the same.

"I don't wanna wait in vain for your love."

If only he knew that that very song is his designated ring tone in my cellie.

Gilbert Arenas scored 45 last night, and so did I. It was an MVP night, on a day I thought couldn’t be salvaged.

Cuz I don’t have good luck. I just have nights like these, followed by early morning text messages, then calls from the airport just before departure.

I have lulls in the reality of a long distance fantasy world, in which I can enjoy the here and now.

Then why am I preoccupied with the ‘there and then’?

Why cant I just enjoy the moments?

Why I always gotta take the L?

Cuz I feel like I'm outta luck.

*In Upstate NY where I’m from all Latinos are Puerto Rican. I never met a Mexican or Dominican until college. So references to them as such are more regional than it is politically incorrect and short sighted, ok? Cool.

A Very Special So...Wise...Sista Moment

Shout out to the blaquescribes...
DP's forever my muse.:)


I wasn’t by any means an abused child, but in my case, being the
youngest was a constant ass kicking.

My older brothers and I can look back on it all now and laugh, and we
do quite frequently. But somehow the echoes of amusement fade late at
night, when I'm balled up in bed, spooned by only the darkness. It
feels like I'm 5 again. Unable to sleep, listening for signs of
insomnia from elsewhere in the house. It always seemed like I was the
only one awake, the only one not settled. The only one without a tag
team partner. Mommy had Daddy, and Rick had Andrew. Twins. Dumb luck.
Then there was me: the wrong age and the wrong gender. I didn’t fit in
well at all. I needed help tying my shoes and pouring my own cereal.
Eric was always so PISSED to have to do the most minute tasks to help
me, so early on I learned to do shit for myself. Taught myself to read,
swim, think logically, play basketball, hide secrets, tell lies, avoid
ass whuppins. Not as a means of independence, but to just not get in
the way. Not be a nuisance, but to garner some positive attention and
respect. I suppose that's why as an adult, the things I need most are
the exact things I hate to ask for.

My brothers and I laugh about it a lot, and I admit it's funny how they
would torture me for snitching, or leave me home alone knowing I was
terrified. We laugh about how to this day I won't open the door after
sundown, and how I made up a black pretend friend named Libby who was
with me when the real (white) Libby, whose grandparents lived on my
block, would move away at the end of the summer.

But my brothers are rarely made privy to the legacy that that childhood
isolation still bestows on me 25 years later. Despite having a gang of
neighborhood friends and being likeable and popular in school, I grew
up a lonely kid, ignored by big brothers, unattended by loving yet hard
working parents. So as an adult, rolling dolo is second nature to me.
Writers, after all, work alone. But it also makes me appreciate it when
people do show up. I'm used to doing things for myself, living with the
consequences of making bad decisions without any consultation, and most
of all I'm quite used to being disappointed when I do accept help that
never arrives. HAVING someone who is not there when you need them is
worse than having no one at all. But that's the beauty of me...I'm
always there for me.

So while I find comfort and normalcy in being alone, there are still
days when I sit back helplessly and watch the cycle of my issues scroll
over and over again. I could recite the outcomes verbatim. When shit
goes down and I need help, I roll up in bed and turn within. And I beg
time to pause for my issues to pass, like a family of ducks across a
street. Instead of asking for help I figure, if there is indeed
strength in numbers, I need to start counting. And I do. And in those
times I realize I'm not alone. I have my brothers (we laugh about it, but
they would literally kill a ngga over their little sister), my mom, my friends.
I have God. I have me.

So, I woke up early this morning, after little sleep, because I
realized life was happening without me.

~Wise...not getting soft. Promise. In fact, the next episode of "She's Just Not Feeling You" is entitled...IF WISE WAS FCUKING ME.

Stay tuned for your local news. ;)
PS...Not too late for fantasy hoops. My brother's taught me to play. :) Holler at me if you wanna be down.

Sept. 3 Ink

Hey I forgot to show y'all something...

Remember the dramatic 5-parter, where I made an emotional reference to a wayward would-be "The One" negro about a tattoo I was planning to get?

Here it go... Got it on 9~3~06. It's on my shoulder blade, on my back. Visible only in tank top weather. Or winter hoochie mode. Or waist-up frolic.

Got it in the Village from some tattoo A-rabs. Was I nervous that he might accidentally write 9~1.1~01? Sure. But it all worked out in the end. Took 15 minutes. Shed some tears. Then went out with Gay Bartender (who helped pick out the font), her girl (who has a sick tat along her shoulder), and Curly (who held my hand the entire time) and got hammered.

Per usual, my siblings are hating. Mom loves it. Dad does too. :)

Yo Homo

So I'm at this CBC party in DC the other night. I make it there at the tailend of the open bar ("Excuse me, sweetie, can you order me a vodka/cran while you're up there, pls. Thanks!"). PERFECT, cuz they played me at the door, pretending that the email invite made any mention of the fact that the party was $10 without the printout. Nice hustle.

So they owed me the drink anyway, and they gave me a decent gratuity in the form of dope music. I'm impressed. I've not been out in DC much, so I wasn't sure if I should expect Chuck Brown to appear from behind the DJ booth...if you'd need to remove your shoes, relinquish any liquid and gel from your purse, and walk thru security...or if it would appear as if I was at an E Lynn Harris book release party.

If anything, it was more like the latter.

I wish I had brought my boy Flavius...one of my oldest friends, who also happens to live right outside DC. Oh and he's gay...but not like Marce.llus from Big Brother Allstars gay...more like, Grant H!ll gay.

So I was feeling the crowd...it's been a while since I've been to a good buppie set. I'm just now growing out of my 'I-prefer-dudes-in-suits-' phase, but I still get all tingly when surrounded by Brooks Brothers brothas. Nice looking guys with nicely tapered goatees and edge ups. Shiny azz shoes. And the women were not to be outdone in their impossible heels, fly azz wraps and twists and locs, and well-moisturized knees.

Present company included.

So I'm standing surveying the crowd, which at this point is mostly congregated along the walls, at the bar and along the couches on the fringes (chicks always have a monopoly on those seats for some reason). That's when I notice the generous gay/straight ratio. Obviously the rainbow numbers are particularly high in DC and in GayTL, so it makes sense that there can't POSSIBLY be enough exclusively gay spots in all of DC to accommodate all the gays. This overlap makes sense. But I'll tell you what doesnt...

[Hold up...quick digression...as I'm noticing the gays, these two guys walk up near me both double-fisting Coronas. Apparently they each bought one for the other without knowing that the other had bought one for the other. Get it? I should mention these men appear straight. So I say to the one closest to me... "I'll take that off your hands," and he hands it to me. I laugh and decline. He insists. I decline. He turns back to his boy, who is eying me, then turns back to me maybe 5 minutes later to chat. I say, 'Were you really going to give me that?' He says, yes. I say, 'Well, what's your name? I couldn't possibly take a drink from a guy without first being properly introduced.' His generosity completes my self-imposed 2-drink maximum.]

OK...so what doesn't make sense about integrated social gatherings is the well-dressed man who steps to me later that evening.

"I was on my way out but had to come and talk to you. I don't want to be presumptuous, tho."

Wise... "How could saying hello be presumptuous?"

Suit... "That's not the presumptuous part. I wanted to ask you how you manage to look so damn fine tonight?"

Now y'all...I'm a girl, so even if it was corny, I was still flattered. I indulge him, despite wanting to immediately refer him to my boy Flavius.

Wise... "I would love to tell you that I worked hard at it, but I didn't."

He laughs. Thing of it is...I look aight, but I ain't in full head-turning mode in the LEAST. Ok, yeah, my plaid capris are adorable, my heels make my legs look really long, and if I had any cleveland it would be on full display in my collarless button down with the low, open neck. But my hair is all pulled back, I'm wearing glasses, and I'm carrying a small computer bag (sans the laptop, but I am coming straight from a biz meeting). OK, it's fly and leather and Kenny Cole, but the point is, there are plenty of women here who actually do look like Miss Negro Universe.

Suit... "I been noticing you all night and I am LOVING your style..."

Wise: "Is that a Congressional pin?" ...trying change the subject, and giving him a subtle hint that I'm not comfortable/impressed/in the mood for his attempt at hollering.

Suit... "Does it matter? Or is it what I'm about that's not on my lapel that matters?"

Wise..."To be completely honest and frank, I could care less, except that my attention is currently occupied by my vague curiosity. It's dark in here, but I think it's cute."

Suit laughs..."See I could tell by your style that you were down to earth like that. I would love to get to know more."

Wise: "Do you happen to have a biz card?" ...I was hoping to avoid giving him one of my last cards.

Suit..."You know, due to the nature of my biz I don't usually give out my card, but I can give you my number. Here, give me your phone."

Shit! I was trying to get better at this. As you all know, it's well-documented that I'm a chronic drunk dialer. But since I'm nowhere near sloshed, I put in his number but never press TALK. But he's a spry lil son of a bitch, and he quickly reaches over and puts his thumb on the button, then holds my hand on the phone to allow it to ring a few times. Shit.

This would have been fine, not a problem had I just been holding my biz phone and not the personal Bat Phone. I always let that shit go to voice. And even then it may have been cool to keep in touch if for no other reason than to be put on to other free booze opportunities. [I know they be gettin getttin fcuked up on The Hil!]

But this dude was so blatantly gay... but like, not Brian Mc.Knight of Hill Har.per gay...more like, Little Rich.ard gay. Complete with the lisp!

What in the hell? Is this the gay man's rugby... to try to pull unsuspecting straight women in integrated social situations? Will he go back to the down low den and put another notch in the playbook? [And how did he even make it into the sect? I thought you had to look straight to be considered DL] Or did he detect a dick-sucking gleam in my eye?

Whatever the case, I'm not unsuspecting. And I don't find Little Rich.ard attractive...nor particularly entertaining [only when it's the real LR and he's on tv and making no intelligible sense].

That's the last time I go out in DC without gay backup. Cuz I'm a confirmed chick magnet.

* [ps..is anyone else obsessed with the show Celeb Duets ??]

My NY Story...Genesis

And now back to our regularly scheduled program, which was so rudely interrupted by my subconscious bowel movement. *Sigh*

So in Part I, I introduced you to this hilarious article about grown azz college grads migrating to Mecca-hattan, NY, and living in real live dorms at real life premium apt rents. The shit hit really close to home...but where exactly is home? I've been pondering that question for a few years now.

Perhaps home is simply where you lay ya head, or places you've been. In that case, that explains why every other line of the article transported me to a very vivid, suddenly specific space in time, my time here in New York. I'm gonna break down the article...below is a small snippet. Each link in the story represents a personal anecdote of my own. Click on them and get glimpses of my personal NY Story...

::squiggly flashback lines...squiggly flashback lines::

>>Excerpt from the Article...

Ms. Cook, age 24 and from Ohio, at first could afford only a rented room in Dobbs Ferry, N.Y., for $650 a month. Then she embarked on the archetypal, hair-raising New Yo.rk City apartment search: feckless would-be roommates, outlandish financial demands, an offer of a room in a building with a bullet-pocked lobby.

Brown Baggin It

We interrupt the series already in progress to bring you a Special Report...

Last night I had a recurring dream about shitting in a plastic bag.

Like, not even a plastic Wal.mart bag, but a sandwich bag, sans the zip.loc.

What IS that???

Big City of Dreams

I can remember very distinctly the flutter that used to develop in my stomach every single time the Ghettohound bus would emerge from the Linc.oln Tunnel and stumble into the west edge of midtown Manhattan.

No...matter fact, it was BEFORE you even got out of Jersey alive, when the bus pulled up to the tunnel, along that windy, downward roadway, and traffic seemed endless and you wished you could just walk out and sprint the rest of the way.

First thing you see is actually the smell of The City...burnt rubber, the nasty river, the constant commerce, crack, hotdog water, roasted nuts...toilets, just like the one in the Rosa Parks section of the bus. And the impossibly scattered skyscrapers and high rises. The BMW dealership. That big old church. Flashes of yellow..."driven" madly by English as a 2nd language folk. Apartments you can see into from street-level..and wonder how much them fools pay for rent.

I LOVE New York City...we've been together for such a long time that I can't even remember the last time I even looked at another city. Sure I've been with lots of others, but I always come back to NYC. He don't always show it, but he love me.

I know sometimes he black my eye, but that's because I ain't work hard enough, or I came home drunk every night last week, or I missed the M7 bus and had to walk the 3 blocks from the train station. (see, I deserve it, I'm effing lazy!)

But he always opens his doors to me...and not to just me but to my friends and family and mad people I'll pass on the streets without ever caring to know.

I love NY...but I gotta go. The flutter in my six-pack* is long gone. Now when I enter the city...the first thing I see is a way back out. *sigh*

Saw this NYT.imes article from last month and reading it was like I was on "This is Your Life." Brought up mad old shit...

...made me double over laughing...

...made me recall times I still insist on pretending never happened...

...brought on the temptation to google (or worse yet, myspace...is that an official verb yet? If no, I'm declaring it so now.) people I used to starve with...

The article gave me those giddy, schoolgirl, antsy dancing feet...the kind that always accompanied my rush to pop an Al.toid, wet wipe my face, lotion my knuckles, bend my brim, and retrieve my bag from under my seat...

...trying to be the first one off that Ghettohound soon as it pulled into Port Auth.ority.

The article is a mirror. And it reminded me of why I decided to throw old boy the peace sign...at least temporarily.

So the article is below...it's really funny...it's about how Harlem is turning into a college campus...figuratively... complete with dorms, RAs...literally.

It's longish (what's new)...but in the coming days as times permits...I'm gonna do my best CL Smooth impersonation, and tell my NY Story...inspired by excerpts from the article.

I leave, but I always return.
*gross misrepresentation for poetic license's sake... Aint no packs in my stomach. Nota one. And I got "inny".
==========

By JS
Published: Jul 13, '06

Kelly Fra.nces Cook is an editorial assistant, Ivy League graduate, aspiring writer — the kind of new arrival who has long been important to the life of New York City. Young, educated and hailing from elsewhere, newcomers like Ms. Cook have historically stoked the city’s intellectual and creative fires. But, these days, how do they afford a place to live?

Ms. Cook, age 24 and from Ohio, at first could afford only a rented room in Dobbs Ferry, N.Y., for $650 a month. Then she embarked on the archetypal, hair-raising New Yo.rk City apartment search: feckless would-be roommates, outlandish financial demands, an offer of a room in a building with a bullet-pocked lobby.

Then she saw an ad on Craig.slist for space in a 60-unit building in Harl.em described as full of young professionals. The price was right; the woman on the phone was friendly. Back in Ohio, Ms. Cook’s mother had begun to think like a New Yorker: “Yeah, right, Kelly. She’s probably some mass murderer. I don’t trust her. She’s too nice.”

This month, Ms. Cook is moving in. The woman on the phone, Kar.en Fal.con (not a mass murderer), calls the building “a dorm for adults.” It is a community of the overeducated and underpaid.

There is nothing new about having roommates in New Yo.rk City. What Ms. Fal.con has invented is a full-service dorm, full of strangers she has brought together to share big apartments as a way to keep housing costs down. Her approach is a homegrown response to the soaring rents bedeviling desirable cities like New York, San Francisco and Los Angeles.

Ms. Fal.con, an informal agent for the building’s owner, says she has placed nearly 150 young people there and in two other buildings in the neighborhood in recent years. A gregarious Californian with rainbow-colored braids, she pieces together roommate groups like puzzles. Each tenant ends up paying $700 to $1,200 a month.

Ms. Falcon says she screens for a combination of good credit ratings and “sweetness,” looking for people who are respectful, considerate and easygoing (and perhaps have a co-signer).

She mixes genders; all-female groups bring too much high drama, all-male groups make too much of a mess. She has matched Ph.D.’s with Ph.D.’s. If the combination is a disaster, she will arrange for a swap. Anyone can leave before the lease is up as long as Ms. Falcon can find a replacement.

She says the tenants she has placed in the three buildings have included chefs, actors, writers, people in publishing, a woman in public relations, a production manager, an accountant, a paralegal, a program officer for a foundation. There have also been plenty of graduate students and students from abroad.

“Our neighborhood is one of the last neighborhoods left in New York where you have these big old Bea.ux-Arts buildings, built for wealthy families,” Ms. Fal.con said, referring to the stretch of Harlem from 145th to 155th Streets near the Hudson River. She said groups of adults, each contributing, pay rents that families cannot or choose not to pay.

New Yo.rk City has long been a magnet for the young, well educated and ambitious. According to a report published by the Census Bur.eau in 2003, nearly 132,500 young, single, college-educated people poured into the New York metropolitan area between 1995 and 2000, more than into any other metropolitan area in the United States.

“Sometimes we underestimate how important that is in generating the city’s creativity,” said Frank Braconi, chief economist for the city comptroller’s office. “To the degree that housing costs become a barrier to that group, it can in the long run sap us of that creative potential that we would otherwise have.”

Brad La.nder, director of the Pratt Center for Comm.unity Development, a nonprofit group, said young professionals get less attention than other financially struggling groups because they are more mobile and have options. Though they, too, are wrestling with the city’s shortage of lower-cost housing, they are seen as harbingers of gentrification.

Mr. Lan.der said a well-known strategy among landlords of buildings with rents regulated by the city is to seek out tenants who they imagine will not stay long, because they can often increase the rent when a tenant leaves. “Students as well as professionals,” he said. “Plenty of landlords find this group an attractive set of folks to rent to, believing they’ll be out in a couple of years.”

Mari.eke Bianchi, 23, a junior account executive at a public relations firm in the Flatiron district, moved to New York from St. Louis last year after graduating from college. She started out on a friend’s couch, then sublet for six weeks in Hell’s Kitchen, where she had to move a giant exercise bike to get into bed.

“I can’t believe it, a grown woman in a trundle bed,” she said with humorous disgust.

Ms. Bian.chi, earning $25,000 a year at the time, found one of Ms. Fal.con’s ads. Now she lives in a large room in a four-bedroom duplex apartment in a brownstone in Har.lem. Her roommates are a bartender, a woman in information technology, an art historian, two dogs and two cats. Her rent is $900 a month.

Adult dorm living is not without its complexities.

Ms. Bian.chi feels she should check first before inviting friends into the backyard, since they have to pass through another roommate’s space. And when one of her roommates brings anyone home for the night, Ms. Bian.chi invariably knows. “It’s that level of intimacy from Day 1,” she said.

Like Ms. Bian.chi, others ponder their next move.

Wil Fe.nn, a 29-year-old program officer for a foundation, has been trying since college to save money to buy a home. He lived in Westchester County for six years, in order to pay less rent. Then, last year, he became bored and decided to move into Manhattan. He, too, happened upon one of Ms. Falcon’s ads.

Now Mr. Fen.n pays $850 a month for a large room in a four-bedroom apartment in what he describes as a beautiful building with exposed brick walls, mosaic tiles in the lobby and a garden on the roof. His roommates include a New York City teaching fellow, a chef and a German student studying in the United States on a Fulbright scholarship.

Ms. Fal.con first placed Mr. Fe.nn in a two-bedroom apartment with a woman who he said worked for a large bond firm. One night, Mr. Fe.nn said, she had a fit after he left his mail on top of the microwave oven. It was downhill from there. So, at his request, Ms. Fa.lcon moved him down to the four-bedroom apartment on the second floor.

“Everyone talks about free-market solutions,” he said, speaking of the city’s shortage of lower-priced housing. “But the solution now is the rich get richer and for everyone else it’s the equivalent of being a sharecropper in the city. I’ve been working five or six years now, trying to save up and buy something. Every time I get closer, the goal moves farther away.”

Asked how adult-dorm life differed from college-dorm life, Mr. Fe.nn said: “You’re not really at the same place where you were psychologically. Now, for me, I’m kind of wondering: When does this end? When do I get to be able to buy a place and settle down?”

A Dream Best Left Deferred...Some Ole Snoopy Bullshit

PS...This version actually has an ending. Effing Blogger...


Today, for the first time in all my almost 30 years...I loaded the ice...

...firmly held down the, umm, poker, thingy...

...and cranked the hell out of the, um, cranker doodah.

And shit was no easy Peanuts my friends, but trust, Wise is living proof that it is never too late to fulfill your dreams.

And today I was indoctrinated into the world of an American iconoclast...





I FINALLY fcuked with a Snoopy Snow Cone machine!

What in the hell IS that thing?!

Once again, my parents were soooo on the money.

When I was little, I was led to believe that among other heartless limitations, little Jamaican kids don't play with toys...cuz I didn't have none. For birthdays, I got socks. For Christmas, I got draws. And every week we hauled azz to Joann Fabric and every week my mom made me a fly azz dress for church on her Singer.

Not only were sleepovers mostly disallowed unless under extreme circumstances (namely, the case of relatives, or if my mom knew the other kid's mom somehow. I'll never forget that I was one of the only kids not at SC's sleepover in 4th grade, when they watched Top Gun. To this day I've never seen that shit. I'm a grudge-holding hater, yes.)

Wow, that digression was mildly painful.

Anywho...me and my brothers? We didn't get Nintendo until all after the fact. I'm fairly certain Atari skipped over us completely. Ok, we did have Monopoly and Sorry, but we always lost the pieces or the dice after like half a day. And whatever, all I ever really wanted was Operation, anyway!

Cabbage Patch Kids. Forget it.

Barbie spent most of her short bid at our house headless.

And in 2nd grade when I BEGGED for a jheri curl, a wet and wild one like Kiwanda and Juma and dem's, my mother didn't even bother to laugh. I doubt she even dignified my request with any response...except perhaps an all-day Saturday trip to the shop for a press and curl.

Easy Bake Oven...are you effing crazy? "Den we nuh already hah oven???" [translation: we're still paying shit azz Sears for the oven we got!]

We weren't even that broke! At least I don't think we were. I mean, we aint have no snow blower or dish washer or riding lawn more or nothing (I'm pretty sure that's why they had my brothers). But I never saw food stamps until, well, until I was old enough to trick the system into giving me some...

we ain't wear no hand me downs or nothing (until a freak of nature reverse growth spurt found my older brother and I wearing almost the same shoe size. I was so fly in his old Jordans)...

and we brought our lunch to school, we aint get no free breakfast or reduced lunch like the broke kids. [Hold up, that's what Oprah said broke folks need to do, pack lunch. Shit yall, I think we mighta been broke!]

Well for whatever reason, my parents just were not feeling investing in American nonsense. I resented it and them, and had a list of shit that I vowed I'd buy as an adult.

But I gotta tell you, I think they were on to something when they vetoed the snow cone negotiation.

First of all...why did it feel like I was doing reps on the arm lift machine at Lucille Roberts, and not even on the cranker thing, but just on trying to hold down the damn Snoopy face red crusher thing?

And you do all of this for Snoopy to vomit out a spit's worth of slush?? That's it?? This is what I spent hours in my room crying crocodile tears over?? [that last line was not in the original text...but I like it] It so was not even worth the Bacardi Razz I had planned to pour in.

Ok, whatever...I still poured it in and it was good, but Bacardi's good with REGULAR ice...and doesnt require upperbody strength.

This is not what I dreamed of. Lord knows I've spent enough of my adulthood chasing these "when I get old enough" fantasies, but this one should have perhaps just stayed in the annals of my childhood agony.

In all of their anti-American, self-superior, unrelenting West Indianness...my parents were so right.

I was fine without the Snoopy Blow Cone machine. And I'm just fine with just my Bacardi.