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.

VIP

I am VIP.

I’m not on any list. I didn’t tip the guys at the door. Nor do I know the owners. I’m just a loser who happens to win this time. Win big, even.

The preparation is typical. I wasn’t looking for a party, still reeling from the last one actually. Hung over. Swearing off the scene with a sincere exhaustion. But then I caught a glimpse of a flyer. Heard whispers that folks were hanging out. That there's someone I should meet. I decided on a whim to head out. Again.

It’s crazy cuz the preparation is usually a production in and of itself. The outfit, the entourage, the chaser. But this time I went easy, seduced mildly by the music, though miles away. See, the pulses found me. Got my fingers tapping. Had my feet happy. Head nodding. Easy. Soon I was in full effect mode, three-stepping myself into a full sweat all the way to the velvet rope. Again.

I didn’t know the promoter from Adam. Never laid eyes on the club. And yet I slid in like a seamless DJ transition. Like a Fat Man Scoop mix [editor’s inside joke: Why did I forget until this very moment Scoop and the matching sweat suits. Cannot? Oh yes you can, and you will! All my real live bitches throw ya hands up!...] Even fit in with the décor as if I had somehow been privy to the blueprint. It’s fly. One of those rich ngga lounges. It’s all plush love seats and beautiful people. Free drinks and dope music. I’m old school, so I always go for the music. Seduced by the ladidahdi of it all. I’m wopping my ass off.

This place is for frontin'. So clearly, it’s packed. There’s every type of somebody here. The sexy deep oak of a brother in jeans that are a prisoner to his perfect high ass. The seductive beholder of long loose curls and unruly spaghetti straps. The breathtaking chick with the brush cut and impossible heels. Dude too fine to get turned away at the door just because he’s got on a wife beater and Timbs. The pouty bartender with the felatial lips.

I feel the eyes as I walk the gauntlet of who’s who. I barely glanced at the mirror before leaving the crib, yet I’m hyperaware of all the skin I’m showing. Aware that I’ve yet to shed that pesky winter weight. Well aware that I’m thick all over, no vestige unclaimed, my skin chief among them. My reflection is clear to me in your eyes. I walk directly into them, sight unseen. Except from the inside out.

I’m digging this party shit.

I like the way you knew our rhythm before it was even ours. You pulled me close, and I fit. Your hands log carefree miles along my spine. Your fingers find the loopholes in my logic while lining my scalp. Pulling at my sensibilities, and my locs, like I won't notice. You aint slick, son. But your moves are, and I fall in step, again. You dumb down your classical training and Bogle with me.

You grab my hand and I think we're on our way to refresh our glasses. Instead, fingers tightly interlocked, you lead me through a tunnel that seems buried, soundproof and sparcely lit. Your lips graze mine and we exchange a split second of secrets. In that muted moment we're once again tangled. I'm on my back, wrists gripped together and pressed into the sheets. Kisses rained on my forehead, my lips, over my neck, my breasts, my stomach, my thighs. Tiny nibbles on my bottom lip. Gentle sucking that easily becomes more urgent. My own voice is foreign to me, a coarse whisper of moans and unintelligible mumbles, my breath still tangled mercilessly in the cage of my throat. Warm breath on my skin. A soft kiss. The generous offering of tongue, a deeper parting. I'm struggling to maintain some kind of composure, my eyes filling with tears because I'm so damn overwhelmed because everything about this touch, this skin, is just perfect. I'm fighting it, fighting giving in, letting go, and flailing in vain to keep a hold on my last wisps of sanity. Well placed pressure, one hand on my hip.
And I'm gone.
Lost.
Falling. Again.

We climb a narrow stairway and enter another space. This one more beautiful than the first. More exclusive. Intimate. Thrilling. I'm pleasantly surprised by this spot, glad I came. But even this, this next level, is unexpected.

You open my hand and kiss my palm. Hold it to your face, then to your chest. You pull it away for one more kiss, but not before allowing me the thrill of a beat. It is then that I hear more music, a litany of all the sweet things you mean to me. This is clearly our soundtrack. All the songs repeat your name.

You put in my possession your keys, your ID, your phone... your lifelines. There is an entire party whirling around us and yet I see only a tint of brown, your eyes meeting mine, as you tell me to hold tight. The colors of music splash in bold strokes around me. Is it possible that this level is more crowded than the last? In fact, as my head stops spinning I'm realizing the chaos that ensues. Where have you taken me? It's mad familiar, these heavy hues and shrieking signs. This is the place you been telling me about.

Your eyes never leave mine, and I try to follow, but I stumble. Your shit goes flying. I reach to collect them but the velvet rope that clipped me, is in fact a barricade. This is some bullshit.

Yo, but I'm VIP! There's no one to whom I can plead my case.

I can't get past the rope. What they dont tell you at the door is that despite your admission, there is a rope beyond the rope. A space where even you cant reach. VIP has VIP. And I'm losing. Again.

I'm sitting here watching you and I can't reach you. I'm inside, you brought me up to the highest level, you've entrusted me with your life, and I can't even keep it safe. It's my job to see what only a select few are allowed. I've made promises. We've made investments. And there you are, beyond my reach. I can't hold you to me and let tears stream down my bare skin. That's what it's there for.

Your shit weighs a ton, so you step away and make sure it doesnt nudge me. That I don't break a nail or something. You share some when prompted, but it's a rather foreign concept to you. I know this. So chivalrous with the heavy lifting, you are. I stand and watch you crumbling from the stress, unable to help. Maybe it's because I'm half naked that you won't let me. Or because my locs are thinning and greying. Am I losing my strength?

Or is it just that there is nothing I can do? Like there's a wack (down souf) song playing and we just gotta wait it out.

"I'm worried about you."

"I know, mama."

"It's killing me."

"Me too."

"What should I be doing?"

"Just being with me."

"It's not enough."

"Why not?"

"Because neither of us is ok," I say.

"But I'm honestly at a loss for what else to do."

"Just feeling helpless."

"It'll be over soon, babe."

The music plays on. We dance this oblivious dance, as if there isnt a million miles between us. Between us and the next level. Between where we stand now, and from that which we came. I gather both strength and patience in that quiet path we traveled. I collect desperation from the sadness in your eyes, and mostly in your voice. It doesnt stop me from reaching. And dancing. Doesnt stop our music.

I'm glad I came. You're very important to me.

JULY 14

My mother was born the second oldest of 10 children in Spur*Tree, a small bush town in the parish of Manchester in Jamaica, West Indies. The oldest daughter.

This is an important fact, because by virtue of birth order, my mother inherited a litter of children at a young age when her own mother died a painful death. Cancer. My mother doesn’t speak of her mother very often, so the one time she told me details I listened with an intensity that rivaled only the directions given as child to avoid an ass whupping.

“My mother had 10 children. One didn’t make it. Not long after your Uncle Gilly was born my modda [because shortly after delving into her mind’s museum, the Patois accent appears, heavy, and I feel almost like an intruder] get cancer. Ovarian. She wasn’t a small woman but I’ll never forget how she blew up, so swollen, she musta been bout 200 pound.

“She was laying in her bed in pain and all the children were outside around the house bawling. All you could hear was bawling, and my father singing. He could sing! That man had a voice, boy! I was outside hanging clothes and my father called me and said that my mother wanted to see me. I walk in the room and all I could say was I could feel death coming close. And my mother just looked at me, and said....”

I wish I could remember what my grandmother had told my mother. I’ve blocked it out. I remember it being grave and curt. Not the kind of frilly, heartwarming last words you’d see in a Lifetime movie (so this is how you know I’m getting old right…all of a sudden Lifetime is my SHIT!)

I guess subconsciously I cannot bear to curate those last words. Partly because of the pain so visible in my mother’s voice and face as she recalled it to me. Partly out of fear that remembering might somehow summon a similar scene between me and my mom. That it might speed up the slowdown. Or something.

So my mother was a mother long before she was a mother. Actually I take that back, because my oldest sister is really not that much younger than my Uncle Gilly. My mother, his oldest sister, is the only mother he’s ever really known.

Some years later her beloved father also died. The kids were pretty much grown by then, save for the two littlest, and my mother had had two more of her own. And soon after laying her father to rest she made the decision to leave her children in the care of her closest sister. She moved to Washington, DC, in a immigrant worker program which imported many young West Indians to this country to work as domestics.

As fate would have it, this is where my mother met my father, and where the context of my conception begins.

My mother never passed on to me the issues that so many of my friends have inherited from their mothers. That’s not to say we don’t have our issues. That’s not to say that my mom’s not as crazy as every mother is biologically and psychologically destined. Instead there is a healthy distance, a respectful boundary that she’s established. It doesn’t really exist between her and my older sister. I’m guessing because my sister was born in Jamaica and knows that life. The life, and subsequently the history, from which I’ve always been sheltered.

I imagine that there are things my mother has repressed. Actually, I can’t imagine. The dim echoes of her scant recollections of life with her own mother are haunting. I probably won’t ever ask her about it until she is nearing the end. If God willing we are granted that type of ending. When it wont matter any more, those recollections. When she’ll soon have to face her mother herself.

In the meantime I call her every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, after Wheel of For*tune. Sometimes on my lunch break so I can hear her fussing with my nephews. Or to hear what she’s cooking for everyone. Or to let her vent about her latest shenanigans down at the grocery store. (shout out to Weg*man’s!) To respectfully tune her out when she makes a dead dad reference without warning. To smile wide at every overwhelming ounce of support, every reminder to pray, to stay safe, and to remember that "Mommy loves [me] much, much, much."

In the meantime, I wish my Mom a Happy Birthday, and many moooooooore!

S.O.'SHIP

Since I'm in a long distance relationship supported monthly almost exclusively by South*west Airlines, I feel compelled to share this PSA that the airlines emailed me...

An Open letter to All Airline Customers:

Our country is facing a possible sharp economic downturn because of skyrocketing oil and fuel prices, but by pulling together, we can all do something to help now.

For airlines, ultra-expensive fuel means thousands of lost jobs and severe reductions in air service to both large and small communities. To the broader economy, oil prices mean slower activity and widespread economic pain. This pain can be alleviated, and that is why we are taking the extraordinary step of writing this joint letter to our customers. Since high oil prices are partly a response to normal market forces, the nation needs to focus on increased energy supplies and conservation. However, there is another side to this story because normal market forces are being dangerously amplified by poorly regulated market speculation.

Twenty years ago, 21 percent of oil contracts were purchased by speculators who trade oil on paper with no intention of ever taking delivery. Today, oil speculators purchase 66 percent of all oil futures contracts, and that reflects just the transactions that are known. Speculators buy up large amounts of oil and then sell it to each other again and again. A barrel of oil may trade 20-plus times before it is delivered and used; the price goes up with each trade and consumers pick up the final tab. Some market experts estimate that current prices reflect as much as $30 to $60 per barrel in unnecessary speculative costs.

Over seventy years ago, Congress established regulations to control excessive, largely unchecked market speculation and manipulation. However, over the past two decades, these regulatory limits have been weakened or removed. We believe that restoring and enforcing these limits, along with several other modest measures, will provide more disclosure, transparency and sound market oversight. Together, these reforms will help cool the over-heated oil market and permit the economy to prosper.

The nation needs to pull together to reform the oil markets and solve this growing problem.

We need your help. Get more information and contact Congress by visiting www.StopOilSpeculationNow.com.



Robert Fornaro
Chairman,
President and CEO
AirTran Airways Bill Ayer
Chairman,
President and CEO
Alaska Airlines, Inc.
Gerard J. Arpey
Chairman,
President and CEO
American Airlines, Inc.
Lawrence W. Kellner
Chairman and CEO
Continental Airlines, Inc. Richard Anderson
CEO
Delta Air Lines, Inc. Mark B. Dunkerley
President and CEO
Hawaiian Airlines, Inc.
Dave Barger
CEO
JetBlue Airways
Corporation Timothy E. Hoeksema
Chairman,
President and CEO
Midwest Airlines Douglas M. Steenland
President and CEO
Northwest Airlines, Inc.
Gary Kelly
Chairman and CEO
Southwest Airlines Co. Glenn F. Tilton
Chairman,
President and CEO
United Airlines, Inc. Douglas Parker
Chairman and CEO
US Airways Group, Inc.
=====

Save Our (relation) 'Ship!

Thank You, kindly.
~MANAGEMENT

CONVENTIONAL INDEPENDENCE

Independ*nce Day…a time to declare freedom from whatever bullshit you got going on in your life.

I hereby declare Independence from conventions. No, not the cleverly marketed annual gatherings of likeminded professionals… though I’m bout sick of them shits impeding on my time to enjoy the host citieswith these essential ass workshops…I mean, the things that are universally accepted, and expected, without reason or provocation.

I’m standing in the conventional meeting place, where many a family meeting and announcement has gone down…the kitchen. I’m standing amidst the conventional gathering of generations…my mom and her sister run behind my nephews, while my sister in law mans the stove and I sit, drink in hand, in the center of it all.

“Wise, you’re a waste of a vagina.”

Based on the lead-in, I’m actually in fact, a waste of a womb. My vagina functions at an optimal level, thank you very much. I’d rank it up there with the best of ‘em. That’s not the point. Fine.

My sister in law, who declared my womanparts DOA, has two fantastic children. The oldest is my favorite, and the baby is pretty much the embodiment of what I’m sure my biological child would be. And therefore, though he’s beautiful and hilarious, he’s also absolutely and inexplicable insane. Unabashedly out of control. And I love it. For THEM.

I, on the other hand have absolutely no attachment nor desire to be knocked up. None. The irony, I suppose, or perhaps the logic is that I want 4 or 5 kids. My family finds this hilarious. Partly because they know personally how psycho you get when you have kids, but I think partly because, bless their conventional old school hearts, they still don’t see how I could have kids without the belly.

So I’m a waste of a uterus, fine. I can accept that, though I’d argue the uterus is the waste, not me. Either or. But it’s the conventional labels I can’t co-sign. I’m much too contradictory for them.

Because I’m probably the only girl in the world who (on most days) doesn’t want a ring (or wedding for that matter).

Because you will never see my black ass eating a watermelon, neither publicly nor in the privacy of my own home (did you ever see the episode of the Jeff*rsons where George said he refuses to carry a watermelon in public. So if you ever see him with a bowling bag that’s what’s inside?!!)

Because I’m a backpacker who thinks Tal*b is mediocre.

Because I’m an African American alcoholic who hates Hennessey.

So… *cue balloons and confetti and band*…conventions be damned!

I’s free now!!

From what, or whom will YOU claim independence?
Happy 4th!

WHAT IT LOOK LIKE

"Babe, do I look like I can fcuk?"

"YO. You look like eating pu**y is a bullet point on your resume."

And there it is.

Coincidentally, I've been having this conversation a lot lately. Particularly with male friends, and then followed up and confirmed with females. Do you know anyone who isn’t all that attractive, but gets a whole LOT of ass? Or maybe someone who is super sweet and nice and charming, but gets NONE. Or the complete bitch whose phone STAYS lit up. Or asshole Jack who NEVER sleeps alone?

It’s puzzling at first, cuz maybe you ask yourself if you’d do them and the answer is a resounding no. Or perhaps, you just know them really well, seen the havoc they wreak in their lives and just can’t understand how people keep getting caught up in it.

It’s really not as simple as just, ‘Pu**y’s a hellavu drug’ (tho it is), or ‘Dick can blind you’ (tho it the hell can).

I’m pretty sure it’s simply because owner of said genitalia in question just LOOKS like they can dish it.

I had this real whore of a roommate when I first moved to Brooklyn. She’s a whole ‘nother story for a whole ‘nother day, but the point is she used to get it IN! Every few nights chick would have a new dude in the sack. When my peeps came to visit for the first time, I basically pimped her out to one of my boys, who later said, “Damn, Wise. All I had to do was show up!” She didn’t have much in the way of face or personality, though she was a fitness fanatic so she at least kept it together physically.

My friends and I decided she had Pheromones. That was our thing. Anytime someone would pull somebody who was out of their league, or pull someone at ALL despite facial bustation, we’d say, ‘I think so and so got pheromones.’

Pheromones of course are: chemicals that trigger a natural behavioral response in another member of the same species. It’s like an undetectable fragrance that attracts the opposite sex. But even that’s only half the story.

Take a second please, and think about the people you wanna give it to right now. What is it about them? I’m not talking on a spiritual or mental level. I’m talking purely primal. Urgent.

Now think of the perfectly attractive, nice, cool people in your life who want desperately to hit you up. Why won’t you give it up? Why do you keep that person in the friend lane?

Real talk? Because they don’t look like they can fcuk.

It’s what ego-protectors like myself have been neglecting to say for years now, to the perfectly nice young men who try, to no avail, to get wit it. It’s the answer to the debate about why women (allegedly) prefer thugs to nerds. Why nice guys finish last.

Plenty of nice guys get it. It’s the nice ones who don’t look like they can work it that lose out.

Same with women. Bitches? Men love them because they carry their bitch asses like they can suck a mean one. Fast tail Lil.Wayne looking girls? Yessir. Dudes can see right through the Vase.line face and can tell they’ll do whatever. It’s all in the eyes. Meanwhile, there are scores of genuinely good women sitting at home watching Top.Chef instead of um...getting served up.

So fellas, if you’re not getting none, it’s not that light skinned dudes are back in, or that color contact nggas are back. It’s not that you have no game. It’s not even that you’re ugly or corny. It’s that you look like your bed game is limp.

Mamacitas, you go to happy hour every week with your girls, make up flawless, dress and heels tight…but it be the same one of your girls getting the numbers? It’s not that your ass isn’t big enough. Or that you’re not showing enough cleveland. Or that your weave’s crooked (tho I’ma need you to straighten that up, por favor). It’s just that THAT chick looks like Betty Back Shot. I mean, a dead ringer.

I could be wrong…but let’s find out.

What things make you look twice?

How would you describe Look Like You Can Fcuk Lookin Boy/Girl?

HOME ALONE 2

[UPDATED WITH AN ENDING...scroll down...]

Tucked away in my parents’ attic, and in the corners of their garage are boxes full of me. All sorts of foolishness with which I cant bear to part. Things that are essential, but that don’t belong in my every day grown up space.

They’re about all I have left that resemble home.

I don’t even ask my mother about her new house anymore. I’m too preoccupied with the disarray of the old one. The only one I ever lived in until I went away to college. The address that my family has owned for longer than I’ve been alive.

It takes me an hour and a few bucks on Air.tran to get home, yet I hadn’t been home for six months. Cuz it’s not really home anymore…

So you know I got two older brothers. Twins. There’s Boss of Me aka C-Boy. And there’s Anger Management. This kid is insane. And I love him to death. To this day people think he and I are the twins. We share our father’s forehead and our grandfather’s imposing eyes. He’s the one person in my family that I know would never ever judge me. He’s the one I call when I need someone on my side.

One day, a few weeks prior to Miami (bday trip. catch up!), he calls me. Needing someone on his side.

“Yo, I’m getting a divorce,” he says, always with the slightest awkward silent pause before knocking the wind out of me. His approach to bad news is a lot gentler than his twin’s, I notice.

“Oh.” I find that remaining neutral when someone is expecting a reaction is the cleaner, quicker way to uncovering their reaction.

“You took it a lot better than Mommy,” he says. My poor mother. The thought of her awake at night, alone in that big house, finds its way to the forefront of my mind, until I quickly sweep it away. Unequipped.

He goes on to tell me about how he actually left his house and has been staying with my mother. It only took all of a week for him to become indignant at the idea of him not living in the house for which he pays mortgage.

“Does Spider care?” I ask, of my 12-year old niece.

“I call her everyday and she says she wants to come stay with me wherever I go.” She’s a daddy’s girl and all, but what the hell do you expect her to say? She’s caught between two parents she adores and can easily con.

I should be more shocked, but I’m not. His relationship with his wife of almost ten years has always been complex. Not unlike our parents’ union. Our parents, who were married for 30+ years. I took for granted that there may not be a trickle down effect. I thought staying together forever even if you’re miserable was a part of the deal, part of our DNA. They say parents don’t have favorites, but in our fam we all know Anger Management gets top billing. So if anyone, I expected him to stick it out.

“It’s really bad, Gum. That’s why I can’t wait til Miami. I need to get the fuck away.”

“I feel you.” There’s a sadness and the hint of desperation in his voice. He could care less about being judged, but I’m the one he calls when he needs someone on his side. He’s my “twin.” No matter what, my home is his home.

“Well if you ever need to get away you know you can come hide out down here,” I say. “I keep a six-pack on deck.” This time there’s no signature pause. In fact, he barely skips a beat.

“Can I bring a friend?”

*

“This is the last time we’re going to discuss this,” I answered, and with it I expunged the image of my brother and some loose jump off bitch bunned up in my crib.

“I can’t bring a friend?” he asks again, this time a bit incredulous, but mostly full of mischievous. This annoys me to no end. First of all, he has never known me to indulge in mess. I don’t do it. And particularly not a family member’s mess. Anytime something goes down I revert to being the youngest child, banishing myself from the scene of grown folks’ talk. I am the family “Bennett.”

But it also pisses me off because he’s asking me to be ok with being uncomfortable, and that type of selfishness is only underneath the surface of his personality. He’s generally genuinely thoughtful and unintrusive.

“I’m out. I’ll talk to you in Miami,” I say, and hang up. Miami, though the scene of celebration for MY birthday, will be a respite of sorts for everyone but me.

“Gum, I want you to meet my friend.”

“No thank you.”

“Why not?”

“Because her being here is inappropriate, and I will tell her so.”

“Please don’t.”

“As a grown woman, she knows right from wrong. I expect this from you, but not from another grown woman.”

“I’m asking you to please say hello. That’s it. Her and her homegirl were planning to be here anyway so they decided to meet us.”

We lie to each other. That’s what siblings do. It’s not like friendships where honesty is mandatory. We thrive on being who the other knows us to be, not necessarily who we really are. The irony of course is that we know the absolute best and the painful worst of who we are and where we’ve been. Our essence. And maybe that’s why it’s a pain like no other.

But he could’ve lied better than this shit. At least show me some fucking respect and give me something elaborate, where I can at the very least commend you on the effort if not credibility. But this ngga is treating me like it’s my 13^th birthday and not my 31^ST.

I look her in the eye and shake her hand politely, then turn back to my drink and my friends. My friends, to whom I confided about the situation just minutes prior as I saw my brothers walking into the spot.

I won’t go into details about how within minutes of meeting me Jump Off Bitch was in my face about what time we were leaving for the Jay/Mary concert. About how little effort it took to I give her the most vacant blank stare I could muster in response. About how she sat in the row in front of me at the show, next to my brother, who seemed more calm and at peace than I’ve ever seen him. How she rode on the back of the motor bike with him. How there was no other homegirl. How we ended up in a cab together when I wasn’t nearly drunk enough. How I took covert pics of her to send to my sister.

“Are you serious? Wow,” she says. Technically she’s my sister in law – Boss of Me’s wife – but she and I are family. I called her the next day to vent, and she was blown away by the entire scenario. “I know they having problems but he aint outta the house yet, and they’re still married. I’m sorry you gotta deal with that, Wise.”

I sigh. She listens intently as I give her a rundown of the entire weekend. I tell her about how I had the first conversation with her husband, my brother, about his cancer. It was just after the concert and we were waiting on our rides, and he and I held hands and walked down the street alone, huddled together just talking.

“He’s going through something,” she says slightly subdued. “And I can’t reach him.”

“Well, that’s to be expected right?” I answer. “I mean, faced with your own mortality how are you supposed to act? I don’t know how I would.”

“I told him to move out.”

Tucked away in my parents’ attic, and in the corners of their garage are boxes full of me. They’re large and take up lots of space, but no amount of neat folding or concise packing would make room for my memories. Fond and foolish. It is where I grew up. Where I dreamed of leaving. It’s been a constant for me. The place I could always come back to no matter how far away my dreams took me. The place with the walls and voices and laughter and faces that would always feel familiar.

Those memories are about all I have left that resemble home.

THREE'S COMPANY

So yall already read this, right?

And been read this??

Ok, ok on with it...

DATELINE…Miami. March 2008. Day 1.

We’ve taken this exact photo a thousand times. Me, the shortest, flanked by the Amazons. My best friends are both six-footers, and in about 90% of the photos we’ve ever taken in our 15-year history, I’m making some sort of ridiculous face…compensating for the shenanigans that might be going on above my head.

In this case, we’re collapsing over each other at a South Beach dinner table, the bottle we brought in, underfoot. My eyes are struggling to stay open, though my mouth won’t shut up. I’m laughing hysterically. Gay Bartender’s hands are crossed on my bare shoulder. High as fuck, trying to be cute. Curly’s fingers are deep into my roots, playfully pulling my locs. She’s pointing defiantly at the camera. This is who we are.

DATELINE…Brooklyn, NY. New Years Day 2008.

“We all know I’m the worst. I don’t return calls. I disappear. I shut down when there’s a confrontation. But this is the one time I’ve gone above and beyond to save the friendship and she shit on me.” I sit up on the leather pull-out couch, last night’s clothes draping off of me. The loft apartment is dark, so I consult my phone to see that it’s already afternoon. Gay Bartender hands me a cup of coffee and takes a seat across from me.

GB and I go way back to 4^th grade. 1985 or so. She was the black girl with the white best friend. All four of the other black kids in the class couldn’t stand her. Over the years – and we were together through middle, high school and even undergrad – I blackened her up and we were tight. I wouldn’t exactly say we were best friends, though I distinctly remember the first time she introduced me as such. We were close, but competitive. More like siblings than BFFs. In ninth grade we’d meet the girl who would be joined at GB’s hip.

Curly and I played ball together. She was tall and wiry and I loved lobbing the ball to her over her shorter defenders. But she was so skinny, she used to get her ass knocked around on the boards. She had a colorful personality and wardrobe to match. I’ll never forget the first time I met her she had on some red Cross.Colours jeans and matching rubber bands on her braces.

She and I were super cool, but she and GB were the pair. They were Every Day Friends, sleepover girls who spent weekends at the mall, and trying on make up. As we progressed through high school, they branched out with some shady cats, started smoking and fucking, and I wasn’t doing either. (I was however, getting pretty drunk on the other side of town). Nonetheless, we were a trio, but they were mostly inseparable, and I was more of the frequent guest star.

Years later after college, GB and Curly were roommates in Philly, then moved to Brooklyn. Having lived with GB myself throughout college, I knew that deep drama would ensue.

“I was home for four days, one of which was Christmas. And I have to basically spend enough time with my damn-near estranged mother, my grandmother who is slowly losing her mind, and my sister. And I don’t see Curly and the baby ONE DAY and she’s pissed at me.”

Back in like 2002 Curly had reconnected with one of her high school sweethearts. He lived in Florida then, and she in NYC. They had started making plans, were getting closer, and then one night he was gone. Shot in the head in a parking lot. And GB was nowhere to be found. She was bunned up with this chick that all of her friends hated. A chick who had manipulated her and caused a rift between her and Curly. Their friendship was never the same after that.

Curly had a kid 2 years ago despite several serious red flags. She lived in Brooklyn, a block away from GB, who was there with her, but her heart wasn’t in it. GB was the first to meet the loser who’d become her babydaddy, and was not pleased. Made it very public. Called me, the perpetual referee, to update me on the nonsense. He hit her. Was a coke head. Has a bunch of other kids. She’s convinced he’s gay cuz he came to the club wearing “gay ass sneakers.” Sure enough, the ngga was sitting in a jail cell when GB & I flanked either side of Curly's big pregnant self, walking up and down the hospital block, rubbing her back and timing contractions.

DATELINE…Brooklyn, NY. New Years Day 2008.

“We missed you last night.” I reread the text before sending it to Curly.

“You had fun?” I read her terse response and imagined her sitting in her dark living room watching her genius son identify obscure animals in one of his many wildlife books. I knew she was feeling some kinda way.

“You not being here created a glass ceiling on the fun. What’s up?”

“You know before Christmas I didn’t speak to GB for MONTHS? I would see her online sometimes and after a while I would just stop even saying hi. I sent her an email like you suggested and she literally didn’t respond. Not even to acknowledge that she got it. If that’s what best friends do then I guess I only got one left.”

We’re too old for this shit. These spats run deep. I understand and empathize with both. Because that’s what best friends do. I stand in the middle and listen. A part of me knows that this too will pass as it always does. And it will subsequently return, this chasm, this ugly gash in our family portrait. As it always does.

DATELINE…Miami. March 2008. Day 5.

“So Curly,” I say, before handing her a shot. “I was asking them nggas about 3somes.” Our heads cock back in unison. Bitter faces synchronize, too.

“You and two boys???” she asks.

“I didn’t say a TRAIN!” Our convo is lost among the many in the hotel room. “GB couldn’t believe I hadn’t had one since we got to Miami. Whore.”

“Don’t do it,” she says without turning toward me.

I pause. Listen.

“Drama. I didn’t even like the dude, then this bitch starts liking him when he started feeling me. So we did it.”

“When the fuck was this?” I'm incredulous.

“In Philly.”

My mind scrolls back to that period of our photo album. I didn’t expect to open this can of worms, but now that I’m all up in it I can’t help but simultaneously double over laughing and nervously squirm. “Who was this??”

“Remember Justin? That one from Cali?”

“Ngga, the CHICK! Who the hell was the chick?!”

This is a photo we’ve never taken. In our 15-year history we have never had this conversation. Philly was almost 10 years ago. The weight of this secret hovers above my head and I cant help but make a ridiculous face…as the next round of shots go down.

“GB.”

WE BRIEFLY INTERRUPT THIS EXTENDED ABSENCE...

"You're father died cuz you're a f@ggot!"
~The ngga formerly known as the One Who Could Get It, on RW.

Rehab, anger management, albino stripper???

Golden Age of TV I tell you!!

[Joy, I'm "banned" from talking to you about it (read: text immediately when you see it)]

GOODBYE CALL

[READ THIS FIRST]

DATELINE…Upstate NY. Couple days after Thanksgiving ‘07

“Gum. Where you at?”
“Marshalls. What up.”

I shift my phone from one hand to the other, juggling it with my bag and small handful of things. Despite the Black Friday pillage a few days before, I manage to find a generous offering of my beloved CK panties.

“What time you leave?”

“Flight’s at 5 or 6 or something. You know I don’t know,” I laugh. I’d only seen my brother on Thanksgiving Day, and this is his goodbye call. He had called me the night before, teasing me because I was downtown at my favorite coffee shop, where he insisted “No Coloreds Allowed.”

With a flight to catch, and my nephew needing a ride from school within the hour, I’m in a rush. But I browse leisurely as I chit chat with The Boss of Me, as I affectionately refer to my big brother.

“I gotta tell you something.”

Though the phrase is preceded by what I imagine was a deep breath, there is no pause between sentences. But when you hear these words uttered, your brain switches to autosurvival mode, and stops time on your behalf. Allows you to catch a deep breath of your own. So as he speaks on, my feet stop moving at precisely the moment my racing heart refuses to.

“I gotta tell you something so I’m just gonna say it. I have cancer,” is how he actually says it in real time.

“Okay,” is my response, rendered in my own time.

“I started playing ball again, and I just started feeling funny. So I went to my doctor and she was like, 'it’s probably just your body telling you you’re getting older. Take some aspirin.' But I was like, no, I know how my body is supposed to feel. So I switched doctors and new patients are required to do blood work. So they saw something they didn’t like…”

Now I’m pacing.

“So they ran the tests and told me.”

“Where is it?” I ask, now rummaging through the Kenneth Cole computer bags.

“It’s in my blood and it's called...”

I can’t see the price tags. I don’t have on my glasses, but I don’t think they were prescribed to correct the blur from sudden tears anyway.

“I found out on my birthday of all damn days. Basically, I have to take medication for the rest of my life and obviously get regular check ups…”

“37 years ago, you came into the world on the wrong foot. Life’s a breach!! Happy Birthday!”

I sent him that text on his birthday, just a week earlier, and he never responded. Didn’t pick up when I called either.

“And I can’t play ball anymore. Can’t whup Miles’ ass on the court like I do his brother. And no, the kids don’t know.”

I suddenly remember my nephew who will soon be outside his school looking for my car to pull up. I shift my phone to the other hand, now piled high with things I didn’t realize I had picked up within the past four minutes. And I remember that my brother is a dad.

“If there’s one lesson I learned from Daddy it’s to always get a second opinion.”

Our dad took his last deep breath just three years and two months prior. Or I should say the venerable villain, cancer, took it without our permission.

“I need you not to do that.” He can hear me crying. I wonder suddenly if the security cameras have me in focus, racing mindlessly through narrow aisles not intended for shoppers, dumping miscellaneous items in random bins and racks.

“It’s gonna be fine. I’ve been wanting to tell you since you got home, but Ant picked you up from the airport…”

It occurs to me just now that when I walked into my parents’ house on Thanksgiving Day with two big bottles, my brother took the glass I poured only after I had mocked him relentlessly for refusing. Said he had a doctor’s appointment the next morning, to which I said, “All the more reason to drink.”

“And that’s why I called you last night. But now that I’ve told you, Mommy can stop worrying and she can talk to you about it.”

My poor mother. Having to hear this shit again. This time from the son who always took after his father.

“Quit crying. It’s gonna be fine. I need all positives, aight?”

“Yup.”

“You gonna be ok?”

“Uh huh.” Whatever. We’ve made a living lying to each other. I’m hoping I’m the only one with no regard for truth this time.

“Ok. Don’t miss your flight, loser.”

“Yup. Love you,” I say, wandering around the houseware section. I've seen this movie before. I know the ending. The villain leaves, but always comes back.

“Love you, too. Peace.”

But of course what I heard was the hello of a Goodbye Call.

BODY OF WORK

If I'm to be judged by my body of work, I can live with that. I've shared lots of things with you all, mostly complete strangers from across the world. Nosy sons of bitches that you are. We exchange stories... some inane, others intimate or hilarious or tragic. We're kinda on it like that.

Looking through said body of work today, I tried to get a glimpse of what you see, the Wise you've gotten to know over the past two years. Some of you a lot more recent. Judging from the contents of my crates, I'm pretty consumed by family, love, boy bashing, TV, and the pursuit of premium liquor.

You know that I'm a NY girl, with island roots, the baby of my family. I have a dead dad, and issues thereof. I went to undergrad at Syracuse and hated it, so don't take offense when I hate on your schools too, Jam or La or Jonzee, et al. I have a love/hate relationship with NYC, my home for most of my adult life. Oh yeah, in March I turned 30 for the second time.

I'm terribly random. I admit. But also pretty direct and sincere. Particularly when it comes to the opposite sex. I started the blog because back in '06 I had had a succession of run-ins with young guys who were desperately confused about the women in their lives. And I mean simple, basic shit. This was my public service. But after a while you find your ego in the shadows, looking to shine, and the focus turns away from ridiculous dudes who lie on their dicks, to more personal relevant discourse. I've seen this exact shift in the bloggers I continue to loyally follow.

There's always that epic heart break. The thing you need to share in stunning detail and with jarring vulnerability in order for it to make sense in real life away from the blog. Judging from this body of work, heart break is an important fabric of Wise. Not only mine though. I acknowledge the shit you all share. The shit that fate brings to my doorstep.

Judging by my body of work, I've changed, as many of you have noticed. I'm chilling. Traveling. Boo'd up. Grad schooling it. Life is good.

And it is mostly. But it's also been dramatic. Lots of it not so good.

Lemme catch you up on who I am today, and you tell me what you see...

GOODBYE CALL...

HOLLYWOOD HERE I COME

And just like that...I'm Back!!!

No, not with a post (duh!) I'm talking about Real.World Hollywood.

I know what I had said before... but I'm in and I'm in big.

Clearly I'm in love with Will. Clearly there's no way he could be that attractive and be from like a really dangerous city. (That wasnt an ex joke, I was quoting the blond bitch. WTF? Classic!)

Associates.

Albino chick and Will in the remake of Glitter.

Yo could you imagine pining away for your signif other...then watching them making out with some clown in a effing hot tub? No mas.

Yeah, still love Will even tho he hates strippers evn tho I dont hate strippers. Remember?

I actually don't hate the pretty dude. He's socially inept, and I have a feeling he's an islander. My guess start with a T and ends in rini. lol

Peasants.

"You're scary." Who ARE these judgy juvy broads??

Clearly I hate Will and the Arizona broad.

Wicked chill.

I'm in! (It really doesn't help that I'm going to LA (where I'll hang my jersey in the rafters ;) ) for the first time this summer!)

THE GIFT

"Wise, write me something."

Ok...


The thing about birthdays is that they're all about the gifts.

There was the time you told me to keep my schedule clear. You sent me a text that morning with explicit instructions...

"Here are the directions. Be there at 12. I know you. Don't be late! Text me when you get there."

I find myself downtown, my heels clicking on cobblestone, the high noon sun guiding my steps. Even standing under the awning I wasnt sure what to expect.

"Go in and ask for Lisa. She's waiting for you. Take some time and relax and allow someone to pamper you for once."

...Or something to that effect (you know you're recall is laser and mine is aging.) After the most rejuvenating, fantastic facial ever, I walked around for a bit before calling to thank you. It was literally months since I had made the off comment about my skin feeling like shit. You listen. It was easily the most thoughtful gift I had ever received.

What about last week, when I was too weak to lift my head for juice and meds, but not too weak to text you. Sick, jet lagged, chest on fire, hung over. You used your resources and found the one place that delivered to my crib and had lunch sent over within the hour.

Or the time I had a long, stressful week. Long, hectic Friday. Long, turbulent flight. We sat at the bar staring down shots #2. Your hand playfully resting on my thigh. Like it belonged there. Sharing food and laughter. And afterward, exhausted, collapsing on fluffy sheets, legs and lips locked, anticipating a shower.

"Me first." I watched you disappear, disappointed that you left me out. Drifted off while you were away. Nudged awake by anxious hands in my hair.

"Take off your clothes."

How off guard was I, naked and surprised, at the soft crackle of the carefully lined and lit candles that accented the warm bathroom? The bubble bath with water that matched me perfectly, not too hot, not too cold. Or maybe too much of each equally. You left me with a card to read, and to relax, knowing that I hadnt all week.

After all, I knew then...

I knew that every day would seem like my birthday.

It's the little things...

Every day that I wake up laughing at a sweet or frisky or ridiculous or blue or encouraging message.

Going to bed frustrated that I can't be closer.

Busting out laughing at how much we bust out laughing.

Our sweat dripping onto a dance floor.

When I called you first, crying with bad news.

Exploring a new city.

When I lose track of time (and ask you how many days).

Laying in your lap showing you how to twist my hair.

Dancing all hard, and singing all loud, even though you're the Talented One.

Pouring you a drink that I know will get you talking.

Making each other CDs.

When you let me pass out in a cab.

Eating til we're out of breath (not to be confused with being out of breath after running to food).

Each hour you keep me company while I'm in class.

Plotting on travel vouchers.

Every time you ask me to write you something...I know the best gift is you.



(Hmmm...is it YOUR bday yet?!)

BLOGGING FROM THE BEACH (*photo updates)

Im currently sitting on the beach. Rain soaking my hoodie. The sun playing hard to get.

This couldn't be more like my life right now. Im in the right place just not necessarily at the right time.

20 of my closest friends are within earshot. An empty patron bottle litters the sand as does a few too many smoked down cloves and bidis.

My throats sore from God knows what... Walking through chilly rain puddles in sandals? Disproportions of liquor to water? Singing mary j blige and jay z songs for 3 hours straight on saturday (did that ngga Jigga endorse obama somewhere btwn performing 'Can I Get A' and 'Brooklyns Finest'?? LOVED it!) Laughing out loud til I cough uncontrollably?

Im on the beach but the sun won't come out...

Damn you sure gather up a shitload of debris during the course of 20+ year friendships. Lots of secrets too.

So this is what they mean when they say your family wll break your heart without remorse.

Mr. Wendel, the old homeless guy who does tricks, makes water disappear and "levitates" for tourists can't find a way to "magic" a roof over his head??
I didn't fall cuz I was drunk...but bec I was drunk, I couldn't stop myself from falling.

Im an obsessive crotch-watcher...and this is prime terrain.

I wouldn't last a second without my pda phone.

DatNucca is equal parts patient, hilarious, quick-tempered, sensitive, and sexy. Rrreeeooorrr!

My boy tatted some cat's name on his shoulder and hid it from us for almost 2 years.

Im pretty sure I lost a friend this weekend.

My brothers really never fulfilled their New Edition fantasies until they rented bikes today and rolled thru Miami looking like the NE Heartbreak video.

A confirmation number don't always mean 'confirmed.'

Everyone in my life is plotting on my biological clock...

Including my mother who called to speak to my best friend from college to tell him that she has a feeling he's gonna be her son in law. Ima need that feeling to take a hike.

It is in fact possible to get kicked out of and subsequently banned from the ocean.

Corn nuts??

Boys just never get tired of ass...

Can't really blame them.

Don't worry if a restaurant doesn't allow you to byob. You can. And should. A big one. For everyone.

"Her hair look like chicken-flavored ramon.noodles."
"All around me love's just not working. But I still feel like its the absolute only thing worth fighting for."

"What's a little head among friends?"

"There's more to the story..."

"Omg I was always DYING to ask daddy this...Can you feel it crawling around inside you?" ...
"No. And that's why people die from it."

"Bout time you got curious."

"I definitely thought less of him for it."

"You look like last night's good time."

"Who HASN'T had a threesome since we've been here??"

"Lawd ah cyan Sonny Wise dautah a dahnce so! Jesas hof di Sabbat!"

"Laaaaaaa laaaa la la, wait til I get my money right!"


Im on the beach and the sun is trying to play nice. As am I.

But its getting harder, not easier. The older I get, the more complex the relationships around me. Things are falling apart as others are coming together, and its impossible to find a sensible emotional balance.

Much like a hoodie on the beach.

So do you wait for the sun to show up or do you lay on the beach, shivering, and enjoy the imperfections that make life a beautiful fucking pain in the ass?

You have another shot. Another smoke. And laugh til your throats sore. It'll be better tomoro.

Happy birthday to me :)

NINE'S NOT A TEN

I'm not saying it's right. In fact, it's abhorrent and skanky.

But LOOK at him...and many other husbands like him who are powerful and largely unattractive.

All I'm saying is, chick prolly ain't wit him for the nooky.

So what's a trollish, insecure and underblown elected official to do?

That is all.

Are Dudes Really That Dumb...or Is The Chick Wrote This Shit?

My Neil only admitted to one of these, and while I won't blow up his spot, I will say that I was relieved to learn it was a pretty good mistake. ;)

So I wonder what you think of this list. I'll insert my commentary later...
PS...no, I didnt write these)


1.No matter how skinny we are, NEVER feel our back-fat whilst making love

2.Do NOT lean on our hair

3.Be careful with the nipples

4.Don’t ever feel our legs because there is a chance we haven’t shaved them and we will be VERY aware of that fact

5.Fanny farts are your fault, not ours

6.But it helps if you laugh afterwards because then we don’t feel so embarrassed

7.In the morning, do us a favour and leave the room for a couple of minutes because no matter how sexy we look naked or how much we need the toilet we will be very conscious about getting out of the bed in front of you

8.Don’t sweat so much!

9.Phrases such as ‘you drive me nuts’ and ‘fuck fuck fuck’ are banned

10.Do not rip our underwear off – chances are we spent about 3 hours trying to decide which underwear to wear and we would really appreciate it if you noticed. Perhaps a ‘that underwear looks really sexy’ would be good

11.Our private areas are to be treated with respect, you are in no means allowed to treat it like it is your last meal

12.Some girls just dont like morning sex (but some do)....so if you are getting the signs that she is up for it then fair play, but it should be quite blatantly obvious when morning sex is not on the cards - so pack it in and go and put the kettle on

13.….and please don’t attempt to try and do stupid positions like wrapping our legs around our head first thing in the morning cause we are still pretty stiff

14.The key is to kiss our neck, not eat our ears….

15.….and don’t kiss the same place for ages cause it get pretty boring

16.Feet are a no go area

17.What gives you the right to think you can go anywhere near our arse for the first 10 times we have sex……

18.….but don’t be surprised if we go near yours (cause you know you love it)

19.Don’t push our heads down when you want head, cause the chances are we will get pissed off and probably spit your load in your mouth

20.When we are on top, just lie there and enjoy…..don’t start thrusting because then we lose the rhythm and feel like we are about as crap as a virgin (and any chances of us enjoying it have just gone out of the window)

21.Candles and music are good, lights on is a big no no

22. A girl should shudder a bit after she has come (if she doesn’t, you have failed and she will be annoyed)

23.Cupping the face makes us feel special

24.Find out if she has any injuries, then you can reduce the risk of hurting her…..

25.……but pain is sometimes good, just in a certain way

26.If the covers start to fall off the bed, pull them back over as we will be very conscious of the fact that we are in full view

27.Don’t try and take our bra off unless you know for sure you can do it….this leads to a highly embarrassing pause

28.Don’t try and pick us up, no matter how small we are we are at least 8 stone….and if it is less then check ID immediately

29.Know your own strengths, if you are crap at certain things then don’t even go there

30.Don’t say thank you afterwards because then we feel like prostitutes

31.No turning your back on us after sex

32.No morning kisses (we will probably be fully aware of bad breath particularly if we have been smoking/drinking/giving head)

33.Turn round temporarily so that we can wipe the mascara shit out of our eyes

34.Foreplay is essential – if you go straight in for the kill you a re likely to lose major points (and be gentle)

35.Always make sure there are tissues on hand

36.If you try and make us come too early we will not be interested in what’s to follow, but if you do it too late we will think you are crap….timing is important

37.Taking memento’s is not big, not clever, we will notice and you will not be asked back again

38.For fucks sake tidy your room beforehand

39.The fact we are shagging you on the first night does not make us a whore, it just means we feel like we have to have sex with you in order to keep you

40.Be vocal! How are we supposed to know if we are doing it right......

41.If a girl says she is about to come, you are doing it TOTALLY wrong and she wants it to all be over. We say this because we know you will come in about 10 seconds.... (the same goes for when we suggest doing it doggy style)

P.I...

If you're reading this, I need your help.

I need every single person who's reading this to please leave me a comment with anything that comes to mind...topic...Pimps.

What I need are pop culture references. Anything from TV, movies, books, music that make you think of pimps, that have pimp in the name, lyrics, lines from films, inspired by pimps, etc.

Doesnt matter if someone else has already mentioned the one you're thinking of (matter of fact, write yours first THEN read what others have written). I need to know which are most pervasive and enduring. You can do it. Even you sexy lurkers. Do it anonymously.

Here. I'll even go first...

BAR.ACK STAR

Yeah, so I decided to go to the concert. And I elbowed my way onto the bandwagon.

So The Bama was in town last Monday, the day before he swept the Pot0mac primaries. Monday happened to be the dead of winter.

FUN WISE FACT... I do neither winter nor long lines. And as I walked up on the arena Monday afternoon, I encountered both. The long snaked around the building where rappers perform when they come to town. An arena. I literally couldnt see where it ended. Luckily my friend and I ran into a professor who let us step in line with him. And we still were out shivering for 20 minutes.

Once inside though it was the most amazing thing I've seen in a long time. First off, it was PACKED. Like, Jay-Z & Mary show packed. So I walk in and confirm that the concession stand is in fact not selling beer (losers), and climb up to the cheap seats. Even way up in nose bleed territory it was shoulder to shoulder.



Second, I don't think I've ever seen a crowd this diverse in a long time. Maybe ever. Not even at something as universal as a sporting event have I seen a crowd of so many different ages, races. Families with young kids. Elderly couples. Groups of black school kids wearing uniforms and book bags. Blue collar folks in their work uniforms. White baby boomers.



And folks were listening. And excited. Engaged.


And with that, I'm in. Because it would be a damn shame for him to gain this much momentum, gather this much anticipation and attention from people who have never given a shit about politics before, to lose. This aint no reality show where millions watch and vote and then don't buy the winner's shit [*cough* Taylor.Hicks *cough*] This is our country and our way of life. People who are engaged today will be engaged after he's in office. They won't stop watching CNN and reading the papers. We will all be watching to see how he does. We'll give time like we've been giving money to his campaign, to pitch in and help steer us back to some semblance of normalcy. Greatness even.

With that being said, and he's already got my vote, I'm still convinced that HC would be a more efficient leader overall. Why? I just do. I think she'd get more done in a shorter period of time. When I was a sophomore in high school some of my teammates voted me captain of the basketball team. I was appalled. I was the youngest, and there were seniors who had put in work for longer than I had even been on the team. They had earned it. Regardless that I may have been more galvanizing and well-liked, it wasnt my time (I did accept junior year). That's how I feel about this race.

But this isnt about efficiency. It's about hope and history. Plain and simple.

And in the end, the young gun is Varsity, and HC is JV.

SUPER STAR

It's like MJ is in town. Sold out concert. Last one ever.

You KNOW you should go.

But it's on the wrong side of town.

And the scalpers are ridiculous. You'd literally be spending your last dime.

But it's MJ, and you had a curl and glitter glove in '84.

And everywhere you go, everyone's talking about it. The excitement is intoxicating. Contagious.

But, despite the promise you're not so sure how he'll pull it off. He's never played this venue, and every night on the news you hear how rundown the joint is.

Do you go?

Or do you stay your ass at home, not risk getting shot, and pay your rent on time, instead?

That's how I feel about Rockamama, as my nephew calls him.

He's an absolute rock star. His momentum in the last week alone has been nothing short of spectacular. It's impossible not to get caught up.

Truth is, as I look at the issues for which both he and HC stand...I'm in agreement with the NY Times endorsement of HC. In my estimation, 'Mama presents bullet points of the issues. HC presents a detailed outline. In health care, for example, they both pretty much are offering a model of the types of plans available to members of Congress. Difference is tho, HC spells out how it will be funded, who will be eligible. Too often I'm seeing that 'Mama just spills on about how reprehensible it is for us not to all be covered and how we need to change.

But taking nothing away from the man, I'm probably on my way to the concert.

We have an opportunity that may never happen again in our lifetime...to try something new. Even if it doesn't work, if he fails miserably, if he lying like the rest of 'em, we'll know not to do that shit again.

But maybe it's worth a shot.

Might be the last one ever.

[But why I think if he wins the Dem nomination, 1 vote for Bara.ck is like 100 votes for whoever (white) is his opponent? *sigh*]

PPS...Does the news count as reality TV? Cuz I been all over this shit for weeks!

I HEART TV

[2/3...THIS JUST IN...

In a late addition, I have a new fav. Anyone seen the show on the Country Channel (oh hush!) where the washed up singers are competing to be a country singer?? All I have to say is...Carney.Wilson (remember that video for "Hold On" where they wre walking and she was all struggling to keep up. Ahh, I LOVE her. (she also got the bootleg gastro.)...DianaDegarmo (the young chick who got her ass whupped by Fantasia)...MarciaBrady (who knew she sang beyond the Brady variety show)...ok lemme cut to the chase. SISQ0! (My homeboy works with his mom and she had mentioned he was doing a reality show. YES!!),,,and BOBBYBROWN! All I can say is, can someone pls watch with me!!

And PS...who is the Puerto Rican (Mexican) broad on CleanHouse and where in the mayhem hell is Neicy?!!

I got issues...]


It just rarely occurs to me to plop down on the couch and pop in a dvd and watch a movie.

Cuz I got cable.

Eff a writers' strike, yo. I’ve been saying it for years (roughly around the time Survivor, Love.Cruise & Temptation.Island debuted)…this is the second Golden Era of TV (the ‘50s is considered the first…Uncle Milty, Jenny Benny, etc.).

Sure, I miss Greys and Negro Night on the CW, but here’s what’s been my pop culture Prozac so far this winter (seasonal depression is a bitch!)...


OK…so right now I’m switching btwn that dance crew Randy Jackson show, and Scott Baio. These are two great examples of what I love out of my Golden TV.

First off, Randy done gained back all that gastric bypass weight. What he get the bootleg surgery?? Anywho…Little Known Wise Fact…In my heart I’m a backup dancer. Like, on tour and everything. So I'm all over this (as well as that JLo dancer show, and So You Think..Dance (by why there always gotta be a British commentator chick?)) These competition shows are fun because you get to latch onto the personalities. After five minutes you’re pretty hooked on the crew from Boston who ain’t know how in the hell they were getting back home. Son, the Skate Crew! And of COURSE the Asian one is everyone’s fav. Other than that though, the judges blow (Shane is cool, but Lil Lip Gloss and JC “Sashay,” boo. Ok Lip Gloss isn’t bad.). But what could be better than hearing AC Slater talk all hip hop (and sometimes Mexican).

I’m in!

Now, celeb reality shows?? *SIGH* Just a piece of heaven here on earth. I mean, when was the last time you made a Jonie L0ves Chachi joke, huh?? But put Scotty in front of a camera, add the brother from Wonder Years, a few other lackeys, some bitter exes, and frankly, it’s enough to hold my attention (every week). There is really nothing extraordinary about this show, except that he’s sarcastic, anti-social and neurotic as fcuk, is literally almost 50 and without child or wedding and lost his virginity to Erin Moran. But there’s something to be said about these narrated Look at Me shows (I’m also slightly enamored with Life 0f Ryan). I Heart Them.

But REALLY…it’s the precursor to one of the best things to happen to me in 2008. Celeb Rehab! Lucifer, where to even begin! I guess the obvious place to begin is with Kinicki, but then you’d have to also end there. What a tool that one. But I prefer to remind everyone… because it’s easy to forget that there’s anyone else there besides him, that blond whore one, and the Baldwin… that the little sister from offa Urkle is on it! Yes! The one who went upstairs one episode and never came back downstairs! No, not the cooning cousin lil Richie (who’s now on Young&the Restless and deaf ,or can he hear now??)). The little girl who turned out to be a porn star!! Apparently she’s a weedhead (son, ALL my friends smoke every morning. *shrug*)

I actually did pop in a dvd this afternoon. I had to catch the first two episodes of the Wire. DatNucca and I “watched” episode 3 last week, but I had missed the first two, so my homegirl slid them to me (which I watched out of order. Genius.)

So if you’re not watching this show it’s probably because you don’t have HBO. What can I say? It’s brilliantly written and has the best cast on tv. I’d say easily one of the best I’ve ever seen. I’m partial to Seasons 1 & 4, but as a media head this one intrigues me. LOVE the Sun editor cat. He’s old school yet on point and in touch. And it’s impossible not to watch wide eyed every time Snoop is on screen if for no other reason than that she is so gotdam BMore it’s sick.

People marched in protest outside the BMore premiere, saying it was a negative portrayal of the city and of the black folks here. It is. There are lots of negative folks here from what I can tell. But what that opinion ignores is the human face the Wire puts on them. You protest this piece of art but don't say shit about the other mess on tv and in movie theaters?? The hood has a story. The city has a complex history. And the show is fantastic about showing the layers and multi-dimensions in a human and authentic way.

Plus McNulty’s effing hot. (he grabbed my ass in this pic...and I liked it)

Speaking of hot…how come every straight woman I know is in love with Shane?

Frankly, I’m not into the stringy/skinny/white/chick…but I get it. Either way, the L-Word is my shit! Jenny’s a plum mess…and I can’t WAIT for her psycho assistant to flip out. Max is like, the quiet brooding genius that keeps getting provoked. I’m patiently waiting for her/him to shoot up the Planet. Tina blows. Alice is too wack for the black chick. And why do I find “Flashdance” and “Hear No Evil” to be the best couple ever…except the worst and I’m ready for them to break up.
I still haven’t forgiven them for killing off Dana.

I kinda wish MTV would kill off Real.World. I can’t watch. I know it seems that I’d be all over it, but I’ve just about aged out of the franchise. I just cant (anymore. i was obsessed as recently as Philly ...and kinda Denver) But I CAN however get with the Challenges. My word. See, the whole thing about reality competition like I said, is that once you hook me I’m in. And these are built-in people I’ve seen drunk, vomit on each other, make out, fight, and cry. (Am I the only one who loves CT in all his drunk-violent-brutedness!) And all I have to say is it’s about time they start showing the hook ups. Who cares about the games anyway!

I could go on and on and mention ProjectRunway, anything on Style, etc., but I’ll end with probably my most anticipated show of the “season.” I need to write MTV and ask them nicely to stop promo’ing shit 4 months ahead. Cuz by the time Making.the.Band comes on I’m sure to perish. I cant wait. I was hooked on the last season (1969, are you ready?!) This season's concept is brilliant...Fine ass Will, my hometown boy Q, plus the chicks and the Don?

Golden!

[Here's their single...http://streamos.atlrec.com/wmedia/atlantic/mtb4/gotmegoing_popradio.wax]