Where art thou Madame C.J.?

Neva, eva, eva, eva should I be at a salon longer than I be at my job or given my sketchy attendance record at certain places of employment let's just say longer than I am scheduled to be at work.

I was at the salon today for a day of work plus overtime. Oh, the burden of being black, female and a follower of Madame C.J. Walker's inventive hair straightening imperative!

Why didn't I just leave? Because I had been washed and blowdryed. I was stuck, tethered to the fucked up sepia salon system.

I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, I wanted to yell but I sat and calmly waited for my stylist who never apologized but did my hair well, better than any of the many stylists I have patronized in the city.

I swallowed my tears, my bitter pill, hoping not to upset my stomach, sensitive from my monthly menstrual cramp induced O.D. on Advil. I think I need to upchuck my stomach contents but they're already digested. Circulating through my blood stream are years of bitter pills born out of frustration, powerlessness against some affront, some evil, some inconsideration or some injustice.

Jagged as it is upchucking probably isn't the best idea. It would be best not to ingest it at all. But before ingestion comes that creative(destructive) impulse and that's what with God's help I can suppress.

Exclusive SHIT

So we hit up the much talked about Table 50 last night. 'Been trying to get there for a minute esp. when the mighty Questlove was spinning but I havent been able to make it for whatever reason. Anyway last night was Devin's B-day so we hit it up. Wasn't nobody out, it was cold as hell and some white chick is (wo)manning the door. She makes eye contact with me as I'm crossing the street as if to say, "Bitch please! YOU know you're not getting in." But sometimes I can be naive so I marched to the front door and promptly got played as the white chick in the bubble goose explained, "Guestlist only tonight."

I wasn't even feeling Wyclefian, wasn't gonna pop any bullets figurative or real in her bubble goose but I knew Devin wanted in and her hookup at the door was nowhere to be found.

Anyway an hour and a half later (after a spill at a bar closer to school) we mosey on in behind some folks who somehow have clout at the door. We descend into the lair and are greeted by some fab music and a crowded scene. We make the rounds, see niggas rolling blunts by the dj booth, some wacksters disgracefully jumpin' and funkin', and some hasbeen rappers (hakim from channel live ring a bell). Nevertheless I had a good time cause the music was so damn good. Now if I could just figure out how to get on that damn guestlist it would be ON and (bottle) poppin'.

Hey! Lookaway

'95 was a very good year. Yep My older sister graduated from high school along with the flyest people I knew at the time excepting L. Yep but I know she agrees with me. We loved the class of 95'. Great young black music was inspiring me and others. And there was this group from DC that I caught on BET and I loved them. They sang "Hey Lookaway" Who remembers QuestionMark Asylum?



On a related note, I came across clips of poetry the other day in the mess that is my bedroom in my FT Greene share. I didn't know the scope of my love for the words. I guess I must have forgot. L used to speak about forgetting herself. She asked me to remind her. I did my best. She was grateful. I'm a natural born cheerleader with a photographic memory of other people stories but mine go unscribed and I can't access the memories, sweet or bitter for the life of me, literally. For my own life. My freshman dorms coated with cut outs from magazines, colored in and out, glued, patterned and artfully arranged in my cluttered Spelman dorm. LLC 1 room 213. Shout out to all of Di Lambda Chi, past present future. But Georgia Douglass Johnson, Nikki Giovanni, Gwendolyn Brooks and a cavaclcade of others framed my very exisetence in that old familiar space, my own private not Idaho, a little unlocked asylum in smack dab in the middle of the SWATS.

Looking back, I see why I am so determined to write. Why the words should make a career since the have literally circumscribed me.

Some choice words from my fav poet:

The Crazy Woman

I shall not sing a May song.
A May song should be gay.
I'll wait until November
And sing a song of gray.

I'll wait until November
That is the time for me.
I'll go out in the frosty dark
And sing most terribly.

And all the little people
Will stare at me and say,
"That is the Crazy Woman
Who would not sing in May."

Other Interesting Quotes:

"The mother of all frustrations is ambition" ~Paul Rodriguez

"Freedom is having nothing left to lose" ~Janis Joplin

"I never felt like I was really worth the oxygen that I breathe until I became a performer then I got a lot of validation from the audience."~Margaret Cho

Something there is that doesn't love...

so i deleted this post 'cause I didnt want any drama with the person I whaled on if they ever visit this blog or realize that it was them I was talking about. Anyway, I'm clearly a punk (as the drunk white chick at Music Midtown and witness KFC already know).
Holla (I won't say "black" cause that would be lame)
jb

Billboard Awards

.

Stevie said the following: "use your energy for the goodness of life for the goodness of us coming together as a people"

Great words from a musical genius!
.

Two Words

Fat Woman
A Train

OK so I traipse the three long blocks from my job to the A train today since there was no M14 in sight. I hop on a not too crowded A Train and post up. There are no ads on the walls, and my discman is buried deep in my purse so I'm forced to stared at people albeit discreetly. I find myself facing a bigheaded woman just like myself cute though. I realize that she would not be cute without hair. I further dedicate myself to growing my hair long. I also notice she is contorted in her seat. I wonder why. I look at the woman on her right, a short stocky woman with a coloring that suggested central American heritage. She is similarly scrunched. What's going on here I ponder? Then I glance over at the mammoth of a woman sitting next to her and I understand why. Nevertheless when the pretty big headed woman gets up I decide I'll do a little booty perch on the seat since mad people are boarding which ensures I'll be shoved, pushed up on, coughed on and other annoying wholly inappropriate rotten cherries on top of the melted soy ice cream sundae that was my day at work.

You see I'm no model or athlete for that matter but I'm a respectable size 6 and have no ass so I should have been able to sit there but this woman's girth as indicated by the contorted positioning of big headed women and central American woman had been proven to be capable of inconveniencing not only her immediate neighbors but scores of others innocent MTA riders so I did the booty perch. You know when you don't lean back in the seat, in fact, you only allow an inch or two of your ass on the seat and balance your way through the ride. After I sit down. Fatty girls (or more appropriately fatty grown ass woman) says quite curtly can you please wait so I can get my coat up from under you! First I was not sitting on her coat. I wasn't sitting on virtually anything but air. However I understand that with all that flesh it can be difficult to see. Second what's up with the attitude. Normal sized people like myself should have been upset. Chubb Rockette took up damn near two seats. What the fuck! The honorable thing to do would have been for her to stand or at least apologize to the people she was making uncomfortable instead of being snide.

So I gave her the crazy face. My long extended appalled and disgusted series of stares and slow protracted head rolls culminating in an understated eye roll and self righteous sigh.

I'm not anti-fat but come on Chris, Chris, come on. She knows she was wrong.

OK I already feel bad about talking about this big woman but let's be real. Big people can't afford to be mean cause the first thing a person does when confronted by a mean big person is harangue them for being pork personified.

Aiight two new words
K. West
10 Nominations

Grammy nom's that is. DAMN!! (alkaholik style) Hopefully, this will help him recover from his bitterness over Gretchen Wilson's triumph at the AMA's.

I really want to hate. Really. Very deeply. I'm still rockin' a jansport and I'm on my second degree while Kanye's got an assortment of LV backpacks and he ain't got but one semester of school. I was inducted into every honor society even Phi Beta Kappa. I looked like Mrs. Tee on that fateful graduation day 2002 for all my honor cords and a negress is STRUGGLIN'. I should have dropped out.

la la la la la

you're standing on my neck

Past Paradise

Can a person think too much? I want to say no but I could be wrong. I've been wrong about a lot. And that pattern's been shaken my core. I realized this in a marathon conversation with my sis last night. I used to wear my hair short. I could never ever do that now. I used to repeatedly dive into new settings. I'm afraid now. I used to think I was intelligent and somewhat worthy but life in the big apple has taken a serious toll. I guess I have never had to deal with so much hardship, so many no's, and so little support. I miss my Mama.

Oh don't it seem to go that you don't know what it's got till its gone. There are so many people who I didn't appreciate until now. People who are the reason for the season of jah. This might me the season of nahs. The seemingly incessant winter of my discontent. Can you tell I found out I didnt get a job I was vying for? If you don't know, now you know.

Holler at a playa when you see me on the street trick! I could really use some positive energy.

What not to wear

Not. Sorry folks. I had to take it back to '89. I am really steamed. Well I'm not really mad but if I was one to get caught up in self-desctructive outbursts, and mis-directed energy I would be angry. I just finished watching TLC's What Not to Wear's 50,000 shopping spree and it was just outrageous. I should have know it was gonna be troubling from the advance hype. Ads in the New York Times, and television forecastic a mammoth fashion event with hosts Stacy and Clinton walking the city streets in custom outfits made from cold hard cash. And then I saw a commercial with the woman who had been selected for this unexpected grand gesture and she was unique, fly and surprisingly African American. (Aside: I cringe when criminals on NY1 are revealed to be African American. I gleefully squeal when black people win free stuff on TV i.e. the Oprah dream wedding. Wasn't that a tear jerker?)

Anyway, I liked her style the chunky red streak in her wild natural. The funk and orginality of the record exec's style. She was the last person I would have selected for a makeover. Then she later revealed that she had spent three paychecks on a Thierry Mugler jacket years back. What the fuck? Can a broke bitch get a makeover? Anyway as the show progresses she proves to be exceptionally savvy in the fashion department, a fact acknowledged by the ever particular style gods, Stacy and Clinton. They rifle through her wardrobe, critiquing and trashing clothes at will not because it was all ugly but mostly because although there were a lot of eye catching pieces in totality it seemed to them outlandish and a little too young. Now jbeezy don't believe in outlandish never have so I'm a little dusturbed as is the women in question but while her looming 50,000 parisian shopping spree soothed her hurt feeling, I 'm sitting on my sister's futons frustrated.

Each and every week on What Not to Wear fashion misfits, nominated by their infrequently fashion forward know it all friends, are secretly videoptaped for two weeks prior to the episode then thrust into the fire and counsel that is Stacy and Clinton's televised catty forceful fashion counsel. Each and every week Stace and Clint ask the same damn question to every simpleton on the show about their fucked up wardrobes: What were you thinking? Now they ask this to heavy girls, big bootied girls, big chested girls, really tall men, painfully insecure folk, poor folk, many of whom don't reside in the fashion capital of NYC and all have ifficuly finding clothes that they can fit, much less that are comfortable oh yeah and affordable. Why did the fat drama teacher who was on last week always wear black and elasticized cause she was fat and stretchy elastic will survive her size fluctuations and black will hide it. Why did the tall guy with the big booty always have high waters cause he can't find panst long enough with enough booty room. Why did Lisa the too blessed to me made over chick wear too young and too funky clothes, to attract the attention and validation that her fled youth, growing flesh and limited pocketbooks can't secure. We'd all look better in thousand dollar apparel but since we can't afford to buy out Alfred Dunhill or make an appt at Christian Lacroix we do the best we can at Urbn Outfitters Sales, T.J. Maxx, Marsall's, Nordstrom Rack. All these people have difficulty shopping out of simple physiognomy not to mention insecurity. The struggle ain't no secret. It's easy to throw someone 50,000$ world renowned stylists, make up artists and the like and make them "beautiful." I'll have to defer to Joydrop now:
"Beautiful" from Metasexual

If I was beautiful like you
All the things I would do
Those not so blessed would be crying out murder
but I'd just laugh
and get away with it too
Like you do!

Not stricken by poverty

But soon to be. As soon as money hits by hand its gone. So naturally today in hopes of making my apt liveable I went to Ikea in search of a desk and night table and filing cabinet. Ikea is an overwhelming experience especially on a Sunday thanks to the free Port Authority Shuttle that I a cheap chick like myself proudly rode. But before I entered the overcrowded yellow with blue accents behemoth I caught the bus to Jersey Gardens to try and get some astoundingly hig thread count sheets astoundingly cheap at Off Fifth, Marshall's Megastore or Last Call but no avail. Not to mention the excess at Ikea was a little too overwhelming for me. It's a lot like the Cheesecake Factory or me and Kristel trying to decide on where to eat in ATL. Too much.

I look like a bum

To be clear I don't really believe in bums just fiscally challenged individuals. Extraordinary people who are forced to shit in the streets, forage through trash and sleep on subway cars. I am not one of those people. I just moved into a nice modern elevator building in Fort Greene but I look like a bum. I need some new personal furnishings but that's just not gonna happen cause before I know it I will be begging mommy and sister dearest for dough for rent, utilities, and vegan treats at Whole Foods and that ain't right.

Back in the day I would have spent my last dime at Lenox Mall then called my sister and begged for a Benjamin or two to waste at Phipps Plaza but now I am grown and I got bills and as much as those Fendi boots are beckoning me at Loehmann's I must resist. I was almost hoping Delta would lose my luggage so I could fib about the cost of the items therein and get paid! But alas my mama's nice suitcase arrived, astonishingly dirty, and I'm slaving away at jobs that don't pay shit. If skills be sold?!

Well its funny 'cause D's been beggin' me to hit the clubs with her but I can't go out if I don't look cute and I don't look cute without fly apparel and the tried and true items of ago just aint cuttin' it. I always admired people who look bummish and are happy about it. Scratch That! I always admired people who look bummish and don't ever reflect/realize/consider the fact that they look how the look. Matter of fact I admire happy cashiers and happy cleaning ladies cause as much as its important that we enjoy what we do its more important to enjoy life regardless of what we do.

I'm getting fat. I still fit my clothes but I'm flabby. First sign of aging is girth and I'm too young for that ish. As I have said a million and one times, I would be anorexic if I had willpower and wasn't so damn greedy.

Oh yeah, wonderin' what to do for D's b-day. B-day's are always so anticlimactic for me personally which is probably why its hard to think about planning something for someone else.

I'm just ramblin' now 'cause I have nothing to do until our Brownstone production mtg for which I wrote NOTHING. Boo! I know its gonna be fab though. Interviewed with a magazine today and realized that I don't listen to enough different music. Like I have never listened to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs or Sleater-Kinney or the shortlist prizewinners themselves TV on the mufuckin' Radio...its just too much to listen to. Basically I need to listen to some more non-stereotypically black music. Yeah, thats it.

And Marc Broussard should share in the absolute spite I hold for Joss "lame ass fake ass soul singer" Stone but he doesn't. I like him in a John Mayer kinda way.

And when the fuck does the taping of Chappelle Show start? I'm trying to get sat in the front row this time. I been at them damn tapings since the first season when nobody was watching. I've weathered the cold ass Harlem streets trying to get my laugh on and no air time. What the Fuck!? Chris Rock's funnier anyway.

Deep Thoughts courtesy of from Chris Rock interviewed by The Onion's Nathan Rabin

O: ...you were in New Jack City. How do you prepare for playing a crackhead?

CR: You smoke crack.

Dust yourself off and try again

Jamaica funk that's what it is. That's what it can sometimes be. Moody's mood and all that smoky sorrowful jazz. And then in a flash it can be so much more. Like I was leaving Better Burger today in Chelsea and I smiled as I listened to Juvenile's Greatest Hits on my sisters old white discman (please some rich pitying soul buy me an iPod). '99 claassic "Back That Azz Up" had my flat-non existent ass twitching on the streets not that it raised a brow or any other organ in the man loving district. But it did make me smile in more ways than one. First the fact that I was trying so hard to not shake my ass on the street. Second that I realized I was a fan of Juve the Great. Me listen to that Slow Motion cat. He's like one of those country rap dudes. But like Roy said I must of forgot and like Fat Joe said I was also forced to lean back to Manny Fresh's fun loving sounds and Juve's innovative kinda trigga da gambla/smoothe da hustler steez on "HA" "Mama Got Azz"? classic! "Bounce Back"? Infectious! "400 Degreez"? On Fire! I'm a supporter of Cash Money, the label and the currency and I ain't go bidness criticizing these kids for listenin' to Lil' John.

There is something to being 19 ridin' in your besy friends brothers roomates Navigator on Peachtree of even AUC's famed strip bumping Juve. It captured my collegiate years in a fantastic manner. Its pure fune. Pure un-selfconsciousness. Pure fucking ignorance and ignorance is bliss.