mardi, mai 31, 2005

"Escape through rhythms in search of peace and wisdom"

Jet Screamer

Mama magnificent and sister seraphim have already done more than enough to make my life a living heaven but on the occasion of my most recent born day they helped satisfy my tortured soul with the best cards and best gift ever. They bought the kid an iPod Photo. YAY! I'm feeling pretty Judy Jetsonish as I make my way through the city I love to hate so it's appropriate that I say, Eep Op Ork Ah Ah, and that means I love you.

I already got 400 songs uploaded from the long since untouched albums in my old dusty cd booklet. A sample of jah digga's rotation:

13th Floor/Growing Old
21 Years
Cradle and All
Make Room
Elevation (Free My Mind)
Life is Sweet
No Fear
Come Clean
Bad Card
The Official
All My Life
It's So Hard

and, but of course, the eternal favorite:

Two Princes

The Spin Doctors will be at BB King's in September and, God willing, I WILL be at their show screaming like a banshee unless I am delayed in which case I implore you to kiss them for me.

A Rose is Still A Rose

227 : The Fictive Fam'

I am Jbica. I be 5'6."

Sandra Clark is a character from 227 which has been resurrected courtesy of TV ONE, a new black Lifestyle and Entertainment television channel that distinguishes itself from Viacom's BET in that it does not show music videos featuring shame(black)faced coonery but mimics in that it shows reruns with occasional shame(black)faced coonery. But the former is the fate of most cable channels, especially start ups; the latter the fate of most black entertainment. I will always welcome reruns of Martin (great television show that was unfortunately lined up against Seinfeld making for some segregated late nineties Thursday evening viewing patterns), Good Times (never ever saw 'til I was good and grown), and 227. I love the Jenkins family. I felt like they were good fictional black people and still do. Sandra, Rose, Pearl, Lester, Mary, and Brenda all hold a special place in my pop culture junkie heart. I'm no more like Sandra then I'm like Rose but Jackee Harry* the actress who played Sanda Clark, captivated me/us with her larger than life personage and sultry drawl equal parts nasal and guttural and always unselfconsciously assured. With glamorous eighties black girl hair and just right too tight dresses that are so popular with colored women (myself included) Harry repeatedly declaimed her characters name, "SAAAANDRA CLARK" in paused strut, manicured hands divaly bent with feminine pinky at oh so dainty attention. Direct TV subscribers: tune to TV ONE at 10:00 am if you are jobless or 5pm if not (everyone else call your cable company to request the channel). The sound doesn't translate into text; it has GOT to be (seen and) HEARD.

*I ran into Harry who recently split from celeb hairstylist Elgin Charles on 72nd. I don't know her, although it sort of felt like I did, so I didn't say anything and "walk[ed] down the street with more boop than betty" to Urban Outfitters to buy something I didn't need and probably don't wear.

Nota Bene: The little girl in the bottom of the pic is the dreadlocked video chick from the Kweli's "Never Been in Love" video and that karaoke themed 'make sure you brush your tongue and get your breath in order and you will sing like a jaybird with handsome beau' commercial.

lundi, mai 30, 2005

Put You On The Game

He used to sell* mixtapes but now he's a b-boy and most recently a blogger who has been talkin' greasy about numchuks, bucktown (home of the originoo gun clappaz), "our shining black prince," and the academy.

On the subject of linoleum junkies, I ran into b-girl par excellence, Rokafella, so named cuz she rocks the fellas (Get 'Em Girl), on Fulton in front of BAM yesterday. I was coming home from brunch with fam at Curly's Vegetarian (a new spot run by the same folks who ran Veg City Diner) exhausted! (didn't sleep sat night) and who do I see on the corner on the look out for some lost b-girls but Rokafella. At first I wasn't gonna speak cause I wasn't sure if she remembered me then she stopped me and was like, "I know you!" Anyway hugs exchanged and she told she was shooting a video for Queen Goddess around the corner. Then the twin b-girls who looked more like altar girls (looks can be deceiving) and who were also in the hugging mood arrived so they went to shoot they video, I did a quick walk through of the African street festival avoiding people I knew for some odd reason, then finally hit the hay.

*Ok so I'm not really sure if Joe trafficked in tapes but I could not resist papraphrasing The Nonce. I can confirm that he makes fire rare Gil Scott Heron ones with a Soul Imperialist logo and everything.

vendredi, mai 27, 2005

Black Hand Side

He knows what love is. More pics here.

I think the hip-hop community is a masculine sport. It’s a masculine art form in a way. I can remember being in high school not wanting to express myself as much about love. At that point it was just probably young love. You would be afraid to express yourself ‘cause of how other dudes would think about it. And I think in hip-hop we have that cloud over us: worrying about what other people think and trying to prove that we are the hardcore male. I just chose to be me 'cause that’s all I knew, and I expressed love.

My interview with Com' is up (part 1 & part 2). My review of Tuesday night's show at SOB's is up at the Prefix Blog. The new Mugshot is on stands now (Check Fat Beats, Hue Man or Tower) so go pick it up.

jeudi, mai 26, 2005

Down But Not Out

Carolyn Thomas commonly referred to as "the woman without a face" reads a statement to Terrence Dewaine Kelly who shot her fucking face off and shot her mother dead

...take ya girl fuck her face
~Cam'ron Giles

I'm just tryna live honestly

~Marsha Ambrosius

As an unapologetic black feminist it's embarassing when scores of men lambast your taste in song as misogynist. I mean I'm the one who's supposed to pronounce such edicts and I do regularly refusing to dance to Ying Yang twins drivel, Nelly nonsense, Nas & Co. mistep "Oochie Wally," Bubba Sparxx ugliness (You won't see tomorrow if I won't cut tonight") or that up and coming Baton Rouge oppressor Lil' Webbie (Girl don't hold it from me/'Cause right now I'll be done strong arm ya) and some other shit I can't remember right now but I loved "Down & Out" when I first heard it in January (I think), rather late I know, courtesy of a mix CD I copped for a long walk home. I am not a Cam'ron fan although I have never disliked his music. "Horse & Carriage" always gets me going, "Oh Boy" that mammoth Just Blaze summer anthem too. And fuck it "Killa Cam" and "Get Em Girls" were some of the most compelling songs I had heard (on the low) in a while but I didn't cop the album. Like I said I've never been a fan so it was odd that I would select this mix CD from the wide assortment ole dude over by the Jay Street A station was selling in his narrow storefront. I think I chose the particular mix for that "Drop It Like It's Hot" (remix) where Jay puts Kel's on blast, the Styles P burner "I'm Black" and Amerie's crazier than "Crazy in Love" "1 Thing." I'm not gonna break down why I like it but I want to communicate that it was an instanteous affinity. An appreciation of Kanye's cluttered construction, Syleena soulful vocal and Cam'ron minimalist flow. I didn't hear this in a club, I wasn't brainwashed by Hot 97 rotation (never a fan of that institution either and after the Tsunami Song it was an immediate wrap), or a shiny mesmerizing video. Since its NY, a headphoned strap hanger city, I could listen in isolation without having to explain the utter contradiction yet I was not so prepared by being outfeministed by male listeners. Not cool.

I saw the video for "Down & Out" today on Rap City. It's bootleg. I don't get where the chicks in the beauty shop fit in the narrative (is it too much to expect a music video to have a narrative?) and Kanye, as always looks foolish ("coochie the juiciest" officially replaces the Reeses Pieces line from Brandy's "Talk About Our Love" as the worst Kanye line yet), but I didn't think it was kinda fresh how much they had to bleep so fucking much from Cam'ron's verse and how his irreveverent overeneunciated mouthing of the explicit content rendered the bleeps absolutely pointless. Why whisper? I'm not going to run down my feminist allegiances 'cause its not even about feminism**; hate the word simpletons this is basic human rights. We all fall victim and we all victimize.

Pull out your nine, while I cock on mine. ~Kimberly Jones*

But when I flipped the channel to Oprah I wasn't ready for Carolyn, who they call the woman without a face, who we champion as the woman who survived. Like many women she got caught up in bad situation with a very bad man (on the subject what's up with the R. Kelly trial I propose we dangle a few 12 year olds in his immediate sight then roll on up and place him under citizen's arrest): an emotional abuser, mindfucking manipulator, and brutal batterer who ruled her world by exploiting her low self esteem and threatening her and her family with physical violence. Carolyn cried and so did I. No one should have to go through what she went through. This is a violent world I know but much more violent for women who sometimes succumb and but most often survive gendered violence every day. Ask Courtney, my first and second year roommate who has been attacked twice in broad daylight in the NY streets. One time in the village on her way to lunch. A negro grabbed her tried to drag her into a corner and do damage. Thank God she took self defense and was armed with the skills to protect herself cause the NUMEROUS passer bys didn't give a what.

There are these freedom lovers in Bolivia who are using song for uplift (I am unaware of their gender politics but they are probably disoncerting).
Even Johnny Cochran, God Bless him, couldn't defend the whisper song ~Chris Rock, 106 & Park suckfest, 5/26/05

*Ghostwritten or not my favorite Kim line ever. If Biggie did write this how ironic that he would write her as autonomous clap backing subject as he beat and dragged her through recording studios (watch Lil' Kim's VH1 Driven for unselfconscious and unperturbed testimony to this fact by various rap stars or just read this.)

**but it is. those familiar with black feminist ideology know what's up. Everyone else get some get right.

mercredi, mai 25, 2005

Let This Be The Day That You Change Your Life

mardi, mai 24, 2005

So What The Fuss?

Imelda Marcos

Sneakers are religous and political talismans to Young Americans: they confer respect upon the wearer and testify that he or she belongs to a certain community. Sneakers are heady stuff and the stakes are high. Alex Kuczysnski, "Sneakers Try to Live Up to the Nostalgia," The New York Times May 19, 2005

The shoes, the shoes, it's gotta be the shoes 'cause girlies they clock, they stand around and jock. Mr Funke, "Chief Rocka," Here Come The Lords

I was in Alphabet City the other day. Shamefully iPodless I amused myself by sizing people up or rather down since it has been said that shoes say a whole lot. When I arrived at Kate's Joint's I surveyed the footwear of the vegetarian diner's ecletic patrons and derisively concluded that all east village/alphabet city/lower east siders rock Converse (dirt dotted, well worn, scuffed and frequently duct taped). I thought how counter culture cliche chic until I remembered the Asics on my feet keeping the counterculture cypher I momentarily maligned complete. I know, Converse are neither unique nor new but they are found in higher and dirtier concentrations in certain communities (for equally high but cleaner concentrations see Compton); Nike's too since the ascent of the Dunk (which I admire from a distance) and the Air Rift which I rock religously. I feel bad about what Nike's doing in the world and I swear I (or my mama I should say since I had/have no cash flow) hadn't bought Nike's 5 or six years prior but damn if I didn't bury my principles for style. Of course, this kicked off an 'eff the (so called) third world de facto enslaved Nike craftschildren' spree. I found this Nike iD thing and fell in love with the idea of customizing kicks. I made some iD track shoes that I never wore for any endeavor other than stunting. They had my initials on them and said 'fly'. Everybody liked them except for J; he said I laced them too tight. That was like 4/5 years ago so you can imagine my gleeful surprise when during a recent visit to to VOTE FOR PREFIX (The Yellow, Blue and Tan ones customized by Dave Park) in the Nike iD blog contest. I found out I can customize Air Rifts.
Is it back to charging motherfuckers 11 for an O?*

*Nota Bene-I have NO idea what this means (nor do I understand how to "flip money 3 ways") but it seems appropriate.

lundi, mai 23, 2005

Damsel in Distress

Where's Al B. Sure when you need him?

" show their learning was their whole endeavor; but, unluckily...the modulation was so(oooooo)* imperfect..."-decontextualized Donne

"I'm not a witty girl. That's not what I do."~(un)fair maiden

"And it might not grow. Ya’ never know"

~faux locked/afro wigged truth teller

"I suffer from a voice immodulation problem." Jacob Silj

*emphasis added

dimanche, mai 22, 2005

"...the things beyond the 'flesh' and beyond..."*

Black Clad in Paris
Originally uploaded by sherealcool.

"men get spindled, swiveled, pivoted, by my riveting centrifuge"**

"Dressed in all black like the Omen"***

Obsidian, dark and razor sharp, no longer cloaks this variegated brown. Well, maybe occasionally but not exclusively. Black, a particular shade of blue, and the color of blood-- not to be confused with the elusive color of water-- are staples no more (not never). I delight in the guttural yell(l)ow (this is how you get got), green, seared pinks and orange even. It's not really a big deal but it is. Color has its hazards, whether purely decorative or melaninly indigenous. Callous cats call (seldom on maat erryday!).*** Colored inamoratas dip dip di(v)e into box cutting obsidian, kevlar obesity, or sensually funk--baile(amos?)--in spectral noise.

*word to Michelle Wallace
**ditto to Phesto
***double ditto to The Notorious K.I.M.
****dial ditto for The Boys and L

vendredi, mai 20, 2005


But only you saw what took many time to see
I dedicate this to you for believing in me
~Corey Penn

There's no way I can pay you back
But the plan is to show you that I understand
You are appreciated
~Tupac Amaru Shakur

In accordance with the stars today we honor the inimitable Julie Burrell: mama to this brooklyn belle and an uptown girl. I wish I could be in tha town celebrating with her, lavishing luxurious goods and services on her, (cause she's worth it!) and the like but despite an acute taste for the exquisite and the expensive my mama spends her days and hours and resources making every one else's life better (thanks for the Marc Jacobs mary janes), sacrificing so we can thrive. As much as I honor her and her goodhearted well meaning willingness to give I resent the world that has made her give so much. I just called her on her celly and sent and e-card. It's not enough. It will never be enough. She's the reason I smile. God lives in her and makes the spirit palpably known through her. Words can't describe my sentiment. They never will.


Happy Birthday To Ya! (Stevie Wonder Style)

Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night

I fell asleep at the wheel again. Had my laptop revved up and ready to roar but the world got sucked into yawns amd swallowed down deep into lackluster sleep. You can imagine my surprise when I awoke to the whirring of my outdated Inspiron 8200 (B-day's Wednesday so someone should buy me a G4 which in adherence with my luck as soon as I get will be made antiquated by the much rumored G5), back propped up by patchwork silk sari pillows (not so cliche as Beyonce's, MTV crib's afficionados, although I begrudgingly admit I am "so Fugees") staring at the blank screen of my not quite creativity. Damn Damn Damn Jah (my new feel bad mantra is the much ballyhooed "Get Ya Mind Right" but I still like Jody "anything for profit" Breeze better). So I tip toed to sis's virtual room not wanting to wake her. Too far away to hear her snoring but close enough to catch her unnerving habit of zzzzing with her eyes half open. But damn if I hadn't remembered how bright the world outside my window is since I've been bathing in dark shadows bone chillingly afraid of my own light and squinty sun faced by damn near everyone elses. I miss the frog hiccups, I tell you, and world shaking sneezes. Nikki Giovanni's '97 offering bites and June Jordan's brown jacket props up grad school texts on my bookshelf which does not diminish the truth telling ministry stubbornly present in the absense of her soft spoken flesh: Some of us did not die. Some of us will not die but live and in turn others will love/live infinitely more abundantly.

i breathe underwater, create worlds in lands you've never even dared to dream. you can follow me to the edge of the sea, but your lava will not penetrate me any longer. i can breathe without fire, without burning myself on your words.

For more Easter dress punch stains, Christmas socked cheerleading, obsessive compulsive Baduizm, mama mackism, ankle twisting platform appreciation, lurid life lessons and, yes, poetry visit my sis', the vegetarian defecting alchemist.

mardi, mai 17, 2005

Source of Labor

The Source Magazine's Jerry Barrow and Sia Barnes

Umm so despite all the talk about the corruption at The Source they put out a pretty good issue this month which I checked out at the Union Square Virgin Megastore (Jada's on the cover). Jerry Barrow's feature on Mos Def is worth noting. It seems the same cat that said "stop with the nonsense, like he's conscious" had switched his style back to the Black On Both Sides industry irreverence asserting he don't make his music for dumb niggas and calling out all area coons (i.e. The Eastside Boyz) and puppetmasters (shady record exec types). Anyway given Mos's recent penchant to shuck and jive for the media this is incredibly odd. Mos' also makes vague mention to having a big family which the article doesn't push. I mean family business is family business but I just don't think a woman would be able to so obscure her personal life and commitment in this same way. It's also wierd how when his people took over the fan site all references to his personal life were excised.

"You might not know who I is." ~Cooning reputedly devil worshiping Southern rappers and friends

On the subject of the kids I must confess unlike Trick I don't love 'em. Well in theory I do but not in practice. I babysat the angelic daughter of family friends for the first time at 17 or 18 and she remains the only child I've every babysat (as she said "we're girls" and I love her and her siblings mucho) but I'm not not a kiddie, googly, woogly person. My sister is. I hate the fact that when I make faces at babies they don't always smile back or that they look away at something more interesting like I'm not putting in work. Not to mention their proclivity for peering over their airplane seat and guilting me into playing peekabo for the entire span of a transcontinental flight when all I want to do is sleep or read my book or stare into the clouds. I tend to talk and interact with kids like I do with adults so although ego makes me want to have kids in the far away future I wasn't raised to mother nor do I dream about it. In fact quite a few of my friends are determined to not have kids. Kids inevitably although outdatedly make me think of marriage and to that I'll say I really like that Julie Dexter song "Never Will I Marry" 'cause I think it captures some of my sentiments about traditional institutions that tend to preclude women from living a full/fulfilled life but admittedly I'm a walking contradiction and the grass sometimes still looks green.

"You ain't even gotta do the dishes."-Summer Epistle Writer

I gotta share what my dear friend the amazing vocalist Ife sent me today:

Here's the fairy tale all little girls should be reading...
Once upon a time, in a land far away, a beautiful, independent, self-assured princess happened upon a frog as she sat, contemplating ecological issues on the shores of an unpolluted pond in a verdant meadow near her castle. The frog hopped into the princess' lap and said: Elegant Lady, I was once a handsome prince, until an evil witch cast a spell upon me. One kiss from you, however, and I will turn back into the dapper, young prince that I am and then, my sweet, we can marry and set up housekeeping in your castle with my mother, where you can prepare my meals, clean my clothes, bear my children, and forever feel grateful and happy doing so. That night, as the princess dined sumptuously on lightly sautéed frog legs seasoned in a white wine and onion cream sauce,she chuckled and thought to herself: I don't fucking think so.

Oh yeah and I like Roy Jones Jr. and his protege's new song and their coordinated bulletprof vested hard bop in the video.

Death is A Must

P. Cohen


Aisha: hold your head.

lundi, mai 16, 2005

Geographies of Home

"Moving like a tortoise, full of rigor mortis"
"Express Yourself," Dr. Dre (Ghostwritten by Cube?)

I ascended Rockefeller's stairsteps looking for my other mother but a little afraid her affection may have started to dwindle. It's been 3 years since I strode out of New Birth tassle turned to the left and months since I had been in communication with the carrot topped gemini herself and I am always afraid that in due time people will fall out of like, love, fatherhood, sisterliness, familial affinity and all other affection with me so I stepped nervously up the old staircase that smelled so much like Spelman like what I imagine all black colleges to smell like. Ms. Ada no longer womans the desk (thankfully). In the days of olde I would have strode past reception importantly. I used to have a key to her office. It might as well have been mine. But I stood outside and politely requested an audience with the Dean and then I waited. When she slid into the foyer, she didn't see past the braided delinquent in her direct line of sight and just as I began to exhale knowing dissapointment and then she saw me, exclaimed, embraced, and presented showed off her rag tag baby (no seriously I hadn't made it to my hair appt yet and I was on no sleep again) to any who would look or listen. It felt good. I told her I hadn't finished my thesis yet she said she understood. Patted me on my back told me it was my perfectionism getting the best of me never mentioning my laziness or my proclivity for turning things in late. That's what mentors/mamas do.

My bags safely stowed in Moya's always open domicile, right next to my own freshwoman lair (LLC I 213), I made my way to Ms. Liz for a fresh cheap press. She expressed a marked dislike for the city especially boring ass Queens (her sentiments admittedly shared by me). "Yes, Ms. Liz its a hard city but its a city for dreamers like me." She asked me how I wanted it styled complained about the shortness of my sides curled it tight hugged me and sent me on my way. Ran into the old homies at Soul Veg, ran into class of 2000'ers back for their 5 year reunion (Damn!), ran into the Young Jeezy video shoot at Chanterelle's, ran up the AMEX at Phipps and for a moment builded with the graduates, Moya and Mensah, God's amazing reflections. Felt not so much a mother hen as an outsider. Fond feelings and friendships and warm hugs aside, Joe Turner done come and gone leaving with me with a heavy warmth that continually cools as time passes. I searched for the warmth in a recently renovated and reopened Sisters Chapel. I remember eearly morns indoctrinating the chirren there, hot afternoons teaching first years their class song, welcoming them into the sisterhood and otherwise acting a fool but the new flooring seemed to cover up the traces of my Air Rifts (I was the first in ATL to have them. No, REALLY!)footsteps. The fresh paint erasing all traces of my hands bursting them open back before air conditioning, which in black school talk, is three years ago. I sat an said a prayer in the chapel, thanking God for the experience hoping for ones equally as good and life changing and in came a elder in pink. "Reminiscing," she asked. "Yes m'am." Turns out she was too. A alum of the class of sixty something (Marian Wright Edelman's Class) when they sat in lunch counters and department stores, had to wear white gloves, attend church every morn, eschew pants and otherwise act the part of the Spelman Woman. I escorted her around campus although she was spry. She was good company. Her stories are as eye opening as they are humbling and connect me, really all of us there, to a legacy and tradition that we alternately bless and buck.

After teetering on 4 inch Costume Nationals during Baccaulaureate I found Dr. Stanley and Dean Baxter. Dr. S, who will feel the rains down in Africa while she works with Ousmane Sembene, hwas happy to see me too. Told me to be in touch. Old news. She had passed the same word through Moya but I promised to this time. I appreciate her more and more in the distance, in the absence in the northern cold. I looked for the Star for a while she wasn't where I left Alii. Then I found her cradled in compliments with an administrative admirer, her bubbly mama and auntie and dapper dad but I ran out of film so that moment will be another fleeting memory unfrozen on Kodak paper. I felt like an asshole for not walking through the arch with the Doc Che. It was the one thing I really wanted to to do. But shit we can always go back to campus to snap that pic. I have decided I'm gonna head back there in June. Kick it with Kris, swing by and see The Graduate. Make a guest apperance in a Young Jeezy video courtesy of video prod superstar/filmmaker to watch Tiona.

"And when you can't go back, you have to worry only about the best way of moving forward." The Alchemist, Paolo Coelho

It felt good to be home. It felt like a hard hug. NYC often feels like a cold slap but I don't want to leave. Maybe I'm just foolish or selfish or a combination of the two. I'm reading The Alchemist now at Devin's recommendation. I had heard of it but interpreted its immense popularity to be a functions of its commonness. But life lessons abound in it. And all I have to say is I'm in pursuit/search of my personal legend and will be until further notice.

"Catch niggas having they fun and we ruin it."
"Louder," HNIC, Prodigy

As high as I was I got a little low. The rain poured on Sunday. Fucked up the overpriced 'fit and grand plans. My mouth started to run and I was that wrong nigga to fuck with (resurrected "these bitches don't know me" favorite sophomore phrase, ask Taneya) especially after those lame ass Morehouse fake ass crossing guards tried to prevent me from connecting with my fam across the yard in the monsoon that was Morehouse's graduation even after showing them my VIP alum tickets. Although I sang that Usher song most of Sunday, Ask L. I didn't get caught up or at least I hope not. I'm channeling Xenia's bubbliness and meditating on The Alchemist while I cook up something or other.

You already know I'm indulgent and probably know I'm nostalgic but this is real. Nothing compares to the four years I lived in Spelman College.

Fat Titties Turn To Teardrops As F(l)at Ass Turns To Flab...Growing Old.

The Born Day's right around the corner.

mercredi, mai 11, 2005

Peace Beyond Passion

By DAVID BAUDER, AP Television Writer

NEW YORK - Comedy Central star Dave Chappelle has checked himself into a mental health facility in South Africa, the magazine Entertainment Weekly reported on Wednesday.

The comedian's whereabouts and condition have been unknown since Comedy Central abruptly announced last week that the planned May 31 launch of the third season of "Chappelle's Show" had been postponed and production halted.

Chappelle flew from Newark, N.J., to South Africa on April 28 for treatment, said the magazine, quoting a source close to the show it would not identify. Entertainment Weekly said it had corroborating sources for its story.

"We don't know where he is," Comedy Central spokesman Tony Fox said. "We've heard about South Africa. We don't know. We haven't talked to Dave."

Chappelle's spokesman, Matt Labov, would not comment on the magazine's story.

"It seems like the issues he's contending with are really quite serious," said Dade Hayes, a senior editor at Entertainment Weekly. "It isn't a case of him spending a weekend someplace recuperating from exhaustion."

The magazine's sources say Chappelle is still in the facility, which was not named, Hayes said. Chappelle's representatives have denied that the comedian was abusing drugs.

Chappelle reportedly signed a $50 million deal with Comedy Central for two more seasons of his show, a payday made possible because of the explosive sales of the show's first season DVD.

The magazine said Chappelle had shot four to five episodes' worth of sketches for the new season, but none of its onstage introductions.

Link to Newsweek Article

mardi, mai 10, 2005

Dem chickens is ash...

...but she's lotion

Like every overeager kid that votes for the lame ass videos from the AJ and Free hosted suckfest that is 106 & Park I adore Mariah's "We Belong Together" maybe even more than the livest audience member. Anyway DLO brought the CD in on Thursday and encouraged me to listen to it, and though I had hear the song in passing as I hustled and shuffled daily tasks and responsibilities, Mariah's real simple song just resonated with me.

I caught the video too on Saturday during a rare TV viewing as I waited for laundry (I also saw the making of the Game video "Dreams." Mya and Game are both extra, extra! corny). It never ceases to amaze me how Mariah's pronounced rhythmlessness shines through even when she isn't dancing. I chuckled at the absurdity of Big Perm reading HARD from the good book in the background and couldn't help but be miffed at Mariah's choice of love interest (admittedly he is a hottie). She stays true to form. She's not gonna give up her almost white privilege for shit no matter how many rap hooks she coos or rap chicks she champions. Despite claims to the contrary, Mariah is not the most misunderstood black girl in America. I am.

PS-I would love to know why the dark skinned chick in the "Just a Lil' Bit" video is identified in the opening credits as "La Diabla."

lundi, mai 09, 2005


...I thought it would have been me.

Props to the girl Devin for walking across that stage this morning. She now has a masters degree in music performance. The best black gymnast next to Dominique Dawes, she's been soaking up the spotlight (proof: she has 613 google hits and counting) for some time now but has since focused her sights on singing and acting translation: superstardom. We were roomies in Paris (Quartier Latin/Rue de L'Arbalete) in the veritable vortex that was the summer of 2001 and now we're trying to do it real big in the city of dreams.

So feel free to speculate on my matriculative status. I'm not thinking about it I have other things on my mind like work, my internship and other unpaid endeavors, transcendental meditation, inner preservation, transcontinental destinations, covet worthy decorations and the like. This is like the first time in my life I've had trouble completing something and what's so ironic is the lowest grade I got at NYU is an A- and that was from Robin Kelley so it doesn't count so why can't I just f#@king finish this and get the f#@k up out of here? Well I'm not even gonna attempt to answer it cause I don't want to think about it. And please don't tell my mama!

But for real D, congratulations, forget hope, I *know* you're gonna be happy!

jeudi, mai 05, 2005

Like A Haley's Comet

For those for whom 2:22 am and 3:33 pm trigger shut eyed sky thrust longing today is a lucky (or blessed) day: 05/05/05

Blow out a candle!

Nota Bene: This cat brought it to Medina in the likeness of one prophet's mama which outraged Judith Nathan's man more than a little bit and now he has taken it uptown.

Hit the Road Sam!

We Cram 2 Understand U
Originally uploaded by sherealcool.
Dans la peau d'une princesse, ou d'un prince, ou de n'importe de qui restent les secrets. Je voudrais dire va te faire foutre mais je ne dis rien. j'ai pas les mots ni toutes autres choses.

*Ce n'est pas mon secret.

(Yes, my French is shit but nothing another summer in Europe or a at worst a conversation partner couldn't cure)

mercredi, mai 04, 2005

In A Grey Poupon Mood

(Photo Credit: Delphine Fawundu-Buford)

I haven't had much of an appetite these past few days which is odd because generally I eat like a runaway slave. Correction: runaway house slave. I do exercise table manners when I eat to tummyachedom. 'Been doing it since I was a kid. Ask my mama. Eyes have always been bigger than my stomach (almost literally my eyes are big 'though thankfully not bug) and in this case I'm prone to consume what's in my spectrum of sight. So it's funny to me that I haven't been hungry (and that I am not fat). So today although all I had or wanted was some carrot/mango/orange juice I forced myself to eat half an unturkey sandwich for healths sake. Folks need food even when they don't think their hungry I think that's what Com' is saying on "The Food": "Clench my fists tight, holding the right up." Nigga ain't perfect but who's expecting him to BE.

Caught Com' Saturday up at my sister's current institution (B.A. Dartmouth, M.A. U-Dub). It was raining and I was fighting the onset of a cold with double shots of wheatgrass spiked with ginger but I still ventured out in the rain and met up with Joe Twist who incidentally b-boys barehanded in Union Sqaure. Who Knew? Anyway after enduring Busdriver who I'll describe as someone who looks like he lives in Williamsburg or a black guy from Boston, Cambridge not Roxbury. He performed for way too long (and in very tight cords) on a stage (un)warmed up by CU's grind-friendly step and dance teams and then came the Chicago champion. He commenced with two songs that didn't sound familiar. I'm hoping their additions to the sinewy BE. I screamed like a Banshee or a rock chick if you ask Joe. I forgot enthusiasm is not cool but fuck it I'm a fan. One Day It Will All Make Sense is still my shit although uneven to all the critics. I remember going to Tower on The AVE in Seattle to pick it up. That and De La's Stakes Were High were such important soundscapes for the kid. So when Com' erupted with "Go." So did I. I didn't jump but I wanted to. I did flail a little bit hopefully rhythmically. I screamed and inevitably fucked up most of his lyrics. And although like ole boy I often knew what was coming next I enjoyed it just like I enjoy the candied yams my Auntie Lynn makes ever year. I don't know what to tell everyone who says "Go" is a bad choice for a single. Shit is hot and exciting and invigorating. Who wouldn't want to run back to their fantasy (shit I'm still running towards quite a few). "It's your World" was great and followed a cloud parting "The Light." Would have been greater if Bilal showed up but Bilal's a scene stealer so I take that back. Anyway, advice to the black girls in the front whose golf umbrellas obfuscated my view halfway up the steps: wrap your hair (or get the Dominicans to do it: Uptown girls sadly my trusty Adam Clayton Powell roller set mafia went out of business and I've never been to the Heights but I know Bk. Take B41 to Bergen Beach/Kings Plaza. Get off at Bedford stop and walk confidently to the back of Maribel's and ask for Mamo. Stop at Veggie Castle on your way home ) and wear a hooded jacket. Golf umbrellas make it hard for the rest of the fucking audience to see.

lundi, mai 02, 2005

Blues from an Alabama Sky

Originally uploaded by sherealcool.
The full feeling diminutive thought fox Sonia Sanchez will be at Columbia University Wednesday. I learned that she drinks cholorophyll laced water too a few years backs when someone snapped this pic.

I like this poem:
Personal Letter No. 3

nothing will keep
us young you know
not young men or
women who spin
their youth on
cool playing sounds.
we are what we
are what we never
think we are.
no more wild geo
graphies of the
flesh. echoes. that
we move in tune
to slower smells.
it is a hard thing
to admit that
sometimes after midnight
i am tired
of it all.

Sonia Sanchez

dimanche, mai 01, 2005

Check the Butter Leathers!

Me and Kris had a bad experience with a crusty curled toed mandal wearer in front of the Spelman post office our senior year who foolishly called attention to his unfortunate foot adornment by purring, "Check the butter leathers," meaning his doo doo colored strappy sandals. This feature from the New York Press, which I imagine is to the Voice what The Stranger is to The Seattle Weekly explores and enumerates the wide range of fashion foolhardiness cruel summers initiate in both sexes (hence thong cleavage illustration above). Here's a little taste:
If you're going to commit the ultimate fashion atrocity and rock the mandal (please don't!), at least get a pedicure. Socks are no substitute for a well-groomed foot, and nothing says "No, thanks!" like furry hobbit feet or funky fungal toenails. But don't you fret: Having your calluses sanded off and your toenails trimmed won't make you less of a man; John Gotti got regular manicures, and look where that got him. On second thought, wouldn't you be much more comfy in a nice pair of loafers? Even sneaks will do.

Click here for the article in its entirety!