dimanche, juillet 31, 2005

"God help you if you are an ugly girl..."

Ugly. Is irrelevant. It is an immeasurable insult to a woman, and then supposedly the worst crime you can commit as a woman. But ugly, as beautiful, is an illusion.
~Margaret Cho
Meg after makeover on tonight's Family Guy: "I want to be exploited."

I know I'm late on this. But this show is great. Never would have watched if I wasn't light years from Starbucks (read: civilization) south of the mason-dixon.

"...'course too pretty is also your doom"

mercredi, juillet 27, 2005


So I finally saw Karinne Steffans in person at "The Enigma of Beauty: Airbrushed to Perfection" panel at The Harlem Book Fair. Panel was all women: Akiba Solomon, Benilde Little, Tia Williams and the mind boggingly beautiful (and 50!) Iman. Although I have spoken with folk who have come into contact with Steffans, read all of her articles, and her book it's hard to make an assessment of someone until you can witness their energy and this is still relatively superficial. So I will proceed to make superficial comments: Her skin is amazing. Really luminous. She's a very cute girl. Not gorgeous. Bedroom eyes. Cute figure. Not styled very well. Looked a little dowdy. I am thinking this could have been done on purpose. Little jewelry. Diamond pendant and studs. Bad Weave. Yearns to talk, needs to be heard. Seems like this may be the first time in her life that she's had an audience. Seems to be very validated. Repeats herself a lot. Caters to her audience. Knows how to work a crowd. Obviously like many of us is stuck on her childhood. Also very interesting how respectful and affirming the audience (predominantly women) was. No one addressed her disrespectfully. I wanna see Steffans, Cynthia Plaster Caster, Pamela Des Barres, Bebe Buell on a panel. Now that would be interesting. I taped the panel but I ain't gonna transcribe it. The moderator, Krishan Trotman was great. She shared her mother's advice to her when she was mocked as a child for too nappy hair and too black skin: "You're as good as God's got!" Say it. I should also add I want to be friends with Iman. She's a wise woman and Akiba Solomon's story, of heinous gendered black on black verbal crime, left me feeling a little low.

Also there were like 3 black men at the Harlem Book Fair. Although almost none of the black men I know read anything unrelated to their jobs I was still surprised. Now that I think about it my Dad is the only black man I knew growing up who liked to read but then again it was Seattle.

Anyway to female blogerie and lurkers: ever slept with a musician? Ever wanted to sleep with musician? Why? Comment anonymously or send me an e-mail. I'm serious.

Ain't Nothin' Sweet

"I think the trap is when people think they can be 50% corporate and 50% street. You can either lean toward the the street side, and with that there's consequences. You can't run with cats with guns seven days a week and, as soon as one of those guns pop off, separate yourself. It doesn't work like that. Guns & bullets come with cases. Anyone carryin' a gun or gettin' in a car with someone carryin' should understand that. I don't know why cats think weed ain't illegal. I don't know why cats think riding around with a strap ain't illegal. Cats just need to be realistic about where they're at, what they're doing. Beware of the consequences." Bun B in XXL.

"He told me to keep my foot on the hoes' necks." Webbie recounting advice from Pimp C in XXL.

Free Pimp C? Nah, Keep that fool locked up and throw that savage in there with him (For the record I am anti-prison industrial complex).

edit: L'été classifies Pimp C's advice as an example of 'nig logic." She explains in comments.

mardi, juillet 26, 2005

The Promised Land


The real "future of hip hop" speaks:
If they were to come to the table and be like, "We are going to give y'all some reparations. "What do y'all want?" You know what motherf----rs would say? "I want a Bentley. I want a Mercedes Benz. I want a Jacuzzi. I want some of those bitches from that Luke video."

Special Field Order #15...
"If they was to give a nigga 40 acres, what he gonna do' with it? Try to plant some weed on it?"

If you notice Eminem he pronounces his r's very well. So if I was to say a rhyme and pronounce my r's; like "You're a hater" or You're a waiter", people would be like, "You sound like Eminem." But he was taught going to these schools how to pronounce words better. We say hatah', we don't say hater.

"When he makes a song like 'Why' his next song should be about some solutions."

Jay Z...
The hustler in him has won, the hustler in me can't win.

Faux Thugdom...
You don't become a thug at the age of the age of 32 years old. That don't happen. You don't become a thug at 28 years old. When you are a thug you are thuggin' from young. You are the kid who fights on the bus. You are the kid who is always in some shit. That's the kid I was. That's the man I don't want to be."

Preach (not in the Bishop Magic Don Juan sense)!

Related text: How Europe Underdeveloped Africa by Walter Rodney

Peace to Raf for passing along the article (part 1 & 2).

lundi, juillet 25, 2005

Mix Up Easy

The Twins
Saccharine & low

advances in acrid ascent
atop the razing
dander clears
piecemeal corpse
(ringer) remains
The Twin

Reminding me of sef


dimanche, juillet 24, 2005

Fumbling Towards MDMA

Once we know the extent to which we are capable of feeling that sense of satisfaction and completion, we can then observe which of our various life endeavors bring us closest to that fullness.

We have been raised to fear the yes within ourselves, our deepest cravings. But, once recognized, those which do not enhance our future lose their power and can be altered. The fear of our desires keeps them suspect and indiscriminately powerful, for to suppress any truth is to give it strength beyond endurance. The fear that we cannot grow beyond whatever distortions we may find within ourselves keeps us docile and loyal and obedient, externally defined, and leads us to accept many facets of our oppression as women."Uses of the Erotic." Audre Lorde

Lorde insight catalyzed by convo with M dot. Toma!

samedi, juillet 23, 2005

Adam Lives in Utero

if it were really so
I'd eat your lovelorn bones
wrap my wounds in your gelatinous flesh
wrestle my demons into you
hard & slow
then sing a somber song
and beg you to bathe me
and you would
but I am not
nor do I own any washcloths

jeudi, juillet 21, 2005

Fly Girl in the Soy Milk

So there is this Armand Van Helden song, "Flowerz," that I first heard at this spot in ATL called 10/50. Across the street and slightly south of Kaya (now Diddy’s Visions--colored folk always add an s on the end see Krogers, Nordstroms, Boeings) on Peachtree. The club was snuggled between my fav inexpensive quaint Italian restaurant Pasta Da Pulcinella (since relocated) and a now defunct live music spot (name escapes me). It's a little like APT - the pretension and + an actual dance floor; great music, great ambiance, and intimate with just enough space to let limbs loose. Not so boho as The Revival, not so dance dance revolution as MJQ (or The Revival for that matter), and not so Prada, Gucci, Louis V-oriented as Liquid (before Buckhead turned straight ghetto).

I leaned over the second floor ledge by the DJ booth surveying and swaying to the selectors sounds stopping only to watch L sprint down the stairs after a hot boy ("a cutie with a booty or a hottie with a body" if you L, who went to CAU, I think, and later found love, in all of its complexity, with a friend). L, penny pincher that she can sometimes be had packed Luna Bars in her purse so we snacked on them as night gave way to morning. We were probably both getting a little tired. We both talk a bigger up in the club game than we do.

The bass crept down. I leaned/swayed/bounced casually feeling it but enough to expend any more energy. Van Helden’s songs always have these long engaging intros that are distinctive enough to ring familiar and incite feverish anticipation; tendon teases of what’s to come and invade inebriated flesh. (Clubbing is drinking. Heavily.) My Dutch friend Joost, who is probably off somewhere wrapping bloody hands around flapping sails, scoffs at my affection for Van Helden. Apparently over there he’s about as commercial as the Backstreet Boys but then again in that extended moment before we were friends Joost used to heckle me when I Deejayed Common Room parties at LPC. Not enough Tom Waits probably. Gems from that Trainspotting soundtrack a too obvious attempt to appease the disaffected Europeans. We beefed. We’re both strong personalities but somehow we ended up sitting next to each other in Mathematical Methods with advanced Hong Kong students looking for an easy 7 (No stereotype. Their math & science education is far superior to anything over here.) Sitting adjacent to each other scribbling silly or somber notes on our shared desk we easily failed together (yes my otherwise stellar academic record includes one failing grade but an unmistakably brown girl living on her own in HK is allowed an eff up or two).

I looked to the DJ intrigued. Queer black male voice (Roland Clark) walked in and over, swelling, compelling, and in the tradition of Ronzoni recounted a hetero story. Absurd? Funny. But incongrous as it was, it was. Sunday (kind of). Half a second contentment, anxiety-mongering insecurity, tiny honesty, expansive lies, and everything under the sun and in between. A course of events (give or take a few emoticons) that could have been changed, according to that wail, by flowers. No, really, literally, flowers. I could talk about the symbolism all day and it's as simple as it isn't. It comes down, too. Knowing. Shutting up long enough to listen. Shutting down long enough to open. Up. Basic shit. Leaplessness, trashed laterals forward movement. Baby steps. Nothing grand. Flowers.

So this one thing that I haven't always been able to depend on, that has me tripping, trips out and leaves or stands right outside my door. Endearing and trampling and in hindsight never salvagable despite the burly backtacking that lets the needle play it, lets the beat hit me. 2 roads always diverge and the less traveled is often the most intuitive. But I don’t trust myself. So the flowers don't bloom, they wilt at Bodegas or dazzle in peaceful though remote regions in frightful anticipation of soddity. Fertilizerhood. Unless the light that comes (harbinger of the end) boomerangs you upside the head to dump decaying rose petals Zamunda-style on swiftly unenamoring feet.

"Flowerz" is the choral chant that gelled the track. I remember racing to the dancefloor, flailing, pausing, racing to the DJ booth, making mental note of artist and song name, racing back to the dance floor, swirly south Australian-hip shake-2stepping some more until. The songs fades. I hadn’t worked up a sweat cause I don’t dance THAT hard and don’t ever intend to but I’m warmed so much so that sleep sounds really good. Lids lay low enough to know that its time to go.

So for me it's not literally flowers, you know. That's where the symbolism comes in. It's sweetness. Vegan cakes, brownies, Tofutti Cuties (Peanut Butter or Mint Chocolate Chip), Double Rainbow Soy Cream, stuff like that and sometimes stuff unlike but equally evocative. Despite that it's menstrual season, I haven't had any sweet things. Something wi(thin) demanded action and I have temporarily abandoned my beloved baked goods and I don't know if it really matters that I'm not eating 'em, just that I want 'em.

Me and the vegan brownie!
By the by- I regret not going to the Sugar Water Festival in windy white Wantagh.

Let's Hear it For the Boy!

Clap...clap...clap...now bring the blog back.

Let's give Rafi a hand for telling me how to fix my blog for the umpteenth time!

mercredi, juillet 20, 2005

Happy Born Day Marcia!

Celebrating the first quarter century of your infinite spirit.

Love always,
Jalylah B

mardi, juillet 19, 2005

Ain't No Love in the Heart of The City (URGENT)





-ANN ASHMEADE, 718-810-7928

Forwarded to me by a dear friend in Bed Stuy ( I didn't research or verify this but I can't imagine how it could be false). Let's make our lives our priorities, pray, and keep watch for her safe return. I should also say, in this moment of reflection, that we should be better to each other those we are connected to through blood and life experiences and those who we are connected to in all encompassing spirit. I don't know what happened to this girl but its too easy for bad shit to happen to people, children, black and female in particular in this horrid yet fiercely magnetic city in broad daylight and have nobody blink and eye much less offer out a outstretched hand. This is reminder of myself to always care even if the city doesn't.

PS-I don't know why by blog is displaying wierdly, If you know how to fix it e-mail me.

lundi, juillet 18, 2005

Are those Bugle Boy jeans you're wearing?

Formula 50's Payoff

Anybody else seen that Formula 50 billboard at the entrance of Fulton Mall (or in your neck of the woods)?

Foreground: Box shaped bulletproof rap head encased in G-Unit headband (good cross promotion) lips pursed, squinty faced (suprised he's not sporting specs) reading Wall St. Journal.

Background: "Groupies" (skimpily dressed and seemingly confused)
Caption (I think): No Groupies, No Love, Just 50


I wish I had a pic.

OMG you have to go to Glaceau's site and click on Formula 50. This is what the marketing "geniuses" came up with:
No love Playa?
Honeys bounce when you throw bad game?
Try a dose of Formula 50...and lose the pimp cup

That Ray Cash song just came on. So appropriate.

I've always preferred Volvic.

Random Note: I want that Tiny House Geico Commercial. It's hilarious. Is it on the net?

dimanche, juillet 17, 2005

Liliput put put aka Warning shots for Lizzie Grubman et al.

Ridiculously, ridiculously good looking?

You can't "eugugolize" (Zoolander fans will understand) playing small but you can high step its demise in a raucous second line. The death of that small thing that's tripped many of us so much so that the concrete creases dot our faces. The death of that small things is the ultimate celebration. Cheers to you; pour out a lil' liquor for me):

another beloved and i were talking about beyonce's incredible lifelong pr training and how it could possibly result in her nonexistent sense of self. and then i realized, how many of us are so closely micromanaging our own pr, that we have no idea who we are? we do wear the mask that grins and lies (and does a whole bunch of other koonery performance). when will we give ourselves permission to just be? when will we accept ourselves as all that we are without judgment or correction?

...it's time for my personality and presentation to be in alignment with my spirit.

and if i end up with a wild and crazy assortment of incredible but strange friends who live and love true but don't care about earning your acceptance and if i spend all of my time loving, learning and doing what makes my heart sing without being hungry for accolades or validation, then at the end (and during), i will be one happy camper. and that my friends, is the greatest pr ever.

~l. "what you think of me is none of my business" asantewaa

I'm tempted to respond in my own process by paraphrasing my favorite and oft recounted Badu lyric: what good do your words do if you don't understand you? Right but Certainty really rest easy. Track 8 of the cd we unwrapped (or i think you had already unwrapped on the plane ride there) in the sweltering Hong Kong heat might best approximate your relationship to my paraphrased Badu hypothetical.

jeudi, juillet 14, 2005

Dude Looks Like A Lady (Sort of)

Samukeliso Sithole competing in Mauritius

African jailed for running as woman

HARARE, Zimbabwe (Reuters) -- A Zimbabwean court has jailed a man masquerading as a female athlete, court officials said on Thursday.

Samukeliso Sithole -- a triple jumper and runner who competed as a woman at several international sports events -- was convicted on charges of impersonation and offending the dignity of a woman athlete who undressed in his presence, unaware he was a man.

"He was sentenced to four years imprisonment, but six months were suspended. Effectively he will serve three-and-a-half years," said a court official in Kwekwe, central Zimbabwe, where the case was heard.

Sithole won a gold medal at a regional tournament in Botswana in June last year and won five medals at a youth championship in Mauritius. He also competed in javelin and shot-put competitions.

Sithole told the court at his first appearance that he had both female and male organs and that he lived as a woman after consulting a traditional healer. A medical examination showed that he was a man.

Copyright 2005 Reuters Limited. All rights reserved.

Would it be wrong for me to say, only on the continent? Anyway, Slim sent this to me. Hmm. For some reason its got me thinking about the relationship between black women and masculinity or (un)femininity for that matter e.g., Sojourner's "Ain't I a Woman" or Matriarchal misconceptions. Don't really feel like explicating.

I will say this. Who the fuck wears their bra that high (other than my hs french teacher) and who wears a lacey purple bra to a track meet? Dude was trying to hard. Anyway, Is that Manzier/Bram episode of Seinfeld on DVD yet? I have Season 1 (thanks Aisha!) but have yet to watch it.

Which reminds me all my overzealous Oprah watching friends (i.e., all my female friends) having caught Oprah's Swimsuit and Bra Intervention are now convinced that I am not wearing the proper size bra and keep on rolling up on me with tape measures. While I think my bra's fit fine thank you very much, even if they didn't I'd have few options since if you wear anything above a C and you're not in the Lane Bryant demographic (Go Big Girls!), you're fucked.

mardi, juillet 12, 2005

...Like Seatbacks and Spinal Cords

Me, 'Cia, 'Cia's Cuz, and 'Cia's Mama in Soho
'Cia and Kris' in HH Phi Beta

Saturday I got to hang with 'Cia & her fab fam and speak at length with future juris doctorate KFC on the same day. I'd have to say it was a good day.

Proof that we gettin' grown: Marcia "Sneaker Pimpstress" Price has only 2 pairs of tennies and Kristel "Fatima Robinson has nothing on me" Frand has been reduced to sporting ace bandages to the club to shore up her ailing knees. I should add: I don't believe you. You looked real limber in your cowboy stilettos (for us by us on the low) up in the corner in of the club (where we do things like throw our hands up) grindin' on ole boy.

lundi, juillet 11, 2005

Hate Runs Deep

Pimps up, Hoes Down!

2 or 3 weeks ago Lafayette Slim let me tag along to Tribeca Film Center's advance screening of Hustle & Flow and a Q&A with Writer/Director Craig Brewer and Producer Stephanie "I sold my house to help finance this movie" Allain. It might have been worse than watching the absurd racist rubbish that was Monster's Ball. I laughed when Halle 'bowed her boy for being fat and fell out in hysterics when he pulled that chocolate bar from underneath his pillow; that was some completely unintential funny ish. But watching H&F was more like watching Diary of a Mad Black Woman (aka one of the many movies that makes me ashamed to be black*) except critics didn't universally laud DMBW. I have read a lot of H&F's bubblegum press and despite my complete lack of faith in any news medium other than The Daily Show I assumed the film had to have some significant merits. It doesn't.
...the movie itself—[ ]is mostly just shameless, crowd-pleasing drivel. Howard burns with old-school charisma, but he's forced to play one embarrassing ghetto cliché after another: a pimp with a heart of gold (i.e., he smacks his bitches, but only when they deserve it), suffering through an early midlife crisis (i.e., he just can't see himself doing the pimp thing into his 40s). DJay's rise to superstardom is a dopey, Rocky-style wish-fulfillment fantasy, replete with musical numbers from the MTV Jams recycling bin. (Sample lyrics: "You know it's hard out there for a pimp / When you're trying to get money for the rent.") And Brewer hasn't quite figured out how to illustrate his lead character's misogyny without exulting in it: The camera gets in close to the actresses' jiggling backsides; the dialogue—including one soon-to-be-famous line about the constitution of a female pig's genitalia—is even more revolting.Christopher Kelly, "The Pimp Who Saved Hollywood: Hustle & Flow and the rise of the "indie blockbuster."

Slate's Christopher Kelly hit the hammer on the head a month ago (I just came across the piece) especially his suggestion that "Brewer hasn't quite figured out how to illustrate his lead character's misogyny without exulting in it." But Kelly's assuming Brewer doesn't want to exult in DJay's misogyny. I am certain he does. F##k it! I witnessed the entire audience of indie filmmakers exult in it. Laughing at all the wrong times kicking my chair in hysterics as Howard cursed out one of his hoes or better yet kicked one and her child out on the street. Listening to Brewer break down his impetus for writing the script and enduring struggle to get this film made, watching the movie's archaic and (increasingly retro chic) position on gender roles and womanhood, watching fellow audience members revel in the films misogyny is beyond disconcerting especially as black female characters are simultaneously at the focus of the films exploitative lens whilst being wholly underdeveloped. Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote the African American experience in these terms, "We wear the mask that grins and lies." This is the curse of Black double conscious subjects but not everyone's invited to this American costume ball. More often than not black women wait in the wings. And before some fool asks why black women would want to wear the cursed mask. We don't but but it's a step up from nonexistence.

With respect to Stephanie Allain I'll just repeat what Slim asked me as the final credits rolled, "Why would she sell her house to make this movie?"

PS-It's never been hard out there for pimps and other exploiters but instantianting this falsehood as fact sho' is evidence of their masterful capacity for privelege-preserving manipulation. Before you assume I'm confusing fact with fiction I'm talking bout folk who pimp as well as those who offer beyond sympathetic narratives of pimperie.

The supremely talented cast of the supremely shitty movie: Taraji P. Henson, Paula Jai Parker, Terrence Dashon Howard and Taryn Manning.

*For some odd reason I thought Craig Brewer was black until he walked into the screening (at which point I asked Slim if he was just lightskinned. Slim proceeded to look at me like I was crazy thus cementing his caucasoid status.) but the shame remains thanks to H&F's plentiful coonery and shuckdom.

I'll Make Me A World

Overlooking le golfe de Saint-Tropez aka "mandolay bay"

Have you ever been to Saint-Tropez and seen a brother play the mandolay*?

Sean "P. Diddy" Combs

No. But in my frequent delusions of grandeur I'm a transatlantic jet setter as equally at home on the Riviera and Rive Gauche than I am in Ft Greene and the SWATS. This afternoon I browsed for resort wear: an assortment of pricey ethereal ensembles and dangly eyecatching jewelry (a la Beyonce's choker/belly chain.) I tried on a fly dress; more suited to translucent waters and stark white sand than dusty streets and stinky subway platforms. I didn't buy it. I got 5 new swimsuits, tags still on, hanging in my closet. The way things are going after this wedding in NC, I don't see myself leaving BK 'til Christmas and then just to go home. Mensah, Auntie Lynn and Aunt Mary are in Southern Spain right now. I was 'sposed to roll but after a squinty faced glance at my bank statement I had to recuse myself. These aren't the worst of times but they're damn sure not the best. I find myself singing that Calloway song while steady making high-minded (d'accord, j'admet je suis paresseux mais pas tout le temps) life choices that will (un?)doubtedly inhibit my long anticipated arrival at luxe largesse, you know, the American Dream.

I want money, lots and lots of money, so don't be asking me why.

* his ghostwriter means Mandolin

vendredi, juillet 08, 2005

Got Some Teeth

The Space Between
The tears we cry
Is the laughter keeps us coming back for more
The Space Between
The wicked lies we tell
And hope to keep safe from the pain


Gap's been capped or else closed with Invisalign. The smile's nice. I'm not gonna say the smile was bad before cause that would be indirectly and perjoratively self-referential.

I liked The AVE's interview with her a lot. Remy made some interesting comments about being 'hood and having 'messed up' teeth. I like Remy. I want her album to drop almost as much as I want Saigon's. But FJ is worse than Dre with releases and I suspect Just Blaze aka the nigga I fantasized about robbin' (Jus' was so icey with no security a little over a year ago when he brushed by me at the first NYC Beat Society) might be worse.

I don't understand shielding/shelving one's (yours, mine, their) creation from the public eye which reminds me of my marathon convo with L last sat. It's so important to be present. I know this much is true. But in my crackpot mind it's easier to be absent. I palmed my ace a long time ago but I ain't got no winnings to show for it. No better luck at the slots either but I'm real good at dirty hearts probably 'cause lowest score 'wins.'

Mah Jong anyone?

jeudi, juillet 07, 2005

Still Fly

Lauryn's gonna be on the cover of the annual Black Girls Rule! issue of Trace that fostered my undying love for glossy bastion of transcultural styles and ideas. Thierry interviewed Claude Grunitzky for the FLR helmed Brownstone last fall.

GGGGGGUNIT! (Credit: South Asian newspaper man on 8th St. and 6th Ave who taught me how to use this as a general exclamatory and not as specific to 50 & dem.)

mercredi, juillet 06, 2005

Words & Sounds Vol. 1

I don't know what meme means but context dictates I should do the following:

1) Total number of books I've owned:

Let's say 20 per sememster, 2 semesters a year for 4 years = 160. Add 30 books a semester for 2 years= 280. Add 10 books a year from my dad for the past 15 years up until a little over a year ago = 430 . Add 54 (my mama's age) for good measure. 484.

I should add that I don't buy books. I've been known to grossly misallocate my disposable income. Dorcas, the Spelman Bookstore cashier who I have permanent beef with (ask Kris why) can testify to me reading school texts in the bookstore in the comfy rocking chair which mysteriously dissappeared not long into the semester of my bookstore study sessions, at which point I sat on the carpeted floor, my legs and $300 Bally tennis-shoed feet splayed, blocking a handful of undisciplined students from purchasing textbooks a couple hours 'fore class. Of course this was not to last long since I convinced my prof to give me hers. She borrowed another professors.

I also read in Barnes and Nobles. Dog-ear pages and a day or two later return right where I stopped unless someone purchased my worn copy and I'm forced to flip through an unbroken in copy to find my spot.

2) The last book I bought

Confessions of a Video Vixen. Damn I don't sound like a grad student. I swear I don't own any Zane (pronounced Ja Nay?) and I will stop choosing books with shiny covers for my fledgling book club; word to my fav on-hiatus comp lit grad student.

3) The last book I read

Umm, Confessions of a Video Vixen. (Let me explain "Groupies" are of scholarly interest to me but since we're on the subject who is "Papa"? Anyone?

4) Five books that mean a lot to me (in no particular order)

Gwendolyn Brooks, Maud Martha
Paul Beatty, The White Boy Shuffle
Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man
Tsitsi Dangarembga, Nervous Conditions
Ntozake Shange, Betsey Brown

1. Total volume of music files on my computer:
6.2 GB (I also don't download anymore since I'm convinced iMesh--it's been a while--poisoned booty killed my Dell.)

2. Last CD I bought:
The Night I Fell in Love
for obvious reasons. God bless the dead. The vinyl passed down from my auntie is in the family record collection in Seatown unless my packrat-no-longer mother got rid of it like she did all her fly seventies outfits.

3. Album playing right now:

Law & Order's on right now but the last folks I listened to were Bobby M nd V.

4. A couple of songs/albums that mean a lot to me (I changed the question):
Esthero-"Swallow Me"
Susana Baca-"Maria Lando"
Duran Duran-"Ordinary World" which for me is emotionally tethered to:
Sade-"No Ordinary Love"
Bob Marley-"Misty Morning"
Al Green-"Here I Am (Come and Take Me)"
Cassandra Wilson-"Find Him"
Gangstarr-"Who's Gonna take the Weight"
Whigfield-"Saturday Night"(can't forget the accompanying much better than macarena dance (LPC, what's up)
Stevie Wonder-Talking Book, bought it at the Lakeside Rummage Sale. Wasn't my first vinyl but the first I'd bought for myself.

Who Got Next? I'd send this to Kris but she's not blogging anymore. L is despite claims to the contrary, M dot though increasingly infrequently, Rich, Joe Twist, 'Cia, Tiona, Laylah and MAN (if he isn't too busy).


After a few moments of silence Jay pulled out his penis, covered it with a condom and placed his hand on the back of my neck. I was being a good girl, thanking him and proving my worthiness of the kindness he had shown...Unlike some of the others, there were no games, no long phone conversations, and no dates. Jay made no professions of love for me nor did he make any promises. It was all very straightforward.
~Karrine Steffans

Hottest (& most self-referential*) girl in the game:I thought this was my song. 18 bars? Ain't this about a B or was that a Beyonce?! Circa 2003
Question: Tell me what you think about me
I buy my own diamonds and I buy my own rings
Only ring your cell-y when I'm feelin lonely
When it's all over please get up and leave


Look, I'm not tryin to give you love and affection (uh-huh)
I'm tryin to give you sixty seconds of perfection (uh-huh)
I'm tryin to give you cabfare and directions
Get your Independent ass out of here - QUESTION?


If I wanted the watch you're wearin (I'll buy it)
The house I live in (I've got it)
The car I'm drivin (I've bought it)
I depend on me (I depend on me)


If I Want It (Got It)
When I Ask You (You Provide It)
You Inspire Me To Be Better
You Challenge Me For The Better
Sit Back And Let Me Pour Out
My Love Letter


I Promise You (Promise You)
I'll Keep Myself Up (Oh)
Remain The Same Chick (Yeah)
You Fell In Love With (Yeah)
I'll Keep It Tight, I'll Keep My Figure Right
I'll Keep My Hair Fixed, Keep Rocking The Hottest Outfits
When You Come Home Late Tap Me On My Shoulder, I'll Roll Over
Baby I Heard You, I'm Here To Serve You (I'm Lovin It, I'm Lovin It)
If It's Love You Need, To Give It Is My Joy
All I Want To Do, Is Cater To You Boy

Can't forget these choice lines:
...My life would be purposeless without you
...I put my life in your hands

Game. Set. Match. El Jefe

Like you said B:

Ladies, it ain't easy being independent

Lacking the discipline for anorexia and, suprisingly enough, the upchuck aptitude for bulimia last week I started jogging. My sweet, zealous, upstairs neighbor has since enlisted me as her way too early in the morn jog partner. I am very afraid. I now realize that I may have cardiovascularly exerted too soon. Exposure to "Cater to You" in video or audio format is a surefire puke generator. Thank you Beyonce. Bulimia it is.

*I dislike "Soldier" for many, many, reasons one of which is the line: "Quick to snatch up your Beyonce." "Lose my Breath" is my shit though. Quick somebody teach me how to snake and pop like Beyonce.

BTW: My girl Venus handled Davenport this weekend singlehandedly reigniting my fading interest in tennis. Flushing here we come.

dimanche, juillet 03, 2005

Just What Could Happen

Police photo of Gerri Santoro, mother of two children, who died in 1964 at age 27 in a Connecticut motel room after a botched illegal abortion. She was left to die alone in the motel by the man that operated on her using borrowed medical implements and a textbook.
As you probably heard, Sandra Day O'Connor just resigned from the Supreme Court. This is an extremely important time for our senators to hear from us. They need to know that we are counting on them to stand up to President Bush and protect our rights -- because with a moderate like O'Connor stepping down and a far-right like Bush making the nomination, well, the stakes couldn't be higher. The Terri Schiavo tragedy showed us all just how far these people are willing to go.

MoveOn PAC has already started an emergency petition, and we're looking to get 250,000 signatures and comments to the Senate before Tuesday -- which is when rumor has it Bush will announce his nomination.

I hope you can take a minute to join me in signing this petition, so our senators know that, in what might be the fight of our lives, we need them to do what it takes to protect our rights.

Click here to sign the petition!

vendredi, juillet 01, 2005

The Stars Were in Your Eyes

April 20, 1951-July 1, 2005

My thoughts over at Prefix.