Archive for the 'industry' Category

12
Sep
10

“songs by the Little River Band” or, “how a Mexican and 12 pack of cheap beer inadvertently changed my life…”

I resigned from my job, yesterday.

When I was a child, I always thought that resignations were the distinct province of older white men who worked for fifty years at important companies, and were rewarded at day’s end with a signet pen and a bottle of aged brandy.

As an adult, I, of course, realize that a resignation is what parents have when they accept that their nearly 30 year old daughter prefers a boozy night out to a domesticated night in; or, in my case, what one says to her wonderful boss to mean, “I quit this bitch—only not today,” whilst walking out on a perfectly good job in the middle of a recession.

But more on that, later.

Though I didn’t realize it at their respective times, I bore witness to two events, this week, which ultimately proved the catalysts for my untimely bow out:

Wednesday, September 8, 2010. 7:45 pm. Alexandria, Virginia.

I decided to take some work home, and had parked my car curbside to easily transport the box of files I‘d, in all likelihood, ignore. Upon my return to the office, I heard a rustling noise from the far end of the hallway.

There he was.

The short, gold-toothed man of the cleaning crew.

Now, sadly, like most members of professions who occupy fancy office spaces, I’d never taken particular note of the cleaning crew or Gold Tooth; never offered Gold Tooth more than a smile, and a general “hello/goodnight”  in the two years time that I’d worked at my firm. I didn’t know his name, or if he had children. I didn’t know if he enjoyed his job;  if he’d drawn a correlation between my fondness for late night Thai takeout and my ever-expanding hips while dispensing with the trash.

But all of that was forgotten, as I stood there, in that new moment, immobilized, watching him with avid fascination.

He was attempting to prop open the glass door of the business at the end of the hall.

Only, he wasn’t using a doorstop.

He wasn’t even using a brick, or heavy box.

He was using……

a watermelon.

Actually—

He was using two watermelons.

Or attempting to, rather.

You see, he’d get the door open and pushed to the side, and secured with one watermelon.

Then, he’d rush to get the other watermelon.

Only-

By the time he’d gotten back to square one with the second watermelon, the door was slamming with the first watermelon.

And it was slamming with force, too.

Like, it was sending Watermelon One rolling all the way down the hallway.

Then Gold Tooth would let out a curse, put down Watermelon Two, go rush off after Watermelon One, and start the whole thing all over, again.

As God is my judge, I watched him go on in this fashion for no less than two minutes before sparing him one last look, and a confused shaking of my head.

Enter life’s lesson number one:

Contrary to popular belief, most shit doesn’t make sense.

Our thinking that there is a determined model of how things are supposed to be is not a product of empirical fact as much as it is a general rationalization of something we’ve grown accustomed to seeing.

Thursday, September 9, 2010. 9:30 am. Alexandria, Virginia.

I was getting coffee at my neighborhood 7-11. Having been up since 7, dealing with the legal problems endemic to a society that permits marriage between two idiots but not two men, I wasn’t in the best of moods, and didn’t bother to look up when the usual band of ne’er do wells attempted to woo me with their early morning bird-doggery.

I was determinedly fixated on the perfect cup of Colombian roast, waiting impatiently for a fresh pot. As I stood there, staring angrily at the stainless steel java station, this loud woman entered the store, jovially greeting everyone with her raspy time-worn voice. Her movements were all at once shuffled and fast, blurry, but noticeably clumsy. She was about 55, and wore a dirty tee shirt and mom jeans, and a wig I would have easily described as the worstwigever prior to my move to DC (whose intimate familiarity with tragic wiggery has given me a newfound appreciation for the hair Afghanistan* that sat atop this woman’s head). Today I realize that hers wasn’t the worstwigever. It was just peasely/natty/nappy as FUCK.

Her outside voice belied an ease with the “s” consonant of which I took particular offensive note. I looked up to identify the source of my audio derision. There she stood, next to me, happily pouring old coffee into a cup and flooding same with milk and sugar; loud talking all the while, in a manner of speech marrying Daffy Duck with runaway slave. She had approximately four teeth in her mouth. 

Directing her conversation to a passerby I assumed she knew, she said, “I’m just trying to run these quick errands. Git these quick thangs. You know I gotta pick Mama up from her dialysis.”

I glanced over at the “quick thang” she was toting with her. It was a 12 pack of Natural Light.

She amicably chatted with the person at the station, making certain to mention two more times that she was in a rush to “pick Mama up from her dialysis.” It took everything within me not to roll my eyes or groan as I stood there waiting for the coffee I was certain would save some unexpected person from an unmerited curse out upon my entry to the office.

I nearly did a praise dance when I’d finally secured a cup.

Recalling that my assistant had asked me to bring her a pack of gum, I debated ,briefly, about what  flavor she’d like before remembering that she was my assistant, and I truly didn’t give a fuck.  Grabbing a packet of Big Red, I approached the cash register only to find myself behind the loud talking lacefront offender.

I once more fought the urge gouge my eyes out as she requested a pack of Parliaments and deliberated with her friend about which lottery tickets to purchase.

The doors opened, again, and the loudtalker eagerly greeted the new patron.

“Cousin!!!” she shouted (or said in a decibel natural to her).

“Hey, gal!” the woman replied.

The new woman appeared to be cut of the same cloth as the loud talker, and she inquired about Loud Talker’s comings and goings and the health of her mother.

She began, “Girl, what chu doin’ in here? Girl, look at you drankin that beer this early. I ain’t gon’ say nothin’. You know I ain’t gon say nothin’. How’s yo’ kin? How’s yo’ mama?”

Quite naturally, Loud Talker obliged her with the information she had been supplying the whole store, about her need to quickly complete her errands. “Chile, go on! You know I ain’t drankin’ this water beer, chile. If I was drankin’,  you know it’d be the bull, girl. You know I only mess with the bull. This here is for Miss Dena. You know I gotta hurry up cause Miss Dena gets her dialysis on Thursday, now.”

That’s when it hit me.

Miss Dena = Mama.

Mama = Miss Dena.

Loud Talker was in a rush to pick up beer for her old ass mother who she was also picking up from her dialysis treatment. At 9:30 am.

Enter life’s lesson number two:

There comes a time-

in every adult person’s life-

when you

just

have

to

STOP

giving a fuck.

Sometimes, the only shit that matters, is that shit don’t matter.

On Friday, September 10, 2010, at 7:15 am, I walked into my beautiful, wonderful boss’s office, looked him dead in the eye, and rejected nearly thirty years of indoctrination in favor of my own personal road less travelled.

It didn’t make perfect sense.

It didn’t have to.

I’d stopped giving a fuck.

*Afghanistan—Aff.gan.i.stan. n. A country in the Middle East bordering Iran and Pakistan; a generally fucked up situation.

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06
May
10

Fooler Fridays……

So, my postings are a tad on the irregular side….
what, with my paying job and all….

A friend of mine has suggested that I open up this page to reader questions…and, while I must wholeheartedly concede that I am qualified to advise absolutely no one person on any one thing, I do think a Q and A forum might help with my consistency….

So, starting tomorrow, Friday, the 7th of May, I will open this space up for questions. I’ll try to post the queries and my responses every Friday for as long as they come.

No topic is verboten, obviously, save legal questions, as I’m fairly certain blindly responding to legal questions on a blog space is, at its worst, malpractice, and at its best, malfeasance.

So, by all means, indulge my internet narcissism.
And with that…let the Friday fuckery begin……

23
Feb
10

why i fux with lux

—I fuck with that; I fucks with that; I fux wit’ dat—euphem. Eng. Derivative of 1970s, “I can dig it.” I like that very much. That’s awesome beyond all recognition. I can certainly appreciate that.—-

Educated black people, in large quantities, enlightened by their life’s experience and matriculation through the upper echelons of The Man’s world—— fucking suck.

That’s right. I said it. Y’all suck.

I don’t want to see your fucking business card. I don’t give a damn about your Ivy education. Your fancy foreign car can suck meat. Y’all suck.

Unduly harsh? I’ll take a step back, for a moment.

I’ve always wanted to live in DC.

Ever since I was a child.

For me, DC represented this sleek city life, teeming forth with urbane sophistication. A Tidewater native, DC was the polar opposite of my staid, suburban upbringing. And while some of the outlier contingents of Tidewater’s “seven cities” provided a slight deviation from the quiet, nuclear family mold my parents and neighbors tirelessly worked to cultivate for myself and my peers, the mean streets of South Norfolk (pronounced naw-fuk) and Newport News (affectionately nicknamed, “Bad News”) wasn’t exactly what I was shooting for. Mind you, I wasn’t naïve. I knew that DC had its less than desirable elements (I cannot even tell you what my mother calls it, and my father outright refuses to visit). But, if there was a place where blacks could thrive, DC was it.

When I went to college, this DC fantasy flourished. I met a group of people who I knew would be my lifelong friends, and they all had similar aspirations of DC living. By the time I reached law school, this fantasy, now epic in stature, was the only thing that kept me from shooting myself in the face. But, by this point, the dream had matured. My college friends had already preceded me and set up shop in the District. And I just knew that someday, soon, we’d sit around drinking glasses of red wine, engaging in deep discussions that were both esoteric and “down,” laughing in that self-congratulatory way that one does when she’s “made it,” our backs to the White House, and our eyes to the heavens.

And it all happened. With some minor tweaks, of course. We’ve grown and fused our networks, met new people and friends, but, the original concept is still there. And when we go out, we go to lounges or bars. Because, apparently, that’s what urban sophisticates do. They lounge. Even when I hang out with my newer friends, a decidedly more blipster (black hipster) set, we go to artsy lounges. Or rooftops set up like lounges. I imagine, like myself, everyone had grown long tired of the “club thing” in our late teens, early twenties.

Here’s the thing I didn’t bank on-

Educated black people, in large quantities, fucking suck. (I know I said it before, but trust me, it bears repeating.)

Everywhere I go, there’s some new mixer for “young, black professionals.” And everyone does the same thing. Everyone is a lawyer, or a doctor, or works on the Hill, or is a consultant. And everyone is so excited that he/she is a lawyer, or a doctor, or works on the Hill, or is a consultant. And it’s gotten to the point where those are the only people we seem to want to be around. Like your drink doesn’t even taste right if the girl next to you does hair for a living.

And then, one day, it was there…like a mirage in the desert. Lux Lounge.

Now, don’t be fooled by the “Lounge” part.

That shit is a club.

Through and through.

And it doesn’t seem like one at first. And by “at first,” I mean, from the outside.

Situated on New York Avenue (mmmhmm), Lux is a beautiful four storey building with elaborate molding, and a velvet rope. But once you get through security and step beyond those wood paneled doors– thug motherfucking life.

And this is the thing about growing up. Sometimes, you never know what you’ll miss until you happen upon it again.

And what I didn’t know that I missed, was that shady, hood element to be found in South Nawfuk and Bad News.

I didn’t know that what I really need, once in a while, is to put on the shortest, tightest, nakedest bitch dress I can find, with my doorknocker earrings, and get gully with DC’s finest.

At Lux, dudes come up to you, grab you by your waist, and hold you close. They whisper in your ear and call you “ma.”

At Lux, the wifebeater is an actual part of the outfit. The shirt is technically a jacket, meant to ultimately come off.

At Lux, bitches wear wigs. And not like, day-to-day, my hair is a mess wigs, either. Like, they’re on some, “Girl-it’s-about-to-be-on-tonight-and-I’m-wearing-my-good-wig-too” shit. You didn’t even know there was such a thing as a “good” wig, did you? Like, a wig that’s gonna help you get ass quicker than the wig you wear to work.

Know how many times I’ve been to Lux? A lot.

Know how many times a man has asked me for my card? Not a damned once.

And while there are plenty of good looking people at Lux, there is always a strong ugliestmotherfuckerinthewholewideworld element.

And they re-pre-sent.

Do you think that they care that their face game isn’t the tightest?

Hell no.

Why?

Cause even the ugliestmotherfuckerinthewholewideworld gets ass at Lux.

Let me tell you something. The other night, my linesister (who had treated me to Lux because she knows I love it so) was near the bar, and this troll-looking dude, this Chem lab project, rolled up on her (cause that’s how they do—they roll up on you), did the Lux-appropriate waist-grab-pull-close maneuver, and started grinding on her. Even though she’d thrown a few back, she had the presence of mind to incline her head to see the manner of man thoroughly assailing her hip bones with thrust after pelvic thrust. When she again, turned her head forward, I saw the panic gripping her face. Calling to mind the oath I’d taken, so many years ago, I immediately interjected myself between soror and orangutan, and started dancing with her, myself.

Now, at a typical DC lounge, said facemonster would have mentally relegated me to haterassbitch status, and moved on, perhaps even defeatedly walking away, tail dragging between his cloven, hoofed feet.

Not at Lux, baby.

What did horriblestgrillintheworld do?

That’s right.

Effectuate the Lux-appropriate waist-grab-pull-close maneuver on me, and start grinding on me.

Cause he didn’t give a fuck.

Cause dudes don’t give a fuck at Lux.

Know what I did?

That’s right.

I thrusted back.

Cause I don’t give a fuck when I’m at Lux either.

At Lux, I once saw this little, bite-sized man dancing with this extremely large woman.

Not such a big deal, right?

Wrong.

He was eye level with her gargantuan breasts (at Lux, we call these “titties”), and with his left hand, took her left breast and swung it into the right breast, and watched them swing at each other, knocking each other back and forth like measured balls, all the while keeping his head rhythmically in time with the music.

He did this several times.

Why?

Cause he was at Lux, and he didn’t give a fuck.

And the girl let him. She didn’t feel violated, or objectified, or maligned, or aggrieved, or any of those fancy words we like to toss around at our young, black professional mixers.

Why?

Cause she was at Lux. And she didn’t give a fuck, either.

Now, trust me. I’m sure there are people who do big things, and go to Lux. I’m sure there are mortgage brokers, and nuclear physicists, and philosophy professors who all, from fair to fair, enjoy passing time there.

The point is, you’d never know. Because it’s not about who you are or what you do. It’s about having a good time; about stripping yourself of your titles and modifiers and losing yourself in the anonymity of a booty clap.

At Lux, the vice president of a bank can be found in the middle of the dance floor next to a nail tech, each of them bending over and touching their toes in perfect, cohesive harmony.

And THAT is why, I fucks with Lux.

11
Feb
10

Pretty Woman II: So you Married the Ho, Dirty Dancing Redux: Johnny Probably Can’t Spell and Baby only knows 2 Dances, or Valentines Day pt. I.

One dollar a day.

One dollar a day.

That is not how much it costs to keep a starving child alive in the Sudan.

No.

One dollar a day is the amount Redbox charges my friend, Michael, every day he does not return the movie that he rented from them.

Well over a month ago.

Is Michael a billionaire? Is Michael free from worry and a devil-may-care persona?

No.

Michael is a gay.

He is a funny, over-educated, good looking, well dressed, gay, who has single-handedly hip-hop ab’d his way to a waistline smaller than mine.

But it’s overwhelmingly tough out there on the mean streets of the DC gay market (which we affectionately refer to as the “garket”). His last encounter with a seemingly well to do lawyer type resulted in him leaving said lawyer’s posh, upscale pad in such a state of disarray that he forgot his rented Redbox movie.

One dollar a day.

One dollar a day.

Because, to add insult to injury, psychogaylawyer won’t return the movie.

I’d like to know, Valentine’s Day, oh maker of all things both lovey and dovey—does Hallmark make a “Thought our shit had promise, then you acted a fool, so give me back my movies you sad, thieving, motherfucker” card? Does Harris Teeter carry a double sided balloon with “Redbox” on the front and “$1 a day, bitch!” on the back?

I didn’t think so.

Sixty dollars a month.

Sixty dollars a month.

That is not how much it costs to keep two starving children alive in the Sudan.

No.

That is how much it costs me to get a mani/pedi every two weeks.

Do I have a problem with how my feet feel? Do I hate my feet in their natural state?

No.

They’re my fucking feet.

But I pay a delightful Vietnamese woman named, Sunny, sixty dollars a month of my hard-earned cash so that the edges of my heels don’t feel like dried out biscuits when they rub up against the calves of the man I love.

Riddle me this, Valentine’s Day—does 1-800-Flowers make a “Baby I love your ashy, chappy, rock-kicking, sandy biscuit hobbit feet” arrangement?

Does it?

I didn’t think so.

What about my girl, Michelle, Valentine’s Day? Is there a “Yeah, whatever, call the cops. Yeah, I keyed that bitch’s car. What the hell is she doing in your house with the lights turned off?” box of specialty chocolates that Godiva makes?

Are there Sweethearts candies available that spell out, “I-swear-to-God-this-baby-is-yours” or “False-alarm-it’s-not-vd?”

Let me guess. No.

Here’s the thing.

I hate you, Valentine’s Day.

And this isn’t one of my misanthropic, self-indulgent wallow sessions, either. I’m not decrying the legions of people forced to affect sentiment through a meticulously-calculated, mass-marketed, grossly-commercialized completely made up faux holiday, whose origins have absofuckinglutely nothing to do with love.

I hate you because your existence is the epitome of taxation without representation.

Me and my friends—we spend good money on love/lust’s pursuits. We invest time and expend effort. I let some random chatty bitch touch all on my feet two times EVA-REE month, and none of your day’s lilac-scented, sugary prose ever even hints at our struggles.

And I’m not asking for the moon, Big V.

I don’t need a Pretty Woman II: So you Married the Ho; or a Dirty Dancing Redux: Johnny Probably Can’t Spell and Baby only knows 2 Dances.

I just want the tiniest smidge of reality. A dose. An e-card that says, “Every time I think of you I fist pump the sky.”

Somethin’.

12
Jan
10

Endeavor to not be the dumbest bastard in creation, or, “getting your hair done in the hood.”

For the purposes of my tale, today, I should offer some cursory “better know a black person” background. And I must confess, my meanderings on the substantive nature of my story were compelled by the latest scandal rocking the Hill, regarding Harry Reid, and his comments on “Negro speak.”

While I’m far too superficial to delve into the miasma that is black myth and perception in this country, I definitely continue to be intrigued by the quandary this question of language presents; the idea of “talking black” and “sounding black.”  I cannot tell you all of the numerous times I’ve interviewed a witness and had he or she describe to me a person who “sounded black.” Equally infinite are the number of times I’ve surprised clients during our initial meetings when I’ve shown up to the office “black.”

That being said, I am the first to admit that the way I speak in certain circles of my private life is wholly different from how I speak in my work life. And I’m not talking about around my friends, mind you. I’m talking about people with whom I hold no close association.

Take, for instance, my beauty salon.

Like many black women, I prefer to get my hair done in the hood.

I enjoy the sound of expletives first thing in the morning. I like the idea of colorful euphemisms for race being bandied about when someone has articulated something evoking disbelief (e.g. “Colored girl, please!” btw, Senator McCain—the word “Negro” is alive and well in my beauty salon). I like to peruse a nice selection of bootlegged dvds while waiting for my conditioner to set. And yes, I like to bring a few extra fivers along as I never know when the incense man will come around with his array of oils, perfumes and assorted “WWJD?” bracelets.

I like to get my hair done in the hood.

And while frequenters of my salon initially treated me with some degree of standoffishness, they’ve now warmed to me, and the 4-6 hours that I usually spend there passes right on by.

But here’s the thing. Like all educated black people, I know that there is a fine line to be walked between smart and successful, and “uppity” and “too good.” Black people love you when you’re smart, but hate you when you’re uppity. As I am hyper educated, my odds of being humble and cool are greatly diminished, and my potential uppity douchebaggery quotient skyrockets.

So there are rules.

I can speak on a subject that I know about. But only if I’ve been asked directly. So, if someone says something that is blatantly stupid or wrong, and I haven’t been addressed, directly—that’s right. I have to shut the fuck up. Only uppity bitches pipe in when no one was talking to them in the first place.

Be mindful of the word “ignorant.” In fact. Don’t use that shit at all. If you can even remotely be perceived as an uppity bitch, just forget that you know the word. In all likelihood, the shit you think is ignorant is gospel in that salon. For instance, the television in my salon stays on TV One or BET. I don’t even know if it gets any other channels. And note how I don’t know. Cause I’ve NEVER asked to change the channel. You know why? Cause that’s some uppity bitch shit, right there.

Now, there are many more rules, but I trust you get the point.

Finally, we’ve arrived at the story that I intend to tell, today. I have many questions regarding this story. Note how the questions linger on in my mind. As in, I didn’t ask them Saturday while I was at the salon. Only uppity bitches ask a lot of questions. Down ass bitches just listen.

A group of us were all sitting around laughing and telling restaurant horror stories. Stuff we’d either seen or heard done at restaurants to food and customers. Now, I need to be absolutely clear. I wasn’t talking to a group of stupid women. Not by any means. Everyone participating in this conversation held reasonably good jobs, and was articulate. I was, by far, the youngest of the participants.

One woman, we’ll call her “Rose” began to relay her tale of restaurant woe:

Rose: “Let me tell you all about this thing that happened to this guy I used to work with. He had gone to lunch at this Mongolian place over near the Verizon Center. And, not too long after, he had become really sick. I mean, really, really sick. And, at first, everyone thought it was the flu, and that it would pass. But after a few weeks he just got sicker and sicker. Finally, he went to the doctor, and you know what he had? SYPHILIS! Turns out, someone had cut up some cat, and put it in the food, but the cat had had syphilis. So, my friend ate it, and that’s how he got it.”

Me: *blank stare*

Seriously, y’all. The blankest motherfucking stare possible.

Now, I’ve given you the rules of operation. But, I had to break from form, if only for a moment, to ask a question. Don’t get me wrong. I had a MILLION questions. But I knew I’d only get one bite out of the apple before I officially crossed into uppity bitch territory. I had to go for broke.

Me: “Ummmm…how would a cat get syphilis?”

Never even missing a beat, an older woman, we’ll call her “Odessa” said, “What do you mean, ‘How would a cat get syphilis?’ Same way as us! They nasty!”

Me: *blank stare*

Even blanker than the last one.

So, I want to break this down, right now, as I was precluded—note the aforementioned reasoning—from doing so on Saturday.

1. “Rose” repeated this story like this shit was true.

Now, granted, she hit us up with the, “wow this is some wild, crazy shit I want to tell y’all,” delivery, but…she repeated this shit like it was true. Would I have repeated the story? Sure. Absolutely. But it woulda gone more like this: “Yo. Listen to this ridiculous shit this crazy bastard I work with tried to tell me.” See that? See the difference between my delivery and Rose’s?

2. “Odessa” believed the story. “Odessa” believes that cats are sexually “nasty.” “Odessa” believes that as a result of their sexually nasty behavior, language that necessarily connotes sexual promiscuity amongst cats, cats can transmit syphilis to one another. “Odessa” believes that the “nasty” behavior of cats is similar to the “nasty” behavior of humans.

Um. Let’s get this out the way right now, Odeezy. I’ve never given syphilis to anybody. I’m not passing judgment on you or your apparently feisty, syphilis-y generation, but I’m going to immediately cry foul and remove myself out of your collective “us.” Way, way out.

Now, I’m no veterinarian. And I profess to know nothing about sexually transmitted disease among animals. I do know I’ve never seen any PSAs on protecting our pets. Neither do I own any buttons, ribbons, or other animal vd awareness insignia that might suggest that this shit is a problem amongst the masses. I’m just saying.

You don’t have any questions about the veracity of this story, “Odessa?” Really? I mean, I realize you’re a bit older and have seen remarkable things happen during your lifetime. But. Seriously? Not one question? This bitch just told you that a whoring cat got cut up in someone’s beef and gave a grown ass man syphilis. You’re just gonna accept that? Really?

3. Who is this asshole who told this story in the first place?

Like, think about the manifold elements here. The doctor tells him he has syphilis. Fine. Maybe this man is married. Maybe he has a long-time girlfriend. Maybe he knows that he didn’t get it from either one of those broads and he’s going to have to come up with an explanation, and quick. I can appreciate that. But…dude…WHAT A WHOPPER this bastard told. Like he went so far beyond the call, I can hardly get my mind around it.

Soooo….he got syphilis from his food??? And of course, he had to play upon the most deep seated anti-Asian prejudice in the book—that the restaurant cut up cat, and put it in his meal. But, the cat had the syphilis first. And it was probably an extra powerful cat-strain too, cause it lasted through the heated cooking cycle. And then he ate the cat/beef, and chewed up the syphilis all in his mouth, and then swallowed it. And then he got infected.

And now, legions of black women from parts unknown are repeating this story in beauty salons across the land. And people like me, have to just sit there, mute, ears BLEEDING, so as not to seem “too good.”

Well, I’m not at the salon, right now.

I’m in the safety of my plush office.

Degrees strewn across my four walls.

Clad in a three piece suit and 4-inch pumps that elicit sighs from every man I pass.

And I want everyone within the (theoretical) sound of my voice to hear this:

THAT IS SOME IGNORANT ASS, STUPID SHIT, PEOPLE.

THAT IS SOME IGNORANT ASS, STUPID SHIT.

THAT’S THE DUMBEST SHIT I’VE EVER HEARD IN MY ENTIRE BLACK LIFE.

THE ONLY “CAT” THAT HAS THE POWER TO GIVE A MAN SYPHILIS SITS BETWEEN A PAIR OF KNEES.

DUMMIES.

That’s all, I think.

30
Dec
09

i resolve not to resolve, part I: how a few tweaks to your shit can make my shit better in 2010

I have determined that it is almost wholly useless to go about New Year’s resolutions in the traditional vein that has so occupied all of my Januarys for the last 29 years. In lieu of my epiphany, this year, I’ve elected to make a radical departure from society’s group-think, self improvement, new beginnings bullshit. I will demonstrate said departure by way of this two part series entitled: I Resolve Not to Resolve.

I’d like to spend today reflecting on some things/people/circumstances that had occasion to really piss me off in 2009. As such, I’d be much obliged if the following things/people/circumstances would consider the weight of their actions, and how these actions negatively affected my life. That’s right. Part I is about what everyone else can resolve to do about their own behaviors that I might have a more awesome 2010.

4 things/people/circumstances that brought fuckery to my 2009 and need to shape it up for 2010:

–hand to hood lady-

Hand to Hood lady, you are a dark horse in the race, as you only  made an appearance yesterday, 2 days before the start of the new year. Boy, did you make an impression. I have to commend you. I was entirely caught off guard when you slammed your hand down on the hood of my car in righteous indignation because it was situated a little in the crosswalk. Now, my immediate rolling down of windows, and exclamation of, “that’s how bitches get choked out!!” was a little unbecoming for a person of my relatively good breeding, I’ll grant you that. But as I’ve indicated, it is not my behavior that we’re modifying for the new year. It’s yours. So I need to know right now, straight up. Are you out of your fucking mind? Seriously. Don’t answer right away. Just let the question sink in and marinate. Are you out of your motherfucking mind? You are lucky I didn’t raise up out of that car and smack you squarely in your petulant mouth, the way you did my car. I could tell by your stunned demeanor that you took my outcry as a threat. But it wasn’t. It was a declarative statement of empirical fact. Slamming your hands down on the hood of random strangers’ cars in the middle of the day in a high traffic, high stress area like the Greater Washington DC Metropolitan area is EXACTLY how bitches get choked out. Read the paper. Watch the news. I’d wager slamming your hands down on the hood of random strangers’ cars in the middle of the day in a high traffic, high stress area like the Greater Washington DC Metropolitan area is the leading cause of choked out bitchedness, today. Check yourself, pedestrian. A choked out bitch is of little service to anybody.

–racist senior partner-

I don’t know why you continue to regale me with your tales of the glory days, Racist Senior Partner. The days when black people couldn’t get jobs in any positions outside of custodial work, but “loved, loved, loved” cleaning. I don’t know why you think it’s appropriate to convey to me how “overwhelmed” and “shocked” and “pleased” you are that so many people in my family were able to go to college. I’m made uncomfortable by your laughter at the fact that, “all of the clubs were open to people of all ethnicities and nationalities…except, of course, for blacks. Ha ha.” Look it—we don’t have to talk about my race, every time you override my cascade of lies and excuses and insist that I meet you at your office. Believe it or not, we CAN, in fact, just talk about the practice of law. As a matter of fact, if we could limit ALL of our discussions and interactions, period, and restrict the remaining few (preferably EMERGENCY situations) to conversations regarding little trifles like, “work” or “my fucking job,” I might be persuaded to set aside that hair-wrapped voodoo doll the shaman of my tribe in Africa sent along with my slave ancestors; you know, the one that has been passed down many generations, enduring the stains of chit’lin and collard greens juice,  and now pleasantly rests atop the monster sound system I have in my low-riding tricked out car, where I love to sit and blare my rap music.

(editor’s note for the daft* Sr. Partner has referenced “Africa,” “slavery,” “spicy ethnic food,” and “loud rap music” in several of our conversations.)

–sexy men who don’t want me-

Now, thankfully, to my knowledge, there was only one of y’all who came into my existence in 2009. But he was more than enough. I’m gonna be honest, the blow to my ego was a great one; a crippling one, in fact. Now, in hindsight, it was probably a necessary exercise as that thing had swollen to catastrophic proportions. Just the same, my heart still palpitates when I consider Captain Rejection’s unparalleled sexiness, and his as-subtle-as-a-boot-to-my-ass “no thank you.” So, any sexy men that I’m interested in, I need you all to shower me with your affections in 2010. No more of this “no” shit. Seriously. That’s complete rubbish. Feel free to convey these affections with such classics as, “the dinner invite,” “the innovative-think-outside-the-box-wild-date invite,” and my personal favorite, “the why-don’t-i-come-over-so-we-can-watch-some-movies invite.”

–metabolism-

Ummm…Metabolism? Are you depressed? I’m staging an intervention right now, Metabolism. I know that we haven’t always been the best of friends, but, lately, I can’t help but notice some strong hatred vibes coming from you. Do you remember, back in ’94 when we discussed my unwillingness to buy clothes in the double digits until my womb was thick with child? Remember that? I just need to know when the playbook changed, is all. I’m out there on the field with grit in my eyes and dirt under my fingernails, time eating away at the clock, all ready for an eagle swing right, and you’re callin’ fucking audibles. Get your shit, together, Metabolism. How are you gonna let a few late night pizza runs and a little bit of hard liquor come between us, Metabolism? It’s game time, right now, Metabolism! Get your face on! We’re within arm’s reach of 30, and I have 21 year olds questioning my youth, my sexy, and my overall spry-ness at every pass. I cannot effectively rally against them wearing Spanxx.

Metabolism, this morning, when I put on my slacks, I heard this woeful cry of agony. I looked around to see if I’d stepped on one of the dogs’ paws. I had not. I inclined my head to see if somewhere, off in the distance, a lone child, somehow separated from his mother, was weeping. There was no such child. Sadly, I looked down at my pants, overflowing with the coffers that once were my buxom backside. All that remained was a fat ass. Surrounding my fat ass like so much sausage casing, were the strained, wailing fibers of my very expensive 120 count sailor pants. My ass-fat compelled my inanimate clothes to speak, Metabolism. In 2010, a bit of hyper-speed mercy, if you please.

T-minus 24 hours, people.  Get it right. Get it tight.

21
Dec
09

4 businesses that were resilient instead of being bitchasses in the face of a little snowstorm

see, the thing you need to know about me is that, i hate snow.  really. it serves no purpose. it is both cold and wet all at the same time. it’s nature’s most supreme form of hyperbole.

seriously.

why would something need to be both cold and wet?

it’s like a woman who is both fat and ugly.

sure, there are plenty of  men who like big girls, but do they like big, ugly girls?

right, they don’t.

snow is like a big, ugly girl.

2 feet of it at my front door–a big, ugly girl who’s snaggertoothed and has vd.

needless to say, this weekend was a bust.

and i know what you’re thinking. weekend inside, no interruptions. get drunk, watch porn, wander around in your skivvies, dance around to old r&b hits drunk, and in those skivvies.

sure, sure. that’s all well and good for the first 4 hours, but then you’re legitimately trapped. in a snowstorm. and maybe  you’re hungry. so, around, 10:30, you’re thinking, “i’ll just amble on over to the all night harris teeter that’s within walking distance of my place.” only, after you’ve donned 4 layers of clothes and have snow frosting at your knee meat, you see that the harris teeter closed at 4 pm. cause apparently harris teeter is run by crybaby bitchasses who can’t stand a little bit of snow.

well i’m sorry. we’re in a fucking recession. and i’m going to need a few businesses (like the harris teeter and 3 pizza places that i called, almost in tears) to man up and deal with a little inclement weather *insert desperate julia roberts per “Pretty Woman” cry of “I got money to spend here!” *

In the spirit of this, i’ve taken the liberty of comprising a list of  4 businesses that were resilient during this weekend’s snowstorm, even in spite of the bitchasstedness of their competitors. well done guys.

4 businesses that were resilient instead of being bitchasses in the face of a little snowstorm:

4. the chinese food restaurant from around the way-

Go ‘head and git some, chinese food restaurant from around the way! Not only were you open in the middle of a pseudo-blizzard, you were cranking out food with efficiency and glad tidings all around. i could see it in your eyes, chinese food restaurant from around the way. you were as hungry for that good american currency as your patrons were for your lackluster, if not a little bland and gummy, lo mein. and you know what? i don’t even give a damn if the woman at the register misunderstood the modifier “so” as applied to the phrase “thank you so very much,” to the extent that she repeated it after every exchange we made. and i was entirely able to overlook the subtle racial implications of her “would you like fried chicken wings with that, thank you so very much?” after i placed my order. you know why, chinese food restaurant from around the way? because, damnit, beggars can’t be choosers. i don’t need to open your mind to the founding blocks of english diction, or educate you to the strained and tender status of race relations in this country that might come to a breaking point with one, lone, misguided fried chicken reference in the middle of the night. no, no. i just wanted food. and by jove, food you gave me.  keep doin’ what you do, chinese food restaurant from around the way.

3. the abc store

as early as 9:15 pm i was seeing news outlets notifying the public of area churches that wouldn’t be open for service on sunday morning. but guess who still had those doors open wide well into the snow storm ready to pick up all the sinner slack where the churches left off? that’s right, my local package store. yessir. and there were tons of people in there ready to fill their bladders with ethanol only to pee pee their names in the snow all weekend. and i was among their ranks.  and know what?  it was kinda nice to know that i could guiltlessly sleep off my debauchery like a proper person on sunday morning, rather than subject Sister Eula Mae to the distillery that would have been my open pores should we have had occasion to share a pew.  now, i’d be remiss if i didn’t send a special shout out to *Chris* who, let me have a handful of those little baby-sized bottles cause i was “so cute and miserable all bundled up.” and guess what, *Chris,* you were right. a couple of swigs did keep me warm on my trek back across the parking lot.  by the way, if you see this, call me. i’m not at all put out by the fact that you’re 32 and work at an ABC store. frankly, that’s going into your “pros” column.

2. my neighborhood 7-11

honestly, 7-11. “you ever been kidnapped by a poet? if i were a poet, i’d kidnap you.” you inspire verse within me, 7-11. harris teeter was all candyass cause cars couldn’t drive in its parking lot. but  not you, 7-11. you were all, “whatev,” and you sold me those groceries that were 2x as old for 5x harris teeter’s already marked up price, and you did it with all the nastiness, and pisspoor attitude that only a 7-11 serving a hardcore contingent of my low-income neighbors can. 7-11, you didn’t bother to mop up one drop of melted snow that slathered your floors like sweat on a hooker’s back. you didn’t feel the need to put up nary a yellow “caution!” sign. and don’t bother to explain, 7-11, i know why. it wasn’t necessary. anybody who walks into that piece of shit hole in the wall, sans bulletproof vest and/or cleric,  after hours, and then proceeds to purchase what passes as “food” from you laughs in the face of caution. Every dollar bill we hand you says In God We Trust Fuck Caution!!! But you were there with the necessities (juice, champagne, twizzlers, milano cookies), and i thank you.

(as an aside, i know what you’re thinking: “why’d you get champy at a 7-11 instead of the abc store?” great question. it’s all about the juice, you see. as it happens, i’m a bit sickly, generally speaking, and it didn’t occur to me til i’d walked through a snow-drift to a 7-11 that i might catch cold amidst the backdrop of this winter wonderland. so i grabbed some juice at the 7-11. only, i hate juice. you know how some people can’t take tap water without a little ice? i can’t take orange juice without champagne.)

1. the weedman

now, unfortunately, i did not personally patronize the weedman, myself. i am a bit constrained by my profession in this regard. but, that is not to suggest that i did not see you out there on your grind, weedman. as a matter of fact, not only did i SEE you peddling your hallucinogenic wares (just outside of my neighborhood 7-11), people INSIDE of the store WITH me were scheming on just how to get you your money, weedman. i mean, to sell dope, IN THE SNOW? like, that is some whole other stuff, right there. people weren’t even coy with it in the 7-11, weedman. talk of “what chu gon git? i’m tryin to git a nic or a dime” ABOUNDED in the 7-11. 7-11 must have made 50 bucks on dutches, ALONE, in the brief time that i was there. and you know no one just smokes a dutch, weedman. seriously. i’d rather chew on the ears of a live infant. my point is this. times are rough, people are feeling down, and money is tight. and sure, would my neighbors have rather taken their hard earned cash and spent it on groceries and shit to feed their families? of course. but harris teeter was closed. sure, some people call you a no good drug dealer. but you know what? i say you’re an entrepreneur. and when the teet’s produce department was closed, yours was wiiiiiiide open.

chinese food restaurant from around the way, abc store, 7-11, weedman–way to swag surf through a recession, people. would that everyone had your work ethic.




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a history of my meanderings….