Wednesday, May 31, 2006

we interrupt our regularly scheduled 'roots' programming to bring you a slice of reality...

death has struck upon my family's door once again. yet again, no one saw it lurking outside in the driveway, standing in its charcoal cloaking with its scythe in its hands. when the doorbell rang, i thought it was a friend stopping by for a visit. i was wrong. or was i?

either way, we had no way to prepare for it.

one of my best friends lost her father yesterday morning after a violent attack left him incapacitated following a stroke brought on by the attack. the reasoning behind the attack? inconsequential, cuz nobody deserves to go out like that.

our families were really like one big family. the kids grew up together and for a while, her father was like another father for me. i didn't see him much after her parents divorced but i still thought of him as a father figure. when i found out he died, i was in shock. i still am, really.

this will be the fourth funeral i attend this year. the fourth. in the previous four years i've only attended ONE funeral.

you ever feel like the more funerals you attend, the closer death is creeping towards YOU? i can't help but feel this way. i think it's because death has never really been all that far away from my family. my dad was killed when i was three. my mom was diagnosed with lupus when i was nine. i've always felt a sense of impending loss, like my life and the lives of those around me was really on borrowed time.

like every day at dawn i had to renew the loan of the seconds making up the span of my lifetime.

"hello! welcome to the the bank o'borrowed time. how can we help you?"

"i would like to borrow some time, please."

"time? what kind of time?"

"uh, the kind that will allow me to live longer. DUH."

"don't take that tone of voice with me, miss. you're a RISK. we might never see the repayment of our time before you kick the bucket. after all,

1. you're black, which means you're more prone to
hypertension and other ailments that can cut your time short.
2. you're female, which means you're more likely to have your time stolen by
heart disease than a man.
3. you're a bon bon away from being a fat cow, which means you're more likely to get
diabetes. you know...that one there steals more time from our bank than people realize."

"hold up! i am NOT a fat cow"

"ma'am, i wouldn't finish that if i were you...YOU are here requesting a loan for time from US, remember?"

"yes, yes. just give me the damn time and i'll be on my way."

"before my bank is comfortable with loaning you this time, we need to learn a few things about you first."

"this is a black thing, isn't it? you're gonna turn me down cuz i'm black. you racist motha..."

"of course this is a black thing, ms. indigo! being a black female places you at a higher risk for all of the things mentioned previously as well as HIV. we could very well be wasting our time by loaning it to you. "

"whatever, dude. i won't even get into the discussion about how inherent socioeconomic inequality as established by a history of racism in america has contributed to my higher risk status. i don't have time for that. just tell me what you need so i can get my time and get out of here. as you can see by the hourglass right here, i'm down to a few granules..."

"ahhh yes. okay, let us get on with it then, shall we? what is it you plan to do with this time?"

"what do you need to know that for?? as long as its legal, which it is by the way, you don't need to know what i'm using it for."

"madam, it is our right to ask because it is our time you are seeking to borrow from us."

"uh...then can i get back to you on that one? i haven't really thought it out. right now i figure i'll just use it to stay alive for another day or so."

"but what do you plan on DOING with this 'day or so'? you cannot simply WASTE it! that would not be a good investment for us..."

"wait! i don't plan on WASTING it per se...more like just using the time to uh, figure out what i wanna do with the time i'll be requesting from you in the future."

"let me see if i understand you are telling me you desire this time to contemplate what you plan on doing with the time you think you shall be getting from my bank in the future? what kind of bull-cocky is that??"

"bull-cocky? this an american bank? what american says bull-cocky???"

"do not insult me, miss indigo. as i have said previously, you have need of us more than we have need of you."

"not necessarily...if not for folk like me, your bank wouldn't even exist."

"this conversation is going off on a tangent and i have not got all day."


"i find no humor in your demeanor. let us are going to use the time we loan you to figure out what you are going to do with future time. time that you are not even promised to have. that sounds like a wasteful endeavor to me, miss indigo."

"look...i'm almost OUT of time. if you don't hurry up and give me the damn loan i'm gonna die, therefore making the loan totally unnecessary!"

"hmmm...just one more question..."

"WHAT?!? what do you need to know??? am i a good risk? NO. i eat junk food and don't work out as much as i should. i'm a nico-nut and i don't get enough sleep at night. emotionally, i'm a wreck and have contemplated suicide on numerous occasions. i drive like a maniac and will dive into the deep end of a pool despite the fact i only know how to doggie paddle. i drive like a lunatic and work in an office building with asbestos in it. i have no clue on how to protect my heart from being broken and i'm always leaving my emotions out for people to trample upon. i have an addictive personality which means i'm a bottle of thunderbird away from being an alcoholic. i'm a braves fan, which guarantees i'm gonna get fucked up the ass without protection every damn year. now...ARE YOU SATISFIED???"

"just one more question, miss indigo."


"do you want to live?"

"what kind of question is that you silly bank...GUY! of COURSE i want to live. that's kinda why i'm HERE BEGGING YOU FOR MORE TIME!"

"what you speak of is not necessarily living. what you want is to borrow time for the purpose of thinking about living. why ask for more time when you waste it on thinking about what you're going to do instead of using it to go out in the world and actually do it? what is the point of having more time when you spend it so carelessly? obviously it is not valuable enough to you for you to even make a request for additional time. am i concluding correctly?"

"that was more than one question, sir."

"ms. indigo, stop avoiding the issue. this is a matter of the utmost importance."

"whatever. isn't planning important, though? i mean, i can't act if i don't have a plan."

"yes, but how much time do you spend planning, miss indigo?"

"mister bank...whoever the hell you are...all i want is more time. that's all. my request is simple. why are you making this so difficult???"

"because, ms. indigo, our time is the rarest resource on the planet. it cannot be reproduced so we cannot expect to have it returned to us in its original form. we loan out time because it is what we do, but there is little, if any profit from it."

"what do you mean by that? you're a BANK. what kind of bank would exist without profit??"

"i said we make very little profit from it, miss indigo. time does no good in the world if it is not spent with great care and it is only when it is spent with care that we see the benefits from it. unfortunately, out of all of the time we loan out, only a small percentage of people actually use time to their advantage and the world's benefit. we have had to find a way to stay afloat with the efforts of this group of people, but i fear we will reach a point where we will no longer be able to loan out time and will instead be forced to loan out furniture."

"in other words, you need me, too."

"yes, miss indigo...we need you."

"I TOLD YOU! alright, alright! i'll spend it wisely. i'll eat healthier. i'll be more productive with my time. i won't waste it with people who don't value it. i'll try harder to protect myself from hurt. now GIVE ME THE DAMN TIME!"

"ms. indigo, please control your temper. here is the agreement. please read it carefully and sign and initial at the bottom."

i, _________________, do hereby promise to pay back the amount of 86400 seconds in quality time with my family and/or volunteer work with a worthy charitable organization. i can also pay back this time in the act of taking care of myself and using each moment to help me reach my goals. if i fail to honor the terms of this agreement, i will burn in the fires of hell forever.

"don't you think that last part is just a bit harsh, mister bank dude?"

"i do not make the rules, miss. i just enforce them."


every morning i meet with that cat. every morning i sit with pen in hand, pondering whether or not i will commit myself to honoring my time by spending it wisely. i'm hard-headed. sometimes i have a sense of entitlement that has me believing i got plenty of time while at other times i have a sense of impending doom that has me believing i'll meet death with my next breath. or maybe it's that i know i don't have much time but i care too little about it to do anything about it. either way, death is out there in the shadows and i won't be able to elude him forever and he ain't delaying his introduction to me as i continue to waste time sleeping through life, dreaming about what i'm gonna do.

death is creeping closer still. i gotta stop taking these sleeping pills.

Tuesday, May 30, 2006

booty moves while digging the roots

date: monday, may 22, 2006
time: around 10:15 p.m.
place: the roots concert

black thought stepped onto the stage with his poised weapon. his mouth became a tek-9 annihilating the audience with a staccato barrage of verbal discharge as his voice, hollow-tipped and filled with the brandy braggadocio of a hip-hop virtuoso, pierced our skulls with skillfully scattered phrases of conscious matter. my ears drank shot after shot as my brain eventually released its drunken grip upon my limbs. right around this time i was jumping around gleefully, my excitement over finally seeing the roots live soaking me to the bone with a giddy feeling that left me hovering on the bring of sanity.

okay, you don't understand...nikki digs live music like a nympho digs sex. it ain't just the band, it's the experience. it's the assault upon all of the senses, the taste of black thought's black thoughts as they slid like chocolate syrup down my throat, the sound of the sensual bass guitar as its deep voice murmured intimately into my ear, the touch of ?uestlove's drum throbbing against my skin like a sonic erection, the sweet smell of nostalgia i inhaled deeply as i shouted out the words to the songs i remembered. it was the sight of six black men making love to the mic with their various instruments, an orgy of limbs blended in rhythm and rhyme.

i spread my mind wider to allow for a deeper stroke.

"Just think, what if you could just, just blink yourself away?
Just think, what if you could just, just blink yourself away?
Jeff X can rock the mic with tooth decay
I be the 5 foot 7, residing at the mecca lesson south section
Used to cut class in the infinite pursuit of ass
Back in eighty-seven
Easy with the chics I was a chocolate boy
Raised in the cellar with the rhythm like Ella
Walking down the streets to the subway where i lay
Til the train stop then a nigga hop
Used to do the pop dance to the planet rock
At the block party everybody jocked (who me?)
It's the MC sucka niggaz envy
I got my contract in 1993 and
I shall proceed..."


my voice was the frayed edges of jeans bursted at the seams as i thrust my response to black thought's declaration to proceed, nodding my head to the downbeat like it was the rounded tip of sticks shivering the skin stretched tautly across the drum's flat features. i was digging deeply at this point, my spirit unfurling within the fertile soil of their sound as i raised my hands high to keep the ceiling up cuz the thunderous roars from the crowd threatened to send it crashing down around us. everyone around me was just as enthralled as i was. brown faces, pink faces, biege faces all open and screaming in call and response mode towards the stage.

then the hairs on my neck stood at attention as i felt a close source of heat behind me just as a pair of hands settled upon my hips. i felt a hard dick pressed tightly against my ass. i glanced back in surprise and found myself staring into twin cups of coffee, no cream. jumping out of my skin, i glared at the unfamiliar face of the brotha as i created some distance between he and i.

"uh, who da fuck are you and why is your dick in my ass?"

he smiled, straight white teeth bookended with deep dimples as he dropped his hands and stepped back a little.

"i'm rashid," he answered with a voice that reminded me of black silk being pulled across my nipples. i lifted my brows in inquiry before squinting my eyes. he said that shit as if i was supposed to know him. meanwhile, the only rashid i 'know' has a blog and i've never met him and this cat was not that cat.

"i don't know a rashid," i responded sarcastically. i was still outraged that a perfect stranger would bother to get all up on my ass like that. i mean, he was cute enough. he stood at about six feet and had skin the color of roasted almonds and he smelled divine. but he WAS a stranger.

"you know one now," he said, the dimple in his left cheek growing deeper as his smile grew more inviting. at this point i noted the accent. oh...he's from africa.

"where are you from?" i asked innocently.

"nigeria." he was still smiling.

"well, i don't know how you do shit in nigeria, but here in america women aren't standing around waiting for a dick to land in the cracks of their asses." something i said amused him cuz his smile grew even wider.

"i can tell you all about nigeria after the concert. we can get to know each other better then."

oh, this was one arrogant mothafucka.

"i've gotten to know more about you in the last thirty seconds than i care to know. you've got some fucking nerve putting your hands on me like that."

i mean really...the audacity of a brotha. i still got issues with strange men putting their hands on me. that's residual shit from the rapes so i'm a little more sensitive to liberties like that from strange men. i stepped away from him and frowned so he understood i wasn't inviting him to touch me again.

"kindly back away from the booty and bounce," i said as i folded my arms and shot bullet holes into his face with my eyes.

he held his hands up in that 'no offense meant' stance and backed up away from me. it took everything in me not to cuss his ass out. i mean, brotha had been so close i could almost feel the tip of his dick on my tonsils.

sidenote: okay, yet again i gotta speak on this assumption mothafuckas have about touching a sista's body. just cuz i don't have a "stay the fuck away from me" sign doesn't mean i've given permission to a brotha to put his hands on me. that shit's like fucking without foreplay. why is this? is this the result of rap videos and the 'supa heads' who make their bodies readily available to any dick with bling swinging from the balls? did this brotha assume because i was there alone that i was looking for a brotha to share that shit with? it is really a culture thing? i've dated men from nigeria before and i gotta admit, his arrogant behavior kinda reminded me of those cats. i like my men with confidence but DAMN... i mean, he would have stood a chance with a sista if he'd stepped lightly instead of grabbing my hips and sticking his crotch in my ass. he was actually cute. meanwhile, i felt like i needed a tissue to wipe the cum stains from my skirt. dirty mothafucka...

i was salty for a minute after that, salty and kinda afraid my being there at the concert alone was sending an invitation to every brotha there to stick his crotch in my ass. i looked around furtively, unable to make out much in the spotted darkness. there were guys all around me. i contemplated leaving and then decided against it. fuck those mothafuckas. i ain't letting that cat fuck my night up like that.

then black thought bust out one of my favorite 'roots rhymes' and i forgot about the incident altogether.

"Hey you listeners, stop what you're doin and
set it in motion, it's the next movement
You listeners, stop what ya doin and
set it in motion, it's the next movement..."

i was jumping again as i joined in.

"Word up, we got the HOT-HOT music, The HOT MUSIC
The HOT-HOT music, the HOT music
The HOT-HOT music, the HOT music
The HOT-HOT music, the HOT music!!!!"

i spent the next 45 minutes yelling and dancing and vibing and grooving and moving and jumping and just soaking myself in the roots. i was perfectly content...

and then it was talib kweli making his way to the stage...

awww snap...

more to come...

Thursday, May 25, 2006

can i just get to the damn concert, please?

date: may 22, 2006
time: around 9:15 p.m.

place: in my car, parked in front of an atm

where the fuck is my atm card??? i know i'm gonna have to pay for parking. where the fuck is it???

while i'm turning my car upside down looking for my card, my cell phone rings. i reach over and grab it off of the floor and flip it open. aries man...again. i sigh, knowing i've gotta answer it this time or be left with the voice message "why even have a cell phone if you never answer it??"

me: hello?

him: hey, nikki. wassup?

i slide the phone into the crook of my neck to hold it in place while i continue looking for my atm card.

me: i'm aiight. trying to find my atm card. wassup with you?

him: i'm pissed cuz i gotta work tonight.

at this point i'm leaning over into the back seat, my hip pressed tightly against the steering wheel. shoveling my hands through the papers strewn across the floor, i grab and toss stuff to the side before carefully running my fingers along the carpet. my hand lands on something square and plastic. THERE IT IS! i pinch my fingers on the edge of the card and pull it towards my face. SHIT...well, at least now i've found my kro.ger plus card. i toss it onto the front passenger seat and lean over again into the back. where the fuck is the damn card??? i KNOW i saw it here somewhere...

me: you gotta work? i thought you just got off of work?

him: i gotta work an afterparty tonight.

i stopped moving, a fissure of premonition sliding up my spine as i knew immediately what afterparty he was talking about.

me: you're working the afterparty for the roots?

him: yeah. they're having it at 'the mark'.

exiting my car, i stand there and attempt to mentally trace my steps back to where i last saw the card. i'm drawing a blank. my mind is partially shadowed by the current conversation.

me: well how about that! i'm on my way to the roots concert right now!

him: oh, so you decided to go?

me: yeah. i'm not gonna waste almost fifty bucks. plus, i've never seen them live before.

him: great! so i'm gonna see you tonight?

aww hell. i knew that shit was coming. this is why i don't talk to him as often as i used to because at some point during every recent conversation he'd ask me to come over to his apartment or meet him at his second gig (he 'bounces' for clubs in the atlanta area). why can't a brotha just chill the fuck out?

me: i doubt it. i've got to work tomorrow so i'm sure i'll be heading home as soon as the concert's over.

him: oh, so you can't drop by the club for even a minute, huh?

me: maybe, but it depends on when the concert's done. if it's late, i won't be coming by.

WAIT...the card is back at the apartment. SHIT. i hurriedly jump back into the car and start the engine, pulling off swiftly as i made my way back home to pick up the atm card i suddenly remember leaving right next to the computer monitor during my moment in automated hell.

him: i'd love to see you, but if you can't come that's cool. hit me up after you leave the concert.

at this point i'm barely hearing him because i'm thinking of the time i'm wasting having to go back and pick up the atm card. i've STILL gotta get to my job and print the damn ticket. this is gonna take me another thirty minutes at LEAST.

me: i'll call you when i leave. let me get offa here. i'm scrambling trying to get to this concert. i'll talk to you later.

him: aiight, talk to you lata.

me: peace

him: peace


sidebar: let me explain about aries man before you folk out there think i'm playin the brotha. i like him. he's cool folk, really. meanwhile, i'm keeping to myself because i really need this time to mentally repair myself. he's READY if you get what i'm sayin. the timing is fucked up. i'm totally NOT ready. i'm in chill mode and am cool with it. i've been burned recently and the wounds are only now starting to heal. i had to learn to check my emotions until my life was in order.

aiight, enough of that...back to the story.

so now it's about an hour later and i'm standing in line waiting to get into the concert. i could hear the notes from a heavy bass guitar shivering through the walls to the venue. someone's voice was being pounded in between cumbersome drum beats and i tried to decipher who it was. jean grae? GAWTDAMN. my impatience grew as the line is moving slower than a thought to dubya's brain. i gotta get IN THERE. the anticipation was pinching my skin into painful awareness as i realized i was missing someone give a helluva performance. i clinched my fists and looked ahead of me, noting the slithering centerpede of people crawling toward the entrance. by the time i finally got through the front door twenty minutes later, jean had already exited the stage. DAMN.

the venue was the bomb spot. formerly a baptist church, it now housed worship of divine musical composition. its mouth lay wide open, the exposed roof ridged in blisters from incinerating guitar riffs. the walls of its jaw were bruised in varying hues of rhythm & blues, wearing the mottled remnants of the pulsating punches thrusted from thumping drums. residue from the ghost of cigarette smoke coated the bared squares of its teeth with a black matte, their mute surfaces absorbing the illumination of the lights lining the street outside.

i treaded carefully across its tongue, the soles of my shoes adhering to the souls of brew previously slain, their dismembered figures laying in sticky stains upon the carpet.

this mouth was poised to sing. the instruments that would gift its vocal chords with sound were sitting intently upon the stage, revealed beneath the brightness of a single light that shown with the intensity of an orthodontist's tool.

the roots had yet to appear and the crowd around me was a shifting wave of restlessness. ganja smoke cloaked the air around us, its bitter scent clinging to the caverns of my nostrils like hands fisted around the flapping edges of a wool coat in winter. i inhaled deeply and immediately became lightheaded. that was some potent shit.

i stood wedged within a circle of four brothas, our bodies so tightly knitted together i almost asked them all to put on condoms lest i end up pregnant. there was no room for movement, which meant i had to find somewhere else to stand because i knew i'd be dancing and i didn't wanna hurt anybody with my frenzied hips. i looked ahead of me to see if there was a thimble of free space somewhere and located one a little closer to the stage. trying to get to that spot was like trying to shimmy my way on all fours across a field littered with land mines, the area around me being blasted away by raining bombs. i was dodging attack from spilled drinks and errant elbows the whole way, escaping harm for the most part accept for the phantom fingers i every now and again felt slide across my ass and chest.

sidebar: you guys think you slick, don't you? you think we sistas don't feel it when you covertly run your hands across our chests or discretely squeeze some part of our anatomy as we walk past you? what kind of desperate shit is that? is this the only time you find yourselves close enough to touch a female form? this ain't elementary school and that shit ain't cool. i shouldn't have to pull out a can of maze just to walk through a tightly populated area. sometimes i feel fucking VIOLATED, like a guy just stuck his hand down my bra or in my panties. what you doing ain't 'scooping' like it was when you were twelve. shit like that nowadays can get you arrested. take that desperate behavior to the strip club. i'm telling you now, one day i'm gonna reciprocate the touching bit, only mine is gonna be a hard knee to the groin area. you really don't want to be that cat, do you?

now that i've got both that vent and that brotha's hand offa my chest, let me continue...

so i'm standing in the thimble of space i'd made for myself, my eyes skimming over the shoulder partially blocking my view of the stage. the darkness around me was nicked every now and again with lit candle wicks as thin slivers of amber light bled in small streaks across the walls. i shifted my weight from one foot to the other, growing both excited and impatient as i stood there. this was only the second concert i'd ever attended by myself and although i was cool with it, a part of me mourned the inability to share the experience with someone. i didn't let it get me down, though. i knew i'd eventually be writing about it and sharing it with my blog fam. :)

the murmuring around me changed pitch and began getting louder and i can feel the hairs on my arms begin to stand on end. THEY'RE COMING!

then a thundercloud of a voice rains sound upon us as the mc announced the arrival of the roots on stage.


i'm already screaming and jumping up and down, my skin tightening in anticipation like muscles right before orgasmic release, my breath popping through my lungs like kettle corn over a hot stove as my blood raced through me in a rush of red elation.


the mouth began clearing its throat...

more to come (yeah, i know i'm a bitch for doing it, but oh well...)

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

observations and experiences from last night's concert

last night i checked out the roots concert. jean grae and talib kweli were also there.

date: may 22, 2006
time: roughly 6:30 p.m.

place: in my living room

the book was simply too good to put down. sebastian was a spy who had been exiled to a country estate which just so happened to be right next to sabrina's country cottage. sabrina just so happened to be the beautiful mahogany-haired 'daughter' of his closeted gay spy friend who was murdered a couple of months back because he'd tried to blackmail the guy responsible for the murder of sabrina's real father. they were falling in love while someone was trying to kill sabrina. love is wierd that way...

i was 250 pages into the 365 page saga, right at the part where it looked like sebastian and sabrina were about to get it on for the first time and damnit, i was READY for that shit. i mean, it'd taken 250 pages to get to that point! damn, that's like a decade of foreplay. i can only imagine the kind of blueballs sebastian was suffering from cuz he was constantly standing around the girl with his 'staff' making a tent in his breeches. while sebastian was savoring sabrina's nape and rubbing his crotch to keep the cum at bay, i was considering attending the concert but i wasn't yet sure if i'd do so. i squashed all thought of it cuz IT WAS ABOUT TO BE ON! sebastian had begun kissing the back of sabrina's neck and was drowning in the lavender scent of her skin. i immediately wondered if lavender tasted like it smelled.

sidebar: i know cologne is good for seduction and all but i can't stand licking that shit off a brotha's neck. it's just NASTY. 'obsession for men' might smell good to the nose but it is a malicious trick on the mouth. it's like smelling the deliciously sweet scent of a chocolate cake. you all geeked to taste it as you cut into it, mouth all watering cuz the nose done told it the cake's gonna be good. you take a bite of it, the aroma of cocoa seducing your olfactory nerves right before the papillae in your mouth are asphyxiated to death from the layer of cow dung now flung on the tongue. if mouths had hands they'd smack the crap out of the noses for that one.

for real, though...if you gonna wear cologne, put it somewhere i won't lick, like your asshole.

anyway, so sebastian's all caught up in the lavender and i'm caught up in him being caught up, when the sound of my cell phone ringing intrudes upon my literary interlude. i flip it open to see who it is. it's aries man. i debate on whether or not to answer it and decide against it cuz at this point sebastian's got his lips wrapped around one of sabrina's rosy-hued nipples and i'm starting to feel all tingly between my legs. i can't talk to him if i'm horny cuz my voice will give it all away.

thirty minutes and a 'thwarted attempt to ravish sabrina' later, i'm online at ticket-massa to get the number to their customer service department. i figure i'll go to the concert after i finish the book but i gotta get them to re-send the email with the ticket info in it. i find the number and give them a call...and find myself in an abyss of automated responses:

"hello, you've reached ticket-massa, the plantation of ticket purchasing. we strive to serve you a plate of bullshit in the form of unnecessary administrative and handling fees to go with this ridiculously rambling automative system that will hopefully confuse you to the point of making you forget why the fuck you bothered to call us in the first place. press one to continue this brain rape in english."

i press one and am further cerebrally assaulted.

"press one if you are looking to get wallet-fucked over the telephone by purchasing a $27.50 ticket for $47.50 after we add our 'gotta put my toy poodle muffy through etiquette school just so she ends up getting turned out by the neighborhood mongrel pimp' fee of twenty bucks."

i glanced up at the certificate on my wall sent to me from muffy's school as a token of appreciation for my twenty buck contribution. nah, i'd already pressed THAT fucking number before...

"press two if you're already wiping the ky jelly off of the inner silk linings of your wallet and are now trying to find out if you're gonna bust a nut before we fall asleep on you."

aiight, that one was me. i press two and yet again, i'm fucked.

"press one if you feel like putting in not only your credit card number but your social security number, date of birth of your ex-boyfriend's baby's momma and the first three letters of the last sexually transmitted disease you contracted."

too bad i didn't have my credit card on me...

"press two if you want to access your information by entering your ticket order number. please note that after entering the seven digit number you will need to enter in the following phrase using the text on your phone keypad 'i am a fucking idiot for calling ticketmassa.'"

i had the ticket order number right there on the screen so this would have appeared to be the easiest route...

ten minutes and four additional phone calls to ticket-massa later i realized i was ready to say 'fuck da roots.' eventually the automated asshole got fed up with my inability to figure out calculus and it put me through to a live operator.

one minute later i'm checking my email for the ticket that was sent to me after a brief and effective inquiry to the customer service rep.

sidebar: ONE MINUTE. i swear, the only reason why u.s. occupation in ain't over is cuz a tal.i.ban representative has been on the phone for five years trying to make his way through the white house's automated phone system trying to get through to the prez.

after the odyssey surrounding the acquirement of my ticket, i was worn out, but not too worn out not to find out if sebastian finally made his way into sabrina's linen drawers. turns out the little hussy didn't WEAR drawers which made it hella easy for him to 'stick his stallion in the stable' so to speak. he does his thing, they fall in love and i look up at the clock on the wall to see it's now a little before 9 p.m. i still gotta get dressed, get some money from the atm, get to my job so i can print the damn ticket, and get to the concert (that started at 8 p.m.)

more to come...

Monday, May 22, 2006

just tell it, mothafucka.

how many times have you been faced with a person who is too afraid to tell it? this is an epidemic, especially on the internet.

think about all of the times you've had folk send you a photo of themselves, using phrases like:

'larger than life'
'uh, about 5' real inches'
'ten inches of long and strong dong'
'alot of woman'
'i'm not all that short'
'i'm not all that fat'
'i'm not all that (insert whatever they wanna downplay)'

then you meet 'em and it's like "not only are you really that short, you're also really that fat and really that unattractive and your dick is small and you've got bad breath." (not that there's anything wrong with that...for someone ELSE.)

well you know what?? i'm tired of you not being 'all that'. i want you to tell me how you really feel, how you really look, how you really are.

oh, you want me to go first? aiight.

i'm 5'6 barefooted, 5'7 with flats, between 5'8 and 5'10 with heels.
i'm considered one of those 'thick sistas' which is code for "one biscuit away from being an obese bitch".
yes i'm 'shapely'. sometimes like figure eight but mostly like pear.
i wear 38dd bra and no, victoria secrets don't make sexy bras for my tig ole biddies.
my breasts are perky when i'm laying down and gravity-challenged when i'm not.
my ass is not smooth like those women you see in the magazines. it's a huge and round mountain with cellulite deposits in it and no, victoria secrets don't make sexy panties for my big ass, either.
this means that more times than not, i'm wearing some big white cotton underwear, code word "granny panties."
my stomach is flat for my size but it ain't completely flat. there is a layer of fat there but for some reason it's smooth and doesn't spill over my waistline. then there are the big titties that make it look even smaller.
my waist is small for my size but it ain't as small as that of skinnier women. there is a tire of fat there that's good for holding onto if you're fucking me and my body is good for keeping a brotha warm in the winter.
it's also good for keeping a brotha hot in the summer, so you might not want to be all up on me spooning and shit between the months of june and september.
i've got nice legs but i've seen nicer. not me dissing mine, just stating fact.
my feet are huge and they get ashy and i don't get pedicures that often.
i have astigmatism, which means i'm damn near blind.
i have attention deficit disorder, which means i'm damn near brilliant.
if we were to have kids, expect a bunch of blind, brilliant, sarcastically fantastic athletes with a healthy dislike for bullshit to spring from these loins.
sometimes i have bad breath even if i haven't eaten garlic.
i fart. in bed. out of bed. sometimes in your mouth by mistake.
i take a shit at least once a day. it's quick and painless and i do it with the bathroom door open at times.
i wash my ass once a day. in the morning. this means if we fucking at night, do not expect me to take a shower beforehand unless i'm really stinking.
my menstrual cycle lasts six days. this is six days of hell for anybody within my reach.
i wear dreadlocks.
my glasses look a little askew on my face.
i have big lips. both sets.
meanwhile, one of my coochie lips is larger than the other.
my clit does not respond well to direct pressure. you gotta finesse it, but don't be too hesitant about it or else the clit will not spit.
my twat does not respond well to short, skinny dicks. if you've got one of those, stay away from me.
i can do short dicks as long as they're thick.
i can do long dicks as long as they're thick.
i can do thick dicks as long as they know how to stroke.
please note this pattern.
i love to suck dick but please do not assume because i love doing it that i'm sucking yours.
i am not a timid lover. i am aggressive when necessary and demure when told to be.
i get easily bored when sex is uninspiring.
i love to laugh during sex because it's supposed to be a sharing of passion, not a taking of it.
i am not cruel or malicious. do not confuse my candidness with either of those terms.
i've slept with a woman before and it wasn't a bad experience.
no, i won't be repeating it...unless it's angelina jolie.

so there...i've told most of it. i can't think of anything else so i'll just stop here. meanwhile, if you have questions, ask and i'll answer.

i am her first...she is my mother

i am her


seed to root within her womb
flutter as i made my room
within her uterus for me to bloom

i am her


fetus kicking against her skin
bump where flat stomach once had been
my exit is the moment when

she became my


she is

billie's blues
nina's news
dinah's dues

she is

angela's revolution
assata's evolution
betty's constitution

she is

a crackhead's binge
a lush's best friend
a meth addict's twinge

she is
my mother

at my birth
i became
her porter

carrying her baggage
with hopes of a tip
but her luggage is equipt
with stainless steel grips
digging into my
marrow like
acerbic quips
sticking like mutton
to sardonic lips

she is my

of what high school
and two small kids can do
of what brown and woman
intertwined go through
of laughter found after death
like it was brand new
of a life twilight
shining in muted hue

i reflect her imperfections
i deflect her said directions
as a daughter is wont to do

but no matter what i always remember

i am

her first

and i love her not because

she is my mother

but because
she is my


Tuesday, May 16, 2006

weekend excursions and observations, pt. 2

date: sunday, may 14, 2006
time: somewhere around 9 a.m.

place: my brother's old bedroom at my parent's house

the sun was blaring through the bedroom window with the invasiveness of a dimebag darrell riff, each ray reverberating from the walls and furniture like sound waves from plucked guitar strings. i'm sprawled out on the bed still half asleep, the other half of me curled into the pages of the book i've got in my hand. it's a halfway decent romance novel (yes, i'm a fiend for 'em), and i was just getting to the part where...nothing was happening. dad walks into the bedroom with a bunch of shit in his hands. wrapping paper, tape, scissors, and the stuff we'd purchased the previous evening. awww shit, i knew what this meant.

"so what's that stuff for?" i croaked as i feigned ignorance, hoping it meant he was just carrying the stuff for the helluvit. my mouth felt hot and dry, an attic where the air was stale and my tongue was peeling away from my gums like faded wallpaper. i scrunched up my face at the first whiff of morning breath hovering like a cloud of nuclear fallout in front of my nose.

sidebar: have you ever noticed how morning breath can linger in the air like a fart? i mean, i can leave a room, take a shower, come back and get butchered by it, like it was a murderer waiting for me to turn the corner right before it severs my nose from my face with a 'shank of lethal stank'. in fact, i don't even have to open my mouth. the morning breath finds a way to escape anyway, turds falling from my nose like clots of snot or a stench sweated from my pores like garbage juice. and it don't matter what i ate or drank the night before, my breath is gonna stink no matter what (although to be fair, the morning after drinking alcohol has a way of turning morning breath into mourning breath cuz it damn sure smells like a rotting corpse is in my mouth.) and anyone who tells you he or she kisses during morning sex is a gawtdamn liar (unless they get up extra early to brush their teeth and hop back in the bed again, which you know ain't nobody doing).

i waved my hand in front of my face trying to disperse the stench. meanwhile, i peep dad dropping the stuff onto the bed before taking a quick step back, his fingers pinching his nose as he got the beer face.

"what you doing that for??" i asked as i continued waving my hand in front me me, this time shifting the air so that it was moving into his direction, "you know my breath smells like a newborn's skin!"

he took some more steps back until he was framed by the doorway. "you're right," he replied nasally, "your breath smells like the skin on a newborn's ass right after it's taken a shit."

i threw a pillow at him as he retreated from the room. looking at the pile o'stuff on the bed, i deduced i had to wrap the gifts and fill out the cards. i won't go into detail about that shit. i wrapped the shit, signed the shit, and got up to brush my teeth cuz the air in that room was damn near asphyxiating my black ass.

after brushing the teefes, i gathered the gifts and cards and took them into the 'rent's bedroom.

sidebar: remember that episode of the cosby show when vanessa and rudy just busted up in clair and cliff's bedroom:

cliff: i want you go back outside, knock, and tell me who it is.

they go back outside and vanessa knocks.

cliff: who is it?

vanessa: who it is!

that's kinda like how i am with my folk. i bust up in their spot without knocking, which is why whenever the door is locked, i know they fucking. YUCK.

anyway, so i bust up in the spot, a sigh of relief passing my lips cuz the door wasn't locked. my mom's on the bed, a queen awaiting the shower of gifts from her loyal subjects. i hand her my paltry drizzle of presents and she gets excited anyway. i realize that no matter how old i am, no matter how crappy the gift (and believe me, there have been some really, really crappy gifts), mom is gonna get excited cuz it came from her 'mooka mook'. she unwraps her first present, which is a nina simone cd.

"oh! this is my nina!" she said excitedly while turning the cd to read the front. then she got quiet.

"wait...i've got this one...diane sent me a copy of this for my birthday..."

awww shit.

i look at dad with that accusing "why didn't you know mom had this one" look on my face. he shrugged in response, the "you picked that shit out" look on his face. i hoped i was giving him my "remember the crock pot incident?" look as i smirked back at him.

"i love it anyway, baby."

"i've got the receipt if you want to take it back, mom," i said eagerly, disappointed in myself for not having astounded her with my brilliant gift giving. no matter what the age, a son or daughter is always gonna wanna please mom with the gift and will feel like a failure if he or she doesn't. i reached over for the other gift and jammed it into her hand, a feeble attempt to make her forget the first gift ever existed. she unwrapped it and the smile on her face was so big i could have sworn the ends of it were carving grooves into the walls.

"OH!" she exclaimed, "i love them!"

she carefully pulled out one of the silver earrings from the box and dangled it before her, eyes wide as she watched it twinkle in the path of sunlight coming through one of the bedroom windows.

thank goodness!

i gave a silent prayer of thanks to god and expelled the breath i was holding she placed the earring back in the box. yeah, yeah...i'm still a kid wanting to please her momma, damnit.

"happy mother's day, mommy."

i drew in close and we hugged each other tightly. then i sat with her on the bed and we talked. i told her about the woman at the kiosk (mom was there when i bought my brother the bracelet so she knew who i was talking about.) then i headed downstairs to make her breakfast.

breakfast is another harrowing task for me when i'm making it for mom cuz she's like a ghetto gourmet chef. she got her culinary degree at le kitchen de bed stuy and it ain't no joke. i'm pretty skilled myself...except when it comes to grits. whenever i try to make them, they either turn out too watery or too gritty. i can count on one hand the number of times i've gotten them just right. in fact, it had been only one time previously, and that was five years ago. so with four successive years of me fucking up the grits, i was scared shitless about trying it again but i was determined to get it right for the second time in like twenty tries.

i get out the pot, threw in some grits, poured in some water (making sure the water came up to the second line of my middle finger...ya'll know ain't no measuring in black folk's kitchens), put a pinch of salt in it, a couple of pats of butter, and set it on the stove. i turned the fire up high and got to stirring. and stirring...and stirring...and yet more stirring. after god knows how long, i finally stopped stirring and freaked out cuz it looked watery.

gawtdamnit, i'm NEVER gonna get this shit right.

i turned down the fire before running across the kitchen to the counter with the container holding the uncooked grits and frantically contemplated pouring in more grits. then i remembered the last time i'd tried that shit. i'd ended up with an overflowing pot of grit paste, half of the grits had been undercooked while the over half had been overcooked. that year, mom hadn't even tried to spare my feelings. she'd tossed those grits out right in front of my face.

"mooka mook, just make me a bowl of cereal..."

yeah, adding grits wasn't the answer.

so i just stood there and watched the grits cooking in the pot, my hand nervously hovering over them like i could will them to cook perfectly. five minutes later they still looked watery and i had eggs to make and bacon to microwave so i reluctantly stepped away from my grit-watching post and prepared the rest of the breakfast. as i scrambled the eggs i checked the grits again. they were still watery. SHIT SHIT SHIT.

then i remembered my mom always putting a top on the grits while they were in the last stage of cooking. i rushed to the counter and flung open the lower doors, elated at the discovery of the missing piece to the puzzle (or so i'd hoped). finding that pot top was like finding the holy was like finding the 'g' was like finding that area on the tip of a penis that makes a brotha buck and squirm like a wild mustang when kissed with the lips of an experienced 'wrangler'.

sidebar: how come i always bring shit back to sex? i could be talking about the most mundane thing and suddenly i've got a metaphor comparing it to sex. i was talking to someone today about the game of chess and somehow i got to comparing it to sex. chess and sex? a nerdy guy with a pocket protector and glasses taped at the bridge...and sweaty sex...those images together do not normally compute and yet i was sitting there telling brotha chess was like "a sensual invasion...methodical plotting...a caress here and there that breaks down the defenses..."

i must be horny as fuck.

so i got the top on the pot and i stand there for about two minutes before i impatiently yank the top off to see if there was a change in the wateriness. the sight before me was the most beautiful thing i'd ever seen.

the grits were thickening....OHHH SHIIIIT!

can i tell you i was close to tears when i saw that shit? can i tell you i felt like i'd just figured out my purpose for living? can i tell you in my excitement over the grits i ended up overcooking the damn bacon??? *sigh*

i called up to mom, pride in my voice and shit.

"mom!" i yelled up the stairs, "you want cheese in your grits?!?"


yeah, nikki took the chance of adding an unknown element to the perfect grits. i was being brave...or stupid.

i straight up strutted to the fridge like a pimp, grabbed the cheese, and then strutted to the pot where i put in a couple of handfuls of cheese, stirring and tasting the grits as i went along to make sure i didn't upset the chemistry of my perfect pot o'grits.

they were still perfect as i scooped some up and put 'em on a plate next to the eggs and the second set of bacon i made after the overcooked set. i floated up the stairs with my platter of perfection, cheezing more than the grits.

when i opened the door to the bedroom (again, unlocked...*whew*), mom was propped up on pillows talking on the phone.

"oh, my daughter has made me breakfast, so i've gotta go," she said with a combination of smug superiority and pride. (you mommas got some kind of mother's day competition going on or something?)

she hung up the phone as i placed the napkin in her lap before setting down the plate. handing her the utensils, i stepped back and waited. her attention was on the grits as she took her fork and ran a furrow through them.

"these look good," she said, "everything looks good."

i did not relax. plastic fruit looks good too until you take a bite out of that apple and end up with a mouth full of man-made material.

it looked like she was fucking playing with her food as she stirred the grits...and stirred...and stirred. i guess she was stalling for time as she remembered all of my previous attempts at making grits.

eat the fucking grits damnit!

as the sun was setting hours later (just kidding, but it felt like it'd been that long)...eventually she got around to tasting the grits. the slow grin on her face as she savored and swallowed had me thinking she was digging the grits, but i wasn't sure.

"these are GOOD, mooka mook!" she said in surprise. then she turned to dad, "honey, the grits are good this time. you can have some."

i turned around and shot my dad the bird with my eyes. he shrugged with that "you know you make shitty grits" look on his face.

whatever, dude. just for that, you getting the other set of bacon.

Monday, May 15, 2006

weekend excursions and observations, pt. 1

my mother is a trip.

sometimes she's a trip to impatience and frustration, sometimes she's a trip to happiness and security. this weekend her trips included one to the mall, one to the convenience store, one to the grocery store, and one long journey towards insanity. regardless of where she takes me, more times than not i'm riding on a wave of mom-propelled guilt to get there.

date: saturday, may 13, 2006
time: approximately 8:00 p.m.

place: s. dekalb mall

dad had finally coaxed me out of the house and we were just walking in to s. dekalb mall. i hadn't been there since...well, a long damn time. in fact, i hadn't been a regular patron of the spot since i was a teenager. as i stepped through the entrance at the far end where the cavernous shell of jc pennys had been replaced by a no-name furniture store, i was reminded of just how far down the mall had come from the time when i was a shy teen and the mall was a thriving center of black business.

the location of my entry into the mall was pretty much empty, except for the occasional lost patron. the only things taking up space over there were the furniture store, a beauty salon, and the lone black-owned book store occupying a tiny corner. they existed like crumbs, only discovered if someone bothered to pull out the couch cushions.

sidebar: aiight, so why was this the only fucking book store in the entire mall? is it because barnes & nobles was deferring to the power of the itty bitty black-owned bookstore whose selection numbered in the hundreds as opposed to their usual thousands? is it because waldenbooks, out of respect for the small business owner, decided not to establish residence out of fear of squashing the little man? or is it because s. dekalb mall is located in the hood and barnes, nobles, and walden's ignant asses assumed black folk in the hood don't fucking read?

so i glance through the glass walls of the bookstore and notice a brotha and his son at the checkout counter. he was in the right place cuz i was damn sure checking him out. i stopped and feigned like i was interested in the crappy jewelry being displayed on a rack at the front of the store, casting furtive glances at the man and his son.

"see something you like?" my dad asked from behind me.

i continued my pretence of looking at the jewelry and frowned. then i looked at the man and noted the wedding ring on his finger.

"nah...nothing interesting in here..." i responded as the disappointment in the brotha's status tickled my brow into a furrow. damn, he was cute, too.

we left the bookstore and made our way down the long stretch of mallway. i noticed immediately a kiosk decorated in kente cloth and silver. treasures from the motherland...okay, so the name of the business was rather trite. however, the sista running the kiosk looked vaguely familiar. i stopped to check out the jewelry while i tried to remember where i knew her from.

dad basically stood behind me while i picked out earrings and a bracelet for mom, giving the appropriate sounds of approval when required. i should have known he wasn't gonna be an active participant in this endeavor as he made it known early on my purpose there was to make sure he didn't buy her something like socks or a tool set. you see, dad is known for his 'practical' gifts. not known in a good way, known in that "that mothafucka betta not get me another fanny pack for christmas" kinda way. the 'practical' crock pot he'd given my mom a number of years ago had met an immediate and mysterious demise, falling from the top of the fridge to shatter into a million pieces on the kitchen floor.

"what happened to the crock pot?!?" i remember asking her after she told me it was gone.

"there's a ghost around here that doesn't care too much for soup." had been her sarcastic reply.

dad learned his lesson from that one, which is the reason i'd been recruited to help him find her a gift the 'ghost' wouldn't place on the top of the fridge, waiting for the right moment to push it from the ledge. as i'm perusing the jewelry, i look up at the sista and suddenly remembered where i knew her from.

"hey!" i exclaimed as my mind cleared up and a previous image of her appeared, "you had a store over in the west end mall, right?"

she stared at me, her eyes squinting as i could tell she was trying to place my face. "i think i remember you," she said slowly as she smiled wistfully and nodded, "yes, i used to have a store over there."

she emphasized the word 'used'. my heart sank a little. that store was the only reason i ever went into west end mall. she had the greatest selection of crochet hats that would fit a big-headed girl with locs like me, not to mention some of the most beautiful traditional african outfits i'd ever seen. the jewelry she had there had been hand-rendered, copper, silver, and minerals molded into masterpieces by some unknown artisan. the most stunning piece i'd ever purchased, a copper bracelet for my brother, was bought in that store.

"what happened?" i asked, disheartened by the change in her fortunes.

"well," she began on a sigh, "i had grandchildren in crisis. had to close up my store while i went to take care of that situation."

sidebar: see, folk assume black folk in the hood don't wanna own our own shit or that we don't know how to manage our shit when we get it. most times it ain't nothing like that. it has more to do with the fact that our dreams don't erase the effects of socioeconomic inequality manifesting itself like cancerous tumors within the pores of the people around us. in other words, drama don't end with fam just cuz one person was able to latch onto a dream, which means sometimes folk gotta let go of the dream temporarily, go clean house, then come back with the hope that the dream is still there waiting for us.

in this case, the dream was still waiting, but its shine had dimmed. most dreams need money to shine and if you folk living in the hood, usually ain't no extra money left for dreams.

i looked at her and felt the burdens she was carrying as though they had momentarily been placed upon my shoulders. we were still staring at each other quietly when she continued.

"i never thought i'd be raising my grandkids. not at this age," her voice was tight with weariness. i didn't want to know what happened to create the scenario of her having to raise her grandkids, but the look in her eyes told me everything i didn't want to know. she was mourning the death of her child's spirit. whether the death had evaporated within the smoke from a crack pipe or had been mangled to death from a car accident, i wasn't sure, but it didn't matter. she had lost someone, that was obvious.

i spontaneously leaned over and gave her a hug, hopeful the gesture would afford her a moment of comfort.

"you did what you felt you needed to do," admiration in my eyes and voice, "what you're doing is amazing. don't think you won't be blessed as a result."

she nodded silently before leaning over to focus her attention on the silver bracelet i'd picked out. she began polishing it until i could see my reflection, dull beneath the low mall lighting.

we talked a little longer while she rang up our purchases. turns out after she lost her spot at the other mall she couldn't return to set up shop there because they had a policy of only allowing one of a particular type of business to operate on the premises. i stood there and listened while she recollected her struggles to get her business back on track. she'd had to borrow money from family, sell her car, and get a loan from the bank in order to have the funds to start up again. she was struggling in the new spot because of the overall low patronage of the mall itself and wasn't sure if her business would last through the summer. i marveled at her determination to reclaim her dream. my heart felt like lead in my chest as i reached over and gave her another hug after she handed us our a bag with our stuff in it. i couldn't help myself. i wanted to comfort her and offer her whatever i had emotionally that would fortify her own strength.

"happy mother's day," i whispered into her ear as i held her in my arms. she just smiled and planted a kiss on my cheek. i smiled back.

"she's awe-inspiring, dad," i said to dad as we walked away from the kiosk. he nodded in agreement. we strolled further down the mallway, the crowd around us expanding in number as we neared the middle of the mall. young black folk were everywhere. the brothas were leaning up against the walls, their stances a study in forced casualness as their eyes alertly bounced off of the bodies of the females walking by, their attention absorbed in the mesmerizing movements of the bouncing ba-dunk-a-dunks more times than not encased in something either too tight or too short or both.

i couldn't remember ever dressing so provocatively when i was a teen, but then i'd been a major tomboy. i'd mimicked all of the masculine moves of my guy friends, hopeful they'd dismiss my femininity as the unfortunate side-effect of my birth i'd viewed it as being. i'd rebelled against the adult curves invading my pubescent form, struggling in vain against the transformation that would have them staring at me as if i were one of the girly girls. at one time i'd been one of those girls...right up until i was molested at age seven. and then being a girl became synonymous with being victimized by males and so i'd purged myself of that persona.

my time as a teenager at the mall was basically me walking a couple of steps behind my family, my head down as i stared at the movement of my feet, fearful of looking up because it meant possibly making eye contact with the boys lining the walls of the walkway. i remember slouching over so my burgeoning breasts wouldn't protrude so purposefully through my pink sweatshirt. the lens of my glasses would fog up from the heat brought on by my nervousness, which would cause me to trip over my feet every now and again. no matter how invisible i'd tried to make myself, i could still feel their eyes upon me. the only time i ever felt comfortable around guys during that time was when i was playing tag football with them in the street or shooting hoops with them on the courts or whatever activity would make me seem more boyish and less of a boy's wish.

those images and remembered feelings were long ago memories in my mind on saturday. on this day i was a grown woman comfortable in her curvaceousness. i sauntered through the mall next to my father, my ass swaying seductively behind me (not on purpose! that's how this sista walks, damnit). a smirk slid onto my face as i made eye contact with every guy bold enough to look me in the mouth. old or young, it mattered not.

cuz you can't handle all of this shit here, shawty...

dad and i ended up in a record store where we purchased a nina simone cd (i picked, he paid). during this time, i tried to belt out a couple of verses to four women, at which time my dad cringed sincerely and told me not to quit my day job. the sarcastic bastid.

it was cool as fuck hanging with dad.

we left the mall after about an hour and made our way home. the rest of the night was spent chillin' with the 'rents.

sidebar: how come my parents still yell at me to clean up my room? i haven't lived there in over a fucking DECADE! it ain't my room anymore! oh, and why am i expected to take someone's side during a disagreement? do i look like great britain? i ain't a punk that'll side with whomever yells the loudest! my name is SWEDEN, DAMNIT.

i spoke to aries man on the phone before calling it a night. yeah, brotha still trying to woo and shit.

Friday, May 12, 2006

friday spotlight...CHECK THESE BLOGS DAMNIT.

this is my chance to spotlight some of the wonderful blogs i've come across over the last couple of months. please check these folks out. i'm not playing when i say they've got interesting blogs, really i'm not. LOL

first up is solomon. i found his blog through my sitemeter. he'd already linked me to his blog and i had no idea who he was. turns out he's a cute guy from georgia, but that's not why i'm recommending you check out his blog (although it damn sure don't hurt, right?). what's great about his blog is his dry wit and variety of topics. he doesn't play nice on his blog. recently, he went off on ludacris because luda was getting all pissy at oprah after oprah ripped into his ass over his lyrical content. this, after oprah initially didn't want the brotha on her show because of said lyrical content. solomon made some very insightful points (on which i co-signed cuz they were good points) and i think that's the post that really got me to appreciate his blog. check this one out if you enjoy discussion on current events but not from a petty "look what this fool was wearing" point of view. this cat gives thoughtful commentary on his shit.

fallen angel has got this amazing gift for writing. i'm not sure how she found my blog nor do i care, cuz in the end i feel as though i'm the one blessed as a result of her finding my shit. her blog is comprised mostly of creative writing entries. alot of short posts and some of the most beautiful poetry i've ever read. she inspires me to write with more than just a passing thought, makes me ponder my own gifts and not squander them just because at times i have no faith in them. a recent entry began "i sometimes play ketchup with mustard which inevitably ruins the sandwich of closeness between you and i..."

that shit blew my mind. this girl is good, damnit.

the next cat on the list is marcus. he comments as 'G' here. all i gotta say is OH MY FUCKING GOODNESS...this brotha's writing is like a fucking revelation to me. he told me i was one of his inspirations to write, which is a load of crock cuz he damn sure ain't need no inspiration from me to drop the jewels he be dropping. oh yeah...gotta tell about what happened yesterday. so i finally got around to reading his latest entry and was blown away yet again. later, i check my email and see i've got two from him. i check the first one, which starts off "have i told you i love you???"

i was creeped out a little cuz i don't really know this cat, but i read on. he starts talking about how i've been mia and he's been looking for me because i'm his muse and shit. he be fiending on me and my writing. i start to get the big head...until i see at the very end of the email where brotha mentions someone else's name. uh, turns out that email wasn't for me. LMAO. he immediately sent another email telling me that very thing. my ego was crushed. thanks, marcus, for making me feel insignificant. bastid. ;)

here's a sampling of his writing. i'm sure you'll be just as enthralled with his writing as i've become:

"3 AM. 32 stories above the terrestrial surface, it's just me, Lake Michigan and the night crawlers down there. I wonder who they are, where they are going and what they are doing.
Party people.
Those thinking of ways to sneak into their homes quietly after a midnight rendezvous.
Workers busily sweeping away the previous day's debris in preparation for then next day's delivery.
My own little ghetto enclave in the midst of the white man's Magnificent Mile."

just check the brotha out. you won't be disappointed.

i found this cat through fallen angel's blog (thanks, sis!). slumpfacade is...damn, he just IS. this brotha don't just love the written word, he seduces it, his fingers lovingly caressing the sharp corners and/or curved crevices of each letter as he finesses them into place. his poetry is...damn, it just IS. i always have a problem commenting on his shit because i can never find the words to adequately describe my joy or awe at reading his shit. here's a sample:

"ice cream castles in the Summer time
running down the small of your back,
tasting of peach sorbet mixed with salt
from your pores, concentration brings
about pleasure, I can taste the tattoo ink
with each lick, no napkin required, only
passengers riding within street cars named
desire appreciate our public display of
aroused erection, feminine plumber crack
addictive, bend over, clean this pipe, unclog
semen sediments wishing to build
fleshly foundations,
caramel, chocolate, vanilla…"

taste the tattoo ink? for real??? SHIIIIIT...

if you're looking for some salt to go with that ice cream, check out sowisesista's blog. at this point, no doubt she's the worst kept secret out there, cuz there's no way you don't know about this sista, but i'm putting her on blast ANYWAY. why? because her blog is that brilliant mixture of both exposed vulnerability AND bite. she's like that cute puppy you go in to give a treat to, only to draw back a nub if she thinks you're trying to feed her bullshit. her wit is drier than a corpse's cunt, but it'll have you crying enough tears of glee to lubricate while you get your necrophilia on.

she recently did a series of entries on her run in with a former crush that turned out to be a bust. reading that story reminded me of my own run ins with guys like that and i automatically felt a kinship to her. read it and you'll see what i'm talking about. afterwards, if you've been through something similar, you'll be thinking the same thing as me: we must be lesbians cuz we always seem to end up fucking with pussies.

finally, there's stiltwalker...what to say what to say...her blog is definitely not for the faint of heart, not because it has graphic images of nasty or violent stuff but because she doesn't hold back not one bit (and i really mean that shit). 'acerbic' is the term i would use if i were talking about a tamer version of her. if i were to come up with more accurate adverbs and adjectives to describe her, i'd use words like "viciously witty", "addictively acidic", "caustically crazy"..LOL

if you want a hit of her herb, check out her recent series on a marriage agreement. it was both funny AND scary as fuck. by the end, i was definitely questioning her sanity, but in a good way. in that "this is one crazy sista, but i dig her cuz at least she's honest" kinda way. actually, sista ain't crazy...some folk just can't handle the truth, especially when that truth ain wrapped up in a happy pill. if you're one of those people, then you ain't ready for her shit.

i hope you find these blogs as entertaining and mind-fucking as i have.

Thursday, May 11, 2006

yesterday was a lazy day...

it began in darkness, the storm outside a tired fury like a baby on her last hiccups after a long wail. it rolled noisily upon the overcast pallet of the sky, mustering up just enough bluster to bend tree trunks, severing leaves from their extended limbs.

i lay fetal beneath my covers, content in the spot of warmth i'd created as i contemplated the cramps seizing my cervix.

they'd begun in earnest.

i'd awoken to them twisting within me, their convulsive canter causing me to curl myself more tightly as they ran along side the rain outside, the pitter-patter of their feet in time with the bitter splatter of the droplets slamming incessantly against my bedroom's glass eye.

will this end before my work day begins?

seven screamed its arrival into my ear and i smacked it into momentary silence. shut up! i know what time it is damnit.

ten minutes before i need to be in the shower.
twenty minutes before i need to be getting dressed.
thirty minutes before i need to be walking out of the door.
forty minutes before i need to be walking into my office door.

i had nine minutes to figure out what i really needed.

thunder clapped within my womb as outside the branches snapped and shattered upon impact with the ground.

i groaned and wrapped my arms around my abdomen, my body a hard knot of hurt. my eyes remained closed, as though the absence of light would leave the cramps confused and unable to continue with their assault.

before seven-ten could begin bellowing, i was grabbing for its lips to squeeze them shut. i know, i know...i should be in the shower.

but my body wouldn't cooperate. it was probably because my mind's demands were uttered too weakly.

"you know we need to go to work, right?" whispered my mind, without force.

"man, fuck work," my body responded breathlessly as the cantankerous contractions continued clamoring my cervix, "that shit can wait until tomorrow."

"but we've got a couple of important documents due today! who's gonna create that registration form if we're not there??" my mind was being a whiny bitch.

"do you think i give a shit about those documents? what about me??? those people don't care if i'm feeling aiight or not. all they care about is whether or not the fucking work gets done." my body was starting to roar its dissent to my mind. i could feel my mind shrinking beneath the force of reason.

"you're right," my mind exclaimed, "last time i convinced you to go in when you weren't feeling well i had to work extra hard just to stay on my shit. nobody offered to relieve me. nobody told us to go home. they just sat around and watched you suffer. man, FUCK them."

my body hadn't actually won that argument. my mind, being the selfish bitch she is, was all set to make my body suffer...that is until she remembered how poorly she'd been treated the last time she made the sick body go to work. she thinks the sun rises and sets with her. conceited heffa.

"we're calling in, damnit." said my mind.

and then it became an exercise in creating an acceptable excuse.

"good morning dan, this is nikki. i'm not coming in today because i'm not feeling well."

that's too vague. dan is a nosey mofo who gotta know everything going on with his employees.

"good morning dan, this is nikki. i'm laying in my bed right now clutching my abdomen while the most heinous pain i've ever experienced is slicing through my gut like a set of kitchen knives. just imagine blood stains everywhere and my liver dangling from the side of the bed..." mind was in overload...

"good morning dan, this is nikki. i'm experiencing pain of a feminine matter and will not be in today. if you need me, you can reach me at home."

i called his office, left the message, then rolled over in my bed and slept. that is, until i got up, grabbed my laptop, and got online.

to read blogs.

and talk to my folk via im.

so i was feeling crappy, but not too crappy as to interfere with my usual habit of reading blogs and chatting. at least, for the most part.

sorry to the folk who were talking to me when i kept disappearing throughout the day without notice. i kept falling asleep.

or doubling over in pain.

oh come if i tell a guy it's a 'female thing' the automatic response from him is "say no more!"

and why is the second automatic response "are you pregnant?"

'female thing' is not to be equated with 'i'm pregnant', dig?

aiight, i'm done. back to work.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

i know you've probably seen this before, but it's still funny as shit.

aiight, so i straight up fucking DIED when i checked this on youtube. i can watch this FOREVER. just loop this shit and make it my life's soundtrack.

tagged twice with one punch

let me both thank and curse so wise sista for tagging this shit.

check our her blog if you haven't already. when i say she's got the goods, i'm understating it. btw, my first year of college was at west georgia college (when it was college instead of university), but seeing as that experience was short and bitter, i ain't counting that shit AT ALL. i'm skipping to my second year when i was at a school i actually gave a shit about.

YOUR FIRST YEAR OF COLLEGE......What do ya'll remember?

School: Florida Agricultural and Mechanical University located in Tallahassee, Florida.

Where did you live?
cropper hall. the hall where 'crabs' ran rampant (not from me, damnit). see those steps right there in the photo? those are same steps my brother found my boyfriend at the time wrapped around some chick. cheating bastid. those were good times...NOT.

Who was/were your roommate(s)?
"easy jackie from jacksonville". no, i mean that shit. that girl's pussy had frequent fucker miles on it. i actually had to stop being around her because folk started assuming i was throwing the pussy away with ease like she was. ho through association. after i was raped though, i was wiling out, too, so i can't hate on what the girl was doing.

Do you still talk to them?
for what? that's the same bitch who ran up my phone bill. my mom came down and cussed both her and her momma out for that shit...but she damn sure got the money to cover that bill. my momma got gangsta when necessary.

Ever get in trouble in the dorms?
no. uh, at least not in my dorm...however, i almost got tossed from sampson hall where my man resided. yeah, i sneaked up in the joint and yeah, i stayed overnight and yeah, i had to sneak to the bathroom to get my pee on and no, it wasn't a co-ed dorm. the only thing that saved me was the fact that he was a captain on the football team so the residential assistant cut us both some slack.

Something you remember about when you first lived on campus?
playing spades all day and all night while watching a different world. damn, that was the fucking PASTTIME on famu's campus (other than fucking, that is); a HUGE water fight where brothas were dropping balloons from windows and people were getting chased all up and down those hills. i ended up being chased and drenched by two future nfl players, one of whom was a swift corner back who gave me a head start and STILL managed to catch me within a minute (fast bastid). one girl had the misfortune of being on the ground floor of paddyfote...with her windows open. the brothas actually filled up trashcans with water and dumped them round after round into her dorm room. wiped out all her electronics, computer, phone, stereo, television, vcr...EVERYTHING.

Your campus phone number or other number:
i have no fucking idea...

First party attended?
there was something going on at a club called 'faces' the second night i was there. it was within walking distance of my dorm, so a bunch of us girls (cuz you know freshmen girls traveled about ten deep at all times) headed to the spot.

First Bar you got wasted at?
we always attended private parties if we wanted to get wasted, so i never got drunk at a bar.

Favorite Pizza Place?
dominos. actually, the drivers weren't getting robbed until my class got there, then all hell broke loose. we were some fucking thugs for real.

Favorite place to go out to eat?
my friend nancy's cuz she had a son so she cooked every night.

Did you go to the library?
all of the time. i actually liked being there. i used that time to hide from folk.

What was your Favorite Floor you'd always be on?
second floor, cuz that's where my man's dorm room was located. after that, it was the lobby, cuz that's where all the spades playing went down.

Club, Athletics, Frat or Sororities, you joined?
famuan, nabj, naacp, intramural sports, JAX club (that last one was just made up by us folk who attended the same parties, stocked with alcohol from the local liquor store, obviously named JAX.)

Where did you buy your books?
used at the bookstore or borrowed from friends.

Who made the best wings?
i didn't eat 'em.

Ever attend a sporting event?
no doubt. my boyfriend was on the football team and then there was the marching 100...'nuff said.

Ever attend a concert or comedic performance?
not my first year there, nah.

Have you ever spent the night on campus not in your dorm hall?
um...most of my time at night was spent either in my man's room or at nancy's cuz she cooked but lived off campus (and i ain't have a car until sophomore year.)

Favorite night to go out on, and where did you go?
friday, and it was a JAX party at my boy troy's house.

Where did you get coffee?
uh...sampson hall? and i got that shit nightly in a tall cup with a dollop of cream and the sweetest aroma ever. ;)

Favorite part of Halloween?
what kind of fucking question is this? no really...what the fuck this gotta do with the list as a whole?

Go see a play or been in one?
i saw one play and i don't remember what it was about for anything. come on! it was my first year at famu after attending a predominantly white high school AND college. you think i was giving a shit about culture? no, i was concerned with colored folk, cisco, and my man's cock...not necessarily in that order...

Did you ever have a job at school?
nah. i was a trust fund baby, so i didn't need a gig until later. however, i was in a big booty contest and won $75 (through default cuz the sista competing against me decided to get nekkid, which disqualified her ass).

What do you hate about your college?
before the days of the telephone and computer registration we had to do that shit manually, ala standing in line starting at 6:30 a.m. and not getting out of that damn thing until damn near noon. oh, and don't let your ass need financial aid. you might as well grab a book and settle in for the long haul. i didn't have financial aid but my best friend did and she hijacked me into sitting there with her.

What did you love most about it?
the spades, the bonding, the football games, the JAX parties, the plethora of fine black men, the entire hbcu experience and the empowerment that came from being at an hbcu and being among black professors who had high expectations of us, instead of getting giddy just cuz we put complete sentences together. folks who attended an hbcu know what the fuck i'm talking about. it really don't get no better than that. i loved my experience there (uh, until the end, that is...another story ALL TOGETHER)...

Ever leave to go on a road trip, where?
nancy and i and little man would drive to atlanta for homecooking and mommie love.

Where would you believe is the best location to live in?
i always wished i'd lived in paddyfote cuz that's where all the action was (which is code for "that's where all the fine brothas were living in close proximity.")

Graduated or still attending?
still attending...another school. kinda had something to do with that last year i was talking about...and no, i ain't telling that story just yet.

Will you go back?
i'll be there for homecoming this year for the first time since i left. looking forward to it.

How many parking tickets have you gotten there?
got one, but it wasn't my first year, which is what this shit is about, right?

Finally, ever gotten arrested?
uh...we're talking about freshman year, right? then, no.


Four nicknames I've been given: thunder thighs, mook, buffalo butt, nikki (two of those came straight from my brother's imagination...guess which ones...)

Four movies I would watch over and over: love jones, lion king, anne of green gables (and avonlea), when harry met sally.

Four jobs that I have had in my life:
1. mcdonalds cashier
2. tutor-counselor for upward bound
3. program coordinator for girls tech program
4. database designer at university

Four places I have lived: brooklyn, tallahassee, tampa, atlanta

Four TV shows I like to watch: law & order svu, sportscenter, harvey birdman attorney at law, outside the lines

Four places I have been on vacation: new york, seattle, d.c., houston

Four things I could NOT live without: my brother, my computer, espn, music

Four of my favorite foods: mac & cheese, lasagna, cheesecake, pizza (you see a recurring theme with the cheese? i'm one backed up bitch...)

Four places I would rather be right now: on top of a fine brotha getting fucked royally, at an nfl football game, any concert with a good band, with my brother

aiight, i'm tagging the following: aquababie, amadeo, chele, hassan (and you better do this shit damnit!), verseone, ladylee, scarlett, heleenuh, and stiltwalker