November 26, 2008
This Bug was ecstatic to learn that John Forte had his 14 year sentence commuted by George Bush. Technically, he won't be out until December 22nd, but that's enough to make me do the happy dance. It's about damn time Dubaya did something worthwhile before he doh-si-dohs his silly ass back to his Texas ranch. This is a just a drop in the bucket when you consider how many brilliant minds are behind bars serving overly harsh sentences without the benefit of a pardon.
As far as Forte goes, I'm hoping that the game treat dat ass a li'l kinder- so there won't be any backsliding into liquid Yayo. He should start anew and cut off Carly Simon. Later for her. To me, she was his biggest advocate because she knew damn well some of that stash was hers. Oh, and if anyone runs into him, let him know he is more than welcome to eat mangoes in Trinidad with me instead of attorneys. Nah, seriously though- I wish him the best due to the challenges that will come along with his freshly granted freedom. I'm wise enough to know it won't be an easy road.
Without further ado, my favorite verse from Mr. Forte...
Just one more thing to be thankful for on Turkey Day. Yessiree.
November 23, 2008
Since it's been a key element to my existence and the soundtrack to my life for the most part, these are some of my random Hip-Hop related musings and confessions.
- The Fat Boys were always wack to me. Always. Wack.
- My friend to the end, Jill and I were the Sydney and Sheraine of basement house parties...Especially when BBD's Poison came on.
- Oh, the things I wanted to do to Redhead Kingpin at just 12 years old. It made no sense.
- Jay Z has not done anything to impress me wholly since Reasonable Doubt. When he comes with the same hunger as he did on 22 Two's- I'll think about purchasing an album. The operative word being think.
- I'm still amazed that B.I.G. made it uncool to like Kwame with ONE line. Ouch.
- Was I the only one that realized Common was saying, "Relax yourself, Girl. Be so clear." during the VH1 2008 Hip Hop Honors? Q-tip laid this little mystery to rest when he said the sample during Electric Relaxation is repeatedly stating "Girl, please settle down."
- I once witnessed M.O.P. straight jack fools for stage time and the sound guy almost got duffed out for trying to disconnect their mics. True story.
- It doesn't bother me so much anymore that Talib Kweli looks like a turtle.
- The Rainy Dayz remix is definitely Diamond D's best production work. Hands down.
- Part of the reason Boiler Room was such a dope flick was the sick ass soundtrack.
- Although my two pairs of bamboo earrings have been replaced with solitary chandeliers, I still feel like an Around the Way Girl at heart.
November 20, 2008
I can't recall every detail, but the meat and potatoes of it was the fact that John Leguizamo and I were very good friends. How random is that? I was out with family and my cell rang. I look at the Caller ID and it's John. In the dream- this was all very normal. We begin chatting and he tells me that he's in between scenes of a new movie he's shooting and just wanted to shout me out, see how I was doing. (Exact words by the way) I have NO idea where this came from. I feel absolutely no connection to this actor whatsoever. Well, that's not entirely true. There is a mild case of six degrees of separation at work where he is concerned. My former boss (an ex-NY Jets Running Back) grew up with him in Alphabet City before John moved to Queens. I guess that's more like one degree, but I haven't seen that guy in years and that still doesn't explain the dream.
This isn't my first time dreaming that I was well acquainted with a celebrity. I once had a dream that Al Pacino and I were very friendly. I was sitting in my car and he walked over, leaned in to kiss me on the cheek and asked how my Dad was doing. Then there's the one where boxer Roy Jones was sitting next to me with his big cock getting a manicure at the nail salon. He kept stressing that he did not want clear polish. I know. Weird. But dreams are not always meant to make sense, I suppose. While we're on the topic, I'll share what I believe about seeing random strangers in dreams. I don't believe they are random at all. I think they are people you have glanced upon, even for a split second- at a red light or on line at the hardware store and your brain has subconsciously stored their image, so they reappear in your dream. I could be wrong, but I just don't believe that we can create someone out of thin air. Even if it is an odd or somewhat scary character in your dream, I believe that person is some twisted amalgamation of several snapshots your brain has retained. Just my take on it.
Anyway, as I sit and ponder this new found friend-in-my-head, Mr. Leguizamo- I'll see what I can do to program my dreams for tonight. I would love to drum up some slumber induced interaction with any of the boys from my hot but not list. Sominex. Check. Warm jammies. Check. Hollywood, here I come.
***Editor's Update*** Shortly after posting this, I received a call about interviewing with a University in New York. The twist ? It happens to be the alma mater of my former boss...who grew up with Mr. Leguizamo.
November 19, 2008
And if that's the case, I don't know I felt like I was watching 2 hours of MacGyver- the British version. I won't say that Daniel Craig was the wrong man for the job. He is clearly more comfortable being Bond than he was in Casino Royale, but something is amiss. Everyone has their own idea of who was the best as this character. Sean Connery set a very high bar that his successors have yet to achieve. And it is painfully obvious in Quantum of Solace.
We find Agent 007 looking and acting a lot more like Jason Bourne than anything else. He is cold, aloof and suddenly vengeful which is pretty new to me. Previous installments exhibited the debonair Bond. He had taste. He looked good in a tux. He expediently handled his business out of a sense of duty. He is just as at home in a Diplomat's dinner party as he is unloading a Beretta .25 from a speedboat. Craig shows remnants of these qualities, but what is the Bond legacy coming to when we find the man of the hour pissy drunk with not a care in the world about what he is sipping. Since when? Shaken, not stirred was the credo as I recall. Daniel Craig lacks the elegance we all know and love but it's not entirely his fault.
Quantum was not even written by Ian Fleming, and it shows. Bond is brooding and particularly coldhearted in his execution this time around. This has a lot to do with plot continuity since the love of 007's life has been extinguished. And boy, is he pissed. He goes Rogue. He kills people in what seems to be the most bitter fashion possible. He is much more at ease being an unpolished Everyman than a cut above and it fails miserably. I'll be honest, I nodded off a time or two while viewing Quantum of
Now, let's all lift a properly jostled Martini for a true original.
November 16, 2008
Let's get this out the way right now. Separating religion from politics is about as feasible as separation of economics and politics. It's virtually impossible because it all operates on a cyclical social scale. There are some in this country who would rather cut off their eyelids than view a world that resembles a 'fruitopia' where gays can wed, pay bills together, host dinner parties and join the capitulated doldrums of the ole ball-and-chaindom known mostly to the Hetero world.
Last night, SNL flipped Proposition 8 the proverbial bird with its gayest installment ever. The highlight however was Beyonce's faux video shoot for her song Single Ladies. It was hilarious. Period. Anything that features Justin Timberlake in a Spanx leotard is worth a gander. This one was for all of those who can't handle it. And boy, did SNL give it good. I'm sure this one had the pearl clutching prudes running for the remote- forever traumatized by the boy who brought sexy back. I freakin' loved it!
I have always held the personal opinion that same sex couples are no different from straight couples. They too have power struggles, insecurities and the run-of-the-mill issues that face hetero couples. When I see a gay couple- male or female, I do not immediately think about what is going on behind closed doors any more than I do when I see a man and woman who are obviously involved. Because at the end of the day, that fundamental difference from straight couples is their business only.
I can't wax poetic on gay rights or the sanctity of marriage but I do know that when viewed from a political and social perspective, people have the right to be together and have that commitment recognized. How unfair would it be for a person to pass away and the life insurance policy would not acknowledge the preferred beneficiary simply because they cannot be considered a "spouse"- even though they loved, honored and respected their partner until death, but that declaration was blocked by the government. What the hell? Well, it seems unfair to me anyway. So This Bug tips her hat to SNL for really sticking it to the 'Straight Crusaders' with last night's episode. And if there are any of those lurking around right now, here's your catharsis. A very macho, very hetero Mr. Timberlake offering up a 'hard'felt gift from the bottom of his...pants. Enjoy!
November 14, 2008
Dear Summer, I know you gon' miss me. For we been together like Nike Airs and crisp tees. -Jay Z
Well- what can I say, Summer? We had a good run, but the chilly winds of change are blowing. The longest days and torrid nights are gone. The June solstice gives way to autumnal equinox. There is nothing comforting about bracing for a cold winter. I know you like I know my own name. Here at this final hour, I close my eyes and feel the sun on my face- though it has set so long ago. I close my eyes and see Bermuda blue and dinosaur bones. I try to blink them away- but blinking brings it all into focus. I see myself through Summer's eyes. Jayne, Jayne, Jayne...Jayne smiling, Jayne walking, Jayne talking. Thanks to you, I know what the Rich Coast looks like at 7 a.m. though I never knew the way to San Jose.
Today instead of ankle strapped stilts, I pulled on boots- clunky and heavy...So much for dancing on water. But Summer, I know you like I know my own name. I always knew the warmth would last only for a time. Seasons are such predictably tricky things. Warm, cold, forgiving, soothing, surprising, cruel, unforgivable. The only thing we can ever be sure of is how they make us feel. You learn to think twice before you step once- because there are jagged little seashells under all of that white sand. Once you bleed, that trip to the beach suddenly feels more like punishment.
Summer, you and I have shared the best and worst of times. Times ripened by nostalgia, times destroyed by the marble that tips the scale from fantasy. I still love to dress for you. A bared shoulder, a flirty skirt over bronzed thighs. What makes a woman feel more womanly than Summer? But the heat swells the pavement below spirited feet, creates mirages on highways. Just when you think you've neared the water- it disappears. But there is beauty in knowing the real thing is on the horizon. That some thirsts are inevitably quenched- not when we want them, but when it is absolutely needed. I will not long for you again, Summer. I will not celebrate you in some other part of the universe, like the Druids at Stonehenge. Let them sing your praises now.
Your sun was damaging. Sunburn is too much for this Brown girl with the poison pen. If I could, I would write this all in Red. Burn the corner of the document for added effect but what good would it do, when this letter will never be postmarked. I will not wrap myself in a scarf, don a woolen hat and gloves, brave the icy sidewalks just to drop this in the mail box. Not when I know you'll be back someday and I'll be gone. Picture me, stargazers ever blossoming from my eyes- never needing Summer again.
Summer smiles, but summer goes. And winter waits behind it.
November 12, 2008
This one seems pretty obvious but I'll explain anyway. Liars are worse than thieves. A thief may be after material goods, but a liar is after my reality- and I can't abide by that. I also happen to have an excellent memory so these folks don't get very far before I call them on it.
This could easily be number one but lying gets my goat way more than ignorant bliss. Particularly disturbing are their sweeping statements and insistence to live in the past rather than adapt to their ever evolving environment. Baseless fears and learned hate disgust This Bug.
Giants in Strollers
I can't be the only one who gets stuck behind the slowest moving stroller possible in the Mall. You finally get around them and glance back to find what looks like a long legged 7 year old whose feet are dragging on the ground. Lazy, overgrown kid in a stroller. At least that explains the hold up. I want to throw a roundhouse kick at the equally lazy mom and scream "He can walk, Dammit! Let him!"
Damsels In Distress
Three Words: Suck it up. Make that four. Suck it up, Bitch. I'm so tired of the 'woe is me' act. It kills me when I see women perpetuate the "weaker sex" stereotype by playing the tiny violins and batting the long lashes through crocodile tears. This is especially annoying when it's the Poor Little Rich Girl act. Go cry into your Hermés Birkin bag, Princess.
Celebrity Clothing Lines
Really, when will it end? I understand how lucrative it may be to have your name attached to T-shirts made in Guatemala, but this pisses me off since most of them haven't the first clue about fashion to begin with. This territory should be left to Sean Combs and Gwen Stefani. At least they know a thing or two about style and put out some quality gear. Ditto for celebrity fragrances. I blame MJ for that one.
Listen, just because someone owns a cell phone does not grant you the right to instant or continuous access to them. What in the world did we do before this little technological advancement? Oh, I remember. Wait for the person to call us back! Then there's the whole Caller ID thing which makes it pretty plain that I know that you know that I know you are relentlessly calling and refuse to give up. If it's that serious; leave a message.
Being Hit on by Married Men
I'm not talking about the men who hide the fact that they are married and carry on as though they are single. Those bastardos are in a class by themselves. I'm talking about the ones you come across on a daily basis. The ones with the family photo in plain sight while he checks you out and asks why you two have never had lunch together. Oh, look at that. Your wife is on Line 1. You should take that. Gotta run!
Let's keep it real. The DMV does not give a shit who can drive skillfully or who cannot. It's been a while since I've been there, but I envision a piñata style free-for-all where licenses just spill out by the plentiful pound. Every day I am reminded of how many morons are lawfully allowed to operate vehicles. I've introduced many a driver to my expansive array of profanities on several occasions. Yes, this pretty mouth can form the phrases that will disprove your faith in mankind. I've been known to yell F*ckhead, F*ckface, F*cksnot and the like into open windows...But trust me- it was well deserved. Don't let this be you.
Honestly, I can't think of anyone who would be okay with this sort of invasion. They say the average person needs 3 feet of personal space. Well I'm not the average person. I prefer about 6 feet. Can't talk right now. Ummmkay? Thanks. Bye.
Anyway, This Bug may consider compiling an opposite list of her own personal Raindrops on Roses and Whiskers on Kittens. Stay tuned, Boys and Girls.
Photo Courtesy: Corbis
November 11, 2008
Picture it. NYC. The year is 2000. Fresh off the Y2K hysteria that turned out to be a lot of anticlimactic hullabaloo, the party scene is in full swing once again. Not that it ever truly went anywhere, but those of you who say you didn't stock up on those canned goods and bottled water might be stretching the truth just a tad. And those of you who weren't secretly hoping the New Millennium would all but wipe out that sorry-ass credit score are just flat out lying...
Anyway, I hit the club with my brother-from-another, Staybent. The drinks were flowing. The music was blaring; and everyone was still partying like it was 1999. For some reason, I can remember Black Rob's Whoa playing repeatedly throughout the night. After 2.5 hours, it was starting to get on my nerves. So much so, that I was determined to find my wingman and get out of there as soon as I found the little girls' room. Navigating through that murky sea of drunk folk however, proved no small feat.
As I was making my way through the crowd I felt a firm grasp on my elbow. I follow the hand to see who is attached to it. It was some dude I used to work with back in my flower slingin' days. Sidebar: I once got a crank caller in the wee hours of the overnight shift. After my standard greeting, 'Thank you for calling 1-800-Flowers. How may I assist you?' a sleazy voice asks if I know the difference between an 800 number and a 900 number. Before I could hang up he barks into my headset- "It means I get to fuck you for free! Hahahaha." Click. One of the more memorable cranks, I must admit.
So, this dude holding my arm starts to go on and on about how he always wanted to talk to me at work but couldn't work up the nerve, blah,blah,blah. By now he is leaning in and completely invading my personal space. This must be fate, blah,blah,blah. Let me call you, please. Ad nauseam.
I employ every line in the book to deflect his advances. He then resorts to scrawling his number onto a napkin. He folds it into my palm with a salacious grin and whispers, "Just take it. You never know when it will come in handy." I wave him off, my quest to get home undeterred. I felt like Dorothy, only three clicks of my Eff-me pumps got me nowhere. I tried.
I locate the Ladies Room and after four very tall Belvedere and Crans, I rush into the stall to handle my ladylike business. My relief is quickly replaced with despair when I find that there is NO toilet paper in sight and I'm alone in the bathroom. Great. What to do... Then I remember the napkin in my clutch purse. Ever so carefully and ink-side down of course- I do what needs to be done and hot-step it out of there. Oh, the irony of his words. I never saw him again but to this day- I wonder if he'll ever know just how close he got to the good stuff.
Now dat's Whoa!
Photo courtesy Corbis
November 8, 2008
The best piece of advice I ever received was, “One hand don’t clap.” The source was my father. Yes. My resilient and seemingly all-knowing father gave me this furtherance. I remember it clearly because it came at a time that marked the end of my puppy love and the onset of self-diagnosed, incurable heartbreak. Lost in short-lived memories, I sat at the kitchen table staring blankly out of the sliding doors leading to our deck. My coffee sat, half-drunk and tepid before me. I felt just like the cup, well on its way to emptying itself down the drain. At least, that’s what I thought.
He walked into the room quietly, careful not to yank the hostess from her grand pity party. This was the hardest morning I had awoken to in a very long time. An ache had settled itself in my core. A stubborn lump rested in my throat and I dared not speak. I feared an ocean tears would be triggered. I feared crying myself blind. He lifted the kettle to fill it, only to replace it having seen that I had left just enough water for him. As he stirred his coffee, he never looked up. He sat across from me and then looked me straight in the eye. “You know, there’s only one thing that makes me sad in this world. And that is when any one of you all is feeling pain and there is nothing I can do to take it away.” By ‘you all’, I knew he meant my two older sisters and me. He was, with all of his being, ready to lay his life down for any one of us at a moment’s notice. I knew this, understood it wholly, but it brought me no comfort given my current condition.
I tuned out his presence to examine my plight. What had gone wrong? My thoughts on love were so simple at this green age. I thought that as long as I gave what was needed, I would get the same in return. Instead, I received a mountain of unfilled promises. I likened it to watching a ticker tape parade marching by from inside a desolate house. The whole world was going on gleefully, and I had no one. I was too young to know that love was not necessarily an even exchange. Sometimes, it was far more taxing than it was rewarding. That a partnership or relationship of any functionality required effort on both parts, but was not guaranteed. So many nights I lay, clutching my heart overwhelmed by the depths of unrequited love. It just wasn’t fair. Entranced by a slide show behind my eyes, I saw moments of firsts replaying themselves. First meeting, first kiss, and the first time to share myself with another human being. I would never be the same. Instantly the tears welled and I began to quake. Inconsolably, I sobbed for ten minutes that seemed everlasting. He allowed me to cry, knowing then what I know now; that this was all part of healing my heart. A good cry refreshes the soul and replenishes the spirit. It was the first of many to come.
Finally, he rose from his seat to leave me in my despair, but not before he poured these words over my hair as salve. “Sweetheart, one hand don’t clap. Remember that.” As he walked out of the kitchen, I ingested what he said. No sweeping exits or off-stage lines. I thought I heard the fanning of a solitary hand, seeking out another that simply was not there. The curtain was closing on my devotion after the dance and I could hear nothing.
These days, that sage advice holds true to this day. When I find myself giving a tireless effort to a lost cause, my father's words return to me. Anything worth having is worth fighting for, but there are times when you have to accept that if you are doing it all by yourself- perhaps it just should not be. It is true: One hand indeed cannot clap, but to append to my learned words of wisdom, all you have to do is be still. Listen closely, because that silence may tell you all that you need to know. It is one of the bravest things you can do.
November 5, 2008
This morning I awoke to a peculiar feeling. Surreal may be a better way to phrase it. It's difficult to describe, because I am astounded at how my entire being manages to encapsulate everything that is swirling within. Awed. Proud. Humbled. Reverent. I count myself fortunate to bear witness to this historic moment. Never has it been more fitting, never has it been more crucial for this country to choose a leader, regardless of race- who represents the promise of a new day. The pundits, the talking heads, the naysayers and the faithless have all been shown what is; and what can be. It seems my near and dear friend, Beau Averee knew it all along. We screamed, we applauded, we embraced...we exhaled. And then we both agreed that the challenges have only just begun.
It's amazing how much panic one honest man can spread among a multitude of
There are a handful of noteworthy moments in my lifetime which I will never forget- and I am content to say that November 4, 2008 has joined that list, now and forever. I have never felt such a symmetry of pride and humility; and his momentous victory has filled me with both. I have never been so hopeful and excited about the future as I am right now. With my head and my heart in total alliance- I wish to say thank you to Barack Obama.
November 4, 2008
Today is the day, People. It all boils down to today. I've kept a close eye on campaign thus far, and I can honestly say tonight's results are still anybody's guess, if 2004 is any indication of how unlikely outcomes can get. I've seen a lot of support for both parties in the last six months. Some of it, a bit more eccentric than others. The good folks over at Vanity Plates can attest to that. (Thanks for the shout-out, VP.) They recently posted one of the plates I passed along. I share their sentiment that no matter who you vote for today- whether you Barack the Vote or Make it Plain with McCain, it's important to not suffer from Electile Dysfunction. If you are able- of sound body and mind, I implore you to make your voice count for all those who might otherwise go unheard. No matter the outcome, we are all still witnessing history in the making and there is no reason to not be a part of it. It's a new day.
November 1, 2008
Warning: The following post contains my completely random thoughts on Strip Clubs. That's right, kiddies. Time to leave the room. You too, Jesus Freaks. Corruptible Adults only. Go on now...Shoo! Okay.
The other day I was talking to a friend of mine about strip clubs. I wish I could tell you what the segway was to that topic, but I really can't recall. All I can remember is the phone being dropped while he collected himself after I stated that nothing is impressive or sexy about a male stripper being able to make his booty clap the way a lady can. Actually, I find it downright disgusting. A waxed rear end oiled up and harnessed into assless chaps is well...nasty.
While we're sharing, I'm going to go as far as stating that I am comfortable enough with myself and own sexuality to be in such a place without feeling insecure or embarrassed. As a matter of fact, I would recommend that anyone of a mature age should go at least once, just to be a fly on the wall. When I say mature, I don't mean freshly 21 and Fratboy obnoxious, by the way. There's an unspoken etiquette when it comes to places like this. For those who are clueless as to how to conduct themselves- the burly bouncers are much obliged to teach you some manners after they open the back door with your head. Plus, they let the female patrons get away with alot more for some reason. Let a guy try to lay the smackdown on the merchandise and watch what happens.
Anyway, let me say this. I don't knock anyone's hustle. To judge them would mean that you have walked a mile in their 5 inch clear heels. Try those on for size and then talk smack. On some strange scale, I actually admire the talent and resourcefulness it takes to do that job. Their pole working skills could easily be a smash at Cirque du Soleil . And then there are the formidable customer service skills they hone while dealing with drunk, horny and disrespectful patrons who wear sweats or windbreaker pants to get their money's worth. Well...from my fly-on-the-wall observations, anyway.
Well those are my thoughts. And I couldn't leave without giving you a track listing of classic stripper songs for those of you at home who wish to free your 'inner freak'. So Ladies (or Gentlemen,) grab the gold lamé thong or whatever floats your boat or finds your lost remote and proceed to press play.
Madonna - Justify My Love- Who better to start off the list than the naughty Material Girl? She wants to run naked in a rainstorm...cross country. That beat will surely get the goodies moving.
Blackstreet- Fix- Sounds like an unlikely candidate until you give it a listen. Make sure it's the remix with Slash, Fishbone and ODB. Yes, I said ODB. Freaky Rock 'n Roll goodness.
Prince - Gett Off- C'mon. Does this one really need explanation? Actually, any song that's not a ballad from the Formally Purple Artist will do. His music oozes sensuality.
Scarred- Uncle Luke and Trick Daddy- I know Luther Campbell didn't invent booty bouncing, but he sure did help the movement along. Apparently "Luke Dancers" were once legendary.
Nasty Girl- Vanity 6- Another self explanatory tune. "That's right. Pleased to meet you. I still don't wanna tell you my name." This was a good 20 years before that train wreck Mouseketeer did a shameless rip-off with Slave 4 U. Anyhow, it's probably their mantra and therefore the list would not be complete without it.
That's my two pennies on this topic- because This Bug surely does NOT make it rain.