It's no small secret that This Bug loves food. I enjoy everything about it. God lives in that place between taste and the visual consumption of all things delicious. Okay, that may be stretching it a bit- but seriously, other than sex- eating is the one thing you can do where all of your senses are at work. Recently I've been craving foods from all over the world. My niece hit me with the most quizzical look the other day when I mentioned that I wanted Guacamole and Tiramisu. Folks at home can put the eyebrow down; This Bug's eggs are unfertilized to date. I just tend to pine for something radically different from day to day.
I've decided that the best way to taste the world would be to seek out men of various cultures and ethnicity. This way, when I want authentic Masala dosa- I can dial up my Indian friend or when I want real Fettucine Alfredo, I'll give the Italian man slave a ring. I understand that we're in a recession, so dining out may get a little steep. No worries. More than likely, they'll have a Mom or someone in their lives that cook traditional foods. I'll just hang around to pick up a few recipes. Mothers love me (most of the time) so this should be a breeze. I'm bound to learn how make something new in the kitchen.
This new plan has revolutionized my view on dating- since I now actually have something solid to get out of it. This Bug is hungry...and focused. I can just taste the possibilities; something I can really sink my teeth into. Handcrafted sushi from my Tokyo buddy on Monday, Down home southern fare from American Boy's momma on Sunday- and all the savory samples in between. Perhaps I'll tell them I'm a food critic and this way, we'll get superior service as I pretend to write a review of the chosen restaurant. That method is tried and true, believe me. I once got outstanding service in a Thai restaurant and I'm sure my trusty pen and notepad had everything to do with it.
I'll be chronicling my food adventures with said hand selected men so stay tuned, People. Variety is the spice of life!
Okay, I just saw the above commercial on TV and just about fell out of bed. Are they serious? I know things are different these days. Brazilian waxes can come up at the breakfast table and no one will bat an eye, now. I can recall a time when pruning the Lady Garden was not an openly discussed matter. But this ad has all the subtlety of a jackhammer. Pretty women on their way out the door, ready for the world...now that the bush has been minimized. I can just imagine the creators of this commercial sitting around- kicking around ideas for the pitch.
Ad Man 1: Hmmm...Schick TrimStyle. TrimStyle...Trim. That's what it does. It trims the hedges. How do we illustrate that?
Ad Man 2: Why don't we show hot young chicks doing their everyday thing...but with little hints of bushes shrinking in the background? We'll use CGI. It'll be great.
Ad Man 1: Right...no shrubbery was harmed during the making if this commercial. Diminish the bush- not a lot, just a little. I mean, it's just a razor after all. You think they'll get it?
Ad Man 2: Of course they'll get it. Okay wait...Why don't we throw in a triangular bush at the end! You see where I'm going with this?
Ad Man 1: I freakin' love it. Get the storyboards drawn up. This is gonna be hot!
I don't know if it was art imitating life or vice versa, but there was a lot of music about smoking and drinking back in the 90's. Channel Live was sparkin' Mad Izm, Mobb Deep was Drinkin' Away the Pain, and Cypress Hill were the official spokesmen for the Sensimilla before Dr. Dre's The Chronic. But it was Tha Alkaholiks that showed no shame in getting twisted. Yo, these Cali dudes could rhyme... and drink they asses off. Their first album 21 and Over made me want to drink! Kidding. Well, maybe not. I was there- from the gate. Olde E, Orange Sisco, Easy Jesus and...dare I say it? Mad Dog 20/20. And just to think it all started with someManischewitz wine way back when. Anyway, 1993 brought the first single Likwit. What I remember well is how I couldn't believe these dudes were from the West Coast. In my ignorance at the time, I thought anything coming from the left sounded like G-Funk and was not worthy of my listening. What can I say? This NY Girl was biased when it came to her Hip-Hop. But Tash and J-Ro had endless liquor soaked rhymes, punchlines for days and great comedic timing. E-Swift & King Tee showed up occasionally to kick a funny verse, too. How can you not appreciate a group that didn't take themselves too seriously. "Every night I pray to God- Please! No more wack emcees!" Finally, someone who felt my pain.
This Bug's favorite line? "Cuz I'm too hot to handle. Got more soul in my pinkie than a niggy pickin' his Afro in a leopard skin Dashiki." What?! Now go rip the skirt off a Crooked Letter for old time's sake and press play...
The saying, "It takes one to know one" runs deep. I say this because it supersedes the "Real recognize real" statement all day long. Today, I'm going to share something very personal in the blogosphere. My disclaimer before sharing goes something like this: Although it is through my own admittance, I would like everyone to know that this fact should not discredit me and has no bearing on how I relay my stories now. Now, everybody ready? Great.
I have a talent for bending the truth to suit my needs. Please understand that this has only been the case when it was absolutely necessary. Case & point: Picture it. JFK Airport. 1996. My friend bought me a plane ticket to Miami for Christmas. I was all set to go, only I had no real identification to legally board the plane. So, I did what anyone would do in that situation and had a generic photo I.D. made up at a local Army Navy store. What's the worst that could happen, right? Two weeks later at the airport, I tried my luck with the makeshift I.D. and was told I needed state issued I.D. instead. Yours truly proceeded to raise hell. I went on and on about how I called the airline ahead of time when I lost my wallet- and they told me it would be sufficient- and now they were going back on their word. I was equal parts outraged and exasperated...and it worked like a charm. Three hours later, I was sipping drinks at a South Beach hotel.
I tell this story to give some insight on the examination of lies. It comes easy for some. I first learned the difference between a good lie (if there is such a thing) and a bad one when I was thirteen. I listened to my father tell my mother on her deathbed that they were going to the beach tomorrow, like they used to as soon as she got better. Only thing was, the doctors had already told us she probably wouldn't last the week. And a part of me knows that if by some miracle her condition had improved that night- he would have made good on that promise. It filled me with hope and broke my heart all at the same time.
I know enough about lies to know when I'm hearing one. If I am unaffected by it, I usually say nothing to reveal my knowing. But every now and then- when a lie mingles with the truth, I can't help but feel violated. My intelligence feels insulted. My ears burn with the continuance of it. I literally feel like imploding. People sound different when they lie. Their tone changes in hopes to increase believability. I can spot it from a mile off. It's been argued that a lie of omission is just as bad as a lie of commission. To neglect to offer the truth can somewhat be on the same scale as concealing it. I'm still on the fence with that one. Lies are not told only by morally bankrupt individuals. Everyone has their own purpose for not always employing "the best policy" and it's unfair to judge without knowing the back story. The acumen for truth is such a flexible thing.
Bottom line: The truth hurts, but lies kill. It kills trust. It kills the truth. It kills good things before they even have a chance to be born. This Bug knows that firsthand.
I know Christmas is a good nine months away, but I've recently been in talks with my sister about the upcoming Holiday season. We definitely have the "Ugly Christmas Sweater Party" on smash. Those who are too cool to don a colorful knitted Christmas catastrophe will be left out in the cold. Which will really suck- because they'll miss me and my Rudolph after many cups of spiked eggnog. Hope to see you there!
I swear, inspiration comes from the oddest places sometimes. Today I was in the shower listening to the only station that comes in clearly on my Shower Bug Radio when Summer Nights from the movie Grease came on. I don't mind that light rock is the only thing I can hear in the shower. Especially since my near-death experience when I had it tuned to a static-ridden but audible Hot 97 once and almost busted my ass two-stepping to Jamie Foxx Blame It. Sidebar: Why does director Ron "Opie Taylor" Howard look Sofa King cool in that video? Anyway- I don't want to be found naked, dripping wet, shower curtain rings abound, eyes rolled back with my neck broken at some grotesque angle. I can't go out like that. It's been tuned to KJoy ever since.
So I remembered Grease being my eldest sister's favorite movie- and my thoughts drifted. If anyone hasn't seen the film, rent it. I know it's a musical that some may find corny, but the energy of the opening song is enough to get you interested. Now, whether you stay hooked is completely up to you. My thoughts wandered to the plot of the movie and I remembered how much the lead characters were feeling each other. She was a good girl from Australia on vacation and had to go back home. He was a too-cool-for school guy from California. They spent every day at the beach. As it turns out, she wound up staying and attending the same High School as him. True to form- he plays it cool as though what they had during the summer was nothing new to him. He is ridiculed by his friends for how prissy she is- and thus gives her the cold shoulder. It's not until their worlds collide again that they realize how little they may have had in common. Towards the end of the film however, something interesting happens.
In an attempt to shed her 'Goody Two Shoes' image- she undergoes a complete transformation. Her makeover consisted of skintight leather, sexy platform heels and she even took to smoking as an accessory. He on the other hand, does a 180 and actually gets more involved in sports at school. By the end of the movie, she turns his head in the provocative get-up; and she can't help but notice that he has traded his tough motorcycle jacket for a Varsity sweater. Instantly they are drawn to one another again- not because of the changes that were made for the other, but the fact that the change was never necessary. They never stopped feeling how they did on that beach. It's been years since I saw Grease, but one thing stands out to me. When it's for real, I mean- really real you'll be willing to make sacrifices and changes for that special someone. And the beauty in that, is if they are truly down with you- they won't need you to change one bit. But it's that willingness that goes a long way.
I've heard somewhere that men and women often lock horns because of this premise: Most women get the man first. Then they try to change the man they have. Instead of getting the man they want in the first place, they attempt to mold a square peg into a round hole. Big, big mistake. Huge. If you have to change for someone or they have to change who they are for you, then you should never be together in the first place. And if they are willing to make changes to be with you, that will show itself without you having to demand it. When someone shows you who they are- believe them.
Death becomes my Friday and it is not yet midnight. Even greatness takes a wayward walk. Exhausted by vagary, I count the time- only to lose count again.
Not a thing new under the Sun. Nothing new under the Moon, either. It has always been- will always be. I am an interloper. Do not belong between these intertwined worlds.
The rotation goes on- but only I am left dizzy. Senses askew. Bereft of understanding when or how or why they blend in skin.
Astonished at the appetite- I toss some meat in disbelief. Feed this volatile hunger. It gnaws off my fingertips. And I barely notice. Closed mouth gaping with words of regret. I need this day to be swallowed by another, more forgiving one.
I've heard that when you're out and about- and you see a person that categorically looks like someone famous, chances are it's them. A couple of years ago I was at a nice under-the-radar lounge in the West Village taking in some live music. It was relatively cramped (as those spots tend to be) and someone that really resembled the GZA was sitting a few feet away from me. The only thing was; this dude was smiling from ear to ear and you rarely see Maximillion crack so much as a smirk. Anyway- not too far from him was an obnoxiously drunk guy that kept bumping the little table where this GZA lookalike was seated. He bumped it once. He bumped it twice. Third time's a charm... This inebriated Foolboy spilled a drink on a girl that was also at the table and in that instant- I knew it was the GZA. That unmistakable screwface appeared as he rose from the table, fists clenched. Needless to say- Obnoxiously Drunk Guy made himself scarce. Fast.
It was funny because I tried to think of the last time I saw the GZA look so sublime (before he put the fear of the Killa Beez in dude's heart) - and then it hit me. He didn't scowl so much back in the day while addressing the ladies. Then I remembered that another Wu counterpart also had a softer side when women were in the circumference. So today, I bring you Throwback Thursday's first double feature. Don't get spoiled with the treats, People. This is a rare occasion. From The Genius we have the no-nonsense Come Do Me and your boy was serious about getting those panties. It was more of an order than a request. From The Abbott, the weary lament of having too many shorties on the roster- and they all professed Ooh, We Love You Rakeem! Check the resume. This is pre-Bobby Digital RZA at his most comical. Sidebar: Be sure to peep the price of movie tickets in that one. Can it be that it was all so simple then?
"People think that Hell is fire and brimstone and the Devil poking you in the butt with a pitchfork, but it's not. Hell is when you should have walked away, but you didn't."- Jack Grimaldi
I don't know about you- but This Bug loves downbeat crime films. I'd talk about my favorite one but we'd be here all day. So the runner-up is just one of my all time favorites, Romeo Is Bleeding .This is a slept on classic that few know about. Recently, I resurrected this movie and was reminded of how much I love it.
Jack Grimaldi, played flawlessly by Gary Oldman- is far from perfect. He has a main chick, a mistress and a young b*tch. Forget it he's a Don! ( Insert shameless Jay-Z referencehere.) But the revolving door of women is the least of his imperfections. He's a dirty cop who profits from giving up the secret locations of stool pigeons who are about to testify against former partners in crime. It goes without saying that they never make it to the swear-in, feel me? It pays well, but he gets greedy. Before he knows it, he's up to his eyeballs in Mob ties and then the hammer comes down. It's not long before he finds himself in some very precarious situations.
Enter the dangerous seductress Mona Demarkov...the sultriest, meanest, baddest assassin you'll ever see in thigh highs. Good Lord, this woman is a force to be reckoned with. Her weaponry lies in her manly strength disguised by an ultra-femme persona. She is deliciously over-the-top insane. Lena Olin's personification of evil makes the coldest hit man look like Tickle Me Elmo. She runs circles around Jack with her hypnotic wiles. Which is relatively easy considering his penchant for the sweet stuff every woman has by default.
Anyway, I won't give away too much about this movie. There are some notable performances by Annabella Sciora as Jack's passive but pensive wife (of Jungle Fever fame) and Roy "You're gonna need a bigger boat. " Schneider (of Jaws fame) as the crime boss you don't want to f*ck with. I implore everyone to rent this film if you haven't seen it already. It has all the ingredients of a pitch perfect Film Noir. Dark, sexy, thrilling...and bullets. Lots and lots of bullets.
Lydia Foxworth was remarkably beautiful. She had a golden brown complexion and model worthy features. Her physique was eye-catching to men and enviable to women with equal measure. Lydia was clever and ambitious. Her father left when she was very young and she didn’t remember him very well, nor did she struggle to. Her mother never remarried. This being the case, Lydia was taught to never rely on a man. According to Mother, “He could be here today, gone tomorrow.” While Lydia pretended to heed this credo of independence, secretly she balked at the idea.
To her, there was nothing wrong in using her charms to extract whatever her heart desired.She flirted and batted her lengthy lashes sans mascara and sat back while the tokens of affection fell into her lap. Even though this raised questions from her mother, she always explained away the gifts by some fortuitous incident. Perhaps a generous girlfriend bought a designer bag and changed her mind. Sometimes there were raffles and giveaways at the upscale boutique she patronized. To her, the lies came easy. The trouble was, all of these items lost their luster once she could call them her own.
One day, on her way to work Lydia passed the most dazzling conversation piece in a jewelry store window.There, in all of its brilliance sat the necklace.It was her birthstone. A gorgeous Amethyst star set in tiny Swarovski crystals. Lydia had found a new obsession. She cared not about the price tag. She just knew she had to have it.
The first order of business was to find a gentleman pliable enough to willingly give such an expensive present.She had to dig into her bag of tricks.Knowing there were several suitors to choose from, she carefully charted her plan of action. Lydia Foxworth was cunning. Her personality shifted from pearl-clutching prude to insatiable vamp depending on who the unsuspecting victim was.She knew for this endeavor, she would have to be equal parts naïve nymph and untamed temptress. Lydia was an opportunist by nature and her desires only grew with advantageous rewards.Her mark was chosen and she was deadlocked.
Lydia hung back while he inquired about the necklace.She feigned interest in the more affordable pieces but inside she leapt for joy. This was by far her best swindle yet.Thoughts of her mother’s indignation fleetingly crossed her mind, but she dismissed them. Everything was going according to plan…
That is until her eyes caught sight of an older woman nearing her admirer.‘Who is she? How does she know him?’ The nape of her neck was on fire.At this time, the counterperson was already handing back a credit card to its rightful owner.She strained to hear their exchange over the Muzak and New York City traffic, but could not make it out. Finally, the lady wished him a great weekend and went on her way.
As she made her way home, slowly it came. Her rationalization plowed its way through an amassment of cluttered thoughts. 'That pendant was incredibly gaudy. Tacky even! Diamonds. Now there is a treasure worth digging for.'
Author's Note: Originally written April 2007 in Creative Writing. Assignment : Rewrite a Fairy Tale or Fable. This Bug selected Aesop's The Fox and the Grapes
A trickle of cold sweat runs from my armpit down the side of my body. My back is now ramrod straight. The phone is ringing incessantly. Downstairs, someone or some thing is banging on the door. I look and see that it is shaking with each blow. Whatever is on the other side means business. Do I answer the phone or the door? I can hear the dainty sounds of a music box; surreal and terrifying somewhere in the background. The maddening ringing never ceases. I pick it up. Calmly, I say to no one in particular that they are not to call here- that I am calling the police as soon as I hang up. As I press the first 1 in 911, the knocking stops. Phone in hand, I step closer to the now silent door. In the time that it takes to turn my head, I am no longer alone in my apartment. Inches from my eyes- a hand comes into focus. There is no face attached to this hand. The hand that is tautly gripping the largest, gunmetal gray firearm I have ever seen in my life. This is not a robbery. This is just pure evil- exacting revenge for my being aloof and not acknowledging its presence. I hear the chamber click loudly between my ears. My eyes pop open. Awake at last.
Note to self: No more Caramel Cheesecake right before bed.
Writing is like a lot praying. You can just let it spill out and await the feeling of salvation once you're done. You can hand it all over and feel a sense of relief wash over as you let it all go- knowing it's not up to you anymore. It's out. It's written. It's yours and then, perhaps someone else's. Catch and release. Just like that. In my teens I realized that I was unable to write unless I was very low or very high. My most passionate work has been created at these two extremes. It's not to say that a happy medium was not eventually found; I just wrote better either under duress or flying high. Sounds a bit bi-polar when you think of it- but it has always functioned for me. In between just never worked for me. To me, being on an even keel yielded only Masterpieces of Mediocrity.
I think about these things. I think about how much of "me" is me. The initial answer seems relatively simple. What immediately comes to mind is the stock answer: That's silly. All of Me is me. But everything that we are- what we do, how we live, etc. is learned or patented through our experiences and memories. There have been times that I wished I could simply hit a delete button on certain memories and then I realized that I went through everything for reasons unbeknownst to me. So I did what I know best and documented it. To see it on paper let's me know: This is real. This happened. I was there.
I know now that what I possess goes beyond visual consumption. Whenever I lose my way, I need only write down where I am and then I no longer need a map. God is 360. Nothing happens by chance. We are our dreams. We are our experiences. We choose our memories, believe it or not. How we document them dictates what we are made of. Inner strength is what we find when those around us are weak. I've been there. I am here. It has been written. All of it is me.
This Bug has mentioned before that she taped a lot of videos back in the day. A lot. The most disheartening thing about that? My middle sister recorded over most of what I captured for...wait for it...Three different accounts of the Amy Fischer Made-For-TV movies. Yep. That's six hours of vids...gone. Do you have any concept of how much music that was, People? I wanted to murder her. Some were timeless classics. Some were one hit wonders. This week's Throwback falls into the latter category. I think it aired just once on Video Music Box on a segment they called (of all things) Nervous Thursdays and I happened to catch it. That's when Crazy Sam played obscure songs from little known artists. Those videos were just a little more to the left than the standard R&B and Hip Hop the show was known for. Recently, a near and dear friend played this and instantly transported me back to Junior High. I was moved to tears in the most inexplicable way. You see, this was one of the casualties of what I call my sister's "Buttafiasco" obsession. Which makes it very appropriate- since that same friend expressed to me once that stealing music from someone is akin to stealing a memory or part of their lives. Something about Season of the Vic was so melancholy to me. Whenever I felt lonely and misunderstood or just taken for granted; this song seemed to suit my mood but soothe it all at once. I was most definitely a "vic". She did me dirty taping over my precious memories. There's not much else I can say. Either you feel it or you don't. Peace.
This is a rant. This Bug is conducting a rant from the Emergency Blogcast System. This is only a rant.
It always baffles me when people want what they are not willing to give in return. I had a conversation recently with a friend who knew a guy that was stressed over his woman leaving. He expected her to be there. Be loyal. Be that "Ride or Die" Chick while he was hemmed up. Which, I'm sure she was until the so-called 'Going got tough'. Meanwhile, she did it all. Held him down, took the lies and cheating, had his back like spinal cords all day-even though she knew what he was up to. This particular person was incarcerated, so of course the blow of this must have been that much harder. I sat there listening to my friend relay this dude's account of events and could not mask my disdain. I had zero sympathy. I don't like to paint things with such a broad brush but let's be real. In a world where men expect loyalty they really tend to come up short when the tables are turned. Since the majority of women spend time tirelessly giving themselves in a relationship, how is it that dudes are capable of doing so much dirt? I find it hard to believe that they would suddenly straighten up and fly right while that good woman is away- when they fly so crookedly while she's right there at his side. I watched fragments of Baby Boythe other day and could not get over how much he expected from his son's mother while he was trying to 'get it right'. Lying to her face, sleeping with other women, using her car- the list goes on. The minute he thought she was even interested in another dude, he hit the ceiling. What. The. F*ck. I'm sorry, but that's just something you have to charge to the game. Period. So for all the ladies out there- sick and tired of getting done wrong, just know that Free Will is a beautiful thing- and you should feel no guilt in pursuing your happiness. Chances are- he feels none while he's busy pursuing his. Eff dat. And if it seems worth it to ride, by all means, do your thing. Just make sure you do what's best for you above all else.
This was a rant from the Emergency Blogcast System. Had this been an actual emergency, further instructions would follow. This was only a rant. We now return to your regularly scheduled reading.
In the blogosphere, it's all about sharing. This Bug is going to talk about something Ipromised to share earlier last week. My self-imposed celibacy. I was in my early twenties and just ended a long term relationship. It was an amicable decision and I was looking forward to being by myself for a while. Everything was going well. I really wasn't interested in meeting anyone new. Casual dating was never really my thing, much less casual sex. So there I was, going about my business- finally reconnecting with myself without the distraction of a relationship. I read more books, saw a ton of films alone and starting writing what I consider some of my better work at the time. It was really going well until...I started to get that itch.
All of sudden, I began to think deeply about sex and how much it meant to me. Since I was no longer in a steady relationship, the pickings looked slim. My train of thought was this: I will not back peddle to a previous partner, as easy as that seemed- and there was no way I was going to meet someone brand new and just give it up. I know it might sound prudish- but This Bug cannot just freak off with any ole person. I have to feel a connection more strongly than just pure attraction. Sharing my body with another was never something I took lightly. So what was I to do? Well, "self love" was definitely an option. I have a friend who always said, "When you ain't got a man- you got a hand." Funny, because I always thought in response to this, "But...a man has a hand and it feels so much better than my own." But I began to ruminate on the purpose of sex outside of how good it felt. I'm not a religious person by any means- but the idea of an act to procreate was always in the back of my mind. I thought about my last relationship and how much that person was not "Baby Daddy" material. (I say this because at 22, marriage was not at all on my to-do list.) Then it dawned on me. The person I sleep with could potentially be linked to me for life if we were to have a child. Did I want that? My internal answer was a clamoring HELL NO. But shit happens. In the heat of the moment, your body might scream out HELL YES instead, or the condom breaks. Why would I want to risk any of that with some random dude I met at the club?
Anyway, my No Sex thing went on for roughly ten months. The first six were a breeze. By the last four however, even the broomstick looked good. I began to really understand how a man could look at some random woman and instantly think of tappin' that ass. Men were like nicely fleshed out mannequins to my eyes. I thought about warm breath against my neck. The powerful feeling of a torso between my thighs...it was agony. I missed breaking a sweat with someone besides myself. But it was never far from my mind that I could give in any time I wanted. It's general knowledge that it's easier for a woman to get down than it is for man. It's the Vagina Rule- I have the vagina, so I make the rules. We need little more than opportunity- which can be created out of thin air. We go through dry spells that can easily become monsoons with one phone call. When I finally did give in- it was after I found a sense of peace within. I was ready to share myself again because I understood how much I had to offer beyond a pound of flesh. I would recommend this to anyone, male or female- regardless of orientation, since it gives you time to reexamine what matters most to you.
In case anyone is wondering, that first session after ten months was like the first time all over again. They don't call it Born Again Virgin for nothing...and the magnitude of that Big O was a 9.9 on the Richter Scale- believe that!
If you're like me and you love Hip Hop, you listen intently to lyrics. I hear it all, down to the last syllable. Mostly because lyrics are the truest essence of Hip Hop music. It's the reason why there is a vast difference between a rapper and MC. There are many lyricists out there- some of them I consider truly blessed with their talent. They deserve an open ear and undivided attention- which is what I always give. Once in a while, I catch things that make me giggle or just makes me scratch my head. This Bug has compiled a short list.
1. Knick Knack Patty Wack- EPMD featuring K-Solo : Here's my question. If the Incredible Letterman can S-P-E-L-L so very W-E-L-L, then why does he F-L-Y like a B-R-I-D in the S-K-Y?
2. No Time - Li'l Kim : C'mon now. We all know that Kim just wanted to use the multi-syllabic word "preposterous" in this joint. So much so, that she coined herself the "Rhinoceros of Rap". Oooh...she's tough, yo! Can you say reaching, Boys and Girls?
3. Funky for You - Nice & Smooth : I have to admit that Greg Nice's incorrect reference to Dizzy Gillespie playing the sax did nothing to diminish this classic. FYI: Dizzy played the trumpet. Now, pass me an ice cold glass of wine...
4. Bells of War - Wu Tang : Ghostface starts off his verse with something I am still trying to make sense of to this day. "Stelladora rap breadstick. David Berkowitz. Einstein birthday hit. Now nurture it." Ok, dude just mentioned a snack no one eats anymore, the Son of Sam and a genius and told me to figure it out? But he sprinkles so much snow inside the Optimo that I'm sure he couldn't even tell me what that shit means.
5. Arab Money - Busta Rhymes : By now you've probably heard all the hype about the pronunciation of "Ay-rab" being racist and/or disrespectful. Then it was decided that a version with only the proper pronunciation (Ah-rab) would be played on the radio. I don't really do radio, but every time I hear this song in rotation- it's the original "offensive" version. Who cares? He sure as hell doesn't seem to.
6. Motherless Child - Ghostface Killah : Okay, I know it seemes like I'm picking on Tony Starks, but he gives me so much to work with. His reaction to his man getting shot in the ass and having to shoot his way out of Albee Square Mall still makes me laugh out loud. "Oh Shit! What the F*ck! This shit is HARBUL." He meant horrible for all of ya'll who missed it. Thank God he didn't need aAmbalamps or anything.
7. Get 'Em Girls - Cam'Ron : Come, come now. You didn't think you'd get through this without seeing this dude make the list, did you?He gets"computers putin'." Lawd. Just 'ignant' for no damn reason.
And like Forrest...that's all I have to say about that. There are, of course the countless mispronunciations of high end fashion designers courtesy of Foxy and Kim, but that would be splitting hairs. Just because they can afford it doesn't mean they have to know how to say it. It reminds me of the scene in Showgirls when she shows up wearing a hot black dress. Zack: Nice dress. Nomi: Thanks. It's a Ver-sayce. Zack: It's "Versace". Nomi: What? Zack: It's Versace. It's pronounced "Versachee". Nomi: Oh. Zack: You have great taste and you look beautiful.
Proof that class is not what you put on your ass. That's all for now. Keep those ears open, People.
His name is Jaden. And to be honest, I'm not even sure if that's how his name is spelled. All I know is that every now and then, I am fortunate enough to go along for the ride when he is picked up from Day Care. He is the color of tea with milk and has the most beautiful almond shaped eyes. His smile is like a million birthday cake candles. He is simply gorgeous. No exaggeration there. If it weren't for his rough and tumble ways, boyish clothes and unpierced ears- he would easily be mistaken for a girl. Suddenly, looking over my seat back at him becomes the best part of that particular day. Don't get me started on when he's asked to show anyone what "Karate" is. A tiny foot raises as high as his autonomy can take it and there is the proudest light in his eye as he executes this move. And then he's off. Whisked up by one strong arm, he looks over that shoulder, blinking at me- taking a piece of my heart with him each time. Yeah, I guess they do that sometimes.
Author's Note: The baby pictured above is not the cherub of which I speak. Not everyone is privileged enough to steal a glance at the real object of my affection.
I baptized myself in your "holy" mysteries and came up gasping for air. There is something to be said for easing into things and letting time run its course.
I wish I had listened.
But with you, I balked. I longed to know you. I ached to touch you. I heard your unwhispered
words and felt your double-edged swords.
And every time you spoke, I hardened to the truth and pretended that it wasn't.
I wanted to feel your heart beating beneath your ribs. I wanted to taste each of your sighs and look deep into you. Never to look back...
Okay Peoples, today's Throwback has been inspired by a few factors. Firstly, This Bug had the chance to interview Mr. Cheeks of the Lost Boyz earlier this week. He's a pretty cool dude. (And not nearly as tall as I always imagined, by the way.) Second, a while back I read a very thought-provoking post by fellow blogger Naked With Socks On about this subject matter. Please check it out here when you're done. You won't be sorry. Lastly, 1996 was a memorable year for me. There was something about the fashion and the music that was full of partying and good times. Yours truly was blazin' a lot of trees back then, Alize was the drink of choice, and some other exclusive activities were poppin' off. This joint was the embodiment of those times, but slowed down long enough to raise some awareness about a very real affliction. Lots of folks were jumping without a parachute back then. Actually, this song may or may not have had something to do with my self-imposed celibacy that took place shortly thereafter. Come back one of these days for the gory details onthat experience. Anyway, I bring to you today the slept on track, The Yearn. Because at the end of the day, we all have it- don't we? It's just up to us to make the safest and smartest choice for ourselves. Laterz...
This Bug wants to know...has anyone out there ever had a friend who possessed a quality or likeness you wish you could borrow from time to time? I'm not talking about looks or lifestyle. I mean something like a discipline they have for certain tasks. I have a friend who loves to do laundry. Got that? Loves it. How in the world anyone could love this banal chore is beyond my comprehension. I hate it. If I remember correctly, she likes the ritual of folding because it's relaxing. The scent of fresh laundry also does her good. April Fresh is cool but I simply cannot relate.
I tend to wait until the eleventh hour to wash clothes. Don't get it twisted. I don't walk around in dingy garments or funky drawers. I'm not going to say I have the most extensive wardrobe; I just have a lot of the staples to last me a good three week run. Then it gets down to the ugly panties. They're not full of holes or anything, just not as cute as the stock 'fun & sexy' ones I keep in the arsenal. In my younger days, it even came down to wearing bikini bottoms to work. Hey, they function as panties when the time is right. Don't judge.
So, I'm typing this in a very matronly, sky blue 18 hour brassiere and full booty coverage knickers- which means it's time to pay the piper. This sucks. Sorting, loading, drying, folding, putting away...it all sucks. It's times like these I wish I could covet that Fluff and Fold gene that mi amiga must have in her DNA. If you're reading this, can I borrow a strand?
All snowed in and everywhere to go. I hate this. At this very moment, there's approximately 8-10 inches of snow outside of my door. Yes, I am officially snowed in. Which got me to thinking about men and their usefulness. As a lady, if you have a "manfriend" who comes through on the regular and handles his business- is that all that he's good for? I mean, can he change your windshield wipers or that hard-to-reach light bulb if needed? Don't get me wrong. This Bug is very self-sufficient. There have been plenty of things I've done around the house for myself mainly because I live by the "Act As If" credo. The premise is simple. Act as if this help is not readily available and do it yourself. If the undertaking proves to be too great to do alone- only then do I employ the assistance of another. And this has been my train of thought for as long as I can recall. Before I ever had a car, I had every public transportation schedule known to man because I didn't want to rely on anyone for a ride. It's not that folks are entirely unreliable- I just don't like to impose on others.
But every now and then, a man comes in handy for certain tasks. It's nice to know that while he may be able to "lay the pipe", he can also snake the tub without you having to call Roto-Rooter and come out of the pocket. How's that for double entendre? Besides that, there is something sexy about a man who is good with his hands. It shows a level of well-roundedness. And if that fantasy was so far-fetched, there wouldn't be so many adult entertainment films that begin with a Handyman ringing the doorbell of some scantily clad housewife, now would there?
Anyhow, like I said, I'm officially snowed in. Do I have someone to do the plowing, so to speak? Well, I'll say this much- I can handle 8 inches, just not 8 inches of snow. So that problem will resolve itself soon enough. But seriously, Ladies. I suggest making sure that the man you have around can take care of things that are needed firstly- and can then take care of you. And if you run down your checklist of his skills and abilities- and find that he comes up short- that is a clear indication that you should learn how to do some "manly" things for yourself and/or sack Mr. Good-For-Nothing asap. (One last sack won't hurt anyone, right?) I'm not saying that every man has to be Bob the Builder and Lex Steele rolled into one. (You're gonna have to Google both of those references on your own if you're in the dark, by the way. No links here, Kiddies.) It's just that if he's not good at many skills- he better be good at one, feel me? You weigh it out. It's all about choices. And Fellas, now would be good time to cop a Home Improvement for Dummies book... just to up your stock a bit. That's my two copper coins on this matter.
