a letter long overdue.

this is the first of what could be many blog posts in dialogue with goddess jaz at goddesses rising.  we have taken it upon ourselves to examine our feelings and thoughts on intimate partner violence, triggered by the rihanna/ chris brown incident.  this series will not just discuss them, but IPV against women across the board.  to facilitate a flow of words, jaz and i have opted to follow the letter writing format utilized by the women who write the kitchen table blog.  i intended to post my letter shortly after jaz's initial post, but the words just would not come. alas, here i am now with more to say than i ever thought.

jaz:

first, thank you for agreeing to do this with me! it's an honor and a privilege.  let's see if we can't make a dent.  

i've been rolling my thoughts around, trying to best articulate my disturbances around this whole thing and attempting to string those thoughts together to create a coherent point.  my mind keeps coming back to one simple point: this is bigger than these kids or twitter, bigger than any blogs or newspaper articles.  unnecessary violence, particularly in close relationships (romantic as well as familial) is a problem that belongs to each of us.  so, it is with that thought in the forefront of my mind that i'm processing the entire mess and the conversations/ actions that have resulted from it.  these conversations and actions concern me much more than the current state that either rihanna or chris brown is in right now.

my concerns reflect yours, definitely. and my initial desire was to see to it that we discussed the impact of various kinds of media (especially gossip blogs, twitter, facebook status updates, and the text message fowards) on public opinion.  but i'm now in a new space.

because i've seen a photograph of rihanna's face after the incident.  i'm in angry mode. again. the gossip blogs have, from the beginning, been on my nerves in varying degrees.  but now one of these blogs is the source of the very photo i did NOT wanna see. it was easier to imagine the horror than to see it with my own eyes. not that it didn't seem real before, but that it made the whole situation that much more real to me: rihanna's privacy was not protected or respected.  not by persons in her camp or at the hospital where she was examined, not by people who know her or her alleged attacker, not by the LAPD employee who leaked her photo to the internet, and most certainly not by the media.  

this whole incident has a crazy tone to it, a media circus for lack of better words.  it went from speculation to insane made up justifications for the attack itself.  crazy rumors about STDs, jealous fits, and failed breakup attempts abounded. all the while, my concern was the repercussions in the world at large. children discussing these things amongst themselves (and sometimes with adults) might have concerns or questions similar to the grown folks who seemed to be all over the internet talking about it: how long had this been going on? was it likely to happen again? would they get back together? why would they get back together? in my opinion, it matters less what we know about chris and rihanna.  it matters much, much more what we know about the women who are counted in the statistics we hear about so often and the women whose stories we catch on the news. i believe that the seriousness of the situation itself was diminished greatly by the fact that this involves two "celebrities" instead of everyday citizens.  because they have wikipedia articles, we're not supposed to know when we've encroached too much on their lives? yes, it is important to discuss intimate partner violence. yes, it is important to fans of an artist to know how well their favorite artist is doing. but what we don't need to know -- especially because neither chris brown's people nor rihanna's people haven't said anything -- is what kind of relationship they have. we don't need to know any of that unless either of them decides that it is necessary (as part of their healing, and only then) to speak on the situation or the nature of their relationship. no. 

what we need to know is that violence is the norm for too many of us.  what we need to know is that children who grow up in abusive environs grow into teens and adults who don't know how to deal with conflict in a non-violent way.  what we need to know is that intimate partner violence does not lie specifically in the hands of the men, of the women, of the heterosexual or the underprivileged.  there was a sentiment of, "they shoulda never gave you niggas money," a la dave chappelle as rick james. but i give thanks that these two young folks have their privilege.  why? because we now have contemporary faces for this problem. there is now a more immediate reason to discuss these issues with our children, with our peers.  this is the opportunity we as concerned community members must utilize to have dicussions.  

i've struggled with what i wanted to say here, because i want it to be impactful and clear. but something i've realized over the past few days of writing is that murky situations very rarely yield clear responses. it takes time, it takes dissection, and sometimes it takes walking away from the issue and reviewing it with new perspective.

it is my prayer that these two young folks have some new perspective -- and that if they have not yet gained it during their separation that they develop it -- so that they  can begin to heal themselves.

giving words to the unspoken: intimate partner violence.

i am thankful every day that i've never dated someone who has or would hit me.  that is a terror i've never known, and pray that i never will.  i do know what intimate partner violence can do. the losses of asia, latoyia, and san-dee serve as reminders to us all that women die because of intimate partner violence (also known as domestic violence, or domestic abuse). the very idea of the typical domestic abuse victim is seared into the consciousness of many people in the united states: she's timid, she's probably very pretty, she is attacked without having provoked her mate, and she always goes back.  the attacker is always someone who's been emasculated to some degree -- maybe his education level isn't what hers is (or anyone else's, like being a 10th grade dropout when everyone else is at least a high school grad), or he's dyslexic, or whatever.  it's mister from the color purple concentrated, it's laurence fishburn as ike turner, it's every lifetime movie shitbag boyfriend joined together like voltron.  

it's never the sparkling smile of chris brown that spits threats or curse words, bites you or calls you names.  it's never rihanna's pretty face that is pummeled with fists. it's always some nameless or faceless couple on "cops." it's always someone whose name has been changed to protect her because he's stalking her. (and it's always a hetero couple, but that's another issue for another time.)  and this seems to be the root of the problem to me: celebrity, or fame, and the perception of "our" stars as anything other than human.  they are not necessarily regarded as human, even in times of tragedy (see: the losses jennifer hudson's, bill cosby's, and the late marlon brando's close family members).  they are still these perfectly unreal creations -- half of "their" public's imagination, and half illusion borne of spin doctors.  celebrity is a tricky thing.  it's fleeting, but so demanding. what does this pressure cooker life do to someone who's barely a maturing child when they enter it, and is simply fortunate to be a functioning adult if/ when they leave it?

i ask this question because i don't believe for one minute that this is a black and white situation (meaning chris, the aggressor, bears all the fault or that rihanna, the victim, instigated her own ass kicking).  i take into account that chris witnessed domestic abuse for as many as 6 years of his life (that's 1/3 of his time on earth, roughly).  i understand that the highly invasive reports that are being shared pretty much confirm that rihanna was upset over a potential (or continued) infidelity on chris's part. i understand that it's likely that brown no longer wished to be in a relationship with her -- but check this out: you can end a relationship with someone without hitting them.  you can make your point clear without fists and bitemarks.  

my concerns are for the privacy and safety of both of these young people. there are threats being made against both of them, there's a lot of hearsay and conjecture. there are terrible jokes being made. it is now a verb to chris brown someone -- to beat their ass.  unacceptable.  the facts are known only by the persons who were present for the incident that was reported to the police.  that's not for any of us to learn about or gossip about. this is deeper than whether someone gave someone herpes, or whether someone's cheating on someone else.

it is indicative of the fact that we all have work to do: work to heal, work to grow, work to end cycles. violence is never okay in a relationship, regardless of who throws the first punch.  intimate partner violence exists when women hit men, when men hit each other, and when women hit women.  intimate partner violence exists when we are unable or unwilling to talk about what hurts or bothers us, and when we don't understand that it's never okay to strike someone you love.  unless it's self defense, it is wrong. always wrong.

this interview that jay smooth did with elizabeth mendez berry speaks much to why it doesn't matter specifically that it's a celebrity dealing with intimate partner violence. 

i don't know how to take this.

dear citizens of philadelphia:

i want us to do better. period. 

dear philadelphia police department:

remember that the stop snitching mentality is yours, too -- only yours applies to your FOP brethren. you're not fooling anyone.

the plight of the fucking year:

how am i gonna be loved and sustained when everyone's either trying to fuck me because it's cute, or make me their healer?
i am fetishized
i am othered
i am dismissed
i am misunderstood
i am desired, yes
i am sexy, absolutely
but what of it when you're trying to get me to explain to you what sex with a woman feels/ looks/ smells/ tastes/ sounds like when it's not about that to begin with?
what of it when you're whispering behind my back to other women that i "just don't know what [i] want," that i'm greedy or confused?
that's the same thing as telling me i'm being picky while i'm in the middle of an allergic reaction to fish.

fuck.
how do i deal with the isolation that seems to come from being dedicated to being myself?
what do i do when all i want is to be held, and to trust, to kiss & touch & build without being put on stage (or on blast)?

i am simply tired

of washing the blood from the hem of my skirt

not knowing whether it's yours or mine

hearing the blood curdling screams of my ancestors as they overlap with the gritos of souls aching for justice & peace.

may the ancestors welcome you, adolph grimes.

may justice be visited swiftly upon those who snatched you away from this realm.  iba ara t'orun.

(and, for good measure, fuck the police.)

five things you can do right now about the oscar grant shooting.

(link courtesy of jay smooth)

Oscar Grant, an unarmed man, was killed by an Oakland police officer. Here are five things (compiled by Makani Themba-Nixon) that you should do right now to respond to the senseless death of this 22 year old Black man. Video footage of the shooting recently surfaced.

1. Digg the story so that the national media can pick up on it

2. Contact BART Director Carole Ward Allen and demand that 1) the officers involved be taken off duty without pay and charged and fully prosecuted; 2) there be an independent investigation of the shooting that includes a review of training and hiring practices; and 3) BART establish an independent residents’ review board for the police Call her at 510-464-6095 or email the BART Directors at BoardofDirectors@bart.gov

3. Call the BART police to complain about the officers’ conduct and demand immediate action: Internal Affairs: Sergeant David Chlebowski 510.464.7029,dchlebo@bart.gov; Chief of Police: Gary Gee 510.464.7022, ggee@bart.gov

Call them toll free at 877.679.7000 and press the last four digits of the phone number you wish to reach.

4. Talk it up on your blogs, networks and talk radio shows (call Michael Baisden 877-6BADBOY or Rev. Al, etc. to get this on the national radar)

5. Stay tuned for other actions, protests, etc., especially if you are in the Bay.

feeling that feeling again.

(yet another stream of consciousness)

you know the one.
where you're disillusioned with just about everything, don't feel like pretending anymore, & can't even fathom maintaining the facade? that feeling. that if-you-don't-get-the-fuck-outta-my-face-with-that-bullshit feeling. that feeling that leads you to believe you're gonna come out on the other side of the coming week with fewer friends, more enemies & twelve new ways to tell someone to kiss your ass.

i've already written an imaginary resignation letter
already invited someone to put me on their personal do-not-call list
& next up is everyone's favorite: family drama.
i'm not gonna go into great detail about it here, because the more i discuss it the more incensed i become. basically, my mom has decided that it's my job to pick up the slack for her shortcomings -- which are not major in the grand scheme of anything but mean everything because she's trying to impress people -- & i'm not really having it.
& it's all culminating in my apartment.
i did not invite ppl over for thanksgiving (aka slaughter some indigenous ppl & call it a pilgrimage), yet the tired & huddled masses yearning to be fed are coming to apartment 3f like it's times square on new year's eve.
i'm between leaving and just locking myself in the bedroom & not allowing anyone passage through the bedroom into the bathroom. can't decide which just yet. because i'm too busy being mad.

it's a lot deeper than what i discuss here; my family is still my family, & if i were to type the whole sordid tale y'all would be paying for my shit as a .pdf on lulu.com.

but suffice it to say:
this time of year always kicks up shit for a lot of reasons
& every year i strive to be better at handling it. not functioning through a fog or haze
but more lucid, more transparent because that's how i wish to live my life overall
& it seems like the freer i get,
the more ppl try to pull me back into that shit
lie to make it look better
fake it 'til you make it
don't say anything inappropriate until after one year passes and the comfort level increases
be everyone's helpmeet
don't be so aggressive
. . . fuck that.
fuck the fronting
i'm not here for that
i've spent the better part of the last 10 years trying to find myself under the layers of shit other people have put on me, and now, because you want to impress someone else with some imaginary cosby-esque family that doesn't even exist, i have to participate?

i can't do it.

ppl start acting crazier the closer it gets to the winter solstice.
i personally don't give a shit how much you're going through, just don't make it my job to deal with.

next year, i'm going into hiding at thanksgiving and not coming out until after MLK day.

safety is neither a luxury nor a privilege.

** TRIGGER ALERT * *
if you are sensitive to mentions of rape, molestation, or other violent acts you may not want to read this post.

he was her first boyfriend. she wasn't really a fan of the boys we'd gone to high school with, so college created a new opportunity: an abundance of black men to admire and possibly date. but she didn't even take it that far. this one was a neighbor. we grew up jumping rope with his sister. i didn't like him. thought he was a know-it-all dickhead with poor fashion sense and no knowledge of when to shut the fuck up. but she's my sister; i'm never gonna like anyone for her.
so they dated. she spent lots of time at his father's house across the street, walked with him to his mom's house about a mile away, and i tried to ignore the whole fucking thing. i told our friends "i don't like him," but they just assumed that i was being protective as big sister. i wasn't. i genuinely did not believe that anything good could come from the two of them dating for the year or so that they did.

i was right. i didn't know how right i was until this past december, when my sister told me that this foolish boy raped her. i stopped dead in my tracks and started crying. it all made sense: her uncharacteristic and constant uneasiness, the brooding, the slight touch of OCD, the near-fundamentalist ways in which she worshipped christ, flying headfirst into work instead of allowing herself to kick back or goof off . . . my loving, bright, kind, just, fair, beautiful sister . . . shattered
by someone who himself was the product of abuse & dysfunction, someone who did not respect the safety of another human being enough to leave well enough alone and believe in no when she said no.

i was livid, hurt, sad, tired, angry, shocked . . . all those things. and i still am. i never felt inadequate as an elder sibling, not through my college dropout situation or my towering financial woes, not through the shacking up w/ an ex-boyfriend to the chagrin of my entire family . . . none of it. but i wished at that exact moment that she had reached out to me 7 years ago. i wished at that exact moment that i had been able to read the terror in her face when she could not speak of it. i wished at that exact moment for the chance to travel back and take her out of that equation -- not to share the pain with any other woman, but simply to save my sister. i never had to defend her, she always fought for herself
and here she was telling me that her light was nearly stomped out.
i told her she didn't ever have to apologize. "i haven't told anyone except my therapist because . . ."
in my head, i was screaming. no. fuck the therapist. call mommy. call every grimy person you know. let's do this. his ppl still live across the street, all we need is to catch him coming out of the fucking house . . . . so what he's got a girl and a baby -- they ain't got shit to do with it! i want to kill him with my bare hands. he doesn't deserve air in his fucking punk ass lungs! why should this piece of shit have the luxury of going unpunished for raping my sister? who else has he done this to? why is he alive?

i resigned myself to doing and saying nothing. i nodded and told her i loved her. i went to the house that night. she asked me to come over, because of something else that happened to her which was a trigger. i was thankful for and resentful of the situation all at once. i stood beside her as her sister, and played the role she wanted me to. she never made a rumble for fear of upsetting something/ someone. she didn't want to have to explain that she had already had sex w/ this bastard and that he didn't understand her desire not to do so; she didn't want to be blamed; she didn't want the weight that often comes with speaking the truth. she thought she would have to stand alone. she did not know that she could stand tall and strong. she didn't know . . . my sister did not know that coercion was the source of my first sexual experience with a man. she didn't know how many women experience that (as adults, adolescents, as elders and especially as children) and swallow it up . . . and how likely it was that she'd not be shamed for something that was not in any way her fault. that she was not less of a woman or less of a human being because of something she could not stop, that she is not presently less of a woman or human being because of his wish to destroy the part of her that shone brightest.

and it is because of her story, the stories of so many women i do and don't know that i say safety is neither a luxury nor a privilege. it is a right.

i don't even know dude like that

to be dreaming about him.
shit.
barely three conversations, and he's traipsing through my REM?
we're in this dream, talking about learning portuguese and what we felt was the presence of yemaya in favela rising
and i'm all kinds of twisted about this
maybe it means something
maybe i should just get some fucking sleep
i don't know.

but what i do know is that the feeling has been with me all day long.
*sigh*

oh, negro please.

(disclaimer: i really don't trust black dudes w/ chemically processed hair as a general rule. but this motherfucker takes the cake.)

i present to you, lovely blog readers, michael warns who appears to be the leader of of a group called blacks against obama. some things i notice:

this man relies heavily on scripture to explain why obama's not worthy of the vote.

the scriptures referenced paint a catastrophic picture of death, destruction, and general mayhem as the fault of some mystical satan woman named lilith (i'm presuming this is the lilith who was adam's first wife)

the cover of michael's book entitled satan revealed her name is lilith she is 33% of the black women in america contradicts the sidebar on the right side of the second index page of the website, where he refers to one-third of black women in america as 'jezebel.'

the artwork of the book very clearly plays upon the binary thinking typical of the west, of which the united states of america (refered to by michael as babylon) is a part.

the artwork very clearly displays oprah on the side of evil/ wrong/ the devil/bad/ black (note the black text describing things that this dude is purportedly against) . . . even down to the photo of ms. winfrey (open mouth, hands at the side of her head, not smiling, possibly exclaiming something at the top of her lungs).

in brief, the ideas put forth by the man who calls himself michael warns remind me of every person i've ever known who has required treatment for schizophrenia. i'm not saying this to be mean or to have a laugh at his expense (that's what the relaxed hair comment was for) -- it's apparent to me that something is wrong. following what he's saying, am i to believe that oprah gail winfrey is the devil and that she has chosen barack obama to do her bidding and lead us all . . . to hell?

really?

i'm sorry, but there's no fucking way. none. and i'm disappointed in anyone who buys into this. it makes zero sense.

if this dude were on the corner in any major urban center talking about this stuff (in the same way, speaking in abstracts and everything), who'd listen to him? who'd take him seriously? because he has a url and a self-published book and a ustream.com account he's legit?
fuck
outta
here
with
that
bullshit!

i'm not saying that this dude and his crew (who interrupted a barack obama campaign speech just the other day) don't have the right to talk about what they want

but exactly WHAT the fuck did this dude say/ do to get support from these cats?
they're anti child support (why?)
they're staunchly christian, from what i gather (if the men in the group are in alignment with the head of the body, then that'd more or less be the case right?)
they believe in something "traditional," which from what i can tell is rather ambiguous (they haven't got a lot of presence on the web and seem not to have put forth any manner of a mission statement) but involves women not voting (suggested by the preface to the book)
it's just too much like un-set jello
i daresay every last one of these fuckers is out of his mind
so yeah
i wanna thank renee at womanist musings for posting about this
and implore any of you who come across this kind of shit to dismiss it as what it is: a h.a.m sandwich with a thick slice of bullshit cheese, on par with youtube "star" reh dogg's video showing viewers barack obama's "true colors." nonsensical, at best.
thank you, and good night.

do not look a gift horse in the mouth

do not look a gift horse in the mouth
do not . . .

fuck that
these white ppl who live somewhere in my building or the building next door (same landlord, same big ass back yard) decided they wanted to celebrate the full moon this morning
. . . at 5
before sunrise
by climbing up and down the fire escape with beer and food and shit

why the fuck are you thisclose to my bedroom window
yelling "yoooo" to your friend
like it's 5 pm
like you're the only motherfuckers who live here
like nobody matters except you

fuck you
fuck your over privileged, bratty sense of entitlement
i called the landlord
i hope he tells you to stay your ass off the fire escape up here unless there's a fire, especially since you do not live on my floor
fuck you
fuck you
fuck you
i hope you fall and break your leg or drop your iphone
or get locked out of the building and nobody comes to help you and you get stuck out back w/ the gangs of raccoons and possums who dominate the trash cans in this part of the city

*exhale*

i prayed for this apartment
i work hard to keep my rent paid
i just took a serious blow financially trying to get in this joint
i will not allow some inconsiderate dickhead white boys to fuck it up for me
i'm (totally not) sorry
but i gotta pull your coattails on this one
it is not okay to abuse the amenities of this property
not as long as you have neighbors like me
and the next time you have a loud balcony party i'm gonna let the cops into the yard
cuz thursday nights are not the same thing as friday nights. dickheads.

this morning's rant was brought to you by our sponsors, the full harvest moon, the impending autumnal equinox, and fela kuti's "water no get enemy."

file this one under f.

for massive fail as well as fuckery deluxe.

no.

nkotb & new edition? i quit. just cuz they're from boston and maurice starr managed them, it doesn't mean this shit needed to happen. it's painful. noooooooo, lawd, WHY?

compulsory heterosexuality @ the barber shop.

i'm a bit of a baldie as of late. and, after nearly 3 months without a cut (i swear it didn't look bad until 2 weeks ago) i made it a point to go visit the barber i've been going to for the past few months. he's a haitian dude who's lived in the states for almost as long as i've been alive (he's barely 8 yrs my senior, if that) and seems to have picked up a whole slew of traits that, to my womanist mind, are precise indicators of wtf's wrong w/ black folks: he's homophobic but passes off his thinly-veiled jabs (worded as questions) as curiosity about queer folk, he's sexist but masks it as speaking to the purported regal nature of black women (peace sista, how you doin queen, et. al), and he definitely thinks that children prefer fast food to freshly prepared food items. three fatal flaws. three counter-revolutionary, so-run-of-the-mill-i-barely-flinch flaws. sigh. so common, and so deeply wrong.
not that i expect an episode of the mclaughlin group out of the barber shop.
not that i anticipate some cheikh anta diop or frantz fanon goings on @ that place.
but damn. i also don't anticipate feeling attacked for not believing that queer women are such exclusively because of 'damage' done by men in their lives (molesters, fucked up boyfriends, rapists, violent/ substance abusing siblings or other family members). i never imagined that trying to have a bit of a conversation w/ the brotha who cuts my hair would make me feel like i'm being mocked or laughed at by virtue of some cat deciding to loudtalk me. the place never felt like home, but i feel like my guard has to be up higher than it usually is. i wouldn't say it felt like being surrounded by hyenas, but it wasn't like sitting on a mountain of cushions, either. i have trouble articulating it. maybe that's just my bullshit sensor working overtime to keep me out of the path of danger. i can't really call it. but it's an icky feeling to have. like i'm being written off, misunderstood, or simply humored by someone who doesn't take the function of human genitalia seriously. ugh.
it's cool, though. i stood my ground and reminded myself that i only had to pay him and leave.
scratching the surface is showing me more about these dudes than i really care to see at this point.
it's like stepping on what looks like solid ice and feeling the sheet crack under your weight, and praying you can make it back to the soil before you fall into a lake. i didn't expect all that. should i expect all that? wouldn't that be generalizing, then? that's what i don't want to do. that's what bugs me about the conversations i have w/ hetero-identifying, masculine-presenting biological men who aren't close friends of mine: they decide to apply what they learn in one or two instances to everyone who fits particular criteria. and i hate that.

it's getting harder for me to treat ppl like individuals, to treat them the way i would want myself or my child(ren) to be treated. it's a mess.
and my sleepy ass hasn't even tried to make this rant sound coherent . . .

an addendum:

knowing why they are how they are (why i am the way i am, why anyone functions a certain way) doesn't make it any better or easier. i just have trouble trying to look past that with some people. so, i'm staying over here in my little womanist corner and building community with like-minded persons. that's not to say that i'm fully isolated, but i definitely feel like i need to build myself up a bit more before trying to go play w/ the other, less aware kids.

dear blog readers:

(all 4 of you)

i have a question:

is there EVER a good time to answer a cheesy text message that's a not-so-thinly veiled come-on?

i'm not gonna go into detail. please humor me in the comments with some kind of answer. thanks!

an oldie but goodie

erykah badu's pussy

isn't any of my business.

it's not any of yours.

it's not any of anyone's except her, the babies that have and will come out of it, her coochie doctor, and whomever she's sleeping with.

no matter if it's wilford brimley, common, all of new edition, the current president . . . IT DOESN'T MATTER.

you aren't paying any of her bills
what you eat doesn't make her shit
shut the fuck up
and quit hatin.

if you don't read thembi's blog

start reading it. now. especially because of this post.

thank you, and have a nice day.

on: r. kelly, demons, black folk, and gordon gartrell radio.

1) omi gave me the impetus.
2) phonte drove it home here. among other gems, he said 'the same power structure that says cops can put 50 bullets in a nigga is the same one that tells entertainers it's okay to piss on lil black girls.' YUP.
3) that motherfucker is guilty any time his damn attorney offers the 'little man' defense as what's supposed to be a legit means of proving innocence.
4) i'm glad this has actually made it to trial. really.
5) anyone who puts the fault on that little girl would probably have let the motherfucker pee on their grown asses. being in awe of celebrity, being impressionable, and being just plain uninformed of one's own power are not exclusive to kids.
6) in the first episode of the boondocks, huey asked tom dubois 'do you know the extent to which niggas love r. kelly?' and at this point in time i can say: the love was underestimated. it seems like ppl are looking for reasons for it to be okay. it ain't.
7) i don't think white ppl give a damn about it. and probably wouldn't unless it was a white girl he'd peed on. see: kobe.
8) we can't forget aaliyah. we can't.
9) the whole trial appears to be a zoo. not a sex zoo. just a regular ass, dysfunction-on-parade zoo.
10) most ppl who talk so much about sex and god (and rarely have subject matter that deviates from either) are mentally damaged. see: bizzy bone, marvin gaye (AND his daddy, i'm sure).

ain't this some shit?

(fyi -- if you want a tour of the hood, you don't even have to fly to rio for me to take you on a few. philly's got plenty for your perusal.)


Firm in trouble for slum tour with a twist

RIO DE JANEIRO (Reuters) - A Rio de Janeiro tour company could be in trouble for giving tourists too intimate a view of life in the city's notorious slums, including photo opportunities with drug gang leaders.

The Brazilian city's tourism chief said on Monday that the company, Private Tours, could be stripped of its license after a report in Sunday's Folha de Sao Paulo newspaper that it had set up meetings between traffickers and tourists.

The paper sent a reporter disguised as a foreign tourist on the 4-hour, $55 tour of Rocinha, the city's largest slum, that included visits to the "bocas de fumo" where traffickers sell drugs to Rio residents.

It said the traffickers told the tourists stories about their time in prison, described the life of a Rio drug dealer, and would then pose for pictures with their guns -- as long as their faces were not photographed.

Rio tourism chief Rubem Medina said the firm could lose its license if the story was accurate.

"It's not necessary to do this kind of tour in Rio; there are a lot of wonderful attractions," he told Reuters.

Pedro Novak of the Private Tours firm acknowledged that he ran that kind of tour but that "I'm not the only one."

Several companies have for years offered tours of the city's more than 600 slums, offering tourists a controversial alternative to the city's beaches and an insight into the lives of the more than 1 million people who live there.

The slums, or favelas, are largely controlled by heavily armed drug gangs with names such as "Red Command" and "Friends of Friends" that fight each other for control of the lucrative cocaine market.

(Reporting by Stuart Grudgings; Editing by Todd Benson and Vicki Allen)

i couldn't have said it better.

this post is a reflection of what runs through my mind almost constantly when i'm riding public transit during hours that kids are out, or when i enter the gallery to make a purchase or avoid inclement weather outdoors. i feel like a traitor sometimes. i try not to be elitist. i try not to think poorly of poor ppl. but, dammit, these knucklehead kids & the parents who are raising them half-assed if at all . . . what do i do when i, as an HR professional (until further notice), meet these same folks at a job fair and can't even entertain the idea of trying to recruit them when i know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they're unemployable?

i'm not saying every one of these buck-wild-in-the-wrong-way kids is gonna grow up to be a total fuckwad.
i'm saying plenty of them are -- one is too many, really -- and i just don't wanna be bothered.

*sigh*

it's enough to make me glad as shit to be a brainiac snob. i know that there's a lot under all this. i know. i know that there's dysfunction at play long before any of these little ones even exit the birth canal. but dammit, sometimes i don't care. i want peace & quiet. i don't wanna have to sit next to your smelly, cheese-curl-eating-at-seven-thirty-in-the-morning ass. i don't fucking care if you know all the words to some dipset song. i don't need to hear if you think j. holiday is sexy as shit -- do you even know wtf that means? and pull your fucking pants up. stop with the imitations of what you think languages that aren't english sound like.

ugh.

i give up. i'm going to bed. rant over.