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!

well, now.

atlanta tagged me. here goes.


10 years ago: about to turn 18. watching my summer waste away into nothingness. poor again. looking fwd to the escape of college. dreaming of what life would be like if i stuck to my script.

5 things on today's to-do list:
1. figure out wtf to wear to work tomorrow
2. eat at least one of these peaches
3. call that sexy malian, see if i can add him to the team
4. put some more stuff on my manifestation list
5. find my flippin checkbook

snacks i enjoy:
fresh fruit, especially a peach or a champagne mango
pita chips from whole foods. totally not good for me, but tasty as hell. with black bean dip or hummus.
POPCORN.

things i would do if i were a millionaire:
pay off my debt
give my mom and sisters money for their debts
pay rent on this apartment 3 years in advance
donate to my favorite places/ charities
travel, travel, travel
shop, shop, shop
invest, invest, invest



5 places i've lived (why is this the most inane subject 2 be tagged with?): this apartment. the old apartment. the apartment on master street. my mom's. manhattanville.

i am a civil service employee.

(a rant)

i have been a civil service employee for what'll be 4.5 years as of this coming sunday. i work in an office where depending on what's happening, we hear dead last about the wild shit employees do. i've heard tales of fist fights at health centers, ppl in full work dress brawling on the msb concourse, social workers knocking over file cabinets mid-fight, and (my personal favorite) the dude who was slinging rocks out of the city vehicle he used to drive medication to different city health centers. there's been a lot. the civil service workforce, for 20+ years, has been built on one idea: they have to catch you fucking up before they can call you guilty. it happened during the goode and rendell administrations, and we all remember john "i'm one of the worst mayors in america" street. let me just tell you now: i'm accustomed to the bullshit. in so many regards, the stereotypical city employee exists. and then there are people who rise far above that generally sub-par status quo to do better than just doing their jobs. there's a huge gray area, too, of folks who really don't even know how it is that they woke up and were marking 10 or 15 or 20 years with the city, possibly in the same position they had when they arrived.
i call it 'that philly shit.' but that's quite possibly another post altogether.
we have a new mayor. he doesn't play that shit; people have been jumping ship altogether or getting canned consistently since he was inaugurated in january. but, there's much to be done and so much to assess. he's essentially trying to walk with his shoelaces tied together in some regards. it's the job of the deputy mayor of health and opportunity to make some things run more smoothly

(this is where the post gets iffy, so if you can't handle graphic language or images, please do NOT read this post . . . just find something else to do with your eyes)

and that brings me to the unfortunate death of danieal kelly. if you live in philly (or within a 3 hour drive of philly, for that matter), you already know: she died in august of 2006. she was starved to death and had cerebral palsy, was covered in maggots and flies and feces . . . and that she was one of nine children living in her mother's two-bedroom apartment. there are layers of dysfunction involved in this situation, the likes of which i only wish i could say i've never seen. it's really easy to wag a finger at every fully grown person (nine of whom are being criminally charged) who had a hand in her neglect and eventual death, particularly her parents and the four social/ case workers (two civil service, two contract) who were supposed to have intervened at the first sign of danger.

the grand jury report on danieal's death and everything leading up to it smacks of one thing to me: broken people, functioning as best they can (for lack of a better term), and only really being flagged or stopped cold when it likely too late. to examine it from all sides through or past my rage doesn't give me peace. but it shows me that as terrible as this situation was/ is (andrea kelly has 9 other children if my count is right), it's a major symptom of an immeasurably sick community.

i know that these are individual community members who were responsible for the lives and wellbeing of children. that doesn't change what bothers me the most: every terrible thing that led to danieal's death was in play long before she was even born. her mother and father did not magically become fucked up and/ or crazy on january 3, 1992 (her birthday). dana poindexter, laura sommerer, mickal kamuvaka and julius murray? all of these folks were comfortable with doing what they did, and there's no way to assume that these behaviors weren't old hat for each of them. the same applies for every person at the upper levels who let the DHS employees' shit go unchecked. and carmen paris, the former health commissioner? preposterous. there's no word (in the print media or in the various city worker gossip pools) on why she'd have gone and meddled in some shit like that. clearly, she felt like it was okay to do that and didn't hesitate in doing so. that is, again, some shit that had been in play for a hot minute.

so what's my real point? i'm gonna try to dig one out, since this is a rant and they usually don't have really well-defined points. actually, i feel like my point is twofold:

the things that need to change administratively within the ranks of philadelphia's city government are going to happen regardless. michael nutter, don schwarz, and the managing director are not in a position to play around with folks' lives; they've shown themselves to be dedicated to cleaning all of this mess up. and that's wonderful. if we can't depend on people whose jobs are to provide adequate government services to us, then i daresay we don't really have a city.

but this city is eating itself alive. there's just some deep, old, long-standing muck that seems to be what most of my fellow philadelphians are dealing with. it's something many of us have inherited and will pass onto our progeny. i don't have a name for it. it's the unnamed beast that allows our murder rate to be so high continually, it's the thing that seems to have eaten the best/ most humane parts of andrea and daniel kelly, it's the same monster that leads "friends of the family" to perjure on behalf of someone they know has done wrong. it's not so simple as moms wanting that social security check. i don't know what it is.

but if people who see the disease don't do something to keep themselves steeled against it, and do what they can to demonstrate a better life to those around them, there won't be anything but stories like this. it's all connected; this link is evidenced in the fact that the family members/ friends of andrea kelly and the social workers are being charged for the same ass-covering and lying, etc. regarding danieal's neglect. she had cerebral palsy. not a brain tumor. not hiv/ aids. she wasn't born with anything terminal. and all it would have taken was for someone to decide to stay on top of this shit -- even loose monitoring, as per the grand jury report, would have made an impact.

i don't believe for one minute that i'm "like" these other folks, the ones who end up before grand juries. i know i'm not; but the bottom line is that i'm in it even if i'm not of it. and it's my job the same as it is that of anyone else in the ranks to pull this shit together once and for all. i'm just glad there's an actual consensus and work being done to make it happen. it's not gonna be easy, and it can't be done by one team of ppl w/ six-figure salaries and their staff. it really is going to take the work of everyone who wants that change and will put in the work.

*sigh*

i could be writing forever. i'll probably revisit this sooner or later; i just have to make sure i won't get fired for doing it. accountability. it's what's for dinner.

i don't think it's okay

that i went all the way to 140th and brook to find the best peaches i've had all season, probably in years.

but i had a wonderful day.

operation: benetton ad.

you see, lovely blog readers, your protagonist has a bit of an issue.

i haven't had sex in a while, and really good sex (also known as having my back blown out) is such a distant memory that i've got a better chance of recalling my life in utero than recounting any details of sexual exploits. so, in what i'll call my months of solitude, i've had the opportunity to think really hard about what i want when i get back out there. i've pined away over my usual celebrity eye candy (mos def, chiwetel ejiofor, christian bale, don cheadle, q-tip, et al) and had a few moments to reminisce on past crushes/ eye candy (one time for marvin from trader joe's and that fine-as-all-fucking-getout dude who used to ride the same train i did a few yrs back). but what i haven't actively had was some kind of glimmer of hope. anyone who's really legitimately a potential boo for me. crushes and eye candy won't do. going back to former paramours won't work -- if they were what i wanted, they would not be formers! instead, i need something new, something fresh . . .

enter operation: benetton ad.
it all started w/ the idea i've been kicking around for quite some time: the concept that i should possess a stable of he-bitches of all colors, shapes, and sizes. i mean, why not? i can't seem to get precisely what i want in one place, so why not split it up? go on foreign film dates w/ my art nerd, hit happy hour with the lush, cuddle up next to the around-the corner boo, have the sponsor get me that dress i want, and quite possibly have one strong backed strapping individual to have me grinning consistently whilst walking crookedly.

well, lo and behold, the warm winds of late spring and summer have blown a lot of newness my way. first, there was that lovely piece of curly haired extra gorgeous southerner, in town for a conference. swarthy, as white folk tend to say. mmm, mmm, mmm. he has a girlfriend and lives far away from philly, so i'll leave him where he is. until/ unless there's a reason not to.
second, there was the lite brite (translation: he looks like christopher williams might could be his daddy) from the starbucks near my job. i think he might be slow. but he's nice to look at. eye candy is important. there's a young asian man whose family owns the nail salon i go to. he is SO PRETTY. and a youngin. he's legal, though. seems to be unreasonably interested in the things i use to adorn myself (earrings, bangles, sneakers, nail polish colors). i like him, though, and wouldn't mind sitting on my sofa w/ him while he paints my toenails. there's a chicano in the mix, too. he seems to be focused on marrying me and figuring out how on earth my spanish is as good as it is. he makes me laugh. sometimes. the language barrier is interesting.

and then.
lawdy JEEZUS.

today, i met a fine ass barber who gave me his card and said he'd cut my hair tomorrow . . . LORDY BE, I CAN'T TAKE IT.
he's covered in tattoos. amateurish ones that scream "i've been into some bad shit in my life," and he has the unmitigated gall to smell good. lord help me!
he is, in the words of my beloved uncle, "niggafied." that's what he calls any non-black person w/ the most black american swagger ever.
i mean, i prefer to just say he's very much an around the way asian dude
but the swagger
he got that big dick swagger i tend to only see in black men and others who've been victimized by the prison industrial complex.

WOOT

*fannin myself*

but yeah.
i'm building myself a stable so i can get what i want until i've had my fill. currently, i'm not even close to being done!

U-N-I-T-Y, that's a unity . . .




addendum: in my infinite wisdom and continual quest for creative ways to express myself, i have decided to regard to the stable of he-bitches as he-bees. that is, i am a he-bee keeper, and i'm going to be maintaining an apiary of dick. buckwild apiary's mission statement soon come.

oooh, he can get it.

well, shit, he can.

check the rhyme: john legend, "green light (featuring andre 3000)"

a musical meme

(aj, you'd BETTER answer this shit)

IF YOUR LIFE WAS A MOVIE, WHAT WOULD THE SOUNDTRACK BE?
So, here’s how it works:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that’s playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don’t lie and try to pretend you're cool…

Opening Credits:

owusu & hannibal, "upstairs downstairs"
word.

Waking Up:
mos def, "mr. nigga"
um, yeah. i guess that'll work.

First Day At School:
hope, "bring me flowers"
errrrm . . . aight.

Falling In Love:
outkast, "millenium"
me & everything around me/ is unstable like chernobyl . . . yeah.

Fight Song:
kissey asplund, "with you"
makes NO sense whatsoever.

Breaking Up:
muhsinah, "reconstruct"
YES. finally something that makes sense.

Prom:
j*davey, "valley of love"
if i graduated in 1988 and not 1998 maybe it'd fit.

Life:
cee-lo, "bass head jazz"
my life is never this chill. ever. but maybe that's what i'm headed into?

Mental Breakdown:
bilal, "slyde"
of course it'd be a bilal song. insert ignorant gossipy remark here.

Driving:
the roots, "the lesson pt. 1"
it fits. whaddaya know?

Flashback:
andre 3000, "chronomentrophobia"
the fear of clocks/ the fear of time. yeah. kinda works.

Getting Back Together:
the roots, "the next movement"
the title works. the song itself doesn't, unless i'm cutting a rug w/ said former boo to this song. and i doubt i would be.

Wedding:
muhsinah, "gogh"
the refrain says "let's go again" so maybe this works? am i even getting married?

Birth of Child:
candido, "serenade to a savage"
hey, nobody said it was the birth of MY child!

Final Battle:
esperanza spalding, "ponta de areia"
makes.zero.sense.

Death Scene:
res, "how i do"
this shit has zero rhyme or reason, but it totally fits.

Funeral Song:
dwele, "blow your mind"
well, i always did say i wanted motherfuckers to celebrate @ my "homegoing" service.

End Credits:
outkast, "so fresh, so clean"
fuck and yes.

i love this video.

devendra banhart gives me the willies, but:



the video's concept is kinda fresh.
the song doesn't suck asscakes.
and for once, it appears that mr. banhart has taken a bath. well, knock me down with a feather.

LOVE the show of kali, as well.

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.

cryin like a hit dog

(and maybe you are?)
(this is a rant, straight up)

dear penis-havers:

if you ever find yourself complaining really hard about what another dude is paying for child support, create an advocacy group. do something to change the law. have a balanced, fair, honest assessment of the situations that are being mediated (however poorly or well) by the courts. the "keep a nigga" baby (phonte said that, not me) isn't the only kind of baby. there's often the "that nigga switched up" baby, and the "he started doing drugs" baby . . . sometimes the "i really shoulda left that nigga alone when he told me he was married" baby. often, in my experience, there's the "fuck that, nigga i'm not getting an abortion" baby. why? because abortion isn't anyone's fucking party, and male contraception comes in at least two trusty flavors: vasectomy (with a lower mortality rate than a tubal ligation!) and condoms. that doesn't make any woman less responsible for her own contraception, but i'm sayin. motherfuckers love pointing blaming ass fingers after the kid comes and ppl stop wanting to even look at one another.

often, going to court is a final choice for two otherwise rational adults. in my personal experience, the legal proceedings of divorce kind of demand that agreements be reached (either with or without a court), and put into writing to be made binding unless both parties agree to change things. this is usually effective if the divorce is amicable. if it's not -- and it seems like most divorces aren't, for the same reasons there are 'fatherless' children -- then it gets hairy and ignorant.
and nobody's gonna tell me that everyone remains a grownup when it comes down to the breakdown of a marriage. it's like when you break up w/ your boo of years (regardless of who's wrong or right) and emotions get heated. because they do. because you're human, and so is s/he. fuck outta here... everyone should act sensibly when it comes down to it. but that's not the most realistic thing to ask when you realize your lady's been plotting to divorce you for the past six months and only does it after she makes sure you put some money up for a down payment on a house. it can't happen when you marry your man because the two of you agree that it's the best thing to do for the new baby, but that jackass stops coming home at a decent hour and smells like some other woman's pussy when he does. quit fuckin playin.
puffy pays what he pays not just because of his income. back before justin was actually old enough to know the difference between birthdays bein the worst days & sippin champagne when he's thirst-ay, puff was on that bling shit. before it had a name, he championed it. soooooo, of course misa hylton-brim is gonna get crazy money for that kid. regardless of her own income as a stylist, puffy makes infinitely more money than she does or ever did. that means that per the law in most states/ commonwealths, it's based on the needs of the child in addition to the income level of both parents before they split up. the lifestyle comes into question. a lot of it is spousal support, too; the idea is that both the custodial parent and child did better as a full on family unit with the non-custodial parent present.
if you don't like it:
lobby
protest
picket
wrap your dick up
tell your boy to wrap his dick up
make sure you learn what the laws are in your state or commonwealth
be for real for 5 minutes and remember that the biological function of sexual intercourse is to make babies
respect the whole process
and go to your legislators and tell them to change the shit to really help those babies! i believe moms, dads, kinship caregivers, foster parents, adoptive parents, and anyone else who gives a shit about the wellbeing of a child should band together. these fuckers make laws for us all of the damn time that make zero sense in our day-to-day lives. they're not necessarily living the same way we are. so of course they do seemingly dumb shit like award $20K per month per kimmussell until they're 20 or whatever. and you know what? it's warranted, according to the man who has to "foot the bill." stop looking at the kids like fucking bills. you weren't thinking about that shit when all that fuckin and suckin was goin on, WERE you? nobody ever is. i'm still childless after one extended stint as an almost baby's mama. and you know what? that shit scared me right into the place i am right now: focused on taking care of ME.
but that's another story.
my point is this: for those of us who can't hash it out like grownups, we go to court or have a spiritual advisor or whomever help us do so. it happens. don't talk about the shoulds/ should nots simply because that's a waste of breath. if it's gonna be so in your fantasy world, put in the work to create the world you want to see.
and start with your kids, nigga, so they might have a chance at doing it differently than you.

** i do agree with some of what tigallo said, particularly about what can happen whilst fuckin with "ain't shit" individuals. problem: most ppl with errant babies fall into the "ain't shit"/ TKON affiliate or card carrying member category. i'm just sayin, if the brotha's raps aren't lies then he's personally invested in the whole child support/ separated parents side of life. fine. that's his walk. but everyone ain't tay. everyone ain't russ, kimora, misa, puffy, or even charlie sheen or denise richards.
some of us got too comfortable with someone and when the lil piss test showed two lines instead of one, folks began to show their asses.
then they end up writing songs like "ms. jackson." even your favorite rapper's favorite rapper goes through it. we're not all at the same maturity level. it is what it is.

*shrug*

life lessons.

in my old blog (it's not published any longer, so please don't ask for a link) i began to write life lesson posts. i copied and pasted the text here, for my own amusement & wonder at my personal growth. i'm likely to revise these and really make them more comprehensive. i've got 4 years of personal growth on me that will hopefully enrich my original project.

lesson one: your first mind.

we human beings have this wonderful thing called a first mind. or, as some call it, intuition/ a gut feeling/ a hunch. follow that motherfucker. if you are of the impression that someone's shady, chances are you're right. my first mind told me i wasn't gonna make it through my second week working for ACORN. did i? nope. when someone shows their ass to you in such a way that you can't deny what's going on, step back. evaluate what's going on. listen to the part of self that chews @ your insides telling you, "cut that shit out, yo."

lesson two: respecting one's gangsta (incomplete)

if you don't know, one's gangsta is their gumption/tenacity/ovarian or testicular fortitude. my gangsta is what made me decide to rock a teal t-shirt w/ red & green beaded necklaces, deep magenta sneakers & a pocket book that doesn't match ANY of it . . . all whilst wearing jeans w/ a hole in the arse. understand? i love me. i respect me. ain't nobody dope as me © outkast

dig me? your gangsta is all the history you carry w/ you that made your parents meet up & be who they are, everything that allows you to be your wonderful self. so yeah.


lesson three: extending yourself

it really boils down to a few points:

ppl who're unable to articulate their need for your help are more than likely incapable of articulating their appreciation of said help.

if you're helping folks so they will sing your praises eternally, you'll be disappointed.

know when to step back.


lesson four: knowing when to shut the fuck up. (also incomplete, likely to be revised along with the others at a later date)


just because you've been lied to/ bullshitted(bullshat?)/ had smoke blown up your ass, by no means do you need to be skeptical of everyone you know. there's a fine line btwn critical thinking and just getting on ppl's fucking nerves.

sometimes, you really do have to take things @ face value. & even if you don't believe everything you're being told, just take it w/ a grain of salt & allow that shit to roll off your back.

i skipped ahead cuz i felt like each lesson should move in progression, kinda building up to a climactic final life lesson, which i may only know of when i die. but anyway:

lesson seventy-five: shackin up

postin up w/ a motherfucker like you're his/ her wife/hubby is NOT the move under most circumstances. i was thinking back on how the fall of 2001 through the fall of 2002 was one painfully long, drawn out lesson on why plenty folks will not even consider buying the cow, so to speak, when there's free cow juice to be had. really. playing that role, for me, has proven to be a huge mistake. case in point: when you've already given everything & your relationship is still new, you've already taken away the mystery/ goodness of getting to know that other person. in a way, you've fast forwarded past the really dope shit & more or less created mundaneness. i'm not saying relationships can't move fast, but if it's only been three months & you still don't know where the fuck your partner grew up you might wanna fall back.

if you don't read thembi's blog

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

thank you, and have a nice day.

things i know to be true about myself:

i make delicious collard greens
i have spectacular phone manners
i talk to my plants, and they like it
i know how to put together an ensemble
i am way too great a dancer to sit still
i am smarter than most ppl i know
i am love
i am a healer and always have been
i have the best inside jokes with myself
i am one crafty bitch
my mixology skills are legendary
i have kickass taste in just about everything
i don't have to take my clothes off to have a good time
i can hold my liquor really well
i always smell wonderful
i allow my moments of brilliance to take me where they will
i am an excellent traveler

labelle is the shit.

evidence:



i mean, most of you who read this blog are already well aware of the levels of gangsta involved.

but in case you were clueless, i figured it important that it be made clear.

i'm in some kind of a personal war.

there's a fight. the life i want vs. the way i make a living. i don't like it one bit. i don't fight the notion that forward movement is paramount. i know i have to do A to get to B. but there's this cacophony of every supportive voice i've ever heard combining with my own higher self pretty much singing in a round 'this isn't where you're supposed to be. you can't stay here.'

it's not the work that comes w/ the promotion. i don't care about workload -- i can get stuff done without feeling overwhelmed most times, even with the two functions i serve in one office. this bridge called my back, anyone?
it's not that. and it's not the being on the spot, going to meetings, pressing through . . . all that doesn't matter.

it's that, at the core of myself, i know without a doubt in my mind, with every fiber of my being, that i'm supposed to be welcoming babies into the world. i'm supposed to be throwing fabulous events with dear friends and enjoying not having a day job. this shit is not even for the birds -- those motherfuckers are happy doing what they do. it's . . . it's just not for me.
so now i'm having problems sleeping at night because i don't effin wanna be where i have to be the next morning.
i don't tie my rent to that job. i tie money to that job. when i leave, i will be making the same money, if not better, because i know that's how it's supposed to be. i will teach, i will tutor, i will doula, i will study, i will do everything i need to do to keep this roof over my head.
and you know what?
it won't have shit to do with that 'good city job.'

i've had a lot of time

to reflect.
i started the road to what i really wanna do.
and now, i'm simply putting one foot before the other to get there.
more later -- i need some sleep.

it's too hot to blog

i don't want this hot ass machine in my lap, so i'm not writing much. lol.

i'm on hiatus until further notice.

absolute teetotal truth: esthero.

here's the original blog post. she's dead on. more ppl need to read this.

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).

crushes suck: june 2008

dear you:
i'm mad you have a girlfriend, but not really.
if only i'd had my way, you never woulda made it back to her. real rap. and that's no diss to ol girl. she's aight, but she's not me.
i know special looks when i get 'em
i know how to give 'em too

just rest assured that if the opportunity arises, i'ma take you someplace cozy and show you what a badass brown girl like myself can do.
and keep your hands off the small of my back
stop making me laugh
and PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF CORN, stop being so fucking adorable.

thanks,

the management

addendum:
i do believe that you're certain of my wondrousness. i fully anticipate that you won't shy away if you split up w/ that lil girlfriend person and have some time to reflect on the goodness of me. mmhmm. don't think i don't know.

um, basically.

aaaaaaaaaaand:



and a lil b. scott for your life:

gratitude #7 (since i don't know what else to write):

water

lemon grass coconut soup

friends who encourage me

coworkers who actually get it

new bed linens

juicers

contractor bags

thunderstorms

the laundromat

anita baker

internet parodies

surprise weddings

any and all french fries

lime and cucumber

why have i been lunchin so hard?

ill doctrine is great. see below:

on alicia keys & paranoia


some of mlk's other quotables


rappers + steroids = foolishness


i have such a crush on jay smooth, just on the strength. tsk, tsk.

also: go check out gordon gartrell radio, courtesy of dj brainchild and phonte from little brother.

if you don't do puppets, don't look at this video.

but if you fux with puppets, then this is for you!



don't hate on alisa peoples' fashions, either.
i wanna wear some shit like that to a dinner party. killin em.

dear white people who live in my neighborhood:

in my two years in this area of philadelphia, i've experienced y'all in various settings: the ethio restaurants, an array of porch gatherings, on the trolley, and the local plexiglass chinese food spot.
the chinese food spot is kind of a holy grail of around-the-way-ness. it is probably the last thing east of 52nd street (what is now the border according to the university city district ppl, o'donnell realty, and everyone else who wants to buy up houses) to really imply what this particular portion of west philly used to be: the teetotal motherfucking all-the-way hood. trees, three-story victorians, and random hippies be damned. ten to fifteen years ago, if your zip code ended in 43 or 42, pretty much all of your neighbors were black (and you probably were too). and your dining options kind of revolved around places that were take-out only, or were so grimy that you made your to go. like this place. it's just a stone's throw from my apartment, and though i used to frown continually at it, i made my peace with lucky's. why? because garden court isn't really where i'm tryna go at 1:30 in the morning. it's too far for the post-club, post-weed, post-booze munchies. so, i've become a bit of a repeat customer at the joint.
and you have, too, white folks. i see y'all: someone brought a table and chair in, presumably so more of y'all can sit inside and chatter while you wait or so y'all can 'dine-in.' & there are menu items like sesame tofu, general tso's tofu, and veggie egg rolls (all of which were brand spanking new when i first started hanging out around here 4 years ago) that i'm most certain that the former usual patrons of this establishment would have never requested. great! sometimes i want my tofu fried in the same exact grease as the chicken wings, fish, fries, chicken-on-a-stick and hamburgers too. it gives it that extra panache that regular deep frying just doesn't. i'm thankful for the varying ways in which i can indulge my bourgeoisie leanings even when i'm fresh off some drinks or a late night out, or just want sour patch watermelon candy.
but let me tell y'all somethin white folks:
lucky's will always be the most hood of hood spots, for as long as it's open. so will that hell pit on willows next to the brew pub, and that piece of shit that sells tokens illegally on catherine street. know why? because if they need plexiglass to stay in business, that means there's a certain caliber of food you're not eating. there's no quality. it's on some fast food shit, only they make everything to order. fine dining establishments are not giving you cheese fries or canned pineapple in takeout containers. they just aren't.
my point?
you look like a dickhead standing on baltimore avenue eating your $3 meal with chopsticks. stop that shit. i know it may feel authentic to you, but you just look like an authentic simpleton.
you aren't slick, ordering grape dutches and swedish fish to go with your sesame tofu. wtf do you think that blunt flavoring is made out of? and the gelatinous properties of your candy? the same pork that's in the grease they fried your bean curd in!
and another thing: leave your fucking teacup yorkie outside. i don't want dog hair with my deep fried death. that'd just put it over the top.

on: acting right.

thembi's lady laws for black women (with my notes in italics):


1. Stay Off Of The Pole. And For That Matter, Out Of Videos. I haven’t decided whether or not I have a real problem with strippers or strip clubs in general - who am I to say that men shouldn’t be allowed to gather in a public place and expose their inability to be fully intimate with their spouses by fondling and ogling some stray woman? What I do know is that YOU shouldn’t be one of said strays. Letting your body be drool-worthy for a room full of men cheapens and degrades you, and in the long run is not at all worth the money (no matter how pressed you are for cash). You never know who will be in that club, and when the "I saw Keisha on the pole!" story is told, your future boss or uncle who was "just in there with his boys" won’t be the shamed one, you will! If you like showing off your sexy side, which all of us should, save it for the right man, who will love enjoying all of the freaknasty you have inside of you without having to pay for it on a dollar-by-dollar basis. Someone will always do it, just don't let that someone be you. The same goes for being in videos. That is NOT a profession and will not lead to any sort of meaningful career, modeling or otherwise. A ho is a ho, root word whore, meaning sex for sale, and your stuff is priceless. Got it? [my note: this ties directly into lady law #8. if you're gonna strip, you're gonna strip. but don't walk out of the shaky butt feeling like someone has managed to get more out of you than what they've paid for. unfortunately, we all know about becoming a sex worker (i include strippers in that) to pay for tuition and to feed babies. in my opinion, there are a few social issues that come into play when it comes to dancing vs. working 3 jobs or whatever. i kinda doubt that most of the women who might need this caveat even read thembi's blog. but she makes a damn valid point: your future boss might be there with his boys. then what do you do? sometimes, the immediate need outweighs any potential fallout. especially when it comes to maintaining the roof over your head and that of your family. ultimately, though, shame/ embarrassment seem to tie directly into whether or not you fully own your history and present. living with no regrets usually involves being unabashedly yourself, which leads us into lady law #2.]

2. Go Where No Blackgirl Has Gone Before. The obvious interpretation of the title of my blog is that I think that I’m some Jesus figure. Not so. Actually, the very weekend before I started blogging, loyal commenter Aaliyah was at an almost all-white party filled with beefy frat boys and was asked to do a kegstand. At her side were two other friends of mine, one of which said to her "What would Thembi do?" The obvious answer – go where no black girl has gone before and do the freaking keg stand! It really IS ok to be you, whether it’s as trivial as going snowboarding or as major as pursing a PhD in Greek Mythology. Do the most random or ridiculous things you feel like doing even if you’re not technically supposed to do them, and do them at all times. The same goes for rock concerts, tattoo conventions, playing the accordion, or whatever! Being a blackgirl comes with a unique set of baggage - on the one hand, we’re accustomed to being a minority in almost any situation a million times over. On the other hand, we feel like there are certain places and activities that aren't "ok" for us. Forget all of that, risk ostracization, and trailblaze for us all. We can’t keep saying "But blackgirls don’t _______" or else we’ll never do anything at all. Be YOU, regardless of whatever skin tone, sorority, thickness, neighborhood, or whatever you may be a part of. None of it is as fresh as plain old blackgirl you. [ummmm, BASICALLY. do what you want to do because it makes you feel tingly and warm all over. screw what everyone else thinks your blackness makes you. you're yourself. period. it feels good to own and love your whole self. there's nothing like it.]

3. DON’T Get Pregnant, DO Have A Baby. When people say "Life Is Short," they really mean that life is short – when you’re unencumbered. Life is really, really long when you’re tied down to some dude who seemed great when you were sixteen years old but hasn’t even made it through his baby boy years when it’s time to send junior off to middle school. In fact, it can even seem too long when you start to calculate the potential unpaid child support, the number of times you tried to "make it work for the baby", and the time you’ll spend child rearin’ instead of actually growing up, getting degrees, and making a name for yourself. Not to say you can't have a baby early and have it all turn out rosy in the end, but howsabout having children with someone who can actually agree to be with you in a family unit for the long haul whether or not you just happen to get pregnant? Sidenote: It should go without saying, but why even risk diseases by not protecting yourself? A baby is not the only gift that keeps on giving, you know. [again, the women who probably need to at least be exposed to this concept are not reading thembi's blog. unless thembi is posting her blog for the world on blackplanet or in the back covers of teri woods 'novels' so folks can at least impede their hurtling toward disaster. *shrug* you can't win 'em all.]

4. Know Your Own Hair. Black women have more hair options than almost anyone else, and we exercise them to the fullest. But even those of use who switch from weave to ponytail and from blonde to red would never dare to wear our natural hair in public. I can spend the whole day running errands and not see one blackgirl without a perm, and the same goes for watching television or opening a magazine. What is up with that? Granted, I went natural the easy way with the Philly soul thing being at my heart and a head of naps that never really took a perm quite right, but what pains me is when another blackgirl says to me "I love your hair! How long did it take to grow? I could never get my hair to be that texture. How did you do it?" The reality of it is, most of us don’t even know what is growing out of our own heads, and its very sad. Not one other group of people on this planet can say the same. It’s fine if you settle on a perm or some braids or even a Jheri curl after exploring your options, just get to the point where you can say that you know what your natural hair even looks and feels like before you aspire to be Beyonce by default. [it is IMPORTANT to know what your hair is really about. it is really important to style, care for, manage, and possibly even cut your own hair YOURSELF. dependency on a stylist is kinda, like, not cute. no matter what your choice of hair is. if you've got a natural and only ever wear microbraids or wigs or weaves because your hair is 'ugly underneath that' SOMETHING IS WRONG. love yourself enough to know how to do specifically what you want for yourself at all times. it's a liberating feeling.]

5. Get Out Of Town. I’ve met young women who have never left their cities, seen the ocean, or even set foot in another zip code. It’s not always cheap, and it’s not always fun, but the sooner you start traveling the better. In fact, this Lady Law applies to almost everyone of every race and gender. Make a list of dream locations and get started as soon as possible. The more time you spend in the same surroundings the less you understand about the world, and for that matter, what the world thinks of you – you’ll learn that you’re not trapped after all. Besides, you can’t conquer the world if you don’t know what’s out there, and it should be your goal to conquer it! Let the trailer trash of West Virginia confuse Mexicans with Spaniards and believe that Africa is a country and not a continent. Learn your world because it is yours to learn, even if you have to do so only an inch at a time. [i used to feel bad about not having hit every country i've wanted to by age 25. but then i met someone who's never spent a night in a hotel (even in his own city, which can still be fun and eye opening depending on where you stay), never even been to the airport (cuz his ppl never go anywhere or do shit), and was so amazed at my proclivity toward traveling to nyc on a whim that he nearly pissed his pants at the chance to go himself. i got over that feeling of inadequacy. i am gonna go where i wanna go at every given chance. this year: a conference in harlem, caribana in toronto, quality time w/ the fam at the jersey shore (you aren't a philadelphian without it), and a good girlfriend of mine is moving to atlantic city. it doesn't take a lot, except maybe a plan or at the very least the real genuine true desire. things happen for us all at the right time, when they need to happen. no need to rush to be amelia earhart, but you most certainly need to get out of your zip code. not not just to go to court.]

6. Don’t Get Called Out of Your Name. I’m not on this whole "we were queens" tip, but I know that none of us should be called or let ourselves be called any of the following: bitch, ho, trick, and on and on and on. Don’t sing along with songs about "makin' it rain" unless it's for the sake of irony. Don’t even participate in anything misogynistic unless you know it’s only a joke to you, and even then don’t ever pay for it. Recognize that just like when he talks about selling crack you're not selling crack, that when some rapper talks about his hoes he doesn’t mean you, download that song from Limewire, and keep it moving. And lastly, never, EVER call yourself anyone’s "baby’s momma." My first encounter with an ex’s grown BM involved her introducing herself to someone as such, and as much evidence as I may have already had that she was feeble-minded, giving herself that label sealed the deal. Don't be that broad. [context means everything, y'all. formal introductions should not ever in your life or your former partner's life include the words 'baby's mama' or any variant. that shit's not cute. my mom occasionally refers to my estranged father as her baby daddy because she thinks it's funny. she generally refers to him as her ex. big difference. also, the context within which we use the words bitch, ho, trick, etc. means a lot. a lot. if you're at a drag ball, bitch is thrown around liberally. it's culture. it's context. watch yourself.]

7. Act White. I won’t bother justifying this term because you all know just what I mean. Talk white by speaking the King’s English, using full sentences, and the most intricate vocabulary you can muster. Act white by doing well in school, participating in any activity that suits you, and playing musical instruments. Don’t worry, you will never, ever actually BE white. If it were possible, don’t you think that all of those people who were lynched and beaten back in the day would have white-acted their way out of it? [i am a second-generation 'oreo'. my mom said they used to call her white girl for being so precise with her english, and it's definitely managed to rub off on me and my two sisters. it's so serious that i have charged myself with the task of learning perfect, unaffected spanish so that i sound the best i possibly can to native speakers. i'm not playing. i know my vernacular, i have my moments where i'm like 'you ain't shit!' or whatever. but when it comes time for that good code-switching i learned in my school days (penn charter and project learn STAND UP!), i go toe to toe with the best. furthermore, i've always believed that excellent grades are the ultimate smack in the face to the very white ppl whom your brown/ black/ red/ yellow peers can't stand. fuck what the other black kids are telling you. strive to get that perfect score on the SAT's. i took AP art history senior year. it was liberating, despite being the only black student in the class. again: be unafraid of your whole self.]

8. Get What You Deserve Without Worrying About What He Deserves. This is a weird one. All too often women say "I’m not giving it up to him, he doesn’t deserve it!" But what do YOU want? While it’s not smart to just go giving it up to any old body, getting caught up in the idea that your sexual desires should be based on what men deserve is the exact opposite of feminism. If we only had sex when men deserved it we would be a bunch of bitter, mean, deprived wenches. Learning and maintaining the balance between withstanding pressure from dudes and getting yours is part of becoming a real woman. [get yours, boo. GET IT. you want to fuck the guy or gal who delivers the milk to your supermarket? does she or he meet or exceed your standards for an acceptable fuck buddy? nobody said you had to marry the motherfucker. go on and make it happen. if you make everyone jump through a bunch of hoops when you aren't trying to go far with their ass to begin with, you may find yourself bothered with the lack of good sex in your life. the key: having and maintaining real standards. truuuuust me. i had a dope boy as a fuck buddy. i never let him talk much, cuz he wasn't the smartest. but he met the standards: ready, willing, able, clean penis, proximity to my home, a deep love for cunnilingus. my standards have since changed, as have i. but y'all get the point. there's a difference between sleeping with someone who's a total waste of your time/ energy and getting yours from someone who simply isn't the boo of your dreams while still being a great sex partner. really.]

9. Don’t Eat That Mess. Our country is facing an obesity epidemic, yadda yadda blah blah. But it’s all so very real, ladies, and I’m as guilty as the next chick. The thing is, you can get fat and out of shape eating regular food and that’s damning enough. It’s the Chinese Store chicken wings and fries (saltpepperketchup or no), grape soda, chips, quarter water, or other mess. If you can believe for one second that AIDS or crack was planted in the black community to kill us, what do you think Crown Fried Chicken is here for? And your body may be able to metabolize it before you hit 25, but after that it's just a quick ride to Lane Bryant once you get addicted, so don't do it. [she is NOT LYING. 'regular' to most ppl is hyperprocessed foolishness that comes wrapped in plastics and wax paper and shit, then goes in the microwave. and that's just what you eat at home. not a good look. i live in a walking city, yet we used to be the fattest city in the nation. the problem: most of us are walking to get junk food. i have a warm(er) weather routine: walk at least 1 mile each weekday, whether it's on lunch hour or on the way to work or on the way home. it's at least a weight maintenance measure. the next issue is making sure i don't get high and wander about in search of wings and cookies at midnight when my ass needs to (a) be asleep or (b) eat a damn apple and go to sleep. the munchies are real shit. i think this city is also full of potheads who will eat anything that isn't nailed down. it's unfortunate, but true. if you have a crazy work schedule like mine, it's super easy to do takeout instead of cooking. it's pricey, though. and depending on where you live, you may only be able to get junk. the key is balance.]

10. Be A Lady. I have never been the most ladylike of blackgirls and most women like me can trace that to our upbringings, but it’s really very simple. It’s very natural for us to speak loudly, but it’s more powerful when used in small doses, just like hot sauce. Making that lip smack before you start speaking is not cute either, especially if it’s followed by a "weeeeeeeeaaaaal," twist of your neck, and then whatever it is that you have to say. By doing that, not only have you butchered the word "well," but whatever you have to say is eclipsed by that attempt to get attention and gear up like you need prep time just to speak your mind. Swearing every other word may be cute to around-the-way boys but if you ever want to get off of the block (see Lady Law #5), it won’t do you any good. Although every once in a while another female may make your blood boil, fighting is not cute – just think, aren't you way too pretty to get into a fight and get some gash across your face? I don’t think I need to caution young blackgirls on good grooming because we’re good at that, but do you really need to let all of that unravel just because some girl is talking about you? What does that even really mean? Like Katt Williams says, if you’ve got fourteen haters, you need to find a way to get sixteen! [i've never fought someone who didn't hit me first. i'll never be the one who advises a friend to go slap the shit out of someone -- that just is not my style. i believe in maintaining my relative freedom by not getting locked up. i also think it's lame to fight someone when you have a job, or rent to pay, or kids to feed. then again, anyone who needs to consider this probably isn't reading my blog. next up: lenée's life skills classes. after doula training/ certification and a bit more day jobbing.]

so, i had this lil chat

with my godmother yesterday.
she said, in no uncertain terms: "listen for your mother, cuz she's comin."

i feel it already.
i'm ready for it.

if you're churchy, don't get mad.

i think he's onto something. it's a 3 year old article but it really resonated with me. especially considering creflo dollar's recent senate probe situation, it seems as relevant as ever . . .


Everyone from Harold Bloom to George Will to Cornel West has publicly lamented the moral status of the hip-hop generation. Now it's the 'New Black Church' insulting us -- but why?
In a desperate attempt to fend off boredom, I found myself at home on a recent Saturday afternoon flipping through television channels in search of a diversion. After a few minutes, I stopped at one of the local public access stations, which was re-broadcasting a Sunday service from one of the area's largest and most popular churches.

By the time I tuned in, a middle-aged preacher was nearing the climax of his sermon entitled "The Lost Generation." "Kids growing up today don't care about nothin' and nobody," he insisted while dabbing a silk handkerchief against his chin to save his Armani suit from his own sweat, "All they want to do is party and have fun."

In spite of my instincts, I continued to listen as he enumerated the faults of the current generation of "hip-hoppers" who have apparently cornered the market on sin. "Hedonistic," "selfish," "materialistic," and "lazy" were just a few of the labels that the preacher assigned to my generational cohorts. After a few minutes, I could no longer suffer his rhetorical assault and changed the channel.

Still, I continued to replay the comments in my mind throughout the ensuing week, struggling to figure out why I was so unsettled. After all, everyone from Harold Bloom to George Will to Cornel West to my own momma has publicly lamented the moral status of youth culture. Why would I care so much about a random preacher? After a few days of reflection, the answer hit me.

According to much of America's ostensible moral leadership -- both religious and secular -- the hip-hop generation (those born between 1965 and 1984) is no longer in possession of the values, beliefs, and traditions that have sustained our predecessors. In its place, it is argued, stands a selfish and hedonistic individualism that prevents our moral and social development.

Unlike many of my peers, I can accept that analysis on its face, although I tend to resist the romantic version of the past in which it is often grounded. What troubled me, however, was that the stance was articulated by a preacher, who was representing the perspectives and interests of the "New Black Church."

By "New Black Church," I am referring to the current configuration of mainline black Christianity. The New Black Church, which has taken its current shape over the past two decades, is the progeny of civil rights-era movements, but can be distinguished by its increased materialism, questionable theology, and dubious politics.

While this description is certainly not exhaustive -- the erasure of denominational boundaries and resurgence of neo-Pentecostalism (spirit-filled charismatic worship) are also critical features of the New Black Church -- it speaks directly to the contradictions between the New Black Church's own practices and its critiques of the hip-hop generation, which have been used to fuel the current moral panic.

As a full-fledged member of the hip-hop generation, the shibboleth of "keepin' it real" that informs my worldview made it difficult for me to accept the preacher's commentary, because I knew that it was coming from a profoundly hypocritical place. Who was he, or anyone from the New Black Church for that matter, to diss us for having strayed from the supposed path?

Of course, I am not suggesting that the truth-value of the New Black Church's critiques is necessarily compromised by its own contradictions. To do so would not only be a logical fallacy, but also ignores the fact that Christian faith is grounded in the belief that flawed messengers can send right and exact messages.

Although the New Black Church's claims to moral authority are certainly betrayed by these contradictions, the larger issue is about its role in replicating, reiterating, and resonating the same ideologies and practices that its critiques are intended to disrupt.

This suggests that the hip-hop generation is not as directionless as others would have us believe. Rather, we are following the flawed moral compass of the very people waging generational war against us.

Money Ain't a Thing

Since the beginning of hip-hop's "ice age," circa 1994, showboating has been a linchpin of the culture. In today's industry, no commercial rapper worth his salt appears in a video without the necessary accoutrements: shiny jewelry, expensive cars, designer clothes and large homes.

Hip-hop's baller elite have even graduated to mainstream commerce, selling everything from sneakers to energy drinks. To be sure, such decadence lends legitimacy to claims of wanton materialism and consumerism among the hip-hop generation. Yet, a brief survey of the New Black Church's leadership would yield a remarkably similar conclusion.

Hip-hop's obsession with "flossing" and "stunting" (showing off) is matched only by the New Black Church's flair for the ostentatious. Many of today's superstar preachers are similarly lavish in their public appearances. For example, televangelist Creflo Dollar (real name!) drives a Bentley and owns a private jet worth $5 million. T.D. Jakes, the Russell Simmons of the New Black Church, owns several multimillion-dollar estates.

While this is certainly not a new phenomenon -- preachers have been driving Cadillacs and wearing expensive clothes since the first amen corner was built -- the stakes have grown considerably higher given the increased amount of revenue generated by the New Black Church. Best-selling books, tapes, seminars and mainstream films have all created new sources of wealth for today's preachers by turning them into household names.

The most profitable project for the New Black Church has been the development of the "mega-church." Founded on corporate business models, these super-sized sanctuaries draw tens of thousands of parishioners per week and hundreds of millions of dollars per year. Additionally, mega-churches create huge stages for superstar preachers to perform for their congregations, which include politicians, athletes, actors, and rappers.

Despite the remarkable wealth of mega-church congregations (or perhaps because of it), it is no surprise that the most bedazzling "Jesus pieces" in the building can often be found around the necks of the people giving the Sunday sermon.

Thou Shalt Not Be Poor

Few would argue that hip-hop's hedonistic impulses aren't at least partially rooted in the belief that financial prosperity is the ultimate measure of success. Given this market-driven logic, it is no wonder that hip-hop narratives abound with rags to riches stories that celebrate the individual over the collective and the material over the spiritual.

Artists such as Notorious B.I.G., who once rapped that "God meant me to drive a Bentley," argue that their enormous wealth is a divine reward, or what Jay-Z has termed "pro-jetic justice" for their impoverished pasts. And where would they get such convoluted values? A look at the New Black Church, whose good news has been reduced to "God wants you to be rich," provides a good answer.

Through their curious readings of Bible scriptures, depictions of Jesus as wealthy and belief that people are poor because they "ain't living right," the New Black Church reinforces the tired conservative argument that the problems of the disadvantaged are self-inflicted.

While gospels of prosperity have always been commonplace within the black religious tradition -- leaders from Sweet Daddy Grace to Elijah Muhammad have, to varying degrees, promised wealth as a consequence of religious devotion -- "name it and claim it" mantras have moved from the margins to the center of the New Black Church community.

Word-faith pastors no longer preach the virtues of struggle, sacrifice, or redemptive suffering, instead exhorting the poor to "get right" with God by accumulating capital for themselves. As word-faith preacher Creflo Dollar explains on his website, "When you find out how to live your life according to the word of God you will become a money magnet."

Of course, becoming a money magnet requires the congregant to share their bounty with the church. Dollar tells his congregation, "God is not coming back to a church in debt. [T]hat would be against his word" ("Changing Your World," 27 March, 2000). In other words, salvation comes with a price.

To ensure that the people pay it, many New Black Church pastors are beginning to ask their members to bring in tax returns to guarantee appropriate tithing. Others request that members submit their entire checks and allow the church to manage their finances in order to certify that they are appropriately sharing God's grace with their spiritual shepherds. Can anyone say Suge Knight?

The connection between New Black Church theology and hip-hop's materialism became no more apparent than when rapper Mase staged his 2004 comeback. As one of the pioneers of the shiny suit era, Mase was the poster child for hip-hop's bling-bling agenda. Disillusioned with the immoral underside of the music industry after becoming born-again, Mase retired from music to devote his entire life to the ministry that he built and modeled after his mentor and pastor, Creflo Dollar.

After being called back to the game (by God or his accountant, depending on who you ask), Mase dropped the disappointing Welcome Back LP. While the album was devoid of profanity, violence and sex, it remained chock full of pro forma references to his wealth of money, cars, homes, and jewelry. Although it was a commercial flop, the album was celebrated by the gospel community for its "positive message," which can be summed up by the final line to his verse on Kanye West's "Jesus Walks" remix: "I'm healed, I'm delivered, I'm rich. And it's all because of Him."

Poli-what? Poli-who?

When the Wu-Tang Clan released the single "C.R.E.A.M. (Cash Rules Everything Around Me)," the song reflected the hip-hop generation's developing profit-driven consciousness. It is this belief system that substantiates many critiques of the hip-hop generation with regard to its lack of political focus and activity. Despite the culture's ability to galvanize millions of youth, American hip-hop has become increasingly divorced from concrete political action.

With the exception of the intriguing but shortsighted "Vote or Die" campaign, the hip-hop generation has failed to live up to its political potential and muster a legitimate large-scale movement in the interest of social justice. Of course, comparable claims can be made about the New Black Church, which has grown increasingly detached from politics except under very opportunistic circumstances.

Since the days of slavery, the black church has been a fecund site for political organization and mobilization. Although its politics have never been radical, particularly with regard to issues of gender and sexuality, the church has always been a counter-public space committed to spotlighting and allaying the worst forms of social misery.

Over the past few decades, however, the church has grown increasingly unresponsive to the social conditions of its members. With annual revenues skyrocketing but less than 10 percent of the nation's black churches considered activist in nature, the New Black Church seems to have gained the whole world and lost its soul.

The development of the mega-church has created enormous possibilities for large-scale forms of social activism. Unfortunately, mega-church leadership often deliberately sidesteps controversial politics by not organizing rallies and marches or publicly supporting political candidates. Such moves, clearly done in order to avoid alienating particular segments of their congregations and losing revenue, are reminiscent of the notorious political coward Michael Jordan, who once refused to support a presidential candidate because both Democrats and Republicans buy his sneakers.

One of the more disappointing examples of the New Black Church's profit-driven cowardice came in January 2005 when President George W. Bush spoke to the First Baptist Church of Glenarden, a mega-church in Maryland. Pastor John Jenkins, an affirmative action advocate, refused to publicly challenge the President's stance on the subject because he considered it inappropriate to take a political stand against the President's policy from the pulpit.

Bishop Eddie Long, who pastors a 25,000 member mega-church in Lithonia, Georgia, encourages his members to "forgive, forbear, and forget" racism on the grounds that "we're already in the promised land" (Atlanta Journal & Constitution, 15 February 2005). By eliminating political protest from the church's agenda, these leaders effectively strip the church of its transformative potential while enhancing their own earning capacity.

While some observers have attributed the New Black Church's political passivity to the neo-Pentecostal focus on individual spiritual connectedness, the New Black Church has demonstrated that it is willing to join the political fray when the economic stakes are sufficiently high.

The best example of this came in light of the faith-based initiatives introduced by the Bush administration in 2000. In order to better position themselves to grab the money dangled in front of them, these churches have moved too close for comfort to white evangelicals on ostensible "moral issues," while endorsing horrific public policy initiatives, such as privatization of Social Security and the No Child Left Behind Act.

This proved particularly disastrous during the 2004 elections, when President Bush wooed several mega-church leaders with extremely slippery faith-based funds, ultimately convincing them to support his successful re-election bid. At least "hip-hoppers" have sold on their own terms.

Don't hate the playa

My point here is not to excuse the troubling condition of the hip-hop generation. Clearly, we have moral and ethical issues that must be resolved in order to approximate the level of service rendered by our forebears. I also do not intend to isolate or vilify the New Black Church, as they are not the first nor the only institution that fails to fully practice what it preaches.

Rather, I am responding to a pressing need to protect my generation from the feelings of moral alienation and historical exceptionalism that inevitably accompany the New Black Church's self-righteous onslaught. Hopefully, this defense will inspire the type of self-criticism and humility necessary for social change.

sneaker lust, 2008. part one.

the puma hooper mid decade.






holy god.
someone find them in a boys' 7 or men's 7.5 for me.
please.
please?
thank you i love you i SWEAR i'll massage your scalp...

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 wait

to get here. that must be why i came early. and i know that, from the very start, you've held my hand. no matter how wrong i was, without regard to my stubbornness, you never let go. i appreciate that. i don't know one word to sum it up. i've drifted, come back, drifted again but deep down i always knew you were anchoring me. i'm thankful.

you taught me
how to politely tell someone that i don't cosign their foolishness
what it is to make a dollar out of 15 cents
how to be sharp as a tack on a really low budget
how to make a wreath out of trash bags
what the last laugh really is
how to be a maverick
when to walk away
that faith without work is dead
what forgiveness is without forgetting
how to say goodbye to someone you love
the difference between forward movement and running away
how to love myself regardless of what other people think
that crafting a gift can be better than a store-bought item
discipline for the sake of something i want
how to share without giving myself away

when i was a little girl, i wanted to be you because you exemplified composure and class. your hair, your choice of clothes and jewelry . . . i even used to sneak your cigarette butts because i wanted to know what it'd feel like to be you. i don't know if you ever knew that. but i wanted to be just like you when i grew up. i can only hope that i can capture and utilize a fraction of your uniqueness. the way you move through the world is miraculous to me -- some days i don't think i have the grace or patience. but then i remember whose daughter i am, and i have to correct myself.

i don't really know if i'll ever be able to articulate how much taller i stand because you've helped me and been there and said 'okay' even when i wasn't sure of myself.
thank you.
every day should be your day, but i'm just making sure i take the time to speak on how i feel.
i admire, respect, thank and love you. happy mother's day, mommy!

this is a copy of the email i sent my mom. all the manicures, pedicures and jars of honey-roasted peanut butter won't ever do it.

i would complain about it

but it's what i asked for.
i wanted to communicate with you only in dreams. clearly, & with no punches pulled. last night/ this morning, you asked for the chance to talk to me. i said i needed to think about it. a mutual friend was the one i told this to in the dream -- i presume that this person was the conduit of that energy, he represented the path. if you'd come to me any other way, i wouldn't have accepted it. it was a lot for me -- you know i have some serious anxiety about dealing with you. but i've been touched by the dream; i understand. i know. i wonder if your dream was the flip side of what i just experienced. even if it wasn't, i'm good. for now, i'm okay w/ dreams. you have to have my permission to reach me, anyway. this is just another way for me to let go. it's really easy to say that past hurts shouldn't be able to reach you, but fuck that. we're human. we're super sensitive to traumatic and hurtful things no matter how we allow them to manifest. i respect your humility. you don't have to try to reach me in the waking world. i already know. it's okay. say peace, and let's leave it at that. whatever happens next is up to our ori and the universe at large.

*an end note:

i know you show up every time i dream of you. i can't stop you. but if we engage w/ each other in the waking world i want you to act right, okay? don't make an ass of yourself or make me wanna wish you harm. thanks.

ain't no future in frontin.

( from too sense, swiped from postbourgie)


I'm sure you've seen the video of Obama denoucning Wright yesterday, and the emerging narrative seems to be that Obama wasn't forceful enough when he said this:


You know, I have been a member of Trinity United Church of Christ since 1992. I have known Reverend Wright for almost 20 years. The person I saw yesterday was not the person that I met 20 years ago. His comments were not only divisive and destructive, but I believe that they end up giving comfort to those who prey on hate and I believe that they do not portray accurately the perspective of the black church.

They certainly don't portray accurately my values and beliefs. And if Reverend Wright thinks that that's political posturing, as he put it, then he doesn't know me very well. And based on his remarks yesterday, well, I may not know him as well as I thought, either.


Of course he wasn't. What people want is not for Obama to denounce Wright, but to denounce black people everywhere who have the gall to be angry at America for how they are and have been treated. What they wanted Obama to say was that racism is uneqivocally a black problem, that white people have moved past it but that black people cling to greivances as an excuse for out of wedlock births, unemployment, or incarceration.

It doesn't matter that rhetorically and policy-wise, Obama has struck the right balance between personal and governmental responsibility. It doesn't matter that he's confronted black anti-Semitism, black homophobia, black apathy. When Obama dared to mention that white people might harbor irrational prejudices of their own--he was pilloried by conservatives and liberals everywhere who don't want to feel guilty suspecting every black teenager of being a drug dealer for "throwing his grandmother under the bus."

They didn't want him to condemn Wright, they wanted him to condemn black people. So of course they're not satisfied. For all the talk of how white people are attracted to Obama and the alleged "absolution" he could offer them, what they really want is for him to publicly shift the blame for the racial divide squarely on the shoulders of the black community, so white people can stop thinking about it.

And he didn't do that, so they're not happy.

Being biracial, I know the feeling of searching for that "older brother" or father figure to help you make sense of the world in terms of racial and gender identity.

Obama had the added burden of his father being absent--and so he was looking to fill both a personal void and find someone to help wade through all the self-destructive bullshit black men are told to be. Though Wright was surely not the only one of these father figures, he was clearly an important one. And the idea that Wright would betray him so fully and completely is both heartbreaking and infuriating.

And anything Obama did or said in response was completely justified.

b. scott is the shit.

i love b. scott to pieces! he makes me smile on the inside.

on a run-in with a squirrel:



on the LAX ho-stroll:



on sherri shepherd's dumb ass:

i've been tagged

by this hooker to do a meme where i list 6 quirks about myself. well . . . okay. i'm not tagging anyone.

1) i have the hardest time sleeping with the tv on, though sleeping with music playing is fine.

2) i read magazines from back to front, then read them from front to back.

3) i hate soda, with the exception of good shit like stewart's sodas, the occasional IBC cream soda, & whatever italian sodas i can get my hands on at random cafes.

4) i think being lauded and praised for even the smallest things can make my day go better.

5) i'm really expressive because i want to make sure ppl remember wtf i'm telling them.

6) i hate slow readers. HATE. i don't share print media w/ ppl because i get sick of waiting for them to finish.

oh, hell yes.

this is why i fuck w/ chris from SBPH.

he couldn't be more correct. he also managed to illustrate his point without being a jerk. i love him. i know he's probably not even reading this post, but i had to share that.

b/w

i think i've managed to justify my subscription to premium table channels. thanks to bill, i'm officially hooked on weeds. watching season 3 after not having seen more than snippets of the prior 2 seasons is kind of odd. but i freaking love this show.

i'm tired of this shit.

myopia is a disease. it can be a blessing and simultaneously a curse, if you will. i don't mean what my eyes can do (i'm a prime candidate for corrective eye surgery, actually). i'm talking about worldview perspective, or the lack thereof. i'm still here with mine. i'm not sure there are too many other ways to say it. i believe that love must fuel change. when i change myself, it is out of love -- i cast away old things. i cast away negativity. i cast away damaging things to improve myself. to me, change outside of ourselves should be fueled by the same feelings of love. there is no other way. what could be greater than love?

shine on!

dope girl fresh has been featured on the ultraviolet underground blog.

altered thought's silly ass is back at it. this time, he wants you to learn the basics of having relations.

laetiçia has learned the glory of bragging, a valuable lesson learned from mama gena.

falsabaiana's kids won the GOLD in their ballroom competition. (girl, gimme a link to read if there is one) she's also a recent birthday girl! yaaaaaaaaay!

this is my time to celebrate ppl i know/ love (especially myself! lol) & the wonderful things they do/ create, no matter how big or small.

prayers for you.

daughter
friend
sister
cousin
auntie
uncle
grandmother
grandfather
neighbor
stranger
coworker
customer
client
server
pet-owner
lost one
found one
so that you might love/ fight/ see/ be
better.

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.

music to wake up to:

swing - che grand

sunshine (woke me up this morning) - labelle

take it easy, my brother charles - jorge ben

congo - amel larrieux

the art of noise - cee-lo

i (mikey) rock - the cool kids

another star - stevie wonder

papillon (aka hot butterfly) - chaka khan

shorties - sa-ra

skew it on the bar-b (f/ raekwon) - outkast

michael jackson - the mitchell brothers

see-line woman - nina simone

sLAyer (feat pacific division, bleu collar, & diz gibran) - j*davey

mama (metro area birthday dub) - hugh masekela

1 2 3 4 - feist

country livin' (the world i know) - esthero

. . . i'm listening to these songs this morning cuz my black ass reaaaaaaaaaally needs the motivation.


ps --

happy birthday, atlanta. you are a dynamic, powerful, absolutely beautiful soul & i'm thankful to know you. stay open to the universe, continue to reach for everything you want, & don't ever let anyone tell you that you don't deserve every last tasty morsel that is life. may you be blessed richly today & always. beijos!

i can't stop laughing.

courtney, if you're reading: don't front. lmao!

this is why i love her:


greenbench tv on their usual foolishness:

i tried sooooo hard

to avoid reality tv. no flavor of love, no i love new york, i refuse to look at celebrity fit club or college hill. but you know what? i've been had, my sweet babies. felled by the most preposterous reality show yet: ego trip's miss rap supreme. this is like making the band meets the bad girls' club, pressed down & shaken together about 12 times. good god. it's more drama than i care to even associate with on a regular basis.
but mc serch and yo-yo? at the same time? in the same place? giving pointers to women who think themselves the next trina, lil' kim, foxy brown, or . . . khia? it's the perfect formula for absolute foolishness. so, i watch it.

my other favorite is viva hollywood, the telenovela star search. i can't even begin to tell y'all how thankful i was to see that they have a slapping-across-the-face challenge. YES. sweet! and charo is involved. what more could a girl ask for?!