Just Another Girl On The IRT

Living life like it's golden

2009-02-22T20:00:00.007-05:00

A young protagonist emerges from an improbable background to outwit and overcome ruthless adversaries on the road to fame and fortune. It's hard to tell where the narrative that swept our current commander-in-chief into office begins and the Cinderella story of this year's feel good escapism tale, Slumdog Millionaire ends. You could easily leave the theater squealing "yes we can!" as the credits roll.

The irony of Hollywood's award season avalanche of accolades to Mumbai populism with a fairytale ending amid the climate of righteous anger towards anyone in the upper tax bracket is a wry punchline to real-life tragicomedy. In spite of the juxtaposition of laughing to keep from crying, I'm always good for getting my crystal ball on in the name of a side hustle. In case you need to sneak a peek at a ballot before finalizing picks for the office pool, my choices are as follows...

Best Picture:

Should win: Slumdog Millionaire
Will win: Slumdog Millionaire

Best Actor:

Should win: Sean Penn, Milk
Will win: Mickey Rourke, The Wrestler

Best Actress:

Should win: Anne Hathaway, Rachel Getting Married
Will win: Kate Winslet, The Reader

Best Supporting Actor:

Should win: Heath Ledger, The Dark Knight
Will win: Heath Ledger, The Dark Knight

Best Supporting Actress:

Should win: Viola Davis, Doubt
Will win: Penélope Cruz, Vicky Cristina Barcelona

Best Director:

Should win: Danny Boyle, Slumdog Millionaire
Will win: Danny Boyle, Slumdog Millionaire

Best Original Screenplay:

Should win: Milk
Will win: Milk

Best Adapted Screenplay:

Should win: Slumdog Millionaire
Will win: Slumdog Millionaire

Best Animated Feature:

Should win: Kung Fu Panda
Will win: Wall-E

Best Documentary Feature:

Should win: Trouble The Water
Will win: Man On Wire

Foreign Language Film:

Should win: Waltz With Bashir
Will win: Waltz With Bashir

Best Costume Design:

Should win: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Will win: The Duchess

Best Original Song:

Should win: Jai Ho from Slumdog Millionaire
Will win: Jai Ho from Slumdog Millionaire

My funny valentine

2009-02-14T21:09:00.004-05:00

Love is in the air, every time I turn around. And it makes me sick. Right up there with the start of swimsuit season, a trip to the gynecologist or fluorescent lighting in retail changing rooms, St. Valentine and I have never seen eye-to-eye and remain on non-speaking terms.

Showing contempt for February 14th usually gets one shoved into the conventional "bitter, lonely spinster" category of which I am a charter member, but it's a bit deeper than just being alone. The sheer competitive horsetrading aspect of watching women compete for attention by the metric of fluffy pink hearts and rose bouquets feels way retrograde. While it would be nice to have someone to cuddle up with and split a bowl of spaghetti alla carbonara, is it necessary to do so at the lobbying of Hallmark, Russell Stover and 1-800-Flowers?

According to the Beatles, "all we need is love," but breaking in my new vibrator will suit me just fine in the meantime.

Seven whole days

2009-01-27T20:55:00.003-05:00

Barack Obama is President.
Barack Obama is President.
Barack Obama is President.

I'm sorry, but I'm having a tough time wrapping my head around this new reality. Hearing news anchors lead off pieces at the top of the hour with the phrase "President Obama" as standard media protocol still brings a goofy grin to my face. Scrolling through the presidential slideshow on the White House web site brought me to tears. It still feels like a dream and I haven't woken up yet.

A man named Barack Obama won. A black man from an urban metropolis who didn't go goosehunting to prove his manhood. A solid liberal Democrat. He actually won. In a goddamn electoral landslide. He won. Here. In America. This isn't the screenplay to some summer action flick, James Earl Jones isn't providing voiceover work and an asteroid isn't heading straight for the Earth. WE did it. We actually elected a smart, sincere, sophisticated person to be President who is black and named Barack Hussein Obama.

Intellectualism is back like vinyl leggings.

Sorry. Just can't quite believe it yet. During the '06 midterms, the first verse to Prince's 1999 came to mind in crystallizing the mood of the moment. I think it bears repeating more now than then.

"I was dreaming when I wrote this
Forgive me if it goes astray
But when I woke up this morning
Could've sworn it was judgment day..."

I, too, sing America

2009-01-20T18:29:00.000-05:00

"She promised all the sweetest gifts
That only the heavens could bestow
You bring your light and shine like morning
And as you so gracefully give
Her light as long as you live
I'll always remember this moment..."
— Sade, The Sweetest Gift

President Barack Obama.

Amazing grace, how sweet that sound.

The day universally acknowledged by us brown folk as the one we never thought we'd live to see, the one my mother told me was a pipe dream a mere two summers ago, the one which served as a pilgrimage to our nation's capital whether you were from Brooklyn or Birmingham, the one that compelled me to brave the frigid cold and daunting crowds to be an eyewitness to history.

I was born twenty-nine years ago today. My first born day ushered in the era of greed, irresponsibility and neglect to our working class which I pray has come to an overdue end with the changing of the guard.

My parents emigrated to the United States from the West Indies during the 60's in search of a better life. My father inspired by his countryman Stokely Carmichael and the civil rights movement stressed the importance of political activism. I remember coloring homemade signs and counting out buttons as a hyperactive eight-year old in a cramped church basement, nagging him as why he was working so hard to elect Jesse Jackson during the chilly winter months of 1988. As a child, I couldn't fully grasp what the big deal about a Black president was. After all, I learned about Eric Williams and Michael Manley alongside Abraham Lincoln and John Adams from early on. He had lived through prime ministers and heads of state who looked just like him before becoming a freshwater Yankee. So, what difference did it make?

He tilted my chin upwards to his serious eyes and said, "Because our hearts and minds need to match our Constitution if all people really are created equal. We're not there yet."

In my experiences traveling abroad, I've always been struck by how nationalism by people of color in other countries differed so much from what I came to live and learn here at home. Even if their skin was darker than mine, their pride of country was never a question. If you're from the Dominican Republic, you name it. If you're from Trinidad, you claim it. But in America, it boiled down to "I'm Black." Period. It was the only place where regardless if you were born and raised here, somehow we were made to feel apart from our own country. Look no further than in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina when our own citizens were labeled "refugees" repeatedly by the mainstream media for days on end. Carrying on the complicated but necessary exercise of critical patriotism, to hold a mirror to America's conscience, forcing the nation to live up to the guiding principles enshrined in the Declaration of Independence can leave one feeling like a stranger in a native land.

But as I watched the son of an African economist and an anthropologist from Kansas raise his hand and repeat "I, Barack Hussein Obama, do solemnly swear...," the tears flooded my eyes as a cleansing release. The anger and xenophobia whipped up in the witching hours of the general election became dead weight. The romanticized immigrant story of Ellis Island became threaded into the story of my mother and father. The stars and stripes became a symbol of not what was perpetually wrong, but what could be made right.

And it felt like that the hope of a cocoa colored girl with a funny last name can finally believe America has a place for her too.

Requiem for a dream

2009-01-19T17:27:00.002-05:00

Normalcy, never again. The speech now commonly referred to as "I Have A Dream" was originally drafted under that three word title. And as so many other juxtapositions revealed themselves along this journey, it's poignant and fitting that the federal commemoration of Martin Luther King's 80th birthday is a prelude for an occasion that makes at least part of that dream manifest reality.

Because I fall into the Gen X category, the data bank of "where were you when?" memories for me are few and far between. I could never pinpoint an exact time when we've stood at the precipice of the kind of seismic shift that this country will undergo tomorrow afternoon at high noon.

But what I am amazed at is the optimism of the trailblazers who came before, opened doors we can easily walk through and oftentimes take for granted now. In an fascinating bit of footage unearthed by BBC World News America from 1964, MLK expressed confidence that the barrier so many of us thought we'd never see fall would happen "within 40 years." Even before Black folk were legally allowed to take part in our own democracy, his conviction that a person of color could eventually ascend to the highest office in the land makes even ironic detachment seem like a sorry kind of wisdom.

Hope springs eternal.

First lady in waiting

2009-01-17T14:01:00.004-05:00

"Michelle is a tremendously strong person, and has a very strong sense of herself and who she is and where she comes from. But I also think in her eyes you can see a trace of vulnerability that most people don’t know, because when she’s walking through the world she is this tall, beautiful, confident woman. There is a part of her that is vulnerable and young and sometimes frightened, and I think seeing both of those things is what attracted me to her." - Barack Obama, The New Yorker

Still delusional after all these years

2009-01-16T13:42:00.003-05:00

"Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your mouth,
Blowing down the backroads headin' south.
Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth,
You're an idiot, babe.
It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe..." - Bob Dylan, Idiot Wind, 1974

Glazed and confused

2009-01-15T11:04:00.004-05:00

Not wanting to be left out of the corporate tie-in angle to Tuesday's inauguration, Krispy Kreme is offering free doses of decadent diet breakers on January 20th to all customers.

Krispy Kreme Doughnuts, Inc. is honoring American's sense of pride and freedom of choice on Inauguration Day, by offering a free doughnut of choice to every customer on this historic day, Jan. 20. By doing so, participating Krispy Kreme stores nationwide are making an oath to tasty goodies — just another reminder of how oh-so-sweet "free" can be.

"Krispy Kreme is taking the inaugural festivities nationwide," said Ron Rupocinski, executive chef for Krispy Kreme. "We're inviting our fans in cities across the country, including Washington, D.C., to commemorate this historic day with a favorite American treat."

The Inauguration Day promotional offer is good for one doughnut of choice per customer on Jan. 20. No purchase is necessary.

No big deal, right? Wrong. Using the term "freedom of choice" is naturally a covert nod to the "immoral, far left agenda" of Obama Nation, so the American Life League has done what the lunatic fringe does best. Ever notice the people most against abortion are the people you wouldn't want to fuck in the first place? Let's take a closer examination of the faux outrage from their mouth foaming press release, shall we?

The next time you stare down a conveyor belt of slow-moving, hot, sugary glazed donuts at your local Krispy Kreme you just might be supporting President-elect Barack Obama's radical support for abortion on demand — including his sweeping promise to sign the Freedom of Choice Act as soon as he steps in the Oval Office, Jan. 20.

Come one, come all... new placenta-filled doughnuts! Nothing helps a liberal unwind from a day of fighting to restore civil liberties, establish universal healthcare, and enact global warming reversal than devouring the life source of sweet smelling infants. Life begins at confection, y'all! Sprinkles of the Anti-Christ come separately.

Wonder if going in the next morning can qualify me for a "morning after" dulce de leche.

Into the belly of the beasts

2009-01-14T20:38:00.012-05:00

Keep your friends close, your enemies closer and the conservative commentariat closest. Not content to merely take Joe Biden's word for whether the Fresh Prince is really as bright and clean as advertised by the "liberal media," the latest stop on the wine, dine and 69 'em tour took a decidedly Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego turn via the transition pool report:

Mr. Obama, who has been staying at the Hay-Adams Hotel in advance of his inauguration next week, arrived at 9 Grafton Street, an upscale address in Chevy Chase, Md., at 6:34 p.m. The Montgomery County property tax records list this address as the home of the conservative Washington Post columnist George Will, the host of the dinner party. Also attending the party was Charles Krauthammer. Together, some of the columnists at the dinner party have been some of Mr. Obama's severest critics.

I guess you can consider this the sausage-making phase of diplomacy. Unavoidably messy, but required. I've been itching to see how many succumb to the magic Negro fairy dust this weekend to wax rhapsodic on how humble Barack was and how they were all so surprised at how great his manners were and how he wasn’t hollerin' for "motherfuckin' iced tea" throughout the dinner.
So, what's the feedback from the fervent opposition?

"He's making good on his promise to reach out to Republicans and conservatives and this post-partisan stuff, whatever that means," [Larry] Kudlow said. "I was very impressed. He's a nice guy, terribly smart, well-informed, great smile. He just really engaged. He said he likes to know the arguments on all sides."

[Michael] Barone called Obama "an attractive person in a small setting. It's harder to hate someone you've had close contact with and who has pleasant characteristics."

"Obama's a man who has demonstrated he is interested in hearing other views," said syndicated columnist Charles Krauthammer.

To break bread with people who insinuated he was a Manchurian candidate and out to destroy America. That his wife was an unpatriotic redux of Angela Davis. That he couldn't beat Clinton and had loser written all over him because of Caribou Barbie's hockey mom hagiography. Now they have to smile politely at the living embodiment of their utter defeat.

What I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall in between hors d'oeuvres.

Picture perfect president

2009-01-14T16:26:00.011-05:00

Checking out Barack Obama's official presidential portrait released earlier today, made me feel thankful that I don't work in a federal office building. After 8 years of seeing the smirking chimp whenever I came through customs at JFK, could you imagine trying to get work done with his successor's handsome mug? There's something about that slight, knowing smile barely forming on his face. Calm and confident, warm and reassuring. Continuing to pay it forward via the internet, it's the first of its kind to be taken by digital camera. Smile and the world smiles with you. Of course that's a piece of cake when you've got a megawatt grin. But smiling with your eyes is a skill that only the likes of Top Model have been able to master. Here's looking at you, Mr. President-elect. You've made Tyra proud.

Coming down the homestretch

2009-01-13T22:40:00.004-05:00

"It's hard to beat the system
When we're standing at a distance
So we keep waiting
Waiting on the world to change..." — John Mayer

It's hard to believe that the transition period actually extended all the way to March and not the third week of January in an odd-numbered year like we've grown accustomed to now. Collectively, the nation has turned into a bunch of unruly kids stuck in the backseat on the way to Grandma's house whining, "are we there yet?"

Only one more week of Boy George and his band of merry bandits. The anticipation to finally bid this criminal cabal adieu is worse than extended foreplay.

Droppin' it like it's hot

2009-01-13T18:25:00.004-05:00

"It amazes me," he said, "when I looked at California and saw churches that had nothing to say about police brutality, nothing to say when a young black boy was shot while he was wearing police handcuffs, nothing to say when they overturned affirmative action, nothing to say when people were being [relegated] into poverty, yet they were organizing and mobilizing to stop consenting adults from choosing their life partners."

"I am tired," he went on, "of seeing ministers who will preach homophobia by day, and then after they're preaching, when the lights are off they go cruising for trade...We know you're not preaching the Bible, because if you were preaching the Bible we would have heard from you. We would have heard from you when people were starving in California — when they deregulated the economy and crashed Wall Street you had nothing to say. When Madoff made off with the money, you had nothing to say. When Bush took us to war chasing weapons of mass destruction that weren't there you had nothing to say."

— Al Sharpton, Tabernacle Baptist Church, January 11, 2009

The madness of King George

2009-01-12T14:53:00.014-05:00

"All the odds are on the man who is, intrinsically, the most devious and mediocre — the man who can most easily (and) adeptly disperse the notion that his mind is a virtual vacuum. The presidency tends, year by year, to go to such men. As democracy is perfected, the office represents, more closely, the inner soul of the people. We move toward a lofty ideal. On some great and glorious day, the plain folks of the land will reach their heart's desire at last, and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron." — H.L. Mencken, Baltimore Sun, July 26, 1920

In his final press conference, George W. Bush described himself as having a type-A personality.

Does the A stand for asshole?

After 8 years of refusing to admit mistakes with obstinant refusal to deviate from "staying the course," and self-delusion to spare, Dubya finally feels it's time to be "reflective." It's like he started in 2000 as the feel good loser of Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader? and now is finally intellectually and emotionally mature enough to cope with remedial English.

George W. Bush said more about the state of America in the late twentieth century then we were ever willing to acknowledge on our own. He is the end result of a society that is so successful we can afford to elect our leaders based on nothing more then who you'd like to have a beer with or some other nonsensical trait that has nothing to do with fixing actual problems. And that is exactly what we got, someone who couldn't make 12:00 stop blinking on a VCR. Because he wasn't rightfully elected by the people the first time around. He was selected by wingnut fanboys to overturn Roe vs. Wade, or make it easier for people to buy assault rifles they never needed or cut taxes you never really paid but think you did because you listened to right-wing noise machine who knew you didn't in the first place tell you you did. Distraction and selfish ignorance opened the door to this perpetual frat boy and we the people still aren't done picking up the tab.

Here's a random sampling courtesy of MSNBC's First Read:

UNEMPLOYMENT RATE
Then: 4.2% (Bureau of Labor Statistics, January 2001)
Now: 6.7% (Bureau of Labor Statistics, November 2008)

DOW JONES INDUSTRIAL AVERAGE
Then: 10,587 (close of Friday, Jan. 19, 2001)
Now: 9,015 (close of Tuesday, Jan. 6, 2009)

BUSH FAVORABILITY RATING
Then: 50% (1/01 NBC/WSJ poll)
Now: 31% (12/08 NBC/WSJ poll)

CHENEY FAVORABILITY RATING
Then: 49% (1/01 NBC/WSJ poll)
Now: 21% (12/08 NBC/WSJ poll)

CONGRESS APPROVAL RATING
Then: 48% (1/01 NBC/WSJ poll)
Now: 21% (12/08 NBC/WSJ poll)

SATISFIED WITH THE NATION'S DIRECTION
Then: 45% (1/01 NBC/WSJ poll)
Now: 26% (12/08 NBC/WSJ poll)

CONSUMER CONFIDENCE
Then: 115.7 (Conference Board, January 2001)
Now: 38.0, which is an all-time low (Conference Board, December 2008)

FAMILIES LIVING IN POVERTY
Then: 6.4 million (Census numbers for 2000)
Now: 7.6 million (Census numbers for 2007 -- most recent numbers available)

AMERICANS WITHOUT HEALTH INSURANCE
Then: 39.8 million (Census numbers for 2000)
Now: 45.7 million (Census numbers for 2007 -- most recent available)

U.S. BUDGET
Then: +236.2 billion (2000, Congressional Budget Office)
Now: -$1.2 trillion (projected figure for 2009, Congressional Budget Office)

In a time when American businesses are hemorraghing, the cost of living is skyrocketing while paychecks flatline, the one group who profited off the pain of the middle class has been the wealthiest 1% among us. A government of the 1%, by the 1%, and for the 1% is not what the founding fathers had in mind.

The American people are as much to blame.

The great, unwashed masses were far too concerned with Al Gore's earth tones and how exasperated his sighing made them "feel" when he was obviously far more qualified to be president. Then America let Karl Rove elevate fearmongering to a dark art. Soccer moms and the mushy middle accepted a de facto draft dodger over a war hero because they were fooled by Swift Boat ads.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice... well, we did get fooled again.

Misery loves company

2009-01-11T18:23:00.016-05:00

"End of the third round
As I put the phone down
Chasing the same lines
Over the old ground
I'm pushing zero
Where is my hero?
He's out there somewhere
Left of the middle..." — Natalie Imbruglia

I knew that it was inevitable that I would be disappointed with an Obama Administration. I just didn't expect the disillusionment to set in before he was sworn in.

Why hasn't Obama flown his campaign plane to Iraq and started bringing our troops home?
Why hasn't Obama implemented his 10 year green energy plan yet?
Why hasn't he still captured Osama bin Laden?
Why hasn't he brokered a peace treaty between the Israelis and the Palestinians?
Why hasn't he created 5 million new jobs yet?
Why hasn't he delivered on the promise of peace, prosperity and ponies for everyone?
Where's my goddamn 40 acres and a mule? Huh? Huh?!

Repeating "we have only one president at the time" as a stock answer is one too many dips into weak sauce to still be believable.

And what's with this crybaby nonsense that "Obama's only human"? The hell he is!

Why is widespread hunger and famine still an epidemic? Why can't he just multiply loaves and fishes until there's enough for everyone? Is he weak? Is he another one of those pinko commie cowards? Or does he just want people to go hungry? What kind of message does this send about his administration?

Why hasn't he stopped every war on the planet? Why isn't he at the Gaza Strip using his superpowers, causing tanks to fly up in the air and jets to fall out of the sky? Why don't shells crash harmlessly against an invisible wall of force that he's erected between Hamas and the IDF?

Come on, Barry! I don't want to hear any more excuses!

The Constitution clearly states that in the freakish occurrence of an African-American ever winning, his job as President-elect is to bypass all other authorities, solve the country's problems and usher in an Age of Aquarius, all before taking office under the Magical Negro amendment. The Founding Fathers were probably just fucking around, thinking it would never happen. But rules are rules and Barack Obama clearly is a failure before he gets started.

"I'm only happy when it rains
I'm only happy when it's complicated
And though I know you can't appreciate it
I'm only happy when it rains
You know I love it when the news is bad
And why it feels so good to feel so sad..." — Garbage

After the 2004 election, a Pennsylvania precinct captain commented to me that us folks on the left would rather be "right" than do what's necessary to make political progress. We revel in the beautiful loser syndrome. The collective bed wetting over every decision made post-November 4th is a classic example.

We've barely survived the worst president this side of Herbert Hoover who nearly destroyed this country with the help of his neocon accomplices, the prospect of hearing the phrase "President Sarah Palin" in the near future was defeated, significant Democratic gains were made in both the House & Senate and we've averted a clusterfuck of calamity by electing an brilliant statesman, a symbolic repudiation of anti-intellectualism and oh yeah, a history maker by virtue of being the first unpasty dude to be the nation's chief executive.

...and some people are chomping at the bit to tear him to pieces already.

At this rate, nothing less than single-payer for all, drive-thru gay marriage and a Prius in every garage by January 21st will stave off the inevitable conclusion that he was nothing but a Republican wolf in liberal clothing.

The problem with all this hyperbolic hand wringing is the zero-sum mentality in expressing dissent. No cabinet pick can be debated in terms of pros vs. cons. No policy statement has ever been decided by the poutrage peddlers to simply be skewed further than they would like in one direction, or to have excluded something they would have wanted. Nope. Legitimate beefs devolve to the point to where the only possible viewpoint not drowned out in a sea of accusations is Obama has given the finger to the left and proven himself to be nothing more than a corporate hack who spits in the faces of every right thinking progressive with utter disregard for his base, even though they singlehandedly got him elected.

I thought we would welcome the prospect of a new president being open for discussion and welcoming ideas.

This is precisely what any sane person who isn't totally corroded by cynicism would expect.

This is how democracy is supposed to function.

But after getting pummeled punch drunk in consecutive terms with abuse from the right, liberals have forgotten how to deal with holding the golden ticket. Every leak from the Hill bodes the opportunity for an overwrought reaction like a bunch of battered wives. Hence all the assumptions that because Obama has 'signaled' by appointing so and so, he has already sold us out.

Wading through the netroots nowadays requires a fifth of Jim Beam and a high tolerance for intramural insanity. Stuck in a holding position for another week but still accepting the responsibilities our current lame duck shirked months ago, to some, he isn't doing enough.

I personally want him to change my water to wine. I'll settle for an adequate merlot the first batch or two.

Blame it on the bruising campaign schedule, but I've burned through self-righteous indignation faster than Hank Paulson wasted taxpayer money. Having spent it all waiting to exhale over every minor poll fluctuation, every redundant proclamation that he couldn't "close the deal," every repetitious drumbeat of the "Bradley effect," I've hit the ceiling on outrage fatigue.

As Emma Goldman so aptly put it, "If I can't dance, I don't want to be part of your revolution." I'm all cried out. Screamed out. Keyboard warrior-ed out. You'll have to forgive me for not adhering to the hipster handbook in feeling appropriately aggrieved.

And dammit, I think a collective Electric Slide on the National Mall has been well earned. The impeachment petitions can wait.

Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson

2009-01-10T02:00:00.003-05:00

Watching the hoopla and hullabaloo of Malia and Sasha's first day at Sidwell Friends play out on TV screens ad nauseum, I was getting a bit worried on the additional stress this would put on our incoming First Lady. But never fear, because Big Mama will be there. She's moving on up... to the White House.

It's official: Marian Robinson, the 71-year-old mother-in-law of President-elect Barack Obama, will be moving into the White House, transition officials said on Friday.

In fact, Mrs. Robinson is already in town, helping to smooth the family's personal transition as Mr. Obama, his wife, Michelle, and their two daughters prepare for new lives at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

"She is here to help them get up and running," said Katie McCormick Lelyveld, a spokeswoman for Mrs. Obama. "She will determine in the coming months whether or not she wants to stay in D.C. permanently."

Strength, courage & wisdom

2009-01-09T17:55:00.011-05:00

"This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But one that's on my mind tonight is about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She's a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing - Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.

She was born just a generation past slavery, a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky, when someone like her couldn't vote for two reasons - because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.

And tonight, I think about all that she's seen throughout her century in America - the heartache and the hope, the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can't, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can." — President-elect Barack Obama, November 4, 2008, Grant Park

For all of his oratorical flourish, none was more poignant than his use of a sprightly Southern belle as the symbolic spectator to how far we've come. A woman who embodied the spirit of that magical night.

Today she added yet another remarkable footnote by turning 107 years young.

Ms. Cooper is an inspiration, not solely because of the sheer breadth of history she has witnessed firsthand, but also because of her life-long work to change her community and country for the better.

Here's to hoping there's many more candles to be lit in her honor for years to come.

It's hard out here for the pimps

2009-01-07T16:24:00.008-05:00

Nowadays you can't swing a neon dildo without knocking over 5 corporate stooges scrambling to feed at the government trough for federal assistance. First the banks needed to be rescued or else Wall Street would spontaneously combust. Or something. Then the Big Three stared down the barrel of extinction. And now the porn industry is seemingly well... fucked.

As the 2009 AVN Adult Expo opens in Las Vegas this week, Girls Gone Wild CEO Joe Francis and HUSTLER magazine publisher Larry Flynt are petitioning the newly convened 111th Congress to provide a financial bailout for the adult entertainment industry along the lines of what is being sought by the Big Three automakers, a spokesperson for Francis announced today.

Adult industry leaders Flynt and Francis sent a joint request to Congress asking for $5 billion in federal assistance, "Just to see us through hard times," Francis said. "Congress seems willing to help shore up our nation's most important businesses, we feel we deserve the same consideration. In difficult economic times, Americans turn to entertainment for relief. More and more, the kind of entertainment they turn to is adult entertainment."

And what say you, oh vigilant defender of the First Amendment?

But according to Flynt the recession has acted like a national cold shower. "People are too depressed to be sexually active," Flynt says, "This is very unhealthy as a nation. Americans can do without cars and such but they cannot do without sex."

Blame it on stiff competition or the limp economy, but the internet killed the DVD stars. So much for being too big to fail.

But you've gotta admire the chutzpah for thinking of new ways to redefine the category of publicity whore. No letting pride stand in the way of a handout or a handjob. God bless America.

A night to remember

2009-01-03T22:30:00.006-05:00

"You know, they said this day would never come. They said our sights were set too high.

They said this country was too divided, too disillusioned to ever come together around a common purpose.

But on this January night, at this defining moment in history, you have done what the cynics said we couldn't do." — Senator Barack Obama, January 3, 2008.

Written into the screenplay of every grassroots effort is that indelible turning point where promise meets purpose to forge a new prologue. Exactly one year ago tonight was the preface for history in the making. I'll never forget the mad dash to call up my mom at work and trying to explain in almost incoherent decibels that the game done changed. The impromptu need I felt to testify as the jubilant supporter in the audience yelled "yes they did!" in response to Senator Obama intoning "they said this day would never come" as the introduction for victory.

As improbable as the journey to the White House was and still is, it's almost harder to believe that an entire year has flown by since that winter night when the inevitability myth surrounding the Clinton machine was shattered for good. Back then, I was considered crazy by most of my family and friends for such fervent early support of the skinny Black guy with the funny name. What were the odds for the longest of long shots? The pollsters were about as organized as FEMA when it came to reaching a general consensus, the punditocracy was eager to get the coronation underway and Black voters in general were wary of the rookie with the grand ambition but short track record.

In a state where the general population's 95% White, the outcome hit the reset button in more ways than one. Michelle Obama stated the plain truth that if the knockout blow wasn't delivered in Iowa, the campaign would all just be a dream. Luckily for us and to the chagrin of Slick Willy, this was no fairy tale. And now we're a mere 17 days away from the little known underdog becoming the 44th President of the United States.

Pinching myself on the road down memory lane never felt so good.

Resolutions were made to be broken

2009-01-01T23:08:00.004-05:00

Out with the old, in with the new. New Year's Resolutions? I need to keep the ones I made last year before scribbling Post-Its for motivation on the fridge. Instead of recycling the same proclamations I've held for the past 3 years running (adhere to a stricter budget, settle back into an exercise routine, stop smoking, ween myself off of takeout food 24/7, get serious about writing again) as if I won't simply lapse back into bad habits because they die hard, I figure to approach the battle this time in reverse.

Why fake the fitness with a SmartWater hours after the clock struck midnight when I really want a caramel macchiato? Why kid myself into thinking the newest ab contraption I wind up having buyer's remorse over won't wind up another standing clothes rack?

Maybe around the time we're giving postmortems on 2009, Ma Dukes won't feel the need to draw attention my many imperfections while I'm getting fitted and proclaim, "I think we've located the 'problem areas' right here."

Dare to dream.

Coming out of the dark

2009-01-01T10:04:00.002-05:00

Has there ever been such anticipation to ring in the new year as was the introduction to 2009? Whether it be frustration with the lame duck resident still in the Oval Office, the impatience of watching Inauguration Day countdown clocks wind down the agonizing wait for new blood in our government or the need to cling to glass half-full optimism in the face of utter disarray... sprinting to the finish line of 2008 never sounded so good.

2007 did me no favors and '08 overall continued in the side-eye tradition. Another year praying that Robitussin will do as the quicker-pick-me-upper since I can't afford health coverage. Still haven't found a gig that pays worth a damn, my love life's nonexistant and straddling the ways to make a dollar out of 15¢ is fucking exhausting.

As is tradition for any self-respecting New Yorker, Times Square was not an option. Not merely because the onslaught of tourists, confetti and couples afflicted with massive PDA syndrome isn't exactly my idea of a fun night out on the town... but it was one of those nights when seeing the frosty mouth trails from TV correspondents on air didn't do the weather true justice. Winter's my favorite season, but that wind chill was on some next shit. Curling up on the sofa in my footies with a glass of Yellowtail was my idea of a good time.

As the dawn of a new crossroads is upon us, all I can do is ask for the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.

While I was snoozing

2008-12-19T23:07:00.013-05:00

First things first... was my last post really on rickrolling back in fucking August? Jesus. Not exactly the most cohesive cliffhanger. My sympathies to all 5 of you still on my Feedburner list yawning with disinterest for the past 4 months. The operative word being sympathy not apology because I know sooner rather than later yet another Robert Downey, Jr.-like relapse will be on the horizon. So why fight fate?

Entry unreliability is par for the course since I always wind up getting sidetracked with bullshit, or I just become hooked on other people's sites while completely neglecting my own or writer's block holds my amygdala hostage.

However, in this case, I didn't spend all that time burnishing my slacker cred to a polished sheen. Like thousands of other starry eyed supporters, I got off my ass across 5 states to be a part of the Obama campaign. From late summer till November 4th, I spent a good 70% of all waking hours to help make change become a reality. Now the hangover's finally subsiding till the Acela bunnyhop to Chocolate City in T-minus 31, there's no time better than the present to blow the cobwebs off while rekindling my literary flame.

I did keep a journal of some of the many experiences that made the effort worthwhile and I'll be updating with backdated commentary shortly. Pinky swear. Until then, here's a quick distillation of the recent newsreel in two minutes courtesy of Slate.

Purpose driven pandering

2008-12-18T08:32:00.005-05:00

One of Team Obama's aces up the sleeve both during the campaign and now in the transition, was their meticulous attention to detail. Hardly any ends left to come undone. And when circumstance and coincidence went half on a baby, it produced flashes of brilliance like the majestic finale at Invesco Field on the 45th anniversary of "I Have A Dream," Secretary of Veterans Affairs-designate Eric Shinseki being announced on Pearl Harbor Day and the synchronization of a national call to service with the observance of MLK only 24 hours before taking that historic oath. Classy, creative, not a false note to be found.

However, the announcement of douchenozzle deluxe Rick Warren delivering the inaugural invocation makes me throw a flag on the play for excessive tone deafness.

I mean, Rick fucking Warren?

Do we have to relive the "cone of silence" duplicity at Saddleback all over again?

Was Prop 8 magically overturned and I slept through that news bulletin?

Just... ugh. Talk about the proverbial turd in the punch bowl.

Overtures to the rational wing of evangelicals is a strategy to bridge a gap Democrats haven't been able to narrow for decades. Reaching out to the other 46% of these divided states who didn't cast a ballot for you not only makes perfect sense, it's smart politics. Believe me, at more than a quarter of all registered American voters go, I get it. But at what point does reconciliation lose its privileges?

Why does keeping your enemies closer have to mean validating this bloated snake oil salesman? Seriously, olive branches should not be handed to people who are going to proceed to beat you about the head and shoulders with it.

Barry, take it from a card carrying fag hag. Part of the new job description in fine print is wielding clout to get fringe assholes to stop picking on the outsiders who don't sit at the cool kids table. If reciprocating an invite to the Negro Super Bowl after being welcomed (albeit tepidly) on away territory pushes the ball forward on repealing egregious stains from the era of Clinton like Don't Ask, Don't Tell & the Defense of Marriage Act as promised during the campaign, I'll gladly eat crow. But somehow the flashing neon danger signs surrounding this co-opt via compromise with the Religious Right give me serious pause. And a mild case of acid reflux. I'm hoping for the best while bracing for a shitstorm.

The sands in the patience hourglass is quickly dissipating before the Velvet Mafia revolts to ratchet up another media-assisted fusillade. Two words: Isaiah Washington. Protect your neck.

Can he kick it? Yes he can

2008-12-17T10:25:00.029-05:00

Breaking news from the department of obvious comes the widely expected announcement that Washington's new golden boy has been named Time's Person of the Year. And while this clearly gets filed under "no shit, Sherlock," the accolade is richly deserved. The most improbable of longshots overcame back alley knife fights with both the Democratic establishment and a make believe maverick while simultaneously rejuvenating America's image, forever changing the campaign template for future politicos. Reporter David Von Drehle echoes the inevitability as such:

"He hit the American scene like a thunderclap, upended our politics, shattered decades of conventional wisdom and overcame centuries of the social pecking order."

After parlaying the "You" acknowledgement in '07 as a resume reference, this reasoning sounds about right.

While the final choice was a no brainer, brainstorming went underway for the JV squad. The also rans with lovely parting gifts were Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson, French President Nicolas Sarkozy, Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin and film director Zhang Yimou, who designed the Beijing Olympics opening ceremony.

But all of that is besides the point since the good folks at Time buried the lede. The real gem of the story is the online feature reveals #44 at his adorkable best. Previously unseen photos of the president-elect striking poses as a freshman at Occidental College taken by amateur lenser Lisa Jack back when I was still gurgling Gerber in 1980.

She doesn't remember much about first encountering him at the Cooler, a campus snack shop. "He was really cute," she says. "What else does a 20-year-old girl remember?"

Does it matter that I'm mentally reliving Lou Bega's "Mambo No. 5" because of the Panama hat?

No question O-man could've gotten the business, magnetic bracelet be damned.

From Barbizon rising star to Time cover magnet almost 3 decades later. What a strange and remarkable trip it's been.

Inherit the whirlwind

2008-12-16T08:18:00.012-05:00

No sooner than the whispers percolating for weeks snowballed into screams with confirmation that in fact yes, Caroline Kennedy is asking to be considered as the next junior senator representing my great state in the U.S. Senate did the knives come out and the jackals ready to pounce.

Who does she think she is? A Senate seat isn't another family heirloom to be passed down. Why her, why now? She's never stood up for anything before. What the hell makes her qualified?

You think Illinois would have all the intraparty backstabbing fun?

Much of the skepticism and concerns are well within bounds and justifiably deserve merit. That is until you consider whom the main source of opposition is coming from. A coordinated attack doesn't just sprout up from thin air and talking points don't script themselves.

"Caroline Kennedy, although I’m sure a fascinating and engaging person, simply doesn’t have the experience or Washington know-how to get it done for New York." - Stuart Applebaum, president of the Retail, Wholesale, and Department Store Union

"We don't know if Caroline has that fire in the belly. Being senator of New York is a 24/7, 365-day-a-year endeavor." - Rep. Anthony Weiner (D-Queens, Brooklyn)

"I don't know what Caroline Kennedy's qualifications are. Except that she has name recognition, but so does J.Lo." - Rep. Gary Ackerman, (D-Queens)

Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. The third time it's enemy action.

So what do these hacks all have in common? They're all footsoldiers in the Hillary or Mass Suicide personality cult.

The same brown nosing lackeys who peddled the imaginary sniper fire bullshit with a straight face on the cable news yakkers are the same ones taking potshots. The same water carrying cronies who elevated resume padding to a fine art with the puffed up peace treaties she signed in her downtime with foreign ladies who lunch are the same ones trying to cast Caroline Kennedy as some dizzy dilettante window shopping for a new hobby.

Hypocrisy thy flipside is irony.

Whines & spirits

2008-12-10T23:44:00.007-05:00

"If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs... you'll be a Man, my son!" - Rudyard Kipling, If, 1910.

Not ready to make nice

2008-12-05T20:33:00.005-05:00

The election's been decided for a month now, but you can't empty out your spam folder faster than yet another solicitation from O, Inc. trying to strongarm some more funds. Dammit, David Plouffe & Co, I love ya'll like secret sample sales, but even God rested on the seventh day. Take a fuckin' breather already. Today's beggars bulletin comes courtesy of the VP elect, Joe Biden.

President-elect Obama and I have been assembling our team, and we plan to hit the ground running next month.

We want to be ready to go, and that's why I'm asking you to help us honor an outstanding commitment we made during the election.

Our campaign pledged to help Senator Hillary Clinton -- one of the vital members of our team and our future Secretary of State -- retire her campaign debt. That's the money her campaign owes to the vendors across the country that make our political process possible.

Barack and I had the deepest respect for Hillary as an opponent on the campaign trail. Her undeniable intellect, talent, and passion strengthened Barack as a candidate and tested our movement for change.

We welcome Hillary as a partner in our administration, and I hope you will show your support by helping Barack fulfill our campaign promise.

Will you make a contribution of $100 or more now to retire Hillary's campaign debt?

Four simple words: hell to the no. I donated my $10's, $20's & $50's to benefit Barack Obama. Period, full stop.

Since I'm not one of those "hard working Americans, white Americans" who was so paramount in making her case as the stronger candidate to carry the banner for the Democratic Party as the nominee, I suggest Hillary Clinton start leaning on those oft-mentioned supporters of hers... all 18 million of them.

Lost in emotion

2008-11-05T01:58:00.000-05:00

"If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible, who still wonders if the dream of our Founders is alive in our time... tonight is your answer." — President-elect Barack Obama

I am sitting here literally in shock. While there's still more tallying to be done on popular vote totals, it just dawned on me I have forgotten what it feels like for my team to win something big.

I blame the Yankees, Jets and the most recent incarnation of the Democratic party.

For the first time in my adult life, I'm really proud of my country.

Ready, set, vote

2008-11-04T09:32:00.010-05:00

We've heard the arguments, endured the pundits, watched the debates, reanalyzed the gaffes. And after 21 months, the longest running drama in American political history will finally draw to a merciful close. It all comes down to today. Election Day.

Every 4 years the ante gets raised for spinning into the vast wasteland of hyperbole for turnout motivation.

"This is the most important election EVER!!!!"

And people react like groundhogs, pull their covers back over their head and drift back to sleep. Comforted by the conventional wisdom that their vote doesn't really count, there's no real difference between the two major parties and showing up is a waste of time.

8 years, 2 wars, 4,000+ soldiers dead and an exacerbated man made catastrophe along the Gulf Coast later, we are still reeling from the consequences.

This time around, the stakes are far too high and there's no margin for error.

This election has always felt to me like a test of the American public on a very fundamental level. Bush got selected the first time because of inattention, and the second time because of scare tactics. But this time, people are awake. Everyone who cares can assess the character and nature of the four candidates on either ticket.

So what will it be? Will America stand on the edge of the abyss and leap off? Dress rehearsal's over. The time to take back our country is at hand.

Cheese we can believe in

2008-08-10T15:44:00.001-04:00

In the midst of the dog days of summer and silly season of presidential politics, along comes the antidote to assuage the unease of an electorate that still thinks praying to Mecca will be priority #1 should the Dems prevail. Here's the perfect slice of Velveeta that sets back Barack Obama's blackness at least a decade. That and the fact he's:

Never gonna give you up.
Never gonna let you down.
Never gonna run around and desert you.

So chock full of dorkiness, it's magically delicious.

The audacity of the great White hope

2008-08-09T03:20:00.003-04:00

He couldn't make himself Black. He couldn't make himself a woman. But what he could make himself a stone cold hypocrite. Son of a mill worker? Nope, a simple "son of a bitch" will suffice. It's probably obvious that I am no John Edwards fan. But the irony of him finally landing the mainstream media spotlight for his alleged baby mama drama isn't what chaps my ass. It's the unmitigated gall it took to roll the dice with the future of the Democratic Party knowing full well this time bomb was bound to detonate at any given moment. Were he the presumptive nominee today, the shock waves of this disclosure now would've been an automatic forfeit for another go round of Republican rule, especially given the history of the Clinton impeachment he had a bird's eye view for as a freshman senator in 1999. When the GOP has spent the past 7½ years bending over the American public raw, it may be wise to let rationale reign over raw ambition.

But even more pathetic than the two faces to go along with the vaunted "two Americas" line was the revisionist history from the liberal left to fluff a career corporatist who suddenly hopped onto the progressive populist bandwagon after discovering a conscience soon after exiting the Senate in '05. I remember being curled up on the sofa watching Alexandra Pelosi's Diary of a Political Tourist right before the 2004 election and thinking this guy was as deep as a kiddie pool. Co-sponsored the Iraq War Resolution, reversed his position 4 years later. Voted for No Child Left Behind, campaigned against it. Voted for the 2001 Bankruptcy Reform bill, denounced it afterward. Voted for the Patriot Act, then attacked it as if his "aye" suddenly turned into vapor. It's a given that politicians contort their positions on the issues with more flexibility than a rhythmic gymnast. But running against your entire record on the premise of a born again conversion is truly some next shit. Even worse was the fact that so many in the "reality based" blogosphere ate it up like shrimp and grits.

Voters who were hoodwinked by Edwards willfully chose to be so. A cursory glance at his legislative record shows that he didn't support the grassroots cause that he'd appropriated as his own during the campaign. Even when comparing the 2.0 update in 2008 to the 2004 beta model, it was a total split personality. Listening to his rhetoric, his appeals were tugged squarely on the heartstrings. When you look at these things combined, it's pretty obvious that he was exploiting a niche, considering the makeover he underwent once he realized his future in North Carolina circles had reached a dead end.

The core argument for Johnny Be Good's candidacy during the primaries was that he was the safe bet. The sure thing. The one you could trust. The last White guy standing. Compared to a polarizing first lady and the half Negro rookie with the weird name, Edwards was the prototypical Southern pretty boy with a beloved wife, stable of fresh faced kids, and the battle scars of a general election already under his belt.

But lo and behold, he was the riskiest choice of the three.

I guess this is the part where we all just embrace our inner Francophile and consider this a personal matter and wrinkle noses at the puritanical prudes who dare pass judgment. That is until the next Breck boy with a Dixie twang comes along to charm the pants off progressives who won't bother to read the fine print on the warning label.

Nancy Pelosi, Harry Reid and Howard Dean should be kissing Barack Obama's ass from now till November 4th because they dodged a bullet here.

Welcome to the dollhouse

2008-08-06T23:54:00.011-04:00

After the debacle served on a silver platter thanks to David Remnick & Co. with the New Yorker magazine fiasco, here comes a second round of mockery recycled as a "homage" thanks to the tone deaf crew at Harper's Bazaar. Imitation is usually the sincerest form of flattery, but this misses the mark. Badly.

The weirdness factor has less to do with Team Bizarre cashing in on the adulation via exploitation with Alexi Lubomirski's photo shoot so much as their decision to use Tyra Banks in the role of First Lady. If they decided to cast the part of Michelle Obama using a model with more in common than just being merely Black (the editors & stylists can't tell us apart), the spread could have gone a long way to further the soft power of imagery during this political season. However, by cheapening the subject with Tyra — a publicity hound who never met a gimmick she couldn't bilk for ratings — the end result falls far short of Jackie O. and into Jackée territory.

One wonders, is this because Glenda Bailey was unable to get the real thing, or because Banks wants to take America's Next Top Model to its most extreme conclusion?

Ty-Ty isn't merely content to hitch her cultural relevance on the most important election in a generation. Oh no, she goes way further than that to dispense some "judge's advice" for Mrs. Obama:

"Oh, I want her to not take herself too seriously," she says. "She'd need to know how to take a fierce picture but at the same time be able to eat fried chicken, have grease on her fingers, and be okay with getting photographed like that, too. I'd want her to feel like every child in America is hers — to have a true connection." Her expression turns serious, then she winks. "I would also want her to know how to beat her own face. That means do her own makeup. In the end, the first lady should be her man's rock and his boulder and his mountain. And she should be calling about 50 percent of the shots!"

Of course, Tyra always brings it around to talking about herself so, trapped inside her own fantasy world, we're offered these pearls of wisdom on being a commander-in-sheath:

"I'd wear a V-neck shift and a two-inch heel. Even if the president were taller, I would keep them low. Otherwise it gets a little too sexy. I mean, I was a high-fashion model, but I was also a swimsuit model and a lingerie model, so I would constantly be making sure that I wasn't looking like that." As for hair, perhaps a Jackie/Michelle-style flip? "...my question isn't to flip or not to flip. Mine would be to weave or not to weave." What would be her Secret Service acronym? She pauses, smiles broadly, and replies, "KMFA: Kiss My Fat Ass."

Dear God Almighty. We don't believe you, you need more people.

"She's not me. She doesn't have my name. She'll never have what I have. It won't be the same..." - Madonna, She's Not Me

On a brighter note, the Brangelina strategy for prime print-media real estate continues with the real McCoy gracing a newsstand near you on the current cover of Ebony looking fierce.

The blonde leading the blind

2008-08-05T18:58:00.009-04:00

Politics certainly makes for strange bedfellows, but this takes shark jumping to an Olympic level. Paris Hilton... voice of reason? Then again when a jailbird socialite is able to read off a teleprompter more convincingly than the Republican contender for President, it shows how fucked your campaign really is. Moral of this story? Trying to one up attention whores who actually do this for a living is a losing battle.

Paris Hilton Responds to McCain Adfunny videosFunnyOrDie.com

Wishing on a star

2008-08-04T21:36:00.003-04:00

What's the best gift money can't buy? 270 electoral votes. Or turning Virginia, Colorado & North Carolina blue. Here's hoping that's one belated present ready to be unwrapped come November. In the meanwhile, happy birthday, Senator Barack Obama.

The great depression

2008-08-01T21:00:00.005-04:00

There's a tipping point in every one's life where it's a struggle to laugh to keep from crying. Not necessarily a moment of clarity or some great epiphany, but just that winking reminder God's fucking with you and there's no recourse. I think I just hit mine at approximately 1:19 this afternoon. Sitting on Mott Street with a plate of crab and pork dumplings polished off, I ended my meal with a fortune cookie that had no fortune. Like it was necessary for a cookie to point out the obvious. Talk about the universe nailing a moment in schadenfreude. 100 days and counting to refinance my mortgage before the rate triples. Frustration with fruitless pavement poundings to find a full time gig that pays worth a damn. I used to wonder if those radio commercials with Lucinda Bassett weren't just an exercise in melodrama, but now I feel like I want to curl up in a ball on my sofa night and day too. Le sigh.

Anyhow, I'm gonna let my navel-gazing meter park right here. It's been almost a full 4 months since my last post and as usual, that's terrible. But hey, shit happens. And besides, I don't think entries bemoaning my broken air conditioner and using crinkled church fans to compensate really qualifies as intriguing reading. So, much to catalog in my latest absence. Much to vent about the circus atmosphere that is the general election now underway, the Summer Olympics right around the corner and the usual mishegoss that constitutes my life on the D-list.

Saturday night's alright for sniping

2008-03-16T17:58:00.007-04:00

Trying to keep pace with the breakneck bullshit meter of the 2008 presidential campaign is like walking through the fun house at Coney Island. Due in large part to the talking heads on the boob tube, cognitive dissonance has blurred lines beyond comprehension. Hypocrisy is the new straight talk, status quo is the new change and whining to the media is just keeping it real. Case in point, Saturday Night Live. Upon its return after the writer's strike, TV's unfunniest variety show was rescued from the abyss of irrelevance by jumping head first into the tank for Hillary Clinton. Between the sketches that unflatteringly skewered Barack Obama as a bumbling buffoon by Fred Armisen in blackface, the walk on lovefest between the Ice Queen & Amy Poehler a mere two days before semi-Super Tuesday in OH, RI, TX & VT and the girl power edition of Weekend Update which proclaimed "bitch is the new black," it was enough to make you wonder which side Lorne Michaels had his bread buttered.

Now under fire for blatant pandering, along comes the balancing act of sorts to quell rising criticism. Former cast member Tracy Morgan managed to stay sober long enough to weave racism and government cheese into a home run rebuttal. And hilarity ensued.

"Barack is qualified. Personally, I want to know what qualifies Hillary Clinton to be the next president. Is it because she was married to the president? If that were the case then Robin Givens would be the heavyweight champion of the world. If Hillary's last name wasn't Clinton, she'd be some crazy white lady with too much money and not enough lovin'. That's where I come in. I know women like that, you do not want them on the phone at 3 in the morning. In conclusion, three weeks ago, my girl Tina Fey went on the show, she declared that "bitch is the new black." You know I love you, Tina. You know you're my girl. But I have something to say. Bitch may be the new black, but black is the new president, bitch."

Poetic justice flows even better on the playback. Brian Fellows: 1, Liz Lemon: 0.

The insignificant others

2008-02-16T13:55:00.003-05:00

"Could we possibly have a nominee who hasn't won any of the significant states — outside of Illinois?" Chief Strategist Mark Penn said. "That raises some serious questions about Sen. Obama."

This is the Clinton strategy - diminish the importance of any state and demographic that chooses an option other than Hillary. She didn't win South Carolina, it doesn't count because of the Black vote. She didn't win Iowa, Washington, etc... well, those are merely caucus states, they don't count (which would knock Nevada out of her column by that metric).

Now it's the latest wins don't count because they're not from significant states.

So if you don't live in California, Texas, Ohio, Pennsylvania, or New York, not a woman or Hispanic - you just don't matter to the Clinton campaign. That's democracy at work.

What's the next filibuster from the epic fail tank? "If you vote for Barack Obama, the terrorists win"?

Moody's mood for love

2008-02-14T22:07:00.005-05:00

Usually on this occasion designed to play on the emotions of the unattached, I spend the day curled up in bed with a pint full of pistachio gelato in one hand and a remote trained on Bridget Jones's Diary in the other. However in the '08, I'm taking a different approach. Maybe it's the arctic thaw of my last love affair gone bad that's finally dissipating ever so slowly, but the premise of facing the post-ides of February without wanting to reaching for sauvignon blanc to soothe a splintered ego counts as progress. So, maybe hope really does spring eternal. If Gary Coleman of all people can get hit with Cupid's arrow in between shifts at the Fox Hills Mall, who am I to write off romance completely?

So rather than pity the lucky lasses who'll be getting crimson bouquets courtesy of FTD and their spines realigned after dark (no, I'm really not bitter. Don't believe me? Okay, maybe just a smidge), I'm in a sentimental state of mind to give props to those couples from then to now who still give me a reason to believe in the power of the L-word.

It's for Claire and Cliff.
Will and Jada.
Denzel and Pauletta.
Forest and Keisha.
Nicole and Boris.
Grant and Tamia.
Angela and Courtney.
Bill and Camille.
Ruby and Ossie.
Betty and Malcolm.
Coretta and Martin.
Barack and Michelle.

Get up, get out and do something

2008-02-04T12:40:00.000-05:00

If you live in New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, California or any of the other 22 states that are holding primaries and caucuses tomorrow, please get out there and let your voice be heard. I hope you'll consider picking Barack Obama as the Democratic nominee for the 44th United States Presidency. There's a golden opportunity within our grasp. We can finally have a major impact in choosing this party's nomination. Let's not let it go to waste.

Weighing the choice before us isn't merely boiled down to identity box demographics. It's whether we choose to take a step forward with a clean slate or regress back to the entrenched politics of the status quo.

The only endorsement that really matters is the one you give when you go into the voting booth. Nevertheless, if a respected voice gives a convincing reason for their choice of a candidate, it's something worth considering. The following shortlist have provided compelling cases for Obama much better than I can:

Sen. John Kerry (D-MA), former Democratic presidential nominee
Sen. Ted Kennedy (D-MA), legendary liberal lion, a champion of women's rights, labor, the environment and social justice
Tom Hayden, former CA state senator, anti-war icon, author of the Port Huron Statement
Gov. Janet Napolitano (D-AZ)
Gov. Deval Patrick (D-MA)
Sen. Claire McCaskill (D-MO)
Gov. Kathleen Sebelius (D-KS)
The Los Angeles Times
Rep. Xavier Becerra (D-Los Angeles, CA), highest ranking Hispanic in the House of Representatives
Kate Michelman, former president of NARAL Pro-Choice America
The New York Observer
Gov. Tim Kaine (D-VA)
Maria Shriver, first lady of California
MoveOn.org
Yale Daily News
The Harvard Crimson

But I don't expect anyone to take third party's stamps of approval at face value, but solely on the basis of what the candidate themselves have to say. So stripped of all artifice and celebrity cache, please take some time out to listen to Sen. Barack Obama speaking with the editorial board of the San Francisco Chronicle on the challenges and solutions needed to put this country back on the road to recovery and redemption. I hope his words inspire you as much as they did me.

On any given Sunday

2008-02-03T23:33:00.000-05:00

"I came in like a lamb. But I intend to leave like a lion..." - Sade, Bullet Proof Soul

And how fucking sweet it is. After 17 long years of wandering in the wilderness of championship draught, New York is back at the top of the pigskin heap. Baseball remains my first love, but I can't front like I wasn't yelling from the top of my lungs and running around my living room as if the spirit of Jeff Hostetler was hovering over U. of Phoenix Stadium. On a personal note (the team used to be one of my corporate accounts), I was so proud to see the classy tributes to both Wellington Mara & Robert Tisch. The first time in a long time that the tagline "don't believe the hype" need not apply. I'm still trying to decide which will rank highest on my highlight reel for Super Bowl XLII. Among them will be:

The bat mitzvah of Eli Manning to a global audience.
All-American whiner Tom Brady eating Astroturf. Five times.
Junior Seau coming out of retirement only to remain ringless.
David Tyree's catch on 3rd and 5 from the 44. Holy. fucking. shit.
Plaxico Burress proving that unlike Randy Moss, he can unequivocally put his money where his mouth is.
Gratuitous shots of Osi Umenyiora. (Operation: Selita Ebanks Must Disappear is in full swing.)
Defecating on the prospect of 19-0 in the most heartbreaking of ways.

Stomaching 2 Red Sox World Series wins, a sickening stranglehold the Patriots had on the league and the resurgence of the Celtics was the equivalent of Chinese water torture. There's no hatred like New England hatred and their deal with the devil for prolonged multisport dominance was driving me batshit crazy.

But thankfully the balance of power has shifted (if only for a fleeting moment) back in its rightful order. Celebration in the Big Apple, desperation in Beantown. Knowing that whenever Massholes reminisce on what could've been in the days, weeks and months ahead, they'll always know that perfection was derailed at the hands of the evil underdogs from Gotham. Little tidbits like that just perk my nipples up at full salute. Payback's a bitch I'd like to have a drink with.

P.S. Feel free to go fuck yourself, Tiki Barber.

Lift every voice and sing

2008-02-02T16:43:00.000-05:00

Talk about campaigning in poetry. While Britney Spears is bouncing around a padded room in the latest chapter of her ongoing march to Crazytown, it's almost heartwarming to see bleeding-heart camera hogs channeling their star power for a common purpose. Inspired by Barack Obama's New Hampshire concession speech, an all-star lineup headlined by Black Eyed Peas frontman will.i.am have joined together in a 4-minute music video set to those very words.

It was a creed written into the founding documents that declared the destiny of a nation.
Yes, we can.
It was whispered by slaves and abolitionists as they blazed a trail toward freedom through the darkest of nights.
Yes, we can.
It was sung by immigrants as they struck out from distant shores and pioneers who pushed westward against an unforgiving wilderness.
Yes, we can.
It was the call of workers who organized, women who reached for the ballot, a president who chose the moon as our new frontier, and a King who took us to the mountaintop and pointed the way to the promised land.

I don't even care that the relentless beauty shots of Scarlett Johansson reek of Velveeta because I don't have an ice box where my heart used to be just yet. Yes we can.

The vagina demagogues

2008-01-31T11:33:00.000-05:00

"There's absolutely no reason why a woman shouldn't be in that office, but I am not sure about this woman. It's insulting to assume that because you're a woman or a person of color, you would automatically back any woman or person of color. It's a little more complicated." - Susan Sarandon, Time

To which do I pledge allegiance first, my ovaries or my complexion? It's a question to which many women of color have been struggling with for decades while looking through the narrow prism of conventional feminism. As for me, it never was a question as to which took priority and reading misguided opinion pieces from the likes of Gloria Steinem and Erica Jong only reinforced why I don't bother hedging my bets in the name of "sisterhood."

One of the strategic fallacies of second-wave feminism was the imposition of a matriarchal party-line on the younger generation. As a woman, you are asked to be loyal to other women, especially the powerful ones, who want to represent you, but not necessarily protect you. Slavish devotion to the XX-factor is often taken for granted and being disloyal means you will be loaded with a pile of guilt. Complicating matters is the always apparent argument of the Oppression Olympics to which well-heeled elitists will pit gender vs. race. It is a very cynical ploy to pit the first viable woman candidate against the first viable Black candidate to have a chance at the Presidency. This is why the feminist movement continues to isolate communities of color. The proposition that Black men have advanced faster than White women in any aspect of American life is laughable at best. A simple snapshot at the composition of the United States Senate would provide a much needed wake-up call.

Currently, there are 16 female Senators. 1 African American currently serves in the Senate. Obviously, a ratio of 16 to 1 is not exactly demonstrative of African American men "ascending to positions of power... before any women."
Currently, there are 9 female and 1 African American serving as governors of their states. Obviously, a ratio of 9 to 1 is not exactly demonstrative of African American men "ascending to positions of power... before any women."

The mere notion that gender is more of a barrier than race is insulting, especially to someone like me - a woman of color. It sheds light on exactly why the feminist movement is no longer a catalyst for activism, its failure to see reality and continued pattern of exclusion.

For instance, if say... Condoleezza Rice was in the same position to make history for the Republican party, would I be expected as a "feminist" to support her? Black women especially are handicapped with a plexiglass ceiling that is often not high enough to stand up under, so would the same hold true? Me thinks not, especially since the bra burning Birkenstock crowd would eagerly forgive me for being in direct opposition with Condi's policies. Well, I don't agree with Hillary Rodham Clinton and I won't support her.

If that makes me fit neatly into the generation gap demographic of under 30's women who decide to think with my head and not my labia, so be it. If she represents the best that the 70's women's movement has to offer, then no — we haven't come a long way, baby. She tolerated her husband's repeated infidelities in exchange for political gain. She didn't bother to build on the foundation built after years spent in Arkansas, instead preferring to play carpetbagger for an easy score for political gain. And while she has capably served my state as Patrick Moynihan's junior predecessor the past 7 years, I can't recall a single meaningful bill passed to benefit New York in the Senate.

The most glaring, unconscionable example of her questionable readiness on Day One was her vote for the 2002 authorization of military force towards Iraq without even reading the National Intelligence Estimate. And to follow that colossal blunder with a vote in favor of the Kyl-Lieberman act speaks volumes. 35 years of experience? Give me a break. I want to know about her judgment, which was curiously absent on a war which has cost America more lives than those who perished on 9/11.

Frankly, I would not vote for a man with Senator Clinton's legislative record, much less a woman. And to imply anything less simply hurts my feelings.

Fired up, Teddy to go

2008-01-29T12:34:00.000-05:00

2008 is a much more complex and dangerous time than was 1960. Technology alone has made the world a vastly different place. A bombshell endorsement from both Caroline and Ted will not reincarnate John F. Kennedy as Barack Obama or rekindle the yesteryear of Camelot.

Nevertheless, it still remains quite a historic distinction and the largest direct investment of the Kennedy clan's political capital that the Democratic party has ever seen.

Something special is going on right now and this could be just the tip of the iceberg.

The revolution won't be microwaved

2008-01-28T10:37:00.000-05:00

"The restoration of the Clintons to the White House would trigger a new wave of all-out political warfare. That is not all Bill and Hillary's fault - but it exists, whomever you blame, and cannot be ignored. Hillary Clinton doesn't pretend that it won't happen - she simply vows to persevere, in the hope that her side can win. Indeed, the Clinton's joint career in public life seems oriented toward securing victory and personal vindication." - The State, January 22, 2008

It's a testament of how the utter disaster that is the Bush administration can make me lose sight of why the second-term incarnation of the Hil & Bill show left such a bitter taste in my mouth. They alternate between prickly and sleazy while spreading cherry picked disinformation about their opponents as the gospel. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that the Clinton Machine will steamroll right over anybody in their way toward the Oval Office, and they're demonstrating that in spades. Innuendo, character assassination on the flimsiest if not false premises, miscasting words and ideas and actions, the whole nine yards.

But in spite of the smears and all out machinations of the status quo, this fresh faced challenger rose to the occasion and thrived on it. I was seriously worried as to whether Barack Obama could withstand the tag team of ambition and desperation simultaneously, but now I see that one needn't mistake kindness for weakness. He's ready.

Decrying sheeple of the blah-blah sisterhood

2008-01-26T21:52:00.000-05:00

"I've been married to my wife for 10 years. But if she came up here, you wouldn't laugh." - Chris Rock

If at first you don't succeed, dust yourself off and cry again. Or claim to have found your voice after 35 years of public service only to leave the heavy lifting to your attack dog of a husband who also happens to be the 42nd President of the United States. Make your running platform a nod to experience and competence when you're clearly lacking in both areas. Anyone who claims politics isn't one helluva tragicomedy clearly hasn't been paying attention to the Democratic race for the Oval Office.

This whole process felt like déjà vu to me, as if I'd seen the trailer for this long before. The gratingly annoying overachiever who felt as if her coronation was inevitable only to see the popular jock riding a surging momentum wave into what was thought to be an insurmountable lead. And alas, I had. Slate has put forward the most hilarious and comprehensive screenplay of where the parallels are coming from. Yes ladies and gentlemen, Hillary Rodham Clinton is Tracy Flick. If you haven't seen Election, do yourselves a huge favor and make it a Blockbuster night immediately. Or better yet, check out the ingenious mashup below.

Rhapsody in big blue

2008-01-21T12:08:00.000-05:00

Being a Big Apple sports fan has been tough this past year. The Yankees suffered another disappointing exit in the postseason, the Mets crashed and burned before even making it there and the Knicks aren't worth bringing into the discussion. But just in time to swing a wrecking ball square in the hopes of fantasy football fans, the New York Giants are headed to the Super Bowl. It's hard to decide what's sweeter: putting an end to the never ending blowjob given season long to Brett Favre courtesy of the media or having the chance to derail perfection in New England. Talking heads kept picking against them, but if they only heeded the advice of Zamunda's royalty — the end result wouldn't have been a surprise to the odds makers. Onward to Phoenix!

Sixpence none the wiser

2008-01-20T12:29:00.000-05:00

January 20, 2008 — Restructure your life from top to bottom. Throw out everything that no longer serves a purpose and in doing so make room for new and more valuable things to come in. You were born on the cusp of conservative Capricorn and radical Aquarius but you must lean more to the latter this year.

There are the types of personalities who get fixated on particular times of year. For some it may be Christmas with an overload of holly and ivy to make even Santa seem like public enemy #1. Or maybe Halloween is the obsession of choice with full fledged jack o'lantern excess. For me? Ever since I was old enough to remember, it was all about the natal day. Not like I needed an extra excuse to focus my OCD for a good cause, but it was just plain fun. Planning my beauty appointments and crossing them off my checklist in preparation was being like a kid in a candy store. There was the all day spa pampering, getting my hair done, indulging at one too many cosmetic counters and toasting it up with friends. What's not to love?

But call it maturity or just being too cash strapped to act the fool, this year I've got a serious case of the blah's. I don't really care and for some strange reason... it's not even bothering me. I'm still in sweats, hair's a complete mess and I have no intentions of stepping outside my front door. Is this what getting older does to you? Do you need to consciously suppress the kid within or is it a necessary trade off as the digits climb higher on the age ladder? Maybe it's the thought of transitioning from my 20's sooner rather than later that has my ass in a tailspin.

Regardless of mixed emotions, I do still believe in counting my blessings and hoping the coming forecast is better than the last. And today holds quite two significant milestones that can still make a jaded bitch like me smile. Just a bit.

The Giants can take their first step back to the Super Bowl in 7 years at Lambeau Field this afternoon. Here's hoping that cheeseheads end up sobbing in their beers and the fairytale of Brett Favre ends like a pumpkin at midnight when all is said and done. Go Big Blue!
The fascist regime better known as the Bush crime syndicate will have their reign of lies, theocracy and bullshit come to a permanent end exactly 365 days from today.

I don't know about you, but the latter has me rethinking a stance on celebration.

Happy birthday, Aquarius! Peace and goodwill are your two best friends. Striving to attain a harmonious environment comes naturally, and that's why you are blessed with many good friendships. This year will be one in which you're able to strengthen your domain, tie up any loose ends, concentrate on family and home, and lay the foundations for future happiness, personal and professional triumph. The world is your oyster.

From that astrologer's lips to God's ears. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a few red velvet cupcakes to devour in rapid succession.

Beauty in the breakdown

2008-01-19T23:55:00.000-05:00

"Drink up baby down
Are you in or are you out?
Leave your things behind
'Cause it's all going off without you
Excuse me too busy you're writing a tragedy
These mess-ups you bubble-wrap
When you've no idea what you're like..." - Frou Frou, Let Go

It's been said that you should be careful what you wish for... because you just might get it. And as I tend do with most proverbs and parables, I rolled my eyes and whipped myself right back into a stubborn frenzy, high off my own ignorance. Well, one truism in life is that a hard head makes for a soft ass. And 2007 was one motherfucker of a learning curve.

I used to spend countless hours sitting at my desk gazing out at the Brooklyn Bridge, wishing I could blink twice, ending up back home in my PJ's so I could be free to bullshit online without the threat of the powers that be keeping tabs on my every move. But after getting laid off last March, turning on my laptop was the least of my worries. I had free time to burn and couldn't even wrap my brain a single coherent way to process my thoughts because I was spazzing about one million things a minute.

It became less and less about the frivolous and more and more about the factual. Couldn't risk getting sick since my health insurance went the way of the 8-track. Endless sleepless nights worrying about just how I was going to pay my damn mortgage. Being forced to sell off shit so I could keep my cable and cell phone turned on.

And as the cherry on the top of my bullshit sundae, I fell into one of the worst depressions I've ever had the misfortunes of experiencing. This wasn't something that could be remedied with a quick fix. I lost my sense of direction, my confidence and optimism became a dirty word. I felt so isolated from everything and everyone, the only thing that made sense was complete withdrawal. So, cutting off contact forced me to do some serious self-examination that's still underway. I'm not pretending to have found the fountain of truth and everything's coming up roses, but for the first time in months, I actually feel better today than I did yesterday. And damn it, that still counts for something.

So, with the calendar peeling off '07 into '08, it's not only time to turn over a new leaf mentally, but also site wise. You may notice things look a bit different here and the upgrade definitely suits my mood of out with the old, in with the new.

I know the two people who still bothered to float through the past few months are thinking, "ain't this 'bout some bullshit... look what the cat dragged in!" Yeah, the light's back on and your eyes aren't deceiving you. This is not a test of the emergency blogcast system. Instead of deeming this comeback woefully overdue, I'd like to think that I'm just fashionably late. So in the immortal words of Samantha Fox, "it's hard to keep a good woman down... but, then again, maybe that could be fun..."

Happy belated New Year, bitches.

Reading the tea leaves

2007-02-24T15:23:00.000-05:00

Everybody's got their something when it comes to making a friendly wager. And while March Madness is a couple weeks away, I'm getting the jump early with my annual bid to score some bucks on the side: the office Oscar pool. Now when it comes to predicting the winners, I can afford to toot my own horn for a change since I remain undefeated for the past 4 years. This time around, there's the obvious frontrunners in the lead acting categories... but sorting out who will reign triumphant has been perplexing me all week long. AMPAS could go misty-eyed, opting for Peter O'Toole and leave Forest Whitaker fumbling towards incoherance. Abigail Breslin could turn J-Hud's Cinderella carriage into a pumpkin, or Clint Eastwood may send Martin Scorsese home empty handed again after all. Do I sip from the spiked Kool-Aid surrounding the feel good indie that could, Little Miss Sunshine or does box office muscle give The Departed an inside edge? I've decided to go with my gut and hope my instincts don't fail me down the homestretch. Consider me on pins and needles wondering whether I'll be a few thou richer by night's end. My ballot looks a bit like such:

Best Picture:

Should win: Babel
Will win: The Departed

Best Actor:

Should win: Forest Whitaker, The Last King Of Scotland
Will win: Forest Whitaker, The Last King Of Scotland

Best Actress:

Should win: Helen Mirren, The Queen
Will win: Helen Mirren, The Queen

Best Supporting Actor:

Should win: Eddie Murphy, Dreamgirls
Will win: Eddie Murphy, Dreamgirls

Best Supporting Actress:

Should win: Jennifer Hudson, Dreamgirls
Will win: Jennifer Hudson, Dreamgirls

Best Director:

Should win: Clint Eastwood, Letters From Iwo Jima
Will win: Martin Scorsese, The Departed

Best Original Screenplay:

Should win: Babel
Will win: Little Miss Sunshine

Best Adapted Screenplay:

Should win: Borat
Will win: The Departed

Best Animated Feature:

Should win: Happy Feet
Will win: Happy Feet

Best Documentary Feature:

Should win: An Inconvenient Truth
Will win: An Inconvenient Truth

Foreign Language Film:

Should win: Pan's Labyrinth
Will win: The Lives Of Others

Best Costume Design:

Should win: The Devil Wears Prada
Will win: Marie Antoinette

Best Original Song:

Should win: I Need To Wake Up from An Inconvenient Truth
Will win: Listen from Dreamgirls

What's love got to do with it?

2007-02-14T07:16:00.000-05:00

Just when I was perfecting my sick cough to avoid the day personally set aside to make the self-esteem of singletons plummet everywhere, here comes Old Man Winter to the rescue. Thank heavens for snow days. Being saved from a hit parade of Godiva boxes, teddy bears and long-stemmed bouquets while the blissfully spoken for's compare greeting cards is just what the doctor ordered. If you couldn't tell already, I loathe Valentine's Day with a passion. Well, perhaps resent is a less bitter alternative. I resent the emphasis placed on celebrating romance on demand. Particularly with the creatively challenged who could whip up heart-shaped pancakes with a side of flavored condoms any old day of the week, but only bother with straining strawberry seeds once a year because it's par for the course. If a designated day's required to get you all hot and bothered... well, you're better off relying on Dr. Phil for spicing up your life. Besides, why the need to cast a glaring spotlight on those people who don't have someone to call their own? As if we unattached lepers aren't already painfully aware of the shit? And now it's morphed into some sort of a public service with the commercialized buildup to drive home the fact that you are utterly alone. There will be no massage oil necessary. No candlit dinner with aphrodisiacs on the menu. No need for a slow jam deluxe mixtape with Marvin, Luther and the extended mix of Prince's Adore. My only date is with a pint of Haagen-Dazs' sticky toffee pudding. Oh joy. Can't. hardly. wait.

"When you're married, you wanna kill your spouse. When you're single, you wanna kill yourself." - Chris Rock

This all-out obsession with pink hearts and red roses on February 14th doesn't make me ponder suicidal thoughts, but it just makes reaching for the Pepto-Bismol to make it all go away a necessity. The upside is I can nurture my nausea in cold comfort since I'm not the only one seeking solace in cynicism. Everyone else isn't exactly doe-eyed with hearts aflutter on this cruelly manufactured "holiday."

And there are a million songs in the naked city that will deepen the depression. So if you're still flying solo, newly single or checking up on your local stalking laws, take Sade off repeat and tune in to these 10 tracks to help you return fire at that fat toddler with all the arrows:

Kelis - Caught Out There (With a hook of "I hate you so much right now...," this is battle cry fodder tailor made for the anti-romantics.)
Lily Allen - Smile (The prettiest kiss-off song in years.)
Soft Cell - Tainted Love (The synthpop makeover only makes a forgotten soul gem even darker the second time around.)
Christina Aguilera - Get Mine, Get Yours (A panting thumbs up to mercy fucking your way to the 15th)
Ani DiFranco - Untouchable Face
Lauryn Hill - Ex-Factor (Crystallizing the insanity of loving and hating someone so much at the same time never sounded so sweet.)
Portishead - Sour Times (Take equal parts moody soundscape and the tortured vocals of Beth Gibbons and you've got a Molotov cocktail of despair in under 4 minutes flat.)
No Doubt - Don't Speak (Before Gwen got sidetracked with pimping out Asian kewpie dolls, she was one helluva songwriter. This classic is exhibit A.)
Heather Headley - I Wish I Wasn't (I've lived the lyrics of this joint in a dysfunctional "relationship" for the past 5 years. Damn you, Jimmy Jam & Terry Lewis!)
Joy Division - Love Will Tear Us Apart

Now repeat after me with feeling... bah humbug!

Whistling to the tune of Dixie

2007-02-12T13:53:00.000-05:00

Ah yes, the Grannys... that annual tradition of the record industry straining to spin "legendary" moments from sow's asses, as the business itself sinks deeper into the downward spiral of oblivion. CD sales are tumbling. Record stores are closing. Labels keep merging, employees keep getting put on the chopping block and the whiz-kid execs hired to turn fortunes around walk away with sweetheart bonus clauses. The evidence is mounting and yet no one can stop the bleeding. Until Neil Portnow comes on to do his "illegal download deterrent" monologue. Nero's warming up the ol' fiddle, indeed.

The show has actually tried to enter the 21st century with the rest of us as it's finally acknowledged the existence of Black musicians under the age of AARP membership. But for every small step made (Van Hunt picking up his first statuette), there's always a quantum leap backwards to bestow goldies to the oldies. Yes, Stevie Wonderful...I'm talking to you.

The audience filled with jaded Angelenos seemed to muster just enough enthusiasm for "music's biggest night" as a State of the Union address. And if you watched, you probably weren't content to be wasting your time with them either. No matter what the cause, the 49th annual Grammy Awards was even more constricted than usual. The red carpet ensembles were subdued, the performances promoted channel surfing and the acceptance speeches would've bored Ben Stein to tears. A retrospective of the snoozefest that was is as follows...

Don't Get Mad, Get Even: What a difference four years can make. In March 2003, the Dixie Chicks were dead women walking. After lead singer Natalie Maines expressed her shame in sharing a hometown with President Bush during a performance in London on the eve of the Iraq war, the toasts of Nashville flipped from red state darlings to personas non grata faster than a johnny cake. Things change, and thankfully so do opinions as the industry was clearly ready to make nice. Echoing Mimi's '06 derailing in spite of pulling off a career best resurgence, the Queen of Hip-Hop Soul was upstaged as Saddam's little helpers got the last laugh in the winner's circle. How you spell vindication? S-w-e-e-p... x 5. Let this be the best case study to future rebels without a pause on how to handle controversy properly: face it dead on. Address it in your music. But don't act as though it never happened. (Get your pen & paper out, Miss Jackson.)

Jesus Loves Me, Yes We ALL Know: Mary J. Blige thanked everyone from J. Dilla to John McClain and then got played off while reading the phone book in her purse. But let's get to some hateration in this dancery... is it really necessary to hear the 12 step affirmations about how her life used to be filled with such drama and pain and self-hate and now she loves her self so much and her man is so wonderful to her? I mean, EVERY opening of a song, EVERY award speech, EVERY interview. It's reached flogging Barbaro proportions already. She's clinging so hard to Kendu to keep her on the straight & narrow that a pull on the crack pipe of co-dependency seems almost inevitable. But then again, could you imagine the masterpiece we'd get out of it?

The Silver Lining In A Dark Cloud: Remember when Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears used to be mentioned in the same sentence? Me neither. Who cares if that random shriek roused every canine from slumber on a block near you, when has a former Mouseketeer turned pop star gone for the gusto like that? Crouched onstage, clutching the mic stand like a woman possessed, Xtina skipped a naked Sunday with the hubby to reach into her gut, imbuing It's A Man's Man's World with fiery passion — a stark contrast to the emotionless caterwauling she's known for. The Godfather's surely smacking a bitch up in approval.

Most Premature Center of Attention Grab: The glitter. The sparkles. The magnolias which were a bit more brain tumor than Billie Holiday. Anything to bedazzle your overexposed ass back in the spotlight. Alas, impersonating Mariah Carey on a number that belongs in a regional pageant's talent competition and has to performed again on the Gay Super Bowl a mere two weeks away is a Rex Grossman-esque fumble.

The Blair Bitch Project: Everybody's favorite counterfeit Michael Jackson pre-molestation wannabe tried to aim high on the credibility meter with his piano-man rendition of "What Goes Around" — and then he blew it with that pointless TimberCam bullshit, up-close and creepy. Who does he think he is, LonelyBoy15? Take your dick out the box and put your head in it.

Best Non-Medicinal Cure for Insomnia: Pairing the establishment's preferred brand of fresh faced talent may have seemed like a good idea in theory, but the triumvirate of John Legend, Corinne Bailey Rae & John Mayer foregoing the uptempo songs which netted their collective nominations for acoustic balladry added up to a Starbucks unplugged without the caffeine.

Cardio Fixation, Volume 2: Not only do Shakira's hips not lie, they should be hooked up to a smoothie making machine. I'm hopeful that this will mark the final time that this song is performed. Backflips and Solid Gold dancers are still bona fide crowd pleasers, but it feels like this song has been around for 10 years. If this isn't stopped now, Charo 2.0 will be turbo shimmying until she's 70. Enough is enough.

Edge Of Seventeen: Not even old enough to indulge in manly hazing tactics like eating a donut off someone's dick, yet he's stomping the yard in a Skeletor mask with krumping preschoolers, vocals curiously inconspicuous. Putting him behind Smokey and Lionel Richie just drives home how overproduced, badly written and piss-poor commercial R&B is right now. Ay dios mio.

Most Unnecessary Ode To American Idol: My Grammy Moment," they called it. My bathroom break, I decided was more apropos.

America's Next Trimspa Spokeswoman: All hail the Queen.

Heaven must be like this

2007-02-01T18:56:00.000-05:00

One of the most famous mantras uttered by Caribbean matriarchs everywhere has to do with extolling the virtues of drinking a warm cup of something in the A.M. "You must break that gas in yuh stomach, gyul," is without question in my top 5 of most echoed phrases heard ad infinitum since childhood.

But I'm not a tea sippin'-kinda broad.

So I fall into "grab-whatever's-closest-in-the-fridge" mode rather than attempting to decipher the difference between green, black or chamomile, much to the chagrin of Mommie Dearest. But it's been colder than a witch's tit lately and I've fallen prey to a sweet treat specifically marketed to chase the arctic chill away.

Although they rival only Duane Reade for pavement supremacy and location convenience, I have to admit that Dunkin' Donuts never really did it for me. Sure, those fruity coolattas are a quick fix during the dog days of summer, but who's checking for that now? On average, I find their coffee mediocre and their donuts staler than the produce section at C-Town. But their white hot chocolate is on some next level shit. For those old enough to reminisce with me, remember Nestle's Alpine White bars? After becoming an endangered species (and I was left to hum the "sweet dreams you can't resist" hook when watching Dirty Dancing on VHS in memoriam), I was always on the hunt for an alternative. It only took almost 20 years, but be still my saccharine addicted heart. The taste of DD's winter picker-upper perfectly captures the taste of yesteryear melted into a Styrofoam cup. So rich, so creamy, so calorie-laden, so affordable, so addictive. Cheating on Starbucks never felt so good.

If you can't stand the heat....

2007-01-31T19:23:00.000-05:00

...then stay out of this spoiler. If you're hopelessly addicted to the guilty pleasure that is Bravo's Top Chef like yours truly, it definitely takes more than paprika to make you cry. So a minor detail like an inconsequential leak that can't be attributed to the Bush administration should be par for the course, right? Now that we're winding down to Part 2 of the grand finale that has already been mired by last-ditch allegations of cheating, Food & Wine magazine has put the exclamation point on a second season that will live in rerun infamy.

A minimum wager who now joins me on the unemployment line in F&W's public relations laid the mother of all goose eggs, "accidentally" leaking an online feature which inexplicably revealed who the big winner was before Bravo even had a chance to aggravate us all again with more product placement ads before the commercial break. Somehow I get the feeling Gail Simmons offered to use the culprit as a blood sacrifice. Does this put a damper on being excited for seeing the final cookoff in the comfort of my own bedroom with Haagen-Dazs as my companion? Hell to the no. My TiVo is programmed and ready to roll.

Just as long as Padma Lakshmi does in fact utter the melodious phrase of "please pack your knives and go" to Wolverine boy here... I'm good.

EDIT: The cat was already out the bag, but I still had a twinge of apprehension to make sure that the web rumblings did indeed come to pass. Maybe it was the Suriname cherries or the macadamia nut gazpacho with moi which sealed the deal, but yes Virginia, there is still justice on contrived cooking competitions. Two seasons in, two New Yorkers taking the crown. Congrats Ilan!

A tip of the scales

2007-01-25T12:30:00.000-05:00

Hell hath no fury like a supermodel scorned. Remember those unflattering paparazzi photos of her royal fivehead in Australia that hit the internet a couple of weeks ago and it seemed the self-fulfilling prophecy of following in Grandma Winfrey's swollen feet had come to pass? Well, Thigh-ra was surely making her shit list and checking it twice. Which explains the latest publicity stunt in her greatest hits of attention whore syndrome, never missing out on an opportunity to fire back at those meanie buckets (read: bloggers) who made fun of her for making repeat trips to the Sizzler lunch buffet.

"It was such a strange meanness and rejoicing that people had," she says in People's next issue, on stands Friday. The magazine says she believes the photos were snapped at an unflattering angle. (She will wear the same swimsuit on the Feb. 1 episode of The Tyra Banks Show.) Banks, 33, worries about what effect such reports might have on her fans. "I get so much mail from young girls who say, 'I look up to you … I think you're beautiful,' " she tells People. "So when they say that my body is 'ugly' and 'disgusting,' what does that make those girls feel like?"

Oh, I dunno... maybe the way Robin Manning did in the augural pilot? Or 3rd season contestant Toccara Jones or cycle 5 castoff Diane Hernandez felt for not fitting the mold of what a top model should look like? Doesn't feel so nice when the shoe's on the other bloated ankle, eh Ty Ty? Excuse the hell outta me if my heart isn't broken over a drama queen who devoted an episode featuring herself in a fat suit, surrounded by overweight chicks for support — sobbing because she'd been mistreated and ridiculed for being "chunky," knowing that at the end of the day, she can ditch her Shallow Hal experiment with the pull of a zipper but these real-life fat women can't. Well guess who's at the mercy of Photoshop now? Cry me a river, bitch.

Speaking from the soapbox of endless doubt when it comes to my own warped sense of self, I think putting Tyra and fat in the same sentence borders on absurd. In my eyes, she looks lovely with the added roundness to her statuesque frame and carries it well. However, the glaring hypocrisy of a retired glamazon now getting in touch with her Rubenesque side while perpetuating the same rail thin standards on her reality show rings about as hollow as Kate Moss's cheekbones. It's interesting that Tyra chose a career in an industry that judges women exclusively on how they look and how small their measurements are. Now that she's decided to no longer maintain that model standard, she's shocked this noticeable weight fluctuation is put under the microscope. Shocked! She doesn't want to be judged, but as creator/host of America's Next Top Model, she's cashed in on scrutinizing the superficial from contestants who'd forfeit more than a few meals to follow in her Jimmy Choos.

However, the saddest part is seeing her feign martyrdom as some picture perfect portrait of confidence with an ash blonde lacefront courtesy of the Raquel Welch collection. Ironically, during the height of her catwalk fame, she felt free to embrace more Afrocentric looks with regularity. Nowadays you have to play Where's Waldo? to find a picture without the bleached wig tape and self-bronzer obscuring her features. Resembling the bride of George Hamilton with a pallor one roast away from candied yam, I'm supposed to heed pearls of wisdom from the fountain of mixed messages?

After all is said and done, the need for reciting Iyanla Vanzant cribnotes that it's okay not to look like a walking hanger will grow stale. Mouthing "I am beautiful in every single way, words can't bring me down..." in the mirror as a daily affirmation will seem passe. So she'll hop on the Zone and shed the 30 lbs. faster than her ill-advised stab at singing. Real women do have curves, Tyra. Own it 'round the clock, not just in time for sweeps week.

All that glitters gets you a gold statue

2007-01-23T14:03:00.000-05:00

"Everybody comes to Hollywood
They wanna make it in the neighborhood
They like the smell of it in Hollywood
How could it hurt you when it looks so good..." - Madonna

The Academy Awards are the pièce de résistance of the awards season, where everyone involved in the film industry sits in a big room, pretends to be interested in riveting categories like Best Sound Editing and wonders how many Santeria offerings does it take to keep Jennifer Lopez perpetually RSVP'd. All in the name of a bedraggled golden gigolo who's banged any and every sleaze that's had money, given out countless, totally undeserved mercy fucks, and occasionally rubbed elbows with the truly worthy. The time has finally arrived for eager Oscar hopefuls to be roused from slumber, groggy from the remnants of coke still caked around their nostrils and hold their breath for that annual slice of 5:30 AM Pacific Time magic. The chosen few spend the rest of the day fielding carefully rehearsed reaction from press scribes far too willing to keep the golden shower of congratulations going, while the snubbed valiantly try to save face through gritted teeth since the Plan B excuse of "it's an honor just to be nominated" in the humble pie handbook need not apply.

Here's how out of control the shameless studio campaigning has spiraled into. Dreamgirls was practically anointed as the film to beat long before curtains rose on the NY/LA/San Fran $25 preview circuit and it wound up not even in striking distance of any of the A-list categories. Diana Ross is breathing a sigh of relief that the check paid to AMPAS cleared in the nick of time.

The former frontrunners at Paramount & DreamWorks find themselves oddly juxtaposed between euphoria and being brutally rebuffed at the For Your Consideration roundtable, becoming the only Best Picture shutout to ever receive the most nominations in its year. This supposed snub is, presumably, a result of the latent prejudice of Hollywood in general. Many of these racial snubs in the past reek of bullshit by the powers that be, but this time around? Let's pipe down the paranoia. How else to explain inclusions of Forest Whitaker, Will Smith, Djimon Hounsou, Eddie Murphy, Jennifer Hudson, Rinko Kikuchi & Alejandro González Iñárritu in the same year?

If there is a disappointment, it lies in the inevitable. The script forces the most exciting character offscreen for the sake of giving marquee attraction of Ms. Knowles more camera time. Once J-Hud goes away, most of the energy fizzles out of the picture. The bland-by-numbers Beyoncé just does not and cannot measure up. At least when Hitchcock bumped off Janet Leigh early on, he left us with Tony Perkins to take us the rest of the way home.

The Oscars, like most other big award shows are celebrations of commercial achievement, with the occasional nod to artistic merit. And the award for most pervasive promotional campaign goes to Fox Searchlight for hawking that yellow school bus for 6 months. Your prize is a Best Picture nod.

Best Picture: "Babel," "The Departed," "Letters From Iwo Jima," "Little Miss Sunshine," "The Queen."

Actor: Leonardo DiCaprio, "Blood Diamond," Ryan Gosling, "Half Nelson," Peter O'Toole, "Venus," Will Smith, "The Pursuit of Happyness," Forest Whitaker, "The Last King of Scotland."

Actress: Penélope Cruz, "Volver," Judi Dench, "Notes on a Scandal," Helen Mirren, "The Queen," Meryl Streep, "The Devil Wears Prada," Kate Winslet, "Little Children."

Supporting Actor: Alan Arkin, "Little Miss Sunshine," Jackie Earle Haley, "Little Children," Djimon Hounsou, "Blood Diamond," Eddie Murphy, "Dreamgirls," Mark Wahlberg, "The Departed."

Supporting Actress: Adriana Barraza, "Babel," Cate Blanchett, "Notes on a Scandal," Abigail Breslin, "Little Miss Sunshine," Jennifer Hudson, "Dreamgirls," Rinko Kikuchi, "Babel."

Directing: Alejandro González Iñárritu, "Babel," Martin Scorsese, "The Departed," Clint Eastwood, "Letters From Iwo Jima," Stephen Frears, "The Queen," Paul Greengrass, "United 93."

Foreign Language Film: "After the Wedding," Denmark, "Days of Glory (Indigenes)," Algeria, "The Lives of Others," Germany, "Pan's Labyrinth," Mexico, "Water," Canada.

Adapted Screenplay: Sacha Baron Cohen and Anthony Hines and Peter Baynham and Dan Mazer and Todd Phillips, "Borat Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan," Alfonso Cuaron and Timothy J. Sexton and David Arata and Mark Fergus and Hawk Ostby, "Children of Men," William Monahan, "The Departed," Todd Field and Tom Perrotta, "Little Children," Patrick Marber, "Notes on a Scandal."

Original Screenplay: Guillermo Arriaga, "Babel," Iris Yamashita and Paul Haggis, "Letters From Iwo Jima," Michael Arndt, "Little Miss Sunshine," Guillermo del Toro, "Pan's Labyrinth," Peter Morgan, "The Queen."

Animated Feature Film: "Cars," "Happy Feet," "Monster House."

Art Direction: "Dreamgirls," "The Good Shepherd," "Pan's Labyrinth," "Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest," "The Prestige."

Cinematography: "The Black Dahlia," "Children of Men," "The Illusionist," "Pan's Labyrinth," "The Prestige."

Sound Mixing: "Apocalypto," "Blood Diamond," "Dreamgirls," "Flags of Our Fathers," "Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest."

Sound Editing: "Apocalypto," "Blood Diamond," "Flags of Our Fathers," "Letters From Iwo Jima," "Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest."

Original Score: "Babel," Gustavo Santaolalla, "The Good German," Thomas Newman, "Notes on a Scandal," Philip Glass, "Pan's Labyrinth," Javier Navarrete, "The Queen," Alexandre Desplat.

Original Song: "I Need to Wake Up" from "An Inconvenient Truth," Melissa Etheridge, "Listen" from "Dreamgirls," Henry Krieger, Scott Cutler and Anne Preven, "Love You I Do" from "Dreamgirls," Henry Krieger and Siedah Garrett, "Our Town" from "Cars," Randy Newman, "Patience" from "Dreamgirls," Henry Krieger and Willie Reale.

Costume Design: "Curse of the Golden Flower," "The Devil Wears Prada," "Dreamgirls," "Marie Antoinette," "The Queen."

Documentary Feature: "Deliver Us From Evil," "An Inconvenient Truth," "Iraq in Fragments," "Jesus Camp," "My Country, My Country."

Documentary (Short Subject): "The Blood of Yingzhou District," "Recycled Life," "Rehearsing a Dream," "Two Hands."

Film Editing: "Babel," "Blood Diamond," "Children of Men," "The Departed," "United 93."

Makeup: "Apocalypto," "Click," "Pan's Labyrinth."

Animated Short Film: "The Danish Poet," "Lifted," "The Little Matchgirl," "Maestro," "No Time for Nuts."

Live Action Short Film: "Binta and the Great Idea (Binta Y La Gran Idea)," "Eramos Pocos (One Too Many)," "Helmer & Son," "The Saviour," "West Bank Story."

Visual Effects: "Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest," "Poseidon," "Superman Returns."

Just like frosting on my cake

2007-01-20T09:52:00.000-05:00

"Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, this life
Trying to make ends meet
You're a slave to money then you die..." - The Verve

When life gives you lemons, you're expected to whip up a batch of Country Time, but in my case I'd prefer Jack Daniels straight from the bottle. Whoever said you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth clearly wasn't referring to a pink slip handed down a mere 48 hours from a birthday. Or fighting off a sinus infection that's hampered me for the past 2 weeks only to wind up battling a head cold all over again. Or adding onto the ever-growing tally of "people who can go fuck themselves." But these are the days of the my so-called life. Going through an endless obstacle course of setbacks and disappointments almost make me lose sight of what I was raised to have birthdays mean to me from back in the day. Not extravagant theme parties, not poppin' bottles in a club, not ego stroking from the amount of RSVP's I can rack up on Evite. It all comes back to being grateful to make it through another year. Counting my blessings never seemed so passe, but in spite of the hurdles, there's a few things I still have to be thankful for. My health (or what's left of it), a loving, supportive mom and a roof over my head ranking at the top of the list.

Happy birthday, Aquarius! Nothing is too much trouble for those you love. There's no question you don't even need to think about going the extra mile for them. However, this year it's time to be the star and focus on raising your own level of popularity within the world. To do this, ask for the support of those closest and there will be no limit on how high you can reach.

Astrologers have about as much credibility as ambulance chasing legal eagles, but in this case, what's the harm in taking a page from Casey Kasem? My birthday wish is to keep my feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars.

Hook, line & sinker

2007-01-18T13:10:00.001-05:00

"Traveling I only stop at exits
Wondering if I'll stay
Young and restless
Living this way I stress less
I want to pull away when the dream dies
The pain sets in and I don't cry
I only feel gravity and I wonder why..." - Nelly Furtado - All Good Things (Come To An End)

How to succeed in business without really trying? Well, you've got to have more than a little Mel Gibson in you. And I don't mean of the drunken, anti-Semitic variety (although I'm sure the suits & ties higher up the food chain save that horseplay for the confines of their respective country clubs), but an all-consuming, almost pathological bloodlust. To worship red tape slashes with the fervor of Hollywood execs dumping third-rate horror flicks into theaters during the dead of January. Once you get in touch with your inner Apocalypto, breaking the news to an entire staff of employees that their services are no longer needed due to a "change in direction" becomes as impersonal as a handshake.

As I stood still among the entire roster of staff members hovered around our Managing Director reading our last rites, all feeling from head to toe just went numb. It wasn't enough that I had worn myself ragged this past week juggling workloads for two, playing the part of a team player since a co-worker fucked me royally by going on vacation last minute. But this was the cherry on the top of my bullshit sundae. All the instances of staying till ungodly hours, skipping lunch hours and inviting gray hairs to take up residence on my head had earned me the ultimate booby prize. A one-way trip to human resources to discuss transitioning and severance packages.

I can't say I was terribly surprised about this turn of events since the rumor mill had never quieted with whispers of consolidation for months. Since the first round of payroll cuts rolled off the chopping block last February, the hologram of job security remained just that. An illusion. However in true white collar fashion, even though the situation gave off premonition vibes, you're still never really quite prepared when innuendo becomes reality.

And the carnage kept on coming. The guillotine wasn't limited to falling just on us sacrificial lambs in New York. Fellow colleagues over in Houston met the same fate as their entire department of operations were also announced as closing. Factor in the additional cuts made in Maryland and the grand total of casualties soared past the 500 mark easily. But the real punchlines were saved when Corporate tried to put a positive PR spin on the unceremonious dismissals this way via e-mail:

"First, in a cost effective manner, this partnership provides ____ a competitive edge, giving us the flexibility to quickly add capacity and seamlessly respond to the ever-evolving needs of clients and changes in the _____ market.
Second, this partnership lets us leverage a strategic partner's existing assets, which include a highly educated and experienced workforce, and a track record of operational excellence and client satisfaction.
Third, with ______, _____ has created a truly global service offering, giving us access to talent around the world, allowing a "follow-the-sun" work schedule with 24/7 service capabilities.
Finally, and most importantly, the partnership allows _____ to maintain its focus on its core competencies, increasing our efficiency and furthering our ability to invest in technologies and resources that will continually help our clients."

Translation: "Fuck ya'll, suckas! We're outsourcing this bitch to barely competent Southeast Asians and pocketing your paychecks to keep our profit margins pleasing to the shareholders. 7 figure end-of-year bonuses for us! Schwing!"

The only silver lining to this dark cloud is that this frees me from the fear that was holding me back from pursuing what I truly wanted to make of my life. This job was never anything that fulfilled me and just waking up in the morning to get dressed was a daily struggle. I got accustomed to going through the motions so much that I forgot what trying to build a career feels like. I chose what pays the bills as opposed to what makes me happy and look where it got me. I don't care if I never get to see my byline gracing the front page of the New York Times, my time of being a bench warmer while my aspirations float off into oblivion is over... thankfully. And besides, the only thing better than using up vacation time in rapid succession is throwing caution to the wind with 2 hour liquid lunches. I mean, what are they really gonna do? Fire me? Oops, too late.

While you were lunching

2007-01-12T20:37:00.001-05:00

One of my favorite things about living and commuting in New York is the importance placed on keeping the entertainment commissions rolling. At any given time, you could run into a famous face in the most familiar place. Having the city stand tall as an prominent (but unscripted) character to the bulk of what dominates the big and small screens lends an immediate authenticity you can't recreate on some artificial backlot in Lalaland or staying within a budget in Canada. And while tasty tidbits courtesy of Page Six, Rush & Malloy and Gatecrasher are the perfect side dish to my A.M. Sausage McMuffin, usually the scenery picks stay confined to the famous trademarks (i.e. Rockefeller Center, Times Square, Central Park) or the trendier areas in the Village, Chelsea or SoHo. Rarely, and I do mean rarely do the cameras roll where the everyday Joes and plain Janes of the world roam. But today I'd be in for a pleasant surprise.

Power walking down John Street this morning, those little yellow "no parking" notices were dotted all over and I paid it no mind. Not until I was debating Japanese vs. Thai for lunch did someone fill me in that a camera crew was filming nearby. I shrugged it off thinking it wouldn't be anything I'd be interested in and kept sifting through menus. Until my boss slinked over to namedrop that he'd just seen Chris Noth while leaving Duane Reade and forwarded me his grainy phone cap as shown above for proof. Of course that's all I needed to hear. While Noth does very little for me in his ongoing reprisal of Det. Mike Logan, (this time in alternating episodes on Law & Order: Criminal Intent) there's always a soft spot in my heart for the actor formerly known as Mr. Big.

Right on the corner of John & Cliff, the shoot was already set up and a huge crowd of rubbernecking passers-by (myself included), couldn't help but angle for the best shots, cell phones contorted above heads. Dodging cables, dollies and Teamsters, my mood was shifting from from "Get the hell out of my way" to "Oooh girl, is that him?" You'd think after meeting an actor already before wouldn't be a big deal the second time around. So much for playing the part of the jaded New Yorker. I'm just thankful this was a filming for a Logan/Wheeler episode and not one featuring Goren/Eames because as I detailed painstakingly earlier this week, one glimpse of Vincent D'Onofrio would send me ape shit and I would probably be physically escorted off the sidewalk. But I digress... check out a few snaps I took with my Razr that are of marginally better quality.

Cast chairs for Noth and co-star Julianne Nicholson.
The crew hard at work.

Caffeine and cigarettes

2007-01-08T14:19:00.000-05:00

"Why everything that's supposed to be bad make me feel so good?
Everything they told me not to is exactly what I would
Man, I tried to stop man
I tried the best I could..."

What's your addiction? My working list of weaknesses are far too long to mention with chocolate, Camembert, co-dependent relationships and Chloe leather mary janes near the top of the Kryptonite dosage heap. Lately, I've fallen off the wagon of nicotine aversion (chalk it up to the Super Black Woman suit and cape I've been donning since taking on a heavier workload) and actually going to bed at a decent hour. And the tell tale dark circles are wreaking havoc. However, the silver lining to this bit of self-inflicted abuse is I've been managing to catch up on a TV show that I can't believe I've neglected for this long...

It's been airing on NBC for almost 6 years, but can you believe I've just gotten reeled into the matrix? Were it not for the good programming folks over at Bravo & USA, I'd have no clue as to what I've been deprived of for so long. With a glutton of crime-based dramas occupying TV schedule space, it's not hard to see how it could get lost in the shuffle, though. I've read enough suspense stories and seen my fair share of whodunits to know that most criminals get caught. Sometimes they're tracked down and a confession squeezed out, sometimes their guilt overwhelms them and they tell all as the investigator simply bears witness. Been there, done that and I'm wearing the T-shirt. It's already the second spin off of Law & Order (still going strong after all these years) and ratings-wise, overshadowed by SVU. But what it lacks in the Nielsens, it more than makes up for with a strong ensemble cast and the quirkiest interrogator left of Dirty Harry, so how can you resist?

And by quirky, I mean the glue that keeps the show together in the always riveting, über-talented, Vincent D'Onofrio whom paired with the perfect sidekick in Kathryn Erbe make up the detective tag team of Robert Goren & Alexandra Eames in Major Case. One thing that I hate in mystery dramas is that the writers always seem to want to put sexual tension between the male and female colleagues. What I *love* about LO:CI is the easy rapport between the two but there's never a need to progress from platonic affection. They know how to play against each other with the suspects without their egos getting involved.

But enough about non-sexual tension, just a mere head twitch from D'Onofrio could send me over the moon. I've had a jonz in my bonz for him ever since Full Metal Jacket, and yes that's even with the 70 pounds plus gained to play the tormented Private Pyle. I hate to use the term "sensitive," because that usually conjures up images of blubbering girlie men who are way too in touch with their feelings. But as Det. Goren, he's unafraid to show the vulnerabilities of a deeply complex man. Of course it doesn't hurt that he's easy on the eyes, but the smarts and the intellect combined with that incredible force of power behind his wit, his temper at times, lends a certain appeal. Whether psychologically manipulating a suspect into the palm of his hands or agonizing over his schizophrenic mother, he's the thinking woman's eye candy. Always ready to strut his brain, so to speak, and that's undeniably sexy.

Of course, the borderline mania angle isn't everyone's cup of tea. So to see that played out on screen in Episode #96, In The Wee Small Hours, Pt. 2 when Goren grins sheepishly at Eames after just learning she requested a partner change behind his back was fan-fucking-tastic. Without a hint of irony, he admits "I am an acquired taste." Meow. See where waxing poetic on my TV crush gets me? Right back at square one. Damn, I need a Marlboro Light.

C'mon homie, we major!

2007-01-04T19:14:00.001-05:00

"Now there was a time when they used to say
That behind every great man
There had to be a great woman
But in these times of change, you know
That it's no longer true
So we're coming out of the kitchen
'Cause there's something we forgot to say to you
We say... sisters are doing it for themselves."

The times they are a-changing. Every conservatives nightmare has just come to pass. The Jezebel who represents the liberals playground that is San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury is just a mere two indictments away from the Oval Office. But when Nancy Pelosi took her oath as Speaker of the House and used that inaugural opportunity to imbue the event with tales from the apron strings, out came the claws from the right, left and those in between. Here was the highest-ranked woman ever to achieve elected office in the United States, proudly speaking about crashing through the barriers of the U.S. Capitol, but flooding the dais with children and bragging about her journey from "kitchen to Congress." What gives? I certainly don't think of myself as a hardliner, Birkenstock-wearing, bra burning feminist of the highest order. And I don't feel like Speaker Pelosi committed an act of treason. How unfair is it to ask women who stump on the Hill to somehow transcend their gender when every other facet of their political life is dictated by lack of a Y chromosome?

What Nancy Pelosi did was share unashamed pride on her brood. Too many on the Right pay lip service to children and family. Too many on the Left (particularly feminists, go figure) are quick to disrespect a woman who chooses to be a parent, let alone a good one.

It's not so much that she felt compelled to publicize her familial history, but as of now that sort of thing that remains the exception for male politicians but still the rule for women. A very wise columnist once said that every woman running for office must mention her husband and kiddies, and how she "plans to combine her work with her family," but nobody expects a man to discuss the same. Several decades later, this is still pretty much the case. Pelosi has impeccable "woman credentials" for all those who are afraid of castrating spinster bitches in power.

Perhaps what our elected officials need is a daily reminder of why this all matters. Imagine the career of Strom Thurmond had he chosen to include all of his children. Including Essie Mae Washington, the unplanned and unwanted result of a funny valentine I like to call rape. It would be quite a doozy for our elected officials to also invite to the podium each of their adulterous affairs, as well, and any offspring they produced.

In the heart of New England, if you thought a Black candidate didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of getting elected to the governor's office, it wouldn't seem all that far fetched. Especially when you consider that Beantown isn't exactly known for being the Eastern seaboard's bastion of racial harmony in its not-so-distant past. After 16 years of divisive wedge issue politics and presidential posturing by a fraud like Mitt Romney, I'm ecstatic that with Gov. Deval Patrick at the helm, the people of Massachusetts will be able to reacquaint themselves with what good government feels like.

As progressive and inherently superior as we in the Western world tend to view ourselves, it's interesting to note that three Muslim nations (Pakistan, Bangladesh & Indonesia), two of which have very strong fundamentalist movements of their own, have elected women as prime ministers. So when it comes to equality and freeing the Middle East from tyranny, we've still got a long way to go in our own backyard.

The first Black governor elected to represent MA and only the second overall, period. The first ever female speaker of the House. Small steps for mankind, quantum leaps for this country as a whole. Politics as usual? Let's hope not.

"This is an historic moment - for the Congress, and for the women of this country. It is a moment for which we have waited more than 200 years. Never losing faith, we waited through the many years of struggle to achieve our rights. But women weren't just waiting, women were working. Never losing faith, we worked to redeem the promise of America, that all men and women are created equal. For our daughters and granddaughters, today we have broken the marble ceiling.

The election of 2006 was a call to change - not merely to change the control of Congress, but for a new direction for our country. Nowhere were the American people more clear about the need for a new direction than in Iraq.

The American people rejected an open-ended obligation to a war without end. Shortly, President Bush will address the nation on the subject of Iraq. It is the responsibility of the President to articulate a new plan for Iraq that makes it clear to the Iraqis that they must defend their own streets and their own security, a plan that promotes stability in the region, and that allows us to responsibly redeploy American forces.

Let us be the Congress that rebuilds our military to meet the national security challenges of the 21st century.

Let us be the Congress that strongly honors our responsibility to protect our people from terrorism.

Let us be the Congress that never forgets our commitment to our veterans and first responders, always honoring them as the heroes they are.

The American people also spoke clearly for a new direction here at home - they desire a new vision, a new America, built on the values that made our country great."

Things that make you go... whoops!

2007-01-02T19:36:00.001-05:00

Okay, so you know how I announced that I was jumping ship and packing up the paddy wagon for greener pastures? Ummm... scratch that from your consciousness and let's call the whole thing off... mmkay? The reasons which explains in a nutshell why my big plans are derailed yet again begins with the standby Negro faithful... "see what had happened was..."

I figured end-of-year was the perfect time to embark on turning the page and starting anew, but it helps to actually do that when you have a web designer who works on a realistic schedule as opposed to a lackey who ends up bucking for Best Bullshit Artist in a Supporting Role because they can't function outside of CP time. I can deal with being banished to a waiting list, but time is money and sitting on the sidelines while I wait another 3 months for everything to be ready is nothing short of blog euthanasia. So, I'm gonna ride this happy bunny's ears till the wheels fall off. Or whenever I decide to mosey on over to Barnes & Noble for a long-overdue copy of the idiot's guide to cooking up my own template. I'm clicking my red patent Louboutins thrice in mock defeat... there's no place like home.

Anywhere but Times Square...

2007-01-01T01:06:00.001-05:00

Yesterday I made the mistake of trying to walk down 42nd Street right as the calm was edging closer towards a confetti frenzied storm. Suffice to say, I did not make the same mistake twice tonight. I've mixed so many kir royales for myself since 9:00 that the cassis is oozing out my pores, so I won't run the risk of lapsing into my usual bout of word nazi-isms since I'm hitting the keyboard like a letter a minute as it is. Just like the blinking stars say, happy 2007 everyone!

After the sunset

2006-12-31T17:31:00.000-05:00

It's hard to believe that yet another year has flown by quicker than I can translate "Feliz Año Nuevo" into French. And as the remnants of 2006 float out of memory and into the history books, I've decided to pack it up for my final curtain call...

Silly wabbits! I'm far too entrenched into this online addiction thing to give up blogging entirely, especially since my laptop's holding on for dear life with Scotch tape and paper clips. But... I *am* relocating Just Another Girl On The IRT to another web hosting service. Blogger jumped the shark into 3rd-season-of-Lost-like proportions and the beta transition merged into my prior template is about as compatible as a Palestinian/Jewish dating service. It's time to take this show on the road.

The new site isn't fully functional yet (who would've known that exporting old posts would be such a pain in the ass?), but it's almost ready to be unveiled. To those who know who you are, expect to get an e-mail from me with the details. And not forgetting the 5 people out there who constitute my regular reading audience, check back here within the next few days for the forwarding address before the imminent Mission: Impossible-lite self destruction. In the meantime, I extend a sincere wish to all my fellow writers, lurkers and passers-by: here's to a happy & healthy 2007. Catch ya'll on the flip side.

All things bright and beautiful

2006-12-14T17:33:00.001-05:00

I hardly ever do random picture posts, but I can't help but be suckered into taking the trusty Sony Cybershot out of storage to get click happy around this time of year. Take for example these gorgeous poinsettias from my office lobby. Hell, half the time I don't even stop to notice whether the poor squeegie cleaners are in my way as I barrel through Starbucks in one hand, handbag & two newspapers in the other. But sometimes it pays to stop and smell the holly & ivy.

Of course the Christmas tree in the middle of South Street Seaport is no Rockefeller Center, but considering the utter death wish Midtown is looking like, I'll take downtown Manhattan for $200, Alex. The roving photog will be adding more editions to this as the 12 days of Xmas tick down to the final days. Stay tuned...

The nighttime sniffling sneezing coughing aching fever entry

2006-12-12T13:44:00.000-05:00

Mother Nature's a fucking bitch. There's no other way to get around it. How else to explain when the weather's still so unseasonably mild in mid-December and my open toed Miu Miu slingbacks are mocking me from the closet door since I'm sitting on the bench when it comes to getting my devil wears Malandrino on around the office. When my temples feel like Matthew McConaughey's playing bongos with an extended encore all night and day, the last thing I wanna do is get all dolled up. So here I am, wallowing in self-pity, sinuses in full on rush hour gridlock and my hair's stuck resembling something that got caught in a drain.

I. Can. Not. Be. Sick. Now. I haven't even put together a rough draft of an Xmas list. Gotta risk spraining a ligament to get icicle lights perfectly symmetrical around my awning. I have places to go and about 4 more entries to type. This can't be happening. I cannot get sick, you hear me, body? WE cannot get sick.

But we are.

I used to know how to be sick gracefully. I would simply accept the inevitable, guzzle down enough Robitussin to tranquilize a wilderbeast and curl up with a good book or two.

Three days later, I'd be back to my footloose and fancy free self with Boy George cooing, "it's a miracle!"

Now it's a task easier said than done. I'm seriously lacking sleep, e-mails are piling up. Just thinking about the deadlines I've already missed jacks my temp up another degree and a half. I start swilling poppin' Benadryls like Lindsay Lohan after dark and giving myself pep talks.

Come on, stop being a baby and pull yourself together. Look on the bright side, sippin' on that DayQuil sizurp has made small talk at the water cooler like an outtake from Half Baked.

But so far the pep talk isn't working nearly as hard as the germs are. You'd think those stubborn mucus membranes were being paid overtime or expecting Christmas bonuses.

So my whining will be brief. This is what happens when the cold and flu season smacks you behind the legs with a baseball bat. YOU FALL THE FUCK DOWN. On some real Donnie McClurkin shit.

All chicken noodle soup donations (without the soda on the side) are accepted.

There's something about Mary

2006-12-08T18:34:00.000-05:00

If, as has been said, one can gauge the health of the industry by the quality of the Grammys, it's far past time to write the obituary of popular music as a means of mass communication.

In all seriousness, how are the Grammy Awards truly relevant in this day and age? Maybe in the pre-iTunes era, when everyone had the same outlet for music — making mixtapes courtesy of timing the pause button just right from the radio and showing up on record release Tuesdays. I'm not playing the I-hate-all-music-that's-popular über snob card, but isn't that who profits the most from payola nominations? It's a foregone conclusion that those nominated aren't really the best out there. It's just weird that in spite of the biz limping on into the sunset, the Grannies still managed to stick around in existence. And nothing is ever groundbreaking, edgy, or God forbid — has some f-bombs thrown in for good measure. I think they also send nominee ballots to Mormon clergy and Murder She Wrote fan club members.

This year's edition continues the tradition of much ado about nothing. I'm thrilled that Mary J. Blige is getting the mainstream respect that's been long overdue and I'm sure they'll be more additions to the mantle since it's official that she's having her best year ever with a field leading 8 nods. Let's just hope James Blunt wins Best New Artist and subsequently disappears. There's nothing the voters love more than a fresh faced ingenue who taps into easygoing soul, so score a huge win for Corinne Bailey Rae. The old geezers at NARAS are getting the Dance/Electronica categories almost right this year. I'm totally tickled pink to see Goldfrapp and Pet Shop Boys on the same ballot. Also pumping my fist on the love shown to Gnarls Barkley, Lupe Fiasco & Kelis. But for every step forward, I've learned to brace myself for the inevitable five steps backward and one sideways. Pharrell's shiteous In My Mind alongside The Roots' Game Theory for Best Rap Album? Surely you jest. Chris Brown instead of the totally deserving Ne-Yo as the Best New Artist of 2006? He's a cute kid and his MJ impersonation is admirable, but come the fuck on. Or better yet, how can voters justify the blatant omission of KT Tunstall? In a year rife with Johnny-come-latelys, the smoky voiced Scot was a welcome addition to the post-Lilith crew of female singer/songwriters. And isn't it time to redefine what a "new artist" is already? It can be titled the Shelby Lynne amendment. I heart Imogen Heap to death, however.... when you've released an album in '98 and were a member of a group that cut a disc in 2002, your record release hymen was broken long, long ago.

Largely overlooked this year were Nelly Furtado, whose inescapable hit "Promiscuous" was banished to the Pop Collaboration by a Duo or Group category, and Bob Dylan, whose Modern Times had been expected to be vie for Album of the Year, but has to settle for a nomination for Best Contemporary Folk/Americana Album.

Biggest upset has to be that Timbaland was snubbed for Producer Of The Year. I guess laminating ghetto passes for former mouseketeers doesn't always have its privileges.

A round up of the major contenders in the big 5 are listed after the jump.

Album of the Year:

Dixie Chicks, Taking The Long Way

Gnarls Barkley, St. Elsewhere

John Mayer, Continuum

Red Hot Chili Peppers, Stadium Arcadium

Justin Timberlake, FutureSex/LoveSounds

Record of the Year:

Mary J. Blige, Be Without You

James Blunt, You're Beautiful

Dixie Chicks, Not Ready To Make Nice

Gnarls Barkley, Crazy

Corinne Bailey Rae, Put Your Records On

Song of the Year:

Be Without You, (performed by Mary J. Blige), written by Blige, Johnta Austin, Bryan-Michael Cox and Jason Perry

Jesus, Take the Wheel, (performed by Carrie Underwood), written by Brett James, Hillary Lindsey and Gordie Sampson

Not Ready To Make Nice, (performed by the Dixie Chicks), written by Martie Maguire, Natalie Maines, Emily Robison and Dan Wilson

Put Your Records On, (performed by Corinne Bailey Rae), written by John Beck, Steve Chrisanthou and Bailey Rae

You're Beautiful, (performed by James Blunt), written by Blunt, Amanda Ghost and Sacha Skarbe

Best New Artist:

James Blunt

Chris Brown

Imogen Heap

Corinne Bailey Rae

Carrie Underwood

Reunited and it feels so good

2006-12-08T17:37:00.000-05:00

Who says you can't go home again? It took 3 years to do, but the Yankee brass has finally righted a wrong that shouldn't have ever happened to begin with. That intense glare from the mound. The John Travolta chin cleft. That cutter which baffled batters in the postseason. Ah, what a trip down memory lane. Welcome back, Andy. Oh yeah, and try convincing the Rocket to make his way back to the Bronx as well.

Cluck if you buck

2006-12-07T00:20:00.000-05:00

"Sisters get respect, bitches get what they deserve
Sisters work hard, bitches work your nerves
Sisters hold you down, bitches hold you up
Sisters help you progress, bitches will slow you up
Sisters cook up a meal, play their role with the kids
Bitches in the street with their nose in your biz
Sisters tell the truth, bitches tell lies
Sisters drive cars, bitches wanna ride...

Sisters tell you quick "you better check your homie"
Bitches don't give a fuck, they wanna check for your homie
Sisters love Jay cuz they know how 'Hov is
I love my sisters, I don't love no bitch..." - Jay-Z

When I decided to air out my utter disgust over the whole Superhead quagmire, I didn't think I'd still be getting residual clicks from people searching for any trace of dirt this long after the fact. But then again, this is the Internet and searches for the desperate and salacious know no bounds. Besides a couple boosts to the ol' Site Meter isn't a bad trade off. Fast forward almost two years later and history's repeating itself in such an opportunistic way, that time honored cliche "birds of a feather flock together" seems all shiny and brand new again. Following in the skid marks of her sistren in slutdom, Karrine Steffans, now angling for her 15 seconds of gossip glory is Carmen Bryan. Better known as Nas' baby momma and infamously name checked in Jay-Z's Super Ugly freestyle rebuttal during his steel cage tussle for King of New York supremacy with God's Son over the airwaves back in the summer of 2001. Why she decided to divulge so many details of her personal life as a means of "survival" considering her daughter is old enough to flip over to chapter 5 and read about how Mama got her back blown out with A.I. is beyond me. The aftertaste of watching the next chick get wifed up and being left to hawk the hygiene secrets of your conquests on the radio chitlin circuit has to hurt.

It's gotten to the point that any random bird from Camden to Compton feels like she can just slurp and burp her way to stardom. Is this why our mothers went along with burning bras for the cause so the end result would come to this? The Art of Whoredom has flipped many a fragile girl into an industry groupie, turned some artist's baby momma bitter like curdled milk. They don't get platinum plaques for all the times they've put scuba instructors to shame with nonstop suction, all the quickies in the studio that helped MC Such & Such write their smash hit. Dare I say it: they are the backs on which the very foundation of rap is supported. Without them who knows how these men could deal with the stresses of the industry.

Bitch please.

These side dishes of poultry who sell the skeletons in their closet in exchange for gas money shouldn't be acknowledged, much less validated. When did public interest stoop so low to the point where these women can become some sort of twisted folk hero? Why are we condoning this broad spreading her chlamydia-crusted coochie like peanut butter for any and everyone? Is she deemed special because the men in question happen to be rappers and a basketball star? That warrants a gold star and a pat on the back for a job well done? I suppose freeloading off the profits of others is such an extraordinary task that she's dubbed herself (without a hint of irony) "Hip-Hop's Helen of Troy." Someone hand this self-righteous skeeze a torch in salute to her worn & tired masses.

Jeers and loathing in Las Vegas

2006-12-06T18:13:00.000-05:00

Far be it from me to give these two tramps credit for anything, but Paris Hilton and Britney Spears certainly had the right idea by bailing on Monday night's 2006 Billboard Music Awards. if you missed it, consider yourself spared by the clusterfuck of mediocrity. So the show already on a wing and prayer when it came to public interest went hostless last night, save for occasional voiceover from the the Mr. Moviefone school of TV announcers. On the plus side, that meant that the Bill-bored Music Awards could just concentrate on the music. On the negative side, that also meant that the Bill-bored Music Awards could just concentrate on the music. It's bad enough that they're dished out to the retail darlings who dominated the charts all year, so even a deaf-mute could predict the results long before the "nominees" are even made public. But yet, lack of comparable alternatives on the tube usually reels me in for the annual snoozefest despite the danger signs flashing before my eyes. Aside from Mary J. Blige walking away with everything but the kitchen sink, this year's edition was no exception.

Opening the show was the FCC's favorite target, Janet Jackson oddly juxtaposing a classic in The Pleasure Principle with her cold and buried 2nd single, So Excited. What would possess her to take an anthem that had arguably the most memorable video routine of the 80's and amputate it as an opener for a song that's been performed ad nauseam on Oprah, the Today Show & Ellen already? And to make matters worse, using the godawful remix with Fatman Scoop's constipation wails drowning out the minimal trace of vocals (and I use the term loosely in this case) rendering the entire segment inaudible. Thankfully, her footwork proved that she still hasn't lost her touch, but for the love of all that's holy.... please hand Gil his walking papers as a choreographer already! The luster to the formerly showstopping steps have now dulled to a rusty halt. His fondness for that rigid poplocking only serve to make you appear like the next spokesperson for Icy Hot and far removed from the sultry stage presence we know and love you for. Reach out and dial Fatima Robinson's number. It's not too late.

Fergalicious? More like utterly Ferg-ettable. Wearing a blue-green plaid petticoat/tutu fiasco, the poster child for iceheads ambled and staggered awkwardly through what's sure to be the newest addition to YouTube's greatest hits. Was she: A) battling a pesky urinary tract infection?, B) wearing the wrong heels or C) hallucinating at the hired help in blackface doing the Stepin Fetchit? My guess is D. She knew that Gwen Stefani was watching her swagger jacking from stage left and the poor muppet got scared back into a drunken stupor her sidekick (schlepping as the Black Dr. Seuss) couldn't snap her out of. It's one thing to lose the coordination with heavy dance moves, but to be afflicted with rigor mortis with the personality of a cactus? She can shake her ass and her boobs in the camera for music videos, but when it comes to stage presence, girl ain't got none. The director couldn't even minimize the damage with a bunch of zooming camera shots. About two-thirds into her song, she seemed to forget the words. But then again, it can't be easy to dance and jump around a lot when you're desperately trying to hold your bladder. I sure hope this chick's 15 minutes are up.

The only thing she has going for her is the ability to hammer nails with her forehead. That's more of a circus talent so how the hell did Mumm-Ra wind up in the winner's circle as Female Artist of the Year? Maybe her #1 fan in Jigga Christ had a little something to do with that outcome. Ah well, jumpoffs of the world rejoice. Score this one for the side chick. Somewhere I think wifey's keying the bumper of the Maybach out of frustration.

When the entire free world's analyzed your left mammary in high definition, a bit of restraint is a good idea for walking the red carpet. However, raiding the boys' department at Bloomingdales? Not so much. The bat mitzvah-sized neckwear. The dinner napkin cufflinks with matching tranquilizer dart. The dated matte lip liner. And for Chrissakes, missing the memo about a month late in hopping onto the Anna Wintour bob bandwagon? S.O.S., please someone help!

So, how long did G-Stef have to jerk off that yummy hubby for just the right amount of protein to give the Judy Jetson 'do its Aqua Net hold? All of a sudden I've got the munchies for a Little Debbie swiss roll.

There's a rationale behind Denise Richards deciding to throw some goodwill towards birds flying south for the winter in that hornet's nest. And Heather be thy name.

One yodled over the cuckoo's nest

2006-12-05T10:02:00.000-05:00

Is there another pop superstar who blurs the lines between mega-watt likability and platinum blond vacuousness with as much joie de vivre as Gwen Stefani? Try as I might in vain to hate her, but the truth is, I love her and all the blissful band camp dorkiness that she encompasses. Well, at the least, I can settle on our relationship skewing love/hate because she makes being utterly annoying the car wreck I can't help but rubberneck for a peek.

Case in point: Lead single "Wind It Up", championed by frat girls coast to coast who've had one too many shots of Jagrmeister and should be in a taxi on their way to bed but instead choose to channel their inner Coyote Ugly for passed out bar patrons instead. As radio singles go, it's an absurd-sounding concoction that lederhosens to the brink of utter ridiculousness, but there's something almost admirable about this "throw the wackiest shit on the wall and let's see if it sticks" approach. I mean, let's be real...this is limburger cheese, not War & Peace. It takes a certain sort of quirky finesse to mine show tunes for inspiration, first with Fiddler On The Roof and now in full Swiss Miss glory with The Sound of Music. What's next? West Side Story? Unlike most singers, Stefani aims to please with style over sex appeal and oddity reigns supreme. Early Winter is probably the closest to her past rumblings with No Doubt, scaling above indie-rock, college radio circa '88 to epic power ballad heights with an assist from co-writer, Keane's Tim Rice-Oxley. But you'd better off advised to fast forward through filler like Orange County Girl, in which the SoCal sweetheart gets all Jenny From The Block to prove "a lot of things have changed but I'm mostly the same." Uh huh.

Listening too closely will only force you to confront lyrics that were obviously jotted down in her DayTimer instead of her diary en route to the Beat Factory and never looked at again ("Don't know what I'm doing back in the studio/Getting greedy cause he said he had another sick flow/So I had to hollaback cause I didn't get enough/Still feel the Wonderland, Alice and the tick tock"). But if you just slip on your tortoiseshell J.Lo sunglasses, pour yourself a Smirnoff Twisted and get lost in the beats, The Sweet Escape delivers on its name and continues in Stefani's proud tradition of being caught in the middle between the vanguard and the superficial. Few mainstream artists can hope to produce an album as effortlessly eccentric as this, so here's to hoping that the next screwball chapter is just around the bend.

Rating:

Download this: Early Winter, Now That You Got It, Yummy, 4 In The Morning, Fluorescent, U Started It, Don't Get It Twisted

A fever I can't sweat out

2006-12-04T15:35:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I'm probably gonna get my platinum hag pass revoked for admitting that I just can't fully grasp the whole Beyoncé thing. Pretty in the conventional Black Barbie sense, check. Above average chops, check. Overrated, check. I already hear the angry stampede of bitter twinks in the offing ready to stab me with a Bandolino heel for daring to disparage of Our Lady of Knowles. Nowadays you can't swing a Fendi purse without knocking over four bottoms who'll scratch your eyes out for throwing shade to the diva-in-training who single handedly made the Bedazzler relevant again. But I'll take my chances.

She's the kind of artist that I want to like, but I just can't bring myself to actually drinking the laced Kool-Aid and succumbing to the madness. I mean, the whole all-girl backing band yet only strumming about 3 chords max was a good idea, I suppose (in theory only) and a step in the right direction. My beef with Bey — as cohorts who've heard me riff on the topic know — is that she doesn't usually sing complete songs, either on her own, or with Destiny's Child. If the hallmark of a truly great singer is their ability to shape a piece of material and make a song work from beginning to end, then the road from mere talent show trills and onto soul with sincerity is yet untraveled.

Maybe if she wasn't such an android of stage parenting, I'd be a wee bit more accepting of Sashabot-TX3500. But hey, I'll admit that the dip 'n pop strut of that damn Chi-Lites sample had me looking so crazy right then in the summer of '03. But then came the inevitable oversaturation. You couldn't open an awards show envelope without her lion's mane front and center to stop, drop & roll around center stage for comic effect. On top of that, the inexplicable 5 Grammys for an album weaker than 2-ply soaked in battery acid. The excruciating massacre of the English & French languages at the 05' Oscars in count 'em... three different performances. The reconvening and subsequent disbanding of DC3 on a farewell tour that lasted longer than The Pink Panther's box office run. The transformation from kitschy mallrat playing dress up in Mama's glad rags to Roc-A-Fella's gangsta's moll, surgically attached to the hip with her svengali, Jay-Z from South Beach to St. Tropez. I. just. couldn't. take. the. shit. anymore.

And apparently, neither could everyone else. The first single aptly titled Deja Vu was little else than pop's prom queen & king rehashing to lesser effect what made their earlier collab so successful. Looking like a crazed maniac possessed by a Yoruba spirit in Revlon's Fire & Ice lipstick on the estate of Tara, the video was a giddy slice of unintentional slapstick. The decibel shredding follow-up in Ring The Alarm which was chock full of Basic Instinct parodies did little else to restore the luster to Daddy Warbucks' longterm investment. However, with the release of Irreplaceable, Bee comes full circle back to the neck rolling badass she longs to be. And a welcome return it is. The instrumentation stripped to a mere acoustic guitar, percolating 808 and a simple verse/melody arrangement manages to encourage the most restrained vocal performance delivered from a chronic caterwauler in like.... ever. Leave it to those crafty Norwegians better known as Stargate and R&B's rookie of the year in Ne-Yo for crafting a chorus so catchy it'll take a lobotomy to stop you from singing it. Wrapped in pretty packaging, you'll find a trifecta of her most go-to songwriting trappings: Woman Done Wrong (Bills Bills Bills), Woman Thou Art Loosed (Independent Woman Part 1), Woman With Closet Full Of Shit (every damn song with her singing lead).

The number-one song on the R&B, pop, and iTunes charts, not because of its hell-hath-no-fury sentiment, but because it's more infectious than a flu shot gone bad. You'd be hard pressed to find a man, woman or drag queen who ain't uttering "to the left, to the left."

Hooks? I lost count at approximately seven — mainly the maddeningly catchy "keep talking that mess, that's fine/but could you walk and talk at the same time," which doesn't fully explain the record's worldwide popularity. Taken at face value, you'd think that everyone on the planet's going all Waiting To Exhale on their lovers, regaining their backbone and calling up the locksmith to make sure the creep stays out for good. Me, I think it represents the best of what finely crafted pop gems have to offer because it connects us in a way that hardly anything else on the dial bothers to anymore.

So after all the catty punchlines and putdowns, I'll grant her a temporary reprieve simply because my defenses are worn ragged and resistance is futile. I'm diggin' this a lot. But not nearly enough to cop that two week stream of unconsciousness touted as her sophomore album though. No sir.

Hell, I gotta draw a line somewhere.

Because closed legs don't get fed

2006-12-03T21:54:00.000-05:00

Charlotte: Is it so much to ask that you not wear your dress up around your "see you next Tuesday?"
Samantha: My what?
Charlotte: (drawing characters in the air): C - U - Next...
Carrie: Tuesday? Oh my God! Was that a Schoolhouse Rock I missed?

A day without a Britney Spears fuck up is like trying to keep a Kennedy from open water. Despite being a singer who hasn't released a new album in 3 years, people still talk about her now more than ever. In the media-dominated, starfucking shithole our society's come to, that old adage rings more true now than it ever has been... no publicity is bad publicity. Just when you thought the Access Hollywood generation couldn't possibly sink twenty-somethings any lower, we've now reached a new low. Twat is the new black. Oh, how I long for the innocent age of the planned nip slip at sporting events.

As it turns out, all those Catholic schoolgirl come-ons couldn't get her any further than a K-Mart weave, an ugly C-section scar, and a swollen, stretched out clam flapping in the breeze. What a way to roll the dice: panty-free and sharing car seats with Paris Hilton. Why not just ask a homeless guy to shove his feet up your birth canal? At this point, there's not much left for Clitney to do but stagger over to San Fernando Valley and start baring that beat up beaver for the hot lights of pornucopia full time. In the meantime, the pox-riddled pussy posse of Brit-Brit, Parisite & Blohan might as well get together do some Bangkok-brothel ping-pong act for the masses at this point. Except they probably no longer have the elasticity to make it work. Nicole Richie is feeling so left out right now.

Can the legions of waifish preteen boys with delicate features watching VMA performances past in their Midwestern farmhouse on YouTube, lips pursed and glossy mouthing along to every word to I'm A Slave 4 U catch a break? Her fan base had high hopes for snapping out of her white trash haze and crawling out of the dumpster with rugrats in tow. If they only knew the downward spiral was yet to come.

Had the wind blown one degree in the other direction, Britney would still be in Bumblefuck, Louisiana, freshly divorced from Billy Joe after cranking out a village of inbred brats and flashing her vag in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly while getting out of her 1985 Ford Escort. Oh, how I can't contain my glee in anticipation of her next tear-soaked interview with Matt Lauer, when she smacks on Bubble Yum and her mascara's streaked to Tammy Faye-like perfection, all while wearing just a tube top with her legs prepped for an inebriated pap smear pleading for the paparazzi to leave her alone. She's a mess and will continue to be a mess. I'm just holding the confetti and balloons for when she cracks completely. You can take a girl out of the trailer park, but you can't take the barefoot yokel outta the girl.

Oh the weather outside is frightful...

2006-12-01T13:17:00.001-05:00

However, lunch takeout is so delightful... (I'm going Mexican to wind down the work week, if you even care.) In spite of the skyline resembling a snapshot of Hades outside my office window, the pressure systems have to be working voodoo over the Eastern seaboard. My brother's practically buried alive over in Colorado with the pummeling the Midwest has taken, yet the thermostat is flirting with 70° here in the city. Can't remember the last time I've needed to keep my desk fan on through November.

For the Angelenos on the Left Coast, seeing folks stroll around in 3" miniskirts and Ugg boots and little else is relatively normal this time of year. But not on December first in New York! Here we are, ready to barrel into the heart of my favorite season full throttle and I've gotta contend with a tasteful way to peel off layers short of sitting in my cube half naked. Needless to say, I'm not pleased. Will the assholes who think global warming is junk science and basically spit on the impending clusterfuck of Antartica slip sliding into Dorney Park please go kill themselves?

Al Gore, please keep those frequent flyer miles handy to continue spreading the word. They ain't trying to hear you.

Her blues spoke volumes to mine

2006-11-28T20:53:00.000-05:00

With food for thought from an African-American perspective degenerating into the sloppy, malnutritioned mess that's taken hold of the masses, it makes losing the literary voices that really matter all the more bittersweet. One of the brightest lights that ushered in the new reading renaissance of the 1990's has dimmed with the passing of Bebe Moore Campbell. If you happen to be a writing junkie like myself, it's hard to not have an appreciation for what Ms. Campbell contributed. Her honesty was unflinching as the words flowed from the soul and onto the page in such contemporary triumphs like Brothers and Sisters, Your Blues Ain't Like Mine and Sweet Summer, Growing Up With and Without My Dad. Her gifts held an uncanny ability to make you laugh and alternately eek out tears often within the same chapter. She was also unafraid to delve into subjects often swept under the carpet such as the effects of mental illness in 2005's 72 Hour Hold. However, the beauty of writing lies in the fact her legacy remains with quality pieces for others to discover in years to come. May she rest in peace and her spirit live on.

Chaos theory: verbal diarrhea edition

2006-11-26T17:21:00.000-05:00

"If it wasn't for race mixing, there'd be no video girls. Me and most of my friends like mutts a lot. Yeah, in the hood they call 'em mutts." — Kanye West setting us back another 20 years with his color complex to Essence

"I feel really badly for the guy. He was obviously in a state of stress. You don't need to be inebriated to be bent out of shape. But my heart went out to the guy." — Mel Gibson sympathizing with fellow racist Michael "Ku Klux Kramer" Richards

"I may not have the type of voice you like, but I can sing. You can't take that away from me, cause singing is a gift from God, and when people say I can't sing, it's kind of like insulting God." — Fergie's celestial take on when fugly goes holy to Vibe

"In junior high I was fascinated by gangsta rap. I'm hearing all the stories about what was going on in East L.A. and South Central, looking at it from the outside. That's why a lot of people can relate with me, because they lived that, too. Seeing it but not really living it. So there weren't any of the negative consequences to the guns and all of that. It was just interesting and sexy." — Fergie basking in the afterglow of her wiggerdom to Rolling Stone

"When something is so, so sick, it's risiculous. It's sick and ridiculous. Risiculous. See, I have my own dictionary." — Fergie, flexing her vast intellectual vernacular to Rolling Stone

"He's the most gorgeous, powerful, attractive man in the world. So you kind of have to capitulate." — Gwyneth Paltrow still under the influence of heavy sedation on how Jay-Z convinced her to join him onstage for a sing-along during his London concert, to GQ

The ego has landed

2006-11-23T18:43:00.000-05:00

I think it was that quintessential poet Kenny Rogers who offered us this nugget of wisdom: "you gotta know what to hold 'em...know when to fold 'em." Apparently, no one bothered to forward the memo to Shawn Carter. With no apologies to Juelz Santana, Jigga Man's M.O. was clearly billed as the real return to "what the game's been missing." The whispers of irrelevance towards hip-hop's birthplace stayed wafting in the air thicker than a cloud of hydro from a corner cipher. Round-the-way pretenders in Busta Rhymes, Fat Joe & Lloyd Banks have all tried and failed, dropping one commercial brick after another in rapid succession. With the city that never sleeps getting hit with the snooze button outside the tri-state area, New York rap music turns its eyes again this week to its Summer Jam savior to be a little less Bruce Wayne and more Caped Crusader for the sake of Gotham City's reputation. But when you hype your new album as the most anticipated career comeback since Lazarus was resurrected, you better back up your braggadocio with big beats and even bigger hooks. But the Danny Ocean of hip-hop is far more adept at goodbyes than hellos.

The self-proclaimed "Michael Jordan of recording" still malcontent with sitting on the sidelines fueled endless speculation on whether we'd see him wearing #23 or the #45. Fuck both analogies because the answer is neither. This is a free fall to the depths of Jordan's Birmingham Barons Triple-A tryouts. Rusty as hell, diminished skills, out of shape to compete and with a misplaced flow that now mimics Ben Stein. He could've chugged a few cans of Ensure, set aside his AARP newsletter and focused on hitting mics like Larry King, but instead he dropped the biggest turkey on the eve of Thanksgiving. With a wide open opportunity to put the Big Apple on his shoulders with an epic album, he dumbed down for the dickriders who'll throw up that idiotic pyramid without rationalization. Kinda like that lame kid you used to play with that would swear up and down they could fly. And after asking 'em to show and prove, the cornball's response is "I can, but I just don't want to right now..." Forget getting your grown man on, this is grandfather rap. Old man's taking it slow in the booth so he doesn't break a hip.

The burning question is now he's settled into the cushy life of a middle aged mogul with a trophy ditz on his arm, can Hov rap about anything else? The Brooklyn street hustler angle is shopworn as are the incessant odes to the lifestyles of the nouveau riche and shameless. How many more times can he keep a straight face, rapping about trips to St. Tropez and his Stepford wife-to-be's "Birkin bags"? How about waxing poetic on his trip to Africa? This guy was probably recording poop platters like Anything or the cutting room B'Day reject, Hollywood in the middle of Angola. Nothing he saw there inspired him to write? Really? Apparently not. And if he did write about Africa, he'd just write about how many concert tix he sold and about how he fly he is for loungin' with Kofi Annan. He's too obsessed with himself to step outside his comfort zone to elevate his song craft above much else. When he's not going back to basics about his usual party & bullshit and tries to get "abstract," it just sounds like he's quoting fortune cookies. I suppose the fact that most verses aren't just 14 songs devoted to "moving weight in the 80's" is worthy of some commendation, but rap's elder statesman is clearly out of his element now. He's in Nas territory. Common territory. Lupe territory. Talib territory. And all of these lyricists do random but poignant observations on life far better than this, and for the most part, with better beats. It's never a good look when Coldplay's Chris Martin turns out the best track on your record, but that's exactly the case with Midlife Crisis... er, I mean, Kingdom Came And Went. After wondering aloud What More Can I Say?, Jay proves once and for all, yes, he really has nothing more to say except to state the fact that he's back ("What you want me to do? I'm sorry! I'm back.") So much for clever wordplay. I've got 99 problems and scrapping this disappointment for cab fare ain't one.

I can't believe Nas's joint got pushed back yet again for this fuckery. Cut the bullshit and retire already. And I mean fading to black for real this time, please.

Rating:

Download this: Beach Chair, Kingdom Come, Do U Wanna Ride

Hanging chads aren't just for Floridians

2006-11-22T17:39:00.000-05:00

There's no other way to state the obvious in the final tally for American League Most Valuable Player than to just say it. In a stunning upset, Derek Jeter was fucking robbed. ROBBED, I tell you. And somewhere in Miami, A-Rod is laughing his ass off.

It's clearly apparent that more than half of the baseball writers weren't paying attention to the 2006 Major League Baseball season. Maybe they signed a deal with the devil to just collectively drop the ball. Or maybe it's that pesky East Coast bias rearing its ugly head again. Who knows? Who cares? One thing is for sure, they fucked this up big time.

Exactly what does he have to do to get a little recognition of the individual kind? Guarantee handjobs from Jessica Biel to the clueless dipshits at the BBWAA who found a way to make the choice for this year's award even more of a travesty? I could live with him losing the honor to Minnesota's Joe Mauer, who aside from edging out D.J. for the batting title on the last day of the regular season, had one helluva year both at and behind the plate. For a nod to the archenemy that is Dead Sox Nation, it wouldn't have been a too bitter a pill to swallow had it been bestowed to David Ortiz. But Justin Morneau? Are you fucking for real? A Gold Glove/Silver Slugging shortstop that led a team who was racked by injuries to our heaviest hitters in Hideki Matsui & Gary Sheffield losing to a first baseman not even remotely considered top 3 most valuable on his own team (I'd put Mauer, Johan Santana & Torii Hunter all ahead in terms of importance...) and can call the AL batting champion and Cy Young winner teammates?! Sports writers, put down the spliffs and get real. Even more incredulous is the asshat beat writer of the Chicago White Sox, Joe Cowley who ranked Jeter not 2nd. Or even 3rd on his ballot. But 6th. Sixth?!?! Stop the fucking insanity. Aside from raising the ire of avowed Yankee haters like WFAN's Chris Russo, I can take cold comfort in knowing that the uproar this colossal lapse in judgment doesn't have Jeter fazed a bit. This quote from a Newsday editorial crystallizes the worth of a ballplayer whose impact can't be measured solely in HR's and RBI's.

"If it's any consolation to Derek Jeter, in 1980 "Ordinary People" won the Oscar for Best Picture over "Raging Bull." A quarter-century later, people laugh about that one and someday, they'll laugh about this one, too, the year Ordinary Player, otherwise known as Justin Morneau, was named the American League's MVP for 2006." - Wallace Matthews

Love at first bite

2006-11-21T01:40:00.000-05:00

Reality-TV shows these days are as plentiful as frizzy hair on a rainy day, and about as meaningful. I'm probably one of the lone souls out here who has never sat through an entire episode of American Idol, Dancing with the Stars or America's Next Top Model. Stop looking at me with the crooked eye, I'm not a weirdo. I just have a shorter attention span for network television as opposed to cable where I know if I miss an installment, it's usually not a problem because a repeat's right around the corner. Whereas with the old standbys, if you forget the airing's on, you're pretty much shit outta luck for continuity. However, I am an unabashed culinary junkie and Bravo's offered up just the right series to keep me company the past few weekends with balls to the wall entertainment on a race to reign supreme in the kitchen. Far lower on the Liberace scale than its predecessor Project Runway, Top Chef is still as entertaining as its fabulously flamboyant, stylishly sequined counterpart. On this show, the contestants battle each other for immunity in 15-30 min. battles aptly dubbed "Quick Fires" and an elimination challenge where the one contender has to pack their knives and hit the road.

Unlike last year, the scenery shifts from San Francisco to Hollyweird and is mercifully revamped with a new host in former supermodel, Padma Lakshmi. Last year's hostess Katie Lee Joel (b.k.a. Billy's fembot child bride) had all the personality of a doorknob. Thankfully not everything needed to be tweaked and the fabulous Tom Colicchio (he gives White men with baldies a good name) and Food & Wine's Gail Simmons reprise their roles as head judges. I got reeled into the furious pace of simmers and sautés with the memorable cast of season one (loved Lee Anne, Harold, Dave, Lisa & Miguel....loathed Ken & Tiffani) and it's back and as scandalous as ever the second time around. The majority of pros this time around don't seem to be nearly as focused as the inaugural crew, but in the eye candy department, ladies (and gents), we have liftoff!

Behold the tall, chocolaty drink of water that is the brother to the right. Cute, ain't he? Meet Cliff Crooks, executive chef at one of the city's best spots for serious Italian and fan favorites to land in the winner's circle. I mean, he wouldn't have to utter a single word and I'd be already in mid-swoon. But factor in that he's sidestepped (so far) the A.B.M. stereotype with ease (that's Angry Black Male for the acronymically challenged) by being the three H's: humble, hardworking and helpful. His even-tempered approach to some of the wackiest tasks at hand while still remaining in touch with flavors and having the skills to finesse both sushi and comfort food classics (how's that for diverse?) is damn impressive. And all acquired without formal training... oh yeah, and did I mention that he's fucking hot? Check out the interview stream below with Jersey's Restaurant Guys Radio to get to know the brawn behind the chef's coat.

powered by ODEO

And while I'm foaming at the mouth in full-on foodie frenzy, can I just weep tears of joy for the long awaited Stateside return of the domestic goddess herself, Nigella Lawson. Finally, finally, FINALLY! After a few years being banished to ungodly hours (and eventual fade-out) on the Style network, the sultry Brit cheftress is finally back where she belongs. Cut from the Catherine Zeta-Jones cloth of bombshell but without the apron strings, Lawson has more sex appeal in her lower lip than all the women on the Food Network combined, and with Nigella Feasts (airs Sunday afternoons @ 1 p.m. EST), it's a welcome retread back to the format of her earlier show, Nigella Bites. And what's not to love? Her food makes you want to lick the TV and she tosses off refreshingly English phrases like "bung it in" that give her show a welcome Eurochic sensibility which stands out in a cookie-cutter lineup of wholesome smiles and caffeinated perkiness. (Here's looking at you, Rachael.)

Because she cooks real food, is more concerned that she makes dishes that comfort herself and her guests rather than the phoniness of how pretty the meal is distributed on the plate. And best yet, she's unapologetic in allowing the cameras to keep rolling while clad in satin pajamas to raid the fridge for a late night munch. Now that's my kind of broad. In the age of diet-drink swilling skeletons who look at each bite of food as if it were arsenic laden, she is a testament to real women with curves and a healthy appetite. For that alone that makes her utterly irresistible, but then, I'm just the sort of lazy cook who goes in for maximum pleasure and minimum effort.

And while Giada and Ina are still my go-to girls in the name of everyday gourmet, Nigella remains the undisputed queen of how to look fabulous without breaking a sweat. Bow down and worship at the Manolos, ladies.

Beggars can't be choosers

2006-11-20T12:24:00.000-05:00

It never occurred to me that I was walking around all this time with quite a discerning distinction. Oblivious to the obvious, how was I to know that I'd have the letters ATM branded on my forehead? You know, I remember the days when the less fortunate would be humbled by their plight and be grateful for any random act of kindness...but now a few bad apples are starting to spoil the whole bunch. Some of them have gotten a bit too damn demanding. Brazen as hell even. Apparently spare charge no longer will suffice. Oh, no no no no. Emboldened by Burger King's marketing mantra, they want it their way.

Running late for work as always, I had to make my pit stop for a quick latte and bagel before slinking into the office on the incognegro tip. In the midst of rummaging through my larger-than-life tote for my wallet, I was accosted at the corner by a girl who appeared no older than 18 for money.

"Excuse me miss, could you spare a few dollars so I can get something to eat? Five or so would really help me out."

It took me a second to really process the sheer audacity of this broad to snap back into my usual brusque, impatient demeanor. Five bills or so, huh? Forget taking what you can get, you throw the figure out and I'll just fish for some greenbacks like an ass. Bitch please.

I offered her a $1 to help towards putting something warm in her hands, but she refused on some haughty, nose wrinkling "as if" type shit.

I just walked away dumbfounded. You're hungry but picky? If you're that hungry wouldn't you eat just about anything? Was she expecting an invitation at the Mandarin Oriental? What am I missing here? Since when do panhandlers get carte blanche for champagne wishes and caviar dreams?

This hearkens back to my initial inclination where I treat the majority with the sob story sales pitches as being full of shit. Only in New York, kids.... only in New York.

Desperation: party of one

2006-11-18T23:11:00.000-05:00

It's always heartwarming to know as much as right-wing blowhards feign outrage at ceding the moral high ground to tree hugging, fornicating freaks, ads such as the one above sponsored by the New York Republican State Committee serve to show what mudslinging slugs they really are. Do the complexions of the damsel in distress and the big, bad offender strike as merely accidental? You didn't think race baiting at its finest was indigenous to Tennessee only, did you? But, it's kinda cute how "our values" is underlined. I'm assuming they mean anti-Christian-corrupt-warrantless wiretapping-constitution destroying-freedom hating, anti-science, no oversight, soldier abandoning, pro-torture, because "family" values certainly aren't what the GOP is acting on.

But here's a hilarious way to bid the merry band of slimeballs, adieu....courtesy of the brilliance that is YouTube.

The Surreal Life: Post election hangover

2006-11-16T12:20:00.000-05:00

"I was dreamin' when I wrote this, forgive me if it goes astray...
But when I woke up this mornin', could have sworn it was judgment day..." — Prince, 1999.

America just had its septic system pumped after six years of fascist diarrhea. After abject depression and serious contemplation of escaping into the still sane arms of our neighbors to the North, the smear-drenched depression that has polarized us from one catastrophe to another all converged into the big blue tide that swept many remnants of Newt Gingrich's 1994 conservative coup out to sea. Not even after the votes were officially tallied in Virginia had Donald Rumsfeld been yanked out from the comfort zone of the Pentagon like a $2 ho. Already a week has passed and the aftershocks still seem as if it was all a dream. It's like going to bed with Al Roker and waking up next to Denzel Washington overnight.

While the change was blowing in the wind for weeks leading up to the day at the polls, this is the Democratic party we're talking about. The political equivalent of the Three Stooges who make snatching defeat from the jaws of victory seem effortless. However, the left wisely got out of the way and let the GOP implode all by their lonesome. Stupidity, corruption and incompetence all made for the perfect storm just before this election to destroy the Bush mafia's carefully laid plans. Were it not for that, the Dems would still be sitting peacefully on the back benches wondering whether to say anything critical of the war in Iraq. And in spite of it all, they've again been given the chance to prove themselves to mainstream voters as a viable alternative in the run-up to the 2008 election. While breathless praise has been given to Rep. Rahm Emanuel and hometown boy Sen. Charles Schumer, the one conspicuously omitted is the blessedly forward thinking, Howard Dean.

Yep, a huge debt is owed to the good ol' Hulkamaniac screamer. Do you think the Dems would have Congress today with that bumbling, cowardly piece of shit, Terry McAuliffe at the helm? Or raised a whopping $50 million in an off-campaign year? Dean is tough, fearless, and pities the fools who won't put in the time to rebuild the infrastructure from the ground up. Just the kind of jolt the DNC desperately needed. Dean and Schumer made the Dems work, and work hard, for the first time in fifteen years - something they'd forgotten how to do once that smooth operator Bill Clinton fell into their laps, so they treated elections as the excuse for more corporate sponsorship and cocktail parties.

"First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win." — Mahatma Gandhi

It takes a special brand of arrogant douche bag to be blinded to the inevitable defeat Neo-Cons were handed. And that bloated turd of a man we owe gratitude and thanks to the most turns out to be the puppet master himself, Karl Rove. What's that old saying Bush mangled so succinctly? "Fool me once ... won't get fooled again." On his watch, he presided over a regime that made dissent equivalent to treason. Once pompous in victory, he's now humbled in defeat. How sweet it is.

It's entertaining watching the castrated bullies cannibalize themselves in the wake of this "thumpin'." The prospect of the Bolton appointment being rejected has foaming at the mouth, positively beside themselves.

"Whaddya mean King George isn't gonna have free reign? Where's the rubber stamp for Christ's sake? What the hell is this? Al-Qaeda is rejoicing. Good Lord, we're all sitting ducks. Raise the Crayola terror alert!"

After twelve years of listening to heartbreaking election nights full of asshole Rethuglican goons pledging bipartisanship while twisting the knife in our backs, I just want to send a heartfelt "fuck you" shout out to all my right-wing acquaintances. Nancy Pelosi, the supposed she-wolf from Sodom, is about to make U.S. history as the madam of the House. The country hates you, I hate you, and even Jesus hates you. Fuck you all for bringing us a child emperor who's long on political pedigree, short on any semblance of intellect. Fuck you for starting an illegal, immoral war, creating generations of terrorists who have even more reasons to "hate us for our freedom," alienating our foreign allies, wiping your ass with the Bill of Rights and jizzing over the entire concept of habeas corpus. Fuck you for marginalizing everyone from gays to the middle class and most of all, the poor in your bloodthirsty quest to retain a stranglehold on absolute power. And ultimately fuck you for championing the cause of self-righteous, hypocritical sheep.

But let it never be said that Americans have lost the ability to self-correct. It only took six years, but finally blinders are being taken off and the masses are coming around to what a precious few knew from the very beginning.

Maybe we're actually going to be able to get this country realigned on a course worth traveling. Maybe social security won't be printed on Monopoly money in my lifetime.

Let freedom finally reign.

Back to life, back to reality

2006-11-15T19:06:00.000-05:00

So, I'm alive. Moody, misbehaving and feeling eerily menopausal about two decades early but singing like a motherfucking rooster at sunrise.

Well, not singing really. And definitely not at sunrise.

*crickets chirping*

All right, see what had happened was... it never occurred to me just how much I'd suffer through web withdrawal until my access on both PC's ground to a halt just prior to Memorial Day rolling around. First the battery on my regular notebook succumbed to that scrap heap in the sky due to all the power-sapping abuse I inflicted after months of all-night Limewire downloading sessions. $390 later for servicing that did nothing and untold levels of anger later, I was onto plan B. Use my emergency source to tide me over until I could sort things out. Then dark clouds of bad luck centered itself on my backup laptop I had set aside for business & travel purposes only. That too went the way of Christina Milian's record deal and I was officially assed out. It got so bad that this little slacker was reduced to staying late at the office till the witching hours of 8-9:00 p.m. just to do online banking, check MLB standings and keep my lines of credit up to date with constant account monitoring since I had the bright idea that going paperless from now on would make my life easier. A bitch was lingering in the electronics section at Circuit City just to sneak a peek at the e-mail inbox for crying out loud. Pathetic shit, ain't it?

Tumbleweeds have been blowing through for the past 6 months and for a blogger, that's a goddamn eternity. It's almost embarrassing admitting this shit as I type. Trust. I know. I'm aware. To say my online resources have been limited is an understatement of monumental proportions and your girl don't have the IT hookups like she used to at the corporate plantation. Sucks to accept my days of underachieving web surfs from 9 to 5 are effectively over. Compounding the fact that venturing into the world of computer repair would just turn into a slippery slope of excuses, aggravation and bullshit between the powers that be (Comp USA & Sony Support can both blow me), I was beginning to think that save forking over another thou for a new system, just updating my iPod would be a mission impossible.

So in my super-extended absence, it may have seemed as if I administered last rites to this joint. And for a split second, I gave a plug pull serious contemplation. On the rare occasions when I did try to kick start some random thoughts here and there while Massa was on his lunch hour, Blogger would conveniently have their heads up their asses with another program update. Faster than you can say, "scheduled system outage," paragraphs went up in smoke. It's at this point when I had middle fingers hoisted ready to move on. But then to my surprise, I began getting e-mails from inquiring minds wanting to know whether something new would be coming down the pike anytime soon. Folks checking for moi? You don't say... I suppose navigating through life with an off-balance compass doesn't ring hollow to myself alone.

So what have you missed during the latest off-air hiatus of the sitcom I call life? Oh, just the usual storylines interweaving itself day and day out. I've been working, drinking, sleeping, shopping, smoking, crying, fucking, rushing, plotting, stressing, pondering, waiting, daydreaming.... there's so much to cover that I don't have to time name check the vast span of current events that have zoomed by. Luckily for me, I went back to basics with the trusty Mead composition book to jot down a few thoughts while I was living in the land of the unplugged. So expect to see some woefully outdated shit float to the surface as I get my bearings for the umpteenth time.

In other words, ain't shit changed but the date on the range. So shall I proceed to give you what you don't really need? Yes indeed.

Let's get it.

Friends don't let friends skip pedicures

2006-05-08T16:16:00.000-04:00

The weather is warmer, the flowers are blooming and people are finally peeling back those excess clothing layers. As summer begins to rear its bright, sunny head, it's a given for toes to start poking up like Groundhog Day. However, in spite of the Summer Shoe Pledge reaching urban legend status, I'm still flabbergasted at women who walk out the house as if they've been stomping at the Bedrock quarry with Wilma & Betty till sunup. What the hell is up with broads wearing open toed slingbacks and beach thongs knowing good and well those pups are barking? And resemble spoiled meat? From the looks of some of the offenders I've already had the misfortune of seeing, I'm surprised my vision isn't blurred. If you can climb a tree in under a minute flat, skip the stilettos. Missing a pinky toe? Well, putting that blurb of nail polish on a widow's peak of skin is about as believable a camouflage as Dermablend on white clothing. The only place where crust is a good thing is at the bottom of a pastry dish. If your heels can double for week-old buttermilk biscuits, intensive lotioning sessions with Aquaphor ointment is a necessity. And trust, brothas aren't exempt from getting acquainted with the rough end of a pumice stone either. I can't tell you how many times I've had to make my ex-boyfriend stay put in my computer chair just because his feet felt like he could fly through the air, swoop down and catch rodents. Snagging up my good bed sheets and leaving me with puncture wounds. Real men don't have paws. Learn it, love it and spread the good word.

Partying like it's 1862

2006-05-05T12:31:00.000-04:00

Chalk this one up as one of life's many little ironies. The average red-blooded American would be ready to flog the first orange seller on the freeway in outrage over re-recording the national anthem in Spanish, yet will gleefully take part in a pseudo holiday with absolutely no ties to the Stars and Stripes. Contrary to popular belief, today is not Mexican Independence Day. It commemorates the defeat of the French at the Battle Of Puebla some 140+ years ago. To be honest, I don't know much else about Cinco de Mayo. I'm sure there's a wonderful tale of a proud history in there somewhere and, if you're into that kind of thing, tune into the next lifeline Q&A on Millionaire. I'm sure it'll come up. What I do know is that Cinco De Mayo is the fifth day of May, it rhymes and is fun to say after a couple margaritas, and most people are usually closer to drunk than sober each year when it rolls around. And this year it's on a Friday. The man upstairs clearly had a Corona handy when it came to this year's schedule. And I prefer to call it as it really is: a damn good excuse to celebrate with food and drinks. Then again, I'm liable to turn just about anything into an excuse to celebrate with food and drinks. And since me and margaritas go together like Whitney Houston and failed rehab stints, I am so ready to blow this pop stand get the fiesta started right...tequila shots and an OD on guacamole awaits.

If you're culinary inclined and ready to put it down in the kitchen, here's a foolproof recipe for the most authentic Mexican this side of the Rio Grande:

30 Minute Chicken Tamales

i n g r e d i e n t s
6 cups Maseca Corn Masa mix for tamales
6 cups chicken broth
1 cup corn or other vegetable oil (corn will enhance the flavor)
2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
2 large rotisserie chicken
2 ½ 12 oz. jars green tomatillo sauce
1 bag corn husks

d i r e c t i o n s
Soak: the corn husks in warm water until soft.

Blend: Using an electric mixer, blend the masa flour (Maseca for Tamales), corn oil, salt, baking powder and the chicken broth to obtain a consistent mixture.

Shred: the chicken and marinate in the green salsa or tomatillo sauce.

Spread: masa evenly over corn husks, and spread a spoonful of marinated chicken on top of the masa.

Fold: the sides of the corn husk to center over the masa so that they overlap to make along package. Fold the empty part of the husk under so that it rest against the side of the tamale with a seam.

Place the tamales in a steamer and cook tamales for 35-40 minutes. Check every 20 minutes. The tamale is cooked when it separates easily from the corn husk.

Guess who isn't coming back to dinner

2006-05-02T11:44:00.000-04:00

Dry humor is the kind of tricky tightrope that's about as easy to get a handle on as Mo'Nique on a balance beam. Many have tried and failed, crashed and burned... but to see it crystallized at its acerbic best in such a sanitized setting that demanded that one's best foot be put forward... well, that's just fucking genius. Unless you've been sleeping under a rock, the shock waves of comic Stephen Colbert boldly heading into the lion's den at the White House Correspondents' Dinner this past Saturday has kept the web buzzing with reason. Considering the ginormous balls must've took to stand onstage just yards from a sitting U.S. President and his merry band of lackeys — resigned to seized submission in their seats by the coda of decorum & etiquette — middle finger raised to the powers that be — while the highlight reel of their never ending list of fuck-ups and failures played in their faces, Colbert's routine was the breakthrough media watchers have been waiting, damn near salivating for. In speaking truth to power in a way that's been all been abandoned under this lying, arrogant, self-righteous, conniving, monkey-faced, English-butchering bastard's reign as our commander & thief, this was Colbert's finest hour yet.

You can read the transcript of the verbal lashing in full here, however, since this has me giddier than Al Reynolds on a Fire Island field trip, c'mon and get click happy with a clip of the hijinks below. Mazel tov!

Mutiny on May Day

2006-05-01T13:09:00.000-04:00

I guess it serves my ass right for letting my jones for chicken mole enchiladas with lip smackin' tomatillo sauce get in the way of realizing this was the designated date for the proverbial shit to hit the fan, so to speak. Paco and the gang was probably out in force at Union Square waving the red, green and white while the gringos left behind botched my order to high heaven. I completely blanked out about the nationwide protests and demonstrations that was scheduled on this designated "day without immigrants." You could say my ambivalence towards the date extends to where I currently stand on an issue that's gone from lukewarm to a hotbed of controversy faster than a Mexican driving in California without insurance.

Since I'm a first-generation American, I can certainly empathize with people who risk it all for a chance at a better life. As the daughter of naturalized citizens, how could I not want for others what my parents wanted for themselves? I certainly count myself as one who wants them to remain here, legally. If you go through the process of becoming a U.S. citizen, then I'll be personally be on the picket line also to petition on the behalf of those seeking all the rights and privileges deserved. Due the incentive created here: education, health, wealth and welfare benefits, these are advantages that anyone couldn't and wouldn't shy away from. The apparent taking of jobs by immigrants is a familiar scapegoat in the midst of the furor, yet unemployment were steadily climbing since 2003 with nary a peep till now. Would anyone give a damn if the faces occupying the landscaping, construction and service positions were filled with Canadians as opposed to those from Honduras or El Salvador?

However, there's certainly a distinction between peaceful rallies and retaliatory boycotts and work stoppages. Calculating on this economy just to prove how much they love it doesn't ring quite so sincere in an uphill battle. The quest to expose America as a stagnant prima donna lost without her worker bees and will then buckle and pass forgiving laws that loosen its borders and grant the 11 million to 12 million illegal workers their rightful place in the American landscape is wishful thinking at best. And sound bites such as the following only serves to aggravate the fuming natives...

Nineth Castillo, a 26-year-old waitress from Guatemala, said she has lived in the United States for 11 years "without a scrap of paper."

Asked whether she was afraid to parade her undocumented status in front of a massive police presence, she laughed and said: "Why? They kick us out, we're coming back tomorrow."

It's one thing to try and seek amnesty, but to be so arrogant about the situation has rubbed me the wrong way to their plight entirely. They're truly on some power trip as if being undocumented residents, they have rights protected under the U.S. constitution. No, you are illegal. For example as a foreign citizen, going around toting your flag screaming "podemos sí" as a rallying cry is not furthering the cause. The reality is that most Americans just say come over legally and put money into the system instead of being a burden on social services which in turn erodes support for the people who really those need those resources, but can't receive them. While migrants in the United States have held huge demonstrations in recent weeks, the hundreds of thousands of undocumented Central Americans in Mexico suffer mostly in silence. And though Mexico demands humane treatment for its citizens who migrate to the U.S., regardless of their legal status, Mexico provides few protections for migrants on its own soil. Rings more than a bit ironic, don't you think?

I'm even more incensed that some Latinos have crossed the line of audacity to link their pursuit of absolution with the struggles of the civil right movement. ¿Opinión qué? Since when was over 400 years of slavery and approximately 60 more of legalized oppression via Jim Crow on a level playing field with being an uninvited guest in someone else's home and proceeding to strain the resources from everyone else?

Conveniently lost in the mix amidst all this hoopla is precisely the opening Dumbya & Co. need to keep the masses so preoccupied with the illegals that he can give a few more attempts at pushing privatization right past our noses. There's a far bigger agenda that is hiding under the disguise of these immigrants and their rallies and it's beginning to feel like spin mode all over again. You see what happened after 9/11 and history's a bitch that loves to stay on repeat.

Bristle while you twerk

2006-04-26T00:03:00.000-04:00

Is it too much to ask that the trend of country-fried, niggnorant rap die a fiery, merciless death? Between the toxic spawns of "Yung/Young's", "Lil's" and "Boyz" polluting radio airwaves 'round the clock, I can't take the shit anymore. The ear rape better known as Bammas 'R Us has to be a potent brain cell degenerate by the BPM, but everybody's too busy polishing their new grillz to a chrome finish to pay attention. The trend has always been to remain a few steps behind once the Mason-Dixon line is crossed, (ex. quality of public school education, evangelical bible thumpers, the Bush mafia, sweeping red-state endorsements of Dumbya's re-election) ... but, it really shows in the music.

It's almost as if making joints that birds love to squawk to is an innate gift. While it's a given that true originality doesn't exist in the industry, is it too much to ask that the conventional and expected content that people have come to expect for so long and seem to love with an unwavering passion evolve past its primitive appeal? From pimp fetishes to the slurred dialect, it's almost as if the affirmation of deep-rooted stereotypes are relished with pride. And don't even get me started on that trash christened snap music. It never should have been allowed to escape beyond its region of origin. It's like some deep, twisted family secret that should've never come to the light. Right up there with marrying your second cousin.

There are certainly exceptions to every rule and this is not a sweeping indictment of all things sprouting from the Dirty South. My loathing of bullshit like Dem Franchise Boyz, Mike Jones, Chamillionaire & the diarrhea anthem of it all, Laffy Taffy doesn't negate the props I give acts like 'Kast, Cunninlynguists, Little Brother, Goodie Mob, Scarface, Supastition, Luda, etc. However, if being branded "a hater" because I don't like something and mention it in public, then fuck it, I'll be that... but it is what it is.

You can chop it, screw it or bounce it, but I'd rather light my pubic hairs on fire than to sit through a Rap City countdown with the illiterati's greatest hits making up positions 20-1. I'm all crunked out and am dialing 911 in need of detox.

There goes the neighborhood

2006-04-18T22:27:00.000-04:00

When you've called a particular slice of surroundings home for your whole life, it's natural to be protective of outsiders that gatecrash the turf. But I'm beginning to wonder who in the hell left the gate open because I'm noticing a steady stream of Section 8 refugees infecting my humble enclave. That reads terribly classist, but sometimes you can't sugarcoat dingleberries into Goobers no matter how hard you try. I remember growing up as one of the few Black families around here and as the migration of brown faces continued throughout the 90's, it was a given that White flight was bound to kick in sooner rather than later. And now I can literally count the few stragglers from yesteryear left on one hand including the chain-smoking Marge Simpson clone next door. At first I didn't mind the changes...hell, it was nice to add some new variables in the mix and not a summer went by without my huddle of girlfriends around the way scoping out fresh male specimen as the latest U-Haul truck pulled up to a doorstep. And I've renounced my place on the welcome wagon since these newcomers are the types to bring down a girl's property value. I'm talking screaming rugrats running up and down. Unfamiliar faces eyeballing me as I'm reaching for my house keys on the way home from work. Parking spaces hogged by the showoffs who feel the need to have all four of their vehicles on the street simultaneously and Cheez Doodles wrappers carelessly strewn on my lawn. Being accustomed to peace and quiet is a thing of the past now that the elderly Guyanese woman next-door on my left flew the coop a couple of months ago only to be replaced with a Jamaican dude in his mid-30's who seems to think Vybz Kartel and G-Unit are appropriate when blasted at 1:00 in the morning. It's fuckery like this that just breathes new life into the mantra, "you can't let Black folks have shit." I've got one eye on the classifieds and the other staring out the front door. Summer's coming and it's gonna be trouble, trouble.

It's the purging principle

2006-04-12T19:20:00.000-04:00

The pursuit for fame, while seductive in the monetary perks of success, has always left me baffled. Why in the hell would anyone want to live in a world where everybody knows your name, privacy's a thing of the past and anonymity hits the pavement running? And as unrelenting and judgmental I am towards celebrities, I'd be a walking coke binge from slings and arrows being hurled my way. Just hearing the verbal diarrhea from people I ran into after getting my attack of the killer tonsils had me feeling even more self-conscious than usual. Backhanded compliments of the "Omigod, you look fab! Did you lose weight? Oh you were sick? Aw. Well.... you look amazing, though!" variety only served as fodder for the uncomfortable silence that soon followed. Never mind the fact I cried myself to sleep for half a week, the important part was I got all the benefits of retching up lunch without the nasty bile aftertaste. Gee, thanks. For the average person, it truly is cruel to be kind. Take that multiply it by 1,000 in high-definition scrutiny and there you have a taste of what it must be like to have those struggles played out in checkout aisles nationwide. In short, the media's a motherfucking bitch. Which leads me to the incredible shrinking diva-on-a-mission, Janet Jackson. You always know when her project's on the horizon as the Pillsbury doughgirl cloak starts falling by the wayside just in time for the new video premiere. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I'm ecstatic that her snap-back warranty hasn't expired yet. She's been my visual motivation on my fridge for years and this latest metamorphosis is just what I need to step up my summer slim down. However, the extreme measures undergone to make sure that famous figure is camera-ready again has to take a toll. We saw where playing on the yo-yo string of scale fluctuations got Luther, is it going to take another exhaustion spell on tour to get Jan's head right? But then again when you've got a family like hers, it isn't that far of a stretch to see how winding up with a face full of Häagen-Dazs is almost inevitable.

Get the party started

2006-04-11T12:42:00.000-04:00

Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out with the crowd.
Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack,
I don't care if I never get back,
Let me root, root, root for the home team,
If they don't win it's a shame.
For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,
At the old ball game...

Ah, nothing like the return of America's national pastime to get me feeling excited at the dawn of another run towards the World Series. The annual springtime tradition resumes as the boys of summer take their limos for a spin and have their chauffeurs drive them to the stadium for a game. Today the sun was streaming over the city like an emerald-cut gemstone. The media horde was, well, hoarding for prime position with the local All-Stars better known as our starting lineup. The diehards were back in full force right down the pinstriped faces, heads, chests and God knows what else. Oftentimes, baseball's traditional season opener kicked off with the Cincinnati Reds. In recent years, the marketing geniuses at Major League Baseball have gone Pan Pacific in Japan to a Sunday night prime time prelude on ESPN, which suffered from a rain delay earlier this month in Chicago. However, with apologies to the Second cities, the baseball year does not truly begin until the New York Yankees play their first game in the Bronx. Even sworn enemies of the supposed "Evil Empire" would be hard pressed to deny there's something special about Opening Day at the House that Ruth Built.

Having a boss that's also a rabid Yankees fan has its privileges. He can sympathize when I slink in a bit later than usual because we were both up till 1 in the morning trying to catch the last out in a West Coast road swing. And when I came down with a mysterious ailment just before lunch today, he knew this was code for wanting to fly the coop. Coming in two hours earlier than usual had to tip him off. But on a beautiful, cloudless afternoon, could you really blame me? In the decade that I've spent rooting on my Bronx Bombers, I never had the luxury of being there for the curtain raising on the regular season. But I was bound and determined to make my debut in the tier reserved section for the 2006 campaign.

In typical fashion, the Yankees produced a little magic in their cinching their first "W" before a sellout crowd of just over 56,000 strong.

The hometown boys got off to a good start, then began to sleepwalk their way throughout the middle innings, keeping us unhinged waiting on the final blow to be struck. And with all the talk of our newest acquisition in Johnny Damon, it wasn't until the eighth inning, when Captain Clutch came through yet again with a three-run moonshot by Derek Jeter. The Bombers came away with a 9-7 victory, their ninth consecutive win on Opening Day in New York. It wasn't a pretty game, but in the end, it came with the sweetest conclusion you could've asked for. Start spreading the news, Yankees win. Thaaaaaa Yankees win!

I know why the Black girl screams

2006-04-05T16:56:00.000-04:00

The only thing worse than feigning interest at my job is being confined to my humble abode. While sick. I knew I was in for trouble this past weekend when I had to scrap my Sunday night ritual of seafood-topped pasta and wine in favor for split pea soup in preparation for HBO's must-see TV lineup. But instead of kicking back to relax, my throat felt drier than the Sahara and I was having a hard time getting into my groove because I was so damn aggravated with the oncoming discomfort. I'd been down this road before. The first time 3 years ago, again last year for a brief spell. But this was clearly on some next shit. By the time I woke up Monday morning, my tonsils swelled up to the size of golf balls and were covered with pus-filled patches which let me know the seasonal virus was back in full effect. Sufficiently grossed out yet? No? Well, it gets even better... since swallowing was now akin to a hors d'oeuvre platter of nuts and bolts, I turned into a drooling fool all over my house with only In The Kitchen repeats on the Food Network to twist the knife deeper. And speaking of food, today marks day 3 of a forced hunger strike. Mama said there would be days like this, but damn. Seeing the scale go down is the only consolation for feeling miserable.

The interruption of everything

2006-04-01T06:23:00.000-05:00

It's been a long time. I shouldn't have left you. With a pic of Britney Spears to marinate to. Apologies to the God for bastardizing his rhymes, but it's the most concise and letter perfect way to do this reintroduction. Nope, your eyes aren't playing tricks on you. And no, this isn't a cruel April Fools joke. This is the part where I usually regale you guys with a litany of mea culpas and halfhearted explanations for the tumbleweeds that's been blowing through this jawn for the past few weeks, but you know what? Don't hold your breath waiting on concessions of guilt this time around. It's not that I didn't want to post any updates... I've had a boatload of shit on my mind that I've wanted to chat 'bout (life, love and the pursuit of a new gig among them), but when I would sit down to put fingers to keyboard, it was a no-go. Straight blank out. Mental constipation city. 5 weekends in a row passed me by with nothing noteworthy that came to fruition. A couple nights ago, I watched a rockumentary on Showtime directed by actress Rosanna Arquette called All We Are Saying which chronicled the balancing act of work and art from a cross-section of musicians including Mary J. Blige, Chrissie Hynde, Andre 3000, Joni Mitchell, Stevie Nicks and Steven Tyler. And the one thing that struck me was the commonality of expression or the lack thereof. Watching Sheryl Crow explain the transition from writer's block to inspiration that might be considered divine was like someone had asked me to pen the segment myself. The motivation to write is no different that a songwriter looking for just the right hook. And the urges fill in the blank spaces which I called back drafts would hit me at the weirdest times. Commuting home on the Lexington line. Waiting to get items rung up at Target. Unluckily for me, I never have anything handy to jot down a key phrase, much less a sentence, so as quickly as the moment appeared, it dissipated just as fast. However, now that I'm cursed with another bout of strep throat and dreading an impending date with a tonsillectomy on such a beautiful spring weekend, seems like there's no time better than the present to pick up where I left off. So please hold off on adding this site to the latest edition of the blog obits section, I'm not dead yet!

The prisoner always rings thrice

2006-03-28T09:18:00.000-05:00

Although life generally guarantees more twists and turns than the latest scream machine unveiling at Six Flags, there are some certainties that are absolute no matter what you do. Paying taxes, death and hating the alarm clock jolt to remind you that the weekend is officially over ranks at the top of my list.

It was just another manic Monday and by the time noon rolled around and I was refueling on two cups of hazelnut coffee by the half hour just to keep from crawling under my desk for a catnap, I was so wishing it was Sunday. Little did I know a midday summons of the Mama said knock you out variety was waiting for me right around the bend when my Razr started going off like a bat out of hell.

"Hello, we have a person-to-person call for you from Nassau County Correctional Facility. Will you accept the charges?"

Who? What? Where?

My mind was racing as I heard myself saying yes and being patched through to the voice on the other end awaiting the connection. The playful swagger that was usually right beneath the surface was deflated. In its place was a sullen tone that spoke my name as an unsure query rather than a definite statement. I couldn't get many details that would answer all the question marks dancing around my brain.

Would this be life imitating art as a homage to an Alicia Keys video on the way to East Meadow to find what trouble this fool wrought on himself this time around? Or do I play it smart and leave him to fence for himself when he needs someone close by the most? I opted for the latter.

Life really does have one twisted sense of humor, indeed.

Cuts for bad luck, scars of displeasure

2006-03-10T17:37:00.000-05:00

"I can't stand it, I know you planned it
I'm gonna set it straight, this watergate
I can't stand rocking when I'm in here
Because your crystal ball ain't so crystal clear
So while you sit back and wonder why
I got this fucking thorn in my side
Oh my, it's a mirage, I'm tellin' y'all it's sabotage..."

I'm now convinced that dysfunction was an inherent byproduct within my DNA. There are those that are born blessed with book smarts but are clearly a few melons short of a fruit salad when it comes to common sense. I'd like to think that I've avoided that percentage, but if that isn't the case... I simply have a genetic predisposition for playing with fire and watching myself get burned each time.

This morning unfolded the way it always does, my alarm clock 10 minutes off and me running 25 behind. Pretending that the ruse of being awake with eyes wide shut to remain in that grey area of lazy slumber and deep resignation would turn back time to the midnight hour. Wrapped in the cozy comfort of blankets which never feel better than they do at 7:00 a.m. Trying to feign optimism for having a job instead of a career, in spite of this 9-to-5 floating the paychecks needed just to break even. Unable to reconcile the eternal dilemma of a closet full of clothes and still nothing to wear. Backtracking to pinpoint which jacket I had on the day before so I can find my MetroCard before stumbling out the door in the shoes that pinch my feet but complete the ensemble and a warden's worth of keys weighing down my pocket.

After my 100-meter mad dash to catch the 4 waiting downstairs wound up as another exercise in futility, I settled into zoning out until the next train pulled into station. Not even a full verse into Sade wailing about a Somali sister scraping for pearls on the roadside, the monotony of melancholy was broken up by a tap on my shoulder.

"Excuse me?"

I whirled around, eyebrow half-arched ready to shoot my patented "the hell you want?!" death stare just to be left in peace. The face looking back at me was of a chocolate-colored brother, standing around 6" who reminded me of the singer Joe. I eyed him warily. "Yes?"

"Hi.... I couldn't help but notice when you passed by. How you doing?"

Instinctively, I felt my Negro Please game face creep into formation, but I halfheartedly forced a placid smile and turned my attention down the platform for sight of the next train. Undeterred, he pressed ahead with the one-sided convo. "I'm Jalen, and you are?"

Upon gazing back, I took the extra 30 seconds needed to do the obligatory once over while I waited to elbow my way to a corner seat. Relatively clear skin, check. Dressed casually cool in something other than "urban outerwear" fresh off the rack at Dr. Jay's, check. Teeth absent of food particles, stains and shiny reflections of gold, check. An approach that didn't include hissing at me like a barnyard pet. Hmmm... maybe I was throwing the baby out with the bathwater a tad too soon.

10 minutes later, I learned that he was 28, wasn't wanted for child support, grew up in East New York but now lived alone in Kensington and was 6 credits shy of a graduate degree from Fordham. Stats for the average single girl that looked good on paper. But for me? I wasn't exactly swooning over the prerequisites. We exchanged numbers, except I gave him my middle name and old cell # as a contact. What the hell was wrong with me? I was keeping my heart under lock and key for a bad news bear who needed to have "danger" blinking in neon whenever he's in 10 feet of me, yet here was what seemed to be a walking billboard for the last Boy Scout who was inexplicably attracted even as I was caught off guard in plain Jane city, and I was deliberately taking a wrecking ball to any forthcoming potential. I was treading into bad Jennifer Lopez romantic comedy territory.

And it's the age-old fascination of pushing limits to see just how far you can go or grabbing the tiger by the tail. In other words, damned if you do... damned if you don't. One of these days, I'll learn how to navigate off the dead end road on the Drama Queen Express from relying on my heart alone.

Baby, it's cold outside!

2006-02-12T09:45:00.000-05:00

Two views of the snow pileup from my backyard during the Blizzard of '06 taken from my bathroom window.

"Let us love winter, for it is the spring of genius."
— Pietro Aretino

I know it borders on blasphemy for a Black person to love the cold, but my name is TriniPrincess and I'm a total frostaholic. Contrary to popular belief, not all colored folks wait for the thermostat to surge past 90 with baited breath. And when I think about what I have to look forward to (out-of-control oily skin/frightful frizz/being trapped underground on subway platforms that are hotter than Hades), I'll take my chances in the arctic air. Maybe it has something to do with being born smack dab in the middle of winter, but knee high boots, chunky scarves and cable knit sweaters put me in my element. I get a kick out of sipping a cinnamon dolce latte and watching the chill trail as I cool the styrofoam cup on one of those shivery mornings when the sunlight seems to dance on the water dripping from icicles like a soft stream of diamonds. There are few natural occurrences that rival the beauty of snowflakes which transform the mundane into the picturesque. Yes, I'm waxing real nostalgic right now, but Old Man Winter gets a bum rap. It's about time someone stood in his corner to rep for snowball fights and calling in sick just to cozy up with a mug of hot cocoa or even better, a special someone close by to keep you warm. Remember being a kid and wishing for snow days? Now you're more likely to curse the driving conditions. When you're little, there's tons of fun things to look forward to when the snow falls -- secret snow forts and having stolen street signs double as makeshift sleds on frozen sidewalks with friends around the way. But being a grown-up doesn't make this time of year any more difficult to embrace the winter wonderland. Folks on the Left Coast and down South can keep the 'round the calendar warmth, anything less than 4 real seasons of variety is simply uncivilized.

Oops, she did it again

2006-02-07T15:15:00.000-05:00

If brains were fries, Britney Spears couldn't fill a goddamn happy meal.

Aside from screaming half the night and leaving your wardrobe with the sweet smell of spit-up, babies are a veritable fountain of redeeming qualities. They're: a) more often than not, so cute as can be, b) cuddly, c) giggly, d) squeezably soft and other fuzzy-wuzzy adjectives not uttered at Planned Parenthood. You'll notice that being used as an airbag deployment tool has been left off that checklist. However, translate that kernel of logic into the twisted mind of Shitney and you get a prime opportunity to lose 20 pounds of baby fat after hitting the brakes and watching little spudnik fly through the window.

But maybe riding the crimson wave into day 3 just has me feeling bitchier than usual. I mean, hell sometimes I run, sometimes I drive...sometimes I'm scared of photographers using the long lens as I leave A&W All-American Food with a face full of chili cheese fries. So, let's hold off on chucking this pop tart to the wolves for at least the next 30 seconds to hear Brit Brit's line of defense:

"Today I had a horrifying, frightful encounter with the paparazzi while I was with my baby. Because of a recent incident when I was trapped in my car without my baby by a throng of paparazzi, I was terrified that this time the physically aggressive paparazzi would put both me and my baby in danger. I instinctively took measures to get my baby and me out of harm's way, but the paparazzi continued to stalk us, and took photos of us which were sold to the media. I love my child and would do anything to protect him."

She'd do anything to protect him, especially hold him on her lap while she was being chased by photographers on that oasis of safety - Pacific Coast Highway. That's really secure. I mean, really... who else was gonna hold her Schlitz malt liquor and Cheetos for her?

Talk about being destined for an E! True Hollywood Story from the womb. All Sean Preston really asks for in life is some nipple-to-mouth action, gourmet pureed peaches and working diaper genie. Instead, he's forced to bare the cross of being the love child of a chronic gigolo with the mic skills of Brian Austin Green and a washed-up douchebag who walks into public restrooms barefoot. Next on tap... trading Seanie Poo for a McRib next time Daddy maxes out the Amex card at the golden arches.

As if the baby's daddy wasn't enough, now mom decides the back seat is way too tame for her kid since it's crowded from all of K-Fed's subwoofers. She's Britney fucking Spears — and rules are for fools. What's the big deal, right? "It is what it is."

How sweet it is (to be played by you)

2006-02-06T13:23:00.000-05:00

They say three times a charm and the cliché is an applicable one when it comes to bringing the life of a beloved singer to a cineplex near you. The Molotov cocktail of drug abuse, poverty, blind ambition, rocky relationships and self-destruction rolled up into a juicy role has long proved to be an irresistible preposition. Last year marked the beginning of Jamie Foxx's breakthrough at the expense of pillaging Ray Charles' memory at every waking moment and the gold rush of awards season '06 sees the trend going swimmingly for Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon in portraying Johnny Cash and June Carter to the tune of dual Oscar nods. Like it or not, there's more where that precedent of Oscar bait came from, so be prepared to see a whole lot of copycat musician-biopics in the next few years, as just about every star who ever battled demons will become fair game. Mary J. Blige has already announced that she's about to play Nina Simone. If Idlewild turns out to be halfway decent, it's goodbye juke joint, hello flower power in getting the long mentioned Hendrix project off the shelf for Andre 3000. And there's plenty more where that came from: Janis Joplin, Sam Cooke, Keith Moon, Eazy-E, the Milli Vanilli guy. VH-1 Classic should certainly see a spike in viewership for would-be screenwriters mining All Request Hour for inspiration. However, for every Lady Sings The Blues there lies a Beyond The Sea. Or Get Rich Or Die Tryin'. Or De-Lovely.

In spite of the littered boulevard of broken Behind The Music dreams, a feature film about the life of Marvin Gaye has been given a green light. Jesse L. Martin, star of NBC's "Law & Order" and the big-screen adaptation of "Rent," has been tapped to play the soul icon in the independently-financed film "Sexual Healing," due to begin production in May. The movie to be directed by Lauren Goodman, will focus on the years preceding his sudden shooting death at the hands of his father on April 1, 1984, one day before his 45th birthday. The film will include his self-imposed exile in Europe after years of battling drugs, domestic issues and label headaches. There through the help of businessman Freddy Cousaert who acted as promoter from his seaside home in Ostend, Belgium, began the retreat which spawned his biggest-selling album, "Midnight Love," supported by his comeback smash, "Sexual Healing."

"More than just being the voice of a generation, Marvin Gaye proved to be its very heartbeat," Goodman told the Hollywood Reporter. "As a filmmaker, I was drawn to tell the story of a human being who was never fully realized, one with faults and foibles and an uncommon grace expressed every time he picked up the microphone."

According to the Hollywood Reporter, producers have been trying for years to get a Marvin Gaye biopic off the ground. Originally, "Sexual Healing" was intended to cover a larger portion of his life but was restructured to focus on his final years due to ongoing disputes over his Motown-produced records.

In spite of Ms. Goodman's resume looking about as credible as a medical practitioner in Mexico, the right screenplay coupled with Jesse's formidable talent as both a singer and actor - this could go a long way in renewing interest into a career that seems almost tailor made for an adapted screenplay. Color me so excited, it makes me wanna holler and throw up both my hands!

Cream in her coffee

2006-02-04T13:14:00.000-05:00

Nod in agreement if you've heard this plot pitched before: an overachieving, successful urbanista has a thriving career and a supportive nucleus of girlfriends for the round table relationship postmortems but a disastrous batting average in the arena of romance because there's no man in her life. She finally meets her match, but some big misunderstanding gets in the way causing the fairy tale to be momentarily postponed, and she starts dating another man who appears to be perfect on paper before the inevitable soul-searching ensues, wondering whether she should play it safe or be true to her heart.

The title of the movie could've stood a few recycling in subsequent marketing meetings before being settled on as the final choice. It's too banal, too blah. Too much like an ad slogan for dishwashing liquid (Something New and Improved!). It's one of those lackluster tags that floats off the marquee, onto the projectile and soon out of sight, out of mind. But judging a book by its cover would be a mistake in the case of this appealing romantic comedy from first-time director Sanaa Hamri. What it lacks in catchiness, it more than makes up for in charisma and topical commentary without weighing itself down in spite of it.

So if February is the time when celebrating romance and Black culture takes center stage, then Something New delivers a richly seductive two for the price of one.

The ever-luminous Sanaa Lathan headlines as Kenya Denise McQueen, a Los Angeles accountant who is a workaholic. She's beautiful and whip smart in the workplace as the consummate BAP, but absolutely clueless on how the game of love is played. After being rescued from trash like Alien vs. Predator which is far beneath the scope of her considerable talent, Lathan rises to the task to make Kenya wary, insecure... cautious, but proud. It's a performance that could've devolved into ice-queen caricature territory (á la Gabrielle Union's turn in Deliver Us From Eva) but she goes deeper to paint a multifaceted portrait. Fiercely driven as the only daughter of esteemed parents, a graduate of top schools (Stanford, check. Wharton Business, check.), and now up for partner in her firm. Kenya doesn't date. She doesn't do much of anything except work, although recently she purchased a new house. She makes lists, as in, what needs to be done, what she doesn't "do" (sushi, kayaking, creepy, crawly things, dogs, the color red), and what she wants in her IBM (Ideal Black Male): he'll be taller than her, educated, and professional. Kenya doesn't think she's asking for much — just perfection.

She has her dream man shopping cart down to a science. And yet, she's light years away from inching nearer to the brass (or better yet, wedding) ring so coveted. As she and her similarly equipped, ambitious, and disappointed sistah girls — Cheryl (Wendy Raquel Robinson), Suzzette (Golden Brooks), and Nedra (Taraji P. Henson) — trade laughs over a round of cosmopolitans, the infamous statistic that looms over would-be spinsters: 42.4% of black women have never been married, owing to a shortage of acceptable partners. They look round the restaurant and see one much publicized reason for the imbalance — a Black man with a White woman. (Insert the obligatory eye roll here). Kenya's friends have horror tales to share, and her inability to put herself out there is becoming cause for concern. The friends agree that on the Valentine's edition of their pity party ritual to follow the advice of a self-help guru whose catchphrase to life is "let go, let flow," although the idea of the uptight Kenya even opening a top button is laughable.

A co-worker sets up Kenya on a blind date and she regrets it immediately, especially when she sees that Brian (Simon Baker) is white. Making her way to their table at Magic Johnson Starbucks in Ladera Heights, she scrambles to renew her ghetto pass membership with over-the-top affirmations of her blackness ("How you doin' brother?" she asks a startled employee, before noting a customer's hair: "Girl, you are wearing those dreads!"). Her need to overcompensate is blunt enough that her date observes, "You're making sure everyone knows you're down." When Brian wonders why she even bothered to come in the first place, she tells him, "I promised my girlfriends I'd be more open." Again, he cuts to the chase: "But not this open."

And her rudeness to Brian almost borders to the point of cruelty. But as fate and the story arc would have it, their paths are meant to cross again: recently completing the buppie circle of homeowners in Baldwin Hills, her overgrown backyard is in dire need of renovation. So, wouldn't ya know it, Brian is a landscape architect and because he's the most good-natured, well-balanced, easygoing type of White guy around, he accepts the challenge. Before you can say Miracle-Gro, a bit more than her yard begins to blossom.

But in her need to always wear race on her sleeve, an interracial relationship is out of the question, let alone with someone who has dirt under his nails. Her impulses keep her on a tightrope of exhilaration and self-loathing, even though finding a man willing to sidestep her multitude of hangups and indulge fantasies of painting toes neatly while blowing them dry. The set-up is a deliciously satirized poke at all those fetishes about the well-to-do fair maiden getting serviced in more ways than one from the Black hired help. But thankfully the story itself doesn't shy away from the subtle, everyday racism that made Kenya so tentative and self-protective in the first place.

It's a trip to watch her go completely against her grain — which includes kissing her weave goodbye to get in touch with her roots so to speak (pardon the pun), and of course, she wouldn't be doing this if she weren't falling in love (which she also thinks she shouldn't be doing).

They're blissfully happy behind closed doors, but what happens when those starry-eyed feelings are tested in the real world? Kenya & Brian have their first fight in a neighborhood grocery store that's real in which Hollywood never allows romantic comedies to stretch. There's cutting and honest exchanges about race — not the Rainbow Coalition soapbox we've been spoon fed ad nauseum about how we're all really the same underneath it all. Acknowledgment of the "black tax" for someone like Kenya to work harder than her white colleagues would never appear in slapstick retreads like last year's moronic Guess Who.

While being stuck as the go-to Caucasian, Baker is unbearably charismatic in channeling Matthew McConaughey-lite with a brain, which probably isn't easy to do when your role is basically written as "sensitive stud toy." As Lathan's brother, Donald Faison has some funny bits with a revolving door of dates to suit each day of the week and Taraji P. Henson struck just the right note with well-timed zings of sass.

Something New is something rare: arguably the first major picture with a triple threat of backing behind the scenes from Black women (director Hamri, producer Stephanie Allain and screenwriter Kriss Turner) that offers glimpses of a world we almost never see onscreen. The life of brown folk who also happen to be upwardly mobile. An interracial romance that manages to address serious concerns in a manner that's good-natured, intelligent and humorous without painting Black men in a negative light to justify it is almost a revelation. A rom-com in which Mike Epps of all people utters the single truest line of the whole damn screening, "It's not about color, it's about the love between a man and a woman." And that in itself is something to talk about.

Rating:

Gotta go, gotta leave

2006-02-02T22:02:00.000-05:00

Chicago had the St. Valentine's Day Massacre. Wall Street had Black Monday. And today marked the implementing of guerrilla warfare of the hostile corporate variety.

Upon coming into work this morning I was immediately accosted by my boss who was asking me rapid-fire questions before I even had time to set my bagel down and take off my coat. The scoop was that I had just missed an impromptu meeting called by the head honchos of my department to inform us of major changes put into effect and I needed to check my e-mail. Pronto.

In that instant, logging into Lotus Notes seemed to take an eternity. Cryptic messages only serve as an invitation for even more premature grey hairs to spring forth and I didn't have time to thoroughly scan my in box when my boss came over to my desk again with urgency written all over his face. What the hell was going on?

Did you get an e-mail?
Yes, I got one. What's the problem?

His forehead lines smoothed to a less weathered crease and exhaled a sigh of relief. This in a nutshell was code for still being on the payroll as many others weren't so lucky this Thursday. In total the ax fell on 65 employees and with a quota of 135 spots to be vacated, the carnage wouldn't be over yet.

Among the casualties was one of my closest colleagues whose wife just lost a loved one two days before. Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place.

The cold, harsh impersonality of white-collar careers always rubbed me the wrong way because just as quickly as you grow accustomed to going through the motions is as equally jarring when the rug's pulled out from underneath your footing without warning. I don't intend to stick around for the other shoe to drop. The rumors, innuendos and constant watchdog atmosphere is enough to make me stark raving mad. After dragging ass for months on putting the wheels into motion to blow this joint, I have no more excuses for a back burner anymore. I just hope I reach the finish line before the powers that be do.