"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.

Labels: American history, George W. Bush, politics, rants, reflection

"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.

Labels: Barack Obama, politics, progressives, rants

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.

Labels: Barack Obama, elections, Hillary Rodham Clinton, Indecision '08, Joe Biden, rants

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.

Labels: arrested development, false start, rants

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.

Labels: hip hop, music, rants

Who knows how to push your buttons as well as your relatives do? The airtight bubble of tranquility that comforted me since late November was sufficiently punctured this Christmas. If you haven't guessed already, I'm not big on family gatherings or being around them for longer than an hour at a time, so the news that we were still going to have a full house threw me in a tailspin of epic proportions. My great-aunt from Baltimore was supposed to come and spend the latter portion of this week up here, but with the MTA/TWU tug-of-war that was at the time, still brewing, she opted out of making the trip on Amtrak. Inwardly, my disappointment lasted for oh, about 2 minutes. But the rug was pulled out from under me when I was told cousins from my mom's side of the clan along with assorted family friends would be making their guest star appearance in a very special episode of Hell for the Holidays.

Initial promises that our dinner would be small and tasteful went in one ear and out the other as the proposed menu tripled in a span of minutes with the last minute additions. Making the situation an even bigger comedy of errors was the fact is my kitchen is the size of a shoe closet, so struggling to keep the oven door open as my mom and I shoveled endless baking pans of meats, casseroles and pies in and out and over to the table in rapid succession like a madwoman. See why I keep my culinary forays limited to recipes for one?

Complicating matters was the fact that not only were our lives scheduled around CP time, so was our cooking. And even though our guests were still 20 minutes late, our Iron Chef tandem was running a full 45 minutes behind. It was only after hearing the first car pull up to the house that I had to pull myself from the stove to sprint into the shower to freshen up and get out of a football tee and boxers to appear "presentable" as the designated singleton mascot.

A few body splash spritzes and an ensemble change later, we finally rearranged silverware and the centerpiece to make room from a full spread. Turkey, a smaller roasted chicken, pelau (which is translated as rice & peas for the Yankee crew), callaloo, macaroni pie, pastelles, cornbread stuffing, green bean casserole, scalloped potatoes, candied yams, glazed ham along with two jugs of ponche á creme (think egg nog with a stronger kick) on a dining table that was swollen and overstuffed.

In walked the assortment of tanties, uncles and people I just didn't know from a can of paint but apparently remembered me "from small." Why do old folks think that jabbing you in the belly a la the Pillsbury dough boy while sizing up the pounds you've put on since they've seen you last is an acceptable practice? And of course when I shoot the death glance instead of the uncomfortable giggle they were expecting, I'm called rude. Whatever.

Trying to smooth things over from my obvious distance from the ladies making chit chat about distant relatives back home whom I'd never met, much less were familiar with was Mommy Dearest, and I couldn't decide whether I was proud or embarrassed that she still felt the need to brag about my minor triumphs, however few and far between they were now outside the confines of a classroom. The maternal instinct never wavers, does it?

And just when I'd resigned myself to slapping on the rubber gloves and Dawn ready to bat cleanup at the sink after the dessert dishes came back empty with just crumbs of black cake left, the doorbell rang and at the door was my mother's "cousin's" nephew summoned over to drop them home and also as an ulterior motive I sniffed a mile away — fraternizing with moi. One look at his LED lit belt and Akademiks jeans slipping off his ass guaranteed that I wasn't interested in small talk.

Next year, I'm booking a reservation out of town.

Labels: celebration, Christmas, family, holiday, rants

Day 2 of Gotham under siege began today with my hat being thrown into the ring of commuters united in simmering rage but gritting their teeth in quiet desperation. To say that my A.M. routine was a little altered would be like saying that Al Scales Reynolds has a mere sprinkling of sugar in his tank. The approximate distance from home to my corporate plantation is a mere 7.9 miles according to Yahoo! Maps, so to the casual observer, it would appear to be a piece of cake. Until you crunch the data in actual foot power, you have no fucking idea.

To fully grasp the extent of my disgust, enclosed is an edited timeline of my bizarre ride to the far side.

4:08 a.m: After slapboxing my alarm clock for the past eight minutes, I finally roll out of bed and march bleary-eyed into the shower when even the inviting scent of Bliss peppermint soap isn't doing much to perk up my senses.

4:56 a.m: Doing bicep reps holding my Solano hair dryer in Hindu goddess poses trying to sufficiently prevent myself from contracting pneumonia simply because my 'fro was out of control and need to be tamed back into a manageable moptop.

5:37 a.m: Running around my basement like a banshee trying to find exactly where I stuffed those oh-so-sexy pair of thermal underwear to layer under my slacks and furry snow boots.

6:11 a.m: Two Ensures are chugged down as liquid nourishment to go, and I bring the old school AM/FM walkman without the tape deck to get my daily fix of hate from Star and Buc while I pounding the pavement.

8:49 a.m: Trying to weed through the advantage takers for a legitimate carpool further downtown on the corner of Underhill & Vanderbilt is as easy as getting a quick response from EMS in an urban neighborhood.

9:32 a.m: Contemplated hitching a ride with an Aviator full of Pace students, but the vibe was just a little too Negrodian for even me. Young Jeezy blasting in the whip before 10? Nah son, you can go ahead...I'll be alright.

10:25 a.m: I make my way over to the Red Cross hot chocolate booth off City Hall to refuel with a freebie before heading down Fulton Street into work.

Bottom line, I woke up two and a half hours earlier than usual only to be trapped in a snail's crawl to travel the normally clocked 25-minute trip. When it was all said and done, my average of just over a half hour from the subway was tripled in a bone chilling atmosphere. At any other time, I'm happier as a bug in a rug since today kicks off the first day of my favorite season. But this monkey wrench in the script fucked the game up beyond oblivion.

At this point I'm beyond frustrated with both the MTA and the TWU. Both sides need to be padlocked into a room until something concrete can come of this. I respect the union's stance, but goddamn... a sista's feet were crying the blues tonight.

The one upside in this whole fiasco? The emergence of Roger Toussaint as the perfect successor to Mike Quill's billy bad ass swagger. He's public enemy no. 1 on many a dartboards in the city, but dammit, when you see a countryman cause a crooked monopoly to get weak in the knees, you gotta respect the gangsta. Mama always said we Trinis don't bite nice...a metropolis had to learn this one the hard way. Bracing for the trifecta coming tomorrow...

Labels: New York City, rants, transit strike

One of the reasons why I've always preferred to travel with the only sane family member around (that would be the woman who gave me life) or winging it solo is because I've been able to sidestep the minefield of bullshit that comes with planning a trip with a friend. That is, until now.

Thought it would be cool to blow off some steam in the next few weeks with a quickie weekend getaway, but making the mini-excursion into a "girls nite out" theme. Well, more like a girl + 1 since my circle of single and fancy-free girlfriends have been shrinking faster than Mary-Kate Olsen. Damn near everyone I know is either getting or have already gotten hitched, on the inside track for the idealized amount of 2.5 kids while migrated into the blandness of suburbia. So, the cheese stands almost alone. Enter my homegirl Nadine.* We've been friends for eons, and when she moved across the street from me about 5 years ago, it seemed like we had made a 360° from sleepovers to just chillin' on the stoop with a couple of cigs talking about whatever.

So around September when I had the bright idea to make a weekend run out of the tri-state area, she was on the short list of candidates I could proposition 3 days of debauchery to. And as luck would have it, Nadine was up for the trip. But then again, who in their right mind would turn down some sunny skies and an excuse to drink in the daytime during the dog days of winter? The whole plan still hinged on whether or not she could get the time off as schedule was constantly schizophrenic due to the revolving nature of being a hospital staffer. I figured as long as she gave me answer before Thanksgiving, I'd be good to book the flight and then plot the hotel scouting.

September ended, nothing.
Halloween came and went, nada.
Thanksgiving rolled by, still no concrete answer.

What kind of janky ass position are you holding down if you can't get a yes or no from your supervisor damn near three months ahead of time just to take two days off? Meanwhile in the midst of all my thumb twiddling, American Airlines kept tempting me with new discounted flights smack dab for the time I was eying. A round trip of under $150 was just too much of a steal to pass up. So I put the booking on hold so I could run the numbers by her first. I call her cell and home numbers so many times I may have given myself carpal tunnel. No response. I'm pacing and getting antsy because I'm slated to lose the pending seats at midnight if I don't put the order through. Finally at 11:09 p.m., this broad calls me back feigning apologies. Never mind the bollocks, are you in or out? She says she's still going. So, I reserve the tickets at least feeling a bit more at ease since the biggest hurdle was cleared. Well, for the time being.

Now I was comparison shopping for the best place to stay, and of course I was the one doing all the work. Every time I would call her to stop over to take a look at the details and sit down to crunch the numbers, the heifer would pull some incognito bill-collector avoidance tactics.

This constant push & pull only served as a reminder of why I keep the socializing with broads to a bare minimum because this is the kind of nonsense that's far too commonplace.

Here's hoping a U.S. marshal doesn't put a slug in me if I happen to choke the living daylights out of her en route.

Labels: friendship, frustration, rants, relationships, vacation

How do I hate Cingular Wireless? Let me count the ways...

My descent into rage against the cellular began almost 2 years ago. Tired of AT&T Wireless, Cingular had just moved into the tri-state area as the new kid on the block. The bouncing orange logo, the reasonable phone plans (at the time) and wide selection of Motorola models was a decided upgrade so I jumped ship to see what the rookies would have to offer. Little did I know an upcoming merger wouldn't have saved me from the never ending quest for portable perfection.

I ordered a Motorola V400 and a nondescript Nokia for Ma Dukes since a multitude of specifications and features meant about a bag of beans to her and waited for the delivery to be shipped. And waited. And waited. And waited some more. Two weeks passed and the lovely USPS truck had yet to make an appearance on my block. This now warranted a trip to their field office to cordially tear a sales rep a new asshole. First stop on the "Ya'll Bitches Ain't Shit" regional tour was Westbury, Long Island. After being trapped on the Southern State Parkway for over an hour and half, I finally sped onto Old Country Road only to find the branch location had just closed for the day. Strike one.

Next stop on the opposite end of the spectrum: way out in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn on 86th Street. I hadn't been 'round those parts since the days of ditching classes and causing a commotion on the R train. Come to find out, the online order was botched from the checkout and to get the activation mishap rectified, a full payment of 3 C-notes would be required. What. the. fuck. ever.

After straightening out a rough courtship, it was smooth sailing for about 8 months into the contract before I hit another snag. Unbeknownst to me, I had signed the paperwork without being made aware that I was entitled a corporate discount through my company's affiliation with Cingular. A little percentage off never hurt anyone and I was due for a much needed reduction. Or so I thought. After stating my case to the arbiters of Satan better known as customer service clientèle, I was brutally rebuffed. I was left no choice but to forge a shit-eating grin and bare it until the contract had elapsed.

Now I have never lusted after a phone before... but I get tingles in my nether regions over this one.

So, while strolling down Broadway, I pass by the local Cingular store at the corner of Fulton. A cluster of disinterested fellas in rumpled button downs until I sign my name at the service guest book. Then I'm greeted with an 800-watt smile. Playing along, I tell them I'm interested in the RAZR. They immediately morph into "the-cat-who-ate-the-canary" predatory stance.

Luckily for me, I had brushed up on my fine print reading homework so when they inevitably started trying to blow smoke up my bum, I was more than prepared for the full court press.

The phone feels great. Thinner than Lara Flynn Boyle's waistline but sturdy enough to feel solid. The buttons are relatively large which is one of the things I loathed about the V400 from jump - those Scrabble-sized buttons. The screen is to die.

It also runs about $300 with taxes, hidden fees and other anal assaults not spelled out in the storefront window. And that's with a 2 year re upping to Cingular. There is no return policy at all. Like the neighborhood Koreans love to utter, "you break, you buy."

But, they had a supposed bargain for the taking. They would extend a "get out of jail free" card from my old contract (which is up in less than 3 weeks) for $50.00. Or, I could purchase the phone with no strings attached to the budget conscious tune of $450.00.

If I could freeze frame this situation like live TV on a DVR, I would've double checked to see if "punk'd" wasn't taped to my back. While the one sales associate is trying to lock me into this "deal", the other guy is retrieving my account info. "Uh oh." He says. "You're not eligible to upgrade your phone."

Say what?

Turns out, because I had bought the V400 at a discounted rate, Cingular wouldn't let me buy another phone until my contract was up. I was amazed to learn this wasn't some sort of wacky urban legend.

Pleading my case to two different managers who just couldn't seem to grasp my annoyance helped matters none. Well, luckily for me the nonchalance will extend to my intent to switch back to Verizon at the end of the year.

Hey Cingular... can you hear me now?

Bitches.

Labels: frustration, mobile misery, rants

When exactly is VH-1 going to lay the decade retread franchise to rest already?

Seeing the usual suspects like the notorious J.E.W. Michael Ian Black, Rachael Harris, Mo Rocca and Hal Sparks act the plum fool gets my motor running just like all other nostalgia whores who can relate to the joys of this guilty pleasure, but even I'm reaching my fill of repetitive strolls down memory lane. First it was I Love The 80's, then I Love The 80's Strikes Back and now I Love The 80's in 3-D. What's next? In ColecoVision?

Just how long is it going to take Marc Cherry to rescue his brainchild from the abyss of sophomoric storyline hell? Desperate Housewives has gone from must-see TV to a barren wasteland in just one season. Teri Hatcher has devolved into an unwatchable caricature (another teary-eyed Susan/Mike breakup? Oh, that one's original...) and the George/Bree pairing is like Liza Minnelli and David Gest reincarnated. For the sake of sex with hired help, trim the fat and get back to what made it such a phenomenon right out the gate. Why the hell is Mary Alice still doing voiceover narration? Who cares about Alfre Woodard's character and shroud of mystery? (As much as it pains me to type that, the Betty Applewhite backstory is a write-off that serves no purpose.) Bring the lead actresses back together with the inclusion of Nicollette Sheridan for comic relief on a plot that includes everyone on Wisteria Lane. If none of the fab four seem to care what's going on next door, why as viewers should we?

Here's something else to pin on the ubiquitous mallrat of pop, Mariah Carey. Not only responsible for introducing a generation raised on American Idol how to perfect empty melisma, we can now peg the trend of packaged CD collections with the misleading title of #1's. Enter Destiny's Child. It's one thing to actually have a catalogue of tunes that have all hit the top spot like The Beatles, Elvis and so on, but only 4 chart toppers, a couple of blink-and-you-missed-it tracks and the rest chalked up as pointless filler does not a number one compilation make. I am so ready for the two props masquerading as group members to sit their asses down somewhere on a permanent vacation and for Seabiscuit to just get the wedding ring already from her camel in shining armor so the already prominent hips can make like Pillsbury dough mix and expand further. But if the godawful first single, Stand Up For Love (Diane Warren is as adept at penning shlock as Kate Lanier is as writing flop screenplays) wasn't painful enough, the gall to stamp a false seal of approval has me more baffled than Tina Knowles' costume choices.

Quote of the day: "It was very courageous of MTV to start the show with a genuine transvestite." - Sacha Baron Cohen on Madonna at the 2005 MTV European Music Awards

Labels: Destiny's Child, Madonna, music, rants, TV

When my supervisor pulls me aside for status updates on my workload and account briefings, it doesn't faze me in the least bit. However, when the director of my department buzzes me for a chat in her office without warning... well, let's just say that the proverbial stomach flip is an understatement.

It was about 3:20 this afternoon and I was deep into my midday haze of counting down how many hours were left and zoning out to Jules Massenet when the little blinking red button on my desk phone snapped me out of my "Calgon, take me away" daydream. Shit. It was the ice queen requesting my presence pronto. Fuck. me. hard. What did I do? What's gone wrong now?

I ran into the ladies room quickly to stall for time...my mind was a blur. Checked my teeth for any errant food particles left from the spinach salad at lunch, blotted my face and pulled back up the straps of the lace trimmed cami which was slipping down into a décolletage danger zone. Okay, relax. Inhale...exhale. I had to keep repeating the mantra of "you didn't screw up" in my head as I walked down the corridor.

When I approached the open door, my manager was already seated at her desk and she beckoned for me to join them. "Sit, sit!," she ordered in her authoritative tone. I had to concentrate on the traffic snaking up onto the FDR Drive behind her to bring my paranoia down a notch.

"Well, we called you in here because I just wanted to advise of something which is causing a bit of a problem."

Goddamnit.

"It's a bit trivial, but... your perfume is causing one of your colleagues' allergies to flare up. Would you mind terribly in nixing it?"

What in the fuck? This is the shit you called me in here for with the urgency of a four-alarm fire?

As I smiled placidly and heard myself agreeing to one more compromising position on the corporate plantation, the request alone had notched a lofty place in the Ripley's file folder of nonsensical encounters to date.

I noticed the ever-annoying loudmouthed prick Tom who sits right behind me had angled his neck to see my reaction when I strolled back to my cubicle. A chorus of sneezes began soon after. A-ha. So, it was the balding goombah who sold me up the river. Instead of just approaching me directly, the dickless wonder had to drag our boss's superior into the mix to relay a bullshit message not even worth an interoffice memo.

There are supposed adults who don't know how to walk and chew gum at the same time, grown ass women who haven't figured out that it's a requirement to flush the toilet in the bathroom and troglodytes who leave month-old hummus dip in their cabinets in my midst who float on a happy plane of ignorance... yet my Coco Mademoiselle gets the ax? Oh hell no.

When you reach a level of maturity in life, you force yourself to negotiate with folks you'd normally like to see pinned underneath the wheel of a bus. So I took the measured approach to resolving this issue. A not-so-veiled threat delivered as he scurried past me on the way out to catch the 6:24 ferry. I don't know what was more satisfying to see. The transparency of the "I don't know what you're talking about" excuses or seeing his eyes glaze over as I leaned in closer on purpose to reacquaint him with the scent of an irritated woman. I think I'll douse his chair with my atomizer as a thank-you.

Labels: rants

Why do Black folks get dressed up for the return of the never ending pasta bowl at Olive Garden but head to a job interview looking like it's free drinks before 11 at Speed?

Why is it when you're waiting on an elevator after pushing the button, the next genius comes along and presses it... again? Better yet, why do jackasses hop in without looking and then ask "is this up or down?"

With fall in full swing, why has the office practice of grown ass adults slangin' candy for their snot nosed brats now surpassed the trend of $1 Poland Springs and oversized "support our troops" ribbon magnets?

Why is it necessary to go to the Army to be all that you can be?

Why does the gargoyle face of David Ortiz send me scurrying for voodoo dolls and the nearest currandera on santeria practices to inflict a mysterious game time injury, yet I fantasize about Manny Ramirez grounding into a double play in between my thighs? (I know as the high priestess of pinstripes, I'm supposed to hate all things Boston... but it's downright sinful how this clod is making me weak lately) ...

Just take a good, hard glance at Exhibit A above right quick. Ladies (and a few fellas... how you doin'), I rest my case.

*crosses legs and squirms*

When is ESPN going to let go of their obvious distaste for my beloved Bombers? Impartial reporting, my ass.

Why am I not heading to Miami this weekend for Carnival? Dammit!

Why is it impossible to walk out of Target with ONE goddamn item? It's ridiculous how people debate the existence of Lucifer when their bullseye logo points you straight into the depths of consumer hell.

Why do I have to work on Columbus Day?! Private firms suck.

Of all the people Vanity Fair could've chosen to headline the "throw a dog bone" castoff hip-hop issue, they had to go with the shiny happy dim bulb, Beyoncé? WHY?!

Why won't the Jets ever get a pass on being on the receiving end of shit-out-of-luck situations?

Why do people call your phone and ask you "who's this?" Hell, you dialed me up!

Why do men still send their boy over to talk to you instead up growing some balls in doing it themselves?

When is the trend of pointless "don't worry, be happy" ditties on plastic bracelets going to die?

Feel free to keep the unsolvable equations going.

Labels: chaos theory, rants

It's always comforting to know that the ever efficient braintrust of the Metropolitan Transit Authority strive to go above and beyond in putting New Yorkers' needs first. Still basking in the afterglow of a $928 million windfall according to reports released from state comptroller Alan Hevesi (a difference of $95 million from their prior projections in July), what's next on the MTA's agenda for straphangers? More fines, of course! Just approved last Thursday in an unanimous vote among board members are $25 citations for the egregious offense of drinking coffee as well as changing cars mid-ride to the tune of $75. Caught wearing Rollerblades underground? That'll be $100, please.

The MTA left in place an existing ban on open containers and voted in favor of a $25 fine on the activity. The rule only applies to open containers on subways, and does not extend to platforms.

"If you're walking around with a steaming hot coffee on the 5 or the 4 train at 8:30 a.m., I would hope to hell the cop would give you a summons because you have no right to do that. It's not right and it's not courteous to your fellow passengers," said MTA Chairman Peter Kalikow.

"You still can't bring an open container and drink on the subway, as you couldn't in 1960, in 1950, in all the other years," said Kalikow.

So, just to be sure I've gotten this straight....it's peachy keen to be held hostage in a subway car with broken A/C, panhandlers shilling for spare change, evangelical apostles sent to spread the word that the world's gonna end because God sent a Blackberry message with the exact date, the stench of garbage dragged in shopping carts from the homeless and your garden variety psychos lurking among us all because of antiquated rules that now deem importance by the NYPD.

Well, to Peter Kalikow & Co., I offer a few of my personal pet peeves to the bargaining table which should merit compensatory recoups since they rely on a little thing you guys aren't too acquainted with and doesn't come a dime a dozen. Common fucking sense.

1. Future squeegie washers who disturb a fleeting moment of complex simplicity to request handouts because they're "not trying to raise money for no basketball team, school uniforms, etc., but to keep some money in their pocket for themselves to stay out of trouble" while doing backflips and the Harlem shake to blaring Neptunes beats should be tagged with flexicuffs at first glance of the incoming boombox. No questions asked.
2. Hefty motherfuckers who know good and goddamn well they require 2 seats need to have $4 deducted from their MetroCards right off the top. I can't tell you how many times I've been on the receiving end of some oompa loompa's hips rolling over onto me due to the "mind over matter" philosophy being taken a bit too literally.
3. Attention brothas: I know most of you are under the impression that you're carrying an anaconda in between your legs, but perception clearly isn't reality. There is no need to have your legs wide open in the ThighMaster position the entire time. I've done involuntary Kegels simply because the asshole next to me is contorting my lower body in more compromising positions than a pretzel.
4. To my Asian brethren, I got love for ya'll since those $1 batteries have been the hookup since '92, but a word to the wise...when you have over 3 plastic bags of produce, you'll be surcharged for the extras.
5. Can we please enforce a "three swipes and you're out" mandate which would be just desserts for the clueless wonders who can't keep track of their MetroCard balance? To the back of the line at crowded turnstiles with a line snaking up the stairs you go! Pole leaners, who deprive others from holding on while the train's swerving and screeching into the next stop at breakneck speed, would be forced off the train, or forced to ride in the middle of the car without anything or anyone to grip for balance. Loud talkers would be paired up next to anyone with their trap wide open, serenading riders with snores.

I speak for the common commuter who has had to endure the obligatory tourist with a nonexistent sense of direction who literally force you to get well acquainted with the number of facial pores visible since they'll drape themselves over you to decipher 7th Avenue vs. Lexington when the subway map is smack dab behind you. Are my demands unreasonable? Hardly, I'd say. Now stand clear of the closing doors and let's negotiate these terms, shall we?

Labels: rants

"Omigod, President Bush's helicopter is cruising outside!"

This sighting yesterday prompted all the merry minions to scurry from their cubicles and align themselves at the windows with uninterrupted sights of the Brooklyn Bridge and FDR Drive from our office. Choruses of "ooh's" and "ah's" just made me roll my eyes and continue working. I suppose my blatant indifference to the commander 'n thief's arrival for annual UN general summit meetings were blinking in neon letters because Al*, the resident GOP-flag bearer was incredulous that I had no intention of craning my neck to see what was happening. I politely demurred, but it seemed as if he needed to phone a friend to take a fucking hint. Little did he know I had a lifeline of my own in store.
It's at this point where I could suppress the Sista Souljah wanting to rage against the machine not a second longer and a bitch had to check this clueless cracker right quick.

Respect? You want me to pay respect to a drunken frat boy who hid out in the luxuries of Air Force One rather than heading down on the ground where people were dying in New Orleans? I'd really like to send my regards with a phlegm-laced token of appreciation for such a bang up job. How many Marlboro Lights do you think I'd have to chain smoke downstairs to hit my mucus quota?

Bullseye.

He skulked away from my desk back to the East River view, smirk full of smarm replaced with visible contempt of the "how dare that negress use that tone with me!" variety.

It's uneasy exchanges like these I've tried to avoid since Katrina wrought her fury. Simply because by and large, White people just don't fucking get it. My Kanye West moment happened out of the sheer repulsion of listening to these condescending assholes talk long enough to reveal what really lies beneath. And just as the hurricane ripped through cities to lay bare the ugliness of truths we've tried to sweep under the carpet, the apathy of White America has come squarely into focus in the aftermath of such a publicized cauldron that resurfaces about every decade without any real discourse to address the roots of the problem.

In the fallout of thousands from New Orleans and elsewhere along the Gulf Coast decimated by the destruction, fingers have been quick to point out class as the prevailing issue which left so many residents stranded without a way to escape. A not-so-clever tactic to walk on the eggshells of that dirty 4 letter word non-minorities avoid like the plague. RACE.

Who are the poor? With whites making up 72 percent of the population, the United States contains more poor whites than poor blacks or Hispanics. In fact, the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities reports that the increase in white poverty in nonurban areas accounts for most of the recent uptick in the poverty rate. But only a little more than 8 percent of American whites are poor, compared with 22 percent of Hispanics and nearly a quarter of all African-Americans (in a country that is 12 percent black). This represents a significant advance for blacks in recent decades, thanks to the growth of the black middle class, but it's still a shamefully high number. By contrast, immigration has sent poverty among Hispanics up, though it has not been as intractable for them across generations. - source, Newsweek.com [The Other America]

It's impossible to disconnect the complexities of race and class when weighing in on the repercussions of what went on in the Big Easy. The uncomfortable truth is that the color of one's skin not only determined how skewed press coverage would be in the mainstream media [ex: the now-infamous Yahoo! press photo captions, incessant loops of young Black men looting] but in how evacuees were being unwelcomed with not-so-open arms in nearby cities.

White suburban police closed at least one bridge to keep a group of blacks from fleeing to white areas. Over the course of two days, a white river-taxi operator from hard-hit St. Bernard Parish rescued scores of people from flooded areas and ferried them to safety. All were white. "A n--ger is a n--ger is a n--ger," he told a NEWSWEEK reporter. Then he said it again. When they did focus on race [in the aftermath], many Louisianans let their fears take over. Lines at gun stores in Baton Rouge, La., snaked out the door.

The new catchphrase of this debacle is "the blame game." As if pointing out the obvious for the sake of banding together for photo ops will do any good at this point. It's been said that the very definition of insanity is repeating the same mistakes and expecting a different result every time. Well, it's high time that America check itself into a psych ward because the self medications with dimestore salves instead of cold, hard therapy will ensure more casualties ahead to rouse the majority still wandering around eyes wide shut.

Labels: George W. Bush, Hurricane Katrina, race, rants