So, I think somewhere between fall of 2001 and last night, I lost my emotional virginity.
Seriously. I no longer feel optimism or excitement, and do not trust a word that comes out of the mouth of a heterosexual male. There was a time when it was all new and magical, and now I'm just like.... meh.
I had date # 2 with the Greek man last night.
We basically met up in front of Whole Paycheck--I mean Whole Foods-- with nothing planned. We met at 7pm-- clearly food hour-- and we ended up walking around the East Village and talking on a park bench.
Now, listen, I'm all down for living on the cheap-- and I respect the starving artist lifestyle (at least when you're actually foreign and broke, and not just going to the salvation army to beat all the poor people to the clothes), but I was looking too fine to be sitting on a park bench.
We did a lot of talking, and at one point a mildly drunk, 40-something-year-old Irishman walks by us. He's drinking red wine in a solo cup. He looks at the Greek demigod and says:
"Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but I want to say that you're a very handsome man. I hope when I grow up I'm as handsome as you are."
SEE HOW HOT HE IS????? HE MAKES INTOXICATED STRAIGHT MEN OPENLY GAY!!!!
Anyway, I'm cracking up at the absurdity of dating someone ridiculously good-looking (does this happen to hot people all the time???), when the Irishman turns to me and says, "You're gorgeous. You two are a very attractive couple. Are you a couple?"
I was flustered and confused by this. Not only was I now hot by association, but this complete stranger was calling out the status of our love on date deuce! I immediately put the kabosh on that. I say, "NO"..... just as El Greco says, "We're trying to be."
In the words of Nick Cearley in "Bernice Bobs Her Mullet": What an awkward moment!!!
I then scold the drunk for making things awkward and shoo him away. My date and I are left to marinate in our opposing views.
I don't know if it's something in the dolma, but the Greek man is blunt. He's, like, seriously so honest it's almost comical. On one hand, when he says, "I don't do anything I don't want to do," I can be sure he's on a date with me because he wants to be, and he's happy just sitting on a park bench and relishing in my nubianess. On the other hand, he will have no regard for my feelings and say whatever pops into his head. On my third hand (yes, I'm a three-handed circus freak), his honesty allows me to be just as TRUTHFUL, which you know I'm all about.
Later, in Union Square Park (yes, it was a hobo evening of park benches), the Greek asks me if I want to be his girlfriend.
DATE NUMBER 2, PEOPLE!!!
While I was flattered and turned on by the concept of commitment, I was taken aback by this suddeness. Much like the Whole Foods where we met, I like these things to happen organically. The man hasn't even seen me in my spectacles and retainer (yep, I'm classy)-- how can he be ready to handle my truths?!
I've decided he's like a puppy. An excited, fresh-from-the-pound golden retriever puppy, who is excited and jumps all over you and playfully licks in its quest to find an owner. While the energy and cuteness draws you in and makes you want to take him home and love him all night, he is still a canine. And like any puppy, he will inevitably crap on your carpet and need to be hit on the head with a rolled-up newspaper.
BAD, BAD, GREEK HOTTIE! YOU ARE MOVING TOO FAST!!
He called me today. Yes, about 14 hours later-- for someone without a cell phone, he certainly knows how to reach out and touch a sister-- and he will call me every day if I ask him to. And he will also grow his facial hair because I told him I liked the way it looked on our first date.
I guess I should be swooning, but I'm not. You would think a fine, tall, foreign glass of milk who is willing to do whatever I ask would be a dream come true, and yet I'm spent (like the money in his wallet must be if I can't even get a meal!).
I've got the mentality of a 40-year-old divorcee: cold, bitter, cynical, and feeling emotionally chubby. No matter how fine he may be, I just don't want someone all up in my George Foreman (grill) unless they can engage in thoughtful discourse on race, drink red wine, decipher my drunken texts, write sonnets in iambic pentameter, and sit with me and watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of the Ooze. Oh yeah, and if they have to STAY IN MY TIME ZONE.
I worry that someone who can start an exclusive relationship after 2 dates may be a bit fickle in his affections. Am I wrong? Leave an opinion.
And, here's another question: If you could be a Ninja Turtle, which one would you be???
I think I'd be Raphael, the angsty one.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Bernice Bobs Her Mullet
As a woman of color and a writer, it is behoovy of me to attend as many theatrical events as possible. I especially love a good musical (perhaps it's because of the spirituals of my ancestors), and last week I attended one of the greatest musicals of our time: BERNICE BOBS HER MULLET.
It's like "Mean Girls" meets "Jerry Springer" in its sassiness and white trashery. It's the story of Bernice, a po' white girl (so broke she can't afford the "o" or the "r") who longs to leave her small town of Eau Claire, Arkansas, and see the big city. In this case the big city is Little Rock!!!
This is when you know you're in for a treat. As Bernice sings about the "culture shock in Little Rock," I begin clapping like a cracked out toddler. My excitement is further compounded by the fact that I am attending this event with three of the most attractive gay men I've ever seen (other than Isiah Washington, of course). I am sitting next to my crush, Tumbles (I give them all names, kind of like Flava Flav on 'Flavor of Love'), and I am in heaven! We are there to support a friend in the production, actor Nick Cearley. I don't know Nick that well, but after viewing 'Trapped in the Closet' with him, a love affair was born.
Now, after seeing him in "Bernice Bobs Her Mullet," I'm prepared to be his beard, his best woman when he gets gay married, and donate my womb as a surrogate. He is the greatest actor of our time. I believe I squeezed Tumbles' bulging bicep as soon as Nick began to sing the song "What An Awkward Moment."
YES! Finally, a writer has been clever enough to put a lyrical spin on my favorite character trait.
Cearley's acting chops were put to the test when he had to accompany this musical magic with the unneccessary use of jazz hands. It takes a true actor to pull off choreography meant for a 3rd grade girl scout troop.
I would have to say the show's highlight was the musical extravaganza lead by actor Jeff Hiller, who played a fundamentalist Christian preacher named Draycott Deyo.... or however a weird name like that is spelled. Hiller is 6-feet 5 inches tall, gay as the day is long, and funnier than a barrel of monkeys. Give him the accompaniment of song (and the clever use of tambourines and African dance moves as backup), and he simply lights up a stage. And my heart.
Tumbles was thrown by my excitement as I grabbed his testicles in a fit of glee.
There was also the requisite bitchy girl, cousin Marjorie, who can't stand Bernice's white trash ways (little does Marjorie know, she's trashy herself. And a bit of a slut-- which we can infer by the fact that she sings the climax of a song while doing cartwheels and a series of rotating splits, which most likely chafed her vajay-jay). Marjorie's musical moment was the hit song, "I Hate Myself," which was simply brilliant. Marjorie explains to Bernice that if she wants to fit in among the rich elite of Little Rock, it is best to "hate yourself to recreate yourself."
SO TRUE.
Nothing gets a fatty off the couch and on an elliptical like self-loathing.
The lessons provided by this musical are too numerous to mention in one post. I suggest you find a way to see it (hold the cast hostage and force them to reenact it if you have to) and experience the magic for yourself. I also had the pleasure of meeting the writer/elite gay visionary Joe Major (whom I now have a major crush on-- PUNS!), to whom I expressed my awe and desire for negroes in the production. You know a show is good when Sojo wants it to go multi-culti.
I am going to start a petition demanding that "Bernice Bobs Her Mullet" receive an extended run on the great Broad-way in January 2008. I think it's time the NYC tourists saw their lives on the stage, instead of all those damn spelling bees.
It's like "Mean Girls" meets "Jerry Springer" in its sassiness and white trashery. It's the story of Bernice, a po' white girl (so broke she can't afford the "o" or the "r") who longs to leave her small town of Eau Claire, Arkansas, and see the big city. In this case the big city is Little Rock!!!
This is when you know you're in for a treat. As Bernice sings about the "culture shock in Little Rock," I begin clapping like a cracked out toddler. My excitement is further compounded by the fact that I am attending this event with three of the most attractive gay men I've ever seen (other than Isiah Washington, of course). I am sitting next to my crush, Tumbles (I give them all names, kind of like Flava Flav on 'Flavor of Love'), and I am in heaven! We are there to support a friend in the production, actor Nick Cearley. I don't know Nick that well, but after viewing 'Trapped in the Closet' with him, a love affair was born.
Now, after seeing him in "Bernice Bobs Her Mullet," I'm prepared to be his beard, his best woman when he gets gay married, and donate my womb as a surrogate. He is the greatest actor of our time. I believe I squeezed Tumbles' bulging bicep as soon as Nick began to sing the song "What An Awkward Moment."
YES! Finally, a writer has been clever enough to put a lyrical spin on my favorite character trait.
Cearley's acting chops were put to the test when he had to accompany this musical magic with the unneccessary use of jazz hands. It takes a true actor to pull off choreography meant for a 3rd grade girl scout troop.
I would have to say the show's highlight was the musical extravaganza lead by actor Jeff Hiller, who played a fundamentalist Christian preacher named Draycott Deyo.... or however a weird name like that is spelled. Hiller is 6-feet 5 inches tall, gay as the day is long, and funnier than a barrel of monkeys. Give him the accompaniment of song (and the clever use of tambourines and African dance moves as backup), and he simply lights up a stage. And my heart.
Tumbles was thrown by my excitement as I grabbed his testicles in a fit of glee.
There was also the requisite bitchy girl, cousin Marjorie, who can't stand Bernice's white trash ways (little does Marjorie know, she's trashy herself. And a bit of a slut-- which we can infer by the fact that she sings the climax of a song while doing cartwheels and a series of rotating splits, which most likely chafed her vajay-jay). Marjorie's musical moment was the hit song, "I Hate Myself," which was simply brilliant. Marjorie explains to Bernice that if she wants to fit in among the rich elite of Little Rock, it is best to "hate yourself to recreate yourself."
SO TRUE.
Nothing gets a fatty off the couch and on an elliptical like self-loathing.
The lessons provided by this musical are too numerous to mention in one post. I suggest you find a way to see it (hold the cast hostage and force them to reenact it if you have to) and experience the magic for yourself. I also had the pleasure of meeting the writer/elite gay visionary Joe Major (whom I now have a major crush on-- PUNS!), to whom I expressed my awe and desire for negroes in the production. You know a show is good when Sojo wants it to go multi-culti.
I am going to start a petition demanding that "Bernice Bobs Her Mullet" receive an extended run on the great Broad-way in January 2008. I think it's time the NYC tourists saw their lives on the stage, instead of all those damn spelling bees.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
He's So Hot-- BOOM!
OH. MY. GOD.
So, I had my date with the Greek man last night, guys.
I am still swooning.
Ok, seriously: Is it wrong to want to marry someone simply because they are hotter than Sanaa Lathan making out with Halle Berry while Denzel Washington watches? (That’s a triple threat of hotness, in case you didn't get that)
He is classically handsome. So hot, he probably shouldn’t be allowed to walk around normal society. I think I want to put him in a cage and just poke him. And take him out for feedings.... OF SEX.He's so hot, he could be a part-time model (and you know how I love those). He could be a gigolo-- and with that accent?! He could make many unhappily married moneyed wives very satisfied.
But is there such a thing as too hot? As I’ve said in previous posts, being too hot can be dangerous. When we were walking together I felt fear—I mean, more than just the general, Oh-lord-some-black-man-is-going-to-give-me-dagger-eyes-for-dating-this-white-boy fear. I was worried that pretty girls would come up to me and punch me, steal my wallet, then use my money to take the Greek god out to dinner.
Is that silly?
The only thing that made me feel superior to (and thereby good enough for) him is the fact that English is his second language. His linguistic foibles are so endearing. When he was trying to impress me with the books he likes to read (philosophy, religion, the classics—YAWN!), I responded with: So, you’re no fun and don’t like laughter?
To which he replied, “No, I’m just trying to impress you. I like to joke around. I have a very black sense of humor.” Huh? By “black humor,” does he mean like Sanford & Son or Def Comedy Jam?
OH! He means “dark humor,” like sarcastic and morbid—teehee, oh foreign man!
Every now and then he’d grasp for a word, and I would feel like a secret genius, ready to aid his foreign mind with my knowledge of complex adjectives.
But language can be learned. Sayings and turns of phrase can be placed in context.
But hotness is a gift. A genetic gift. Despite his euro jacket (very…. 80s MJ, circa "Thriller"), his hotness was clear as day—and even more so without the fedora (see previous post). His hotness reminded me of this song I love, by Flight of the Conchords. It’s called “She’s So Hot…BOOM!” In the first line, singer Bret Mackenzie says, “She’s so hot, she’s like a curry. If I tell her she’s hot, will she think I’m sexist? She’s so hot she’s making me sexist. Bitch.” See for yourself.
I know exactly how he feels. Who's the Boom King? Greek God is the Boom King!
So, date #1 ended with plans for date #2, which will take place on Saturday. What to wear?! What to do?!
Did I also mention that he doesn’t drink alcohol and DOESN’T OWN A CELL PHONE? He’s my very own Antiques Roadshow. A foreign, ridiculously good looking episode of Antiques Roadshow.
So, I had my date with the Greek man last night, guys.
I am still swooning.
Ok, seriously: Is it wrong to want to marry someone simply because they are hotter than Sanaa Lathan making out with Halle Berry while Denzel Washington watches? (That’s a triple threat of hotness, in case you didn't get that)
He is classically handsome. So hot, he probably shouldn’t be allowed to walk around normal society. I think I want to put him in a cage and just poke him. And take him out for feedings.... OF SEX.He's so hot, he could be a part-time model (and you know how I love those). He could be a gigolo-- and with that accent?! He could make many unhappily married moneyed wives very satisfied.
But is there such a thing as too hot? As I’ve said in previous posts, being too hot can be dangerous. When we were walking together I felt fear—I mean, more than just the general, Oh-lord-some-black-man-is-going-to-give-me-dagger-eyes-for-dating-this-white-boy fear. I was worried that pretty girls would come up to me and punch me, steal my wallet, then use my money to take the Greek god out to dinner.
Is that silly?
The only thing that made me feel superior to (and thereby good enough for) him is the fact that English is his second language. His linguistic foibles are so endearing. When he was trying to impress me with the books he likes to read (philosophy, religion, the classics—YAWN!), I responded with: So, you’re no fun and don’t like laughter?
To which he replied, “No, I’m just trying to impress you. I like to joke around. I have a very black sense of humor.” Huh? By “black humor,” does he mean like Sanford & Son or Def Comedy Jam?
OH! He means “dark humor,” like sarcastic and morbid—teehee, oh foreign man!
Every now and then he’d grasp for a word, and I would feel like a secret genius, ready to aid his foreign mind with my knowledge of complex adjectives.
But language can be learned. Sayings and turns of phrase can be placed in context.
But hotness is a gift. A genetic gift. Despite his euro jacket (very…. 80s MJ, circa "Thriller"), his hotness was clear as day—and even more so without the fedora (see previous post). His hotness reminded me of this song I love, by Flight of the Conchords. It’s called “She’s So Hot…BOOM!” In the first line, singer Bret Mackenzie says, “She’s so hot, she’s like a curry. If I tell her she’s hot, will she think I’m sexist? She’s so hot she’s making me sexist. Bitch.” See for yourself.
I know exactly how he feels. Who's the Boom King? Greek God is the Boom King!
So, date #1 ended with plans for date #2, which will take place on Saturday. What to wear?! What to do?!
Did I also mention that he doesn’t drink alcohol and DOESN’T OWN A CELL PHONE? He’s my very own Antiques Roadshow. A foreign, ridiculously good looking episode of Antiques Roadshow.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
A Conversation Among Heteros
Litsa: Where did he meet his boyfriend?
Me: At a bar.
Litsa: A bar? Wow. It's really so unfairly lucky to be a gay man.
Mind you, this conversation is taking place via g-chat as I read a catalog sent to me by accident by Godiva Chocolatier.
Me: At a bar.
Litsa: A bar? Wow. It's really so unfairly lucky to be a gay man.
Mind you, this conversation is taking place via g-chat as I read a catalog sent to me by accident by Godiva Chocolatier.
Black Aphrodite
Today, I’d like to talk about the foreign man.
I know I’ve mentioned him before, but things are really starting to get out of control. They just can’t get enough of the blacktress!
Saturday night (fully sober… ish), I was heading home on the train shortly after 2 am. This is something I never do at such an hour—especially when my meal tickets are on display and I’m looking grown and sexy. But I was feeling confident in the crowd waiting at the 2nd avenue station.
As I’m waiting, I notice an attractive glass of milk waiting for the train as well. I thought we looked at each other a couple of times, but by 2 am, my game was shot. I wasn’t even trying to smile then look away (that’s how I do, y’all!). In true crazy MTA fashion, an E train pulls into the F/V station. I get on it anyway, too tired to argue with the transit system’s madness. The attractive glass of milk enters and asks if the train is going to Queens. Between his accent and need to go to the outer boroughs in the wee hours of the morning, I knew he was foreign.
Oh, I should also mention that he was wearing a pinstriped fedora, much like this one:
I can often tell a foreign man by his accessories and/or number of buttons undone on his shirt. About a month ago, getting on the B train (hm… why do so many of my foreign encounters happen underground?…. The railroad to the freedom and free love!), I noticed a bald man making eyes at me. I then notice he’s wearing, like, 3 rings (none of them a wedding band—holla!), and I knew he had to be “the other.” On the train, we are forced together by rush hour crowding and I ask him where he’s from. He tells me he’s from Venice, Italy… before telling me I’m beautiful and should come visit him.
The rings don’t lie… much like hips.
Anyway, back to my current foreign correspondent: he tells me he’s from Greece and he’s an artist. I use my art magazine lingo and intellect to name-drop professors who work at the school where he studies. I also give him my business email, in case he wants to send me his work. The convo is effortless. Apparently, I’ve got more game than Milton Bradley, even at 3 in the am! We even start speaking in Spanish, so you know he’s down with the multi-culti flavor.
When I start to exit the station so that I can catch a cab due to train malfunction, he actually comes out of the subway and waits with me!* What?! I had no idea what was happening. When I insisted that he not miss his train, he said, “No, let me be a gentleman.”
A what?
I’ve heard tell of these “gentlemen,” but (as you know from so many posts) so rarely meet them. See, they don’t raise men right in our homeland. A stranger would never escort a lady out of the subway unless he wanted to drag her to a back alley and put her soon-to-be-severed head in a bag.
This is one more reason I’ve got to get out of America.
So, like, I know I can't put all my eggs in this foreign basket, but I'm not asking for much. I just want him to draw me a la Jack and Rose in Titanic, and take me to his homeland where I will become Black Aphrodite.
* Do you know three cabs REFUSED to take me to Harlem as I tried to get home?! The Greek man had to actually ask the fourth driver to, “take this beautiful woman home so she can sleep.” You know this world is too hot of a mess!
I know I’ve mentioned him before, but things are really starting to get out of control. They just can’t get enough of the blacktress!
Saturday night (fully sober… ish), I was heading home on the train shortly after 2 am. This is something I never do at such an hour—especially when my meal tickets are on display and I’m looking grown and sexy. But I was feeling confident in the crowd waiting at the 2nd avenue station.
As I’m waiting, I notice an attractive glass of milk waiting for the train as well. I thought we looked at each other a couple of times, but by 2 am, my game was shot. I wasn’t even trying to smile then look away (that’s how I do, y’all!). In true crazy MTA fashion, an E train pulls into the F/V station. I get on it anyway, too tired to argue with the transit system’s madness. The attractive glass of milk enters and asks if the train is going to Queens. Between his accent and need to go to the outer boroughs in the wee hours of the morning, I knew he was foreign.
Oh, I should also mention that he was wearing a pinstriped fedora, much like this one:
I can often tell a foreign man by his accessories and/or number of buttons undone on his shirt. About a month ago, getting on the B train (hm… why do so many of my foreign encounters happen underground?…. The railroad to the freedom and free love!), I noticed a bald man making eyes at me. I then notice he’s wearing, like, 3 rings (none of them a wedding band—holla!), and I knew he had to be “the other.” On the train, we are forced together by rush hour crowding and I ask him where he’s from. He tells me he’s from Venice, Italy… before telling me I’m beautiful and should come visit him.
The rings don’t lie… much like hips.
Anyway, back to my current foreign correspondent: he tells me he’s from Greece and he’s an artist. I use my art magazine lingo and intellect to name-drop professors who work at the school where he studies. I also give him my business email, in case he wants to send me his work. The convo is effortless. Apparently, I’ve got more game than Milton Bradley, even at 3 in the am! We even start speaking in Spanish, so you know he’s down with the multi-culti flavor.
When I start to exit the station so that I can catch a cab due to train malfunction, he actually comes out of the subway and waits with me!* What?! I had no idea what was happening. When I insisted that he not miss his train, he said, “No, let me be a gentleman.”
A what?
I’ve heard tell of these “gentlemen,” but (as you know from so many posts) so rarely meet them. See, they don’t raise men right in our homeland. A stranger would never escort a lady out of the subway unless he wanted to drag her to a back alley and put her soon-to-be-severed head in a bag.
This is one more reason I’ve got to get out of America.
So, like, I know I can't put all my eggs in this foreign basket, but I'm not asking for much. I just want him to draw me a la Jack and Rose in Titanic, and take me to his homeland where I will become Black Aphrodite.
* Do you know three cabs REFUSED to take me to Harlem as I tried to get home?! The Greek man had to actually ask the fourth driver to, “take this beautiful woman home so she can sleep.” You know this world is too hot of a mess!
Friday, September 21, 2007
Heels and Faggoty Attention
I'm wearing high heels today.
I feel different.
My calves look like two twizzlers and feel just as strong.
It's funny, cause people totally think I'm a fancy lady now. As I was walking across 8th street, this homeless man said, "Hey, good looking. Someone's got a million bucks!"
I guess when you're homeless, it seems like everyone has a million bucks compared to you-- but I still think it's because of my fancy shoes. They're black patent leather wedges. I'm also wearing a dress, which is out of control! OMG! PLAYING GENDER!
Speaking of "playing gender," this video was brought to my attention by one of my main gays. His email said: "If you really love your fans, you'll share this with them." And since I really love everyone, I figured I'd pass this on.
It both entertains and excites me. I think I may love Adam Joseph. It's about a group of sassy gay men flirting and impressively dancing for a straight man. It's called FAGGOTY ATTENTION. I think my favorite is the pre-song cell phone call, where Adam says he's "here with my girls." But they're guys. Get it? Gender is a performance. Like my high heels.
That's what we call a tie-in, people.
I feel different.
My calves look like two twizzlers and feel just as strong.
It's funny, cause people totally think I'm a fancy lady now. As I was walking across 8th street, this homeless man said, "Hey, good looking. Someone's got a million bucks!"
I guess when you're homeless, it seems like everyone has a million bucks compared to you-- but I still think it's because of my fancy shoes. They're black patent leather wedges. I'm also wearing a dress, which is out of control! OMG! PLAYING GENDER!
Speaking of "playing gender," this video was brought to my attention by one of my main gays. His email said: "If you really love your fans, you'll share this with them." And since I really love everyone, I figured I'd pass this on.
It both entertains and excites me. I think I may love Adam Joseph. It's about a group of sassy gay men flirting and impressively dancing for a straight man. It's called FAGGOTY ATTENTION. I think my favorite is the pre-song cell phone call, where Adam says he's "here with my girls." But they're guys. Get it? Gender is a performance. Like my high heels.
That's what we call a tie-in, people.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Can She Make it Anymore Obvious?
So, I kind of detest Avril Lavigne.
I just wish she didn't think she was so clever and interesting. She's just not. I am. She's not. I've decided these are facts. Example? Lyrics from the hit song "SK8er Boi":
She was a girl/ He was a boy/ Can I make it anymore obvious?/ He was a punk/ She did ballet?/ What more can I say?
Um.... what?
There's so much more she could say. The question is, can she make it any more heteronormative?
Yet for some reason, she is famous and I am forced to hear her off-pitch voice screeching in my ears.
The latest assault: "When You're Gone." I saw the video for the first time this morning. As the title indicates, it's about missing someone you love and wanting them back. My first problem came when I saw the three relationships that are meant to epitomize feelings of longing:
1. an elderly man whose wife has just died.
2. a preppy girl torn from the arms of her punk-ish boyfriend by her harsh mother. (um, SK8er Boi part 2, anyone?)
3. a pregnant woman whose husband is overseas in Iraq.
How Avril can even think missing some dude is the same as an old man losing his only love and preparing to go to her funeral is beyond me. Is this some attempt to appeal to the AARP crowd? I don't think it's gonna happen, April-- yeah, I'm calling her April. F this quirky S.
I am also sick and tired of seeing Iraq on commercial television. For some reason, I find it so offensive-- kinda like the movies Amistad and the television miniseries Roots. There are certain atrocities that cannot be rendered on film in an attempt to "give us access." Nothing you can create that requires a commercial break can accurately portray the suffering-- or reality-- of historical OR CURRENT events. It's just so rude.
I digress.
At the end of the video, the old man goes to his wife's funeral, the preppy girl survives, and the pregnant wife, worried sick over her husband, finds out she's all right. YAY!
My problem with this is:
The pregnant woman finds out her husband is all right VIA TEXT MESSAGE! It reads:
I'm okay. I miss u.
Um... can we get text messages from Iraq?
If so, then we should be getting a whole lot more information.
Do the soldiers have unlimited nights and weekends, too?
Why are we having children send poorly written, inspirational construction paper creations via snail mail if they've got the T-Mobile text plan?
If they can text and keep in touch, is Avril implying that the war isn't so bad after all?
Is Avril Lavigne a Canadian supporter of George Bush?
See for yourself. And think about it.
I just wish she didn't think she was so clever and interesting. She's just not. I am. She's not. I've decided these are facts. Example? Lyrics from the hit song "SK8er Boi":
She was a girl/ He was a boy/ Can I make it anymore obvious?/ He was a punk/ She did ballet?/ What more can I say?
Um.... what?
There's so much more she could say. The question is, can she make it any more heteronormative?
Yet for some reason, she is famous and I am forced to hear her off-pitch voice screeching in my ears.
The latest assault: "When You're Gone." I saw the video for the first time this morning. As the title indicates, it's about missing someone you love and wanting them back. My first problem came when I saw the three relationships that are meant to epitomize feelings of longing:
1. an elderly man whose wife has just died.
2. a preppy girl torn from the arms of her punk-ish boyfriend by her harsh mother. (um, SK8er Boi part 2, anyone?)
3. a pregnant woman whose husband is overseas in Iraq.
How Avril can even think missing some dude is the same as an old man losing his only love and preparing to go to her funeral is beyond me. Is this some attempt to appeal to the AARP crowd? I don't think it's gonna happen, April-- yeah, I'm calling her April. F this quirky S.
I am also sick and tired of seeing Iraq on commercial television. For some reason, I find it so offensive-- kinda like the movies Amistad and the television miniseries Roots. There are certain atrocities that cannot be rendered on film in an attempt to "give us access." Nothing you can create that requires a commercial break can accurately portray the suffering-- or reality-- of historical OR CURRENT events. It's just so rude.
I digress.
At the end of the video, the old man goes to his wife's funeral, the preppy girl survives, and the pregnant wife, worried sick over her husband, finds out she's all right. YAY!
My problem with this is:
The pregnant woman finds out her husband is all right VIA TEXT MESSAGE! It reads:
I'm okay. I miss u.
Um... can we get text messages from Iraq?
If so, then we should be getting a whole lot more information.
Do the soldiers have unlimited nights and weekends, too?
Why are we having children send poorly written, inspirational construction paper creations via snail mail if they've got the T-Mobile text plan?
If they can text and keep in touch, is Avril implying that the war isn't so bad after all?
Is Avril Lavigne a Canadian supporter of George Bush?
See for yourself. And think about it.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
I Wish I Was Still Writing Film Papers
Have you seen that movie "Village of the Damned"? It is a remake of a 1960s film made in 1995, and stars Kirstie Alley and Christopher Reeve. It's about this small town that suffers from a blackout, after which all the women in the town simultaneously become pregnant with alien spawn.
Yeah, I know, it's pretty great.
In the town meeting-- yes, in 1995 there were still towns small enough to hold meetings-- Kirstie (who plays a doctor-- hahah, I thought she owned a bar!) says that the government wants to study them and is offering to give each woman $3,000 a month if she carries her child to term.
that it was too late for the townspeople of Midwich.
Yeah, I know, it's pretty great.
Clearly, people know something's awry when everyone gets pregnant on the same day. And, as one woman eerily notes, "The Roberts' girl was a virgin."
Dun-dun-dun!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (is that how you write scary music?)
In the town meeting-- yes, in 1995 there were still towns small enough to hold meetings-- Kirstie (who plays a doctor-- hahah, I thought she owned a bar!) says that the government wants to study them and is offering to give each woman $3,000 a month if she carries her child to term.
I find this film to be a period piece, with it's quaint, small-town setting, and Kirstie's shoulder pads. See below:
Anyway, I think what I love about this movie is that the alien babies are all Aryan visions of wonder, almost to the point of being Albino terrors. Even the Asian woman's baby comes out looking like Hitler's wet dream. Clearly, this should have been the first sign that these children were up to no good.
But, as you know, if it's white, it's right, so it took a lot of violent acts for the parents to realize that the kids were evil monsters sent from a far off planet to take over earth. It wasn't until they did this:
that it was too late for the townspeople of Midwich.These kids used to appear to me in my nightmares.
What I noticed this time around is that the first two people to be killed in this film were Asian women. I wonder what John Carpenter is trying to say here. Does he hate Asians?!
I think so.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Friday Night (Amstel) Lights
So I woke up at 10 am Saturday morning.
In a bed that wasn't mine own.
And I wasn't wearing any pants.
I jumped up and turned over to find Litsa, my ultimate savior and soul sister, asleep next to me. Of all the beds to wake up in, I can only thank my lucky stars that I wasn't next to some strange clergyman feeling oddly violated.
The last thing I remember is using the restroom with Colin's boyfriend, Jon, around 1 am. Prior to that, a bald man in a suit bought me a drank, much in the style of T-Pain.
Wait, does this sound like a bad Lifetime movie? No, I don't think it was. Though blacking out-- wait, no WHITING OUT*-- was uncharacteristic, I don't think he raised the roofie. Recounting my evening, I had about 9 dranks. 9! And I don't play football and I'm a dainty lady.
So, I woke up to find that my pants were in a pile on the floor and they were soaking wet. Why? Litsa and I don't know. What she was able to tell me was this:
1. We left the bar around 1:30, where the bald man told her not to let me leave, as I was the prettiest girl there. She then asked him if we were related-- which wouldn't be surprising given my week.
2. Apparently, instead of being put in a cab home (as we should have been), a friend took us to another bar, where he bought us two Amstel lights and sat us down while he hung out with a group of his friends. Yep-- we were "those girls." Now, when I discovered this, I knew I must have been out of my mind-- an Amstel... light?! Not only do I not drink beer, I do not believe in light beer as a concept. I asked Litsa if I actually consumed said "beverage," and she said yes. This is when I should have been given smelling salts.
3. There was a box of instant macaroni and cheese on her dresser. We had purchased this around 3 am at a bodega. Why, I do not know. We can only be thankful we did not attempt to cook this macaroni and cheese.
4. As I walk around her apt, searching in vain for my wallet, I notice my right calf and left hip are swollen and sore. Apparently, I fell.... several times.
5. Luckily, I have my house keys and cell phone. I look in my phone and see several text messages from a tall man I'd met earlier, asking me where I was. Apparently, I had texted him and we were scheduled to meet up.
Who am I?
Litsa then tells me I called him in the cab on the way to her house-- what did I say? Mystery number 37 of the night.
I offer to buy Litsa brunch, and discover that my entire wallet is missing. Debit card, metrocard, license. Shoot me now.
I finally make it home, after dealing with Bank of America (well, when you're on 125th street, it's Bank of African America) about a new card, and see the following text message from Litsa: "Mystery #50 of the night.... blood on my tv."
Did we kill a man just to watch him die?
I have no idea what the hell went on.
I then get a call on Saturday evening from a Turkish man named Onur who doesn't speak much English. He wants to hang out with me.
Um..... help?
I also get a text message from a unidentified number:
"Sorry about last night and for calling so late."
I write back: "It's okay, who is this?"
The sender replies: "Dan."
Dan is someone I kissed about 2.5 weeks ago at a club on the Lower East Side. What he said to me at 1:45 am Friday night is, of course, another unknown.
In an attempt to take Saturday night slowly and soberly, I prepare to head home early from a club. Who do I pass on my way out but my EX BOYFRIEND, who I haven't seen in 7 months. He is an Israeli, vegan, investment banker who did a semester at a black college.
Needless to say, I'm a hot mess. It's 9:30 am and I'm blogging because I am unable to sleep.
And my Australian lover hasn't emailed me back. It's been 4 days. He works as a web designer, so we all know he's on the computer/internet all the live-long day!
Apparently, SoTru got a little too truthful in her last email.
If anyone wants to hug me, I would greatly appreciate it. I need a tender touch.
*that's what SoTru's calling it now-- I'm boycotting the association of blackness with bad things. Besides, it's like someone covered up the last three hours of my night, much in the way White Out covers penmanship errors.
In a bed that wasn't mine own.
And I wasn't wearing any pants.
I jumped up and turned over to find Litsa, my ultimate savior and soul sister, asleep next to me. Of all the beds to wake up in, I can only thank my lucky stars that I wasn't next to some strange clergyman feeling oddly violated.
The last thing I remember is using the restroom with Colin's boyfriend, Jon, around 1 am. Prior to that, a bald man in a suit bought me a drank, much in the style of T-Pain.
Wait, does this sound like a bad Lifetime movie? No, I don't think it was. Though blacking out-- wait, no WHITING OUT*-- was uncharacteristic, I don't think he raised the roofie. Recounting my evening, I had about 9 dranks. 9! And I don't play football and I'm a dainty lady.
So, I woke up to find that my pants were in a pile on the floor and they were soaking wet. Why? Litsa and I don't know. What she was able to tell me was this:
1. We left the bar around 1:30, where the bald man told her not to let me leave, as I was the prettiest girl there. She then asked him if we were related-- which wouldn't be surprising given my week.
2. Apparently, instead of being put in a cab home (as we should have been), a friend took us to another bar, where he bought us two Amstel lights and sat us down while he hung out with a group of his friends. Yep-- we were "those girls." Now, when I discovered this, I knew I must have been out of my mind-- an Amstel... light?! Not only do I not drink beer, I do not believe in light beer as a concept. I asked Litsa if I actually consumed said "beverage," and she said yes. This is when I should have been given smelling salts.
3. There was a box of instant macaroni and cheese on her dresser. We had purchased this around 3 am at a bodega. Why, I do not know. We can only be thankful we did not attempt to cook this macaroni and cheese.
4. As I walk around her apt, searching in vain for my wallet, I notice my right calf and left hip are swollen and sore. Apparently, I fell.... several times.
5. Luckily, I have my house keys and cell phone. I look in my phone and see several text messages from a tall man I'd met earlier, asking me where I was. Apparently, I had texted him and we were scheduled to meet up.
Who am I?
Litsa then tells me I called him in the cab on the way to her house-- what did I say? Mystery number 37 of the night.
I offer to buy Litsa brunch, and discover that my entire wallet is missing. Debit card, metrocard, license. Shoot me now.
I finally make it home, after dealing with Bank of America (well, when you're on 125th street, it's Bank of African America) about a new card, and see the following text message from Litsa: "Mystery #50 of the night.... blood on my tv."
Did we kill a man just to watch him die?
I have no idea what the hell went on.
I then get a call on Saturday evening from a Turkish man named Onur who doesn't speak much English. He wants to hang out with me.
Um..... help?
I also get a text message from a unidentified number:
"Sorry about last night and for calling so late."
I write back: "It's okay, who is this?"
The sender replies: "Dan."
Dan is someone I kissed about 2.5 weeks ago at a club on the Lower East Side. What he said to me at 1:45 am Friday night is, of course, another unknown.
In an attempt to take Saturday night slowly and soberly, I prepare to head home early from a club. Who do I pass on my way out but my EX BOYFRIEND, who I haven't seen in 7 months. He is an Israeli, vegan, investment banker who did a semester at a black college.
Needless to say, I'm a hot mess. It's 9:30 am and I'm blogging because I am unable to sleep.
And my Australian lover hasn't emailed me back. It's been 4 days. He works as a web designer, so we all know he's on the computer/internet all the live-long day!
Apparently, SoTru got a little too truthful in her last email.
If anyone wants to hug me, I would greatly appreciate it. I need a tender touch.
*that's what SoTru's calling it now-- I'm boycotting the association of blackness with bad things. Besides, it's like someone covered up the last three hours of my night, much in the way White Out covers penmanship errors.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Trapped in the CLUTCHES OF R. KELLY!
I have come to one conclusion this weekend:
R. Kelly is an egomaniacal genius.
Yes, I watched the latest installment of his urban opera-- a.ka. 'hip-hopera'-- 'Trapped in the Closet.'
And I don't think I've had so many emotional orgasms in one hour.
Chapters 13-22 begin with what may be the greatest recap in the history of cinema and television. First of all, R. Kelly is dressed in a blindingly white suit-- he is a black angel Gabriel. As he comments on the action thus far, he uses the refrain "Oh SHIT!!"-- Which is exactly how the viewer feels with each twist and turn.
LOOK!!! It's THREE R. Kellys! And they are all saying "OH SHIT!!" And I'm sitting there, going "OH SHIT!" not only because TITC is so intense, but because there are now THREE R. KELLYS for my eyes to feast upon!!!Anyway, after the recap, we are brought to 13, where Sylvester and Twan "embark on a serious errand." I am on the edge of the couch-- not only due to the drinking game that I've invented, which requires you take a sip of your DRANK every time someone brandishes a barretta--but because Twan is one of the most capable can-do ex-convicts I've ever seen. Any mission he's on has to be for serious. In chapter 5(ish), Twan comes to his sister Gwendolyn's house straight from his 3-year prison stint, only to be shot in the scuffle between Sylvester and the policeman. As Gwendolyn says, "my brother's been through alot/and now to come home from prison and get shot," we instantly feel sympathy for this innocent bystander-- and this sympathy becomes awe as Twan refuses to go to a hospital to tend to his gunshot wound. He simply asks for the bathroom, where, in a McGuyver-esque fashion, he cleans and covers his beefy arm with gauze.
Clearly, Twan spent those three years in prison studying for the MCATs and getting an associate's degree in nursing. And doing bicep curls.
As Sly drives, Twan begins to roll a marijuana cigarette-- much to Sylvester's dismay. "Man, you must be crazier than a fish with titties if you think you're gonna smoke that in here," he sings.
Yes. Re-read that again. CRAZIER THAN A FISH WITH TITTIES. This is the only phrase I will ever use to describe something ridiculous again.
Anyway, this errand involves Sylvester meeting with Kathy-- aka Queen of the Black TRESSES! Her hair is unbe-weave-able, and her blonde locks make her a bit hard to identify for those who aren't sufficiently obsessed with every twist and turn of this magnum opus.
As Sly and Kit-Kat recap their issues in the diner over dranks, their waitress continues to butt in, and tells them to "keep it real" as Sly leaves her a hefty tip. Initially, this character with the odd twitch seems be as irrelevant as Rosie the nosy neighbor, but by now I've learned better than to doubt R. Every character who appears in this seedy version of a Tyler Perry musical has a purpose, and will undoubtedly carry a mysterious "package."
Their waitress is none other than TINA, the woman who Twan blames for his prison sentence. And she works with Roxanne, a cook at the restaurant who jumps from the kitchen holding a skillet, ready to bust some heads. Twan bursts into the restuarant, hell bent on exacting vengance on these two good-for-nothing hos. R. Kelly reminds him what awaits him if he acts on his rage: life in prison. Here, we see Professor R. making an insightful commentary on the US Prison system: those who enter rarely leave with a chance at rehabilitation.
We discover through excellent flashbacks (almost Hitchcockian in their scope and vision) that Tina never ratted out Twan because.... SHE WAS PREGNANT WITH HIS BABY.
OF COURSE she was. What else I was expecting, I don't know.
Chapters 15-17 explore this former trio's past and their future, as we now learn that Tina and Roxanne are an item.
This is R. Kelly's second introduction of a homosexual relationship into the world of TITC. What is shocking here is that, unlike in the case of Chuck and Rufus, R. Kelly is less judgmental of Tina and Roxanne's union. He brandishes his baretta (for the 75th time), but falters, saying, "Y'all lucky I like that kinda shit, or both y'all asses would be dead." What R. Kelly does here is perpetuate the stereotype that lesbians are hotter than regular women-- and, in this instance, they should actually be allowed to live and thrive, like characters in a BET version of "The L Word."
Chapter 18 wrenches us from the gorgeous visions of lesbian love and shuttles us to the church, where we see Pastor Rufus in his chair of holy righteousness (though we all know he's living life on the down low). R. Kelly employs his second wig as he embodies the choir leader, and sings to the city's head pimp, Lucious (also played by R. Kelly). Clearly, R. has taken a page from the Eddie Murphy book of blackting-- use wigs and prosthetics to become as many humorous 1-dimensional characters as possible, thereby winning your audience with your tongue-in-cheek slapstick.
BOTH OF THESE MEN ARE R. KELLY!!! He is both pimp and churchgoer, good and evil. Brilliant!
As the choir sings to Lucious to find Jesus, we see that Chuck has called Rufus on his celly and begs him to come back. Chuck even threatens Rufus with contacting the media, and Rufus asks if he can see him. Chuck tells him no, because... HE'S IN THE HOSPITAL!!!
Cut to Chuck in a wheelchair with bandages around his head.
In the span of no more than 48 hours, Chuck has gone from a sassy, knife-wielding, popped collar-wearing virile black male to an incontinent hospital patient who has had some sort of brain surgery.
The only answer: he's got "the package."
Nosy Rosie's husband Randolph overheard Chuck and Rufus' conversation while hiding in the-- yep, you guessed it-- CLOSET of Rufus' office. He immediately goes to his gossiping wife and tells her that Chuck has "the package." This then leads to a dynamic and emotionally intense telephone tree (you know, the kind the PTA used to tell each other what to bring to the bake sale) where every character discusses who may or may not have "the package."
WHAT THE FUCK IS THE PACKAGE?????
R. Kelly never explains. While the logical conclusion would be AIDS/HIV, who calls it a package?
Oh, look honey-- UPS just brought us a brand new bundle of AIDS!!!!!
I don't think so. Who would ever sign off on such a package?
But, then again, logic is not what R. Kelly has proven to be about in the creation of this epic work of demoralizing black people. Would he really create a world in which NO ONE uses a condom? Even after they help each other cheat by introducing each other to possible sex partners? This seems a little too ridiculous. But, then again, Professor Kelly is crazier than a fish with titties.
And I love every minute of it.
I will actually be creating my own version, called "Locked in the Foyer," which will expose the seedy underbelly of white suburbia. It will star Joe John Sanchez III as the narrator, and Colin Casey as a meddling pool boy.
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