Coffee Rhetoric: my petition
Showing posts with label my petition. Show all posts
Showing posts with label my petition. Show all posts

November 08, 2009

Sunday Ear Candy

Oldie but, still a goodie. I love this song and it puts me in a creative sense of mind.

November 01, 2009

Sick

I've been out of the loop for the past few days and was in the midst of catching up, when I stumbled onto this sick and twisted story.
Since the depravity of it all speaks volumes in and of itself, I'll keep mine turned down low mostly because I'm rendered speechless and am perplexed by growing violence toward young women, somehow serving as a blueprint for budding manhood and coming of age, as well as the disintegration of healthy sexuality and precociousness. I will say that my stomach turned even tighter, because it reminded me of this disturbing film I blogged about, that I probably won't ever watch again.

October 11, 2009

Sunday Ear Candy

Flailing

I've been trying to fight this cold, pressure in my chest for the past few days. Amazing what a number stress can do to one's body. One moment of vulnerability and sick just grips your body like a wendigo does a desperate and hungry soul. Add stress and the insatiable need to excel, to prosper, to just get a break for once and no amount of Vitamin C or medicine can break its hold. The chest pressure is the most distressing. As much as I'd like to relax, the pressure (no pun intended... actually, pun intended) is on.... things are starting to mount, those who collect are staring to circle, and while my resolve isn't broken it is cracked. The hunt is exhausting for I feel like I've exhausted most if not every resource available to me. I inhale... I wheeze like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. I exhale... more demonic sounding wind. I need to exorcise this lame luck! I'm working hard to exorcise this lame stroke of luck!
One bright spot is that I do have an interview this Wednesday, at a non-profit that does great work to benefit homeless women and their families. While it is part-time, I am hoping I make a good enough impression so that I get an in. As much as I hate to speak such things out loud, because I'm slightly superstitious and believe doing so before a result has come to pass, will result in a unfavorable outcome... perhaps spilling it open with mild splash ... and letting in marinate into the universe will ... *I don't know* ...

September 27, 2009

Deadgirl

It's well past 10PM, rendered speechless, I'm sitting here steeping tea but wishing I had something a bit stronger. I just finished watching a horror flick that has left an indelible stomp-print on my psyche. Not since the movie 'Teeth' have I seen such a controversial, feminist essay (of sorts) on male sexuality, the twisted and brutal ways in which misogyny plays out, and the dark recesses of a young man's imagination... told from a male perspective.
The movie Deadgirl (directed by Marcel Sarmiento and Gadi Harel) will continue to haunt me this evening, so I may as well read my book into the wee hours to cleanse my mental palate. I won't launch into a long winded film review, but the synopsis basically details how two high school burnouts (Ricky and JT) from dysfunctional homes and at the lower echelons of their high school's hierarchy, ditch school to hang out in an abandoned mental hospital to wreck some teen havoc. They go exploring deep into the depths of the building where JT, the more obnoxious and stronger of the two friends, stumbles upon the body of a naked and seemingly dead woman chained to a table and draped with plastic. Breath against plastic seems to indicate the woman may not be entirely dead, so Ricky suggests they take off immediately and alert the fuzz, much to JT's chagrin... he immediately has other, more sinister plans for the body. He basically demands that they keep her as a sex slave.
The woman, for all intents and purposes, is a zombie. JT (and eventually another accomplice, and then later other perps) do unimaginable things to this woman's orifices... defiling her every which way but loose. They've no interest in knowing who she is or how she got there. One or two inquiries, angrily brushed off by JT, hopped up on the power he wields within the confines of the basement. He becomes darker and more depraved in his actions toward the decomposing body, essentially acting as pimp and master perpetrator. The nameless woman twitches, she snarls, she lashes out and bites her tormentors in a feral attempt to maintain some semblance of dignity... but she never utters a word. JT and a dimwitted third accomplice, have the bright idea to try to make another zombie sex slave, and so try to kidnap a woman at the gas station, who wails on both of them, beating them down in the parking lot.
So much happens in this flick and none of it is good. This is probably one of the most original and daring zombie movies I've ever seen. It's akin to "River's Edge" maybe with a dash (just a dash) of Jennifer Lynch's disaster "Boxing Helena," in that a woman's body is over-sexualized and exploited for enjoyment. Deadgirl is scary, because it speaks volumes about male sexuality, budding male sexuality, a culture in which piggish behavior towards women is celebrated, and how women should be merely seen, poked, vacant in the eyes, dominated, and prodded. Former video model Karrine Steffans, for instance. A former zombie girl, Celebrated in a medium dominated by men, for her willingness to go limp and vacant... to be objectified and dominated while incapacitated (in the figurative sense), and then later crucified for flailing out at her tormentors once she got loose, because she wrote and spoke out loud about it, prompting her former play partners to turn into bumbling, name calling idiots. I'm still wondering why the famous men she allegedly bedded aren't held accountable for wallowing with her ... Why aren't they considered to be just as vile as Karrine's protesters consider her to be? As the aunt of two nephews, I shudder a little bit, thinking of young males coming-of-age today, and the visuals they may potentially use as a model for masculinity. Recent cases, such as the one in Pennsylvania this summer, where a lonely, middle aged man shot up an all female aerobics class before turning the gun on himself... all because he couldn't get a date with any young, attractive or prospective paramours is startling. In this cult of personality, women are nothing more than expendable jump-offs. Aging pimps are catapulted to fame, endorsed with book deals and cameos in films and rap videos.
Watching Deadgirl, I was equally struck by the zombie woman in the flick... and how wild and ferine she was... how she had to literally bite, rip, and tear herself through the sheer baseness of what was being done to her, to free herself from the humiliation... Unbelievable, yet believable because it's metaphorical for how young men view female sexuality, and how they respond or relate to it. Definitely worth watching if one can get past the controversial theme and images. Sometimes images have to be ugly in their impact.
Interesting flick. The ending even darker...

September 17, 2009

Marriage Counseling

As I nurse my malbec and inhale the mild scent of amber scented candles and spicy incense, I've come to the conclusion that I married myself in hopes of living in holy matrimony, til death would do me part. I married myself, as I clutched at the stars, hoping to catch each and every one... shutting out naysayers and discouraging voices.
I grasp, I daydream and I sweet fix.
I've come to the realization that I married myself in sickness and in health. I frequently fold from time to time, because sometimes realism transcends idealism, and these 'isms are sometimes the bane of my marriage. But... 'til. death. do. me. part... irreconcilable differences be damned.

September 04, 2009

The Itch

An OVERWHELMING sense of wanderlust has suddenly hit me. A combination of this woman's blog, the incense, the comfy confines of my apartment, and the music I'm playing (Les Nubians) is making me itch with the travel bug again... and it has been some time since I've been abroad. The employment situation MUST work out (no if, ands, or buts) so I can start saving STAT.

July 16, 2009

Order In The Court

I've noticed an annoying trend in courting rituals. One more small annoyance to add to the already difficult process of dating. Texting. I am not one of those self-righteous, anti-technology people who goes on boring rants about the evils of social networking, texting, and mobile phones. As annoying and impersonal as those outlets can be, I am very pro-gadget and technology. While it has it's cons, technology and social networking has made it easier to keep in or get back in touch with long lost friends, enemies, frenemies, and prospective employers. Many things in life have negative aspects to them... you couldn't pay me to travel back to the dark ages. Advancement in technology is not the sole vice or annoyance society has to grapple with. The phenomenon is only as stupid as the moron accessing it... which brings me to my primary point.
Men- (I can't speak for women, because I don't date women and many of the ones I know aren't this inconsiderate, but I'll be fair and say I'm sure they're just as guilty)- if you've just met a woman for the first time, made out with her, groped her, etc... and you've decided "Wow, I like her and I want to talk to her and get to know more about her beyond this point" and you insist... DEMAND that she give you her phone number... and you make a point of programming it into your phone while she's standing there, then CALL her. This texting bullshit as the FIRST official attempt at communicating ... "Hey sexy" and "wat u up to?" is nothing short of rude and disrespectful, and it's not a good first impression. Not to me and many of my friends anyway.
How do you expect to develop any type of rapport with someone you supposedly like... or want to hop in the sack with by TEXTING grammatically lazy phrases??
Behavior like this is vexing and agitating. Myself? I may give your brusque and short messages the side-eye, and after careful consideration, might even respond a few times. I may even give you the benefit of the doubt that you'll actually CALL and I'll hear a live voice either on my voicemail or in real-time at some point throughout the course of the courtship. I'll do you one better; In the past, I've responded to text messages by leaving a voicemail, saying "Hi," asking to "Give me a call when you get the opportunity." Which means, TAG, you're it! Your turn! Only to get yet another text in response, RIGHT AFTER I've left the voicemail! After a VERY short while, your texts WILL go ignored! Trust this.
I will flat out refuse to respond, assuming that you have no desire to actually TALK for 5 or 10 minutes, which is enough time to determine someone's personality and whether you want to ask them out on a date. I'll assume that you aren't interested in setting up a time to meet up and that you have no real interest in me as a person, and that you're only wanting to waste my time by playing electronic footsies with your cyclical, same sounding two word sentences. ... "Hey sexy. Wat u doing? Wat u wearing?" Level headed and tech-savvy folk in the know realize that "wat u wearing?" is code for, "send me a topless photo, and I'll send you a pic of my genitals."All before being asked out on an ACTUAL date for coffee or a glass of wine, because you'd rather wile away valuable time sexting messages like some sexually precocious preteen: "i want u so bad. wish u were here."
Listen, I text more than the next person, but I'm usually texting with people I KNOW. People I have connections with. People I also chat to on the phone. My close and best friends, my sisters, my mother, acquaintances I pal around with, someone I've dated, don't despise and have maintained a friendship with, so forth and so on and I'm not making an ALL DAY AFFAIR of it. If I don't KNOW you and am making every attempt to GET to know you within the context of dating, and you don't reciprocate that gesture, then you may as well kick rocks. And don't you DARE send me a message at 1:00 in the MORNING asking, "hey u up?" OMG!! R U SERIOUS!? How dreadful! Moreover, don't respond to my obvious exasperation with your thoughtless time wasting, texting : "I thought u liked me ???" or "It's just easier to txt cuz am on the run." If you're on the run, then BE ON THE RUN! How about contacting the person of your desire when you AREN'T "on the run" and have a moment to spare.
Look, I'm not one for walking down the street or going about my daily activities, jabbing at my phone's keypad like crazy. I understand that some people love it, but my thumbs get tired, it wears on my nails, more importantly it's distracting and detracts from whatever it is you're doing. As many people as I see running their pie holes on the phone while en-route somewhere, that "on the run, can't actually call" excuse is utter doo-doo. Texting sentences on a small keypad, on the run, seems like it takes more effort than talking to someone for 3 seconds to say, "I'm out and about, just wanted to call to say hi and that I'm thinking about you, we'll talk later though!" and then you hang the eff up. Don't ask for someone's phone number if you have no intention of talking to them. Get their email address instead if you want to type at them.
Cut this foolishness out. It's not a good way to connect with someone you supposedly want to learn more about. KNOW them first before you start texting them a bunch of nonsense. That is all.

July 13, 2009

These and Those

In the midst of job hunting, relaxing, and re-focusing, I've been trying to engage in activities that keep me, well, engaged. Free Jazz in Bushnell Park on Monday evenings, The Cipher themed night at local micro-lounge Cloud 9, catching up on reading and activities of the like. Being productive allows no room for sulking or having a pity party about my sudden turn of events. Besides, my spirits are still high and that's not the type of party I relish attending. Socializing allows me to be around people of my ilk... creative and relevant types. More importantly it offers a chance for some networking! The Cipher inspired me to dust off and revisit unfinished projects, to READ again. To FEEL again. Being a working stiff, sometimes I lose sight of my creative core. Granted, being a working stiff is vital to my livelihood, but next time around I won't let it encompass me to a point where I don't write... where I'm too tired to write, to get inspired. To seek opportunities outside my job, in hopes of parlaying my craft into something exciting and lucrative.
Additionally, I finally got my hands on a copy of Sapphire's "Push." Very difficult novel to swallow about the effects of poverty, physical/verbal/emotional and sexual abuse, and illiteracy. By far, this has got to be one of the most gripping passages I've ever read in a contemporary piece of fiction written in the character's (16 year old mother to be Precious Jones) voice (upon going to register for an alternative learning, pre-GED program):
... There has always been something wrong wif the tesses. The tesses paint a picture of me wif no brain. The tesses paint a picture of me an' my muver- my whole family, we more than dumb, we invisible. One time I seen us on TV. It was a show of spooky shit, an' castles, you know shit be all haunted. And the peoples, well some of them was peoples and some of them was vampire peoples. But the real peoples did not know it till it was party time. You know crackers eating roast turkey an' champagne and shit. So it's five of 'em sitting on the couch; and one of 'em git up and take a picture. Got it? When picture develop (it's instamatic) only one person on the couch. The other peoples did not exist. They vampires. They eats, drinks, wear clothes, talks, fucks, and stuff but when you git right down to it they don't exist.
I big, I talk, I eats, I cooks, I laugh, watch TV, do what my muver say. But I can see when the picture come back I don't exist. Don't nobody want me. Don't nobody need me. I know who I am. I know who they say I am- vampire sucking the system's blood. Ugly black grease to be wipe away, punish, kilt, changed, finded a job for.
I wanna say I am somebody. I wanna say it on subway, TV, movie, LOUD. I see pink faces in suits look over top of my head. I watch myself disappear in their eyes, their tesses. I talk loud but still don't exist.
That passage rocked me. I had to re-read it several times, especially that last bit. Not since Toni Morrison's Sula and Saul Williams's prose in She, has a book made me swallow hard.
Anyway, the beat continues and this one-woman band plays on. Without a doubt, I'm sure I'll have my moments, but I'll continue to shadowbox with the force.

June 29, 2009

Time

As of today, I have a lot of time on my hands... but hopefully not for long. Enough time however, to mull a lot of things over. I don't know how I feel about having all of this time, but I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I'm not particularly unhappy over having acquired all of this additional time. Bittersweet in some respects, overall I an overwhelming sense of relief in others. Oh I have worries as a single woman, but I am okay. Currently, I don't feel any sense of alarm or apprehension. So that time doesn't escape me, I need to get to thinking... Hm... where to start, where to start. ...

May 16, 2009

The MYTH of Good/Bad Hair

This Saturday has been spent lazily drinking coffee, massaging my hair with coconut oil, twisting it, and pinning it up. While doing so, I caught up on some of my favorite "natural hair" blogs and YouTube videos, when I stumbled across this rambling discourse courtesy of this young woman who was adamant why she went natural, and how it wasn't to placate those of us women she deemed "Pro-Black" who are Happy to be Nappy. She flung her hair (she says it's natural, but it looked like a wash-and-go relaxer to me) to and fro, the whole time, much to my annoyance, "Becky" style. She said she went natural after she discovered that her own texture was "pretty" *insert side-eye here*. Then she railed against women who "denied" that there was such a thing as "good" and "bad" hair. "C'mon now, we all know the difference, so stop acting like there isn't a such thing as good hair and bad hair" she spouted off annoyingly. The rest of her rant, more or less emphasized how much she still enjoyed wearing hair weaves and she continued to perpetuate the Good vs Bad hair struggle Black American women can't seem to come to terms with. (There are three parts, but pt. I was more than enough for me. A commenter also took her to task over a few of her remarks). I agreed with most of what the commenter said... namely that Pretty Hair needed to visit this woman's YouTube page before she continued to toot her own texture's horn. Listen, I've worn my hair natural for about 10 years. My journey en-route, didn't come without a few bumps. When I first came back home from school, with my newly UN-RELAXED hair, I got some major side-eyes from other Black women whilst walking down the street. I was happy. I was proud. More importantly, I felt FREE. Going natural (while it can be just as high maintenance as maintaining straight hair) has truly be a LIBERATING experience for me. Initially I was a bit confused by the shade being thrown in my direction from other Black women. Eventually I stopped caring. I took this trip to please one person. MYSELF.
Listen, I love everything about my being (I have insecure hips and thighs days just like the next person), overall there is NOTHING about my Black-ness or self I regret, hate, or curse. I enjoy my complexion, I love that we span such a vast and wide spectrum of ethnicities, shapes, sizes, countries, languages, and shades, and I LOVE my hair existing in its natural-ness. I would never chastise another woman for choosing to relax, be-wig, or be-weave her tresses just like I wouldn't expect her to begrudge me my right to be who I am, NATURALLY... however, I think we need to get over this Good hair TEXTURE vs Bad hair TEXTURE debate, because essentially all it is, is a MYTH!!
Yes, I said it. It is a MYTH... at least it is, within the context of texture and length. Everyone has the ability to have GREAT hair, despite its length or texture. I've gotten nothing but positive feedback from people, who compliment me on my hair and the way that I style it. I get so sick to death of OTHER BLACK WOMEN who feel the need to validate WHY they straighten their hair or sew/glue in weaves, spouting off rhetoric and propoganda generated by the media about a specific STANDARD when it comes to beauty. Beauty is universal. There IS no standard as far as I'm concerned. Often, while browsing these hair forums and videos in search of new ideas and styles for MY type of hair, I'll come across the video of some poor, misguided soul talking about how unattractive, matted, uncontrollable, ugly, and unmanageable "nappy" hair is. While this way of life isn't for the faint of heart, I've seen some busted, bunk ass relaxers in-need and weaves myself, so the grass isn't always greener. Trust, I've been there! (On the relaxer side). I've also visited forums that showcase perfectly coiffed and well maintained natural Black hair.
We need to get off this kick already... "Oh my hair is sooo pretty, cuz it's sooooft and curly. It's not kinky and nappy and it straigtens with the flatiron so easily..." So effing what? The only person concerned with the texture of our hair is US. It's JUST HAIR. If you want to burn the life out of your hair follicles keeping it straight or wear weaves, it's your prerogative, but don't think for a minute that there is ONE SPECIFIC way that is BETTER than the other. It's neverending. I would actually die from shock, if we all sighed a collective, "fuck this" and decided not to give this issue a second thought. To stop letting men, insecure women, one dimensional hairstylists and experts tell us we aren't worthy if our hair isn't straightened or cascading down our back, because trust, most MEN won't kick a woman out of the sack bald, natural, or weaved!
While I didn't see this episode in question featured on Tyra Banks' talk show recently(thank goodness), I did find a clip and commetary regarding the themed What Is Good Hair? The woman who opined that her relaxed hair had a "white girl flow" was an ignoramus and I feel sorry of her ilk, because they're obviously grappling with coming to terms with loving and living for themselves and quite frankly, I don't want or desire to have a "white girl flow" thank you very much, and KUDOS to the loc'ed woman in pink! I also feel bad for and am amused by Black women who think wearing your hair loc'ed or natural doesn't translate to the corporate/working world successfully and that it's inappropriate. Many of the Black women I work with are loc'd and natural. Their hair is braided, puffed, worn in buns, and curly. The textures are different, the styles are well-maintained and we are glorious. My hair is hot. I take good care of it. It's clean, and I keep it neatly done in all its grand kinkiness. Natural hair is just as versatile as relaxed or weaved hair.

We need to figure out how to get over it and learn how to care for our natural hair (whether you choose to straigten it or not). At the end of the day, having "good hair" is the least of our worries as Black women. Please yourselves and stop trying to feed into the B.S. and flagrant smear campaign against us, telling us our beauty isn't universal, multi-faceted, and vast... straight and nappy. Give it up! Because if we don't start accepting who we are, the others are going to continue to dictate (successfully) how we should look, and they're going to continue to tack on prerequisites when describing Black beauty, telling you that you aren't bad looking for a "DARK girl" or "She's pretty for a BLACK girl"also, "I'd date a black woman if she looked like Halle, Alicia, or Beyonce" ... as well as my personal favorite (usually from my own),

"Your hair is so cute! Even though it's natural, it's not all nappy and matted. It looks soooo cute!"

and foolishness of the like. My older sister, who has a relaxer, has always kept her beautifully coiffed hair short. And it suits her wonderfully! I couldn't imagine it any other way. In the past, she has heard some backhanded comments from other Black women, who aren't confident enough to wear there hair short, so they made stupid remarks about sporting short or closely cropped hair. If you want to wear your hair a specific way, do it without apology or explanation because at the end of the day, when European and White-American women are bleaching the hell out of their hair, they aren't giving a DAMN What WE or their folks think, they're solely doing what pleases THEM and theirs. Just let it GO ladies!

*Smoking woman painting by Sandra Knuyt

May 02, 2009

Casual Encounter

I love these random, casual encounters I come up against. Now, my friend says that I'm a"maneater" and a "temptress," who has left a trail of broken men leading from my door, but her opinion is born out of bitterness because she can no longer eat delicious cupcakes and cream sauces and I can. So her opinion is pretty much moot at this point and time and nothing can be further from the truth, but I digress.
I always find myself in the midst of foolishness. Whether it be a strange man wanting to take photos of my shoes to another insisting on removing his prosthetic foot at a trendy wine bar... I am a magnet when it comes to the bizarre.
This Friday was no exception. While leaving a diner, clutching a tasty pepperoni grinder, with peppers, lettuce, tomatoes, black olives, cheese, and mustard (former vegetarianism be damned)- a Mailman stepped back out of the way to let me pass (the aisle is narrow and my hips span across many nations and universes) however, I didn't think I needed that much space... but I thanked him anyway for letting me through.
"That's okay. I wanted to see how you looked anyway."
he said smugly. Both amused and annoyed, I hurried past and across the street back to work. Amazing. I am back on meat (for the past 3 years now) and am also a PIECE of meat to be appraised, judged, poked, and prodded. What clownery! Here's a thought... Instead of sidewalks and aisles, why not just make the landscape one, long catwalk for women to walk down... just to make things more convenient for you all? What a novel idea! (insert side-eye here). Men-beasts... you never cease to amaze this simple woman. The grinder was tasty by the way.

April 30, 2009

Bus Tales: Kindly Shut The Hell Up

Dear Ranting Woman on the 7:55 AM Farmington Ave/Downtown Bus:
Every morning, regardless of whether I want to hear it or not, when I board the bus I can always count on you to go off on some random, loud tirade about any number of topics. None of the dots seem to connect, no one pays attention or responds to you, but you sit there... loud and pretentious with your raggedy, discount bin Beauty Max wig on... hootin' and hollerin' about the minutia. Eyes bugged, mouth twisted as you "hmph" and "tsk" about welfare recipients, how you don't go to work to pay for lazy women who push out "baby after baby", what a great job you think former jailbird Governor John Rowland did implementing whichever program he deemed necessary, so forth and so on. What the hell are you on about lady???
Its barely 8AM in the morning! Many of us are caffeine deprived, harried from rushing out the front door, and chomping at the bit to get to work or to the nearest Starbucks so we can get some delicious, robust java in our systems. We are mentally trying to prepare ourselves for the busy workday ahead of us, but we can't concentrate on our thoughts because you're flapping your gob nonstop. You sit there with a book open on your lap, but never really focusing on its contents, as you run your pie hole about a bunch of trivial B.S. that none of us want to hear, so early in the morning. The banality of your ranting makes me feel uneasy, not to mention it irritates the hell out of everyone else. I saw that man sitting next to you, giving you the side-eye a few mornings ago. He couldn't scramble off of the bus fast enough, when it was his turn to get off. And what about the two women trying to carry on a convo betwixt and between one another, with their indoor voices? You just kept talking over them with your loud, obnoxious, deep monotone. A succession of doo-doo on top of stupidity. Interrupting them. They finally gave up and sat quietly for the remainder of the bus ride, their mouths in tight lines!
Two A.M.s ago, imagine my despair and annoyance when I couldn't untangle my effing ear plugs so I could drown you out with my music! This morning however, I made quick work of detangling and plugging in prior to the bus's arrival. I was ready for you! Lo and behold, as soon as I boarded, you started running your mouth and wagging your be-wigged head, talking about (to no one in particular): "I gotta try to put mahself in a good mood!! Gotta see if I can get in a GOOD MOOD this mornin'!" Lady PLEASE! My fingers could not push the volume button up quick enough to drown out your hot garbage. Also, riddle me this: Why sit there with a damn book open on your lap, if you have no intention of sitting quietly and reading, til your damn stop comes up?? Do you wake up in the morn, look at your dry, haggard reflection, and wonder aloud, "I need to figga out how I'm gon' annoy and disturb the bus passengers taday? What can I ramble on loudly about... Hm, let me see-eee" ???? Methinks you do.
Listen, shut the HELL up, because everytime you go proselytizing and preaching about whatever it is you deem necessary to yell about, you effing put ME in a bad mood, and I have to re-route and reshuffle my own thoughts prior to my arrival at work. I pity the fool co-worker who has be within earshot of your nonsense, because I'm sure your fuckery spills over off the bus and within the confines of your place of employment.
Shut it!
Thanks
xoxo
Coffey

January 24, 2009

These and Those

Another boring and quiet Saturday. Actually, I'm starting to develop an affinity for quiet, boring days. It gives me time to think about a myriad of things, people, developments, etc. It also seems as if I'm conserving my energy for Spring and Summer.
In any event, being able to mull things over has led me to the following conclusions: Some people are naturally miserable and bitter. There needn't be any justification or circumstance for or behind it. Until recently, I don't think I've ever met a person who is just rotten to the core for no apparent reason. Most of the assholes I've come across have been hurt in the past in some way and use it as a defense mechanism, or have had rocky upbringings and dysfunctional relationships with one or both of their parents. Never were they just simply allergic to being personable and genuine. I'm not a cheerleader nor would I classify myself as one of those "nice people." I'm simply me. I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I am genuine, and while I'm not "nice," I'm personable enough that people actually want to engage me in conversation or hang out with me. While I don't have a huge crew that I pal around with (I prefer small, intimate groups or solo), I think it's safe to say that I'm not a social pariah.
It's absolutely fascinating (and somewhat amusing) watching a person struggle to be polite to others. I've never seen or experienced anything like it. An adult person conflicted over whether or not they want to continue on with being a small-minded, uneducated jerk versus acting like someone with sense and social etiquette. I'd be willing to wager that they wake up in the morning jumping up out of the wrong-right side of the bed, rush to the bathroom, splash tepid water on their face, and then look in the mirror at their reflection thinking aloud: "Now yesterday I was a first-class, Grade A cunt! Good job me! How on EARTH am I going to top THAT today though?!" Insanity.
I've also come to the conclusion that debating a point with someone who is set in their particular way of doing things and have already determined they're right in their assessment, and will talk all over you to drive and park their point on home is useless. Better to say, "but, but, but..." shrug, and let them get the last word, because the jockeying back and forth becomes a fruitless effort on your part. Find the comedy in their smug, know-it-allishness- because you know you're open minded and knowledgeable enough to bow out gracefully. Why exert energy on someone who hasn't a clue, even though they think they do? Not worth it.
Lastly, I think Bobbi Brown's Limited Edition Brights Eye Palette is simply beautiful, but I can't justify spending $70.00 on eye makeup when I can go to the drugstore and buy Loreal H.I.P. eye colors for just a fraction of that cost. It's better to stare at Bobbi's palette longingly and wonder, "What if I COULD afford it though, and wasn't in the throes of financial trials and tribulations?" That there is grocery money. Spending it on eye makeup would be cause to get dildo-slapped. I also want a block of this for my natural hair. More attainable than the $70.00 eye palette, non? Oh, and shout out to the brotha who tapped me on the shoulder, beckoned me to unplug my earphones in the middle of a great song, and who opined, "You look like a VERY elegant Black woman. I gotta learn more about you." and sauntered away. He probably will never learn more about me, but thanks for the compliment anyway, oh, and two middle fingers to my older sister who commented, "Oh, was he wearing glasses? Ohhhh, I know, he must've been retarded." When I relayed the story to her last night ...
That's it.
**Updated to include: How about that Inauguration Speech? Very thrilling. It'll be interesting to watch how our new President tackles the mess at hand. Hopefully with fervent determination and grace. I for one am proud that a person of color has galvanized a nation to embrace change (kicking and screaming in some instances), allowing him to break the class ceiling and hold the highest politial office. One thing to inspire hope... another thing to carry through and see that message to fruition. At this juncture, I'm over the "We have a Black President" mania. I'm more interested in what our new President, who just happens to be Black, will do to help mend the damage done to our country. He has an arduous task ahead of him and seems up to the challenge. Many of us are still caught up in the rapture of change, but I think it's time to move past Obama's skin color and focus on his politics and what he has in store for us. **

January 03, 2009

M.Y.O.F.B. or Waiting for WALK

I trust that everyone had a productive and safe New Year's Eve and Day. Mine was quite interesting... fun but very interesting. Someone offered to stick his tongue in my ear and suck on my left breast for an extended period of time before switching to the right one. I, being the classy woman that I am, politely declined, but not before laughing hysterically in his face. Hopefully this year wont leave as many battle wounds as 2008 left. I shall start this year off the right wrong way, with a rant that's been brewing in the vault of my angry soul for some time now. It's about certain types of people who should be kicked in the delicates for not minding them and theirs. I call them unofficial and unwelcome crossing guards. Reckless pedestrians who have the huevos mas grandes to get angry at other responsible pedestrians for waiting for the right of way to cross!
I can't count how many times I've had to snap at, give the side-eye and or finger to people who deem it necessary to school me on how to cross the street, because I choose to wait for the effing WALK signal before stomping carelessly across with reckless abandon. Pardon ME for doing what I think is necessary for my own survival and safety! I've had men stand next to me and exclaim, "GO! You can cross now, GOSH!" while I waited for the street signal for me to WALK. "I know how to cross the (insert expletive) street!!!" I've often spat in their direction, prompting them to throw their hands up in exasperation at my refusal to be bullied out into the middle of the road before it's time.
I even had a police officer, buffalo stancing close by tell me to "Go ahead!" once while I waited at the crosswalk downtown. The light was green and traffic was busy and steady. After work rush hour travelers from every direction! "I'm waiting for the WALK signal!!" I yelled back at him, annoyed. "I'm in charge! No one's gonna hit you while I'm standing here!!" he yelled back. I simply sucked my teeth, rolled my eyes and waited for WALK. What could he do? ARREST me for waiting for the WALK signal??? Just yesterday, a gentleman and I were waiting at a particularly busy intersection, also downtown for the signal to WALK. A young mother who carelessly (without looking) strode out into the middle of the street with her young son in tow, nonchalant about just missing getting hit by an impatient turner had the nerve to say to us impatiently, "You can gooooo, the light's reeeed." The man cut his eyes at her and waited. I in my large shades lifted my leather gloved finger and gave her a signal of my very own. She rolled her eyes, but got the hint nevertheless. I could not have made myself any clearer.
What the EFF is it with you people?? Does seeing others wait for the WALK signal really get under your skin that much, that you feel it absolutely crucial to be obnoxious and rude about something that essentially, has no impact on you and the choices you decide to make?? Mind your own EFFING business! If you want to carelessly take off across a busy street sans a care in the world and risk getting creamed, that's your right. I prefer to wait for the WALK signal before deciding to cross. So if watching me waiting for the WALK signal agitates you so, then get over it.
Kisses
Coffey

November 08, 2008

The Story of (What I Did for) O

Tuesday, November 4th was undoubtedly, one of the most important days in the history of important days. Its aftermath would make or break the United States as we know it, and considering what we know, the vast majority of this country's citizens were looking to make history and break-up with the current White House administration. Election day. Monumental, nail-biting, extraordinary because of the response this year's voting process evoked. I got up, determined to project my voice with some measure of success this time around. Election day was particularly mild and sunny, perfect for waiting outside for hours. This is how I spent November 4th.
7:55AM - I arrived at my old polling station hoping to put one over because A) voting downtown was sooo convenient since I work down there plus there was NO line to speak of! and B) my old downtown address was listed on my ID, and I was worried voting at my new district without current address info would present a problem. Needless to say, my efforts were to no avail because I wasn't on the registration list and District 19 was not having it, so they politely told me where my new polling district was located when I told them I'd moved. "Make sure you go vote! You HAVE to do it!" one of the volunteers yelled after me. A little dejected, I decided I'd use my lunch hour to do just that.
12:30PM- I arrive at my new voting district and groaned when I saw the long line. I saw a small group heading in the same direction and so walked at a clip, taking a shortcut through some hedges, jumping right in front of them before they closed the gap. I took my place. And I waited, and waited, and waited. The facility was hot and stuffy. I smelled some sort of stench coming from inside. The more the line inched forward, the stronger and more putrid the funk got. My olfactory glands hung on for dear life, struggling not to collapse my nose. The young man in front of me started fanning his and pinching his nostrils together. The line inched forward some more. I'd been holding my breath the whole time, and made the mistake of inhaling to take in some air. The perfume was undeniable: rank breath, unwashed body, strong week old piss with a hot helping of fresh pee, dirty socks and mildew. I was awash in its aroma.
The line inched forward. I was standing directly in front of a bathroom door at this point. A volunteer made his way through the crowd, and went in. He opened the door and the smell of eau de TOILET added to the already pungent perfume swirling through and around the line. I slowly turned my head and stood with my back to the door so as not to smell or HEAR what was going on in the restroom. Fortunately the line began to move further up.
I looked at the time on my mobile phone:
12:45- I noticed an animated Latino family standing in front of the young guy fanning his nose. They pushed their elderly daddy in a wheelchair as the line moved forward. At this point, Fanning His Nose Guy started holding his nostrils and fanning at a feverish pace. I sighed and started texting my best friend Cat.
12:50- It still stinks and I'm still texting.
1:15- I finally make it in front of a middle-aged man checking photo IDs and the voting register. The Latino family left their old daddy parked right next to the election volunteer. They were nowhere to be seen. The man reeled back and away from the daddy in the wheelchair, turned up his nose and said, "Is someone helping you SIR??" Daddy pulled out a crumpled up Kleenex and began blowing his nose in response. A random voice yelled out, "I think his family is voting!" the man leaned further way from the daddy. I shrugged, assuming he was put off by the nose blowing.
I moved closer and opened my mouth to tell the volunteer that I'd just moved when the pissy aroma reeled up and bitch slapped me in the face hard, like an angry spirit. It was then that I realized the abuelito in the wheelchair was wearing the bulk of the pungent perfume of STANK. Breathless, I told the volunteer that I was new to the district and he directed me to another line. Annoyed over having to stand in another line, but glad to be away from the unwashed papá, I took my place.
1:20- Two elderly Black ladies sat behind a table. One drew lines on a blank piece of paper with the help of a ruler while the other was on the phone to City Hall... squinting at a piece of paper. Apparently trying to determine which district a perplexed gentleman was supposed to be at. I sighed.
1:25- It was clear I wasn't going to make it back from lunch at 1:30, so I placed a call to work.
1:27- The woman continued to draw her lines. "I don't know if this gon' work" she muttered to herself, as she struggled to line up her ruler. The other granny continued to squint at the paper with the phone cradled between her ear and shoulder. An Ethiopian man in front of me grew impatient, "I need to be at work een 9 meenutes! I deedn't even eat yet!" he said in an agitated voice. "We doin' the best we can" granny on the phone said. I rolled my eyes.Then glowered at the woman drawing the lines. She never looked up.
1:30- "Can I help you?" granny on the phone (now off the phone) finally said to me. I told her that I was new to that particular voting district and I may not be on the list, and that my old polling district assured me I only needed to fill out a form, updating my info. "Oh no honey. THIS your voting district, you gotta go to 500 Main Street." She showed me where I was, in fact, listed on the registration form, pointing to district 19 with a pen. "NO!" I said impatiently, "that's my OLD district. I just moved near HERE. I need to fill out one of those pink forms and update my address. I'm at the right place." "Ohhh." she said, finally understanding. "The administrator needs to approve this info." I sighed, and followed her to yet another table.
1:34- "You're all set!" the woman behind the table said. FINALLY. "Just fill out this voter registration card with your new address and mail it to City Hall. The rest of your info is up to date. You're registered already." Relieved, I went to retrieve a ballad so that I can place my vote!
1:38- I slip my ballad in the machine. A man, another volunteer peeled the backing off of an I Voted sticker and stood poised. I reached for it, he pulled back. I held out my red pashmina scarf, he shamelessly stuck it on my right bosom instead, and pushed it down to make sure it stuck. Then he patted my arm. I rolled my eyes and walked toward the EXIT, anxious to get the hell out of there.
I made it back to work at around 1:45!
Wednesday would restore my faith in our judgement as a nation, as I'm hopeful about its future. I'm also relieved to know that we as a community don't have to find Halle Berry and Denzel Washington's Oscar wins good enough to placate us, regarding how far we can get in this country.
The discussions instigated by some well-meaning? White people... strangers... so far, have already begun to agitate me. Annoy me in that-
"HaveyouseenthenewMalcolmXpostagestamp didyouvoteforObamaIsupportyourpeople'cause IhaveBlackfriendsdidyoucryIdid?IsawtheAmistadfivetimes didyoulikeit??IvotedforMcCainHopefully Obamaknowswhathe'sdoingbecause I'mindenialoverwhattheBushAdministrationdid!"
way. "We have four years to put up with this shit" I opined to a Black co-worker. She snickered and nodded in understanding, after an animated conversation by said type of person and proud McCain supporter. Considering this momentous occassion, I'm willing to suck it up.

August 02, 2008

Closer

So, it turns out- (says the nice lady, whose cute lil condo is up for rent)- that I have to pass muster with a Condo Association. Her words exactly? "Hi Coffey, this is Condo Owner. I'm just calling to touch base with you about the apartment. The contractor is coming and the flooring and everything else should be finished by Monday."
"Sounds great!" I said.
"You just need to get approved by the condo association. They will do a background check and then I will call you and let you know for certain!"
Suddenly I got a horrible case of bubble guts.
"Oh, okay. Thanks for calling. Talk to you soon"
I chimed in, optimism holding on for dear life... or at least until the end of the phone call. You know that scratched/broke record sound effect one hears when "Fer sure!" turns to "Maybe?" Yes. That's the sound I heard in my head. Background check? While I have no criminal history to speak of, one never knows what a background check will produce. It's always nerve-wracking to have strangers poking around in your history. Things can be misconstrued! They can pass judgment over a simple misunderstanding! My neuroses knows no bounds. I am a worrier. I tend to think the worse. I understand that certain communities want to make sure they aren't residing in close quarters with pieces of trash. Either way, I feel so close yet sooo far away suddenly from my goal suddenly. Getting close and then having the rug yanked as I approach my destination, seems par for the course with me, sometimes. I'm hopeful. I. am. hopeful. Next week will dictate yay or nay.
On a completely random note, I received and obscene call at work Thursday. The appetizer to the main course, yes. The man's voice was rich. It was deep. It was Barry White sexy in its PROFESSIONAL and inquiring tone. As the conversation went downhill, however, that voice suddenly became lecherous. Skeevy in its interrogation...
"Hi, I'm looking for information on Such and Such Organization. Do you know anything about that?"
"Hm." I replied thoughtfully, "I'm not sure I have that info on hand. Let me ask around for you. You mind holding for one quick second?"
"Not at all, with your PLEASANT sounding self." his deep voice oozed. "You sound sooo nice and pllleasant." he breathed.
"Thanks. Anyway, give me a second." I said, taken aback but still trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism.
Needless to say, no one had the answers I sought for this voice over the phone.
"I'm sorry, but I don't have information on the Such and Such Organization. We don't really work directly with them. And the person who MAY be able to help you is currently in a meeting."
I considered offering him some other alternatives. But then...
"Mmmmm" he moaned. "So you don't have a phone number I could reach them at...?"
"No, I don't. Sorry." I said, growing a little impatient (I had to use the restroom) and wanting to end the call, for I sensed it was about to take a strange turn... right smack dab in a gutter littered with used condoms, smashed ciggie butts, and a pair of dirty, ripped panties. Hmmm... are those undulating bodies I see pressed up against the brick wall??
"hmmm, mmm..."
he moaned some more.
"... Okay... ummm, can I ask you a question... oh my god..."
he moaned in that deep voice... "
"Do you LOOK as good as you sound?"
Suddenly I got a visual of this man, shut in his office, sitting behind a desk grimacing and leaning back in his chair... slowly unzipping his trousers... A co-worker appeared at my desk, and noticed the alarm on my face...
"Um, anyway, so yeah. bye!"
I said and hung up abruptly. I relayed the strange call to her and she let out a raucous laugh.
"You know you enjoyed it!" she teased.
"Um, perhaps I would have in the privacy of my own home. But not at my JOB!"
I shot back. ... Ironically enough, I watched Girl 6 last night. So in any event, my fingers are crossed and hopefully I will enjoy an obscene phone call or two, in the privacy of my new apartment? Perhaps the call and then last night's movie are positive signs?
Okay I'm reaching. ...

July 25, 2008

This Much I Know is True

The past week or two has been doggedly hot and humid. In the throes of a relentless heatwave, it was down right oppressive. People dragged themselves down the street. Irritability was high, a sheen of muck and moisture coated every body, morning rush hour finding those same bodies moving in slow motion. I couldn't seem to move an inch without sweating. Then came the rain, thickening the air with even more moisture. A few days ago, I sat on a crowded bus during one of the hottest, most humid days.
It reeked of burnt flesh, sweaty (and sweated-out) hair relaxer, perfume, greasy take-out sandwiches, tangy ketchup, moist bodies, bunk old wig, shitty breath, and the last remnants of deodorant before it loses its valiant fight against must and b.o. This unusual perfume left me delirious and gasping for a fresher smell, and so I pulled out the rolled up green cotton cloth I had in my purse (a co-worker described it as a "sweat rag" when she saw me patting my brow with it) and breathed in the faint but sweet smell of my Black Linen perfume oil. Then I begin to mull over a series of realizations...
I've come to realize that lately, time escapes me. Free moments are spent catching up on sleep, movies, and running errands. I haven't dedicated enough time to this medium and I miss it. Perhaps once I'm completely settled the way I need to be, I can resume some sort o regular writing groove.
I've also come to realize that when one runs into a male co-worker outside, en route to work... during rainy day, it's never wise to answer "wet" when he asks, "Hey, how are you?" It just seems like a very awkward answer to a relatively simple question... and can leave it open to lewd interpretation. Despite its innocent intention.
I realize how wonderful it is to find amusement in stupid behavior. Rather than growing agitated and angry, finding comedy in the inane is good fun.
I realize pants I wore only a year ago, are now too tight. And I don't give a shit. Because I still think I'm cute.
You know what else I know is true? That my inclination toward the sexy can sometimes be painful and uncomfortable, and so it's a great idea to carry flats with me to work, and to keep my Pumas in my bottom drawer, in the event that I forget to bring my flats.
One of the truest other things I know is that ill-fitting clothes are no match for an unfit, misshapen hulk of a body. And so the summer heat encourages bad wardrobe choices.
Summer also brings about The Crazy. Prompting folks to acquire bravado the size of Europe, so they engage in fisticuffs in the middle of the street.
I realize that I'm sick of seeing shirtless men (especially of the "beer gut" variety) stomp-strutting down the street with their tee or wife beater slung over one shoulder, and their titties jiggling and baking in the hot.
I realize that in this harsh economic climate, I'm growing greedier for money. I'm all about the money. Not anyone else's however. I rely on me, myself, and I when it comes to my livelihood. I also realize how much I love those $.99 songs on itunes.
Lastly, I realized that while I am excited and I feel good about yesterday, I can't be 100% at ease until paperwork is signed in black and white and money changes hands. So I'll continue to pay my storage fees in the meantime. But I'm thinking it's going to continue to be a productive summer!

June 26, 2008

Intellectualizms

I'm no prude. My mouth and mind emit and harbor some rather colorful and randy thoughts and commentary. That aside, every now and again I will meet the acquaintance of a phrase or piece of slang that'll make me either giggle with glee, shrug my shoulders indifferently, or roll my eyes, perplexed by its sheer stupidity. Yesterday was no exception, for I recently discovered the term "No Homo." Which has been in use for some time, apparently. Ridiculous and awkward sounding... its meaning is even more nonsensical. Urbandictionary.com basically defines No Homo! as a phrase one shouts out after having inadvertently said something, well, 'gay'. Anonymous contributors offer up a wide array of witty examples (and I'm copying and pasting them verbatim. Grammatic errors and misspellings intact) such as: Hay man, pass the nuts. No homo and I cornered him in my room and nailed him with a board. No homo. Or my personal favorite: 'yo homie, i just spent five hours talking with my man on the phone, no homo'
Apparently, yelling out "NO HOMO" after having made an ambiguously homosexy sounding comment, is supposed to cancel out a heterosexual man's femme side or make him seem even more virile. How butch. Non? I opine that it's just another way for some chauvinist, insecure fuckknob- (conflicted over his own sexuality)- to unnecessarily assert his manhood, because he may perhaps (I'm just speculating) harbor some deep, dark, sexy fantasies involving Leather Bear Daddies, lithe... sinewy Twinks, and silicone butt plugs.
What better way for a man to feel like a MAN than to indulge in a daily dose of homophobia? It's simply not enough to hoot and holler in a strip club or pour Cristal and money all over a hooker, for that's just a whetting of the MAN'S appetite for destruction. I'd be willing to wager that this term is born out of the RAP (notice I said RAP and not Hip Hop) culture of posturing, dick swinging, and champagne dreams and delusions of making it rain on some ho's. Just saying... NO HOMO!

May 26, 2008

Argh!

Oh Jesus Christ almighty, Do I feel alright? No not slightly, I wanna get a flat I know I can afford it, It's just the bureaucrats who won't give me a mortgage, Well it's very funny cos I got your fucking money, And I'm never gonna get it just because of my bad credit, Oh well I guess I mustn't grumble, I suppose that's just the way the cookie crumbles. -Lily Allen, Everything's Just Wonderful
Apartment hunting is turning into an annoyance unparalleled. Even more tedious than hunting for a job!
I don't recall it being this much of a pain in the ass. I assume that the current economic climate we're living in has a lot to do with it. Personal experience and research has dictated that it's definitely best to rent from an individual landlord or privately owned buildings. As individual landlords seem more human than CORPORATIONS, who lower your FICA credit rating, apparently, every time they do a background check on prospective tenants.
Unfortunately, I seem to live in a sea of LEASING AGENCIES, saturating the classified ads and internet and who have made the process of renting one of their shady "luxury" apartments stringent. In fact JUST TO LOOK is a nightmare- As illustrated by one leasing consultant from an apartment complex that shall remain nameless, who tried to effing con me out of 25 bucks to LOOK at an apartment, notwithstanding the fact their website said it was FREE to look and that the credit check is what costs 25 dollars! I'm not surprised, considering all the negative reviews I read about said apartment complex on apartmentratings.com . Questionable leasing practices and dubious building maintenance seem par for the course, apparently. My prior history with a leasing CORPORATION has made me leery, but this experiences has pissed me off and left a bitter taste in my mouth.
These corporations want every thread of your personal information... this includes tax forms, your first born, two drops of blood, a urine sample, a strand of hair, and your dignity (which I'm struggling to hold onto with every fiber of my being)- because they've NEVER had to go through this process before, EVER. And so can't relate **(rolls eyes)** I also promised myself I also wouldn't go on a diatribe about the fifty dollars holding fee another leasing agency has YET to reimburse me, for holding an apartnemt I essentially didn't get afterall. Or that my phone call has YET to be returned, concerning my damn money!
The condo I MAY have rented sounded really promising, had I not been stood up on Saturday like a jilted date, by the woman leasing it. And who did not return my calls, when I phoned her to tell her I was very lost and couldn't seem to find the unit. Despite having asked several people, one of whom, unwittingly, led me into a sleeping pit bull's lair. Fortunately there was no violent show down and my limbs are still intact. I spent a lovely Saturday afternoon distressed, tearing up-frustrated behind a large, dark pair of shades (PMS no doubt), and stumping up and down the street hunting for my would-be condo. Alas, to no avail.
So the search for an apartment for rent, owned by an honest landlord who has some semblance of dignity and isn't a money grubbing asshole, continues. ... I know this annoying set of circumstances is happening for a reason and that when I DO finally find it, it will be a match made in heaven.