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

September 28, 2010

In Which I Wax Nostalgic About the Laws of Dating, My Uterus, and My Life

(c)Coffee Rhetoric
Aside from stumbling into an impromptu date here and there, I decided some months ago not to invest anymore stock, time, or energy actually searching for a date or trying to figure out why navigating the mechanics of dating sucks so hard. I've come to the conclusion that is just is what it is. Fumbling towards ecstasy seems to be the way to go. As I continue to hone my socialite life and fledgling writing/social media career past the point of starving artist, I've met the myriad of personalities and have literally stumbled into impromptu dates... fun ones sans the tension and anxiety of planned meetings ... I find that this works for me, sometimes. The pressure is off and I remain focused. These realizations hit me every year that I get older. 
Gone are the days where I feel the need to explain myself, my actions, my life or engage questions such as "What do you  do?" "Explain why you do..." and "Do you have any children?" <- (my least favorite question).  
It does offer the opportunity to choose from an assortment of obnoxious answers, however, or not to answer at all... slyly changing the subject.
 The fact of the matter is, I feel okay with not wanting to have any children or settle down... exploring my options as I see fit and not opening up those issues for scrutiny or debate. Ofttimes I feel comfortable with my personal choices and life. Unless someone's making a hefty deposit into my checking account to help toward my livelihood... depositing their two cents is non-negotiable. Being 33 allows me to feel okay with struggling toward the finish line in my race to accomplish my goals. 
(c)Coffee Rhetoric
The struggle (especially in this economy) is frustrating and exasperating, and I've faced several obstacles head on this year (reluctantly so in some instances), but it's a beautiful struggle nonetheless and it belongs to me... no one else. During this... my own personal triathlon, I try to find the balance between feeling frustrated and just simply enjoying myself... and so I may take a small detour and enjoy life's pleasures... such as perusing products on display... 
(c)Coffee Rhetoric
and taking in some theater productions  featuring the art of interpretive dance... 
 It's a gradual journey and I'm extremely hopeful, hungry, resolute, humbled, and driven. 

September 22, 2010

Ear Candy: Music Soothes All

As I sit here in an uncomfortable state, wracked by the unbearable pain and discomfort only a monthly haunt can inflict and nary a stiff drink to help dull the pain (Midol be damned), suddenly the throbbing pressure starts to subside as I listen to every track off of soul singer and songwriter Eric Roberson's latest offering, Music Fan First.  
In an attempt to remedy my non-stop humming of his incredibly melodic and haunting single "Still," I decided enough was enough and ordered the CD... and I haven't regretted the decision yet. Make no mistake about it, Eric has been around for quite awhile, collaborating with several (Neo)Soul notables such as, Jill Scott, Lalah Hathaway, and Musiq [Soulchild]. Seventeen tracks full, Music Fan First is the intersection where the jazz and soul music of yore meets the contemporary, up-tempo (yet intelligent), hip-hop inflected beats of today's worthwhile R&B (please defer to the likes of Dwele, Raheem DeVaughn, Aloe Blacc et al  of the like)
(c)Coffee Rhetoric
Copping this jawn was looong overdue, as it's definitely an easy and pleasurable listen all the way through, complete with collaborations that work. In addition to Still, other notable tracks are The Hunger, The Power That Kisses Hold, & the jazz heavy How Could She Do It. Eric Roberson is a breath of fresh air blowing in, out, and around what passes for Soul music ... always and forever. 
If I recommend a CD or musical artist that has incited me to chorus, that means it moves mountains... which further means I'd like to think my word is born. Get into it (provided you haven't already), because I know where your live, sleep, and eat ...

September 03, 2010

Social Life

I've been sharing my quest to regain my footing ... to get back on track. To finally expunge ... to purge the last remnants of this year's shaky start that projectile vomited all over me, like a body in the throes of a demonic takeover.
Try as I might, I can't seem to move forward full speed ahead. There always seems to be some road block I can't push through. Some that refuses to open, when I ring its bell repeatedly. And so I am determined, more than ever, to kick doors in and make my presence known. While trying to wedge my foot in the proverbial 9- to-5 crack, I am still adamant about catapulting the Coffee Rhetoric brand to new heights in the process. I want to use this blog and all it entails, to create and gain new opportunities. I have noticed fellow writers who blog and just plain ol' bloggers, being offered opportunities from well known publications and being featured as media pundits and guest columnists in various magazines and newspapers. I definitely think I am qualified to get a piece of some of this action, and that it has been long overdue.  I put a lot of blood, sweat, and definitely a lot of tears into this project, and so I have been pounding the pavement (and a couple of drinks) even harder, in a bid to network, hand out cards, get to know those who know the right people who can get me writing gigs and who gives a damn about hungry, aspiring artists of sorts. I want the word to be spread like cream cheese on a toasted, whole wheat bagel. 
I must admit, I was offered the opportunity to take about five seconds of camera time, by a news crew while out. Perfect time to plug my blog! Alas, I was camera shy and shrunk away from the offer. While socializing with a newly acquired friend, I couldn't help but notice him throwing the word "socialite" around a lot. He mentioned that he fancies himself a "socialite." I told him that when I thought of the word "socialite" I had visions of rich people dancing in my head. "You don't have to be rich to be a socialite. I'm poor but I still consider myself one," he opined. "I know a lot of people, and have been able to network and get into a lot of cool events for free. And opportunities have come up," he continued. 
I considered this for a moment. I've been running it around in my head for a spell and realized this is exactly what I've been doing. Networking, being recognized slowly but surely by local people, many of whom are in the mix and established, being called by name when I attend happy hours and eating establishments for any networking or social events. I am a socialite dammit. This knowledge has prompted me to force my way in. I would love to finally be in a place where I don't need to be in someone's office unless I feel like it, dealing with some micro-managing, passive-aggressive voice of authority, who has no idea how to delegate, interact, and or the politics. I.want.in. 

August 08, 2010

Maintaining

So far, I'm maintaining. Despite not being exactly where I'd like to be, not getting exactly what I want to have, so forth and so on, I feel somewhat at peace... somewhat. There're definitely intermittent moments where the weather forecast is fraught with cumulus clouds. During that those moments, Horus steps in front of me and angrily jabs his fist at the sky as Wadjet keeps me under her watchful eye... making sure I don't collapse in a dejected heap. It is then that I continue to flail and fight, the undeniable resolve of Sekhmet. 
Fringed ends are trimmed for good and I tightly knot the freshly shorn and intact ones. That is all the closure I need, because regressing is the interpretive dance form I'd rather not engage in. I'm exasperated, but I continue to trudge forth, shrugging off non essential baggage, lightening my load as best as I can, while holding on to those provisions crucial to my survival. I've got those neatly packed away in a trendy, brown leather hand bag. They sit amongst my lip gloss, hand cream, wallet, pepper spray, ear phones, and mobile phone. 
I'm sputtering forward, forcing my way through as many doors as I can push my way through... Please note the tip jar to the left. No bills lower than Good Karma and Well Wishes, thank you very much. 

July 17, 2010

Fatigued

It may seem like I've abandoned Coffee Rhetoric, but nothing can be further from the truth. In addition to brainstorming and exploring ways in which I can catapult this creative endeavor into something bigger, I am currently in the throes of life's trials and tribulations. Seems par for the course. Every year, a demon seems to crop up from underneath its moist rock to grapple with me. I slay in earnest. Life's ugly side seems to test the psyche and question whether one's intestinal fortitude is durable enough to triumph. ... I know this. What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, so forth and so on. However, for once, I'd like things to be easy. As unrealistic and unattainable as that may be, I think I'm long overdue for a reprieve because I'm exhausted, coupled with intermittent moments of feeling frustrated, with a dash of anger. The anger I internalize. 
As a result, I'm blocked. I feel blocked in every aspect of the word... especially creatively and that is never good and it's not productive... but as usual, I fight the good fight. I've been proceeding with caution and have become somewhat solitary and reclusive, peeking out every now and again. Very introspective and extremely determined. This summer as been hot, and it has been long and sweltering... mirages.  
I deserve and demand a break though. ... That is my petition and I'm sticking to it. 

May 03, 2010

Here I Go... Again...

Anyone who knows me... personally or via this virtual insanity... know that I am a Womanist and a staunch defender of Black women; and that I advocate us taking back control of our image and schooling the masses about what we are and what we aren't.
This year alone, there have been numerous "studies" ... articles and TV specials that obsessively try to get to the bottom of why I'm single. And having the resilient and tenacious personalities we do, many of us fought back... Sister Toldja's and Fungke Blak Chik's rebuttals being amongst those, rallying against the noise that undermines our femininity, our desirability, and our right to express our sexuality however we see fit. Their arguments were powerfully eloquent and spot-on. Everyone from White men to Black comedians; Russians to White women, seem obsessed with the mating habits of Black women. And Yemaya be damned if when we rear up and defend ourselves, for then we're labeled as bitter, angry, and hateful... with taunts of, "See?? See what we mean? See why Black women are single??!"
So why am I holding this seance, resurrecting this dead corpse again?  A little perspective on my frame of mind; I just finished reading Chester Himes' 'The End of a Primitive', then followed it up with a revisit of Charlotte Carter's 'Walking Bones,' and now have the nerve to be reading 'Wench' by Dolen Perkins-Valdez, so I don't mind going toe-to-toe right now. Observe...
While catching up with the goings-on of a favorite blogger's life, I was somewhat surprised, dismayed, and then pissed when I read about a conversation she had with her significant other- (they're both White with white collar careers).  The author of the blog didn't say anything offensive and usually logs very insightful, politically aware, and evolved posts... but her paramour... a captain of industry type who seems used to getting his way... didn't seem so progressive when he ranted against the (mostly) Black nursing staff (she's in the hospital) working the night-shift wherever she was recovering. It appears the nurses weren't keen on him staying overnight on a mostly female floor and reminded him that visiting hours were over. Annoyed, he opined that their sudden or perceived resentment toward his presence was due to them being angry, Black, and essentially bitter because they aren't the blondest or the fairest ones of all. And so they were jealous of said sick blogger... because she's white, blond, pretty, and well... because she has him to wrap her in his big masculine arms while she convalesces. And they'll never have that type of male sustenance in their lifetime. I won't offer a link to the post in question because I actually like her. She seems like a highly intelligent, honest, and nice woman. I enjoy her writing voice and I'd hate to be the catalyst who incites angry readers to chorus on her comments section. She seemed reluctant about feeding into her paramour's hype but, was equally as reluctant to question his rhetoric and obvious bigotry against and stereotyping about Black women... almost doing so halfheartedly so as not to upset him any further... which probably would've exacerbated the situation. She seemed - (an impression I got based on what she wrote) - willing to buy the rancid meat he was selling. I am not surprised nor did I expect her to jump to the defense of Black women or jump down his throat (since it is a relatively fresh relationship) and so am not disappointed in her hesitancy; particularly when you consider that her White female femininity was being elevated on a pedestal, which isn't uncommon- especially when being juxtaposed with that of a Black woman's. Here are some of the gems she shared when relaying the details of his angry rant- “Listen. I was married to a black woman for years.  I’ve spent a lot of time in many different communities. I’ve coached for years as well.  I lived and worked in and around D.C. for 10 of those years.  Outside the inner city it’s not so bad, but the black people in downtown D.C. are not fond white people. “
and --
"... I used to be come on to all the time when I was working in Northern Virginia you wouldn’t not believe it, sometimes I’d run across the street to get away from them.” 
and my personal favorite-- 
“I wasn’t going to say anything but a few of the nurses tried to catch my eye this afternoon. Two of them, at least. One of them even came on to me, and I mean she was BLATANT about it.  I just blew her off and kept walking. I couldn’t believe it”  ... 
"They all HAVE to know I’m with you, because I’ve been in bed with you since morning! I’m obviously devoted to you but they don’t care. They’ll just steal each other’s men, they won’t even hesitate. They.Just.Don’t.Care. Blows my mind.”
worst even-- “Trust me on this: With black women it’s all about the hair.  Believe me I know.”  <--(Um no son, you don't). 
So forth and so on. The entry left me speechless and angry. White (male) supremacy and propaganda at its arrogant worst. So now not only are Black women hopelessly single... but we're Jezebels without any scruples, who relentlessly chase men who're spoken for - (notwithstanding the high-profile mistresses who've been in the news lately) - have lost all hope in all Black men, and secretly lust for White men and all the riches they could shower us with, and apparently all of our self-worth is tied up in our hair. Such strong words from someone who was obviously upset because the head nurse opted to enforce hospital policy... much to his chagrin. 
As those two move forward in their relationship, it is my hope that my blogger buddy will encourage her lover to change some of his antiquated ideas about Black women. Stereotyping is a detrimental and hurtful process and it robs people of the right to share their truth.  It would be wrong of me to surmise, solely based on my own personal experiences, that all White men are pushy, psychotic, self-entitled, and racist. 
What his behavior within the context of that situation demonstrates is how the American White Male Privilege paradigm (which operates  to suit its own needs) is so easily projected when someone of his stature can't get his way and particularly when that privilege is challenged by a Black woman. I can't count how many times I've gotten grief from this type of White male, because I've either turned him down by refusing to play the Jezebel role he's accustomed to seeing in rap videos and reality shows or because I dared to challenge some ignoramus statement he made and that I didn't agree with. 
I like this blogger, but since she relayed the story on a public forum, with all due respect I, felt compelled just as publicly to challenge what I read in hopes that she can help her man get his mind right and hope she doesn't take this as a personal and malicious affront. Sans dialogue there can be no progress.
That is all. 

April 27, 2010

These and Those

So it appears that the Torment of Tantalus has worked its trickery on me again; 'tis all good though. My world is still level and my resolve is intact... and somewhat stronger than ever. In a phrase, I'm none too worse for wear and still stumbling, trying to find my footing. That's all one can do. 
In the interim, more than ever, I'm finding that personalities are as fickle and unpredictable as seasons and that mediocrity and basic people reign supreme in this cult-of-personality, as they accomplish their come-up from the bottom of the swamp as well as the best catches in the sea, who seem hypnotized by the foolishness of dysfunction. The forecast in my stratosphere range from sunny dispositions to broody, stagnant air. My stopgap is a heavy dose of preoccupation, sprinkled with good old-fashioned aloofness. I tried to find willing and interesting sponsorship/ads for this humble little blog, to no avail. No takers. Perhaps it's for the best. I like being the little engine that could. Just me and my thoughts, spilled out sans irritating, flashing banners. What was I thinking anyway? Back to the weather-- People, men (especially), women... they come and go. As I fumble toward some semblance of ecstasy, I'm humbled to re-realize who and what really matters and how much (more) I value certain people and things. 
Dating doesn't factor into my foresight so much, anymore... because I'm oh, so driven. My legs are pumping and sore from the effort of trying to complete this marathon run; so any and others... this includes rejects who've resurfaced from underneath their moist rocks for Spring, those who whisper sweet nothings (because essentially that's all it amounts to)... can kick rocks. I got my stoic groove back, creativity is flourishing, and I'm nibbling away- (with more frequency... like an famished city rat, who has hit pay dirt with its meal) at writing projects I neglected while in the throes of my frustration and anguish. 
I'll even admit out loud that I attempted to apply for a writing grant a few months ago... and got overwhelmed and intimidated by the whole process and gave up. I'm regretful, but not ashamed. My mind wandered towards more pressing matters...and my passion was stifled.
Regardless of what hasn't happened (yet) , I've got my second wind. I'm still flailing and am not down for the count. Watch out for these blind right-hooks. They are unbridled in their efforts and I take no responsibility for whose jaw might get cracked.

April 11, 2010

Closer

I write a lot about the pain of Tantalus Torture... of desperately yearning for something that is so-so close that it tickles your nose and makes your eyes flutter, as it gently touches your lashes... only to have it dance away, mocking you, as you try to grab hold of it. That has been the story of the last few years of my adult life, and so I never fill my basket with all of my eggs. I'm always expecting the unexpected. I jut my chin out defiantly and take each day as it comes... However, I am extremely famished. The pangs in the pit of my stomach twist, gurgle, and wrench... demanding to be fed. I take in sustenance... as much as I can... but am never sated. I eat, I consume, I gobble, I greedily stuff my gut but my hunger is a bottomless pit. 
This current situation... it works, for now. I'm grateful to be in its midst however, I want the whole lot.  I'm greedy and it's oooh so close... ready to be gobbled up, but how long will it last? I'm not a pessimist, but I'm already mentally preparing myself... in case this grande bouffe disintegrates and slips through my fingers... To be cont. ...




April 02, 2010

The Persecution of Ms. Badu

I don't have cable. The delectable bits of trash I do get to watch are courtesy of my mother's digital cable box, when I have the pleasure of visiting for the weekend.
Ofttimes, I shake my head (while still watching) at the train wrecks colliding on the screen: Young women on "reality tv" jumping into hot tubs... obscured nudity jiggling in the wind or clawing one another's eyes out in a fit of rage as their boobage and delicates burst through the seams of too tight clothing for all the world to see. Thonged asses and commando-ed vaginas (aye-aye captain) flap free amidst the chaos. Not a problem. Ratings booster!
I also love to watch music videos, most of which are par for the course... The grandiose donks  (read: big butts, fake or otherwise) gyrate and twerk in the camera, struggling to stay contained sheathed behind dubiously fitted hot pants... some parts of their bikini-ed bottoms distorted just enough to make it past the network's Standards and Practices department. All of this current comehither lasciviousness notwithstanding, I am reminded of the furor Janet Jackson caused during her performance at Super Bowl XXXVIII when her adorned breast popped out for the briefest of brief moments. After which she found that same dirty pillow branded with a piping, hot scarlet letter. People were not pleased, despite her pleas for forgiveness, regardless of the fact that the media and the very network looking to air her immodesty out at the public square took a blink and you'll miss it moment, slowed it down, and played it repeatedly, despite being offended by the moxie of the act: A tit breaking loose from its harness for the briefest of seconds.
Flash forward a few years since Ms. Jackson's "Nipplegate." We've seemingly evolved even more where the grandeur of the female form in all its voluptuosity,  is par for the course...  considering several petulant nipples, butt-cheeks, and vaginas have cried out in protest since that incident in a united front in public under the glare of public scrutiny, and for pop starlets who are taking a queue fromn the Video Vixen book of trickery... succumbing to re-marketed aesthetics at the suggestion of male record executives and managers... winding their hips and carefully manicured poontangs in nothing more than a skimpy top, taut thighs, and heels in an effort to sell more records. Pants be damned! We've evolved... or perhaps not, since creative mind, beautiful eccentric, keeper of the 'izm that snakes upward like a cobra ... allegedly causing men to swoon, and accomplished musical artist Erykah Badu's new video for her single, 'Window Seat,'  has incited the public to chorus. Erykah cites guerrilla filmmaking as a method, as she methodically walks through downtown Dallas, stripping away layers of clothing until she's completely naked, in the name of art and near the same location JFK was assassinated ... but some naysayers aren't feeling it.
Please get into my argument....
Why is it when a woman (especially a Black woman) takes charge of her image and body, and projects it in a way she sees fit... particularly when it's in the name of art, the public finds it obscene? Lest rappers are asking challenging questions and making demands like "How Low Can You Go?," and  "Gimme that Becky!, or the likes of Hugh Hefner doesn't put you on the cover of Playboy or make you 1/3 of his harem, a woman's body will never be beautiful, unless the rules are dictated by the patriarchy and the media.
I'm still struggling to find the obscenity in Erykah's message and visual: Which essentially, is to break free from societal norms and to formulate your own thought process.
Perhaps if she were stripping within the subtext of Playboy or King Magazine ... bent over in a teeny-weeny bikini... hands placed over bare breast to titillate and cause massive erections for the male populace and/or being violated/beaten/brutalized on film, she wouldn't be facing charges for "public indecency." America seems to be okay with the exploitation and violence shown toward women, but we're damned if we dare have orgasms on-screen (see the documentary 'This Film Is Not Yet Rated'  or express the splendor of our bodies via our own visions, on our own terms, shouted through our own voices.

That is all.
*Perhaps due to its controversy, video links are no longer readily available. 

















March 14, 2010

Push. Kick.

 To be able to reach the heights of purity you have to suffer through deprivation and humiliations. And what could have been a descent into hell becomes liberation.
-Catherine Breillat

<- ("Inner Peace" by Monica Stewart )
Being wanton, needy, and susceptible to dubious dating advice from so-called "experts" does not equate to being comfortable in one's skin and with one's sexuality. It's the minutest of details that illustrate that feeling of true liberation from the trials and tribulations of man/woman relationships, sex, and dating in general. A certain level of genuine aloofness... where you take sour lemons and make yourself a stiff (generous with the vodka) Lemon Drop martini, and rejoice.  Suddenly, the dead cow being sold to you gets a one-way ticket to the abattoir, providing you with delicious steaks to grill (medium rare), masticate slowly, swallow and then shit out in the bog pan later... relief and then flush, thank you very much.
 ("Contemplation" by Lee Ransaw) ->
The wishy-washy personality, inconsistent explanations about his state-of-affairs, knack for wasting your time, seeming comfort in being mediocre, inability to stick to a plan and see it to fruition, and bizarre extracurricular activities... none of it matters. Suddenly, not feeling obligated to return phone calls and texts in response to foolishness feels nothing short of... well... good, for what's good for the goose is definitely (without question) good for the gander. Closure is not seeking ... closure. Giving as much as you're receiving... in the form of not giving a shit... it's second nature now. Being on hiatus... succumbing to the frenzy of intimacy when *you* see fit to do so at your discretion, and being OK with it... never lamenting over what you aren't experiencing at that moment in space and time, because you're preoccupied with more pressing issues ... True freedom. Truth! Some might cry "CYNICISM!" ... but I chalk it up to being there, having done that, learning how to give the side-eye and moving on, and not projecting... because bitterness only increases one's self-imposed prison sentence. 
It's all about not caring, and meaning it. Learn it. Live it. A supple skin to wear for sure. *sips Lemon Drop martini*




March 04, 2010

Leave Me Alone!

Black women. We've been labeled as Mammies, Jezebels, Golddiggers, Undesirables, and now Tragic Figures?  Yes, 2010 seems to be The year of years to bash Black women, in yet another redundant cycle of trash talk about why we are, the way we are. Some might read this post and disagree, but then those of you who do probably aren't Black women and are whispering under your breath for me to shut my gob because, Michelle Obama is this country's First Lady. It's just that simple, really. *insert side eye here.* 
It seems as if every publication I read, or program I watch has an article or segment discussing why Black women are single. Forget the construction of the pyramids or the Bermuda Triangle. ... Black women being single in high numbers seem to be the mystery du jour! To hell with finding a cure for AIDS or getting over this country's health care, job, and economic crises. Black women are single and it's our own fault. The world needn't be bogged down worrying about the important issues... but should mull over my love life instead. You see, Black women... we're just too driven and unyielding. We're difficult to please and our need to find our place in the world and plant our flag is off-putting... apparently. How dare we try to better ourselves or even entertain the notion of having (insert danger music here!)... EXPECTATIONS. Not to mention we aren't trying nearly as hard enough to look like the vixens in the rap and R&B videos. 
According to these articles, newsreels, blogs, and public forums of the like, seems like the only, and I mean THE ONLY way Black women can reconcile being tragically single is to date White men, and ONLY White men. This White Knight In-waiting, will apparently salvage what's left of our lonely years, and is a last resort to prevent us from dying alone with nothing more than a house filled with cats, all of which would undoubtedly nibble away at our rotting corpses. To hell with dating someone who has mutual interests, regardless of his skin color or ethnicity. Who cares if you like various types of men from all walks of life, with GREAT PERSONALITIES, or if you're even interested in going that route? Racial/Ethnic fetishization is definitely the solution to our habitual singledom! Non?  *shrugs*
Listen, I don't know why my sex and dating habits have become public fodder for the media and various other men and people to pick apart and scrutinize. I guess the fact that many Black women aren't rocking back and forth in a corner or curled up under the covers in a fetal position, because no one has "put a ring on it"... or aren't bemoaning the fact that we're single or unmarried doesn't occur to those of you doing the judging and marking ticks in your little notebooks. We aren't the only group of women who live singly, however, our White counterparts are merely single, looking, and living footloose and fancy free a la 'Sex And The City.' They're simply exploring their options and building their careers until Mr. Big catches their eye and having a great time playing the field in the interim. Why can't this simply be the case for Black single women as well? Why are we scraping the earth for scraps, clucking around like confused chickens... looking for any remnants of a good man... rather than just exploring infinite possibilities and having fun too? 
Everyone's an armchair anthropologist or sociologist these days, especially when it comes to Black female sexuality. Our femininity... our desirability is constantly up for debate. Men (especially) have mucho jokes and take low brow swipes for days talking about our appearance, our attitudes, and our personalities. Residents holed up in their glass houses, throwing stones. Black women aren't good enough because we want better... or at least according to Black male comedians and social critics turned dating experts, with dubious track records of their own.
I've grown tired from reading these statistics about the numbers of Black women who aren't hitched. Why is this even newsworthy? Why is anybody still single in this complex era of love and dating rules? Moreover, why am I being told to date this type of man or that type of man... do *this* with your body, but not *that* by critics who can't even fathom... who don't even know my core and all of its wonderful complexities? 
Men, the media, and so called experts on Black female sexuality can tout off a long list of reasons why Black women are single and the primary, b.s. song is that our standards are too high. The last time I checked, having standards (within reason), is a common thing to expect. Men also are notorious for having outlandish standards, and those very same standards could also be indicative of why many of them are hopelessly single and are prompted to fly overseas to woo desperate and eager foreign women. Most of those who're anti-standards seem to be sub-par to mediocre at best and so complain the loudest about a Black woman's high standards.
At the end of the day, I'm single because I've chosen to be. Because I'm preoccupied with various other things in my life that fulfill me or keep me too busy to lament over such nonsense. Perhaps it's also attributed to my impetuous and overly sophisticated bon-mots and risqué coquetries... perhaps not. I'd like to think I'm a little more multi-layered than most would have me be. 
No one has the right to dictate the reasons why so many Black women in America are single, and claim it as fact. There is no one, fundamental reason why. It just is, what it is. We aren't some abnormal sub-species. And anyway, mind your own damn business. That is all.

February 23, 2010

Take A Look At My Life, See What I See



Still pavement pounding for the most basic of basic jobs, while networking and trying to catapult my own creative endeavors. Hard work. That level of commitment requires therapy, so I indulged in a little.
 In the meantime, I've been called a "beautiful, sophisticated, milk chocolate..." something or other, and compared to the likes of Jessye Norman. Not bad. Definitely far from "could be worse" status. Yet I got no takers or didn't generate enough interest in my quest for blog sponsorship, but alas, the night is still young and I am ambitious enough to stay hopeful. I recovered from my ass whooping, for now. And gained my second breath... so my resolve has been restored!
In the meantime, I shall continue partaking in therapy, mulling, pondering, hoping, cursing, so forth and so on... The night? It's still young. 

February 17, 2010

NOT.The.One

Dear Life,
Alright, I get it! My tenacity has rubbed you the wrong way.  In fact, my resilience has driven you to test me over and over and over again. Almost to the point that I feel as if I've become your official whipping post.  Now, I was emphatic about starting this new year off to a great start... all around. But alas, to no avail, because you're constantly picking on me. Don't you have any con artists and sketchy characters to teach a lesson?
It wasn't enough that you stomped on my fingers repeatedly while I was desperately hanging onto that window's ledge for leverage a couple of years ago, feet flailing beneath me... desperate for firm footing, because you wanted me to fall onto hard concrete... a broken heap. When that didn't work...when I managed to pull myself up and in... throbbing fingertips and all... you withered away, shrieking like an exorcised banshee... vowing to come back to kick my ass.
Listen, this latest kick to the gut and ribs left me rolling on the floor, clutching my sides in pain. I was not expecting that type of assault. So why continue the onslaught while I'm down? I'm struggling. Crawling. Dragging myself across the floor, in an effort to ward off your attack and stand back up, and you reeled back with your stiletto heel, pointed to perfection- (hey, Karmic bitches need to look fly too)- and administered one final, sharp kick. I thought that one would cause me to projectile vomit all the fight I had left in the pit of my stomach, all over the walls. I was able to choke it back down, however. I curled up in a fetal position to ward off your wild attack as best as I could... as you flailed your fists, shrieked, spat, and stomped like a petulant toddler. I'm still in shock... my ribs and sides are still quite sure from that last kick. But I was still able get back up... and stagger to a safe corner to plot my next move and get my bearings and second wind back.
I'm still mulling. I'm still plotting. A little defeated and bruised... but up and pondering my next move. 

xoxo
Coffey


Be My Benefactor or Bust

Coffee Rhetoric is looking for advertisers. If you're, culturally aware, natural hair product, arts, film, wine, coffee, glam (and interests of the like) affiliated and you think you'd like to LEGITIMATELY advertise on my blog or acquire my writing services as a guest writer/witty observer/reviewer of wonderful things/blogger/columnist-- please email me at coffey0072@yahoo.com. If you're a local business, person, thing (local meaning if you're from Connecticut... Greater Hartford area especially), that'd be even more awesome.
SERIOUS and pertinent inquiries only. Don't be shy. I'm serious if YOU are. I've got manners. I'll only talk ish in writing, as opaquely as I can muster and behind your back. ;-)
**Blog sponsor appeal updated to add that I'm not just looking for any and every type of sponsor. My blog matters a LOT to me, because it's a reflection of my thoughts. An extension of me, so the hope is to garner attention from a sponsor, whose endorsement I believe in.  It's not about selling out or cashing in. It's about moving forward and branching out, so I can do this thing bigger and even better. Back to the regularly scheduled program. That is all. :-) 

February 12, 2010

Hathor Take The Wheel

I did not want to bat an eyelash over John Mayer’s recent FAIL interview with Playboy Magazine, but the more in-depth I read it- (in its entirety, because I did not want to comment based solely on the excerpts that got everyone in an uproar)- the harder I blinked and the more perplexed I became. I will not comment on the obvious homophobia or misogyny and ageism he displayed whilst commenting on his former girlfriends (‘right made the acid in my stomach gurgle with displeasure), nor on the lack of confidence he has in his manhood for he spoke at length about his sexual prowess and technique as well as his need to prove himself and be better than the former flames of his conquests. 
What I will rant and rave about however, is John’s proclamations that he has a “hood/nigger” pass, suggesting that having one somehow justifies his never ending, assholish behavior, asinine public comments and Twitter rants. He said he was "Very" just like Black folks. "V.E.R.Y." and so it absolved him of stupid behavior. Man, I guess (not).  John also name dropped Kanye West, a fellow partner in lame grappling with his own P.R. issues and who in 1996 (publicly creamed his trousers over the splendor of biracial women or “mutts” as he affectionately called them, Jay-Z, and other rappers, who, shall I add, seem color-struck and enamored with all things lighter-skinned and/or non-Black themselves, and will never miss an opportunity to bash dark-skinned Black women or to drape themselves with the finest of racially ambiguous vixens. But I digress... 
John Mayer… who always manages to fellate his foot hungrily, deep-throating it with gusto whenever he has the media’s attention… felt his scrotum swelling with douche water after waving his “nigger pass” in the air... going on to gloat, after being asked if Black women threw themselves at him  (a stupid question in and of itself), that while he has a Benetton heart he just couldn’t open himself up to the possibility of entertaining Black women, due to his having a David Duke cock.”
insert record screeching to an abrupt stop right here
Correct me if I’m wrong, or perhaps I’m out of the loop, but I had no idea Black women were drowning John in a river of crème de la coochie. I was completely unaware that this rather uninteresting and bland musician was the stuff that makes Black women swoon with unbridled desire. John also went on to make vulgar remarks about noted Black actress Kerry Washington’s hotness and how she might possibly suck a dick and say, “Yeah, I did it, so what?” for she’d undoubtedly break a Caucasian cad’s heart because she's "crazy like a white girl," or some such nonsense to that effect, his love of porn, and how every White dude bulged out of their boxers for sitcom character Hilary Banks from the The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Additionally, while John Mayer is entitled to his preferences, why do it at the expense of Black women by suggesting that we are somehow not worthy or significant enough for someone as inane as he is? Listen, at the end of the day, I don't need John's racist penis to validate me as a Black woman or any other White man with a "nigger pass" or otherwise for that matter, so I'll sleep well this evening, but imagine the shock and furor had Halle Berry stated she had the heart of Coretta Scott King but the vagina of Minister Louis Farrakhan ... Mmm hmmm... Think, think, think... famous people. THINK before you spew. 
To the assholes who gave Mayer a “nigger pass,” Therein lies the problem, jerks. You make it OK for dumb-asses to engage in hipster racism because you’re giving them the go-ahead to do so…ofttimes at a Black woman's expense.  And then you’re the same jack-asses who want to mollywhop your White buddy, because he said,  “Nigger please!” Um. No sir. You can't have it both ways. Good for the goose but not for the gander??
John Mayer or any other wanna-be down chav gets no “hood pass” from me EVER. I don’t care how many BLACK friends you collect, I don't care how many close White friends I happen to connect with, and I don’t care how many of your BLACK FRIENDS said it was OK to make stupid statements steeped in bigotry. It is never OK to wallow in ignorance because you think it's the hip thing that will get you an *in.* Real talk. I don't hand those types of passes out. Null and VOID. 
Mayer, choked up and regretful (because his publicist told him to be ), issued a tearful apology onstage in the middle of a performance in addition to taking to his Twitter page yet again to partake in some major damage control. I refuse to stroke his ego by saying, “Awww, he made a mistake.” A mistake is something that’s unintentional and not predicated on arrogance and one’s privilege. He's sorry, because folks got pissed and his statements were not well received, because just like many White people who share Mayer's sentiment(s) about being "down", it's always cool to smile proudly and proclaim how much Black people love you, as a way to justify making ignorant (regardless of one's intention) statements out loud. And to co-opt the cool parts of being a racial minority, while rejecting the difficulties of being one. 
In the grand scheme of his stupidity, self-loathing, and narcissism however, I do not believe that Mayer is a racist. And I don't care if his David Duke cock wants to burn a cross at my window, because I am personally not, nor have I ever been rubbing myself raw over John Mayer. He is a bigot who hates women, however... and is a sad a victim of his own delusions of grandeur, arrogance, and sexual inadequacy. And to those Black folks who think it’s cute for some "others" to trash-talk your mothers, aunts, dads, brothers, uncles, and sisters (yes, those of you issuing out the free "nigger passes" to your White buddies)… stop perpetuating the disrespectful behavior. Enough is enough.  
Perhaps Mayer's attempt to fumble towards ecstasy and understanding will help us mull over the topics of race and gender a little more closely, and think before we open our gobs... trying to be clever. And a simple, "No, Black women don't throw themselves at me. Not at all." would've sufficed, John.

Read more about Mayer-gate 2010---

February 03, 2010

Just Drive

I feel like I've reached an impasse. A never-ending maze with an elusive exit. So many decisions, so many things to nibble away at, but I'm completely deadlocked. People, places, and things never cease to perplex the hell out of me. And at times, it's overwhelming. I've had moments where I've attempted to check out, but alas, to no avail, because worries, my thoughts continue to plague me. I manage to be aloof in certain aspects of my life i.e., dating; wishy washy suitors, and an endless supply of assholes. In other aspects? Not so much; opportunities, my livelihood, my future. 
Ofttimes I think I have a dubious guardian, who loves toying with me and seeing me grapple with the worst luck! Or perhaps I'm an unwitting contestant in some twisted reality television program, where the masses are watching me wrestle and fight my way to the top. I don't know, but I continue to shadowbox. To bob, weave, sidestep... dance... twirl my way to what I feel is rightfully mine! I'm at a loss right now. I don't know how to plot my next move but I do know that I'm ready for my turn. I'm thinking. I'm pondering. I'm pissed. Intense game of mind play at work. Please do not disturb!
The fight continues. This is round 20.

January 24, 2010

Slippery When Wet


I recently damned the complexities of dating and all its bullshit to hell. Cynicism aside; Upon further discussions with friends newly found and old, recent meet & greets, as well as random acts of thinking on a lazy Sunday afternoon, I've concluded that finding a decent person to spend quality time with on occasion, is akin to holding onto a slippery bar of soap, while trying to keep your shit together in prison. I've never been to prison and have no aspirations of landing my big break in that particular environment, but I would imagine that lathering up in a communal shower while deep in thought over how the hell you found yourself there... and then dropping the soap, only to bend over without thought or caution and get reamed within an inch of your life in an opportunistic sneak attack, is a traumatizing experience to say the least. You have to hold onto that bar of soap for dear life, and be methodical with every move you make as you lather your skin in a circular motion, shifty eyed and leery.

Dating requires patience, maintaining tough but supple skin, methodical movements, intellect, caution, and engaging in a carefully choreographed Adagio dance or angry Tango Ultimo with the opposite sex. As frustrating as trying to foster or nourish a certain level of intimacy or rapport with someone is; Being aloof, intuitive, and resolute is a must. Because if you let yourself slip up and get mired in the foolishness--- bam! You're doubled over, screwed out of nowhere. It's le marcher fou des sexes for sure. I'm constantly dancing over potholes and bird shit. I've even tripped over a crack or two... But all praises due to ỌṣunI always manage to regain my footing before going down, face-first like a cheap, ten dollar whore. Not sure what my score card would read like though. I shudder at the thought. And I bathe with shower gel most days, rather than soap sooo--- yeah.

January 04, 2010

New Year and What not

I rang in twenty-ten on a low-key tide. With a great friend and her family. Full of rum punch, sparkling wine, some other mixed stuff and mirth. I'm not one for making resolutions, as I think it ridiculous to wait ONCE A YEAR to resolve to improve upon the quality of life and relationships. However, I am coasting into this new start, with stronger resolve. The bolts in the steel rod, that make up my spine, have been tightened. I'm ever more alert... and focused on bringing personal projects to fruition... for real.
I've been spilling open since 2004, and intend to do so until the juice has finally been sucked dry through the straw (slurping noise and all). I want to continue to share my insights, dating woes, and other dirty laundry... in addition to promoting, promoting, promoting... when I deem it *necessary*. Necessary is if I'm inspired to do so, or something has prompted me to chorus.
What has me singing this new year? The influx of Black women choosing to be their natural selves. This includes wearing their hair the way it materialized and grew, shortly after developing in and then exiting their mother's fallopian tubes. Chris Rock's documentary, "Good Hair" has thrown open the gates... offering some insight into a topic that has plagued Black women for years... the dynamics of our hair... its texture... its styles... and how others interpret it. I stopped chemically processing my hair a little more than 10 years ago... and I've never turned back---
I am always on the prowl for new, wonderful, fatty/rich products that help my hair look its best...
Amongst those items? A 4 oz container of rich, homemade loveliness by Alexandra Smith of Safi Natural Hair Care. The fact that naturally proud women with entrepreneurial spirits, are going to great lengths to keep Black hair looking its best, with products made with only the best, organic ingredients and care, makes wearing kinky/curly/afro textured hair, so much fun.
Safi Natural Hair Care's Avocado Shea Butter is rich in texture, it smells lovely--reminiscent of unrefined cocoa butter, sensuously rich French cooking butter, and chocolate. I'm excited about it, because having just used it, it made my hair feel great. I would never use this forum to recommend something, unless I was truly impressed with it. So goes this blog post... to promote healthy, natural, curly/afro textured hair. I will holler from the confines of my apartment about anything that promotes people being their true selves and if it involves someone trying to grind and hustle something independent of mass media or celebrity endorsements ... Despite being basement level... despite my storm windows being down and closed. I shall holler and suggest...
Get.this.life.

December 16, 2009

Enterprising

I was going to wait... But spilling open and saying this out loud and into the universe will make it that much more serious and my desire for it, even realer. It's long overdue, I'm researching, trying to brainstorm, figuring out the details of making Coffee Rhetoric, into Coffee Rhetoric, Inc. As I continue to pound the pavement and keep my resolve and frustration intact, I am mulling over the ins and outs of making my own opportunity manifest and putting my creativity to good use. Perhaps I'll use this blog as a way to promote myself, or I may even start a separate (but relative) entity.
Details to be announced soon as I iron them out. There're goals to ponder, guinea pigs to be victimized, papers to rustle... so forth and so on. ... I went to the library yesterday to research public relations/marketing strategies and ideas, but unfortunately it has become a place for the seedy and the beady-eyed to call home. Wall-to-wall trash... bottom of the barrel variety. Wading through that cesspool was exhausting... nevertheless, ideas are percolating!
*sigh* This is real.

December 08, 2009

Tentation

a hulking figure... completely cloaked in the anonymity of darkness, blocked the last remnants of the sun, which was already struggling against Winter's soulstice.
it extended an inky arm and casually placed it on my shoulder...
i stood silent, in a meditative state,
determined not to break my concentration...
ohhhhhmmmm
to no avail. at least during this round.
i wonder what would have happened had i caught the last remnants of the sun shower and drenched myself. if only I hadn't been distracted.
i'd be at one with my chi... i'd be writhing around, in a passionate embrace at the temple of my familiar, as opposed to drifting in a desolate matrix... caught between space, time, perception, and... time, trying to play catch up with my center.
i'm beginning to loathe the mechanics of time travel.