Coffee Rhetoric: neuroses
Showing posts with label neuroses. Show all posts
Showing posts with label neuroses. Show all posts

December 06, 2011

Love Rain...


I fancy myself a pop-culture pundit of sorts and so am not ashamed to admit that this includes my succumbing to the Reality TV/Celebreality machine. Likewise, I also try to stay abreast of social media buzz and peep what blogs, cyber-mags, and social networking forums are on about. The two mediums seem to go hand-in-hand, particularly when the "Black Twitter" collective is concerned. Black tweeters bring the LOLz and they come, guns blazing, when skewering Black celebrities for some foolish infraction. Black politicians, especially of the Conservative-Republican variety, aren't above Twitter reproach either... (Herman Cain-kabob anyone?).

Perhaps the best, below-the-belt barbs and Twitter hash-tags come during the hours reality shows such as Real Housewives of Atlanta, The Braxtons, Basketbell Wives, Love & Hip Hop and shows of that ilk are on. Some of the more snarky Black tweeters hit their mark with their quips during some of the more ridiculous, off-the-cuff scenes. Then there're those who incite the rest of us to chorus and ask "Huh?" after they’ve tweeted something... well... dumb or misguided.
Per usual, folks did not disappoint during Love & Hip Hop, which was followed up by the premiere of T.I. and Tiny: The Family Hustle, VH-1's latest reality offering, which documents the lives of rapper T.I. (fresh from a second prison stint) and his long suffering girlfriend-turned-wife Tiny, of Xscape and BET's Tiny & Toya fame.

Surprisingly, Black women on Twitter seemed to saturate their chonies with crème-de-la-lady leche and began espousing the virtues of  true  love during some of the more pivotal scenes on Love & Hip Hop (when rapper Jim Jones finally implored his  mother to stop antagonizing his embattled and always battling lady-in-waiting, Chrissy Lampkin. Jones later pledged his undying affection for Chrissy by placating her o’er top of a roof for a Moroccan inspired dinner with all the decorative fixings). T.I's - (who makes it known under no uncertain terms, that he wears the pants and bankrolls day-to-day operations in his relationship with Tiny) - obvious loyalty to his blended family and wife is undeniable. In fact, seeing it played out on TV caused a collective genital quake across Twitter however; the relationship has been fraught with well-documented legal troubles and alleged cheating. But this did not stop some women from christening Jim and T.I.'s dysfunctional relationships with their women as the blueprint for Black love. I’d be willing to wager that some of these admirers of dysfunctional love, were some of the same detractors of single-motherhood who suggested single moms should aspire to be like Beyonce and Jay Z, shortly after her pregnancy announcement. They lashed out, calling all Snarky McSnarksteins jealous haters who can't get a man or sustain a relationship ...  ...  ...  OK.

One writer for the popular online publication, Clutch Magazine, posted a whole article citing these two televised relationships as heartfelt and wrote:

"Say what you will about Tiny and T.I.’s hoodrich love, but theirs is the type of relationship many long for: Loving, affectionate, fun, respectful, and supportive. Just like Jim and Chrissy, watching T.I. and Tiny interact on screen made it clear that they are genuinely in love and they want the world to know."  

Much to the chagrin of some commenters, who cyber side-eyed the piece... 

"T.I and Jim Jones… you have to be kidding!  What I don’t understand is this constant need to look to celelbrities [sic] as role models. I mean I really don’t understand it. I would like to hope these old a$$ men would want to settle down. T.I with all those d@mn kids! Jim jones and Dipset with the way the [sic] talk about women…"

Listen, while no one deserves to be crucified for their past and everyone has the right to err, love, and be loved; Why is it that some in our community put these dysfunctional "ride or die" relationships on a pedestal (especially when a man of questionable character is at the helm, trying to overcompensate for having put  his paramour or wife through years of hell), yet will belittle others (usually when a woman *read unwed baby mama* is the crux of the conversation)? While it's undoubtedly love that they're feeling, it just isn't the standard for Black Love like some people are trying to suggest. Relationships riddled with drama may work for some, but doesn't for everyone else, and if that makes me sound like a bitter, single, jealous hag then... that's the ignoramus, narrow view of a naysayer. 

This comment from the aforementioned online magazine sums it up: “You can’t turn a hoe into a housewife, but you can turn a drug dealer into a husband?” Well, I guess you should ask Beyonce and Tiny.  Apparently thugs can grow into men, probably an exception and not a rule though. While it’s cute, sweet, and seems genuine, don’t get wrapped up in the love and hip-hop thinking it could be you."




August 18, 2011

Spilling Open: Introspection

I haven't had the opportunity to spill open on here in a while. .. not in the fashion I'm accustomed to. "Diversifying" and introducing different elements to this blog has prompted me to sort of shut my personal self off. Since I can't afford the luxury of sighing and heaving to a shrink, I figured I'd get back to the middle and do it here. I miss spilling open here. The luxury of having my own forum and not restricting how I utilize my voice is a wonderful and freeing right to have. This very late and sleepless night, I choose to project in a very self-analytical way... for I'm the best, worst, most knowledgeable judge of me, myself, and I. 
Three days ago, I turned 34. I haven't had the opportunity to let the fact that I'm in my hardcore, mid-thirties, sink in until late last night and then now. I've always been an extremely leery woman, but it seems the older I get... the grumpier, more impatient, cut and dry paranoid I become about people's intentions (not to mention the insane hormonal changes my body is experiencing). My thoughts run a mile a minute... still... and my intuition goes into overdrive... The nights I can't sleep (which are often), I'm more in form and my emotions run the gamut.
Close friendships I've had for years are still intact, easy to maintain, and I cherish them. I also curse them for being so long-distance.  I'm finding that cultivating new ones is a difficult process for me. Sort of like the three times I've tried, to no avail, to care for and nurture organic  French lavender plants.  While I enjoy meeting their acquaintance, I don't trust people upon first coming into contact with them and schmoozing is a daunting task I'd rather avoid. My expectations of folks I fancy tend to be pretty basic, but high (within reason)... so when they generate a flaky outer-crust, I have visuals of them engaging in unsavory discussions about me when I'm not around and cackling at my expense after I've opened up to them (a la the movie, Carrie... when she flashes back to her mother mockingly telling her; "They're all gonna laugh at you!"). Mind you, none of the things I'm divulging charts the madness of an Angry Black Woman who's aging and coming undone. I've gone through some schtuff  over the years with people I considered friends, who eventually had no use for me once I stopped being able to provide them with the things they needed from me or who found someone more ride-or-die to guffaw and shoot the shit with. This is nineteen years worth of angst. I'm conflicted; sometimes  assholish when it comes to shielding myself... and so it manifests in a brooding, somewhat cold package ready to cut someone's jugular (or shutdown and close up shop, depending on the situation)- when I think I'm being compromised in some way. I stay solitary for the most part and actually quite enjoy doing things alone... In fact I find it gratifying and not unlike the scene from Catherine Breillat's French film, Romance... where Marie stalks her boyfriend to a sushi restaurant... chagrined by his flagrant pleasure in being alone eating his California rolls and reading his book ... without her... to which she mentally voices over that she would've rather found him cheating with another woman. 
While I dislike being a mercurial woman sans the desire to nurture deeper relationships with the opposite sex or entertain any new applicants for friendship, I've grown comfortable in my ... aloofness (for lack of a better term), as it's easy to just exist in a world unto myself and with people I'm comfortable with and who know me. But while my opaque and indifferent nature seems comforting and offers the protection I need from being inconvenienced in some way...  it's exasperating. 
Aging, learning how to deal with other people's personality quirks juxtaposed against my own, and fumbling towards my core presents an amalgamation of different feelings: perplexed, resistant, and frustrated ...
I understand that venturing outside the comfortable confines I've built around myself is a difficult but very necessary thing I need to experience more often... Despite it being so easy to withdraw and become self-contained... In essence, I just want to be left the hell alone; yet essentially I want to be happy having reached some sort of balanced medium... but I know this isn't a healthy or realistic expectation. What can I say?... I'm a middle child who embraces her right to err and grow. Stay tuned...

November 30, 2010

Taxi Tales: Eubanks

 As a karate expert, I won't pontificate about the seemingly fluctuating state of mental illness amidst today's cult of personality. There's nowhere for people to go in these crazy times and the numbers are too damn high (spoken in this voice).  

That disclaimer of sorts aside, every now and again I'll find myself in the most random of random-est situations. It has finally dawned on me that for the past seventeen years of my life, I've been walking around with an invisible WEIRDO WHISPERER stamp emblazoned on my forehead, only visible to members of the Special People's Club. A signal akin to that whistle only audible to cats and dogs. Of course, I nor those with any semblance of sanity or stability have the ability to see it. Which makes it somewhat difficult for me to navigate and avoid certain personalities and circumstances. I mean, what other explanation could there possibly be for the strange, David Lynch-like encounters I find myself becoming an unwilling participant in?  ... 
While en route to a meeting at a facility I've never been to before, I decided a cab would be my likeliest bet, if I were to successfully reach my destination within a certain time-frame and in avoidance of having to walk up and down that particular street looking perplexed, searching for some elusive building. The directions I was given were opaque at best and I just wasn't in the mood for all of that hunting foolery. I dealt with shoddy directions two weeks prior, while carrying a heavy package to a post office I was told was only "three minutes away" from where I was working. It wasn't fun.
The cab driver was a chatty, middle-aged Black man. The cab? A raggedy and stale, onion-y smelling vehicle that rattled... the type of taxi where late-night 'business deals' took place... transactions squirted and crusted to a dry, inconspicuous stain on the backseat. It certainly wasn't one of the fresher looking or smelling ones. Pressed for time, I Kanye-shrugged and scrambled on in the back. Foreboding told me I'd be in for an unusual ride when my driver parked across the street from me, then called my cell phone claiming not to see where I was... despite my standing in front of a major, looming historical building downtown waving madly at him... in his line of vision. He stuttered, "I'oun see you... ummm where you at? Oh, that's you? Want me to stop in front of there?" I hung up on him, rolled my eyes, and just crossed the busy street. 
Upon getting in, the cabbie apologized for the state of his car and explained he was driving that one until his new one was ready. I shrugged my indifference and repeated the address I needed to get to. He made small talk, then kicked around ideas as to where the building in question might be. Then suddenly... 
"Are you the type who likes to hold your feelings inside?" 
Confused by the question, I pressed my lips together then shot an "oh boy, here we go" look in his direction. I didn't answer. 
"Well, I'm the type who likes to hold my feelings inside," he continued. "See, it's because I know a lot of information. Information the government don't want nobody to know about." 
I stayed silent and turned my head to look out the window. 
"You have a business card?" He asked. 
Looking down at my purse, I spied the top of my card holder nestled against my wallet, and pushed it down deeper, feigning as if I was digging for one. 
"No. Sorry. Fresh out." I lied, dryly... turning back to the window. 
"See, I know a lot of things. Big money maker stuff, but if I can just get a hold of some of these CEOs ... and just make that connection..."
"Oops, looks like we're here!" I interrupted. "That's 227. That must be the building!" I said, already halfway out the cab as I thrust 8 dollars at him. 
"Miss, you sure you outta cards? Because I really need to talk to someone to help me get this secret out there. Trust me, it's a big one that'd make people a lot of money. There's stuff I know about the government folks don't even know about. I don't even really like talking about it. I usually hold it inside" He pressed. 
"Yup, all out." I answered brusquely, still trying to scramble out. "Thanks again!" I said, fearful my holder would fall out... spilling several of my glossy cards on the floor of the cab as my judgement. 

He thrust a generic YELLOW CAB card at me. No name on it... 
"Call me please," he insisted, "So I can tell you some of the ideas I have... or just call me if those folks in there start aggravating you." 
"Ummm..." I started... 
"Just call me, uhh ... Eubanks for now." He answered.
"Right." I said. 
"Don't lose that." He warned. 
"Mmm hmm." I answered, finally free of the stale cab's clutches (I was having issues getting the eff out, as if I were being pulled back by some adamant force of nature)
Free of the cab's pull and of Eubank's shifty, money-making secrets. And out into the fresh air ... quickly up the stairs to the building... and no I didn't look back at the cab. 
That invisible WEIRDO WHISPERER stamp must've been glaringly bright yesterday morning ... 

January 12, 2010

Witching Hour

I live basement level. Last night, during the wee hours, the pipes put up quite a ruckus. Banging! Clanging, Thrashing, ... the sounds were akin to someone hitting a metal baseball bat against a steel pole, with brute force over and over and over again. Pause. Then over again. Or perhaps something was trying to force its way through the heating vents above my bed? Was ceiling cat trying to make a nervous breakthrough? I'm not sure. Either way, I woke up in fits and starts. My heart leaped with every loud clang. I was already restless and edgy. I'm a chronic insomniac, and so was hungry for any semblance of sleep I could get. I'd suddenly drift off, and then CLANG! My heart thumped against my chest and my head started to throb. My mind started running its ever increasing lap. I tried in vain to lull and soothe my thoughts... to no avail. A bit paranoid and somewhat leery, I didn't get to sleep until 4AM. I felt like Catherine Deneuve, in Roman Polanski's psychological thriller, 'Repulsion,' minus the androphobia and sexual repression.
This late-late evening, I am still restless. While the malevolent spirit that lives in the vents is quietly lying in wait. Anxiety won't offer me any reprieve. I'm worried about many things. I'm antsy. I'm apprehensive. I'm resolute. I'm petulant. My eyelids are heavy and my retinas burn with fatigue. I want to cry frustrated tears, but because I'm resolute, I can't manage to squeeze any out... So, I'm keeping a vigil at this late hour ...

April 22, 2009

I'm Thirsty...

... and I've been strongly advised to boil the tap water before I drink it. Well, I did and it isn't cold yet!
And to think of all of the hundreds of times I joked to my bottled water guzzling friends, "What's the point? We live in America. The water is fine!"
Now, they say that rotifers and copepods aren't harmful, but I'm not willing to risk the risk... so I'll stick to this here gin... until my boiled water cools down.