Coffee Rhetoric: piece of trash
Showing posts with label piece of trash. Show all posts
Showing posts with label piece of trash. Show all posts

October 02, 2009

Dear Juan (say it with the spit in the back of your throat),
While it was (not) somewhat of a pleasure meeting you at the bus stop last night, let me assure you, I have no interest in hanging out with you while your girlfriend is in the hospital, preparing to push out your seed.
Juan, propositioning a woman at the bus stop because you felt put upon for having to get your betrothed some jerk chicken at a nearby Jamaican restaurant and run various other errands for her, is the least you could do, considering she's indisposed and can't really do those things for herself. Also, the fact that she literally lives right down the street from me- a fact you so eloquently pointed out in addition to telling me you live in New Britain, are originally from Oakland, CA, and that you don't really know anybody from Hartford- is just not a good look.
I am unemployed Juan, and am desperately pounding the pavement so that I can get employed. I honestly don't need your girlfriend kicking in my front door, cursing me out on my voice mail, or whatever fallout that may result upon learning you're keeping company with me. Trust me, I do not want anymore annoyances in my life... especially of that sort. When I tried to reason with you, and tell you how asinine you sounded, you responded with: "It's not really that serious. We don't mesh well together. I'm hyper and she's more laid back and mellow. I'm bored, I need to have fun! Her ex-boyfriend is always calling her... even though she keeps telling him it's over."
Puzzled, I asked: "If it's not that serious, then why is she in the hospital about to have your baby?" "Yeah, well, she wanted a baby. I mean, we have another child... and we broke up, but it hasn't even been two months since we got back together and she got pregnant already, again!"
Since vomiting the lemon pound cake I ate prior to leaving my apartment, all over the front of your shirt wasn't really an option, I asked, "She got pregnant by herself?? TWICE? Fascinating!" Confused and slightly unsure you said, "Well, I mean, I got her pregnant, but she really wanted a baby, sooo... Can I just get your phone number? I'll just give you MINE then. I just need to kick it with someone and have some fun. I don't really know anybody around here. And she has me running all over the place getting jerk chicken and all this other stuff... I'm trying to take care of her business and mine too" you said, nodding towards the black duffle bag laying at your feet. Then you proceeded to ask me if I indulged in the chronic, if I had any children, and "Where're you headed now?? Do you drink? Can you call me tonight?" I blinked incredulously at you... Juan, none of these things are cool. They aren't sexy, and your approach is just... garbage. It was cute that you thought I was 25 years old though. I'm a firm believer in moisturizer. Anyway, that was THE ONLY charming thing that came out your mouth.
Please get your act together Juan. Juan get your life here! I hope I never run into you again.
xoxo Coffey

July 23, 2009

Bus Tales: Buttcheek Touches Seat


Dearest Blog Diary:
Wednesday was a warm day. While most might say it was beautiful outside, considering all of the rain we've had in Hartford, CT, I found it hot and hazy in most areas in the city. Cities tend to be especially steamy during lazy summer days. I mean, public transportation is a hot bed for errant body odor and various other unpleasantries I want no parts of. What can one do? Nothing... and so I'm usually at peace as I'm sitting there inhaling short spurts of stifling air every so often, between holding my breath for the 10 minute ride.
Downtown, on a connecting bus en route to my mother's house is where I would be lightly slapped in the face by true elegance and sophistication. Two troglodytes in love and smug about it. Initially, as they held one another in a tight embrace (attached like a carbuncle on someone's ass), as they boarded the bus, I had difficultly making out which was male, and which was female. Upon further inspection, I determined the troll in the backwards, bedazzled NY Yankees cap was indeed a he and the the other one with its hair gelled down tightly on its forehead, over its thick eyebrows, and around its ears like a swim cap and rubbing its swelling (pregnant?) belly was a she. Duly noted. They sat tight against one another. She held on for dear life, seductively rubbing the sequins on his cap as she massaged the back of his head. She looked around the bus, whispered in his ear, he quickly scanned his closest surroundings and they both laughed. Are they making fun of people? What nerve!
Eyes, masked behind large dark shades as I sat in the back- (don't Rosa Parks me, it was crowded!)- I watched them. He fidgeted a lot in his seat, slouched, and also wore dark shades. She continued to rub, knead, and whisper while I struggled to hold my coffee down, when I noticed the young woman's face sitting directly across from them and two seats in front of me. I snapped out of my stupefaction and followed her disgusted gaze down towards the man's baggy jeans. They were sagging around his bottom. Now growing up and living in an urban area, I'm familiar with this fashion trend, most commonly associated with young teenaged boys, who have a love affair with showing off their underwear however, what I saw... what would assault these brown, almond shaped eyes were not the man's underwear... oh noooo! What I spied was the brown of his buttcheek. The fact that he was commando wasn't the most vile development, but the fact that his naked butt was making contact with the seat was! Marring an already germ filled communal vehicle even further, where someone else would sit shortly after his departure... with his butt juices.
Blog diary, I honestly don't know what else to say beyond this point, so I'll just end by saying I didn't think summer could get anymore gutterbutt. What did I do to deserve that?
That is all.

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.

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 26, 2009

Brilliant!

Dear Male (or Female- I'm fair) Populace,
Here's a NOBLE idea. It's a brilliant suggestion in fact. Listen close! ...

Don't date a woman, tell her how much you like her, engage in an adagio dance with her, and then blindside her out of the blue with: "I REALLY like you, and would obviously much rather be with you, but I'm old, desperate and lonely and am about to push my seed in the bush of some dysfunctional, narcissistic bitch who once treated me like dog doo-doo and had a gang bang in a hotel room once with 4 (or so) random men and called and told me about it, knowing it'd make me feel inadequate.

It's a horrible idea, she's not my soul mate, my friends think I'm stupid for being equivalent to toilet paper, I hate her guts, BUT I feel like this is my last shot to have a kid. I don't want to be lonely like the old men I see sitting in Borders Books and Music. I have to at least try. She called me a week ago, and said she'd be willing to bear my rotten seed, even though she agreed to once before when we were dating and then abruptly changed her mind, leaving me depressed and suicidal."
Okay, perhaps not in those exact words, but close enough true to life. Anyway, don't ever tell a woman that mmmkay? Casually dating or not, it sucks and is downright weird. Moreover, don't ask the woman on the receiving end of such nonsense, to agree to resume contact with you, to continue being your friend and "hang out" with you while you attempt to or are considering impregnating another. More importantly, don't ask her if you could still see her if things "don't work out" with getting said other hooker knocked up, and don't guilt trip her for mocking and cursing you afterward by whining...
"I know it's a bad idea, but you aren't interested in having children, and I feel like this is my only shot. I should at least trrrry. I doubt it'll even work out but I gotta try."

See, engaging in this type of behavior is a surefire way to get laughed at, verbally berated, cut, pepper sprayed in the eyes, or shot at. It's just not cool. Procreating with someone who treats you like dirt, you don't even love, and who loves you even less makes you seem desperate and pathetic. Fortunately there are still those of us who have the wherewithal to laugh and politely ask the likes of you to go to hell and to disappear out of their lives STAT. Of all the bizarre dating episodes, this rates right up there. It even has foot guy from this post beat.

The dating world is teeming with extraordinarily dumb fart knockers like this middle aged one (yes, douchery is universal and crosses all ages, economic levels, races, and levels of intellect. The shit is widespreading, like the swine flu.) I'm overwhelmingly amused and can't stop laughing. What clownery! Also, what a rotten reason to have a child. What a selfish and inconsiderate way to bring a child into existence, other than from the love of two people, who aren't in need of anti-depressants. You'll always be lonely. You don't need a kid, you need intense therapy. Batshit, loony, drama-filled women of the world UNITE. You'll always have some el stupido, insecure, manic depressive jackass to love you long time, and return like a lost dog finding its way back home. That is all.

November 29, 2008

Bus Tales: Black Friday

Oh yes. It is the return of Bus Tales indeed. I've never really paid much attention to the day after Thanksgiving so aptly dubbed Black Friday. See, while I can appreciate an excellent deal, and love sales more than the next spender, I'm not a shopaholic. In fact, I hate shopping and do it online in the quiet sanctity of my home, pants optional. I cannot stand large crowds or places where massive groups of people congregate, and so I avoid places like parades, festivals, strip malls on the weekend, crowded elevators (if I can), buses packed to capacity (sometimes I have no choice), and spaces of the like.
INTRO: Friday, Early AM- Late Afternoon
Yesterday, my sisters were up at 4:30AM primed and ready to go huntin' for great post-Thanksgiving deals. I turned over and went back to sleep on my mother's chaise lounge. As the day progressed, I rocked back and forth, going through cell-phone withdrawal, because I lost mine last Saturday. I felt discombobulated (I've grown so attached) and cut off from the rest of society without it, but I sat and lazed about... procrastinating over having to go out into this Black Friday world where folks were getting stomped to death by crazed lunatics trying to purchase $300 computers and being shaken down by sneaky perps lying in wait, ready to rob happy shoppers swinging their bags in the crisp, autumn air. It was late in the afternoon, and my sisters still hadn't arrived.
I waited. And pissed around. Procrastinated. Waited... before finally deciding to go shower. Bathed and freshly scrubbed, I still did eff all. I effed around on my mom's computer. I ate more Thanksgiving desserts, while web surfing and emailing folks back and forth. Finally at around 3ish, my sisters returned. Frazzled and spent. I slowly got up from the computer and shuffled around deciding it was now or never. I figured the bulk of the crowd had probably dissipated. My mother shook her head at my late start. I shrugged at her. Needless to say, the mall was besieged by manic shoppers, large baby carriages, and mischievous teenagers meeting to do who knows what. I saw the diablo in everyone's eyes. I weaved in and out of bodies, trying hard to duck heavy, swinging shopping bags... throbbing and bursting at the seams from marked down merchandise! I suddenly felt faint. Faces started to bleed together, eyes became large and black, no whites to speak of. I started to sweat in that hot mall and undid the top button to my coat. My kneecaps started to go numb. I knew T-Mobile was just around the corner and I hung on for dear life as I forced my legs to work at a feverish pace so I could do my business and get the fuck out of there.
Needless to say, the BUS ride to the mall and back was just as harrowing...
PROLOGUE
The bus was packed to capacity. I sat there in my seat as standees weaved unsteadily in front of me. Afraid that someone might fart in my face, step on my foot, or fall in my lap, I clutched my purse tighter. I put my leather gloves on. I took them off. One talkative guy sporting a plaid ivy cap, backpack and a limp arm (with a hand that had loooooong nails) who'd tried to engage me in conversation earlier at the bus stop about his early shopping experience, stood up front and ran his mouth to the bus driver (an attractive, full-figured, middle-aged Black woman) about a wide array of interesting topics. They included but aren't limited to: his taste in women, his dark side, how he was writing a book on numerology, philosophers, his temper, his aversion to spicy women and how they gave him heartburn, his preference for MILD women, more about his dark side, how he was a true artiste who had to go to school for it and hated anyone with natural talent and no passion, the 8 Guinness stouts he drank during Thanksgiving, a cat he had named Baby who knew how to doo-doo in the toilet and used to lick his face and massage his back, and subjects of the like. He went on and on.
Suddenly, I noticed a rather slight man running alongside the bus and then finally in the street, risking the risk of getting hit in the process. The bus driver cursed him before deciding to pull over and stop for him. Breathless and toothless, he complained about her not stopping initially... she told him to shut the hell up and be thankful that she stopped because she "didn't have to" and to stop "figuring" (he said he figured she didn't want to stop for him) and sit down somewhere. He kept muttering. "You're STILL complaining," the driver noted, in disbelief. He laughed, embarrassed at being scolded and squeezed up front with the rest of the standing bodies. I kept my eyes averted to the floor of the bus. Trying desperately not to give in to PSIS. The bus jerked forward, then stopped for a woman with a thick West Indian accent and close cropped hair, which she wore in a natural. She squeezed on and engaged the driver, the man with the limp arm, and the toothless complainer in a spirited conversation about Thanksgiving, the curried coat she said she'd made for herself, her divorce, and her upcoming Christmas trip to Jamaica.
"Oh, I wish I was going there!" the toothless man said excitedly. "Now Jamaican women are HOT!!!" he continued.
The limp arm man chimed in, agreeing. The West Indian woman chuckled with satisfaction. She turned to show her appreciation, unfortunately and much to my chagrin (because I'd been looking at the back of her head through the sea of standing bodies)- she was the exception. Weeell, the woman was attractive in that avante-garde Wandaesque (from In Living Color) but not as extremely fugly way, if you're into that, definitely no Grace Jones though. She had on a nice, stylish warm down coat, however and her accent was nice. She made her way off when her stop came up and bid the front of the bus revelers adieu. Still amped, the toothless man continued to cackle and talk about women with Limp Arm... suddenly an unused crack needle fell out of his pocket. No one seemed to notice but me. Due to my neuroses (read: keen eye), I always tend to note the minutiae. I was riveted and enthralled by the crack tool. I looked at the needle then back at Toofus. I looked across at a guy with black rimmed eyeglasses (and equally as amused by the cracktacular goings-on up front)- to see if he had noticed. He seemed caught up in the rapture of the conversation unfolding up front, so I don't think he did. I stared back at the crack needle. See, judging from Toofus's skinny build (he said he was 140 pounds during parts of the animated chatter), piss poor dental hygiene, and over excited demeanor I was 110% certain he wasn't a diabetic. He cackled, his body shook. He appeared antsy. Suddenly he caught my gaze, looked down and finally noticed he'd dropped the host to his lil piece of crack heaven on the floor. He hurriedly picked it up and nervously shoved it back in his jeans pocket without missing a beat. I smirked. This time he shoved it deep down, ensuring it was nestled and safe in the confines of his pocket. His stop finally came up, he quickly said his goodbyes and pushed off taking one last, brief look at me.
We'd finally made it to the mall, where I struggled and elbowed my way towards my destination...
Epilogue
The bus ride back to my mother's house was relatively normal until the bus picked up passengers from Vine Street, sometime after 7:20pm. One guy under the influence stumbled on, he stood up front fidgeting inside his coat picket. "I got my bus card driver, I ain't tryin' to get a free ride," he promised. "You can sit down and look for your card," the driver advised and lurched forward. The man stumbled up front, right across from me and next to an extremely large man in a red Salvation Army apron (one of the annual holiday bell ringers stationed outside major spots trying to raise money for the organization, no doubt). " 'Scuse me" Drunk Puss said to the man, who moved over, allowing Drunky more space. He continued to fiddle for his bus card. He looked across at me. I turned away quickly and closed my eyes. "Hey Miss!" I pretended not to hear. Kept my eyes closed. " 'scuse me, MISS!" ... my eyes stayed closed. "MISS!!" I finally opened my eyes and slowly turned in his direction. "I like your boots!" I blinked lazily at him. Disinterested. "They're so shiny, and nice, and full of goodness..." I turned away from him and closed my eyes once more. He continued to spout a bunch of ridiculous and drunk banter as he dug 'round for his bus pass... A man with a cane (who smelled like a booze fiesta) also stumbled on and plopped down next to me- (Liquor, meth and crack must've been marked down as well, because folks under the influence were out in droves). Drunk Puss was apparently familiar with the new passenger, stood up to greet and fell on top of the old man, knocking into my shoulder in the process. I sighed heavily, irritated, and squeezed my eyes shut tighter, and put my hand over my face to block the pain of this circumstance out. "Oh, I'm sorry!" Drunk Puss said to his acquaintance.
"I love you man, but not THAT much."
He found his bus pass and FINALLY made his way up to settle his fare. He plopped back down and caused some more drunken damage. Finally the bus driver jerked forward and pulled over to the side of the road. He switched on the light up front. Sighing and anxious to get home, I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter, annoyed by the slight delay. I heard the driver whispering on the emergency phone. Probably about Drunk Puss, to a supervisor. A preemptive measure perhaps? He sat there for about five minutes, " 'scuse me driver, is there a PROBLEM!" Drunk Puss yelled up at him. The driver didn't answer. "Hm. Should I get OFF??" he yelled. Someone from the back of the bus answered, "Yes!" Passengers snickered.
The resident drunk passenger finally stumbled off shortly after the driver took off, much to everyone's delight. I'm starting to truly understand WHY the day after Thanksgiving is called Black Friday. It is undoubtedly a dark, scary experience. I'm none too worse for wear, however. And am furnished with a new cell phone to replace the lost one. I did this all for technology. ...

March 12, 2008

Par for The Course

Dear Elliot "Mr. Clean" Spitzer or Client 9,

The fact that you, as Attorney General of New York State, once laid down the law on a call-girl ring, locked up numerous people for corruption, money laundering and prostitution, and came down HARD on Wall Street executives is commendable. In any event, and without further ado, the call-girl ring leaders you busted and the Wall Street execs you chastised asked me to deliver a message ... BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. That's it.

P.S. the fact that you hired a high priced hooker and shamed your family are not what has people perplexed and shaking their heads with amusement. But your sense of entitlement, your arrogance, your perceived invincibility, your sheer daftness, and your hypocrisy are what reek of piss. I can't say I'm surprised though. Regardless of what team a politician plays for, essentially, they're all the same; Untrustworthy, sanctimonious, hypocritical, ironic, and inconsistent in their behavior. THESE are the reasons why people in NY and the entire Northeast think you're a douche of massive proportions. So big in fact, Summer's Eve should do a study on your stupidity. That's it.

November 16, 2007

I Hate Myself...

... Because I felt compelled to rent and then watch Herschell Gordon Lewis's campy, splatter flick, The Gruesome Twosome. If that weren't self-inflicted punishment enough, I decided to follow it up with John Waters's, Desperate Living. Now I'm all for camp and trash, but that hateful, hateful sadomasochistic torture I put myself through has left me flummoxed. As I stomped down the street this sunny fall afternoon, I suddenly paused in the middle of the sidewalk (much to a couple of passersby curiosity) and asked myself, "why?" Why would I do that to myself? Anyway, I'm following it up with The Gore Gore Girls. I'm sure that'll help undo the damage and take the edge off as I ponder my career and future.

October 22, 2007

Full Speed Ahead on the Ignoramus Express

This is why race matters continue to fester. And why I become a little more bitter (with a dash of militancy thrown in for good measure) and a little less hopeful. Racism and bigotry in varying degrees continue to percolate, because many members of the majority refuse to acknowledge or accept the fact that people with dark skin, are not intellectually inferior. And have the capacity to excel and be successful. People like this piece of shit are archaic (but unwelcome) artifacts, that need to be buried for good with the rest of the fossils. UGH! Maddening!

August 03, 2007

Bus Tales: The Crazy

Yesterday was a scorcher. It was one of those hot days that made you sweat even if you were standing still. The concept of there being shade was nonexistent. There was no escape from the heat. I swear that my blinking made beads of sweat form on my forehead. So I tried to do it from behind my large sunglasses sporadically, as I hate to sweat. One interesting thing I noticed is that oppressive heat tends to bring what I refer to as The Crazy out in full force. It's like night of the living dead. Walking corpses trudging down the street with glazed-crazed looks in their eyes.
Several years ago, while en route to a gallery exhibition, a friend's car broke down in a questionable neighborhood. That day stands out in my mind as if it happened only yesterday because it was in the middle of the afternoon, and it felt as if it was a thousand degrees. I remember having to remove my watch because any thing that made contact with my sweaty skin made the heat that much more unbearable. We sat there for almost two hours, after having pushed that heap of junk over to the side of the curb (it broke down smack dab in the middle of the street, at a green light). We sat, and we sat, and we sweated, and sat. No air conditioner, no cold beverages. Just the windows rolled down, to no avail because there was no wind to speak of. Suddenly a shirtless man ran down the street, right by the car, waving a rather large knife in the air. Yelling and cursing. At first I thought the heat was making me hallucinate but alas, my mind was not playing tricks on me. I remember sweat trickling, glistening down his brown back as he ran like a crazed lunatic, ready to cut a mofo. Needless to say, we quickly rolled the windows up in that hot car, locked the doors, hunkered down with alarm and fear and with 'O' mouths, we said a silent prayer to ourselves. After having mouthed a collective "What the EFF??" Anyway, her parents finally came and rescued us in an air conditioned car. We never made it to that exhibit. I did go home and write a poem about it though.
So yes. yesterday it was that kind of crazy inducing heat. I boarded the bus and it was a relatively quiet ride, until this visibly drunk (or drugged up?) man boarded from a stop on Albany Avenue... stumbling and full of The Crazy. See, people afflicted with The Crazy always seem to single me out at some point during one of their spells. So I hastily put my ear plugs in and turned up the ol' MP3 player (not that that ever helps). He ranted and raved. Stumbled down the aisle, yelling for "change for a dollar!" He made his way to the back. Because I hate myself, I paused my MP3 player to listen and heard him slurring his way through some incoherent anecdote to some young girl in the back. Something having to do with a White woman being on her cell phone and her legs splayed... wide open. I think I heard him refer to the white woman by some unsavory name. The young girl in the back chuckled nervously, in that "please go awaaaaay" fashion. Unfortunately he stumbled his way back up towards the front and continued ranting. I rolled my eyes, silently hoping he wouldn't say anything to me. There was a young man about 19 or 20 years old, with cornrowed hair sitting next to me... sort of perpendicular actually. He looked annoyed as well. Man afflicted with The Crazy sat directly across from Cornrows. I forgot to mention that I had a large Panera Bread bag sitting next to me in the seat. I heard Man Afflicted yell in my direction: "YOU NEED HELP WIT' DAT BAG!!!" I ignored him and turned the music up louder. "HEY! EXCUUUSE ME. HEY! I SAAAAAID, DO YOU NEED HELP WIT DAT BAG!!!" I continued to ignore him, and stare out the window. Out of my peripheral view, I saw him lean closer... "NO!" I said quickly and turned away. "WHY?? You don't need help?? FINE THEN. Who CARES" and he proceeded to try to cuss me out, but his poisoned brain matter made his thoughts disjointed. His coded language indecipherable. "YOU CAN DO WHAT'CHU WANT!!!" He continued. Just then, Cornrows muttered, "You need to leave that junk alone and stop bothering people." "What?!" Man afflicted challenged. A bit taken aback. "I said, leave that junk alone" Cornrows repeated. "Maaan, I ain't oon no junk. I was just trying to be nice and ask her if she needed help with her bag! I ain't on no junk! She can go 'head. I don't care!" "Man, shut up" Cornrows said. Man afflicted started muttering something about Louis Farrakhan. *sigh* Who knows? Who cares? Why me? Luckily my stop came up shortly thereafter. But I do know that Cornrows' verbal smite towards Man Afflicted with The Crazy was a welcome reprieve.

July 28, 2007

Criminal Minds

"I have issued an Executive Order blocking property of persons determined to have committed, or to pose a significant risk of committing, an act or acts of violence that have the purpose or effect of threatening the peace or stability of Iraq or the Government of Iraq or undermining efforts to promote economic reconstruction and political reform in Iraq or to provide humanitarian assistance to the Iraqi people."
Don't oppose the current war in Iraq or our current White House administration's plans for World Domination. Opposing the War on Terrorism is against the law. Don't complain about your rights as an American and definitely don't quote the laws of The Constitution when arguing that point. Personal rights and the laws of The Constitution officially don't matter anymore. Oh and Good luck believing everything you see and read in the (government controlled) media. Liberal, right-wing... it's all a bunch of filtered B.S.

July 27, 2007

Ain't Misbehavin'

Dear (male) drivers,
Recently on a particularly nice summer afternoon, I was standing outside on Woodland Street in front of the gate of Saint Francis Hospital, waiting for the bus. The sun was out, it was pleasantly hot, and there was minimal humidity. In total, it was a great day to wait for a ride without having to curse the elements: rain, humidity, hail, etc. See, the bus stop is a designated part of the sidewalk away from the busy street, where would-be passengers wait patiently for their ride to come at a scheduled time. Cars fly by in both directions. Filled with families, couples, singles, men and women. Going some place specific. Perhaps to run an errand, en route to the beach, or to the mall to do some shopping. I'd be willing to wager that when drivers, particularly male drivers, happen to notice an unassuming young woman (or man) standing there in large dark shades, gold ballet flats, black wide leg trousers, and a tee shirt listening to her MP3 player, they know she must be waiting for the bus. That particular street on the west end of Hartford (between Woodland and Asylum) where the Connecticut Public Television, St Francis Hospital, and St Francis Women's Center buildings prominently sit is not known for having prostitutes waiting outside in broad daylight. On a particularly sunny Saturday afternoon. And so I'm left perplexed and wondering why the gentleman who slowed down his whip in front of me and beckoned to me, thought I was going to pause my MP3 player in the middle of Cody Chesnutt's "Serve this Royalty," walk over at his beck and call, and then lean into his window for a chat? See, because only prostitutes walk over to a man's car when beckoned, to advertise their wares to that potential buyer while they inspect the goods... get a peek at the T & A. Since this isn't Hunt's Point in the Bronx, Atlantic City, or any place else where street hookerdom may be abundant in broad daylight I'm lost as to why my scowl and the bird I flipped in your direction left you looking confused and agitated before you gave up and sped off. Anyway, one suggestion would be to wait until night falls next time and to go trolling around in the north end of Hartford. Dutch point maybe? You might just find yourself a niiiice, crack infested prostitute on the cheap. Oh, and while you're at it, learn some new courting techniques. Have a great weekend sir
kisses Coffey

June 18, 2007

MY 75 cents worth

Dear 50 Cent,
I wish you would get off of Oprah Winfrey's tits already. Your lame attempts at dragging her name through the mud and trashing her in the media every chance you get, is nothing short of pathetic and uncalled for. All of the other rappers have moved on, and have stopped whining already about her not inviting any of you to be on her show... perhaps you should follow suit, my friend. Accusing her of being an "Oreo" and now opining in the July '07 issue of Spin magazine:
"She doesn't ever say anything that anybody from the ghetto is gonna ID with. Take a poll. You go out and find me some young black women who ID with Oprah...She can escape the fact that she's black because she's a billionaire"
Does our community more harm than good. I'm curious to know what exactly makes you an authority on BLACK WOMEN'S issues?? I mean, you only exploit us in your songs and show us gyrating and booty popping with blank looks on our faces in your videos. Perhaps you're bored or you've come to the realization that your songs are just as formulaic and contrived as your apparent cry for attention is... and so you need to keep your name in the media by riding Oprah Winfrey's jock. Lest your forget Fiddy, while Oprah hasn't been shot a number of times, the woman HAS paid her dues and is deserving of every accolade heaped upon her. You're talking about a self made BLACK female billionaire, who has used her fame and fortune to help further humanity and Black causes and other issues pertinent in our society. I guess opening a leadership academy for young Black girls in Africa, sponsoring poor children, helping encourage literacy, and helping Hurricane Katrina victims, don't register on your scale, eh? Either way, Fiddy, you're the sell out and "oreo"... I say this, because denigrating one of the most influential Black women, in predominantly white run media outlets, does nothing to further our community or promote unity. It only widens the gap. Need I also remind you, that most of the consumers purchasing your albums and yelling "G-G-G-G-G-G-G UNIIIIITTT! are young white teenagers from the suburbs? Get over the fact that you will probably NEVER get a seat (or have the opportunity to jump) on Oprah's couch. You're a crybaby and you're taking up all the oxygen with your moronic propaganda and self-hate. Your idiocy and misogyny knows no bounds, apparently. Get a life and sharpen your skillz.
xoxo Coffey
P.S. Thanks for putting your Farmington, CT mansion on the market. Feels good not to have to claim you as a Connecticut resident anymore.
Kisses.

May 22, 2007

Guilty Pleasure

Imagine if Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samarai's writer and director Jim Jarmusch (who I spied dressed in all black, taking long strides down Greenwich Village once, a few years ago), Wu-Tang Clan's Rza, and Quentin Tarantino collaborated on an elaborate hoax... in the form of a scary film together, and refused to waste too much money sucker punching viewers who would eventually happen upon this stinker. The result would probably be the urban horror flick, Vampiyaz. I peeped this unconventional (and super low budget) take on an old tale this past weekend. The moment I noticed the spelling was sans the ...i.r.e.s. at the end, only to be replaced with y.a.z. I knew I had to add it to my Netflix queue, bump it up at the top, and watch it immediately, once it came in the mail! While the special effects are questionable (and laughable), and the dialogue left much to be desired, I was mildly surprised by how horribly good it was. It held my interest long enough, to see it through to fruition. It doesn't hurt that Vampiyaz's protagonist is hot and slightly resembles Canadian hip hop artist, K-os. Either way, this movie stinks to the high heaven... so much so, that it's actually quite good and has prompted me to recommend it to the masses. It makes Vampire in Brooklyn look Oscar worthy... Check it out.