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

March 10, 2010

Fat and Greasy

Bastion of all things lewd, crude, sexist, and sophomoric, Howard Stern- (with the approval of his trusty dick wart, Robin Quivers)- has managed to make his ramblings relevant again by attacking up-and-coming actor and recent Oscar nominee Gabourey Sidibe for her appearance. Gabourey, who was up for an academy award for her debut performance in the film 'Precious' -(adapted from the book 'Push'  by author and performance poet, Sapphire)- is witty, college educated, articulate, comfortable in her skin, and did a hell of a job interpreting the title character in her very first film role. I read the book twice and saw the film an equal number of times. The film and book offer a bitter, gut wrenching pill to swallow and is glaring with the delivery. It could not have been an easy role for an actor just getting her feet wet in the industry, to perform, and so Gabourey was lauded for the strength of her debut by Oprah Winfrey, with a heartfelt tribute... but none of that matters... 
According to Howard Stern- (whose own physical appearance is a few notches under average at best, which makes his career in radio that much more fitting)- and Robin Quivers, Oprah is a "filthy liar," for Gabourey will never work in the industry again due to how she looks...  overweight, darker complected, and apparently offending to Howard's personal aesthetic and views on what he considers to be attractive and worthy. I won't bother linking to the offending diatribe available on YouTube, but I will relay some of the more notable quotes:
"There's the most enormous, fat Black chick I've ever seen. Everyone's pretending she's a part of show business,  and she's never going to be in another movie," he opined.  
"She should have gotten the Best Actress award because she's never going to have another shot. What movie is she gonna be in?" Stern continued to quip. 
He and Robin- (who has struggled with her own weight via questionable diet methods)- also said Gabby would die in about three years and should basically just shrink away into the abyss because she didn't resemble any of the other Oscar nominees. They suggested that she may have a shot starring in a sequel to 'The Blind Side,' though. There you have it. It's just that simple, despite the fact that Gabourey actually has several projects lined up beyond her role in 'Precious.'
Some Black people, in fact, refused to support 'Precious' while it was in theaters, simply because they were turned off by the fact that Gabourey didn't fit some hegemonic beauty standard. I can't even begin to count the reasons relayed to me, why people weren't interested in it... not even knowing the movie's premise. Someone complained to me, "Why do they have that big, fat, DARK-skinned girl in the movie??? She's a bad representative for Black people! I'm not going to see that mess!" Needless to say, I blinked at her incredulously. I've also read the hateful jokes on Black entertainment blogs... hyucking over Sidibe's complexion and weight.
Once again, a Black woman's body and overall look has been codified and reduced to a thing of repulsion... othered... her personality and creative gifts gently placed down her throat for her to swallow and perhaps spit back up, so that she'll pare down her substantial size to a body that's more palatable. Much of the unofficial jury seem to agree that Howard's biting remarks has some merit, because Gabourey just looks so... so, unhealthy. Suddenly folks are speculating and ticking off a list of issues she could potentially, but may not even suffer from! I am in awe that merely looking at a person automatically determines their vitals. Since it's that easy, to hell with Sidibe's doctor, because anybody not skinny automatically has health problems and live sedentary lives steeped in deep-fried Twinkies, while every skinny person is automatically healthy and fit sans any issues to speak of. It's official... everyone's an expert... medical licenses for all!  *insert side-eye here.* 
Dictating who's healthy and who isn't... who's beautiful enough to be on film and who's not, undermines what is essentially wrong with how this cult of personalty rate and judge people ... and it's also indicative of how often we don't mind our own business. Essentially, we all have room for self-improvement... Howard Stern especially.
In the grand scheme of things, who cares if Gabourey does have health problems? Those are between she and her doctor. So what if in addition to being overweight, she has the unmitigated gall to be darker-skinned than most people are comfortable with seeing on their American screens? The contempt that people like Howard Stern display when body-snarking and in determining whether Sidibe's race and figure will guarantee her continued fame and success, is indicative of their own self-loathing. Gabourey's health is no more at risk than actors' who smoke, binge and purge, get excessive amounts of plastic surgery, or snort coke.
I'm still enraptured by her spirit, the outstanding performance she gave in 'Precious,' and how infectious her personality is during interviews. Sidibe seems to be above the nonsense, as she  stated that suddenly one day, she woke up and determined for herself, that she was beautiful.

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---

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 04, 2009

It's Alive!!!!!

This past week, I have made valuable use of my time. I cut up some juicy and delicious fruit, I saw Corey Holcomb headline a comedy show, I hung out with a great friend, and I'm sorta doing some household projects... oh yes, and I'm looking for a new job because I got laid off Monday. Here's my word: Why is it when you're laid off, people retreat from you as if you have the damn Bubonic Plague or they tsk as if you're a charity case or on the cusp of needing anti-anxiety meds? Or they feel compelled to forward any and every job posting to you, not keeping in mind that you've got this?
I understand that people mean well, but I am doing remarkably well. I got laid off from a JOB. A job that wasn't my dream career. I'm being compensated for it, it happens to the best of us, I'm optimistic, and I truly believe in the old adage that when one door closes, a window opens someplace else. Perps, look around you! In case you haven't noticed, we're living in shaky economic times. It is happening universally. I'm not the only person in history who has been laid off. I am confident that even in these times, I will find a new job soon. I had been looking prior to learning that the organization I worked for was in dire financial trouble. I am not a charity case. I am not expecting anybody to pay for my drinks, look after me, or help me with my rent and bills, so you don't need to retreat or head for the hills. I'm not about to emotionally implode either so no need to avert your eyes away from me.
Oh, and if one more person says, "Awww, have you been looking? What are you looking for? You'll find something soon" I'm going to stick my finger down my throat and vomit on them. It has only been a week! Making me feel as if I should be feeling like a steaming hot piece of shit only makes you look ridiculous in my eyes. I have a caring family, who lives nearby and an awesome true blue so if I need to vent or need help with anything, I'm all set. Attempts at helping me and then questioning whether I know what exactly I want to do with my life is nothing short of condescending and rude. It's akin to kicking a person when they've stumbled and then holding your food against their throat while they're struggling to get up and dust themselves off to fight back. I know how this process works. You want to help me? Offer to provide me with a reference like other level-headed folks have already done. Treat me as you once did when I was employed. If you run across something you THINK I'd or would be a good fit... go ahead and forward it, but don't make it your personal mission to be my career counselor like I'm wayward and pathetic. It may be hard for some folks to wrap their mind around the fact that I'm doing great and that I am actually pounding the pavement, but that is my reality. I'm sorry if you haven't grasped that yet. And one other thing... you don't have to avoid me, because chances are I am stoked about never having to work with or interact with you again and you need to realize what climate we're living in. The folks that matter and who can appreciate how to network with me in a productive manner, have my contact information and know how to reach me (this includes those who want to hang out and have a great time as well). And to those who don't know how exactly to interact with me anymore... if I need your help or advice... I'll offer it to YOU.
That is all.

May 07, 2009

Les Miserable: A Bus Tale About Peace and Harmony

Sooo -
These past couple of days, my bus rides to work have been relatively peaceful. Benita Butrell hasn't been on recently ... thank goddess. Very good, very gooood. Peace, serenity and... "You need to move your umbrella! If I trip over it I'm gwanna bus' you in your fucking face!!!" Threatened the West Indian woman who walked on all be-scarfed, red with malice and anger, to the the heavy set Latina woman... minding her business and plugged into her IPod. Me? On the inside, I'm like "whoa, whoa, whoaaaa Neeellyyy." Seems many of the bus passengers were exclaiming the same thing with their eyes. A relatively quiet ride suddenly disrupted like a sunny picnic by a bolt of lightning with thunder.
Let's rewind.
This morning was a wet, gloomy rainy one. I recall boarding the bus with relative ease. I didn't trip, I didn't have to step over anything. I sat across from the Latina woman, whose small, purse sized umbrella (of the Totes variety) was nestled tightly on the floor, wedged between her feet. Out of the way, inconspicuous and damp.
I boarded... okaaaay, Regular Joe Schmoe boarded... ooookaaaay.... Young woman boards sans any probs.... ooookaaaaay.....
Angry Jamaican woman boards. NOT okay. She gets on with no apparent problem and sits her ass down. Then suddenly she yells from her seat, in her heavily accented voice- "Your umbrella is on the floor!"
The Latina is looking away, calm and bobbing in time with her music. "Your umbrella is ON THE FLOOR." Crazy yells! Still no response. Finally the Jamaican woman gets up out of her seat, taps the Latina woman on her arm frantically and yells, "I said..."
"I know it's there." the Latina woman answers calmly without unplugging her music, and casually turns away.
"WELL YOU NEED TO MOVE IT BEFORE SOMEONE TRIPS OVER IT!!! IF I TRIP OVER IT, I'M GONNA BUS' YOU IN YOUR FUCKING FACE!!!!!"
The Jamaican woman yells from her seat. The Latina shrugs at her and continues to enjoy her music.
"YOU NEED TO MOVE THAT UMBRELLA BEFORE SOMEONE TRIPS YOU STUPID BITCH!!!!"
Latina casually turns to the woman and says, "No one will trip. You see it when you get on."
"WHAT BALLS. WHAT A STUPID BITCH" THE Angry Jamaican yells. "Whatever." said the Latina casually. With that, she calmly got up and off at her next stop. I felt like saying to El Pollo Loca, "Bitch be COOL, you're sitting down already, and your crazy ass didn't trip, What the Bombaclaat?? DAMN." But just scowled in her direction instead.
What the HELL? What on earth provoked that unwarranted attack? See, I had my tote bag on the floor of the bus, out of the way, tucked in-between MY feet. What if she decided to direct her venomous, hot garbage at moi? I really commend the Latina woman for her casual indifference. I reeeeally do, because some people simply ask for it. They BEG and PLEAD for it.
What prompts folks to wake up in the early morn and decide to spew their misery onto others??? And so early, pre-coffee. The NERVE!
Anyway, check out this Interesting blog post about about a man's vow to wait 6 months before he kisses a woman. She may have to resign herself to using creams, jellies and toys.

September 01, 2008

Dante's Inferno

There's a new book out. Yet another manifesto that feasts and nibbles on the fleshy insecurities and perceived shortcomings of women. Because Tariq "K-Flex" Nasheed's Art of Mackin' and The Mack Within' needed a supplement. Because men are infallible masters who hold all the answers to life's complexities and one of their primary purposes is to guide us wayward women into a magick fairyland where we would gladly submit ourselves to a life of passivity and servitude.
In any event, this latest fuckery is entitled, The Re-Education of the Female and it's written ever so eloquently by computer engineer and first time author, Dante Moore. Moore-- described by Washington Post writer Laura Yao as a well groomed, heavyset, baby-faced, 33-year old with neatly twisted dreadlocks-- professes to love women, and that he wrote this book to help us along .
Moore was also raised in a matriarchal household, and his father was mostly absent. His mother insisted that he treat women like, "queens." But as Dante aged, he came to the realization that his mother was oh so very wrong. See, he discovered that acting like a douchetard toward insecure and needy women, made the phone ring off the hook, much to his delight-
"My mother used to say, walk them home from school, grab their books, give them gifts, blah blah blah, yada yada yada. I went like that for maybe two years, and I probably lost every girlfriend that came along- Once I started being myself and saying, 'look, I'm not going to do this, this, or that for women,' the phone didn't stop ringing, "
The kicker is that Moore was able to train his girlfriend of two years, into dressing sexy on the daily and even prompted her to clean the house looking like a femme-fatale.
"He's wonderful. He's one of the good ones." She coos lovingly (I assume she cooed lovingly). Despite succeeding in brainwashing gaining the adulation of his girlfriend, Dante still claims to not have found "true love" as yet, which would explain why he's not hitched, even though he has an impressionable 11-year-old son to doucheify. Yao neatly summarized the crux of Dante's literary point: Women need to Cook, clean in sexy-hot attire, bow down to a man's every command, put out, and stay skinny if they want to snag and keep a man's interest.
"I like someone of a certain size," Dante rambles on. "My preference would be African American, size 10 or under, conscious about her history and culture."
Miseducation Re-Education of the Female reinforces Dante's preference in this excerpt in which he charmingly compares women to rotten fruit--
"The fatter you get, the more you decrease your potential single-man pool. Let me give you an example. When you go to the grocery store to shop, do you pick out the nastiest-looking, most rotten, smelliest fruit or meat you can find? Oh, you don't? Why not? . . . It's the same with men when they see baby elephant-sized, out-of-shape women."
If Dante Moore's douchery still doesn't illuminate, read this excerpt from Yao's interview with him, in which he fumbles an attempt at being evasive about his dating history--

Though generally reluctant to discuss the specifics of his dating life, Moore does talk unabashedly of a time he broke up with a woman over the fact that he inadvertently almost stole $15 from her.

He took her on a date to Maggie Moo's, and she gave him a $20 bill to order for her. He pocketed the bill and, distracted by the menu board, claims he never saw the value of the bill and just assumed it was $5. When his date later asked why he hadn't given her change, he thought she was accusing him of not treating women well, and dumped her on the spot.

"If I would've just paid for it, had she not given me the money at all, we'd probably still be dating," he says.

This incident, he recalls, happened about two months ago. But weren't he and Tuitt (the trained girlfriend) "exclusive" during this time? Moore quickly revises it to "several months ago," he can't really remember, but probably before he and Tuitt "became exclusive."

Dante's bottom bitch girlfriend later covers for him, saying he probably made a mistake with the time frame, for he's "open with everything he does."--- (queue the collective Bitch PLEASE! and eye-rolls). Laura Yao concludes her expose by mentioning that a 14-year-old girl enthusiastically purchased the book promising to lend it to her mom when she's done reading it, and that a "large stack" still remained during Dante's underwhelmingly attended book signing, that particular day.

Unfortunately, this is what relationship advice has been reduced to. Insecure and bitter men doling out wordz of wizdom to other insecure, bitter men seeking validation and this overwhelming need to rate or condescend to women, not to mention the naive women who will undoubtedly fall for this hype, because they are sick of waiting by the phone (when they should be doing something far more productive).

I've extricated myself (unofficially yet gladly) from the market sans regret, and must admit that while annoyed, I can't be angry over books (or ideas) like this. All one has to do is find the comic relief and entertainment in its message. To read between the lines and wonder why yet another man, would go out of his way to write such a bittersweet symphony about the evils of womankind.
I'll bet Moore almost exploded into a million teeny tiny douche pieces when his book got picked up. All the more reason to gloat and pound his chest. Why not just enter into a legitimate BDSM relationship, complete with a signed contract and willing participant, if he is that intent on dominating and subjugating a woman?? At least it'd be a lot more honest and less bullshitty. I also just LOVE how he considers us FEMALES and not WOMEN. Makes me all shivery. If Dante Moore is indeed, considered "one of the good ones" as his loyal girlfriend claimed, then I'd rather find some Aggressive to do the scissor with. Look, everyone is entitled to having preferences when it comes to what they consider aesthetically appealing. I'd be lying if I said certain physical traits on a man didn't attract me. And admittedly, Dante Moore appears to be an attractive looking man. And while I believe I can pass for being quite attractive despite my flaws, I don't walk around pretending to be perfect looking or that everyone should want me because I think I'm goddess's gift. I'm realistic, and while my expectations are up there, they're within reason... with the bulk of the emphasis being on intellect and whether or not a man is respectable and respectFUL.
I am sick of dudes lumping ALL women in the same categories due to their own personal experiences:
  • Golddiggers,
  • Unappreciative,
  • Hyper-sensitive,
  • Gullible,
  • Not attractive or mindful of her appearance due to having some meat on the bones,
  • Expecting the world to revolve around her
  • Uncooperative.
We're automatically uncooperative and high-maintenance because we want to be treated respectfully? I'll be the first to admit that many women may be conflicted over that concept and will send mixed signals... and blow off a genuinely nice guy, no matter what he does for her, but the majority aren't. Trust. I mean, I could neatly classify ALL MEN under the same categories and write them ALL off for the following reasons:
  • Jackass
  • Douche
  • Disingenuous
  • Unreliable
  • Too Dumb
  • Not packing in the meat department
  • Fug
  • Blathery
  • Uneducated
  • Boring
  • Poor
  • Old
  • Impotent
  • Sloppy
  • Unstylish
  • Misshapen
  • Dogs
  • Liars
  • Cheaters
But I don't, because I realize one's personal experience with a few isn't indicative of the sum total of a whole lot. And more importantly, most of those labels and rating men based on bullshit standards are unfair. It's a shame that a few bad dating experiences from seemingly ungrateful women resulted in Dante becoming crass, bitter, and cynical enough to pen this book. Rather than suggesting that women need to be "re-educated", perhaps he should get some therapy and explore the things that may very well be wrong with him as well. Women who fall for men who treat them poorly have deep rooted issues they need to work out. i.e. the women who seemed to call Dante once he started treating them like yesterday's bowel movement. Or the groupies Dante met during his signings and whispered their phone numbers in his ear. I'm tired of guys of Dante's ilk thinking perfection is their due, when they have a looooog way to come themselves ... physically and especially intellectually. These distorted and unrealistic perspectives regarding what womanhood entails. Par for the course as far as the patriarchy is concerned. I am a LADY who would not give this type of base chauvinism the time of day. Get a fucking uterus, a pair of tits, some culture, and a clue and I just might engage you.

I shall certify Dante with Massengill's stamp of approval for exerting the effort, for having a great smile, and more importantly- for successfully conning his girlfriend.

May 31, 2008

Sucio

Yours truly was enjoying a delectable Chocolate Lava Cake, garnished with candied walnuts, a side of vanilla gelato, and a sprig of fresh mint- at one of my favorite eateries during my lunch hour, when a Caucasian Man of Slight Build and with dark hair, walked in and sat at the bar. Upon settling in ... about three chairs away from me, he ordered a "coffee with Bailey's," in a brusque, yet familiar voice. I was caught up in the rapture of my delicious dessert, the stresses of work and workplace rivalries forgotten in that moment of space and time, so I didn't notice Man of Slight Build's lunch companion. Suddenly, I heard the trendy and very blond restaurant hostess cooing. "Ohhhh, you're sooooo cute. You're such a gooood boooy." Then I looked up. ... There, on M.O.S.B. 's lap was a Yorkie, small enough to travel in a Louis Vuitton pet tote.... naked, exposed, and out in the open, in an eating establishment, no less. Suddenly my neuroses started to kick in. My mind raced!
"IS THAT EVEN LEGAL??? TO HAVE AN ANIMAL, IN AN EATING AND DRINKING ESTABLISHMENT???? THERE ARE TABLES SET UP OUTSIDE! WHY ISN'T HE OUT THERE ENJOYING HIS SPIKED COFFEE???!!! THE WEATHER IS WONDERFUL! GO OUTSIDE!" It screamed. Repulsed, I slowly and calmly put my dessert fork down. Just then, M.O.S.B.'s coffee with Bailey's arrived, topped off with a heaping mountain of whipped cream.
Another blond waitress came over and cooed some more. "Ohhh, you're sooo cuuuute! You loooove daddy, don't you???" she said, as she massaged the area behind its pert ears.
"I EFFING HOPE SHE WASHES HER HANDS THOROUGHLY, WITH SOAP AFTER THIS!!!"
My mind screamed. "He only likes filet mignon, steak, and chicken," M.O.S.B. opined, smugly. "I don't see the point in giving him regular dog food. It's all oats and grain and animals don't really live off of that," He continued. For I'm assuming he believes his little furry cretin only deserves the best. To punctuate his point, M.O.S.B. scooped up a dollop of whipped cream and fed it to his little beloved. The dog lapped and licked his master's finger greedily. "Yeah, daddy's not supposed to feed whipped cream to you, right?" The bar patron cooed to his lap dog. After a period of time, the man told his little pocket pooch that there was no more whipped cream to be lapped, because it was "aaaaaall gone." I eventually returned to my dessert, chocolate ecstasy triumphing and overwhelming my brief feelings of disgust.

May 09, 2008

This Little Bird's Coming Out of It's Nest

Dear What'syourname,

I thought it over for the briefest of moments... a very brief moment. As I sit here, even now, munching on Cherry Berry Nut Mix, interrupting my red wine thoughts to ponder your proposition... the answer is fat chance. I don't think so. Absolument pas! Nunca! Aller merde vous! Basically the totality of my final answer is the equivalent to No. But thank you anyway... which is an unequivocal and emphatic, Not in this lifetime... ever again. Have a great weekend though... sans moi.

xoxo Coffey

April 08, 2008

In Which Coffey Learns

During these stuffy sinused, work filled and busy days, I've finally had the opportunity to reflect on conversations heard whle out and circumstances I've run across. I've been taken to school, if you will. Inadvertent lessons taught to moi. As my ears pop and my nasal passages clear up, I'm suddenly awash in a brilliant sea of clarity. I've realized, in this current cult of personality, that people will simply continue to be themselves in all their loud, stank, uncouth glory. Bad, ugly, unhygenic, and overwhelmingly raunch. This much I know is true. I realize that people have no qualms about boarding the bus, early in the AM, taking their seat, and then breathing heavily... their breath reeking of jungle rot or hot garbage on a particularly humid day. I can sit here and ask the universe whether it's too much to ask or wish for certain people to floss, brush or scrape their tongue, gargle and take it to the back, perhaps pop a mint before venturing out into the world... But why bother? The answer is yes, it is too much to ask. And so I suffer silently. Fate decreed that this is the cross I must bear sans questions. I also learned while en route to the mall (on the bus of course)- this past Saturday, that a young Hispanic lass I'll call Romeo (all of maybe 16 years old) was headed in my direction to meet Lissette. Lissette, apparently, was going to meet Romeo at the mall, so that he could "fuck her." ... "Yeah," proclaims Romeo to his buddy, "Lissette's gonna meet me there so I can fuck her." To which his friend replied with a spitty chuckle/chortle combo. Ahhh, I learn something new every single day. Is this what young people do now? Do they have trysts at the mall?? Whatever happened to sitting in the dark, at the back of the theater? Or going to the park after dusk? Folks our future depends on these very same young people. In which case, I'd rather not be cryogenically frozen. I'll just go head and rot. I also learned that a mall is NOT the place to be on a Saturday afternoon, with a sinus infection. It was hot, it was extremely crowded, and I couldn't concentrate for I found myself wondering about Romeo and Lissette. I didn't want to run into them in some sort of compromising position. Speaking of young people, I also learned that in their quest for fame, they like to videotape themselves beating the living daylights out of some poor unsuspecting victim, in hopes of uploading it on YouTube. Yup, don't freeze me, just burn me and throw my ashes in the nearest ocean. Life's little lessons can be a bit overwhelming when swallowed whole sometimes. Now pardon me while I go wait for my food to digest ...

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.

February 15, 2008

... Didn't You Know This?

That wretched, waste of time and money holiday... the one that starts with a V and shall remain nameless, is finally done and over with.
I always find it amusing when couples wait once a year to do something thoughtful and sexy for one another, before settling back into the routine of being jerks to one another. I smirked on the inside as a co-worker discussed how mean and cold his siggy other acted toward him, prompting him to consider calling it quits over the past weekend, before she called apologizing... all sweetness and light. Bitch knew that V day was on the horizon, that's why. Word on the street is that he got her an assortment of lovely gifts anyway.
I rolled my eyes as I listened to the frazzled bartender at restaurant Hot Tomatoes, sitting in wait for my lunch as he complained about the dozens of reservations overwhelming the restaurant for the evening... "people don't realize, we'll be extremely busy and they expect to be in and out in like 45 minutes!"
"Call me jaded, but I don't understand what all the fuss is about..." I opined. "It'll be done and over with in hours, and couples will go back to clawing at one another's throats on the 15th. But perhaps I'm just saying this, because I'm single..."
"Yeah..." he agreed before throwing up his hands at the ringing phone and rushing to answer it... Another hopeful patron probably wanting a reservation, no doubt. And then there was that attractive, young, sharply dressed and perfumed Hispanic couple I passed on the street later on that evening, after clocking off from work... arguing en route to Hot Tomatoes, as girlfriend struggled in her pointy-toed stiletto boots, to keep up with her agitated boyfriend, as they stomped to their destination over melting snow piles.
Ask me how deep my scowl furrowed, as I shook my head at the tacky assortment of plastic hearts, pitiful looking single red roses individually wrapped and contained behind cellophane plastic (for a whopping 5 to 10 bucks a pop), white teddy bears holding red heart pillows with the words "I Love You" painted on the front, and other stupid bric-a-brac vendors were hoping to hawk to desperate last minute shoppers, who didn't have time to order that delicious (and pricey) flower shaped cantaloupe bouquet from Edible Arrangements.
The most infuriating moment, however? ... Walking into CVS Pharmacy and discovering every last bit of fucking chocolate... every box of Hershey's Pot O' Gold (on sale for $3.88) sold the eff out!! The inconsiderate vultures. I wanted to push the shelves over in blind, white hot fury, but instead purchased a pack of cellulose facial sponges, black liquid eyeliner, and gum and stormed out into the damp, dark winter malaise, in a moue of glossy indignation and disgust.
The bitter ramblings of a young woman, never having been in love and cynical about the complex maze of dating? Perhaps. Or maybe just realistic and an staunch advocate of consistency in genuine behavior and emotions, just 'cause... not prompted by some corny holiday, that dictates you should go broke buying someone's affections once a year.
This morning, as I made my way to the entrance of my place of employment I came upon a sad looking, red, heart shaped mylar balloon, with Betty Boop on the front... flirty and dripping hearts lying on the ground. Dejected on February 15th. The last remnants of the previous day already forgotten and only remembered to begin with, due to some overwhelming sense of obligation. Half deflated and out of place in the backdrop of a crisp, bright, wintry-white morning as people hurried around it, rushing about in long, black winter coats... faces grim as they clutched their oversized Starbucks cups as if the 14th never happened. Clutching my own dark roast, I stopped and looked down at it. I shook my head. That pretty much summed up V-day. I stepped on Betty's face with my favorite pair of calf boots and rushed in to start my day.
P.S. to the man whose phone number I accepted a couple of weeks ago, because I thought you were genuine... TEXTING a response to someone's voicemail message, after "hoping" that they'd call: "Thanks! Talk to U Later" and then following up by calling at odd hours: 7:30 AM as you're getting in your car (I heard you unlocking your door), calling and then hanging up sans leaving a voicemail, texting "Are U up??" @ 12:20AM on a week day are NOT the proper ways to woo someone for a date and is rather dubious. Been there, done that... and the shirt I have to prove it? I use it to clean around the house. Strikes one, two, AND three. You're out!

February 01, 2008

Bus Tales: Miguel

This Friday was a long and tiring day. I'm convinced that once Friday comes, we're put through the ringer on purpose by some antagonistic force, as a way to make us EARN the luxury of relaxing, after having made it through another tedious work week. The day drags on, there's one annoying occurrence after another, your feet hurt, headaches abound, and no amount of watching the time will make it go any faster. You're stuck. You simply must ride the wave until you're finally washed ashore, gasping from its impact. Speaking of washed ashore, it also rained buckets, like a pregnant woman does right before she gives birth. It was chilly, wet, dreary and gray. Making today even longer and more harried.
In any event, I got my favorite and most comfortable pair of boots repaired. Shoe repairmen and makers impress and fascinate the hell out of me. I'm always stoked when I go pick up a pair of shoes that I've taken in to be repaired at a relatively low price. It's like buying brand new shoes. Of course my favorite part of the transaction is seeing the satisfaction on the repairman's face, as you exclaim, "Wow! They look great! Thank you!" as he nods knowingly. In any event, I braved the element called rain to go get them. I simply couldn't wait until Monday. I wore them home. The bus ride home was equally as tedious, in addition to crowded, long, and wet... but oh so amusing. Let me explain...
A harried Hispanic man with is head shaved completely bald, clad in light wash jeans (very late 80's, early 90's), and a thin hooded jacket boarded the bus holding an open can of Coke. Rather than sit down, he stood next to the driver and directly in front of me rambling on in a gravelly voice... in Spanglish to the bus driver. The conversation went as follows...

"Mira! You goin' to Garden Street?" Bus driver (also Hispanic) nods. Then asks him in English where he needs to get off at. Agitated, the man then launches into some strange (and extremely comical) story about his roommate Miguel. He says some other things in Spanish before loudly exclaiming, "Man, I just got back from Home Depot! I had to go cash my check and go all da' way to Home Depot because my roommate Miguel, he left me with $1001 in back rent!!" He mutters some other things in spanglish to the driver. "My roommate just escaped from the convalescent home and everything and the cops came lookin' for him, right? The cops kicked in my door man! Lookin' for Miguel. I told them he wasn't here! They had the nerve to tell me I hadda pay a hundred dollas to replace that door that THEY kicked in!!"

Bus driver mutters something I can't hear because I've got my face buried in my coat, trying to hide my smirk. Miguel's roommate complains,
"I said, how come I gotta pay it!! I didn't kick it in! Ya'll kicked in my door and now I gotta pay?? Man, I went to Home Depot and bought everything I needed. I bought a new lock, the cement (or whatever he said) to make it hard... I said I'll fix it mahself! I paid forty dollas for all that stuff! I fixed the door myself!" They came kicking in MY door, I said Miguel ain't here. I live here. This is MY apartment. I pay the rent!"
"Yo, they kicked in my door. I fixed everything but the lock. THEN they told me I gotta pay fifty dollas to replace the lock!"

"You know, Miguel he's, he's 62 years old and he escaped from the convalescent home, and they lookin' for him 'cause they said he suicidal! He's got a lotta pro'lems!"

"Yo, so look... *insert more spanglish*... then Miguel had the nerve to come ova' to MY place, breakin' up my mailbox and shit... so I took pictures of him, you know, destroying my mailbox, then I beat his ass down! I kicked his ass!"
"I got arrested for assault! I was like, look! Mira! He came over destroying MY property, so you know, I showed them the pictures I took on my phone, of Miguel trashing and breaking up my mailbox and shit. So they reduced the charge to disturbing the peace! I hadda go to court and they just gave me a PTA (whatever that means) and that's all. But still. They still lookin' for Miguel. Alright man, gracias!"
Then he proceeds to grab his open can of Coke, flick his hood up on his bald head, hunched his shoulders in response to the wintry chill, and descended the stairs, thereby concluding the embattled tale of Miguel. ...

Fin

January 26, 2008

Personal Space Invasion Syndrome (PSIS)

I've been documenting the crazy on here since about 2004. I think regular readers (assuming people have been following this blog for that long)- probably are hip to the fact that I am a self-described neurotic with a smattering of germaphobia and a dollop of obssessive behavior (i.e. where I place items in my personal space matters, as I insist things be placed a certain way, and that they're neat and organized). And while this much I know is in fact true, my quirkiness has not prompted any need for prescriptions used to combat any anxiety or psychotic episodes. In summation, I'm a relatively normal person- (considering the levels of actual weirdness festering out there)- who is slightly askew. I pump a celebratory fist at my eccentricities and don't plan on changing any time soon. No one's infallible. And for those acting like they are... you all need to cut it out. The prologue aside, if there's one thing I cannot stand, it is when people (particularly those not close with or familiar to me) invade and tamper with my personal space and belongings without my permission. Close talkers (if I back up a couple of inches... please don't move forward to close the already small gap)- If you don't come in a wine glass, we aren't about to kiss, or about to engage in relations... there's no need for anybody to be 2 inches away from my mouth, beyond the standard (6 to 8 sq ft), conversational closeness. I think violating someone's space; adjusting and taking other people's things without asking is rude, discourteous, and disrespectful... particularly if you're the type of person who resents having your things tampered with and especially if it's within the context of a communal (i.e. work) environment, where the majority of the space is already shared, to begin with. It's almost as if certain people feel as if they're entitled to behave this way, or they have the right to impose their tastes by strongly suggesting a person should rearrange things to look a particular way other than how they choose have it set up. I mean, you listen and humor people afflicted with PSIS by saying, "Oh okay, that sounds nice. But I think I'll just leave it like this" and they're adamant about trespassing, like an uninvited guest who insinuates him/herself into your home, rearranges the furniture, and uses your toothbrush! You can see their sweaty fingers and palms wiggling with the desire to touch your stuff. To rearrange, to fix and fuck everything up... making you ready to sling some pimp slaps. These people, who like to stand shoulder to shoulder, toe-to-toe... so close that you feel a little of their spittle spray your face during conversation. Making you shudder with disgust, also prompting you to tap your foot uncomfortably, to swallow hard, and blink furiously to keep from going nuts. People, listen, regardless of how crazy this rant may seem, this type of bahavior is definitely a spatial DON'T. I think we've gotten too comfortable in this current cult of personality. Manners are a thing of the past. We live in a culture that divulges TMI about bowel movements, itchy delicates, and explicit sexploits (some great to listen to, some not so sexy), where people will grope, expose themselves or rub up against strangers, and where people think it's okay to invade... to bully their way into someone else's orbit, scattering forces messing up the alignment of your small planets. All it does is create tension, anger, and more neuroses to grapple with. How difficult is it to be respectful of other people's space and property? It's not. Some concepts are fundamental and implicit. So back the hell up and keep hulking figure and hands off of other people's sphere, unless invited. That's it.

January 02, 2008

Brrr...

I'd type something profound and witty, but my finger tips are still thawing out. I also need confirmation that my nipples still exist and I've yet to feel any sensation. So I'm still waiting. Gives new meaning to it being "colder than a witch's tit." My brain was also on freeze because apparently, I walked right by my mother in the supermarket this evening and failed to notice her presence or her gesticulating in vain, to get my attention. This brisk, bitingly cold winter has also prompted my fat ass to swell even rounder and bigger. To massive proportions (as if that were possible). I purchased a pair of jeans today and almost broke a couple of ribs trying to fasten them. Hearty soups, breads, and desserts have a hold over me, apparently. I wont beat myself up over it though. I refuse to go there. Nope. I wont do it. Fughettaboutit! But I may do a black coffee detox (don't ask, I came up with this method all on me own. It's a very complex system and I'm unwilling to relay the details). My current wardrobe still feels familiar. It's the new clothes that are inhospitable, unforgiving, and complete strangers to me. Perhaps it's because the denim is "Rigid"? Excuses, excuses. I'd rather just suck it up, and buy the next size up than berate myself. They're great looking jeans. The weight fluctuates. I wish it and bloat weren't part of my reality, but they are. Nothing left to do other than pop another caramel, make some tea, and psyche myself up for venturing out in the even colder 17 degree weather tomorrow! Oh yes, and the dry cleaners effed up my warmest, Kenneth Cole goose down coat, so I have to add that to my list of random, insignificant, yet significant things to purchase anew. January, February, Maarch, April... pardon me... I'm counting down til Spring... Maay...

December 11, 2007

Guilty Pleasure

I caught this video on the tele this afternoon. Is it wrong that I like it? I don't know. It feels right. Snoop looks like the drunken uncle, showing out at the annual BBQ, after a few jiggers of Crown Royal. All of a sudden I'm feeling nostalgic for Zapp & Roger's Computer Love.

December 03, 2007

Unusual

This afternoon around lunch hour, I stomped down the street. The weather was frigid and rather grey and wet. There were slushy patches of harmless ice in strategic spots, on the asphalt. As I walked, I came upon a cluster of people standing in the middle of the sidewalk, spectating. Getting ever so closer, I saw a huge hawk in the crowd's midst... perched on top of a pigeon's carcass. Feasting and watching the crowd warily. As if warning them not to get too close. Not due to any hallucinogens or illegal substances, I've been known (in the company of me, myself, and I) to hallucinate or think I've seen something, that turned out to be a figment of my sick and twisted imagination. So I continued on with my gait... thinking lunch hour traffic had simply stalled for some ridiculous reason. Closer, I discovered the hawk was indeed, very real. At once mesmerized and intimidated, I made sure to do a wiiiiide semi-circle around the bird, as I didn't want to get too close. The people oohed and ahhed. "Enjoy the rest of your lunch!" One man shouted at the bird, as he left the crowd of spectators. One woman in a beat looking fur coat lit a cigarette and sneered, "Ugh. That's disgusting." I felt like reminding her that the food chain worked in mysterious, natural, and necessary ways, and that the spectacle was no more disgusting than her dingy fur coat and the heavy, dark bags under her eyes. But instead I just shot her an annoying look. Finally tiring of being the center of attention and having its lunch break disturbed, the bird spread it's massive wings, flew through the crowd (which seemed like the equivalent of flipping a figurative bird), and then up and away, causing the onlookers to gasp, duck for cover, and then part like the Red Sea. I wanted to pull out my cell phone and snap a picture of the anomaly, but was too chicken-dookey to get that close and risk being attacked by the large, winged creature. So I stood a ways from the crowd, and looked on from a distance. Anyway, I snapped a pic of myself instead and stole image of the bird from the internets.

November 13, 2007

Rat Race

I can openly say (now) that I've been pounding the pavement for the past several months, job interviewing, hunting, fielding phone calls, mailing out resumes, receiving notices confirming receipt of my resume, wash, rinse and then repeat. Needless to say, the whole process is frustrating. It's the pits! Particularly when you're so close. Sooooo very close to being hired only to be told "Ohhh.... well you're too overqualified" or "We can't move forward with an offer for another two months. Sorry for putting you through SEVERAL INTERVIEWS AND PHONING EVERY LAST ONE OF REFERENCES, AND DOING THAT BACKGROUND CHECK ON YOU!! Please bear with us..." Notwithstanding the fact that you've answered all of their redundant (and sometimes condescending and ridiculous) questions, and have been more than accommodating in providing them with everything they need to move forward with an offer, including making yourself available at a moment's notice for another interview. I feel like a salesperson, going door to door selling your wares. One or two people invite you in. Let you sit down and go through your whole spiel. They nod. They ask several questions. They seem interested. They breathe in as if they're about to say, "I'm sold! I'll take two!" Only to change their minds and say, "Ohhh. I'm sorry. I'm not interested." Argh! Frustrating. Sometimes I wonder if those doing the interviewing, remember what it was like when they were practically groveling for their jobs... I need a drink.
The movie clip is from the film, Fear and Trembling, based on Amelie Nothomb's novel Stupeur et Tremblement.

November 10, 2007

The Disintegration of Sexy Times

I've always been indifferent toward porn. It has never prompted any deep desire in me, during my precocious pre and late teen years to watch out of curiosity, amid all the salacious buzz. Sneaking a peek at the erotica on Cinemax after 11pm, finding and then reading Jackie Collins's titillating plots, Erica Jong's Fear of Flying, and the illustrated educative wonderment of The Joy of Sex was it for me. I didn't watch hardcore porn until I was in college... with my best friend. We watched out of sheer boredom. We walked down to the town's local video store and picked something from the late seventies/early eighties, much to the cashier's amusement. It featured an interracial raunch fest. Basic man on woman boning. Nothing too shocking or sexy and void of anything particularly depraved and disgusting. The usual cheesy fare, in fact. Neither of us found the antics sexy or arousing. We laughed raucously and critiqued the clownery of it all. Pure comedy. We decided perhaps we were too intellectual and snotty to get it. Other then a porn clip online here and a legitimate art house flick there- (most recently the movie Short Bus, which featured unsimulated sex)- it hasn't interested or enticed me since. Despite the rash of filmed celebrity sexploits being "leaked" online. Over the years... after having watched and read a great deal of "behind the scenes" documentary style films and books, I've came to the conclusion that porn is not erotic, is silly, quite frankly, ridiculous. Most of the pornographic material being released is filmed and produced by men. Men and their distorted visions of how women should look, what ridiculous sexual positions we should be bent in, and how we should act. Despite rumblings to the contrary, I doubt any of the women acting in these films have any actual orgasms. Hair flinging, head whipping, and high pitched 'O' and fuck yeaaah sounds, I'm sorry but the orgasm is fake. All in all, it's harmless fun for the lonely, lecherous, and in some cases... the socially inept. I've never been one of the protesters screaming for the industry to be banned. That being said, a lot has changed with the porn industry. The ever increasing advances in technology, the internet, video cameras, webcams, and the like have made porn more accessible and more achievable for aspiring porn mongers. Any amateur can film their sexual exploits and upload them onto Xtube or Pornotube with relative ease. In turn, the industry has become a virtual free for all. College fraternity houses host parties where group sex and orgies abound, while their peers (men and women spectators) stand off to the side, cheering the guerrilla fuckfests... clutching beers, fists pumping in the air. All in front of the camera and easy to view over the internet. These "gonzo" type films have raised the stakes... and the stakes have become even more disturbing and depraved in their delivery. The acts women subject themselves too is enough to make the most hardened, difficult to offend person cringe. And it takes a lot to make me want to gag and then vomit in my mouth or turn away with disgust. Some of it is downright perplexing. Such as the compelling documentary Sex: The Annabel Chong Story, which documents- Grace Quek's (Annabel is her porn name)- rise, exploitation, and eventual retirement from the porn industry. Annabel allegedly pioneered the whole "gang bang" trend in the industry. Nothing was too graphic or hardcore for Annabel. She performed a diverse array of hardcore sex acts, including "triple penetration." Annabel's motives for starring in The World's Biggest Gangbang were troubling as the documentary delved into her past. Needless to say, this current wave of pornography breeds misogyny and encourages violence toward women. Spat on, slapped, pissed and defecated on, penetrated and fisted in every orifice by several different men at once... It's sickening. And it's distressing. Particularly the gonzo films featuring Black, Brazilian, and Latino women. Men take trips to urban areas (usually scouting in a van of some sort) in search of "Black ghetto sluts" willing to oil up, shake, and then spread their cheeks in a seedy looking hotel room, on film. The perpetuation of sexual stereotypes frustrate the hell out of me. Two steps lower and more debased than the garbage shown in rap videos. And those in and of themselves are bad. I'm open and believe in people having the right to engage in whatever consensual sexual act they desire... but some of this stuff is troubling, notwithstanding my liberal stance. And it's not behind closed door. I think challenging what's wrong with the porn industry as it depicts itself today, does not a prude or anti-sex type make. I do believe there's something wrong with people who don't challenge this sort of behavior, the women who willingly subject themselves to this sort of humiliation, and the men who encourage them to do it or who are sitting at home with their hand down their boxers watching it and then thinking it's okay to go out and mistreat women, outside the realm of that business. In fact, I'll go as far as to say that the behavior in these gritty porn movies- the degradation, the abuse, the spitting, skull f*cking, quadruple penetration, crude talk, choking etc. are anti-sex. Here's a small snippet from Robert Jensen's book, Getting Off:

It hurts to know that no matter who you are as a woman you can be reduced to a thing to be penetrated, and that men will buy movies about that, and that in many of those movies your humiliation will be the central theme. It hurts to know that so much of the pornography that men are buying fuses sexual desire with cruelty.

It hurts women, and men like it, and it hurts just to know that.

Donkey punched, penises rammed down their throats until they puke, heads dunked in toilet bowls while they're being reamed from behind, faces saturated with semen and pee, wanting to jizz on a woman's face... Is this the type of sexual interaction men are craving to have with women?? Do you all secretly fantasize about making some woman vomit, while you force your penis down her throat? If so perhaps I should get my delicates stitched closed and look into becoming a nun.
Read a more substantial excerpt from Jensen's book here.
Also read this Money Shot entry, from October 29 blogged by Girl with a One Track Mind.

September 08, 2007

Re-birth of a Nation

"the greatest americans have not been born yet they are waiting patiently for the past to die. please give blood" -Saul Williams
During the summer of August 9, 2006 in Sound Beach on Long Island, a heated confrontation at a party- (where he was accused of threatening to rape a young white girl some months prior to the summer celebration)- prompted Aaron White, a 19 year old Black teenager to leave sans argument, after it was demanded that he do so. On his way home (nearby Miller Place, a predominantly white community), Aaron exchanged a series of angry cell phone calls with 17 year old Daniel Cicciaro, who alerted Aaron White that he was coming to his home. Drunk, Mr. Cicciaro with four of his friends in tow (all white), proceeded on with the threat of their presence. All five angry teenagers pulled up in front of the Whites' residence in two cars shortly after 11pm and were greeted by Aaron White and his father, John White via the garage. Father and son felt threatened enough to arm themselves for the impending showdown. Yelling ensued, in which Cicciaro and friends allegedly hurled racial epithets and refused to leave. At some point during the melee, Mr. White (father) shoots Daniel Cicciaro in the face with an antique handgun he inherited from his own grandfather. Daniel Cicciaro is felled by the gunshot, and is announced dead upon arrival to the emergency room. John White- who moved his family to their dream home on the North Shore in 2004- is described as a harding working "upstanding citizen" with no prior police record and who has never committed a crime in his life. He expressed deep regret and sorrow toward the Cicciaro family, claiming the incident was an "accident' and that he never meant to shoot the young man. That his only intent was to protect his family and scare his son's pursuers away from his home. John White was charged with manslaughter and criminal weapon possession. Internet users would then blow online news forums up with hateful racial epithets upon hearing the father's fate. Including cries for John White to be hung from a tree. While the outcome of the altercation is tragic, indeed. Can one blame John White for protecting his family and his son? The teens were unarmed, yes. But alcohol, bravado, hate speech, anger... Perhaps Daniel would be alive today, if he and his friends hadn't tried to recreate some vigilante style style of revenge. It's purported that during the 911 call and the race to get young Daniel to the hospital, his friends were overheard (through the phone) spouting off even more contemptuous race rhetoric. ...
Miles away, in Jena, Louisiana racial tensions are also brewing. Reaching their peak on August 31, 2006 after a black male freshman asks the Jena High School principal if he could sit under the shade of the "white tree" (where most of the white students usually convened amongst themselves). The principal suggested that students could sit wherever they wanted to. Three white students disagreed however, because the next morning three nooses were found hanging from that very same tree. The three students were later found to be guilty of the infraction and were up for expulsion... which the school board and superintendent promptly overruled. The superintendent would later trivialize the threat as a joke, as opposed to a threat against Black students' sensibilities. The school administration would later fail to report the incident to the police or the FBI (such brazen incidents can and should be reported as a Hate Crime). The decision and subsequent indifference would cause racial animus to reach a fever pitch. A series of disagreements, racially charged fights, and arson would soon occur over the course of three months. Black students would continue to grow disenchanted and slighted by the school's administration and local law officials. These disagreements would eventually culminate in the assault of a 17 year old white student named Justin Barker, perpetrated by 6 Black Jena High School students: Robert Bailey, Mychal Bell, Carwin Jones, Bryant Purvis, Theo Shaw, and an unidentified minor. Barker allegedly hurled racial epithets, a charge his family denies. Barker was taken to the hospital and treated for a concussion, bruising, and various other injuries and released two hours later, in time for a ring ceremony. The Jena Six, however were arrested and charged with aggravated assault. The overzealous District Attorney would then decide to increase the charge to attempted second degree murder which could result in the defendants being imprisoned past age 50. This blow prompted outrage from the Black residents of Jena, because the charges were disproportionate to the crime. On June 26, Bell's sentence would be reduced to aggravated second-degree battery and conspiracy to commit aggravated second-degree battery. According to my research, a deadly weapon would've needed to be used, to warrant being charged with such. The DA argued that Mychal Bell's tennis shoes he wore during the day of the assault and kicked Barker with, were deadly weapons. The all white jury agreed. The other defendants' charges would eventually be reduced, leaving Mychal Bell to remain in jail, facing 22 years in prison. All are waiting for their day in court, which will happen later this month. So many conflicting accounts and mishandling of this case. The public outcry and online groups supporting the Jena Six are warranted. The case has garnered national attention and has drawn the ire and support of black leaders and organizations. Jena's Black community are skeptical that the boys will receive a fair trial. I mean after all, their wariness is justified considering the glaring segregation and aloof attitudes toward the "noose" incident. The Jena Six should indeed pay if they assaulted Justin Barker. But they should pay with a sentence that matches the crime. Most murderers and repeat sexual molesters get off with with less time. How much responsibility do Jena High School administrators bear, by deciding not to address the root cause of the issue to begin with? They, in essence, instigated a terrible situation by choosing not acknowledge it. A prank is stealing the school mascot or T.P.ing the halls. Hanging nooses, racially charged graffiti, and the like are not mere pranks. It's hateful propaganda that has no place in the school system or anyplace else... not in this day and age. It's frustrating that in 2007, issues of race still abound. Technology, the current cult of personalities, media, and celebrity help exacerbate hateful language and inane rhetoric. The structure of most institutions and a dubious this White House administration continue to disadvantage many ethnic groups by fanning the flames of xenophobia, racial profiling, and not accepting that we're in the midst of the 21st century! A multicultural era, where we should be evolved by now. Instead, we're slowly regressing. Most of us are still scratching our heads over the outcome of Hurricane Katrina. As much as I'd like to think we'll reach some sort of resolution on race matters, the fact is, I don't think there will ever be a workable medium. Period. That would require cooperation from the powers that be. That would require those same powers that be, to relinquish some semblance of control by distributing justice and equality fairly and accordingly. Fat chance of that ever happening. Divide and then conquer. The most antiquated (and seemingly effective) method in the book. ... Why do hate and growing racial disparities still continue thrive and fester? The Jena Six deserve a fair trial plain and simple, and are being railroaded. P.S. I'm dying to hear Ann Coulter and Bill O'Reilly weigh-in on the Jena Six situation, if they haven't already.