Archive for March, 2006

"Oh What A Night…", or You Know Good and Goddamn Well You Never Want Just A Chicken Wing!

Doesn’t take me long to bounce back!

Last night I met up with girlfriends after work for a happy hour event at Soho323, a swank lil joint at the Soho/Tribeca intersection. It was nice to mix and mingle with mostly black professionals, though the singles vibe verged on desperation. My friend worded it well when she mentioned walking in and feeling as if vultures were marking their prey. The waitress was a little off with her service (waited until everyone at every other table, especially the men, was served with drinks before even glancing at us. Then asking us to pay the moment we got our drinks) but the 2 for 1 deals more than made up for it.


It was quite amusing that despite all of the eligible bachelors there, my friends and I ended up courted by a table consisting of an older large white man in all black with a matching black cowboy hat and a small older man who could pass for Woody Allen’s cousin. The latter’s beady eyes were on me for at least 40 minutes before he approached us, asked what we were all drinking, and proceeded to give me a glass of cranberry and vodka (they had the typical cocktail bottles on their table at the ready). He and his Twin Peaks friend were nice enough, good conversation and all that. Woody Allen was a successful bankruptcy lawyer living on the upper west side. I unintentionally mentioned my father a lot who’s also a lawyer and I let him and his friend that I was a mere 3 years older than the Woody Allen guy’s son…He corrected me, by the way. I’m SIX years older, he said. Not long after that, I declined his offer to come live with him and he proceeded on to the next table of lovely ladies. But not before buying my friends and I a nice bottle of champagne.


Twin Peaks cowboy was a little more fun. We discussed our work, well rather my job and his career in real estate. We discussed Larry Summers’ and Anna Wintour’s respective insanities and after I bitched about my job, he offered to subsidize me with $50 grand to quit my job until I went to school. I politely declined…but I’m not gon’ lie, I thought about it.


After realizing the bubbles had done me in, a friend and I decided to take the train together into Brooklyn when Twin Peaks offered to treat us to a cab. There was nothing to think about there so as my friend and I give the cabbie directions, he yells at us because we’re basically going in two different directions. I live in Bed-Stuy but that doesn’t mean I know Brooklyn like the back of my hand, it’s a big ass city. Even though my friend and I snapped at him, he turned out to be right. Long after I had willed myself to not vomit in this man’s cab, I realized we were still driving to drop off my friend who, it turns out, lives in East Flatbush.


Finally on the way to my apartment, the driver noticed my moaning at each slam on the brakes and asked me to tell him when I need to throw up so he can pull over. I asked if it would be okay to stop at McDonald’s which he agreed to, but he took the absolute worst way. I told him so and he yelled again. I guess the bubbles were still in me because I just found his whole fit funny and told him he was “too fussy.” He found this to be amusing as well so we exchanged names; his was Hassan which I then obnoxiously kept saying like the “Wassup” guys from the Budweiser commercials, “Hassaaaaaan.” He didn’t seem to mind though. He said I was very pretty and then, sigh, asked where I was from. When I told him D.C., he asked, sigh, “No, originally.” I said I was a blaaaack American, just like that too. And he said something like “no no but you’re bright” and I thought he was saying I was light-skinned so as I was frustratingly starting my lecture on how we negroes come in all colors, he explained he meant I was smart…which when you look at the above quote was still offensive in a whole other way.


On the way to the McDonalds, I spotted Popeyes and requested we stop there instead after we both agreed Popeyes was much better. As he waited and I ordered inside, two homeless men at a table said good evening to me and we struck up a conversation. One, whose name I learned was Joe, asked for some change and I said I’d do what I could but would he like some food instead. He said he already had some. I asked the other guy, Anthony, if he would, he said yes and I asked what kind. He paused for awhile so I offered a wing. He was silent for a bit and I said, “You want a breast don’t you? Come on, you don’t want no wing.” He admitted, “Well, yeah!” laughing. So I made my orders and struck up a convo with the manager about McDonalds vs. KFC vs. Popeyes. We both agreed, regardless of his somewhat biased employment, that McDonalds still uses mystery meat and KFC’s skin is weird and greasy.

Joe, Anthony, and I discussed the war (insane and sad), chicken (yummy!) and the prospects of my cabbie leaving me because he was “scared” (punk). They could see him outside and apparently he was jerking around making sure his doors were locked. I brushed it off and we all agreed that cabbie Hassan needn’t be anymore scared than if he were in downtown Manhattan at 2am. We agreed on how it’s bullshit when cabs will take you out of Bed-Stuy and not in and once I told them I was from D.C., they both said it was no wonder I wasn’t scared since I was from “murder capital.” I gave Joe his money and Anthony his chicken and found Hassan fussing again, but he shut up when I gave him some fries.

Finally reaching home, I tipped Hassan nicely and noticing the whites of his knuckles on his steering wheel, I let him know exactly how to get outta Dodge as fast as possible.

I love coming home with some hot pipin’ Popeyes! I somehow managed to do the procedural taking out contacts, taking off clothes, putting on robe and turning on the TV without falling, although there is an odd bruise on my right arm today.

After watching “Seinfeld” (yes, that’s right, this all started after work so I was drunk, home, and happy by 11pm) and filling my belly with chicken strips, fries and a biscuit, I sighed, “Ooh Popeyes must be the devil’s work because this is too good.”


I have a small cross on my wall my mother gave me a few years ago. I’m not religious but she is and so it’s more of a reminder of my mother and our relationship rather than a sign of religious devotion for me. Nonetheless, after the devil comment, I glanced at it and apologized to God (out loud) and admitted that something that good most likely came from him, not the devil. I then told God it must be fucked up how he can’t know how good Popeyes is because he’s never actually tasted it himself. Unless he entered someone’s body who happened to be at Popeyes and tasted it, he’d never know. But last I checked, if he was in someone’s body, that means that person’s caught the Holy Ghost and most likely he/she wouldn’t be at a Popeyes when that happens. In fact, I believe he/she would be in a church with chickens and snakes. But the Holy Ghost is also part of that trinity thing I’ve never fully understood which means that it’s not God which ultimately means God could never taste Popeyes.

So I said (still, all out loud) that that was truly sad and what other great things he must miss out on, like sex. Then I thought about it and admitted he must know what sex is like because I call out his name so much when I have it.

And with that thought, I passed out and woke up at 7am with one lone fry hangin’ from my mouth…I ate it, too.

Advertisements

March 22, 2006 at 2:45 pm 12 comments

When Keepin It Real Goes Wrong…

There’s not even a joke to be made about this shit, seriously. This is very very sad and I have to commend the NYTimes for putting it on blast on the front page. With the war going on, we’re losing sight of the whatever-cide the plight of black men has become. You could almost call it a “disappearing.” They may not actually be dying out (though a quick glance at recent HIV/AIDS stats says otherwise) but politically, socially, economically they might as well be. If they aren’t getting shipped out to Iraq to be killed, our black men are being spit up and swallowed up in our sorry ass school and prison systems. Those who assign blame onto black men for their dire circumstances seem to have lost sight of common sense. It ain’t so much that inner city black men are just flunking out of school because they’d rather sell drugs. If your school’s overcrowded, poorly run by teachers who downright despise you and don’t hesitate to show it, if your family is poor and you see folks on the street doing more than you see yourself ever doing with school, what choice would you make? Feel like a failure in school or go on the corner and feel like a big shot?

Without sounding trite, on top of the obvious issues this problem reveals (that I don’t think are even necessary to mention here but…racism, bigotry, elitism..racism racism racism) there also seems to be a fundamental lack of love for black men. Not the pop culture bling bling wannabe false worship we all seem to have for the hot shots we see on television but actual love and appreciation for black boys. If a child doesn’t feel that unconditional love and support, what the hell will become of him?….

There’s so much more to say about this but..it’s just too fucking fucked up.

March 20, 2006 at 8:24 pm 4 comments

Two Snaps and Turn!

What I Would Say –

“I’ll be over this soon and then soon as I leave to study at Harvard on a full ride, it’ll dawn on you that you wasted an opportunity to have fun with a phenomenal beautiful amazing woman who is (in your own words) “a big fucking deal”, with whom you would have had the best time, the best sex, and the best conversation with (and yes, that includes ME talking over your chatty ass) because you were a punk who took and continues to take the path of least resistance and the most worn.”

Then I’d snap my fingers twice, rotate my neck, swish my big beautiful hips around and strut my phenomenal ass away!

March 20, 2006 at 8:17 pm 3 comments

Successful Woman Blues


how fucked up is it that i am 23 years old, have had a pretty successful college and post-college career in journalism, am harvard grad school-bound on a full scholarship, have paid most of my own way, am healthy, take pretty good care of myself, have managed to live in nyc w/o serious threat of homelessness (though that’s debatable), have a great circle of friends and manage to make more wherever i go, am pretty attractive (so i’ve been told) and yet right now all i can think about is that when it comes to men, how sad and lonely and rejected i am once again?

March 19, 2006 at 1:12 am 6 comments

This is What Happens, Part Deux: The Retreater

..and this is the last I’ll gripe over it but what’s throwing me off re: the story below is that The Retreater (as he’s known from now on) still wants to see me and no it’s not for the sex (I have a way higher sex drive than he does i.e. one time he asked me over and all we did was SLEEP, like actually sleep, what the hell?).

He read the previous posts and while he disputes that it was all about getting more ass, he admits that I’m right about most of it. I was so hoping he’d tell me I’m wrong, but alas, as always, I’m sadly right.

But I was over there last night and after reading my posts, hearing what I had to say about the ridiculousness of “going back” to lesser feelings and that I just didn’t see the point or possibility of doing that without growing to resent him for telling me he had strong feelings in the first place and asking me to feel the same way, he basically said..nothing. I mean he made reactionary faces and whatnot, but the man says nothing! Then he makes plans to go to a museum with me later this week. He acts as if we’re still going out. It drives me insane to just have him have no reaction or at least seem not to. And come to think of it, he’s only said one thing about how he felt about me and that was when he was hoping I would eventually feel the same way. Why doesn’t he just not see me anymore? Is that what he expects or hopes to happen without being man enough to say so? Or is he actually thinking people moving forward can actually move backward? I doubt that.

Well I’m man enough!

I have a higher sex drive and, apparently, bigger balls than him. So despite what he wants/ doesn’t want, who the fuck knows, I told him that I couldn’t take his silence, that spending time together without addressing the elephant in the room is stupid and frustrating and, by evidence of this entire blog, I’m just not that type of person. I said give a holler if/when he has anything to say. That was an hour ago. Guess what he said — NOTHING.

And just because someone says nothing doesn’t mean you don’t have an answer. Matter of fact, nothing IS the answer.

March 17, 2006 at 4:41 pm 4 comments

Same Story, Different Players or, This is What Happens When…

He wanted me, he got me, he doesn’t want me anymore….

I’ll elaborate. Started seeing someone, let him know I kept him at arm’s length. But, like most men who meet me, he liked what he saw, he liked my being o so “different” and “quirky” and “fun” and blah blah bullshit. So in his mind, my saying “o let’s just have fun, I want my space” just meant to him that I was cute and distant and he’d win me over. Then, inevitably, he did win me over..and guess what, he’s smitten no more. And I’m left, as usual, no longer the fantasy but the actual human being – no frills, no fun, just boring, used up me.

But no casting 100% blame on the guy, I’m the true idiot. He’d just ended a relationship because he wanted to “see other people.” Translation: “I’m tired of sleeping with you.” Fast forward to me: new sex with new person. Well he got that and the following idea that “Hey I bet there’s more sex with more new people out there waiting for me!” I hate that just because I enjoy sex means I give it up too soon and thus, risk being given up soon, too, what the fuck?

So yeah, even after all I went through last year, after all my rants and raves, when all is said and done, I’m no longer the victim-playing softie girl anymore.

But I’m still the average dumbass chick.

Now I’m doing that thing where you run through every stupid moment…

…like knowing I shouldn’t but spending every minute with him because I just fucking wanted to. and now he’s all of a sudden got self-control and wants to interact with me less and less.

….like his actually pondering a long-distance relationship with me (when I’d said I didn’t even want a relationship in the same state)

….like his mumbling something about the fact that I’d also gotten into NYU grad school. I just basically looked at him when he said that, but still.

…like coming over to his place at 10pm just because he asked and just because I liked him.

God, you know once you do these listing things, you feel more and more like a dumbass, damn….

March 16, 2006 at 8:02 pm 2 comments

A Ranting on a Best Friend

Dearest Jen – Life happens. Yeah it sucks when your man leaves you for a hottie, especially a do-gooder hottie. But come the fuck on, feel sorry for you??? Who the hell? Why would I feel sorry for a heartbroken million dollar woman with the funds for any therapy, vacation getaway to get over the heartbreak? and more importantly, why would I feel sorry for a million dollar successful career woman who just experienced what we all do in some way or another. I’ll feel sorry for the woman left with 2 kids and debt. Yes, it’s screwed up that such an accomplished woman only gets the publicity that she may (or may not, it’s debatable, “Rumor Has It” anyone?) deserve when her personal life is a little shaky, but it’s also screwed up to exploit that and harp on it.

Don’t feel sorry for you? Lady, please. Maybe now I do, because you’re clearly deranged.

03/20/2006 – Update –

I’m an honest woman so when I’m wrong, I’m wrong. And while Aniston’s interview reveals that tiny layer of ditziness, she does not have some insane self-pity thing going on. That’s, alas, the media hyping her shit up again. Regarding her personal life in the spotlight, what Aniston actually says is: “..Comparatively speaking to what people walk through, this is nothing. I haven’t lost my home to some freak natural disaster. My son or my daughter is not in another country getting bombed. People just need to redirect their focus.” And later: “Life’s tough. Get a helmet.”

Right on, Jen.

March 16, 2006 at 5:49 pm 1 comment

Older Posts


Recent Posts

March 2006
M T W T F S S
« Feb   Apr »
 12345
6789101112
13141516171819
20212223242526
2728293031  

Flickr Photos