full circle

Many, many moons ago, when I was fresh out the joint (grad school), I wanted to be an entertainment writer. I wrote for some pretty cool publications, including a certain hip-hop mag that shall not be named, and interviewed some relatively famous people. It was pretty fun. One of the many perks of being in this line of work was going to as many "industry" parties as one could possibly squeeze in and still keep your day job. This was much easier said than done, as the vast majority of these parties involved open bars and teeny-tiny hors d'oeuvres that had absolutely no chance of soaking up the massive amounts of alcohol these people were quaffing for free. For the most part, the crowd at most of these things consisted of three or four truly famous people, a dozen relatively famous people, and a couple of hundred posers who waited on line for at least a half-hour to mingle amongst the other two groups, trade business cards and catch contact highs off each other's (perceived) fabulosity. I could call it another, extremely vulgar term (one that rhymes with "herkle perk"), but I'll refrain.

Call me cynical, but that's exactly how I felt after I attended one of these parties last night. I was actually looking forward to it, as I hadn't gone to one of these since I traded in hip-hop fab for alt-weekly anonymity four years ago. I also wanted to support a friend who had contributed to the coffee table book being feted that night, and since these things are basically happy hours on steroids anyway and I'm still a broke-ass journalist, I appreciated the rare opportunity to drink top-shelf shit for free.

I'll admit this right now: the party was dope. A gorgeous hostess greeted me and my friends at the door with a smile and a snifter of Hennessy XO. Not bad. I crossed the threshold, looked to my left and spotted Common (looking waaay hotter than the hostess...swoon) granting a television interview to a college friend of mine. Even better. I spotted the young pianist and took note of the wood paneling, crystal chandeliers, winding staircases and waiters carrying around trays of caviar on toast points, and realized, to my amazement, that this was some pretty swanky shit (and I hadn't even seen the rooftop pool yet!). Considering that most industry parties consist of blasting hip-hop into the ears of people way too bourgie to actually dance to it at some random club somewhere below 14th Street, I thought this was a marked improvement.

And then I started mingling. I made my way upstairs....and upstairs...and upstairs (seriously, there were like five floors to this place!) and started realizing exactly why I didn't miss this at all. Men in suits futilely chatting up model chicks, people who despise each other giving insincere air kisses along with their business cards, and impeccably dressed women I badly wanted to tie down and force-feed, all circling around each other until it became a whirling vortex of fakeness threatening to suck me in. And no one was dancing! (Sorry, but I hate that shit.) After awhile, I gave up on having any sort of interesting conversatin with anyone, joined my peeps downstairs and sucked down premium cognac with the homies for the rest of the evening.

It was a fun night, considering all the fake. I actually spotted a few celebs (which happens way less than you think at these functions). I stood less than a foot away from Perez Hilton (which was pretty cool), seriously considered force-feeding the girl from Drumline, and recognized a model whose name I can't remember for the life of me from a documentary I'd seen about aggressive lesbians (go figure). We took off to Fort Greene, and after a little bar-hopping, we ended up at Frank's, a not remotely famous bar on Fulton Street that had about a half-dozen regular, everyday brothers gulping down that last brew before last call, a jukebox with all the great blues and R&B hits from the 70's, and, most importantly, a chance for a group of friends to laugh, talk, drink (yeah, some more) and finally, be real. The night finally ended with the boyfriend playing me his favorite tracks off of the first two Outkast albums (basically, all of them) before I finally fell asleep. I thought about the party and the world I'd left behind. I figure, it's a great place to visit, but I wouldn't wanna live there.

catching up

I have a confession to make. Until last night, I had never actually seen Purple Rain from start to finish. This despite multiple attempts and the fact that I have a childhood friend who legally changed his name to Prince in honor of His Royal Purpleness. Said friend had a bad habit of having me watch this movie superlate at night and then blame me for falling asleep before the credits rolled....dude, it was dawn by then! I can't hang!

But before a legion of 80's babies and Prince fans could bang down my door and rip my ghetto pass from my broken and bloody hands, my boyfriend outed me to his bud and resident Prince fan Murph, who was nice enough to chain me to the couch and pin my eyelids to my forehead long enough to finally, FINALLY watch the Purple One's masterpiece from beginning to end. I'm just kidding about the bodily harm...not that it compares to the actual bodily harm I experienced when the crew made me watch "Commando," and that shit both sucked and blew. I'm still plotting my revenge.

Turns out, Purple Rain's a pretty good movie. Actually, a VERY good movie. I just feel real stupid for thinking that Dave Chappelle made up that "Lake Minnetonka" line. Oooooops. And may I just say that making someone jump in a lake naked for no reason is a definite dealbreaker, as is writing a song like "Darling Nikki" for her. Great song, but I just don't like my biz out in the street like that. ;)

Unfortunately, this seems to be a running theme in my life...apparently I haven't seen enough 80's movies. Then again, I've spent the last two years happily coupled up with someone who saw the vast majority of his favorite films before he got to junior high. That's totally cool, but this is the same guy who still can't believe I just saw Real Genius for the first time two months ago. He also thinks I'm nuts for never having seen Caddyshack or Time Bandits or Fletch. Hey, I've still got entire scenes from The Last Dragon memorized, what do you want from me????? Of course, this could just be a matter of taste, as he's not overly fond of several of my favorite 80's movies and I think anyone who doesn't like The Princess Bride or Pretty in Pink cannot possibly have a soul. Lest you think I'm a total girly girl, he didn't like two of my all-time favorites, History of the World, Part I or Monty Python and the Holy Grail all that much either. Then again, I think I just might be a bit strange. In any case, I'm planning on catching up on all the 80's flicks I might have missed over the years. Give me time. I'll be quoting Caddyshack like everyone else on the planet pretty soon. Off to Netflix!

wow, this crow sure looks tasty...

I've had a couple of days to absorb the crushing blow of having to watch the Antichrist (see my last post) lead the Miami Heat to their first NBA championship. Yup, it still sucks. But there are several reasons why I am quite happy to see this unfold. Yeah, I'm just as surprised as you are. But anyway, here goes....


1. I just realized that I like Shaq. No, really I do. I still wouldn't want to see him in a dark alley, but he's much more down-to-earth than I thought he was. I guess it was all those years he spent under the tutelage of the only coach I hate more than Pat Riley (Again, I'm a Knicks fan), and watching him squabble with Kobe Bryant like Cartman and Kyle on South Park just made him annoying to me. (Oh wait, I forgot...Big Aristotle???) But watching the sheer joy on his face as he passed the MVP trophy (and the torch) to Dwyane Wade was quite touching. When he guaranteed a repeat to Stephen A. Smith during the post-game interview....I realized I actually wouldn't mind that happening.

2. The mental image of Kobe Bryant turning green with envy somewhere in L.A. Dude took more jabs during the post-game interviews than Antonio Tarver a couple weeks back, and he hasn't been in the playoffs since Memorial Day! Heeee....
Speaking of jabs, did anyone else hear Shaq on center court with the championship trophy in his hands, proclaiming that Pat Riley was the best coach he'd ever had? Buuuurn!

3. Gary Payton and Alonzo Mourning finally got rings. Yay! Mourning's post-game interview had me in tears, and I'm just sooo happy for him and for Payton, who waited SIXTEEN seasons for this. That's perseverance.

4. Dwyane Wade. I'm in love. It's hilarious to me, in retrospect, that everyone was talking about being witnesses to Lebron's greatness a little more than a month ago and now every sportwriter on the planet is now proclaiming Wade the best player in the league. I wouldn't dare weigh in on this debate, but I'm firmly on Team Dwyane for no other reason than watching him break down quietly during Stephen A.'s post-game interview. Awww.... Never mind the scoring 35 ppg during the Finals, never mind the fact that with his team down 0-2, he picked up his squad and basically carried them on his back to the title. I just like sensitive guys, what can I say? I just bought myself a year's worth of clowning for that statement, but I don't care!

uh...when does football season start?

why I hate Pat Riley

So I've been watching the NBA Finals at home with my boyfriend and his boys, for the most part a bunch of die-hard b-ball fans who worship the ground that Miami Heat coach Pat Riley walks on. I can see that. I mean, he used to coach Magic! And Kareem! And Worthy! And all those other Laker cats whose names I can't remember! Yeah, Riley was THE MAN in the 80's. Chris Rock may have said it best when he suggested that Riley become the new leader of the black community because "no man has led more brothers to the promised land." And he can still rock Armani like nobody's business. (ok, the guys don't care about that one, but....)

See, here's the thing. They can love Pat all they want. Personally, I hope the Heat get stomped out like extras in an M.O.P video. And it's not because Shaq scares me a little, and it's not because I want to see vets Gary Payton and Alonzo Mourning end their careers ringless (actually, that and Dwyane Wade's cute little baby face are the ONLY reasons I wouldn't mind a Miami win). So, why would I want to see the Heat lose?

Because I'm a Knicks fan.

Yup, I'm taking it back to '94. I'm still pissed. Not only did Riley's piss-poor coaching during Game 7 cost us the title (I mean, who keeps a guy on the court in the midst of a 3-for-18 shooting night because he had a hot hand in the other three games?! With Rolando Blackman on the bench? What was he smoking??!! I loved John Starks back in the day, but even I would've benched the guy!), but instead of getting the team ready for another run next season, he turned bitch and ran off to Miami. You all know what's happened to the Knicks since. I could get into what he did to the Heat (keep your head up, Stan!), but I'll let the sportswriters handle that one.

I've been having a great time watching the Heat get destroyed by the Mavericks so far (y'all KNOW that Miami escaped last night). I really hope that Karma (with the help of Dirk Nowitzki) kicks Riley dead in the ass and denies him this one, and not even the possibility of Wade cracking a smile is gonna change my mind. Go Mavericks!