gone fishin'......

I know I haven't been updating the blog lately, but the past two months have been something I'd really, really, realllllly like to NOT go through again. It's been crazy, but I'll be back soon. Promise.

ow. owowowowOW!!!!!

This cute little laptop keyboard is going to be my only means of communication for at least the next couple of days. What began as a regular garden-variety toothache forty-eight hours ago has pretty much become the bane of my existence. After a nearly sleepless night that involved my taking four aspirin and a tylenol 3 just to reduce the searing pain in my jaw to a not-quite-dull throb, I hauled ass to NYU Dental Hospital hoping to get a quick extraction and head over to work (yeah, I know, dumb idea). After two hours of waiting, X-rays, and more waiting, I finally got into the chair....only to be told to come back in 90 minutes when the clinic reopened. The hell??!!! So, let me get this straight: You want me to leave, go somewhere and just, I don't know, chill for a minute, and never mind the pain in my face bad enough to bring Jigsaw to his knees, right? Fuckers. Thank goodness for the diner around the corner, the charming Greek owner who kept trying to push the moussaka, and the guy who cracked me up when he tried to order a grilled cheese sandwich with ham and bacon, only to settle for just ham when he came up a dollar short. I was so busy enjoying myself that by the time I realized I had to head back to the dentist, it was almost time to do just that.


The actual procedure was interesting, to say the least. I would provide details, but that's gonna be between me and my future therapist. Let's just say that I'm quoting myself in the title of this post. Several times. Not to say anyone did a bad job, because they were great, but dentists terrify me. They should've just knocked my ass out.

At least I didn't go to work, right? I just went home, popped a Tylenol (they gave me NOTHING! Scandal!) and tried to go to sleep. Thank goodness a friend gave me Percocet. That stuff is no joke! Whooooooo....was that my hand? Coooool.....


So concluded a very tumlutous week for yours truly, one that began with my first trip to Shea for Game 7 of the NLCS. What a great game, until Molina's homer. Dammit. But I like Shea and the Mets fans a lot, and we got great seats for cheap (for a playoff game, anyway). It's not the mob scene Yankee Stadium is, although I think that may change soon. Food's better in the Bronx, though.

The next day, I headed to Atlantic City with my sister to celebrate her birthday. We. got. DRUNK. I won nothing, although my sis won $50 with 20 minutes of our arrival, blew it within a hour, and won another $50 playing the nickel slots (!!!). We had a lot of fun, and I got home at 7 the next morning. Which made my sister's birthday party that night a very....tiring experience. I tried, but when you start to feel your eyes close in the middle of a crowded club, it's time to go.

I recovered just in time to head out to BB Kings Tuesday night, where I saw Redman perform, among others...one of the best nights out I had in a while. Hold up, I just realized I have leftover wings from the club in the fridge! Ha!

The following morning, I woke up with a nagging toothache....and here we are. Or rather, here I am, minus one wisdom tooth and unable to speak. (Mostly.) Fun, fun, fun. But hey, it could've been worse. But my body is just so tired, and I know I need to take better care of myself. So, I've decided what I need is rest. I'm going to a quiet dinner party tomorrow, and then I'm going home to sleep until the Giants game starts. Just what the doctor ordered.

railing against the dying of my twenties...or not

If there's anything that living in NYC teaches you, it's that you're constantly living on borrowed time. Whatever you might be into, have fun now. In six months, that thing may very well be ov-ah. It isn't only things...neighborhoods, clubs, restaurants, magazines, even people here have the shelf life of skim milk. Hell, the city itself was declared done a couple of years back. And in the insular, youth-driven world of journalism, if you haven't got a corner office and an expense account by 30, you might as well hang it up. At least it seems that way...seriously, when was the last time you heard the phrase "30-year-old whiz kid?" Exactly.

I'm writing this as my 20's literally pass me by. It's 10:30 at night, the night before my 30th birthday. This isn't some panicked, "oh god! i'm old! i'm gonna die!!" type post. It would make more sense if it was. I've (sorta) made my peace with this whole thing a long time ago. It's just that I don't feel like a thirty-year-old. At all. I don't think like a thirty-year-old. And, for better or worse, I sure as hell don't look like a thirty-year-old. All of which are good things. I know people who've been forty their whole lives. I used to be one of them. But life is too short, and I've had to learn the hard way over the years just how young and stupid I really was, even in the midst of my Type A-ness. (Isn't that the funny thing about maturity, the way it sneaks up on you? ;) )

I thought that things would be different. I thought I'd be a lot more...settled. I can't call it, and I'm not gonna try to. I had a lot of fun...a lot of fun. I've also made a lot of mistakes and I've learned a lot from them over the last decade. Honestly? There were a couple of really hellish years in there. But I feel like I'm in a really good place now, and I could not have gotten here without going through all of that. As trite as it sounds, I leave my twenties a wiser, smarter, stronger person than I was when I entered. I'm grateful for every single one of my experiences during my 20's. Even the ones that sucked. I wouldn't be here without them. So, I say to my 20's...goodbye, and thanks for the memories. Now get the fuck outta here.

a cinder(fuckin')rella story

"Who does it really work out for, Kit? Did it work out for Skinny Marie or Rachel?"

"Those were very specific cases of crackheads."

"I just wanna know who it works out for. You give me one example of somebody that we know that it happened for."

"Name someone?"

"Yeah, one person that it worked out for."

"You want me to give you a name or something."

"Yeah."

"What, you want me to name someone? You want like a name? Oh, God, the pressure ... of a name..."
"Cinder-fuckin'-rella!"

*laughter ensues*



So now you know. I'm a big yoouuuuuge fan of the movie quoted above. If you don't know, you better ask somebody...'cuz I ain't telling you. Not because I'm ashamed or anything...okay, yeah, maybe I am, just a little, but I've been thinking about this movie a lot lately as I see many of my friends stumble out of relationships they thought would last forever... right around the same time they get bombarded with other people's marriage and baby announcements.

Believe me, I'm not even remotely ready for that kind of stuff, settling down and the like. It's not because I want to go out and screw everything that moves ... I got my partying out of my system years ago, and I was no Paris Hilton even at my wildest (the worst thing I ever did back then was hurl all over my friend's shoes -- in public). It's not that I look down on the institution of marriage either, although I have major issues with it that I touched on briefly in my very first post. It's just that me and my crew of jaded hopeless romantics have taken quite a few hits on the relationship front as of late, and as the big 3-0 looms (or passes) -- the age by which we all thought we'd have "made it" -- and we start taking stock of our lives, some of us have realized that we're way closer to our misspent, Ramen-laden youth than we thought. Which is fine (and fun!) until we start interacting with people with all the trappings of success -- the car, the house, the spouse and kids.

I've been taught my whole life that, as a woman, marriage was pretty much the only goal worth having. Never mind that I learned to read at 3 and labeled a genius before I entered the first grade. I remember being called lazy because I would rather spend my afternoons on homework rather than chores, and hearing that I would never get a husband because I didn't like housework. As my parents' eldest daughter, all that mattered was that I act like a responsible woman of the house. As a result, I grew up with a healthy disdain for all things feminine. I ran around with the boys, rocked sneakers with my dainty school uniforms (which was the ONLY time my mom could get a skirt on me), developed undying obsessions with Voltron, Thundercats, and Double Dare, shunned pigtails for cornrows and flipped over on the playground monkey bars with impunity. With my uniform on. As a teenager, I saw so many of my junior high school classmates get pregnant I stopped counting after 10th grade. What haunted me about all of my friends having babies was not the births themselves, but the distinct notes of pride I heard in their voices when they told me, along with the shocked looks I received when I told them I had none and didn't want any. Is that all there is to life?, I wondered. Is there something wrong with me that I don't agree?

Sadly, those shocked looks only increased over time. As I grew up and the babies kept coming, I noticed something else -- a sad, worn out look in the moms' eyes, anger toward their children they couldn't control, a certain resignation they couldn't explain. Yes, this is all there is...for me. More and more, I began to hear about these young mothers, these friends of mine, getting rid of boyfriends and baby daddies that cannot support them, the strain of the life they chose breaking them day by day. As their children get older, they begin to exhibit that same anger at the world.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's very easy to dismiss this as the same ghetto tragedy that's played out all over the world every single day. But amongst my college peeps, I've noticed a parallel phenomenon: the ever-dreaded wedding invite. Not that would ever begrudge my friends their happiness, but the fact that some of my peeps seem to have gotten their shit together serves as a constant reminder that I haven't, at least not in the traditional sense. I see way too many people who sacrificed for the educations they assumed would grant them an instant ticket to the good life start to wear those same looks of resignation as they realize that piece of paper cannot shield them from life's curveballs. As bills pile up, friends and family fall by the wayside and hearts break again and again, I can almost see the questions swirl in their heads: What was all this shit for? Why can't I get it together? Where the fuck is my happy ending?

That's the thing about happy endings, I've realized: They only appear in fairy tales. They're something to aim for and maybe even dream about, but they're also fucking fiction. I'm about to turn thirty very soon, and while you won't be able to float a raft with my tears, the occasion has managed to light a fire under my ass. It time to take stock and focus on the life I was meant to have...which I know bears no resemblance to the life I thought I'd have, or to the life my parents expected me to have. I've only started to realize that's something to be proud of. Of course, that means that my life won't be tied up in a pretty little bow, but my autobiography is going to kick ass!

friends, old and new

"some ni**as recognize light, they can't handle the glare..." -- Common


Another confession: I have yet to fully recover from the 4th. 'Cuz I'm old. I pride myself on steering clear of the Brooklyn party scene, relatively speaking. I'll hit the bars every once in a while, and I'm pretty much always down for a house party, but the words "guest list" and "cover charge" usually poison any party plans. Which might explain how I ended up at a house party in Jersey City (!!!) with one of my best friends from college, tore up on jungle juice at 3am with a bunch of fellow Hoos. It was the most fun I've had out in a while, and when we stumbled into my apartment just before sunrise, I smiled and thought, "this is gonna HURT in the morning."

I was right. My homegirl woke up at 11, snarked on the episode of "Bridezillas" I was watching and conked right back out. I followed 15 minutes later. We finally headed out to brunch around three after waiting in vain for the boyfriend to join us (he got home even later than we did). I thought that, after months of short phone calls and e-mails that usually contain the words "I'm soooo busy" we would finally get a chance to really catch up on life one-on-one. I got all that, and more. Among other things, I was shocked to hear that she no longer spoke to the girls she practically had attached to her hip all through school, and as she casually discussed the end of her friendships, I started thinking about the price some people pay for being themselves. Some people, like my friend, were born to stand out. That's just the way she is. She can't help people being naturally drawn to her any more than Van Gogh could help being good with a paintbrush. What I didn't realize is that some people hate that shit. Or, more to the point, some people envy that shit. I've been working on not being an introvert since college, and while I do wish I possessed some of her effortless ease around others, the fact that I don't doesn't keep me up at night. However, I've noticed that some people can't handle that and slowly, that envy curdles into anger. More often than not, it's directed at that same person who did nothing more than possess something they don't.

Some would call it good, old-fashioned hateration and leave it at that. Having been a victim of this as well, I know how much it hurts to have someone you value as a friend attack you out of envy. It's painful and unbelievably unfair, and sometimes you feel like it was somehow your fault. It's an experience that corrodes you, as you find yourself holding back parts of your personality, dimming a bit of your personal shine so some can feel more comfortable. To which I say, fuck that! I threw conformity out the window the day I graduated high school. 12 years ago. I am so thankful I don't have to hold myself back to my friends, that I can let my geek flag fly without feeling shame or ridicule. It's nice, but it's also a damn shame that we're almost 30 and we're still finding out who our friends are.

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?