Hodge Podge

So got some things circulating around in my brain and I don't know what I should do. Naturally that meant I should hop online and share with all four of you who seem to care about my manic ramblings. And even if you don't, I like to pretend that you do. Makes me feel important and wanted. I used to be an actor after all and we're all terribly insecure, attention seeking whores.

When I came up with the brilliant idea of moving from a state with a 9.6% unemployment rate (New Jersey) to one with a staggering 10.1 % unemployment rate (Georgia--the nation itself stands at 9.6 % same as Jersey by the way), I thought I was gonna be on easy street. I had a bit of money in my pocket courtesy of the state of New Jersey, and what I inherited from Mommy, and an idea for a fresh start. I was gonna invest some of Mommy's money in a mutual fund to garner excess money to support the paycheck I had (and would eventually replace with a real working wage) in order to get rid of living paycheck to paycheck. That keeps you poor. And that would give me some cushion to switch gears; make a lateral change anyway from acting, to working behind the scenes. Losing Mommy took a lot of the wind outta my sails and I just didn't have it in me to be creative talent anymore. It's coming back slowly now though, the desire to be awash in stage lights, my name big and bold above the title of a movie I wrote and star in, the blinding deluge of paparazzi flash bulbs going off simultaneously as I enter a room or walk the red carpet. Damn. Sounds good doesn't it? But as per the Three Piece Suit Mafia suggests, I also like the warm and fuzzy feeling of financial stability. But I still need to be creative in some way. I can't just quit cold turkey and suddenly become something safe and boring. Like an accountant. My math is too fucked up for that career path anyway. Hell, my bank account was just overdrawn by six bucks this morning. Six bucks. That's a crying shame.

But as I laid in the warm upstairs bedroom in my grandparents' house this afternoon, staring at the ceiling, listening to them putter around downstairs and argue with each other, I was lulled into a dream like state (their arguing is like mother's milk to me) and began to fantasize about all manner of things. In one, I was changing my diet and exercise regime and dropped 80 lbs (that's a personal fave of mine), and naturally that led me to another one where I was back to writing and acting; working on plays and working my way back up that creatively challenging ladder to the point where I had a pitch meeting with HBO. Naturally that goes well and they pick up my story idea and I even convince them to take me as the lead in the show. Injected with new found confidence and sex appeal, I'm both the slave mule of the network and the overseer as head writer pushing my team to excellence! Then I go to work on the set as the star of the show where I show off my new body by Zumba, ripped abs and svelte muscle tone. My character is tough and sexy, a role usually designed for men. Her ability to retain her femininity doesn't detract from the content of the show or deter her from whooping ass. The bitch is hardcore, yet vulnerable too. And always believable. Me and my show are the talk of the town. Buzz worthy. Everyone wants to know me and everyone wants to congratulate me. I'm everywhere. I win all kinds of awards. Good looking men throw themselves at me and I strike up a relationship with my sexy as hell Latin co-star. I'm hot. I'm talented. I'm successful. I'm...still in bed at 12:45pm. And Grandma's really giving it to Pop-Pop in the kitchen now, and I can tell he's pissed off because his voice thunders over top of her hard, pressed rasp of a yell.

Their voices fall away beneath me and I drift off again, but this time instead of returning to the land of Diva Divinity where I am Queen Shit, I'm thinking about how to be a casting director. I looked into it before. That was a condition of my move. That I take the money I have, put some aside for rent and the rest not used for my investment, to live off of while I pursue the career path I really want. No more blindly grasping at temp jobs or any job any where. Do what you want. Do what you have training and experience in. Really get a career and not just a job. Now you know the difference. Ok, get a career. Well I wanna do what I know and I know drama; like TNT. Hey, why not try and get a job, dare I say career, there? Brilliant bitch, except remember you sent them your resume. Right. Haven't heard back yet, huh? When did you send it? Early October. Oh. Well...try again? Sure. But in this depressed economic situation, how the hell do you make yourself stand out? I have an MFA. Great. What else? Uh, I wrote, starred, and produced two shows off-Broadway. Ok, more. Ummmm...I can type 70 words per minute. So can I, what else? Umm, I'm black so you'll get minority points for hiring me. Can you speak Spanish? No. Really? With a last name like Lopez and you're not bilingual? I roll over and get tangled in the sheets. Damn that fantasy.

But as the old folks drone on and finally disappear out the door into the garage (hope they don't kill each other. Oh well), I continue to fixate on this casting thing. Cause again, this was the idea I had when I left for warmer southern climate. There is no set career path for this however. Mostly, you're "in" is to intern with people. I spoke at length to Kendall about this before I moved.

ME: I'm too old to be somebody's intern.
KENDALL: People do it all the time. Age doesn't matter.
ME: But intern means free.
KENDALL: Well there is that. But that's really the only way to get involved. You intern with someone and you learn the business and get the contacts. That's how it goes.

There was more but this is the only part that's important. She basically talked me into it before and kinda convinced me that as long as my unemployment holds out, that it'd be better to do it now than later when it's all gone. It's about getting enough skills to make yourself indispensable to people, which she's good at. I, however, am not. What I am good at is acting like I know some shit when I really don't. I do it all day every day. So once I know what I need to do, like the point A to point B to point C of it all, then I can usually just float on from there. Perhaps that's what the song meant. To "float/float on/float on/float on". Just do you. Gird up all your confidence, all your know how, and let yourself go. It's just, I get nervous when I don't know the script. If I have to come up with everything all at once, I get flummoxed. It took me a while to be good at improv. Real life improv is scary, but put me on a stage and I can hold my own with the best of 'em. Sometimes.

So, here at Borders, amid the chess group to my left, and the crazy magazine stalker to my right (he's always skulking around the stacks every time I'm here, drenched in too much cologne with his hair slicked back--Guido Salducci is what I call him), I avail myself of their free wi-fi and find a few casting directors in Atlanta. Got their emails and phone numbers, even the mailing addresses. I'm thinking of sending a quick message as a point of contact and seeing about taking fifteen minutes or so of their day to bend their ear about how they got to where they are and if they could offer any advice to an upstart such as myself (after the Christmas holiday after all. It's good enough for Congress anyway). I read in a book somewhere that theatre/entertainment folk get to drooling over that kinda stuff. They like to be of help especially if they think you're not trying to hit them up for employment. To feel like a mentor or something makes them feel as though they've passed it forward or some such nonsense. I don't care about their motives as long as it turns out to be true.

My conundrum I suppose is, do I trade one fantasy of hard work with a power money payoff for another story just the same? Or can I, perhaps, have both. Can I do both? Which is more important to me and being a woman vastly approaching her mid thirties, who desperately wants all the things one should have at that stage in one's life, which one will be the best vehicle to get me those things? Sacrifice is hard. And it's the cost of living and having a dream. But what dream--family, home, love; fame, celebrity, success--and what cost: no family but fame; no fame but love. Which one is worth it? Does it have to be straight absolutes like that? And what do I do if for me, the answer is yes? I don't know the answer and the problem is no can figure it out but me. It's thoughts like this that keep me in bed till mid afternoon and then have me dosing on mindless hours of television and procrastination creating my own abyss of creative malfeasance.

Till next time, lovers!

Ya Gotta Have Friends Part 1

I've known all of my close friends at least 15 years or more (including Mortal Kombat). My two best friends I met freshman year in high school and that'll be 20 years next Fall. Damn, yo! We're mad old. Well, they're mad old. They got kids and mortgages and junk. I'm a heartbeat away from living in my car. At least she's paid for! From time to time, I reminisce with my girls and boys about when and how we first met. And it's occurred to me, that in virtually every single case, the meeting was pretty damn funny. At least to me. Us. So I've decided to share these stories cause while most of the people I'm fixing to start talking about are followers here, they probably don't know how I met all the others. Or maybe they do. After decades of friendship, I'm sure I've run my mouth about each of them to each other. I like to talk. Haven't you figured that out yet? But this is my tribute to each of them, who in their own way, have kept me sane.

Note: Names, but never places, have been changed to protect the guilty, the innocent, the lame, and the boring. You know who you are.

PART 1: KENDALL

I've know Kendall since freshman year at Spelman. She's also a Jersey girl, like me, from the town neighboring mine. Scotch Plains, or as those who have a deep affinity for it have termed it "Crotch Plains", is a suburban town nestled in the Watchung Mountains of Central NJ, 22 miles from Manhattan and 20 minutes southwest of that cultural NJ mecca, Newark. Kendall came from Plainfield, NJ. Slightly more urban than Crotch Plains. That is to say, there were more negroes running around than in my town. Wasn't always the case as with most cities and towns in this country. Plainfield used to be where the railroad magnates lived and most of those houses still stand today. Although some have been turned into multiple family homes and halfway houses. When my grandparents were kids, Plainfield was a predominantly white town like the other surrounding towns of Westfield, Cranford, and Scotch Plains. And while those other towns kept their racial ratios in tact, Plainfield fell victim to the civil unrest of the late 50's and 60's and its scales tipped overwhelmingly in favor of black citizenry.

Kendall is both uniquely New Jersey and something else too. When she was around high school age, her father was transferred and the family moved from chocolate Plainfield to virtually lily white Kentucky. Yes. KENTUCKY. She said her mother went into culture shock. I can believe it. I don't think it was that bad for Kendall though, cause she wasn't a product of the Plainfield school system and was fortunate enough to attend private schools (although come to think of it, I'm vaguely recalling some instances she relayed to me of some difficulties there. Oh well, moving on). She even went to Mt. St. Mary's in Watchung. A school so well revered, it even has it's own rhyme which is: The girls on the hill will give you a thrill (it sits atop a hill in the midst of the Watchung mountain range and the girls were sorta fast and loose with their clothing, or so the story goes). This was not Kendall, however. She, much like myself, was openly defiant while there even telling me stories of getting in trouble for failing to wear her sweater in the walkway. Her reason for not doing so: "I didn't feel like it". That's my Kendall.

So all of this kinda seems like we were instant friends from day one, right? Wrong! Though we are now very close friends and confidantes, I regarded her with open suspicion and dare I say, derision. I know, I know. I came to tell her this story and reasons why years later, which now is like eight years ago. And it shed a lot of light on things for her she claimed. And then, she burst into uproarious laughter, and now when the story is retold between ourselves, we don't even try to stifle the amusement. Before I tell the tale of how we two came to be united in friendship, let me say this: Kendall was my main drinking buddy at Spelman. We snuck many an alcoholic beverage into the drama department (including jello shots which we enjoyed during rehearsals), and virtually every story I have at school involves liquor and her. I don't know how the hell I graduated. But I was hung over at the ceremony due to some cocktails she made (though my mother was there to enjoy them as well--I learned to drink at home with the best) and had fallen asleep right up until it was time for me to stand and get my paper! This is the real Kendall. But this is how I saw her then:

Freshman year I stayed in Abbey Hall (Abbey Psi Phi) on the second floor in a corner room with two roommates. It was cool. I got along fairly well with both girls, having written both before school started, and even visited one (she lived in Baltimore County which wasn't too far from where my dad lived). Their names were Shania (I don't know any black girls named Shania either but work with me. I'm sure there's one) and Keisha (this is funny cause if you knew the real girl you'd know she's as far from a Keisha as you can get but I can't think of any more names that begin with the letter "K"). Now, Keisha was from Newton, Mass, the daughter of a female preacher. Living with me I'm sure was a test for her. I drank (still do) and curse (still do) without thought or concern. She's born again. And again. Or at least she was back then. A very religious young woman who believed in the tenants and ceremony and traditions of Spelman College. She was also a music major. Keisha could get down and be fun at times, but she was constantly lecturing me about something of religious merit or whatever the hell; which knowing me went in one ear and came out my ass.

Kendall was also a music major at this time, though she would eventually become a drama major like moi. This is how I came to know her, through my religious zealot roommate. It wasn't uncommon for me to return to my room after a hard day of whatever drama shenanigans were going on in the department, (probably watching Professor publicly berate a student, then turn and dress down the faculty member responsible for fill in the blank and that would have us all on edge) wishing for silence and relaxation; only to find a religious meeting going on inside my sanctuary instead. Keisha belonged to an on-campus group called New Life something. It was church stuff. By the by, this isn't my only encounter with these nut balls and I have another story about them that will surface when I discuss another friendship that also began here at Spelman. But back to my story.

So here I am, standing in my room, being engaged by sometimes a group of fanatics who are trying desperately to convert me to their version of Christianity. I, naturally, am not biting. In the beginning of the semester, I'm fairly polite about telling them to leave me alone. By midterms, I'm giving them a chilly response. By Christmas break, those bitches know not to speak to me on the quad and definitely not in my room. Sit there on Keisha's bed and shut the fuck up while I watch New York Undercover with the rest of the heathens.

So it happened one day that I entered my room and Kendall was sitting on Keisha's bed, with Keisha and they were talking. I was annoyed and very chilly in my greeting to both. And here's the other thing about Kendall which is still true today. She's very "silver lining" girl while being all that other stuff that she is. And that's odd to me. Perky people are immediately suspicious to me cause I don't trust that. What the hell do you have to be so happy about? I don't trust people that are never blue. It's unnatural. So my rebuff didn't cause Kendall to react the way I would which would be to curse her out forever and always. She acted like nothing had happened, and genuinely was unfazed. Odd. And odder still, she said goodbye to me when she left. Her voice is a bit higher than mine (which isn't saying much. I have a 976-fuck me voice, or I sound like Bea Arthur take your pick) so with an elevated vocal pitch, and a jolly disposition, she seemed very cult like to me. Which of course is what these New Life people are. And I give cult followers a wide berth, thanks in part to all my Dateline viewing. Nothing good comes from cults.

Now at some point, Keisha and I had a discussion about having these Jesus Freaks alone in our room, cause there were a few times when I'd come back to the spot and one of these heifers would be sitting on her bed...alone. I was like, to hell with that shit. You ain't gone be chillin in here and none of the people who actually live here are here with you. Damn the jokes.

Poor Kendall got lumped up with these New Life cult members because that was my association with my roommate, who was at this time, totally devoted to them. And every time Kendall would see me on campus, she'd wave or say hi and I'd look at that bitch like she drinking arsenic laced Kool-Aid. But she never stopped trying to be nice to me, which made me avoid her all the more. Like, damn, take a hint bitch. I don't like you. You are crazy! Mommy was like, give the girl a chance, and I was like HELL NO! You have to understand, one I'm not down with religious fanaticism in any form. I'm more spiritual (which I know sends waves of laughter through "true" Christians). I believe in God and Jesus. I believe he died for my sins and I believe in Heaven and Hell. But I don't believe in religion. Religion twists things and gets normal thinking people to do incredulous things. Like fly planes into buildings. So trying to talk to people who are constantly telling me I'm wrong and I will face the reckoning, and I'm being blasphemous (which I'm sure I was cause at the time I wasn't even baptised which was a bone of contention to them as well) and yada yada yada was pushing me past my boiling point. This was an ongoing thing; like they felt they had to fight for my soul. I've come to realize in later years that they weren't being malicious and were fairly decent people. But they were in over drive with this shit and their earnestness was wearing on my good nature and welcoming demeanor. Needless to say, I unleashed full unadulterated Jersey on their asses till, like I said, they knew not to even speak to my black ass. Jersey girls know what I mean.

This is the climate in which I met Kendall and the lense through which I viewed her. She was the enemy. Another New Life automaton ready to lead me to salvation. Fast forward two years later, and we're both standing in front of the call board in the drama department. She had just changed majors. I recognized her and was immediately trying to find a way out of having to talk to her. Again, she was all bubbly and smiling, polite and kind. What the fuck? Don't trust it. That's some Jonestown shit. But something told me to be cool that day and get out of any impending discussion as quickly (and politely) as you can. Polite was gonna be a stretch. But I tried. So sure enough, Kendall was all, "Hi Diva77". And I'm all, "Hey" (as lacklusterly as possible. Maybe she'll get the hint and leave me the fuck alone). We exchange small talk...the bare minimum. And she's talking about being from Plainfield, and I'm all like, "Oh cool." And she's like "blah blah blah, something something something, we should get a drink." Ding! The magic word. Did she say drink? As in alcohol? As in one of my favorite things! Wait, isn't she a New Life Jesus Freak? What does she know about liquor?

Just like today sex is my ruination, back then it was alcohol. Liquor to be exact. We started talking about our favorite drinks and then suddenly I wanted to know what she doing on my side of the building (music and drama departments shared a building) and she told me. And where had she been for the past few semesters, Orlando at Disney working as one of their college interns. What do you like to drink and how quickly can we make this happen? And the rest, as they say, is history. Guess I shoulda been more open minded earlier but I don't think it would have made a big difference. We're still really close to this day, so obviously we were meant to be friends. And I'm of the opinion now that things happen when they're supposed to so I don't regret being a bitch to her back then. It gives us something to laugh about now. Love you Kendall. You know who you are.

Till next time, lovers!

The Mortal Kombat Chronicles-We Met

INTRODUCTION:

So I was kidding last time. Sitting in Borders I wasn't sure how to begin. And then it occurred to me that most of you following this blog were present during this whole situation, so you already know. But then I thought, why am I really writing about this? And as with everything about this blog, it's for my own edification. Kinda talking myself through the muck and mire that I've already washed myself clean of, just so I can chart the events which led me so far astray to begin with. I flatter myself to think anyone reads what I have to say and/or that they give a damn. I like to think so, but as I said, it's flattery. So I'm gonna do my best to recount these events as I remember them. Sometimes I may come across as desperate, normal, victimized, selfish, clueless, sad and an assortment of other adjectives. And it's all true. I was every one of those descriptors and more at some point. But it also taught me a lot about myself. This entire transgression I couldn't extricate myself from; my involvement with this man in the end told me more about relationships and how I see men than any other. And so in that, it has value.

WE MET:

Fall 1995. I was a freshman at Spelman College in Atlanta, GA. Not just any freshman, but a Drama major to boot. Having grown up in White Suburban Town, NJ I was compelled to find a school that would support me instead of push against me. I didn't want a big school and I certainly had had enough of white folks and their version of art, history, and truth. I'd grown exceedingly militant during my last two years of high school so naturally, an HBCU was the way to go (that's Historically Black College/University for those that don't know). That of course made my militant parents very proud. Mommy helped form the BSU (black student union) on her campus at Southwest Missouri State University in Springfield, MO in the sixties and was so involved in her work that she was shot at by the Klan and harassed by the local police (they would burst into her apartment at various times of day and night; once coming at 3 am, ransacked the place and even stole the ham out of her refrigerator). And Daddy taught at Nigga University...I mean Howard University in the nation's capital. Both had wanted to go to black colleges when they were younger, and interestingly enough, both wanted to go to Howard. But both of their fathers were against it as many blacks were in those days, fearing that if their child graduated from a black college what would they be equipped to do? How would they get along with white folks in the world. So both went elsewhere--Mommy to SMS in Missouri and Daddy to Boston University and then onto Harvard. Yeah, you read that correctly. I'm Harvard Legacy bitches! Not that I took advantage of that, but it's still impressive.

Once I settled on Spelman, I had a very successful college tour and came back completely in love, ready to leave Whitey and NJ behind for darker, warmer things! I didn't meet him right away. At least I don't think I did. I became totally immersed in and afraid of the drama department. The fear was a direct result of the iron fisted leadership of the head of the department; a woman so terrorizing she was only known as Professor. When one heard the echo of her footsteps in the hallways, or caught sight of her dreadlocks wisking around corners, the blood would drain from one's body and everyone was suddenly rendered deaf, dumb, and blind. The faculty trembled and graveled at her feet; which of course is the way she liked it and no other way would suffice. Luckily my advisor, a jolly gay man named Doc, showered me with enough affection that I didn't turn tail and run. To tell the truth, I wouldn't have anyway, cause while it scared me being in that building, it also exhilarated me. I loved to be scared.

My first memories of Mortal Kombat are in the various drama classes we had together in THE DEPARTMENT (as it came to be known amongst us thespians). I'd see him from time to time, give him a cordial greeting of the day; a non committal head nod, and keep it moving. He'd reciprocate in kind and not miss a step. For years, he was a boy in my class. A dude, fairly non-descript, with glasses. And that was it as for as I was concerned. He was quiet mostly. Only speaking when he had something to say. He'd sit back in "the cut" as we used to say, meaning he'd be in the back of the class or off to the side minding his own business. Listening to everything going on mind you, but rarely taking time to interject unless he deemed it important. Like he always knew when the test or quiz was. You could count on him for that kinda shit. And whenever an important assignment was due. So that's how dialogue began between us that I remember. It was usually:

ME: Hey, MK, when's the final project due again?
MK: Tomorrow. You haven't started it yet?
ME: Yeah (I hadn't), just making sure.
MK: Yeah, it's due by five. Better get on that.
ME: Right. Thanks. Holla.

And that's how it started. Nothing special. I didn't suddenly look up at him across the stagecraft class and realize my heart would go on. Nothing lame like that. It was much more innocuous. And, as it turned out, dangerous. For me that is.

We went on that way for bout two years. Very relaxed and casual, neither overtly or even remotely attracted to the other. Classmates. And slowly as you spend time with the same people, working on the same kinda projects, and getting personal with the same people (for such is the nature of college drama students--such is the nature of drama, you share your secrets, your desires, your pains and joys with them. You reveal your naked self with them cause if you can't do it there, you can't do it on stage in front of hundreds of strangers. That's the point), you venture to have conversations of some substance with them. You laugh with them. Sometimes you hate them (and sometimes those feelings stick. I still actively dislike some of these folks today) and sometimes you love them. There's always a lotta lovin' in every college drama department. It's the nature of the beast after all.

So slowly our casual, non committal head nods to each other in passing, turned into actual verbal "hellos" and "hey, wassups". Then that turned into conversations before class started while people were still straggling in. And then the ultimate in trust exercises in drama classes. We began partnering up with each other for class projects and even to do (sigh, gasp) scene work together. Now for those of you who were "real" majors in college, doing scene work is a leap of faith. It means I trust you to spend time with you outside of class, I trust you with my GRADE, I trust that you're an actor on my level and worth my time (basically that you have talent), and lastly, I trust you not to fuck up! I was highly selective with my scene partners, fuck the bullshit. They weren't causing me to get a bad grade or gonna make me look like a fool in front of Professor. Hells naw shawty!

And here's where things begin to change a bit. By junior year, we'd become really cool. Talking and whatnot but still just confined to class time. But I'd gotten a pretty good sense that he was a nice guy, he was funny, and I could count on him for assignment info. But still just a bookish looking dude in my class. Then first semester senior year, he gets cast in West Side Story. I'd never seen the play or the movie but I knew it was a musical and knew the basic storyline. It was an interesting undertaking cause all of the male lead's (Tony) songs were gonna be rearranged into a jazzy sound, while Maria's songs were still gonna be operatic and classical. If you're thinking this is odd, you would be correct. It didn't sound good at all cause it blended horribly. But I remember going up to MK and being surprised that he could sing, to which he replied that he doesn't sing. Color me confused. Oh yeah, he was gonna be playing Riff, who I knew to be the leader of one of the gangs, Jets, Sharks, I don't know. Oh, Jet. I was working costume on that show for my semester credit hours (every major had to work a total of 40 hrs each semester on a show in some technical capacity. I'm not mathematically inclined enough to operate the lighting or sound board, and I wasn't gonna build any sets, so costumes it was) and would harass him every now and then affirming that "when you're a jet/you're a jet all the way/from your first cigarette/till your last dying day..." I thought it was funny. I never saw the rehearsals though cause I was too busy sewing, buying, and drinking with the costume supervisor. Side bar, she truly indulged my drinking habit cause she had a serious one of her own. Yay college!!! But one day I had to sit through a section of rehearsal and there was MK talking with the other actors waiting to begin. I was kinda caught off guard by his appearance cause he was wearing a white wife beater and white basketball tear away sweats. I wasn't used to seeing him in anything other than immaculate jeans, a button down shirt with maybe a sweater vest and his well worn medium brown/tan leather coat. And glasses. He was devoid of all these things that day, and looked suddenly so earthy and urban. He looked like a B-boy from around the way. I liked that. Never knew he had it in him. But, we exchanged a few jokes and I went about my business.

Opening night came and I had to go cause I worked crew on the show. Wasn't looking forward to it cause I figured this would be my least favorite musical. I actually enjoyed it more than the movie, but as stated above, the musical arrangement of the show was very distracting and horrendous. And it was comical in places I'm sure it wasn't meant to be. Like someone called a cue too early and all of a sudden in the middle of a scene, the clothesline swings out. And another time an actor went to exit through an onstage door, and it was stuck. He had to practically break it down. All this while he threatened the other characters with a gun (he was supposed to make a dramatic exit, gun in hand. Instead it turned into a Milton Burl sketch). But it was the opening that stuck with me. Not because it was the best scene of the play or because it was perfectly acted or anything. It was because I saw Riff as portrayed by MK on that stage. And Riff was so sexy. He had swagger and this unbridled masculinity that I'd never noticed in Mortal Kombat before. He was street, he was cunning. He was unapologetic about everything; and in short, he was self assured. Did I say sexy? My eyes were glued to him every time he stepped on the stage. I wanted to see what he was gonna do and hear what he was gonna say next. He literally glided across the floor, his movements were that effortless. No one was more surprised than me. Imagine my surprise. I'm thinking I'm gonna watch bookish MK do a little dance, maybe sing a little song or two and instead I get Tupac. Not exactly Tupac but he's a good reference of the day--an educated thug. I sat back in my seat and said, "Oh shit. This nigga is hot." And that was the alarm that sounded my end. That was the beginning.

Till next time, lovers!

VH-1 told me I'm a Sex Addict

Last year I was really into these two reality shows on VH-1. Celebrity Rehab (which has just started its fourth season) and Sex Rehab, both hosted by Dr. Drew Pinsky. I love Dr. Drew so watching these shows became essential to my tv viewing schedule.

I've been a fan of his since he hosted Love Line with Adam Carolla on MTV (back when I watched MTV). That show had a bunch of teens and 20-somethings call into or sit in the studio audience and ask a bunch of sex questions. And they'd have celebrity guests come out and advise and answer sex questions as well. Dr. Drew would be doctorly and Adam Carolla would crack jokes. A pretty good format for myself to enjoy, cause sometimes you need a doctor to explain why you have a burning sensation when you pee, and other times you need sometime to just make fun of it. I dig both.

It was upon watching this new rehab show about sexual addiction that I made a discovery about myself. As all good television programs force you to do. Think of the revelations one makes when watching the CW's Vampire Diaries. Astounding.

Obviously, I'm not arguing that I'm a full fledged sex addict, or that I'm necessarily one at all. But I began to recognize symptoms just by listening to these "celebrities" (and the term is used as loosely as possible--perhaps not the best word to use when discussing sexual activity) talk about their affliction in a therapeutic session. Like most lay people, I just assumed that if one were to fall on being a sex addict, it was probably fake. They got caught cheating and blamed their addiction for their messed up behavior, that way escaping all responsibility. And that said people just really loved sex but felt shame about being so blatantly unapologetic about it, so it made it easier if there was something wrong with them. Insert sexual addiction claim here.

But what I observed was a very sad state of affairs. None of these people seemed to like what they were doing. In fact, they didn't really seem to like sex all that much. Which is odd considering the massive amount of sex they were having. And yes, that includes masturbation. They were like masturbating obscene amounts in a day...like one dude claimed to jerk off 15 times or more a day. Let me restate...15 times or MORE a DAY!!!

I don't self pleasure nearly that much. A good one before I get out of bed is always essential to start my day off right. And I'm not fucking strangers (anymore) at random or even just meeting a different guy every night and having my way with him. Though there are sex addicts who are that reckless, it seemed to me that most weren't. That the addiction didn't have so much to do with the physical as it did with the emotional connection. Sex was their way of creating and experiencing intimacy with someone. And that was where I recognized myself in their stories.

If one looked at the volume of sex alone, then no, I wouldn't figure into the conversation. Sex is so rare for me that I'm always surprised to be having it. Though I love it immensely. That's my chief complaint in life, that I don't get laid nearly as much as I'd like, or even as much as I'd need to have a healthy and fulfilling life according to Cosmo. Unlike these sex addicts, I do really and thoroughly enjoy sex (ask MK we just talked about that a month ago), but I also equally love the connection. I slowly began to realize that I experienced intimacy in this way. This was how I got close to a man, while also keeping him at arms length when we had our clothes on. I don't like giving up too much emotionally. I always feel like I'm gonna get played or that the man is lying to me. I expect that actually. Just as I expect him to leave. So I only give so much of myself. But when the lights are off, if I've built up a kind of comfort with you (which can happen fairly quickly), then I have no qualms about mingling my body fluids with yours. Of course, Mortal Kombat would dispute that statement because that wasn't his experience with me. But he was a different situation (you can read more about that in the MK Chronicles later). He put in a lot of work though and isn't reaping the benefits. All the men after him owe him a debt of gratitude. But what I also learned about myself, is I'm a different woman sexually when I'm with different men. So who I was with him isn't who I was with others and isn't who I am today. More on that later.

Let me tell you a story.

Six years ago, MK met me in NY. He was in town for his sister's birthday and I was going to grad school in the city. We hadn't seen each other in about a year and there had been an estrangement that we finally discussed and were coming out of. We were both single. And here in New York City is where things changed for me. If this were a screenplay, this moment would be my inciting incident.

We met up and walked the cold February city streets for awhile before hailing a cab and enlisting my friend to help us find a hotel room. I remember being cold, frozen on the outside, but cozy warm inside. I talked to him about bullshit inside the warm cab which smelled of leather and fried chicken, but my mind was on the sweet, sweet kiss he'd planted on my lip balm laden lips moments before. On the street. In public. I'm not a fan of PDA, but I think it helped that it was 3am and there weren't many people around. And that it was cold outside. That I hadn't seen him in ages, and that I just wanted to be near him.

We hopped outta the cab somewhere around 40-something street and blah blah blah avenue, in the theatre district, and entered what can only be described as a modern day Bates Motel. The Indian front desk dude was also selling what was probably imitation gold jewelry as well. This had the feel of the working girl's home office--a pay by the hour establishment. Which is why I blanched at how much MK told me he paid for the privilege to ravish me there. Totally over priced. We took the elevator up what seemed like 15 floors and walked down a darkened hallway where I expected an axe murderer to jump out from one of the other rooms at any moment. As we came to our room, there was a massive patch of water that pooled out from the door next to ours. Odd. Keep going and open the damn door already!

Inside was no better. The furniture looked like something retrieved from the Good Will cast off store, and the headboard was merely a patch of the rough carpet affixed to the wall above the bed. The bathroom was straight outta "Tales from the Crypt", and just to make you feel secure, there were several deadlocks and chains on the door. I looked around, then looked at him, and then thought to myself, 'you must be a really horny bitch to stay here'. And naturally, I was.

What happened inside that room, surely yall can guess. But it wasn't the sex that makes this my favorite story just as it's not the cheap Rolexs being sold in the lobby that made the hotel grimy and sleazy. The night was full of passion, frustration, anger, and orgasms. We'd had a tiff because I refused yet again to give him oral pleasure. More on my reasons against another time. But we lay together in silence, tension sucking the air outta the room. I felt so disconnected from him while being mere inches away. And that made me feel empty. And as if on cue, like he could feel the cavern widening between us, he whispered, "Come here." I had started to physically pull away, and his words led the physical action which caused his arm to swing away from his body and pull me into him. I wanted to pull away but I didn't. I let him pull me into his body and wrap his arm around me. I continued to lay immobile as his fingers gingerly rubbed my arm, my shoulder. I let myself relax and melt into him. I could feel his warm skin on my cheek as I rested my head on his chest. I loved feeling that flesh on flesh sensation. I loved that he held me all night, and that he took his free hand and grabbed hold of my other free hand and that at all points we were connected. And that didn't cease, even with the dawning of the new day, or with the ominous booming noises that emanated from next door (not sure, but I'm fairly certain someone as being murdered in there). He was tender in a way that he never was with me before, and never would be after.

I came to chase that sensation, that physical intimacy each time I laid down with a man. It's not about the penetration or the sex in and of itself. That's a different level of ecstasy that exists in another location in my brain. It's about the closeness, the connectedness I feel. The sensation of touch. And I can't get that with a stimulating conversation, or a hearty laugh with a man. I can only have that through sex. Admittedly, not every time I sleep with a man means I'm looking for that sensation. Sometimes, I just wanna bone. But more often than not, I am looking for that feeling. It's my favorite part...sometimes (wink, wink). That moment in a New York City no-tell mo-tel with Mortal Kombat, gave birth to my sexual 'affliction'. As with everything with him it's good and bad. Yin and yang. And Dr. Drew helped me see that. Thanks Doc. See you Wednesday at 10pm on VH-1.

It's long, deal with it.

Till next time, lovers!

The Mortal Kombat Chronicles

I'm starting this now cause there are other posts I wanna make that are tangentially related to this topic. And I think we've earned each others trust by now that I can share my pain. This is a long, convoluted story and any attempts at brevity will be like watching a movie that's been edited for television. Boring and pointless. Seriously, don't show RAW or any Eddie Murphy movie pre-parenthood on network television ANYMORE! Just stop it. But, taking the comments of my long posts into consideration, I will break the story up into different segments; i.e. chronicles.

The beginning-We met. In college.

The middle-We fucked. After college.

The end-He broke my heart.

Was it good for you? The end. Till next time, lovers!

Three Piece Suit Mafia

I've become obsessed with this idea lately. I see them walking the busy city streets, or grabbing a quick lunch at the food court. Briefcases firmly in hand, shoulder bag slung across their bodies; women in sneakers and business suits with their sensible heels tucked snugly inside their tote bag. And men in dress slacks and Italian leather shoes, ties blowing in the wind to keep up with the quickened pace of their step. Bluetooths firmly cemented to their ears giving off the appearance of their oh so important station in life. I watch them doggedly. Covetously. Where are they going? Where are they coming from? What awaits them when they walk through their front door? What does their front door look like? Is it connected to a mega mansion they can barely afford, thus adding to their determined walk which renders every one and everything around them as inconsequential? I watch with slovenly regard, transfixed by these select few who move in and out of my world touching everything around me and nothing at all.

It's no real mystery to me why I'm drawn to them. These robotic zealots I used to laugh at on my way to school in the morning. One is constantly accosted by them on the subway. If you've ever found yourself on the express train uptown via Columbus Circle Monday-Friday circa 6-8am, then you know of what I speak. Back up off my personal space asshole before I piss on your Gucci suit! That was usually my response to them. Or I'd just give the indiscriminate white man/woman the angry black woman stare and that was enough to get them to change their body stance. Works like a charm. I hated the way their arrogance perfumed the air, as if they were King and Queen Shit, and we were humble peon subjects there for their amusement; constantly in danger of being thrown to the gallows should we forget our place in front of royalty and step outta line. Forgive me, been reading and watching a lot about the Tudors lately.

But now, as I enter my first unemployment extension (thank you NJ), I find comfort in that kind of confidence. It matters little to me about the real lives of these professionally clad men and women scurrying around Big City, USA like hamsters in the wheel. What fascinates me is the lie I can believe. The facade the three piece suit represents. Stability. Money. Security. That's really what I covet. And coincidentally, they are the things I don't have. My mother wore a three piece suit to work every day of my childhood and most of my adolescence. In my young mind, that's what it meant to be an adult and have a job. Though Mommy accompanied her suit with 6" stiletto heels. Ah the '80's.

I've found myself searching for jobs that would induct me into the Three Piece Suit Mafia, even though at best, I'm a business casual employee. My favorite outfit as Mortal Kombat likes to point out, is my over sized Tennessee Titans Football jersey and an assortment of jeans and/or leggings. I like to be comfortable, and wearing a suit for a woman such as myself who has lots of skin around the middle and the top, means I'd have to constrain and constrict some things which would render me highly uncomfortable. But if that discomfort comes with a six figure salary, I'll suck in my gut all damn day! Breathing is to be done at night in my luxury home with a luxury bed and a male escort I keep on speed dial cause my salary affords me that luxury!!! Can you tell what the operative word is?

I know this is all a delusion cooked up by my highly imaginative brain. I understand that money can't buy a variety of things. But I like the idea of having structure to my day. Having a place to go, dressing up, and bringing home a whole bunch of security. I'm a woman who needs structure. Without it, I sleep till 2pm, watch t.v. till 4am and some where in there I eat and hop online for a time to read and update my Facebook status. I'm worried about being able to take care of myself; of being able to provide the essentials in life, such as keeping my Netflix account active. I'm concerned with being alright; and in my warped mind wearing a three piece suit to work everyday says that I will be. I'm so preoccupied with the idea, that it's making me cast off the yoke of creativity I've worn for so many years and strap on the anchor of corporate achievement. Cause we all know how stable Corporate America can be. Like I said, delusions wrapped up in fantasy, and tied up with a make believe bow. Till next time, lovers!

Simba

When I was seventeen, I fell in love. Not with a dashingly handsome Adonis of a man...still waiting on that asshole to show up. But with a movie. A movie, that quite frankly today, is saving my life. It's gonna sound silly, but as you can tell from the title of this blog, indeed the movie of which I speak, is none other than The Lion King.

I saw it with a bunch of friends. We were starting our senior year and you couldn't tell us shit. I've always had a fascination and profound love of all Disney animated films going back to when Mommy took me to see Sleeping Beauty at the Rialto in downtown Westfield, NJ. So it was a foregone conclusion that I was gonna see this newest release. I can't lie, the fact that it was set in Africa made me excited that finally there would be some black characters (little did I know The Princess and the Frog was on its way--anti climactic as that was, it was something. Don't get me started). So I watched eagerly with my coming-to-the-end-of-all-things-high-school friends and kinda laughed and joked my way through the experience. Even through the "almost grown" jokes we told, it was clear this movie was getting inside of me. It was moving me. I had to go back and watch it again by myself, so as I wasn't driving yet, I went back with my Mom. And oh. my. God. The genius of it hit me so squarely and unleashed a tidal wave of emotions emanating from within my soul. It was simply the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen; and the most transcendent film of my life.

Funny that an animated Disney film would be that for me, but it was. When I heard they were making it into a musical Broadway show however, like many, I was doubtful it would work. But thank God for Julie Taymor. It was quickly revered as a theatrical tour de force. A masterpiece. I'd wanted to see it for years, but it wasn't until 2004 that Mommy surprised me with tickets for my birthday. As we were each other's plus one's, we sat in the silence of the Minkoff Theatre with joyful anticipation. And when it started...oh. My. GOD!

Right about now, you're asking why am I talking about The Lion King? I found myself on a very weird musical theatre journey this past Thanksgiving holiday. I went to Tennessee again to enjoy my second major holiday without my mother. And I let my fingers do the roaming. Initially, I was looking for all things Les Miserables, cause it just celebrated its 25th anniversary (and I totally love that show!). So looking for different versions of that musical led me to look up other musical soundtracks I love and that led me to the original Broadway recording of The Lion King. As I listened to the songs, I fell in love all over again with the world of the story. And memories of me and Mommy at the movies and at the theatre came vividly back to life. And I remembered how much we both loved the story of this lil lion cub Simba (we even named our stray black cat Simba. He was a pistol). How fierce he was, and the fact that he kinda marched to his own tune, and was kinda spoiled, but so deeply loved. And how much he loved his father. And how the play enriched the religious and secular ideas of the original story and wove them together in a visually stunning tapestry. And then just like that I remembered...didn't one of the guys who played the adult Simba kill himself? I wondered if it was the same guy I was listening to on the CD. And I was overtaken by extreme sadness when I discovered it was.

His name was Jason Raize and he killed himself the same year, the same month, that I first saw the show that made him famous, at least for a while anyway. So I listened some more to try and hear his story through his voice. And then I heard "Endless Night"--Simba's song of despair at the loss of his father. A young man's anger and confusion at having been left alone by the father he trusted to always be there to guide him. To love him. And I have to tell you, I've been transfixed by Jason and The Lion King ever since, and all over again. Suddenly the tale of this woefully talented young man, and that of a scared young lion cub resonated so profoundly within me. In a way, I feel like I am Simba. I lost the one person who ever meant anything to me. The one I trusted and loved the best. And since her passing, I have often felt alone, confused, and uncertain of who I am. How do I make her proud, and can she see me? She made promises to me too of being there. Certainly Mommy was too pragmatic to tell me she'd live forever, and I'm not stupid enough to think she would, but she definitely let it be known that she'd always be with me to teach me what I needed to learn in life. And now I feel abandoned and forgotten. And that part of me that existed with her wants to hide out. Just disappear and become someone or something else.

And listening to this guy sing a song that encompasses all of that, I was so touched by his voice because he understood it all and managed to make those feelings come across so effortlessly. I marveled at his talent. And I realized that part of me knew him also. I became so disappointed and saddened by his suicide. I was consumed with finding out all I could about why he'd done it. Why would this 28 yr old star of one of the most successful Broadway shows, a goodwill ambassador who was still working and getting ready to release a CD (I think I read that somewhere) take his own life in a house somewhere in Australia? I'd read that one account claimed he'd been dealing with some personal turmoils for the past two years before he committed suicide. Even as I obsessed about the why, I slowly realized I knew the dark inside him that caused him to end his life. I'd felt it once before and know how powerful it is. And the why didn't seem to matter so much anymore. I know that when it kisses you, you have to fight like hell to pull yourself back from the brink. It's easy for those who've never danced with the devil to say about those who have and who've lost, that they're weak or selfish. Perhaps. But they're also tired and aggrieved. And it's constant. And there's no end, so all you see in front of you, behind you, around you is blackness. Pain. That same swirling abyss that snuffed out his light, almost caused me to extinguish mine years ago. But it was Mommy that saved me. Well, honestly, I saved myself cause if I didn't want to I wouldn't be here. And truth be told, that same devil has resurfaced and flirts with me at times now. The only thing that keeps me from taking up with my old, familiar dance partner, is spending eternity with Mommy's foot up my ass.

There's a line in Simba's musical soliloquy (in the play) that says, "...I know that the night must end/and that the sun will rise/I know that the clouds must clear/and that the sun will shine.../". Whatever his demons...whether he questioned his talent, or was dealing with issues of being adopted (as some sights stated), or issues about his sexual identity (nothing claimed this but a young guy in musical theatre in NYC, not too far outta bounds)...whatever they were, why couldn't he listen to the words of the song he sang and immortalized with calm serenity and know too, that one day his night would end.

This is weird to say, but The Lion King (both movie and musical) have turned out to be very therapeutic for me as I traverse this new life landscape without my mother. I saw it for the first time since she died this past Sunday and cried the whole way through. And laughed. And remembered her laughing and crying too. I listen to Jason Raize a lot on this CD as both an honoring of the gifts he so beautifully possessed and selflessly shared with us, and a way to draw strength from those words. I know my night will end and the sun will rise again. Thank you Jason. Thank you Simba.

Grease...It ain't just a musical!

Here's what I think...I think black people are addicted to it. We put it on our plates, in our bodies, and on our hair. I live in the south now and everything down here is fried. But I'm also black so I'm used to things being fried so it's not much of a difference. I don't eat a lot of fried foods anymore, though I can remember growing up and having containers of used grease sitting on the stove--one for chicken and one for fish, and you better not use the fish grease to fry the chicken in! Someone down here asked me recently, if I'd had the pleasure of eating fried Oreo's. The thought alone makes my arteries harden. But as an adult I try to do more baking. That doesn't' mean I eat totally healthy, but hey, I try. Don't judge me!

So it's not enough to have everything we eat drip with clear, greasy goodness, which later congeals, hardens and turns into a white like substance that looks much like my hair conditioner, but we also have to slather it on our heads. Now, historically, I think I know why this happened. Mommy told me back in the day when she was a kid, this was basically the only way black hair was done. We do need a lot of hydration and conditioning on our hair cause without it, it becomes dry and breaks off. And black hair is different from other ethnic types. All the White, Asian, Native American, and etc. hair that I've seen have been fairly similar (with some exceptions but not many). So I'm not saying we don't need any, we can't run around like we have white girl hair, but if we stop loading it down with grease, we may be able to achieve that which all black women covet...white girl swing! That is what I call black hair that swings, and/or blows in the wind like white hair. And for years that was unattainable by us due to our long love affair, dare I say marriage, to hair grease. It's like we feel if our hair isn't completely covered in it like brylcream (which my grandfather still uses by the way) we haven't done our jobs.

Just like I don't eat a lot of grease, I don't need a lot of it in my hair. I don't like the phrase "good hair", as a matter of fact it pisses me off. I hate anything that pits black against black, but you can't have a comprehensive black hair discussion without it. I'll skip that for now unless someone reading this blog has no idea what that means, but since most of you following me are black, I'll assume you know. But my hair is like right in the middle I suppose. I can achieve white girl swing, but I also need a touch of grease. The problem arises when I go to the black hair salon for a hit of the creamy crack I've been addicted to since I was twelve (my mother started me cause she got tired of slaving over the thick brambles atop my head, and I was tired of her burning me with the hot comb/curling iron), cause without fail they slather on the grease. I just went to a new place today cause since I'm new to the area again, I need to find a place and this salon had coupons. Hair on a budget. Before I went in, I looked like Harriet Tubman and now I have the hair of a white girl who's into grunge and plaid shirts. All I wanted was to not look like I was running for freedom while going on job interviews and now my hair is so stringy from all the grease she slapped on, that I look like I used my head to sop up the BP oil spill.

I kinda knew this would happen, cause it always does. That's kinda why I started going to the dominicans. They know how to do all types of hair cause dominicans have all types of hair. I think it may have something to do with the African, Indian, and Spanish blood lines there...or something. At least that's what all the tour guides kept telling me when I went there two years ago. And, the number one seller, you don't spend all day in the damn shop and usually only have one or two people who touch your head. Black shops?...I think it's safe to say we all know that shit ain't true. You're there ALL damn day for a wash and blow dry, and twenty five people handle you...one to wash you, one to condition you, one to put you under the blow dryer, another one to wash you again, one to sit under the dryer again, and if you're lucky your stylist will blow it out and style you. Shear economics dictated that I go to the dominicans, I can't afford to tip all those damn folks, there's a recession people! When I leave the dominicans, I have what I like to call "Dominican Swing". That's white girl swing with attitude. My hair is soft, shiny, and healthy. Even if it's been four months since my last touch up, you can't tell when I leave there cause they get all the ends to lay down. Looks great (until I sweat, then I look like Tito Jackson). The only problem is they don't like to use any grease! I guess that would be ok if they didn't use so much heat. I think all their hairdryers are set on HOTTER THAN HELL. I've never felt heat like that before. Like all the heat from the Sahara, the Equator, and the gates of Hell combined to singe my scalp.

I just need a true hair technician who understands my hair type. I need more grease than a white girl, but less than the fry vat at McDonald's. The dominicans are closer to what I need, but not quite on the mark, yet. And the blacks assume if you have black hair that they should dump an entire jar of vaseline on your head and call it a day. It must all boil down to black people not knowing how to give up the grease, truly. Like when it comes to hair especially, trying something different is sacrilegious. We're gonna have to take baby steps I guess. I'm already there, but I gotta get my people to rise up and join me and say No to the Grease! It makes your hair heavy and your hips big. Let's get that slogan on the ballot next week and vote in some change! Till next time, lovers!

Today's Entertainment News...

I need someone to explain to me what the fascination is with Megan Fox. Cause clearly, I don't understand it. Allegedly, she's hot and sexy and all that jazz. To me she looks kinda gross. Fake big lips, pale white skin, weird looking face. Why is she the new "it" girl? I find her to be devoid of talent and looks. I guess because for black folks, full luscious lips are kinda standard so I'm not impressed. So are big asses...not that she has one, does she? I don't know. I watched that "horror movie" (and I use the term as loosely as I can) Jennifer's Body, and it was the stupidest thing I've seen since Showgirls. Watching her act is like having bad sex--you find yourself wondering when it'll be over, and fighting back the urge to fake a seizure to bring about it's end. She makes my eyes water in much the same fashion as Lady Gaga does.

I think what it is, truly, is that I'm not a fan of talentless acting. It makes my skin crawl and I just can't abide by it. I believe I addressed the issue in my last entertainment posting, but I can't help but comment on things like this when I come across pictures and/or postings online or in magazines about these people. Facebook had an ad for Ms. Fox, I'm sorry, Mrs. Brian Austin Green and one of my cousins clicked "like" for her, and I found my eyes rolling from side to side on their own. Maybe I'm missing something, or maybe I'm being too hard on Mrs. Green--but I doubt it.

I introduced my friend to one of my favorite tv shows The Tudors. Now it's not the most historically sound drama on television, fairly though because Michael Hirst (the writer of both Elizabeth movies--Elizabeth and Elizabeth: The Golden Age) is a stickler for that kinda stuff and it's beautifully dramatic and entertaining. We watched seasons 1 & 2 in two days, naturally I own the complete series but after awhile, I think she needed a break even though she told me she is totally in love and addicted to it. I coulda watched the whole thing without leaving the apartment. But I'm telling you this because after watching the show, we went to see the play Anne of the Thousand Days at a Shakespeare playhouse downtown. And it sucked. The thing was written sometime ago, like when my mom was a kid so the dialogue was dated, and it was thoroughly over acted. I mean there was a lot of breathing in exasperation, throwing up of hands, walking aimlessly around the stage for no reason, excited running around from person to person on stage, and just general hysterics. I hate that people feel this is normal when doing a period piece, particularly a Shakespearian period piece. It's so distracting. Now, even though the main chick, Anne Boleyn, is in no way, shape, or form, comparable to Megan Fox in the looks department (attractive to some is what I mean cause I don't find either one pretty), she was getting fairly similar reviews. Meaning she was lauded with praises of exceptional performances and whatnot. After the show, I bolted from the room. Couldn't get out fast enough. My friend asserted that we are Tudors snobs, and I thoroughly agree.

And I make no apologies for my snobbery. I earned my MFA in this area and that affords me the right to be snobbish when it comes to good acting. I hate that a pretty face is supposed to take away from talent. And since Lady Gaga's face is routinely hidden from view, it's hard to tell if she is indeed pretty. I venture to say NO. She's my favorite whipping girl because I find her to be a one woman suckfest of epic proportions. And Megan Fox as well. She's like vegan ice cream. What's the point? The acting equivalent of cardboard. I hope she does better in her role as Mrs. Green than she has in all of her movies combined. Time will tell on that one I guess, but I see her renegotiating that deal in a few years and flying solo soon after. That's all for now. Till next time, lovers!

Dear Mommy

I love you and I've missed you everyday since you left me. I realize now that there are still so many lessons I had left to learn from you. So many moments of value. Even now I still find myself needing to seek your advice or wanting to run something by you before I act. When I moved into my new apartment I still wanted you to see it. I find it so odd that you're not here to cover me under the cloak of your love and understanding. I told the folks at your funeral that you were the perfect mother for me and that's true. You understood the person I was from the moment I was born. You truly knew that your son and I were two disparate personalities and parented us appropriately, and that's something I took for granted. I thought everyone had a parent like that. But you were unique in that you parented with common sense and love and that's missing in parenting today. Everyone wants to be their child's friend. But our friendship was the result of you being my mother FIRST.

You were the best and the things you taught me are innumberable. But you also underestimated your worth to those around you which is something you passed along to both your children. I found myself wishing you could see all the people who turned out for your wake and funeral. That you could have felt all that love, but then again if you were there, none of that would have been necessary. You have been so loved and "L" and I still love you. I've always been proud to be your daughter and really wished with all my heart that I could be half the woman you were. In your youth, you lived your life your way and didn't let fear decide things for you as I have. I always loved that about you and wish I'd had more of that. I loved the fight in you. That's one thing that was always said about you...you'd never go down without a fight. Even in the end. You said to me that you didn't want anyone thinking you were a punk because you couldn't do anymore chemo, and I told you then I would never let anyone think that about you. And I never will. You were so brave in those final months, weeks, and days.

The night before you left was like any other night. I sat with you and watched you sleep for awhile and I started to leave around 11pm. I lotioned your hands, brushed your soft white hair, and kissed your forehead. Your eyes fluttered and then opened, and I said, "I'm leaving now Mom. I'll see you tomorrow," and you said, "Ok." Then I stroked your cheek and said, "I love you," and you closed your eyes and softly uttered, "I love you too." And those were the last words you ever spoke to me. And I'm so glad for that. I wonder if you heard me at all the next day and night as your body made its transition to the other side. Did you feel me crawl in the bed next to you and rest my head on your chest? Did you feel my lips touch your forehead, did you hear me tell you over and over again how much I love you and how much I need you? Could you feel my hand in yours as you drifted out of my world and into God's eternal embrace? Were you ok, were you calm as you left? I just wanted to make your journey as peaceful and fearless as I could for you. Did it work? As I remember your final moments this last day of your life, I hope wherever you are, that you can feel my love, our love, and know that I will never get over your loss. I hope to have other love and other joys in my life, but you are the love of my life. And if I failed to tell you that in life, I hope you know it and can feel it now. Mommy, my one true love...I miss you. Forever.

Mommy on my Mind

So it's October. And in nine days it will be the one year anniversary of my mother's death. I think that's why, clearly, I feel so emotional. My first night here in Atlanta, I was sleeping on Mortal Kombat's couch, and he was sleeping beside me on another couch. He told me the next morning that I was crying in my sleep and seemed to be very upset. I tried to play it off, but I knew what he was talking about. I was having some sort of nightmare. We'd fallen asleep watching some random movie streamed to his tv on his Netflix. I don't remember much, but I do remember this feeling of trying to connect with her. In my last grief counseling session last Wednesday, I told my counselor that the reason I feel so bothered when spiritual folk tell me that I carry her with me everywhere, and that she's all around me, is because I don't feel her. And that I haven't felt her presence ever. And she told me something very similar to what a friend told me. Basically that I may not be settled enough to receive her yet. That it may not be the right time. And what I thought about that was it wasn't the right time for her to go either. But that's selfish.

So with that fresh in my mind, I had this dream where it seemed like she was trying to reach out to me. I could almost see her in this dream state, and I could almost feel her. I just felt warm and I knew it was her. But before I could say anything to her or hear anything from her, the movie we were watching ripped me violently back to consciousness and she was gone. I tried to force myself back to sleep quickly and searched eagerly throughout the recesses of my mind for any trace of her. And that developed into another dream where I was in literal darkness, arms outstretched like a baby, grabbing hold of pieces of nothingness desperately trying to turn it into something. Trying to turn it into her. And every time I failed, I just cried out "No". And that's what he saw. He said it looked like I was struggling. I woke up with dry tear stains down my face, and at first I didn't know what was real and what was a dream. And I've been an emotional roller coaster since that day. Everything is much more heightened now as I approach the 15th. All this mess with the movers not bringing my stuff (which as I type this, I received a call from the driver saying he'll be there tomorrow Oct. 7th b/w 1-3pm...I'm not gonna hold my breath, but God willing it'll happen) is so much more than it would have been normally. And watching Mortal Kombat snuggle on his couch with a woman he claims isn't his girlfriend, but with behavior that to me and many other people seems to be clearly relationship stuff, it reminds me of the physical contact I've gone without for almost a year. I want a man to hold me while I sleep. Or hold me while I cry. To tell me that he knows it's not the same, but that he loves me and everything's gonna be ok.

This has been on my mind for the past several weeks...the past year. I had a miscarriage five years ago. Saying it out loud is still kinda unreal. I feel so removed from it at times, and then at others like now, it's more real than anything else in my life. Everyone around me is having babies--friends and family. And underneath my immense delight for their news is a weighted and incalculable grief. I want children but I have no husband. No boyfriend. And uncooperative hormone levels. Just as every woman wants her father to walk her down the aisle on her wedding day, she also wants her mother to help her pick out the gown, and hold her hand through all the days of her pregnancy. It's a symmetrical bond that is germaine only to women. How beautiful to look in your mother's eyes and know she's walked the same path you're walking right now. She knows what it's like to be in love with the life growing inside her and what that feels like and what it means, how the body changes. A friend of mine told me that when her son was born she didn't know she could love something so much, and she told her grandmother that. And her grandmother smiled at her and said, "That's how your mother feels about you", and she said she burst into tears. She said it blew her mind to know someone loved her that strongly and that it wasn't a feeling that was quantifiable. And that was mind blowing because now that she was a mother, she knew just how deeply she was loved by her own mother. And I remember being so touched when she shared that story with me, and I told Mommy and she looked at me and just said, "Of course".

As long as she was alive, my feelings of guilt about the miscarriage had taken their inevitable course, and hid themselves away deep in my subconscious. I know mentally that it wasn't my fault, but now that she's gone, I can't help but blame myself. She kept saying, even before she got sick, that she'd never be a grandmother. And sometimes she was joking cause my brother and I, both over thirty, weren't in serious relationships and neither of us seemed to be in a rush. But I'd always tell her she's being silly and that's not true. But she knew. And in the end she was right. She left this world without knowing the joy of seeing her children have life beyond their own. And she wanted to be a grandmother so much. She woulda been a great one. And it's a horrible feeling to know the one thing she wanted most, was the one thing I couldn't give her. And it wouldn't be so bad if either I never knew about the miscarriage, or if I'd never been pregnant. But knowing that there was life that began and then ended--knowing that the chance for her to get the thing she wanted was there is almost too much to find peace with.

I always thought she'd be there with me on that day. Even in my crazy fantasies when I was Mrs. Brad Pitt. I was thin, and beautiful, and rich, and successful with a good marriage and a baby on the way. Sometimes in the fantasy, I'd go into labor and I'd call Mommy from the car on the way to the hospital, and she'd hop the first flight outta Jersey to LA, even though she's afraid to fly, and I'd have a car waiting for her and it'd drive her straight to me. Other times, I'd call her a month before I was due and she'd spend all that time with me. Sometimes Brad was shooting on location and it'd just be me and Mommy in the hospital, and sometimes Brad would be home and drive all three of us to the hospital. As you can see, there were many permutations of this dream, but always the first face I wanted to see after my baby's was hers. And now, no matter what, that will never happen. And I hate thinking of my future now. Yes, there have been times in this past year where things have felt a little normal. But normal isn't normal. And I hate that.

Before I left Jersey, I went to the cemetery and stood over my mother's grave. They had just laid the headstone. It's a simple design, two hands praying, pink granite. It reads: Frances Louise Gonzalez Beloved Daughter and Mother December 8, 1947-October 15, 2009. It was the most powerful moment of my life. There I was staring down at the green grass as immaculate as someone's lawn, picturing her white and pink casket beneath my feet, holding her body forever. This vessel that brought forth my life in pain, this vessel that once wrapped its arms around me in comfort and love. This vessel that kissed me with its lips. This vessel that is now an empty shell, resting eternally beneath the dark earthen lawn of a picturesque cemetery. Mommy never felt comfortable going to the cemetery. Perhaps it's because there were so many people there that she knew--her brothers, her sister, grandparents, cousins, uncles, friends. So to leave her there is so painful. I feel like I failed her, and I know I did the best that I could, but that's never gonna feel like enough. She's my mother. And I want her back. It's that simple. And it's that complicated. And I know it can never be, but still, I just want her back.

My Little Cousin Nelson

So two weeks, or it coulda been last week honestly, I don't know my days and weeks are kinda running together now. But whenever it was, my younger cousin Nelson came to visit us while I was still in Jersey. Actually, he came with two of his friends to see a Yankee game and they flew into LaGuardia (it's a New York City airport some serious miles from us in suburban New Jersey) instead of the much more convenient Newark Airport. He was banking on me coming all the way out there to pick them up, but aside from the very real fact that I REFUSE to drive anywhere in the NYC area cause I HATE NYC drivers, I wasn't even there. My stepmother asked me to stay with my father for the week in Maryland, while she was away for a work conference. My grandfather is 86 yrs old and not comfortable enough to drive all the way out there, and my grandmother who's 80 yrs old (she'll be 81 in December) only drives as far as the local grocery store. So they were able to arrange for our pastor to drive out there and pick them up.

None of this is really the point but I wanted to give you some back story. After seeing the game, my cousin then picks up and goes down to Leesburg, VA leaving his friends at my grandparents house, not to return until Sunday night. Yes, you read that correctly. Why did he go all the way to Virginia for, you ask? Why else would a 29 yr old single man pick up and leave his friends on someone else's doorstep? MK (Mortal Kombat) calls it THE POWER OF THE PUSSY. I called it a booty call, both of which my cousin vehemently denied. But he did confess to me that he was going to see about a girl. I, naturally, rolled my eyes and scoffed with typical older cousin, single woman disdain. A "yeah right" if you will. Nelson and I have been close since our teens. He's only four years younger than me, and I've always wanted a younger sibling cause I was tired of my brother beating the shit outta me all the time. And Nelson didn't feel that he could talk to his older sister cause she was a bit too judgmental of his choices, he felt. His mother was my mother's younger sister (more back story for you).

So I listened to him, as I always listened to him and tried to guide him as best I could. I always felt close to him I suppose, because I know at times he felt like an outsider in his family, and I was constantly the black sheep in my house. So I saw myself in him and I wanted him to be ok cause if he was ok, than so was I. But he would always say and do stupid shit. Looking back, I guess he's kinda my exercise in parenting. You know the whole "you can lead a horse to water but you can't make the muthafucka drink" adage. Just love him, advise him, and let him do what he's gonna do and pray for the best. So I prepared myself for the inevitable dumbness that was about to spew forth from his immature lips, but I found myself pleasantly surprised instead.

Yes, he was indeed infatuated with a young woman he met at a friend's wedding two months ago, but for a dude who frequently used to refer to young women as "bitches" or some such nonsense, he spoke of her with such respect. In fact, I found myself marveling at his maturity. At how captivating he was as he detailed all the nuances of her that he felt spoke to him. At how she, just by being herself, was making him wanna be better. And I felt pride welling up inside of me for this young man who finally began to sound like he got it. And even if she's not "the one", even if it's not love, I was just impressed with the fact that his brain seemed to click. He was thinking about life, love, all manner of things the way an adult does. And I felt like a parent finally looking at her baby and realizing he's gonna be ok.

But while I rejoiced for him, I also felt a little touch of sadness. How I wished a man spoke of me with the same light in his eyes and excitement in his voice as Nelson did for this girl. And for a split second in my mind, while he was talking I zoned out, and pretended that these words coming from his mouth were meant for me, and in his place I put the faces of many men from my past that I wished with all my heart would have felt that way for me for real. And it felt like warm butter coating my skin. For a brief moment, I felt loved, and it felt good. Just a sensation of warmth radiated inside and out. And I want that, I just don't know how to get it. Nothing I do seems to be right or more to the point, nothing seems to be enough. I've never made a man feel that way about me. So I guess the fault is mine. But you know what's more ironic? Nelson told me about this girl, as he's told me about all the girls' in his life, in the hopes that I would give him some sort of advice. He looks up to me in that way, and I've never been sure why. I know nothing about relationships, clearly I'm terminally single. Yet, as we spoke, I found myself giving him solid, credible advice. And I found myself surprised that I was doing it, and surprised that he was listening, and surprised that it made sense. And it's like, how can you do this so well for him, and yet be so fucked up when you do it for yourself? Food for thought, huh?

Well, till next time lovers.

A Jumbled Mind

So many things are coursing through my brain at the moment, that I thought of just doing a stream of consciousness. Not sure how that would go but I'm kinda inclined to do it anyway. Aside from the fact that it might make the post exceedingly long. This was a writing exercise I used to do in class to jump start creativity--at least that's what the teacher claimed. I still have the journal from that class somewhere and it might be interesting to read back through those entries and see what was on my mind back then.

I moved to Atlanta last week and despite all of my excitement going into this new and much needed chapter of my life, I feel so isolated. I think it's cause the moving company I used is holding my shit hostage; so I've been here since last Friday, but my stuff has yet to make it. And every time I call to check the status I get the same shit about the driver has left and will call me a day before he arrives, he'll call as soon as he gets closer. Now, I made it from Jersey to Atlanta in THREE days, that was me taking my time. I stopped at my Dad's in Maryland, and then was gonna go onto to Charlotte and spend the night with my cousin, but the weather wasn't as cooperative as I'd like and rather than drive through a tornado that was hammering the Carolinas, I stayed another night with my father and then drove 10 hrs straight from his house to my friend's apartment in Atlanta on Friday. I signed my lease and picked up some incidentals for the apartment (garbage can, toaster, toilet paper, etc.) and was all set to have my items arrive the next day. I have things I need to do, like contact possible employers and start that whole thing, however, I can't do things like that until I am SETTLED. I can't get settled until I have my own space set up to my liking, which can't happen until they deliver my shit. My friend, yall know him as Mortal Kombat, has been cool with this situation. He was gonna help move me in but alas, yall know what happened there. So he told me though this situation sucks ass, that I could stay at his place for as long as I need and it'll never bother him. He even got a key made for me so I could come and go as I please. So for the first few days, that was awesome. I was so touched by his generosity and it sustained me. But now, several days in, I just want my shit. I'm feeling so utterly displaced, and as Mommy's anniversary (I hate terming it that way cause it's not something in my mind that's celebratory) approaches next Friday, I'm truly a jumble of thoughts and emotions.

So that's it. Till next time, lovers.

Can I get a little Movie Etiquette here?

Alright, here's pet peeve infinity!!! I really can't contain this. I went to see two movies last Friday cause I'm a woman of leisure and that's how I roll. My last blog had me reminiscing about those days when movies were exciting and new, just like the cast of The Love Boat. I found myself really waiting for two movies in particular to come out, and they're diametrically opposed to one another, but they both speak to the movie goer in me. The first was "The Town", a gritty crime drama directed by and starring Ben Affleck, set amid the urban backdrop of his native Boston that he loves so dear. And the other, a little less intense, "Easy A". It's been a hard week. Don't judge.

So I go to the stadium seat movie theater (the only kind I prefer now, with the exception of a good old fashioned drive-in. There's one in Atlanta I'm dying to try out), buy both tickets, get some popcorn slathered with high cholesterol inducing, genetically altered butter (yall know it's not real butter), a larger than anyone needs Coke, and head into my first movie. Now the film itself was quite enjoyable seeing as how it's another teen movie with a nice Scarlet Letter baseline. I found it funny and moving and all that jazz. What I hated down to the marrow of my bones, were the other dipshits I had to sit in the dark with.

I know technology is supposed to bring us out of the dark and into a better kind of civilization. Heart transplants, stem cell research, cancer treatments all get a big YAY from me. But texting inside a movie theater will get you a slap across the face if you happen to be ANYWHERE NEAR ME!!! Why so venomous you ask? Because even though you're not talking during the movie, you are still DISTRACTING me with the light from your phone!!! It's a dark room--as soon as ANY light comes on, the eye is automatically and without thought, drawn to it. And then as if that's not bad enough, the texting offender then has the nerve to not keep said phone down in his/her lap to shield the rest of the audience from the annoying light of his/her oh so important "where r u?" text, but the offending asshole must raise the phone high, high above so as to shine this light in the viewing eye frame of anyone unlucky enough to be in this person's general area.

Time was the only thing you had to worry about when going to the movies was an asinine talker or twelve. But now, cell phones have opened up a whole new can of self absorbed, inconsiderate-ness that movie watching is now disagreeable to me. I remember when beepers first came out (pagers if you're a doctor or live in the suburbs), and that was the first sign of a new age being ushered in. Nothing irritated me more than to hear a beeper sounding off during a highly emotional time in a movie. It's like they were all wired to go off at that moment. Whatever the moment--a highly romantic moment, a highly emotional death scene, will the lovers realize they're meant to be together, the big revealing secret--just imagine if that shit had been in existence during "Empire Strikes Back" and it's the moment when Luke discovers Darth Vadar's really his father, and during the slow build--Luke dangling oh so precariously on the ridge, and Darth, full of seductive self assurance, weaving his tale of paternity, standing powerfully tall against Luke's weak and injured stance (damn I love this movie). And right before Darth speaks those fateful words "...No, I am your..." SOMEONE'S DAMN BEEPER GOES OFF!!!

Talking is still a good old standby too. Don't think that technology has erased that oldie but goodie. I just don't understand why people feel compelled to talk, text, ANSWER THE PHONE AND HOLD AN IN DEPTH CONVERSATION while sitting in a seat it cost you $10.50 for, eating treats that cost about the same or more. Why pay to do that? Why can't you just sit there and shut the fuck up? What the hell is so important you have to ruin my movie going experience for? To find out that Pacey and Joey are dating? Or that Michael's running late? Guess what, I kinda figured that out when I got here and there was no Michael to be found. If it's an emergency either don't come, or answer it later cause trust me, it'll still be an emergency two hours from now. There's just no damn consideration of other people's time and money anymore. If you talk throughout the whole damn thing, you're wasting the money I paid to watch this movie. It's not like I can rewind it, no, I'd have to spend another $10.50 to catch the shit I missed the first time while you were having phone sex with your girl in the seat behind me (no exaggeration, this actually happened during (of all movies) "I Can Do Bad All By Myself").

Maybe it's generational. The texting was going on during "Easy A", a film with a much younger demographic; and one guy took several phone calls during "The Town". Silly rabbit, texting's for kids. I couldn't believe it, I was so fucking pissed. A young black couple then proceeded to sit behind me (during "The Town") and keeping it old school, starting talking...LOUDLY. Now, some people don't get pissed when it happens during the trailers. I'm weird cause I actually like the trailers. I wanna see the next cool movie coming out. So this was highly irritating. And it reminded me of Mommy. She'd curse you out for that shit. At the time it was kinda embarrassing and funny all at once, but she wasn't playing. I've seen her do this several times, and suddenly it was like I was channeling her cause I was ready to go and unleash all manners of fouth mouthedness, when to my immense delight, they moved to seats down front. It didn't stop them, but at least they weren't in my ear for two and half hours.

My point is this...all this texting and talking and whatnot needs to stop. It's incredibly selfish and what's amusing and worthy of ass whooping, is that these folks have the nerve to wanna get up in your face when you ask them to knock it off. How dare you. I spent my money just like you. This isn't your living room and if that's how you wanna behave, keep your ass at home. I just don't understand the society we're living in now where everything we do has to be linked to our damn cell phones. Do you really need to send that text while you're DRIVING? Really? If you think about it, you really don't. All of this though is a symptom of the deeper issue. We're nothing more than a bunch of self obsessed narcissists addicted to our own imagined self importance. There was this commercial that used to play in the movie theater showing a man being propelled out of his chair cause his phone rang and disrupted the audience. How I wish those ejector seats were real. I'm working on something along those lines, where instead of being thrown from your seat, a bunch of criminally insane inmates rush into the theater and beat you within an inch of your life. I just have to figure out how to keep them from killing us all. Oh well, incidentals really. That's it. Hope it wasn't too long. Till next time, lovers :)