moving.

alright children.

the time has come to bring this wordpress thing to an end. it’s been an okay run over here, but the staff is picking up and moving our shit into a shinier, bigger, more accommodating office space.

you: what does this mean?

Hush now. We’re just moving over to a new blog site: blogger.com to be exact.

so. the new addy will be……

WWW.COLOREDBOY.NET.

Fear not, there are still multiple tools to assist in your stalking me. It’s totally fine. In fact, I welcome it. So, click it, be nosy, stay a while and SUBSCRIBE.

i’m out.

~chris.alexander

ChrisAlexander’s Guide to Eating Out

Note: I need you to do me a favor and share this with anybody you consider a friend or loved one. You will be doing them a big, amazing, free favor. Thank you.

Hello children. It’s me: your good friend, Professor ChrisAlexander.

(Applause)

Happy New Year! How’s everything? Good, right? Great. Some recession we’re in, huh? Boy oh boy. Times are hard. But, children, we’re not here to discuss how the Fuckhead in Chief has run this country into the shitter. Although….Haiti may actually have us beat economically!

(Crickets….sparse awkward laughter)

…..I’m here to share something important with you. Let me first say that I love you. And because I love you, I have taken it upon myself to educate you (the uninformed or misinformed consumer) about things that will make the world a better place for you and for me and the entire human race.

Today’s lesson will cover a topic that I am a little more familiar with than most. It is something that each of us can relate to and knows something about: restaurants. More specifically, how your monkey ass should (and should NOT) behave the next time you moonwalk that ass into anybody’s dining establishment.

Rather than bombard you with my expansive knowledge, I shall bring you into the light gradually. In 2009, the goal is to live right, give to the needy, and avoid pissing off those who handle your food by any means necessary.

(applause)

(house lights go down. spotlight focuses in my podium.)

(Clears throat)

Chapter One: “Please Wait To Be Seated”

I should note that this chapter does not pertain to so called “fast food” environments, but focuses more on restaurants that feature waiters, non paper glasses and cups, employees without visors, and don’t contain dedicated children play areas.

With that said, I shall start at the beginning. I’ll take it slow so that no child gets left behind. Remember. If you have questions, please, don’t hesitate to ask them. We’re all friends here, right??

(applause)

Okay. Now, whether you make a reservation or not, the entrance into the restaurant usually sets the tone for the dining experience. Being attitudinal when requesting a seat is discouraged. That pretty little table beside the dumpster just might have your name on it.

Hopefully, you’re hungry and eager to drink a little (or a lot). So, let’s grab a seat!

Oh, wait:

NO, YOU CANNOT SEAT YOURSELF.

Hosts and hostesses (the attractive people who greet, size you up, label and prejudge you upon entering the dining establishment) exist for a reason. Their job is to accommodate all reasonable requests and ensure everyone (not just you) is comfortable, happy, and in the mood to spends lots of money.

You will notice tables with varying numbers of table settings. Some for 2 guests, 4 guests, 6 guests, or larger. The seating of these tables is usually systematic. Many factors go into deciding where you are placed. We will go into this more in a later chapter. The point is, don’t rock the boat.

Now, although such requests aren’t questioned in “fast food” environments, before you even ask:

NO, YOUR PARTY OF TWO CANNOT HAVE A DAMN TABLE DESIGNATED FOR SIX PEOPLE.

Don’t inconvenience the rest of the world because you a) have a Big Mac addiction and need seating for two or b) want space to put your feet up, spread your legs, or rest your head after you eat yourself into a food coma. Get a grip. Besides, that’s not what Jesus would do.

Whether you realize it or not, you are NOT the only people in this particular establishment. So, be mindful of the fact that other groups and individuals would also like to enjoy their meal comfortably.

Also, when being walked to your seat, please remember the aforementioned seating system that exists in most restaurants. If entering a restaurant without a reservation at a particularly busy time of day, please don’t huff and puff when your question, “Can I have a booth?” is answered with “No. Fuck off. Sit down.”

Any questions??

Last minute key points:
-Moving tables around, together, or apart all willy nilly at your own damn discretion is not allowed or appreciated. You are not the decorator. Take a seat, spend lots of money, and get the fuck out.

-Contain your goddamn kids. If you don’t want to be bothered with your kids, chances are that your waitress doesn’t either. The restaurant is not the place to let little Charlesina and little Anfernee spread their wings the way they do at home. Throwing food and silverware, jumping on chairs, and doing sprints in the aisles are not cute or picture-worthy. The surrounding tables aren’t sending you death stares because they’re envious of little Bessie’s melodic voice, they want you to grab that little hussie by the throat and put an end to her fucking shrills. Besides, your magical brand of parenting (read: none) is a gift that should be shared privately among loved ones. Keep some secrets for yourself, right?

Okay, so hopefully you haven’t pissed anyone off and been refused service or banned and managed to get a seat. Let’s move on to Chapter 2.

Chapter 2: “Waiting, Waiters, etc.”

Alright. You’ve made it past screening, convinced the host that you DO have (enough) money and you have received your very own table.

You’re doing good so far. Let’s continue.

Depending on the season, you may have coats, jackets, umbrellas, shopping bags, etc. Before you get too comfortable,

NO, YOU MAY NOT USE THE SURROUNDING TABLES AND AISLES AS YOUR PERSONAL STORAGE SPACE AND COATRACK.

Hang your goddamn belongings on YOUR goddamn chair or tuck them under YOUR goddamn table. Don’t place your raggedy Canal Street-bought “Burberry” scarf on the ground and raise hell when it gets stepped on. Placing items on the floor usually signals a lack of concern, so if you don’t care, then I don’t care: I’m going out of my way to step on it.

CHECK YOUR DAMN COATS AND SHIT AND SKIP THE HASSLE.

Don’t be a jerk, jerk. This is not your goddamn house, so

USE YOUR DAMN BRAIN AND PICK YOUR SHIT UP OFF THE GROUND.

You could also get “pick-pocketed.” Pick-pockets just love fancy-looking (fake) bags left unattended on the back of a chair or a purse placed conveniently beside the feet of a tipsy patron. Use some damn sense.

If you do place your things in that open table beside you,

DON’T GET SNIPPY WITH THE SERVER WHO ASKS YOU TO REMOVE YOUR RAGGEDY SHIT FOR ANOTHER GUEST TO SIT DOWN.

Remember, 2009 is not about being an inconsiderate shitbag.

Now, once all your belongings are situated and you’re settled, it’s okay to relax, chit-chat, and take in your surroundings. This restaurant may be new to you, so if you’re excited, great! You may be dining with friends or family you haven’t seen in ages, so its natural to want to catch up, right? But, keep in mind:

THE TABLE DOES NOT BELONG TO YOU FOR THE REST OF THE DAY

so…

LOOK AT THE DAMN MENU.

“Do you need more time?” actually means “Please hurry the fuck up. You aren’t the only table in this joint, so I don’t have time to stand here and smile while you motherfuckers figure how many ways you can split a sandwich.”

The restaurant has taken the time to print you your own personal list off the day’s offerings and want you to review all that is available and have the best meal possible. Each dish has been prepared with love and may even have its own cute little description on the menu, answering a question you may feel inclined to ask your lovely waiter/waitress.

While waiting for your server, be patient. Perfection isn’t easily attained so please be aware than he or she is preparing to wow you with stellar service so,

FLAGGING SERVERS DOWN WITH MENUS, NAPKINS, PHONES AND EMPTY GLASSES IS NOT THE WAY TO MAKE YOUR SERVER EAGER TO PLEASE YOU.

Relax!

Note: “YOO-HOOOO….!” and “HEY YOU!” are also not okay. Jerk.

Such behavior may even lead to delayed wait times, incorrect drinks, and misunderstood or unheard food orders.

Example 2.1: “Oh, you wanted a rare burger?? I completely missed that! I thought you said VERY VERY well done. Guess we’ll have to get you another one.”

Or

“OH! You’re a vegan!?! I thought you said EXTRA MEAT and TRIPLE CHEESE!”

And nobody wins in situations like that. You may try to stick it to the server at the end of the meal by skipping the tip, but (being three steps ahead) he’s already sprinkled finely crushed glass into your rice and you’ll be dead in a day.

See? Nobody wins.

Sit tight, keep your pants on and your voice down. Patience, jerk. Your server is happy to meet you and answer any questions you may have. If he or she attempts to introduce himself or herself, let them. You might wish you remembered their name when you start to notice that crushed glass tearing up your stomach lining.

A general note: If you’re not of age, don’t order alcohol. You getting a sudden soda craving when asked for identification (“Oh, you know what? I think I’ll have a Fanta.”) only makes you look foolish. You knew when you sat down with a group of 30-year olds that your 19-year old ass has never successfully ordered beer. That $20 fake ID you got in a seedy “copy shop” won’t work everytime. However, if you like public humiliation, then by all means, feel free to try it!

Second note: If you know upon being seated that you have $13 and a condom in your pocket,

DON’T REQUEST “MORE TIME” WHEN BEVERAGES ARE OFFERED IF YOU KNOW YOUR POOR ASS IS HAVING WATER ONLY.

Don’t be ashamed. Embrace and stand firmly in your poverty! As an extra credit assignment, next time you dine out, I want you to confidently state, “Water only, please,” when questioned. You’ll save a few minutes and prevent the server from having to roll their eyes at you. Practice now. Notice the rush of adrenaline and confidence that surges through you from shedding asshole tendencies! Yes!!! Some have even called this sensation “orgasmic.” You be the judge.

In general, when communicating with server/waiters, remain calm. I know his or her awesomeness is probably a little overwhelming. Their brilliance could be blinding, but fear not. They exist to serve you. So, as long as you don’t make any fucking ridiculous requests or demands (covered in the next chapter), you should have no problems.

Well, friends. Look at all the ground we’ve covered today. You have made it all the way to the table without exposing your inner asshole and have your very own server! Impressive.

In no time at all, you’ll be a more respectful, well-mannered, adequately-tipping consumer that knows…

(Audience joins in)

HOW TO BEHAVE THE NEXT TIME YOU MOONWALK THAT ASS INTO ANYBODY’S DINING ESTABLISHMENT!!!!

(CHEERS)

Isn’t that exciting??

(applause)

Alright kids, that’s enough for today. As I said before, I don’t want to overwhelm you. I shall bring you gradually into the light.

Please submit all questions and I’ll respond below promptly.

Remember, Professor ChrisAlexander loves you. Tip the coatcheck, and have a great night.

Thank you.
(Curtain falls)

hepp me out y’all

alrighty.

 

where to begin?

work was surprisingly busy. also surprisingly, i was in a great mood ALL day. saturday lunches are usually not the business in my restaurant, not in this economy anyway. after work, i stopped in times square to see inez at work then came home, picking up a bagful of apples and motherfucking oranges.

so…i walks (yes, walks) my ass in the kitchen to slice and dice my fruit to enjoy with my nice, ice-cold bottle of agua. tonight is definitely a chill night. a good book and some fruit…a night for reflection….

the year’s coming to an end…i found an old notebook that i apparently started at the end of 2007/top of 2008 filled with grand ass dreams and goals. some of them i’ve addressed, tackled, or completed…most i haven’t. the reasons for incompletion (read: excuses) are endless. and i’m sure that in the last weeks of december and top of 2009, i’ll start another notebook (that i also won’t finish) filled with more grand dreams and goals.

ah fuckit.

lemme quit pussyfootin’ y’all.

straight to the point:

i’m in the kitchen cutting up my goddamn apples and urrrnges, i reach over to grab the cutting board..and i see some shit that i…i need yall to help me understand.

now, i’m a pretty sheltered dude. i’ve never smoked cigarettes or weed. never got a prison tat with a lighter and a pen. never been jumped or even punched in the face. never ran up on some mark busters or murked any punk ass bitch niggas.

so…

what i need summa yall…um…more…”worldly” (read: hood) readers out there to tell me…. is…

um…

is THIS a crack pipe????

 

 

i seent this beside the cutting board. apparently, my wacky, tacky roommate (one of them) did dishes (after letting them pile up for days) and left this there. a short, three or so inch piece of round glass. broken and burnt on one end.

i clutched my pearls.

should i be concerned that he’s gonna steal my shit to sell it?

should i return it to him and tell him he left it out?

should i call the boys in blue and tell em he tried to attack me while in some drug-induced rage? he does have a sweet ass plasma tv in his room that i could use….

i just don’t…know how to recognize shit like that.

i mean…he’s a…um..dancer. used to make big bucks dancing several nights a week, but now…this damn economy…he’s dancing one night and is like…three weeks from eviction. works ONE night a week, but puffs cigarettes and weed 30 hours a day, 9 days a week.

note: i find my recent fascination with coke/crack/junkies absolutely hilarious.

yo soy clueless.

your thoughts?

the way i see it.

Raphael motherlovin Saadiq is a damn musical genius.

Now, with that out of the way, I can attempt to put into my words my excitement for the man’s newest project. I had the immense pleasure of listening to Raphael Saadiq’s “The Way I See It” today. I wasn’t on top of my game, scooping up the single months in advance, and following his progress up to the release date like years ago when “Ray Ray” dropped. But it didn’t matter; I instantly fell in love with the record on first listen. It was surely worth the wait.

Raphael has invited listeners to witness his love affair with the 50’s, 60’s, and 70’s for over a decade, but rather than occasional fliration from albums past, he’s declared his undying devotion, forsaken ALL modern interests and influences and shacked up with the past. The result is a soul-filled collection of songs that will undoubtedly grip even the most skeptic listeners. With most albums, I do my initial listens while trying to tackle the endless demans of everyday life–the album serving as background music. This record demands that you sit the fuck down and get into Mr. Saadiq’s head. And I did just that. As I write this, I’m en route to Virginia, and I’ve had the album on repeat the entire ride. It’s that good.

Now, in order to enjoy this record, one must open their mind to the reception of GOOD music. Think back to before a vocorder and dozens of other creative vocal masks could hide a lack of talent. Go back before producers screamed all over their records. Try to remember the days when the singer’s voice didn’t get lost in or overpowered by flashy production. At times while listening, I thought I was listening to Curtis Mayfield, The Temptations, Stevie, or maybe even Al Green. Saadiq quotes Gladys Knight, Sam Cooke and The Stylistics among his influences and I must say I feel  each of them breath through his music. The Way I See It is the older, more mature, sober brother to Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black (last year’s soulful, pain-filled release from the British songstress, whose style Saadiq reportedly respects and admires).

The record has a rarely encountered level of cohesion that denotes intense inspiration and forethought. For example, one of many stand-out tracks, “Sure Hope You Mean It” clearly draws it’s old-school shuffling rhythms from The Tempations (“Beauty’s Only Skin Deep) and “It’s All Right” by the Impressions. “Let’s Take a Walk” features Saadiq cutting to the chase (“I need some sex/some sex with you”) over a dope ass, bluesy groove that’s part sped-up BB King joint, part Little Stevie Wonder groove. Other favorites: “100 Yard Dash,” “Oh Girl” and “Keep Marchin.” It’s a solid listen from beginning to end; a feel-good classic…instant vintage, if you will. And while his impressive, unique production and writing style have helped dozens of other artists achieve great commercial success (in addition to critical acclaim), this masterpiece will most likely not have the global impact that it should. Many brilliant works never do. Whatever the case, this retro journey through funk and soul deserves several listens and shall surely appeal to the most discriminating old-school head and the new school soul freak. Check him out in a city near you.

…that’s the way I see it.

you and i both know the deal…

last night on SNL’s Weekend Update, Seth Meyers commented on the OJ verdict:

“O.J. Simpson was found guilty on charges of armed robbery, assault, and kidnapping. But really murder.”

i laughed for a solid two minutes.

…and white people everywhere are smiling.

….You, of course, read my blog about my favoritest nigra on earth, Orenthal James “white girl slayer” Simpson. If not, I’ll look the other way as you click here. Well, it appears all the voodoo dolls, rain dancing, prayer, and virgin sacrifices have finally paid off.

OJ was just found guilty of twelve felonies. Twelve. The minimum sentence he faces is 23 years, thanks to the presence of weapons during his brave adventures. Now, add that with his likability factor (0) and multiply the effect of Johnny Cochran’s absence (-62) and it looks like the Caucasian Coochie Smasher is facing 34 life sentences.

Okay, maybe just one. But at any rate, he is definitely fucked. Think of it: every bearded, tattooed white supremacist on D-Block will finally get to split that chunky, murderous booty of his open, Nicole Brown style. Ole!

Before sending the jury away to deliberate, the judge alluded to the possibility of waiting days or weeks for a verdict. After all, a pretty well-known man’s life is in their hands. A wrong decision (in the public eye) and they would be forever linked to this trial as the fuckups who freed OJ. Again. It was reported that Mr. Simpson had that same stupid ass, infuriating cocky grin plastered on his chubby, 61 year old face as the jury received their instructions. Then, he strolled out of court cool as a fan, chatting confidently with reporters about his plans to spend the next few days at a friend’s house while the jury deliberated. Hell, he probably had some pretty young blond thang waiting for him in the back of his SUV.

Surely, his feelings were hurt when he was called back to court thirteen hours later. It took him longer than that to plan the heist of his dusty ass memorabilia last year. Upon re-entry, he mentioned being “apprehensive.”

Then…

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. And….Guilty.

Same for his dickface of a sidekick CJ Stewart.

When the verdict was read, he gave one of those “Aww, shucks” reactions.

Surprised, Orenthal? Did you really think Amerikkka would let that ass walk free? What you don’t realize is that they have been waiting to catch you the first time you ran a red light, littered, or looked hungrily at a nice, white woman.

And they got you. Signed, sealed, and delivered. For life, hopefully. Sentencing is in December. He’s 61. So, with the combined sentences he faces, he is pretty much done. In the mouth. He and CJ get to sit in a cell and blow each other for the next 40 or 50 years while they reflect on better days. He won’t even be seen as the cool, Teflon rebel from 13 years ago to his future cellmates, because at the core, even they probably know he should have become a monk or just quit life while he was ahead. But…the jig is up, sir. Party done.

Today, one of my coworkers jokingly tried to convince me that OJ should be freed.

“I’m about to print up some FREE THE JUICE shirts.”

(Sad face from me)

He then said I’m rejoicing in the misfortune of my people (….but not as eloquently.)

Wrong, sir.

I’m simply pointing out the stupidity of another human. And just because we both:

1. Had ancestors in Africa, and

2. Avoid blackwomanvagina,

doesn’t mean I am to excuse this fool. Wrong is wrong. Guilty is guilty, whether black, white, gay, straight, fine, hideous, or Ashanti–a fool is a fool. The same group crying out for America to cut OJ some slack are the same jerks who pity Michael Vick, support and root for Rapist Robert Kelly, think Mariah Carey still makes good music, and actually supported Al Sharpton’s presidential bid. Losers.

(climbs down from soapbox)

exhale.

i’m not some crazed negro-hating dude (as someone “jokingly” called me earlier), but i have grown tired of those who feel obligated to support the brother just because he is a brother. same for those who are voting for Obama JUST because he’s black (and NOT because his opponent is on social security and the next in line can probably name more hockey teams than she could former presidents). we throw stones at white serial killers (because…you know…we don’t do that) who sit on Oprah’s couch, but we watch Rapist Robert Kelly piss on kids then go buy his CD’s “because he makes good music.” where’s the logic?

wrong is wrong is wrong.

so….in closing…(cue superhero music) I call on my competent, brilliant, self-respecting readers to proudly punch the next person to speak out in defense of OJ, Mike Vick, or R. Kelly (or…Mariah Carey) in the top of their head. and repeat these words, “fuck.you.in.the.mouth.” don’t get mad, though. it’s a lost cause. it is an unfortunate truth that you can’t fix stupid, but, goddammit, you can shut it the fuck up for a few minutes.

thank you and goodnight.

~chris.alexander

next time you decide to stare at a crazy person…

…be cautious. She just may stare back.

Today, while journeying on the 4 train deep into the jungle of Brooklyn (drowning the world out with Jazmine Sullivan in my ears) a girl gets up from in front of me and moves down to my right. I noticed all heads turn toward the end of the subway car.

I removed my headphones.

“….so I figured I would move down here so you could get a closer look.”

Oh hell.

Apparently, homegirl did not enjoy the attention and judgemental glances from the Celie lookalike across from her.

“…I’m sayin! Do we know eachuva!? Did we grow up togeva!? Why you starin at me like dat, son?”

Note: Here in New York, even girls commonly refer to one another as “son”. I’ve even seen hood dudes greet hood dudettes with, “Yo, son…” I just find that interesting. Anywho…

“You like what you see, dontchu!? Damn!! Even after I did mah nine hours on wall street I can still get attention from raggedy broads like you.”

…And….silence from the other, dumbfounded girl who was probably commenting (to herself, of course) on how crazy this broad looked (muffintop, anyone?). I sensed that they were silently in the midst of a “most inappropriately-sized shirt” competition unbeknownst to me. It was safe to say the mute chick looked just as crazy as Motormouth Maybelle across the way, but, sadly for her, wasn’t as confrontational.

Mind you I was on the 4 train heading to Crown Heights, so of course these weren’t regular ass clashing black girls. These were two Brooklyn BajanJamaicaTriniHatian girls. So…at any moment either of them could have pulled out a shank made from a sharpened curry chicken bone and nobody would have blinked twice.

Mute chick tried to give off the “Girl, I’m SO unaffected by you” vibe, but failed. She began to glisten with sweat. Kept opening her mouth to speak but would always wave her hand as if to say, “You ain’t even worth it.”

But she remained silent. But now with a stupid ass grin that said, “I’m a little nervous and don’t know what to do.”

Motormouth kept talking: “I mean…I NEVA got dat kinda attention from a female. What you want from me?!” and so on. And so on and so on.

She kept talking about how surprised she was by the attention even after the Celie lookalike got up and exited the train.

“Hey miss….”

A woman looks up at her.

“Did you see that!?!? I NEVA got that kinda attention from a woman befo. Oh mah god! Even after a nine hour shift! “

Then…a guy she was riding with said, “it wasn’t even really that deep. Shut the fuck up.”

And she did.

“I’m sayin, it was rude….Dass all.”

And that was the end of that.

colored boy fool of the day.

the world knows my feelings on colored girls and their hair choices…..

literally 15 minutes ago on Court Street in Brooklyn:

1. homegirl was about the same color as the brother to her right.

2. she had the longest eye lashes ever in life.

3. from the side, you can see at least 2-3 inches of her natural black hair in front of the wig.

ahh yes. THIS is the amazing black woman that my coworker attempted to convince me i’m missing out on. makes perfect sense, now.

that’s somebody’s dad.

yesterday on the way home from work, I saw a forty-something man “crankin dat soulja boy” on the train platform as a group of colorfully dressed “cool kids” laughed. the man wore a pair of “Grant Hills”, made by Fila after Grant’s success with the 1996 Olympic Dream Team. in 2008.

the same pair I outgrew in the sixth grade. In 1996. i don’t think he was homeless. just stupid.

Anyway, it made me sad.

For him.

The end.

recap.

After months of planning, saving and waiting, the gang and I finally left for Vancouver last week. When Janet promised a tour in support of her latest album, “Discipline”, we were understandably skeptic. Then Def Jam head LA Reid confirmed that, yes, Damita would be hitting the road. And we began saving.

Seven years is a long time to wait to see your favorite artist in concert. Spot performances and events aside, the last time we saw Janet on tour was 2001.

I didn’t even have locks then.

Anywho…

Earlier this Spring, details began leaking about a planned (possibly World) tour. Janet confirmed this poorly kept secret via a performance and appearance on Ellen. (here and here) The Rock Witchu Tour was set to kick off in the fall. In Vancouver.

My dick dripped.

Years ago, after the tour we were promised in support of “Damita Jo” (“sometime in the fall,” she told us) never materialized, my friends and I decided that whenever she did tour, we would be at opening night…no matter where the shit was. True fans, indeed.

Fast forward to last week. Our patience was rewarded. Teaser video clips from Jermaine Dupri, a lengthy press release from Janet and tidbits dropped via AIM convos w her choreographer/director, Gil (my fucking role model) built this trip up to the level of a religious pilgrimage…for me, anyway.

Our initial flight was delayed because of an approaching storm. 15 minutes became thirty….I fell asleep as we pulled away from the gate at about 7:15am.. When I awoke at 11:25, we were in the SAME spot on the runway. In fucking Nueva York. Good times.

This flight was eventually canceled and rebooked for an hour later. As we waited to reboard, we happened upon the beautiful soul sister I named “Red Pantsuit”.

Whatever her reason for flying, homegirl reached in that closet and pulled out her bestest (shoulder shimmy) traveling pants. Now combine that top notch style with the 5 pounds of hair she had bonded to her scalp and you hoes better go sit down and rethink some things.

one more time….

owww!

Sistagirl gave it to you bargain bin bitches from row 1, seat A in first class.

Take notes ladies.

Instead of going nonstop, we stopped of in Calgary before arriving in Vancouver at about 7:30pm.

Blah blah blah Cab ride to the hotel…blah blah blah sneaking 5 ppl into a room intended for four….

We made a brief pitstop to take much needed showers (by then I smelled like the aftermath of a barnyard fuckfest ). We pooched over to Red Robin with every intention of gaining 5 lbs apiece.

After Cheese sticks with this insanely good pepper jam or whatever it was called (surely, crack was an ingredient), a basket of chicken wAngs, some sick ass burgers, and cheesecake, I’m sure we accomplished our goal.

After eating enough food to feed a village of African orphans, we journeyed across town in search of the GM Place (or the “GM Palace,” as Jermaine Dupri called it). We happened upon an group of fellow Janet crazies from the States. Names escape me. Apparently, they were all active members of the Janet Xone boards and introduced themselves by their board screen names.

….Right.

We recognized eachother from events as far back as Damita Jo (2004) and had seen eachother at performances, signings, and appearances for 20 Y.O. And Discipline. They had been there for over half a day, watching dancers come and go, recording video blogs and listening to rehearsals from outside the non-soundproof arena.

Personally, part of the thrill in seeing a show for the first time is not knowing what’s next. Now, not only did they know the show’s setlist the night before, but they sent it to a friend back home who posted in online for all the other anxious Janet crazies to see. THEN, when Janet left after 2am and stopped to chat with them they LIED TO HER FUCKIN FACE, saying “Yea, we heard the setlist but won’t tell anybody.”

LIARS.

Anywho, we returned to the hotel to sleep. With the AC on, of course. And, naturally, I woke up feeling like I’d been fucked in the throat with a jackhammer. Ugh. My life.

Before heading to the arena, we stopped for breakfast at Denny’s (which will NEVER be IHOP) where we spotted the 3rd or 4th (nonhomeless) negro we had seen in Vancouver up until that point.

(one of the 3 negros we saw. and he looked insane.)

My mediocre dining experience was enhanced by our adorable waitress, who ended every sentence, be it a question or declarative statement, with “Yes, thank you.”

Examples:
“Would you like another tea or Pepsi, yes thank you?”
“…and here is your toast yes, thank you.”
“No more juice, yes thank you?”

And so forth.

My assumption was that “yes, thank you,” was one of the few pages she studied in the Waitress English Handbook. Needless to say we took that shit and ran with it.

Off to the venue, where happiness awaited. We hoofed it again, allowing us to take in Vancouver during the daytime. The city is much cleaner than New York. The bus system appears to be connected to power lines (electric, maybe?). We also noticed that their construction zones are so neat and contained. Gated and visibly hazard-free. No opportunities for huge glass panels to crash down on pedestrians (twice in three months here in New York). Still no coloreds.

Oh well.

We made it to the venue hella early. No lines. None of the other lying crazies from the night before. However, we did come across this crazy broad rightchea.

Don’t ask me her name. I’ve suppressed most of our interactions. Apparently, she drove from Seattle. And was staying in a friend’s apartment in Vancouver. And previously drove to Vancouver for some other show. And probably has a supercool white jacket with long sleeves and hooks that wraps all the way around so she can hug herself. And didn’t have anybody to chat with…until she happened upon us.

Aint we so lucky?

And she’s very touchy. I’m all for hugs and molestation and such. But NOT from a crazy. In the midst of telling her travel adventures, relaying her excitement for Janet, and sharing the story of her conception she felt compelled to SHOW how happy she was.

“OOOOH I’m so excited! I just need to hug somebody! C’mere!”

And she hugged somebody. Several times.

Naturally, I avoided homegirl the way I avoid vaginas. Keepeth the fuck back, girl. Yuck.

Anywho. Upon successfully ditching Emily Rose we entered the arena. Still no huuuuge crowd. But it was still early and there was never really any announcement of an opening act. The $2350 we spent on tickets got us inside the “Golden Circle”. Up until that point, fans could only speculate as to the stage design and seating arrangements. Catwalk no catwalk? B-stage? Stairs? Everyone had their theories.

Turns out there was both a catwalk and a B-stage. And we were inside the shit. Basically inside her womb.

(we were riiiight in the middle of that space there. can you spot me?)

Amazing seats. Fucking amazing, actually. Even as we sat in our seats and observed the hundreds of Janet shirts, Janet hoodies, tacky janet posters and so forth, everything was still surreal.

more crazies:

PsychoGirl1814 found us again. And demanded two pictures. “A normal one. and a superstar one.”

oh really, girl?

Before THIS pic, I confided in the man who took the pic that, “I don’t even know this bitch’s name,” and wondered aloud, “where does Janet find these people?!?!”

As he snapped, he said, “SAAAAAY CRAZY!” prompting this laughter:

i think this was the “normal” one. for the superstar picture, she flipped down her hater blocker shades.

note: i know the way she styles on you hoes in her “jlo”by Jennifer Lopez gear (she told us) is breaking your heart. it’s okay. dust yourself off and try again.

It wasn’t until the lights dimmed that it hit me: We are at Damita’s first concert in seven damn years. In the 8th row.

FUCK!

Without reviewing each song, I shall just say that I can’t pick a favorite. The whole motherfucker was my favorite. Two and a half hours of this old pretty ass bitch dancing her ass off surrounded by nine insanely talented dancers. High energy from beginning to end.

LOOK AT THIS BOOTY!

From a choreography standpoint, it was brilliant. In addition to the dozens of timeless routines we all know, love, and performed along with them from our seats, the tour features very appropriate updates of classic moves (see the updated choreography to “Control” and “That’s the Way Love Goes”). The idea of revamping previously legendary moves is tricky and doesn’t always work out in the choreographer’s favor (see the updated “Together Again” from the All For You Tour). Tina Landon’s choreography for the Velvet Rope project was butchered by the anxious, extremely talented, and otherwise amazing Shawnette Heard and Marty Kudelka on the All For You Tour. Thankfully, Gil Duldulao’s revisions worked beautifully. I love he. Shit!

Some Highlights:

She did a medly of songs from 1982, for the “true, diehard fans”: HERE

An amazing view of the opening and some of the updated choreography during “Control”: HERE

Damita being a hoebag during “Discipline”. I love it: HERE

Feedback. dope dope dope.: HERE

I probably danced just as much as the dancers onstage. I definitely screamed, yelled, and sang more than most around me. I just think its super corny and whack to attend an event such as that concert and sit down or be reserved and quiet. WHAT’S THE FUCKING POINT!?!?

After stripping my throat and abusing my body, we filed out into the hall where, still high off excitement, we spotted the amazing, amazing, amazing, talented and still-beautiful Kelly Konno leaving the venue.

She danced with Janet during the janet. Tour, Velvet Rope Tour, and Rhythm Nation tour. A bad bitch indeed. Still flawless. And skinny.

And pretty.

Around back where the dancers and crew leave, we spotted Gil Duldulao (choreographer/director) chatting w fans. He let us know that she would definitely be hitting up Europe, Asia, Australia, and maybe South America…before coming back for more US dates. And Hawaii next year. We are so there.

Also got to throw praise at the show’s MVP’s Victor, Jillian, and Laurel.

I told Jillian, “Girl I don’t know where you came from, but don’t you ever stop dancing.” In true Dre fashion, he told the girls they ought to be slapped for being so fucking amazing. So humble, they were.

Then we left, replaying the show in our heads all night and the next day as we journeyed back home. All that we had been through now seemed worth it andn looking back, I’d do the shit again. ONLY for that bitch. Say what you will…nobody puts on a show like that. I take nothing away from your Madonnas, Beyonces, Mariahs (who I don’t think could perform her way out of a wet paper bag these days) and Britneys, because I respect them all. But there is NOTHING like a Janet Jackson show dammit. I encourage you to pull the money out of your ass, suck some dick, sling some dick or do whatever you gotta do to just be in the building. It’s worth it. It’s worth it. It’s worth it.

I promise you.

If you don’t agree, fuck you in the mouth with a Robert Kelly dick.

I’m off to listen to if. Fuck you and goodnight.