…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.

party

[written six hours ago. underground.]

at work, we hosted an after-party for Saturday Nite Live. You know…the late night sketch comedy show that now lacks most of the actors who are actually funny. After working my normal closing shift, we set up for the private affair.

Aside from the cast members, notable guests included Kirsten Dunst, Helen Paige (the star of Juno. Super short and cute in person), Kieren Culkin (younger brother of McCauly Culkin), Rumer Willis (she really does look like Jay Leno), Evan Ross (Diana’s offspring), Drew Barrymore (not too hot in the face), Chace Crawford and Blake Lively from Gossip GIrl, and the red-headed broad from Superbad.

Guest began trickling in after the show ended. Four hours of chaos. Busy as fuck, but nothing too dramatic happened. Thankfully. It stopped being fun at about 4am. I left at about 5:15am. Absolutely sinful.

Beyond tired right now, mmkay?

Surely not in the mood to deal with the MTA’s dumb ass service changes. Here I am waiting for the motherfucking J train as the sun is probably rising above ground. Note: in two years here, this makes my third time boarding this random ass train. Ugh.

Anywho, when I finally get home, mission one is to hibernate for a good portion of this day.

Please do not disturb.

good morning.

vancouver.

 

i write to you from the third floor of the Park Inn and Suites in Vancouver, BC, Canada. after the longest day in history (cancelled flights, storm delays, tacky red pantsuits, huge, lopsided breasts and so forth), my crew and i are about to hit the bed to get ready for Opening Night tomorrow.

we are about to witness the opening night of Mother Jackson’s Rock Witchu Tour…and it all seems surreal even after stopping by the venue to hear her inside rehearsing. to my delight, she is performing one of my favorite songs by her…from Velvet Rope. you’ll have to wait until later to find out which. we only stuck around for about 20 minutes…and the bitch is not playing around with the kids this time. this is so significant for me because i’ve met many of the people I love and hold dear either at or as a result of Janet Jackson concerts.

anywho…

come to find out, one of the fans we JUST saw standing outside texted the entire setlist to an eager fan/friend of his in the states…and…now, the actual setlist is posted on a forum. which…was bound to happen sooner or later. it finally puts to rest all the dozens of bogus, ridiculous lists floating around….but since i flew across the universe, been sent to hell and back physically…walked across town to the venue…and this jerk wants to tell the world what they will eventually find out tomorrow….it kinda annoys the fuck out of me. oh well.

off to bed.

tomorrow is the big damn day. or…today, rather. time differences? yes. today, then. i’m all fucked up now.

goodbye.

(full, detailed rundown to come later….)

small update.

as i prepare to run out the door and be faced with the fuckery that is the MTA train system (on a weekend) i felt compelled to update you on something. A few days ago I debated over whether or not Little Miss Sunshine (the miserable black girl I work with) was wearing a wig or not (swoop bang, chunk highlights and straw curls?!!?)

well…

isreal.

madame sho-nuff has frosted flakes in her head. wigs don’t have dandruff.

the end.

okay. off to work.

folks. knifes. spunes.

….day 4 of the US Open complete. my body hates me. i imagine that by sunday, i’ll be an actual zombie. had a rough, yet lucrative day….including serving guests from the southeastern region of Hell. long story. later for that…

before i cheat myself with 4.5 hours of sleep I must give thanks to Pops, the irate dishwasher, who screamed and caused countless scenes when ANYONE (managers included) tossed dirty silverware in the wrong bins, which he had conveniently labeled as FOLKS, KNIFES, and SPUNES, respectively. and i love him for that. that damn old man and his constant reminders that “[he] just CLEANT a whole burnch of damn glasses. and [we] is using them too damn fast,” MADE my fothermucking day.  forreal forreal. thanks old man.
good night.

who? what? where? when? and why the fuck?

i am beyond tired right now. in fact, i can feel each of my vital organs shutting down (there went the spleen)…and sleep is rushing toward me like Omarion at a dick buffet. today was significantly less dramatic than yesterday. if you’ve been under a rock (or….in Virginia) i’m working in a restaurant @ the Tennis US Open out in Southeast Asia (Queens, NY). Venus and Serena both won their matches…unlike last year (which i captured and documented HERE last summer). Business was pretty steady…nobody got fired or murdered…twas a good day.

a few interesting events:

1. there’s a dishwasher who, after he decides that he’s “cleant enuff dishes to last [yall] awhile”…will simply refuse to wash more until he thinks we should need some. THIS should be an interesting storyline.

2. today, i had an interesting interaction with <THICK SPANISH ACCENT> Laura </THICK SPANISH ACCENT>, a self-proclaimed “head busser”. raised all type of guacamole and frijole hell after i used silverware from her estación to reset one of my tables. “ju can’t be stealing my dishes dat i worrrk hard to clean an poLish para ju tables, Alejandro.” a brief spat ensued. in the end, i walked away from señorita jalapeña, mockingly yelling out, AYE DIOS! girl plz. THIS, too, shall be interesting. i love to instigate a spat…broken english shall only double my pleasure. i’ll keep you posted.

3. there’s a girl i work with…who is perhaps the most disappointing soul I’ve ever encountered. just a nasty, negative, awful spirited black girl. i’ve spent at least 2 hours today mean mugging her and her “hair”, trying to decide whether it came from her scalp or not. my dilemma is, it MUST be real, because no self-respecting girl would PAY to walk around with some raggedy ass TIGHT straw curls…with 345 different shades of brown, and a huge Aaliyah swoop bang with chunk highlights? right? this girl nags about EVERYTHING. i mean…she makes ME look like a pushover. EVERYTHING that happens that she doesn’t approve of, is either racial, fucked up, and/or directed ONLY at her. she walks around with her GD face twisted up, lips pursed, ready to “give it to whoeva, wheneva” if the opportunity presents itself.

and she wears purple lipstick.

anywho, ive been given no choice. after this US Open is over, I, chris.alexander…am going to write in to see if I can arrange for this bitch to have a Jenny Jones makeover. because….she gives me the girl-you’re-dampering-my-day-with-your-unfortunate-fashion-choices-and-shitty-aura blues.

anywho…off to bed dammit.

subscribe.

goodnite.