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

Advertisements

“you know who you look like?”

table1

En route to work today, while listening to my ipod (who I’ve named “Damita”), trying to remember all the choreo I learned in this week’s classes, I noticed an Island woman glancing in my direction.

I brushed it off, concluding she must be overwhelmed by my beauty. No big deal, right? So she kept looking, and finally signaled for me to remove my headphones. Okay fine. She had beautiful locs, so I obliged.

“You know who you look like?”

Oh fuck. My stomach tightened.

“You…look a little like Spike Lee.”

Aww shit.

Again? The damn Spike Lee comparisons…in 2009? Still?

Apparently, something about me resembles the brilliant filmmaker.

“Something in your eyes…your face. You could be a close relative.”

I’m thinking: “Girl, you’re pushing it.”

I dropped my head, sighed and offered, “…maybe the glasses…?”

“No…more than that. Are you sure you’re not rela…”

I smiled and re-inserted my headphones. Girl, bye.

Thinking back, she’s probably the 6th or 7th person since I’ve been in New York to draw this comparison. And…I just don’t see it. So…if any of you can locate “proof” of any alleged similarities, I’ll take it under consideration.

Until then, I stick with my original conclusion: it’s a consipiracy.

thatisall.

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)

wind & fire.

First off, let me welcome you to my 24th year of life. I thoroughly enjoyed my birthday, and had a very productive day. I had an excellent workout, worked on choreography for a few hours….

…had a fruitless talk with a manager (big, dramatic eye roll), and saw a few of my favorite people on this earth. Good times indeed.

If this coming year are anything like the past few weeks are, I am certain that I’ll have an amazing year. The people that have been placed in my life have had a tremendous impact on me, some good and some bad…but all very necessary.

Some people alter from the course of your life at first sight. Take, for example, the superfly ass specimen I cam across (read: ran down the train platform to have a closer look at) while on the way home.


Consider your life changed.

Now. When This pretty young thing flew past me on the train, my mouth dropped and my heart fell out of my ass. Very few times we are so overwhelmed by a being’s beauty that out breath is ACTUALLY taken away. No words from Alex, only action. I felt compelled to capture this woman’s wonder to share with the world…to give other helpless, lost broads out there something to aspire to. So, I sprinted down the train platform so that I could behold this precious lamb of God. Fuck Beyonce, Tyra, and even Rihanna….THIS is classic, effortless beauty.

I shall call her “Wind & Fire.” There’s nothing Earthly about whatever it is that she exudes, that’s for sure.

Who else do you know that can jump out a window, have their hair (see footnote) get stuck in the air, make all the nail polish fly off one hand, and apply eye shadow with a pink crayon ALL before hitting the ground??? …and STILL look better than any of those so-called “Top Models” you see on TV…with minimal effort??

Surely not that floozie Beyonce.

Hmphf!

What do YOU know about blue nails on one hand,

purple lipstick,

a casually-placed (okay…askew) red wig

and shopping sprees at “BALLERS Clothing and Shoes”???

And what do YOU know about wearing your “going home to be with Jesus” makeup at ALL times JUST in case God calls you home unexpectedly, and to keep yourself one step ahead of these bargain bin skeezers on the block??

Not a damn thing.

Wind & Fire is READY for the runway, the magazine cover….AND the damn coffin. She’s even practicing her legendary, sick ass couture coffin pose while you silly broads listen to ipods, read BOOKS, and other nonsense.

Meanwhile, some of you are still walking around with kinky twists (YEARS beyond those few months in 2005-2006 when they were actually fashionable), unibrows, mismatched, multicolored weave, AND brown gums!!?!??

You want folks to take you seriously…

…AND you expect a man to put a ring on it??

HA!

What do you have to say for yourself?

Good luck, you poor, lost souls.

It’s 2009. Ladies, step your game up. You’ve been warned.

_______

**“their” is used loosely. the jury is still out on whether store-bought hair can actually be considered your hair.

miss world.

“….and the homeless girls is smarter than yall. I already won one….Miss World. That’s me. You know its gon be nice cuz I’m givin it this time. MMhmm. Keep it simple. MMhMM. A long runwalk with the thing where you stop and smile and strike yo pose and walk away. Mmhmm. Phillipines. Yea. Nice and hot there too. With those lil chinky eyed kids throwin flowers on me when I win Miss World. Mmhmm. Again. Yup. Gon be real nice.”

…this was the tail end of a monologue/rant by a disturbed woman who boarded the train with me today. A tall, slender black woman with the longest (synthetic) ponytail in the world and deep, dark red lipstick. With lip liner. Also: burnt urrnge snow boots and the tightest nude tights. Ever. And a bubble vest. In 2008. I see her from time to time, always well-dressed (read: obviously not homeless, not necessarily the least bit stylish) and always ranting about “that girl upstairs, the crazy one who hollers and screams all night” or “this b from housing, the ugly fat one who keeps losing my damn applications….whatchu workin for!?!” or “that silly man who keeps calling and texting and texting and calling and don’t know that I know he playin games…makin the damn situation worser”. Or whatever.

A little sad, but the fact that she always boards the train in mid-conversation with nobody that you or I could see, and that her loud, vulgar ramblings make everyone (myself included) uncomfortable makes me feel less horrible for not pitying her.

Today, I was blessed to have her stand directly in front of me as I sat and attempted to read Mr. Baldwin. I gave up once she said something she didn’t like and went the fuck off on herself, attracting stares and sympathetic glances my way. I couldn’t hold in my laughter when she actually sat beside me, continuing her rant while eating Cool Ranch Doritos at 8 in the morning…spitting chips on me as she spoke (“Oh hell, sorry baybay.”). The absurdity of it all led to an almost violent fit of (contained) laughter. A hard chuckle, if you will. And more sympathetic glances.

By the end of our ride together I learned that she would be passing out the Christmas meal at GMHC on the 19th, a “hoebitch” she used to know made a dog to attack her once (giving the scar that got her disqualified from Miss Universe back in 84), she doesn’t believe in monogamy, and she can’t understand why metrocard machines are always out of order when SHE needs to use them.

Good times, indeed.

When we got to Wall Street she cursed someone (herself…?) for almost causing her to miss her exit…and wished us all “a good eternity.”

The train breathed a collective sigh of relief.

A woman asked with genuine concern, “Baby, are you okay.”

“I’m good.” (Still chuckling)

“..mmhmm. She not though.”

Needless to say, she made my day. NEXT time: picture or video.

monday morning commentary.

it’s been quite some time since i’ve done a “randomness” blog, so…dammit, here goes:

tonight, on my way home from work, i walked up on a drag queen with his/her skirt up around his/her waist examining and readjusting his “tuck”…on the subway platform. he/she even fell out of character and resorted to the standard man’s nut grab/shift/grimace…while on the subway platform.  judging by his/her face, he/she had a HARD night. either the money wasn’t flowing like it normally does or that nasty bitch Miss Sasha Dereon stole his/her knee pads again. bitch! even in my earlier days of cavorting and associating with dragons, i’ve NEVER seen anything leading up to the final product. seeing a drag queen without wig, makeup, and dick tucked is like spotting mommy without her bra…it’s sinful! and a little bit yuck yuck. you’re just supposed to see the end result. never the “before”. good times, indeed.

you know what i LOVE? vegetarians who decide to take their monkey asses to barbecue restaurants (let’s say…mine, for instance) demand ridonkulous shit like “tofu ribs” and “pulled imitation chicken sandwiches”, claim nausea at the sight or smell of meat, and expect to NOT get the worse service ever, a swift, double-handed throatchop or…at the very least least, attitude major. i love people who complain that their “fries have been fried in the same grease as chicken or some other meat. i cant taste it.” …..and then have the NERVE to ask if we can make vegetarian chilli (which we DO offer), but without the sauce.”the answer is “no. fuck you.” do you also want your maccaroni and cheese without the “and” too? fuckface. THAT is what i love.

i had to have a tear-inducing (not on my part–i’m not no punk ass pussy ass cryin’ ass bitch) conversation with a good friend that was long-overdue. months even. this particular friend has had a string of bad luck due (in whole) to some bad choices and awful prioritizing, partnered with, honestly, a horribly spoiled upbringing. this friend has a habit of fishing for compliments, attention and concern with vague, question-prompting, pity-generating statements like “Ohhhhh, (big sigh) my life….”, “_____ is sad…”, “you won’t believe what happened to me today…”

and alex doesn’t feed into that bullshit. i know this person VERY well. and we’ve grown apart as of late, a little. rather than indulge these UNsubtle ass attempts for pity, I just ignore it all. i refused to be one of the dozen jerks that responded to melancholy ass facebook statuses. i turned the other way whenever i saw a guilt trip coming. i downplayed drama when confronted with shit like, “oh…i…thought that with all of what i told you yesterday, you’d call and check on me.”

me: “oh….nah, you’re okay.”

i just…have an issue with that. if you need help, ask for it. that was the general tone of our conversation: “nobody cares.” i had to convey to him that i am not ALWAYS a dick, but i have my own fucking problems to deal with. okay, you can’t find a job, money’s low, the guy’s you like keep playing you to the left, you’re gaining weight and have an addiction problem. i’m sorry to hear that. but…i’ve got my own issues, jerk. thanks for asking.

it’s just hard to convince someone who’s used to worlds stopping and wallets opening at the smallest sign of distress that, after a while…people get tired of catering to you. i did. shouldn’t have to. and i won’t. so, get it together. life sucks, but overall…nobody cares. my shit stinks too, my friend..and nobody’s helping ME clean it up.

anywho, it felt good to get all of that off my chest with him. he cried. i drove the point home any way i could: i used to have a dance company. danced DOWN 9 days a week. created a handful of amazing pieces of work. acclaim. awards. fans. haters. when i was 18. now? nobody cares. what have i done lately? THAT’s what matters. Him: had a car. a decent job. money was no issue. was young, cute, skinny and “in love.” had lot’s of material shit to “show for his work.” now? not so much…on all accounts. the gotcha-gotcha? nobody cares. get it together bitch.

still love ya, though.

took my first breaking class this week. breakdancing is something i’ve always admired, but never dared to try. i figured i’d look crazy. it turns out, for my first class, i didn’t look totally nuts. the uprock and foot work (everything that happens BEFORE you hit the ground) is fairly easy. the basic, fundamental moves (six step, four-step, CC’s, freezes, etc.) will definitely take work. the homeboy Cory (former Grüvment member, dancing for Hannah Montana currently) is a beast and gave me some pointers…i’ll keep you updated on my progress with that. when i DON’T look crazy, i shall post vids down the road.

i’ve fallen in love with dance again. the necessary spark: the choreographer’s carnival a few weeks back. the choreographer’s carnival is a show by and for dancers and choreographers. dancers and choreographers get a few minutes of total freedom to express themselves on stage without the influence of movie and music video directors, record labels, or difficult artists. a chance to shine in the foreground in front of peers rather than as an afterthought or as an unappreciated part of someones show. this show justifies my HATE for the term “background dancer.” we are not plants, scenery, or props. in many cases, dancers are entirely responsible for a untalented artist’s appeal…without them, they’d have and be nothing (Rihanna, anyone?).

Anywho…back on track here, I promised myself that, even if I don’t submit a piece of my own, I WILL at least dance at the next Carnival in the spring. I’ve been around this scene long enough. shit NEEDS to happen. I’m not getting younger and all the waaaaaaack people from last year are all now dope as fuck (most of them). Alex needs to catch up. i have my eye on a few choreographers i’d LOVE to dance with. i need not say who…i’ll just make sure they notice my ass. dammit.

okay. it’s 2:21. this blog took ENTIRELY too long to write. more later.

off to bed. tata.

 

 ~chris.alexander

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?