Category Archives: tales from the hood

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.




things i hate.

i JUST got into my apt from visiting erin and dre in harlem. happy birthday dre, by the way.

i’m using my roommate’s laptop to check email.

i have to be physically ON the train en route to work in 5 hours and 8 minutes…approximately.

all of this is irrelevant.

the door downstairs at the entrance to my building is usually controlled by a magnet…that…releases… once the correct key is inserted and turned. simple.

it was broken for about three weeks. not due to mechanical failure, but i witnessed a guy (let’s assume he was some species of junkius-bobbybrownius) kick and kick and kick and kick the door until it flew open, allowing him entry. so…i, too, got away with not having a key.

they fixed it this weekend. and i just got my feelings hurt; i had to wait 12 minutes for some exiting junkie woman to let me in. fuckshit.

so…i just heard the unmistakeable sound of a THICK metal door being kicked open downstairs. kick. kick. kick. kick. kick. kick. tyrone must need a hit BAD.

again, i can get away without having a key to the front door.

things i hate #328: knowing any random brooklyn junkie or scorned akon fan can saunter into my building at any hour of the night.


(this is why i miss living with/near/surrounded by white people. they do NOT tolerate such fuckery.)



adventures at the IRS…

so. today i crip walk on down to the fothermuckin’ I.R.S. to do my taxes. damn the fact that i have to file for 2005, 2006, and 2007. that’s not important. i don’t HAVE to explain shit to you, but because us so close, immo tell you: with all this globe trotting (read: apartment hopping around brooklyn) this is the first time that i’ve had all my w-2’s at the same time. so, i pry myself out of the arms of such and such and arrive at about 8:03. so there i’m is standing in line: harriett “i haven’t run a comb through my hair since JJ got V.D. on good times” tubman, chicken george, ned the wino, and me, standing in line togeva. fixing to have us taxes did. so i’m waiting. i’m doing choreography in my head to j*davey/j’davey/j-davey (depending on who you ask), stripping down, preparing to pass through this metal detector and be searched….

(good thing i ditched that shank on the way there…)

and i realized how it was possible for the group of homely black men acting as “security” found their entertainment throughout the days. you see, when we pass through the metal detector, we had to remove belts, coats, and hats as well. the wild ass assortment of dookie braids, unfinished weaves, slave-esque locs/twists that brooklynites hide under their hats and wigs was enough to make me consider volunteering. wipe me down and sign me up! frederick douglas’ first wife (who revealed ankles whiter than mikey jackson when prompted to remove her rainboots) must have one of those conditions that causes your hair to fall out when shampoo touches it. that is the only explanation for the dandruff, crack pipe residue, spiders, and dried ejaculate that resided in her braids beneath her hat. complete fucking insanity. i LOVE my people, gawd knows i do.

so, after this freakshow in the lobby, i wait on line for another twenty minutes or so. behind me, some Adebisi-looking dude

sang mariah’s “touch my body” in that whole i have my ipod on LOUDasFUCK and have no concept of how damn loud i’m singing voice. first and foremost, why is some musclehead with a Sweetback singing about being touched and caressed and what not? maybe he was…you know…(shakes hand mid-air to denote possible faggotism) “funny”…? needless to say i wanted to stab him in the top of his head. but i resisted.

after all of THAT, it turns out i needed an appointment and LaShaniquandayonce dismissed me with a loud, unmistakeable NEXT! well run up on me in an empty parking lot, beat me in the face with a tire iron and call me Prophetess Juanita Bynum. FUCK! annoyed is an understatement. oh well…at least i got a good laugh out of it all.

then i came home to hibernate…and watch season 2 of my guilty pleasure: veronica mars. joy! sue me.

and now…googling to do these mamajamma’s online for free somewhere.