The Incongruence of the World

On the bus yesterday from Fantasyland-Manhattan I had an epiphany. A good number of the worlds I know are not congruent, and that is causing me a sense of sadness, or more accurately saudade.

When my Bronx friends say that they have not meet a black person like me commenting on my love of import beer and pubs, or my lack of hip-hop dress and swagger a little engine in my head gets to running. Believe me, there are compliments too. But over the past couple of weeks, many in the professional and social compartments of my private sphere, have constantly lectured or slyly commented on my difference in comparison to all the other signs and sounds of the five boroughs, Black Folk, America, etc. . .

I don't know if these comments are hurting me and I am denying it, but regarless I see things with different eyes now. Maybe that is what being an ex-pat really meant for me and why sometimes I feel like I am being ripped through space at light speed without a space suit. I psychically become aware of where I am in milliseconds. This place of present and its mind sets are sometimes much different than the place I am most comfortable with which resides in my head now, but manifests itself overseas.

So my world now consists of several slices of grey matter. Let’s start with the Wonder Bread Americans who ironically are part of my fantasy part time job. They are people of all racial backgrounds, but for the majority the job is a way of partaking in the fantasy and getting the "stuff" that they want at discount. And in a way, since everyone is of some professional ilk or aspiring to be through a university education, life is very nice. To the dismay of some of my friends I like my working class job that includes lawyers, teachers, music producers and caterers.

Then there are the Occupational West Indians. Very nice but they believe blogging is immature and that my Myspace page is the falsification of friends and a sign of shallowness. One person has somehow clinically divided my creative self from my authentic self. What the fuck! But then again they have arrived in this country to live the American dream and can not help but critic it while sitting on Mars, observing us American earthlings with a level of curiosity as the sun blares on their rounded African faces. I just wonder if they have taken the time to really think about what is happening to them, but I judge not. I have sat in that same cat bird seat. But they surely know what is happening to me in a certain way – both as a returning ex-pat, and as a Black professional. I am resistant though. Maybe it is my denial. Maybe it is the fact that they have not seen me in 7 years or so. Maybe it is the constant rejection from the insurance companies, the years of dealing with not so kind doctors, the heavy responsibility of my disease. These are scares I hide well because I have learned most people do not want to hear about this reality. It is the gift of youth; I just have loss that gift very earlier. I must worry about my body and money constantly, and the restraints are effecting my social and economic advancement, so their impatience is coarse to me. I wonder if they are listening to me at all when I talk about what my responsibilities actually are.

I do appreciate their admiration for artistic things, but I don't see them producing anything, so their ramblings about all the bands and artist I keep up with on my Myspace page kind of go through me. I wince only because their ideas graze a capillary or tickle my spleen in a funny way. The logic is clear. The work they do is serious. The work I do is not serious. At that comment they would tell me it is about survival and status. And I hear them, but their career choices are rewarded differently by out society and there isn't much more to that.

Then there are the Native Tongues Galore After-Party Intellectuals. They are the ones that read my blog, but are also busy sliding on different Afro Trips, as if we all nibbled from the same mushroom and are busy traveling on our own individual pleather bound bean bag. A couple transport themselves to Africa. Some transport themselves to Brazil. Others remain in the hood, preferably the Bronx or Harlem. Others have settled into Brooklyn. Some are straight. Some are gay. Some are bi. Most are political. All are in the network. All are supportive. But, I think my trip to Europe did not go down so well. Many question my Afro-authenticity. Or many more believe that Europe is whiteness. No one seems to get that I was around African-Americans, Brazilians and French West Africans a good amount of the time. Whiteness was only at work. And ultimately how is that different from the real life experience they are having right now?

Most of the Afro-Trippers want me to write about my trip before it evaporates in the green bud lit smoke of a black light room. And they are right. But again. They are all trippin' in every aspect of the word -- from Day trippin' -- to Ego Trippin' -- to sabbatical like excursions to the farthest corners of the digital globe and/or natural known world trippin’. They all stare back from a Trans-Atlantic shore, ultimately waving, always writing postcards.

Then there are the Post-Cold War Continental Euro-European Union Enthusiast with all of their social reforms and strong currency. They absolutely do not get the Afro-Trippers, nor would they ever understand the utter New Worldness of it. Their nationalities really set boundaries within themselves so that whenever they encounter difference, they feel embolden to become more of a German, Spanish, French or Italian asshole. An exertion of their selves is constant. For me to sit down and eat a kola nut and not be from West Africa is the equivalent of them watching an herbivore eating a carnivore. It falls outside of their system of things and they become offended.

The Europeans might not understand the occupational West Indians because the level of social freedom that they allow themselves would not really match the oh so brutish Britishness of figuring out social standing at every turn. It is antithetical to the notion of being decent and presentable to the white American world at every corner - of constantly maintain the perfection that my grandparent’s generation demanded of all Black folk. The continentals are just a bit different. The balance of freedom and public presentation are more equal, everyone performs for everyone else regardless of race, class, creed or sexual orientation. For the continental European you should watch and know that you are being watched. It is a two way street.

And to my friends at Fantasy Island, the Europeans would be exotic. It would be a reversed exoticism -- the way they saunter, so stylized according to American standards; not to mention, couples without clear leaders; physical proximity; men as beautiful as the women; the European sense of being out of place, looking for shelter in a familiar cup of coffee . . . Lavazza maybe, or brioche and a tin of Illy.

But of all of the satellites in my orbit it is that world I miss the most. I guess it is the freedom of the ex-patriot to not be bound by a conventional standard of who you are and how you fit into the system. You are an import. A model. A function. A representative. A dignitary. An example. A talking parrot from which vocabulary can be bolstered. And that is it. And that is where the saudade comes from because though Europe's history is far more complicated . . . the people are not very complicated. We feud over gay marriage, over education, over taxes, over what is fair and for whom. Over yonder the debates are larger and grander calling for political coalitions in the tradition of Metternich or Disraeli. Live with who you want. Travel when you are young. We are all taxed for the greater good. And leave fair up to the philosophers.

This list of my constellations could go on. I have not even gotten to the Bronx - my new territory. But hey, this is how I am feeling today. Or I should say last night.

I need to delineate out what is working and what is not. It is not really about chopping off friends, but my friends deserve to know what I am feeling and how their assumptions and views touch me, arrest me, captivate me, and bound me. They deserve to know what I admire about them, how I like to hang out and play with them like 10 year olds during an endless afternoon in October. They also deserve to know what I miss about the past. About that summer. About that world I thought would last forever. About how things have never been quiet the same since they went away. Maybe in some instances I see something and have no one to share it with because they are gone. In other instances it is just the talk. The recounting of conquest. The sheer impossibility of people not understanding why I love that one, or why a good friend loves this one and how we both could give a shit about what the others are saying. It matters to us.

The Camel's Back

The War in Iraq.

THIS STUPID MINE STORY COVERAGE THAT IS EMOTIONALLY SADISTIC TO EVERYONE! 6 have died in the rescue effort. Blessed be the dead. It is so cruel to witness that I can only whisper.

Steroids
Barry Bonds = A Sign of the Times

Tour de France = Humans Chasing the Sun

Pro Wrestling = Death

Lead paint on toys -- China is off the chain

Poisonous dog and cat snacks -- China's regulatory boards are off the chain -- Hey, they either execute perpetrators of corporate or governmental fraud, or the perpetrator commits suicide -- Have you noticed?

Dog Fighting -- Real Sports showed Canine Euthanasia. I was sad.

Bryant Gumble (Gumbo) reciting the transcribed words "Fuck" and "Mother Fucker" in his interview with PacMan Jones . . . I really became undone. It was like watching an all male dance ensemble do a re-enactment of the cat fight between the Jiggaboos and the Wanna-bees from Spike Lee's School Daze in slow motion with razor blade cuff links in High Definition while going through Meth withdrawal.

The Stock Market -- I mean come on! Was I the only one expecting this? I am glad I did not take the bait. Plus I refuse to pay $300,000 dollars for anything that has vinyl siding on it or is made from compressed wood. Take my advice. Do not buy anything built after 1995 because the materials are skimpy. The demand for natural resources in China has made building materials very expensive.

The resignation of Oliver Thomas. Just a big DAMN! I mean damn.

The Suburban Transit and New Jersey Transit fares went up but the delays are just as bad. Yesterday was just hard.

And now . . . on top of all of this . . . D'Angelo.

I guess sexy is a state of mind.

I just hope he doesn't smell like fried whiting, pickles and white bread.

Then he is ruined.

What can I say. Keep your heads up.

The Ball

It's Coming.

Simply Irresistible

I have been trying really hard not to put this Beyonce track on my blog. Part of it is this need to still feel a bit edgy and academic. Part of it is because I do not want to reduce myself to pop -- but hell I have written about girl pop before. The biggest part of my hesitation is that I really think this video is hot, and I must admit that it makes me salivate, so in true fashion, I want to share.

So, there is no analysis. Just . . .

THe Zili Misik Experience

OK,

Yesterday was the re-birth. I can't really tell you how it worked out, but I woke up and did not feel weighed down by all the things that have been weighing me down over the past 2 years. I think it was completing the 7-week program at my new university. Maybe it was the 7 weeks in the Bronx, which feels like 7 pre-1990 Harlems stitched together but in Spanish. Maybe it was starting up my old part-time job and seeing old friends. A co-worker reminded me that the world we work in is not real . . . it is selling a fantasy. Good to know.

So the uplifting things . . . let's see. First Joe's playlist on his Myspace is fumkin' slammin'. Get yourself a taste.

I saw Rat-mo last weekend. First tapas (I hate tapas bars, I think they are pretentious, especially when chased by caipirinhas that are too gritty. You got to really mix the lime and sugar) on Saturday, followed by wine during the week. I talked to Rat-mo about life and as usual he was telling me to be precautious about love and commitments in no uncertain terms. I was screaming at him across the table that all one needs is to be brave. I guess the solutions lies in the middle. Rat-mo gets me, so I had a great time.

The other positive thing happened last night. After 2 months of Sundays of not being in the East Village I ventured there after work. I totally forgot about that part of town. Funny, on Sunday nights the ghost of the East Village past lifts its head. I remember when venturing down past 6th and 2nd Avenue was the beginning the Netherworld. Now it is more subdued. Thankfully, the free spirits out number the tourists and schucksters on Sunday nights (at least on this one), on the other days of the week it is a wigged out mall, a fictitious remnant of those nights when I saw a bare chested man walking down the street with a gun sticking out from behind his belt-buckle framed by a chinchilla; or seeing Claudia Schiffer and Naomi Campbell roller blading at 4 in the morning wearing long orange light-reflecting vest.

So, I got down to the Leopard Lounge at about 8:00. It was before the band arrived. Ayana was moving back and forth from the sofa and Ms. E. I looked around and the area was sparse. Ms. E. and I sat. We talked. Ayana spun glistening vintage Marley, with its Motown meets calypso melodies and multi-layered yet well organized pre-slang tang rhythms. The crowd appeared, a Motley crew of downtown dreads, Brooklynites and NYC couples who followed the music up the stairs into the lounge. Then Zili Misik performed -- an all girl band in white. I felt cleansed for a split second. It was Sunday and church. It was an experience I have not felted in a while. The composed sisters sang in Portuguese, English and Haitian Kreyol and for once I felt invited . . . to something . . . besides the little heartache and financial strain from making my summer stipend produce fruit.

Check these sites out.

Zili Misik
Universal Sundays @ Leopard Lounge

Red Eyed Soul

I don't know how I am suppose to feel about Amy Winehouse. I must say that I love her work, and as I am completely bogged down with work on this Sunday morning, it is a welcomed distraction. I think it is the wanting of love, the wanting of heartache, the feeling of moving on, and the scratchy early 1960's St. Tropez jazz throw back caught in her throat.

It is odd. Many in the press say she is drugged out, in fact she looks strangely like those homeless kids that used to sit in the middle of the East Village twelve or thirteen years ago. They would just sit on the pavement, dirty as a Dickens character and punked out like a freshly cornholed Jack Kerouac anti-hero. You know, the middle class white children that turned into street urchins because of a fight they had with their third step-father in seven years (I shouldn't assume, cause I did work with the homeless years ago and there is nothing cynical or funny about that reality), blah, blah, blah . . . but Amy Winehouse, please blow, blow, blow.

I will have to look into Amy Winehouse and the "make-up" of her (Rolling Stone, The Village Voice, New York Magazine, etc . . .) as the press declares her the new queen of soul . . . I think she is soulful, but I am not convinced that what she is doing is soul.

I Take the Bronx, You can have Manhattan . . .

Factor One: 4 (2$) Coronas

Factor Two: Shot of Tequila with a lick of salt.

Factor Three: Pernil con Arroz blanco et Frijoles rojas

Factor Four: The Bronx College Experience.

Factor Five: The Parks

Factor Six: The Produce

Konversation Eins: The Evening of May 10th or 11th 2007

First

So, I stood outside with this Italian kid from Brooklyn, dancing along to his sentences about observing an emergency Cesarean section:

"It looked like blood and yellow stuff mixed." he said, rubbing his hands together, then cupping them around an imaginary elongated orb. He swiched his hands like he was massaging a baby's head or an imaginary sack of mucous. He spoke as if he couldn't actually describe the taste of an exotic meat he had just tried, complete with smackings of the lips and pauses.

"The doctor had the knife in her and the placenta went POP! The yellowish red fluid was all over me, all over the doctor, and it hit the ceiling. It was on his cheeks . . . "

". . . he wore goggles?" I asked.

"Yes, he wore goggles."

I felt as if I was transported back in time 12 years, listening in horror, to my own lofty notions of equity, along with his blood and guts reality of life, death, and afterbirth.

Me and the kid continued to talk like old classmates except he was young and I was wiser.

"I am trying to move to New York." I said.

"I am from Brooklyn."

"Yeah?"

"New Jersey people are strange."

"How?" I asked.

"I don't know, they are just strange." he said.

We continued to hone in on this idea with the beams of the street light blaring. I wish I could have had a tap recorder.

Part Deux

"Hey, what time does the mall close?" a short stocky Taiwanese guy asked us. He was short and tan. He pimped gel spiked hair like a military Manga soldier. He said he was an entrepreneur, who got tired of looking at his paycheck and seeing that his bills were higher than his take home pay.

His lines were sincere but well rehearsed.

"My name is Hao."

Great I thought.

4 years of cross-cultural training has taught me that the hallmarks of an American Business Man is his ability to talk about sports all day. Then comes the pitch, but not before the awkward introduction by first names, which ignites a false sense of familiarity. The young Italian draws back.

"I am here looking for recruits.", his game was nothing that I have not seen before.

"I translate, as a freelancer." I said, hiding my true M.O. of international troubadour and cyber-bard with a literary overtone.

We exchanged numbers.

Brooklyn dragged on his cigarette.

The Taiwanese business man and I had small talk concerning business, but I was aware of his predatory nature, the law of averages, the idea of approaching 50 to get one customer, the idea of approaching 55 to get one recruit . . .

Then Hao was off to meet colleagues.

The Brooklyn student giggled to himself. Then said, "See, weird."

We smiled.

He went off.

I was left alone in the dark.

I waited for the bus.

The First Time Is Always the Sweetest

Again, there is not much room for me to talk about music or film. Punk, Rock and Reggae are on the sidelines. I guess I am into Soul Ballads right now cause I got a Love Jones. We will see who will fix it.

This clip of Luther Vandross makes me remember what is so great about seeing an artist perform and speak/sing the truth. Watch Dione Warwick and observe the crowd. It is just as telling as the performance.

Endearing, to tell the truth.

But what a loss, and an irony that Luther never found the love he was looking for . . . or so they say.

I Know Holiday and Hudson, but Houston also? Gotta Find Some More.

This washed up during a crazy study session.

I listened to it while re-typing my field notes (1 set is a total mess).

God bless the man that made the bootleg copy of this concert 21 years ago!

Bone-ology

St. Catherine as her own personal Katrina Survival Icon with herself pictured as the center avatar.

Surveys as a concept are a bit junior-highish I know, but I do every one that Catherine sends me (she finds them therapeutic), and I promise, she is not junior-highish.

MOUTHOLOGY

Q. What is your salad dressing of choice?
A. Extra Virgin and Balsamic

Q. What is your favorite fast food restaurant?
A. It’s a tie between Taco Bell (goes well with pornography) and Chick-Filet (makes me feel holy and repentant).

Q. What is your favorite sit-down restaurant?
A. Some crazy Thai place I go to with Ava. Drunken Noodles with Faux Duck is a dream come true.

Q. On average, what size tip do you leave at a restaurant?
A. at least 20% or more

Q. What food could you eat every day for two weeks and not get sick off of?
A. Sweet Plantains, File Gumbo, Avocado Salad and Roasted Chicken

Q. What are your pizza toppings of choice?
A. extra cheese and pepperoni

Q. What do you like to put on your toast?
A. butter and marmalade

Q. What is your favorite type of gum?
A. Fruit Punch

TECHNOLOGY

Q. Number of contacts in your cell phone?
A. Don’t know, my shit is broken.

Q. Number of contacts in your email address book?
A. more than a hundred

Q. What is your wallpaper on your computer?
A. It is a honey bee that has landed on top of someone’s pupil. It is really beautiful though.

Q. How many televisions are in your house?
A. 4


BIOLOGY

Q. Are you right-handed or left-handed?
A. right

Q. What's your best feature?
A. I have strong legs.

Q. Have you ever had anything removed from your body?
A. A tooth that shattered into 3 pieces in the middle of the extraction, which later called for a lengthier and much more expensive incision into my gums to take out what remained. I always have a health crisis when I visit my mom, last time I found out I needed glasses; and, that since one of my legs is longer than the other, my left foot has started to turn inward.

Q. Which of your five senses do you think is keenest?
A. Rhythm

Q. When was the last time you had a cavity?
A. I got one right now that I am hoping it will not turn into a repeat of the question two spots above because insurance will kick in during September.

Q. What is the heaviest item you lifted last?
A. a giant box of women’s shoes (baby there is a story there)

Q. Have you ever been knocked unconscious?
A. No.


BULL[CRAP]OLOGY

Q. If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die?
A. Hell no!

Q. Is love for real?
A. Fortunately and Unfortunately, yes. Last night I was thinking that love can be both diabolical (not in the Fatal Attraction sense, but in the sense that you can fall in love with a mofo that is not necessarily the best person for you) and divine.

Q. If you could change your name, what would you change it to?
A. Something like Alban or Ignacio. You know?-- some exotic catholic saint name that starts with a vowel, or maybe a former Pope’s name like Urban, Pius or Innocent.

Q. What color do you think looks best on you?
A. Green and White.

Q. Have you ever swallowed a non-food item by mistake?
A. I used to swallow pennies.

Q. Have you ever saved someone's life?
A. A girl that was drowning in 10th grade gym class.

Q. Has someone ever saved yours?
A. My mother was on the phone with my grandmother when I was a toddler. I ended up crawling to the window and pushing the screen out, upon which time I was dangling from the 4th or 5th story window. A young boy passing by started to shout and my mother came and got me.


DAREOLOGY

Q. Would you walk naked for a half mile down a public street for $100,000?
A: That would be so easy.

Q. Would you kiss a member of the same sex for $100?
A. Is this offer retroactive?

Q. Would you allow one of your little fingers to be cut off for $200,000
A. I would seriously consider it.

Q. Would you never blog again for $50,000?
A. No!

Q. Would you pose naked in a magazine for $250,000?
A. Yes

Q. Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1000?
A. Is this suppose to be hard?

Q. Would you, without fear of punishment, take a human life for $1,000,000?
A. No, terrible, terrible question. Bad energy.

Q. Would you give up watching television for a year for $25,000?
A. I only watch the Sopranos and Flavor of Love Charm School as is.

DUMBOLOGY

Q: What is in your left pocket?
A: Nothing

Q: Is Napoleon Dynamite actually a good movie?
A: Haven’t seen it.

Q: Do you have hardwood or carpet in your house?
A: A little bit of both.

Q: Do you sit or stand in the shower?
A: Stand, this is America son.

Q: Could you live with roommates?
A: Yeah. I have done it all the time, but then again, with some people it is easy, with others it is impossible.

Q: How many pairs of flip flops do you own?
A: Gotta buy some.

Q: Where were you born?
A. Kansas City, KA

Q: Last time you had a run-in with the cops?
A: Can’t remember.

Q: What do you want to be when you grow up?
A: A writer and to help immigrants coming to this country.

Q: Who is number 1 on your top 8
A: Curtis

LASTOLOGY

Q: Friend you talked to?
A. Ms. E

Q: Last person you called?
A: Some fools that are raping my bank account.

Q: Person you hugged?
A: Dennis


FAVORITOLOGY

Q: Number?
A: 8

Q: Color?
A: Green

Q: Season?
A: Oscillates between Summer and Fall


CURRENTOLOGY

Q: Missing someone?
A: Hell yeah! It is diabolical.

Q: Mood?
A: Ready to kick somebody’s ass over my bank statement.

Q: Listening to?
A: Nothing, believe it or not.

Q: Watching?
A. This computer screen.

Q: Thinking about?
A: How to get to the bank to get this legal action going against another party.


RANDOMOLOGY

Q: First place you went this morning?
A: Down stairs to my computer.

Q: What can you not wait to do?
A: Move to the Bronx.

Q: What's the last movie you saw and with who?
A: Been ages. I think it was Dreamgirls in March.

Q: Do you smile often?
A: Yes.

Q: Are you a friendly person?
A: Most of the time.

Q: Now that the surveys done what are you going to do?
A: Shower, shave and prepare to go to work. My boss said it is OK for me to come in late since I have to prepare to kick somebody’s ass over unauthorized withdrawals from my account. Fucking Internet age!

Sex in Brooklyn

I am rocking this one right now.

I found it thanks to Joe's Kitchensofa.

I went to Hampton University, and fellow alumnus The Fuzz Band seems to be a compilation of all things vanglorious about Virginia Beach in the 1990's in my mind, with their neo-soul upgrade provided not by electronic remixing, but just some good down to earth guitar picking. A kind of revival of sophisti-pop, the track "Sex in Brooklyn" is a sort of American soul reduction -- a clarified amorous bouillon in the the spirit of Miles Davis. The trumpet player's phrasing is seductive, with delightful pauses that are unanticipated only by milliseconds. The result is that you are carried off with each note as if you are sipping a smooth brown and sugary spirit on the rocks.

I don't know much about the band, but their myspace page gives the impression that they are a bunch of travelling soul millennial troubadours with a repertoire that includes R&B, funk, house and brass inspired jazz dance jams. I still want to witness them in action. There is something very "my generation" about them that warrants a chance to become a true believer. Check out "Brooklyn Sex" and everything after.

Happy Notions and Potions

When I am down, I simply watch this video.
This is what I want to be doing at 80.

Baked

I have not been blogging. I have been saving up for a big blog entry dealing with heaven and hell through the prism of an early 1970's Mexican writer for my Unbeachedwhale blog site (in that way isn't writing like abstinence from masturbation, you save up for the big night?).

I won't give up anything more than that. But honestly, I don't know how J. and Prof. Zero keep blogging. I am in the middle of my first set of academic interviews in a couple of years, plus working my "survival job", and preparing for graduate courses in 3 weeks. I can't keep my head on straight unless I am focused on completing all my tasks one at a time and in a rapid succession. My motto is: "No one cares how you look at the end as long as you win the race". So, despite a cold and allergy attack (my body still has not told me which symptoms belongs to which ailment), I have been taking it one day at a time.

In between my Claritin enhanced moments, I have been wondering about the state of the world through different blogs and random moments on television.

1. I missed the Democratic debate. My attitude at this point is "Hurry, up and elect Hillary and get a war cabinet into place that can add without a calculator. Personally I would like to see Ted Kennedy and John McCain do a joint investigation and purge of all of Bush's yes men. Meanwhile, get James Baker on the phone.

Sorry, Barak Obama. I think you would make a great president at a different time. But this is not your moment. I say our foreign policy concerns out rank our domestic policy, but I believe that all American presidential campaigns are re-enactments of high school superlative selections. As one CNN voice box clamored, we want the guy who we could invite to our kitchen table, to be our commander and chief. I say we elect the most qualified.

There are some issues coming up concerning Hillary Clinton and her qualifications. Is she really a self-invention? And at the end of the day weren't both Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth I self-inventions enhanced and polished by an advancing middle class, one capitalist and the other merchantilist?

2. Been reading about New Orleans on Dambala and Profecaro's blogs. Besides being a bit depressing, their entries make me want to make a quick trip to my grandmother's house in Picayune, Mississippi and to the old New Orleans neighborhood of Treme.

3. Been contemplating the murder rate in NOLA. Not good. Plus, the pumps are also still broken. If another hurricane hits, it is going to flood again.

4. I just realized, I know nothing about what is going on in New York. I just work, and come home. Soon, things will be different. My Brazilian friend Tone is coming from Nashville, by way of the Amazon Rainforest (for real, he grew up in a city there called Belan). Maybe I will have some fun.

Lauryn Hill /Petition Board Crew

I have mixed feelings about Lauryn. I know that she is a true believer of the one faith, and that she is far beyond being a complicated and complex diva. She is also isolated due to her decision to raise her family and the industry's shunning of her, but it is all this drama that unearths a certain level of truth that I honor in her music. She is the crying African goddess who weeps over her dominion. Lauryn is also our hip-hop Joan of Arc, sanctified through her descent from the flaming bundle of timber that was her pop deification. But being the person of the proclivities that I have (wink, wink), I know that she is biblically proselytizing to me and I admit that I am a bit more than sensitive to such comments. So, I find myself arguing with her at the beginning and end of every track. Hill's song "Lose Myself" is now featured on the Lauryn Hill/Petitions Board Crew. This Myspace page has been formed to be a fresh and popular breath of democratic support for getting Lauryn's musical creations out of hock from her current record contract.

What has always hit me about her solo projects is that her music is so much like the former Terence Trent D'arby, now Sananda Maitreya in certain parts. I guess it is the scratchy voice, the choice in beats and the self-reflective lyrics that force me into that comparison. I think they see love the same way -- in a soulful and hazy vibrato that marches up and down steps with a leisurely reflection. Or, is it their treatment by the record company, their integrity or this issue of loosing ones self in order to come back?

Zydepunks -- Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler

OK, I am now totally in love with the savoy punk flavors of Zydepunks in every way imaginable. And I mean in love. I guess they just hit me in the gut, and they seem to be a real gumbo in that great gumbo tradition of just making harmony with all the bits and pieces you find scattered around your intellectual, emotional and musical life.

A soup of Irish, Cajun, Zydeco, Breton, Klezmer and Slavic music has never ever tasted so good. And Madeleine (naturally) is my favorite tune off their Myspace page so far. So I am going to explore, and I am looking forward to seeing them on August 3, 2007. That will be my last day of pre-training at my labor intensive and intellectually demanding new job. I will celebrate at their show at the Pussycat Lounge for sure.

Gotta keep looking foward.

The Black Britney Spears

OK,

It is interesting to watch girl power transform and shift in the market place. First Britney Spears did the whole Lolita thing; and, our penchant for calling her the new Madonna said more about our puritanical notions of sexual boundaries than her actual talent. So true to form, after we have treated her as a whore, she has been cast down the Mesopotamian mineshaft and covered with a ziggurat. I think the girl has gone crazy, but a sort of crazy that comes from being used. Let's face it. Madonna had Andy Warhol as a mentor and Basquiat as a lover, Britney stared in a Disney bubble gum show. You do the math.

Anyway. Christina has the pipes. Beyoncé has the whole package. Gwen has the ska background (Stefani's pop personae is really Courtney Love sans grunge ideology -- which is not an ideology at all, it is just saying you are fucked up and you don't know why or how it happened -- but this ideology produced some of the greatest music despite its shunning of capitalism -- but then we have to get into the music industry and the price of CD's won't we?). And, Rihanna is the Black Britney. I hate making those carbon copy race comparisons in the hyper-race sensitive United States; and, I know that it is problematic, like Spike Lee being the Black Woody Allen, but stay with my logic.

I am not mad at Rihanna. If Britney can make millions with that voice of hers, let Rihanna get some! She has the same twangy alto voice, but more velvety and womanly underneath. Plus, unlike Spears, she holds her sexuality at a distance; she doesn't dance like Beyoncé or Christina even. She is the Tyra to the Naomi. The camera loves her and she is spell bounding in her own slow and methodological way, with out all the spice and fire, just beauty queen realness with a pop-dip-and-spin Pop candor reserved for certain vocal moments of her own design. You know, kind of like Sade. She holds back.

So, Rihanna's Cover Girl contract must be making the B-woman feel a bit old, and J. Lopez Senora Anthony feel like the old woman in the shoe. Stefani was being played in hard rotation in the tweens and young woman’s section as I browsed through the men’s cologne section of Macy's (don't ask why I was there). Lamb is making money I believe, maybe more than Baby Phat, from what I hear. Lenny will have to confirm it. But they all will deal.

I heard Rihanna's Umbrella at the mall. Then saw the video this morning.

She has had some voice lessons.

We will see where this album goes. She is out pacing Christina Milan I think. I do like Ms. Milan, but her A&R has underestimated a couple of key elements about the American music market.

Suprisingly Rihanna looks so much like Florence Ballard in her photo opts it is a bit scary to me.

Discuss the implications amongst yourselves.


Rihanna- Umbrella

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Styx

Who knew that Chuck Panozzo, the bass player from Styx, was gay? Very interesting news for me this morning as I get ready to go to work, sipping my coffee and munching on two bits of pork bacon. It also seems to be a bit of old news. He came out in the 1990's.

I always liked getting information like this because it makes me wonder about what other people's realities are like.

Friday Night Lights, Electric Saturday Blues

The Mission

Have you ever had one of those days where you went to sleep the night before knowing that the next day would be a battle? That was me Friday night. I was thinking more like battle-lite. You know? As in, I aim for one absolute goal that must be met regardless of whatever else happens. My pewter and jade encrusted grail for last Saturday was the registration for yet another standardized test. I have to take four, two immediately (as in July) and two before the end of the year.

Friday night I went over the scenario in my mind as I tried to find the cool spot on my pillow. The instructions were clear cut. First, walk to the post office, then walk to the bank, and then come home. I researched the route to take on the World Wide Web to find the nearest bank branch to my house which was 2.98 miles away. I thought that was a piece of cake, since the post office is located at about the 2 mile mark. I turned off the television at about 3:45 am. I had some crazy dream where I was talking to dogs I believe (and the dogs were talking to me, they were giving me some warning or some cautionary tale, I can’t remember), when I had one of those transcendental experiences where something descended in my room and woke me up at about 6:30 am. I did not realize how early it was until I approached the coffee pot and saw the clock.

So, I went back to sleep for a half hour before rising again, thinking some un-verbalized response for which ever ancestor kicked me out of my bed so early. From 7:00 am on, I found all kinds of little things that I needed to do. Washing clothes, cleaning up my bedroom, re-arranging things in my office, reviewing all the requirements I need to finish before the end of May, mid-June, and mid-July. I showered. I put the clothes in the dryer. I might have had a conversation with someone on my phone, but I can’t remember. It was just 3 hours -- of all that stuff -- you overlook in life -- during the week.

At 11:00 am I walked out the house and headed toward Route 27.

It was a beautiful spring day, I put on my jeans and a wife beater and headed out to Route 27 and walked south. About 10 minutes into the walk, I could feel the sun hitting my skin which was dry and blotchy from too little sunlight and too much cold dry air. It felt fantastic. The first thing I saw was a new medical facility being built on a side road that lead to our old flat. In 1989 when we moved out here, this area was mostly farmland and it was very quiet, but in the last three or four years it has turned into a traffic jammed urban sprawl, complete with vinyl sided houses that look like a Poltergeist (the movie) community in their duplication and duplicity in covering up entire tracks of land that were part of the George Washington's endless marches up and down New Jersey. Every time I see a certain creek I see red coats and blue coats running through the stream. Every time I see a crow in the fall sky I think about the coming winter and the Native Americans that were here. Route 27 is a two-lane highway that leads from Princeton to the Raritan River, terminating in Newark. It has several incarnations, invoking St. George, Nassau and Albany along its way. Township to township, it is an intrusive road, giving birth to overdevelopment and clutter. It is not an organic meeting place; it is some sort of scarification. I am sure it was different in the past.

By the time I reached the post office it was 11:45 or so. I had started walking at about 11:12. I enjoy walking over well driven paths because you always notice something you would not have noticed in the car. You also get a greater since of how close and who far a destination is from your starting point. Time is always distorted by traffic lights and the search for parking; you can never really know the worlds one travels through unless you do it by bike or by foot.

So, when I walked into the post office the line was extremely long, and I knew that I would be there for a little while. I needed to be at the bank by 1:00 pm, so I stood in anticipation of a panic attack. The waiting crowd was nondescript, there was just a palpable impatience crowned by a large looking grizzly bear of a dude standing in front of me. His vengeful tattoos and T-shirt with a Tibetan avatar of destruction sort of caught me off guard. There was something about him that made me think any sort of communication with him will be part of remedying a great divide between two great forces. The post office is the only place where our paths will ever meet.

I just did my business and left, as the line seemed to keep growing, and the middle attendant was in a panic over a set of money orders that disenabled her register. Her boss was busy working on the computer and consoling this jovial yet panicky postal worker as I walked out the door. The attendant to the right kept saying, “You both will be here all night trying to get that straight.” The process seemed to be paper heavy, important and liable for reprimand.

I walked up the road and saw all the strip malls that had been built up since I left the area in 2000. I saw them up close. A large A&P supermarket I used to frequent is now an emporium dedicated to Near and Far Eastern cuisines. There are brake shops and car stereo system showcases in what used to be old road side houses. There are a couple of donut hot spots, Indian take-outs, Chinese restaurants and small pizzerias that seem to cater to the suburbs with efficient and minimalist dinning, but nimble and robust delivery drivers and kitchen staff who speak in their own languages and intonations, oblivious to the Americans stopping by to pick-up an order on their way from the movies, or Macy's or the adjacent nail salon.

By the time I got to my bank I deposited my money and then asked a simple question: "I would like to add the Roman numerical II to my name on my account.” the anxiety floated away. I had almost completed my goal of exercise, money and test registration. So, I walked out. I headed on the highway north for the refugee of home.


The Trial

The drama started when I got home and decided I wanted to eat lunch. I had a bowl of cinnamon flavored wheat flakes and began listening to my sister talk about something in school, followed by a comment on Lindsey Lohan. She was basically trying to reassure us that she could tell the different between Lohan the talented actress and Lohan the wreck, but in pre-teen nomenclature. That is when I felt something crawling up my back. I rubbed my had over it, and it felt like a bump then it went away. I thought it was an ant from the ant infestation we are having at the moment in our still barren basement. I felt the menacing tickle again, but same reaction. A rub and then it was gone.

Once finished with lunch, I sat down at the computer to register for the tests and started talking to Ava. I felt it crawl again. This time I was overtaken by a sense that this ant was too predatory to be just an ant. I reached my hand to the area of my back, just above the vertebrae before my tail bone, and near the little nap that becomes the crack of my ass, and picked the wretch from a patch of hair that grows in that area. Low and behold, the dark brown creature with little golden spots was a tick.

"Ava, I will call you back." I said tersely, "I have an emergency."

I placed the tick on a piece of white paper and ran up stairs to show my dad. I was sure it was a tick, but I was unsure what to do. Lime disease is a real big problem in the Northeast, and I see deer in my neighborhood all the time, especially at night.

"Dad, can you look back there and check to make sure there are no more ticks?" I said, raising my shirt, and pulling my pants down just a bit.

"Gross." declared my sister grabbing a sugarless black cherry jello cup from the freezer. “I am never typing downstairs again.”

"Did you get the head?" screamed my stepmother.

My father stared at the paper and said, "No darling, it is all in tack, it is crawling on this paper."

So my father was busy trying to kill the tick, while I waited for instructions. I know nothing about lime disease. As of killing a tick, it is difficult. I smashed it with my fist several time downstairs to see if there was any of my blood in its guts. But it survived, flattening out, faking dead, and then getting up to run. And boy, do they run fast. I also remember all those kids from Appalachia who used to know everything about the natural world. A guy named Willy tried to tear one apart with his fingers. I witnessed it, it took a while. He had found the tick on himself, and we sat in grass in awe of the dusty blond hair kid trying to tear it apart with his bare fingers.

"Now go bathe in bleach. Get in the bath tub, add a cup of bleach and sit in it for about 5 minutes. Ticks, lice and any other bugs should release themselves immediately when you are sitting in bleach."

I heard my father's words and went to work the folk cure (he didn’t want to look at my hairy ass either). While I sat in the tub I called Rat-mo to get his advice. He was busy studying for his boards.

"The tick has to be on you for 24 hours." he said, "And, since it was not attached to you, then you do not have to worry about lime disease."

Rat-mo giggled about the home remedy, sneered at Ava's remarks about the emergency room, and went right back to the books. Meanwhile, my already ashy and crusty feet and legs were intolerable now. I showered after the bath and emerged from the bathroom with my stepmother and father screaming on the porch with some bloke from the insurance company, or maybe a contractor. There were also two other guys roaming the house fixing our cable box, the wiring got wet during the Nor’easter and was effecting the On Demand function.

We just couldn’t take it any more. The missed Sopranos episodes must be watched. And man, is it getting dark now.

Way Before the Light Posts Came on During a Saturday Night

So, I sat down and watched Garden State. It is a very good movie. Now that I am back in New Jersey again, it really helped me calm down a bit. I was not sore from the walk; I was just stressed from the tick. Maybe that is what the dogs in the dream were trying to warn me about.

Anyway, Natalie Portman is beautiful. She looked the best ever in that film. I registered for the exam. Route 27 is still being over developed. There is an entire Mexican underclass that patrols our neighborhood with lawnmowers and tool belts. And, the wildlife is still being misplaced.