Things I Probably Shouldn't Say

Ok.  So N has a 10-year-old daughter, E.  We all went to the movies yesterday.  She wanted to see The Chipmunks and I jokingly said I was going to go see Sherlock Holmes instead.

E: That [the idea that I didn't want to go to the movies with her] really hurts. [She was being mildly dramatic.]
Me: Take it up with your therapist in about 15 years.

I'm glad she got the joke.  N gave me the side eye.

Dear Common, Did you seriously say, "I'm a man"?  With a straight face?


Generally, I resolve not to make New Year's resolutions.  That way, I've already broken my resolution by day one, and don't have to spend 364 days talking about how I failed yet again.  Since I'd rather watch football than go see racist-ass Avatar, I'm low on blog ideas.  I know you don't want to hear me rant about the Colts' stupidstupidstupid "rest the starters" approach to the end of the season, and how they're totally going to get their butts kicked by the Chargers if they don't get their act together.  So, I've compiled a list of things I resolve to do in the new year.  No, finish my dissertation is not one of the things I plan to do.  If anything, I am a sensible human being.

The Nannie Diaries: The Nutcracker

Every year, Nannie would take my mom and me to see the Fort Wayne Ballet perform The Nutcracker.  I could never stay awake for the entire performance.  I'm still not sure I've seen the ballet in its entirety.  (If anything, I've seen The Nutcracker [on Ice?] courtesy of HBO.)  I'd fall asleep sometime after intermission.  I'd try really hard to stay awake, but the jolt of sugar the peanut M&M's I ate during the break provided never helped me last.  (Lately, I've been popping peanut M&M's like they're perscription pills.  This may or may not be part of my mourning process.  I don't know; I haven't had a lot of time to psychofuck myself.  I'll let you know.)

Greek Goddess of Victory

Say what you want.  Does Nike suck?  Yes.  But these commercials are awesome.  And the company makes excellent basketball shoes.  Labor issues notwithstanding. :/



And Krs' rhyme is a lot less offensive than the time when he "remixed" "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised" for a Nike commercial.  That made me gag--a lot.

Making a List, Checking it Twice

Bah Humbug.  I almost totally forgot that Christmas is this Friday, have no idea when Hanukkah started, and couldn't name the principles of Kwanzaa if Maulana Karenga threatened to falsely imprison me.  Still, I've found enough holiday spirit to give gifts to folks both naughty and nice.  I think they'll be somewhat useful to the receivers.  It's the thought that counts, right?

What is Africa to Me?

This song.



What a wonderful acknowledgment of his past and his future.

If I had a time machine, I'd check out The Voodoo Tour--again and again.

The Nannie Diaries: A Negro Love Song

This is an experiment.  I don't know how long I'll do this, but a post I wrote a while ago gave me an idea: write about Nannie.  I want to say that I'll post a weekly diary, but I doubt that.  That said, I'm scared I'm starting to forget her.  So I need to write something.

Sometimes I sit and try to figure out how I got here, this excruciating arid land of the life of the mind, this place where fun comes to die.  I always tell folks that I went to graduate school for all wrong reasons: I didn't want a job, didn't know what I wanted to do, didn't think I'd make a very good lawyer.  All I knew is that I liked to read books; it's the only thing I ever did consistently.  Piano lessons?  I hated to practice.  I quit.  Basketball?  I hated playing defense.  I quit.  Trombone?  A 2nd grade experiment gone bad.  I quit.  But reading?  I always did that.  I'd finish the public library's summer reading challenge in a couple of weeks.  My Uncle Parnell had to have been fed up with escorting me to and from my local branch.  He was always really nice about it, though.  I wanted to walk by myself, but my moms wasn't having it.  Our trips wouldn't have been so frequent if they would've let me check out more than two books.  Looking back, I understand my moms trepidation about sending her first born out into the 'hood alone, but I knew my avuncular walking buddy would have preferred to have been playing ball at McMillen Park than wait for my prepubescent ass to check out The Westing Game AGAIN.

Scribbled Paper: Notes on a Scandal

I had a bit of a family emergency last week that resulted in me spending several hours in New York Presbyterian Hospital instead of checking out that tree in Rockefeller Center, seeing Shrek before it leaves Broadway next month, and visiting my favorite sneaker boutiques.  (To the folks who commented on last week's blog, my apologies.  Life happens and I didn't have much time to engage.) As a result, I kind of have no idea what's going on in the world.  I do know, however, that Victor and Nikki got back together (AGAIN!) after his heart transplant.  Thanks, Grandma Charlotte.

Family Diary: Harlem Shook

Is this what they call a free write?

Today in Post-Race History: Full Corps Press

I don't follow the comings and goings of the White House press corps, so I'm wading in uncharted water here.  (I come from a long line of water waders, so I think I'll be ok.)  Yet I did watch the clip of last week's exchange between White House Press Secretary Robert Gibbs and American Urban Radio's April Ryan three times after I saw the story posted on Yahoo!.  (It does not get near my "Video Phone" record, but who's counting?)

You Know I Love My Baby

To say I've been obsessed with this song on and off for nearly 20 years would be an understatement. I still don't think I have the vocabulary to describe what it does to me.  I'll just be going about my day and all of a sudden--no, f'real--need to hear it. 


Nana likes brandy/especially peach/She keeps it by the radio/and listens to the reverend preach...

I kind of want to write a paper about that line alone.   It speaks eloquently and perfectly about the oxymoron of a ghetto heaven.

Video Soul used to play this video.  Oh how I miss those days of nuanced blackness.

This Woman's Work: The Quest for Smurf-Berry Crunch

I think I'm starting to feel like a Baby Boomer.  On Thanksgiving Day, N and I were chatting about cereal and our favorites as kids.  Though she's one of five kids, somehow she got her own box of cereal.  I had 2 sisters, a brother, and an occasional cousin to contend with for television remote control dominance, but wasn't so lucky.  My folks were ballin' on a budget, so we got economy-sized boxes of Frosted Flakes and Crispix--it'll be a cold day before I eat one of those cereals again.  (Since the statute of limitations has already passed, remind me to tell you about the times David, Janelle, and I would sit in the car for what seemed like hours while my parents shopped in Sam's Club.  It would explain a lot about my ability to entertain myself for long periods of time with little to no aides.  But that's another blog.)