Rhythmandwords

To Dream the Afro American Dream

2011-05-18T19:15:00.019-04:00

I haven't had a lot of time to post as of late. And, I debated on this one. See, normally I try to save for when "something deep" hits me. Lol. (Shout out to Soror Maya Angelou.) I also try my best to uplift the people. (Shout out to Brother Langston Hughes.) However, I must warn you. This post is a lot more like Jet and lots less like James Baldwin. (Shout out to Leroy Jenkins from Lenox Ave.) So humor me, por favor, while I step into the bad...er... "black" side. Whoo hoo hoo. (Shout out to the Dreamgirls' soundtrack.)

This week, I have been reading news of the great nee-ga-ro non-debate between Dr. Cornel West (formerly known as smartest black man in America) and President Barack Obama (currently known as smartest black man in America). Cornel says Barack isn't black because he was raised by white people in Kansas, because he's comfortable kicking it with Jewish folk from Harvard, because he's scared of authentic "free black men" and ... oh, and also because the POTUS didn't give him any free tickets to the inauguration. Thus, the President's black card has been permanently revoked! Fuh. Real.

His story here: http://www.thenation.com/blog/160725/cornel-west-v-barack-obama.

While I used to have the utmost respect for Dr. West, (see my blog "HueMan in Harlem" circa 2006), as of late, I think Cornel has spent his precious daylight hours devolving into Chicken George with a Harvard degree, a suit he stole from 1976, and an uncombed Afro. All brought to you by Wal-Mart, McDonald's and Tyler Perry ... er Tavis Smiley's "Loud and Ignant Colored Road Show." Forgive me, but Dr. West has become exasperating. First, it was that rap album. Now, he's like a crazy man throwing his elocutionary daggers at pigeons in the park. Whatever, Clyde. We get it. You black.

Anyway, just when I thought the bounds of negritude had been exceeded for the week, I was surprised into silence. No, indeed, they had not.

Today, on the other end of No Child Left Behind, this lady, LaKeesha something or other, made news by getting herself removed from the "quiet car" of the Amtrak train after she talked for 16 straight hours on her ride from Oakland, CA. Apparently, she became belligerent when she was confronted with her behavior. So, they stopped the train just so police could apprehend her... I am the darker sister in the quiet car. I too sing America.

*Closes eyes, clicks heels, and waits for Rev. Jesse to appear by her side, like a magic unicorn*

*Whispers* Listen chile. That's the sound of the tom-tom drum. Just kidding. No, it isn't.

This moment in black America brought to you by LaKeesha is here: http://news.yahoo.com/s/yblog_thelookout/20110518/us_yblog_thelookout/loud-cell-phone-talker-removed-from-quiet-car-by-police.

I have nothing to add except that I wish I still had my parents' tapes of "Eyes on the Prize." These latest travesties of American negritude don't deter me from marchin' onward. Nay, I'm still like a tree, planted by the wawtuh. *Sigh* But, I sholl could use some strenf to help me on my way. Lol.

*Solemnly hums "Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing" to myself*

Singing My Life With the Words ...

2011-03-09T01:32:00.005-05:00

"I don't wanna write this down/

I wanna tell you how I feel right now."

-Mos Def

My first thoughts in a minute. I won't pretend they will be deep or coherent. Or shy away from being sentence fragments. This is like riding a bike again. Haven't forgotten. But, I might ride a little wobbly. Lol.

It's been a year in the experiment I call my dalliance with corporate America. And, it wasn't until tonight when I watched Dave Chappelle's Block Party for the first time (super late, I know, don't judge me), that I remembered I had a soul. Lol. Okay, I'm prone to sarcasm and hyperbole. But humor me.

This Block Party show reminds me that I miss:

Music. People. Living the life organic. The East Coast. The authenticity of the human spirit. "Strumming our pain with [our] fingers/ Singing [our] lives with [our] words." The Roots. Talib. Miss Erykah. Miss Jill. The East Coast. Reciting the fact that everyone has a story. In Brooklyn. In DC. In Philly. And, everywhere, God shapes the children of Ishmael as he does those of Isaac. He gives us a piece of himself through music. Through creativity of thought. Through clarity of mind.

For a second, I paused from the work I took home. And my soul, for the first time in a very long time, became full. Mr. Kweli rapped it best.

"This [evening]/
I woke up/
Feelin brand new and/
I jumped up/
Feelin' my highs/
And my lows/
And my soul/
And my goals/
Just to stop [frontin', pretendin']
And I've been thinkin'/
I got my reasons
Just to get ...
Just to get ...
Just to get ...

By."

. . . You will see more of me soon ;-)

-M. Elle

Requiem for a One-Gloved Wonder

2009-07-04T18:48:00.007-04:00

“So tonight, we’re gonna leave that 9-to-5 up on shelf
And just enjoy yourself.
Groove. Let the madness and the music get to you
Life ain’t so bad at all, when you’re living off the wall.”
-Michael Jackson, “Off the Wall”

I must confess. I have been enthralled with the magical Michael Jackson from the time I was old enough to say “moonwalk.”

It goes without saying that for seventies and eighties black babies Michael was our Elvis. Sure his concerts didn’t feature spaceships, like say, Parliament-Funkadelic, or fireworks like the elements, Earth, Wind and Fiyah. But that was his charm. Michael, save his sparkly socks, ever-fresh Jheri curl and glove, came sans props. He didn’t need them. He had electric legs, a killer voice and the ability to get a crowd that spanned generations on its feet. He didn’t have to have 40 rowdy dudes yelling into mikes on the stage with him, pressuring the audience to participate. People responded because he was real. Musically, he was all parts included. No assembly needed. And for me, he was magic.

Growing up in the 80s, every summer we would travel to Detroit to visit our extended family. On one trip, we gathered at my grandmother’s house. My Uncle Phil, my mom’s oldest brother, rallied everyone to the den. There was this show and we had to watch it. He had brought over his newfangled “VHS system” to hook up to the TV so we could. Now my uncle was a really low-key, unassuming type of gent who specialized in computer repair. He rarely got amped about anything, save his weakness for jazz and for Strawberry Milkshakes. This, thought my five-year-old self, must be some video.

Uncle Phil had brought with him a tape of the Motown 25 Reunion special. We sat, watched and sang along as the Temptations, the Four Tops, the Supremes and various other Motown groups reunited on stage to celebrate the musical legacy founded by Berry Gordy in Detroit. Of course we liked them enough. But what we really, really wanted to see was the Jacksons appearance on stage. Fresh off their Victory tour, at that moment, they were bigger than red Kool-aid and roller skates in the summer. So, when the brothers – Jackie, Marlon, Jermaine, Tito, Randy and Michael – emerged, my cousins and I got up and danced and sang along to the classics. And then, at some point the music slowed. The brothers exited. And Michael said to the crowd, I really liked the old stuff. But I love the new. And then a base line started like a funky heartbeat, “Boom, ba-boom-boom. Boom ba-boom-boom.” And he started to sing: “She was more like a beauty queen/ From a movie scene . . .” And from the little T.V. screen we watched I could feel the crowd pulsating like someone ran through the audience with a cattle prod. Buzzzzzz.

And then, as if that wasn't enough, it happened. During the bridge, Michael started to dance as if he had some invisible electric source attached to his ankles: He paused. Kicked out. Spun around. Pushed back. And then, he slid.

Oh. My. Goodness.

To this day, I have never seen a performer so electric, so captivating, so – alive. In some respects, Michael was superhuman. He sang. He wrote. He danced. He and Lionel Richie, along with the maestro Quincy Jones, were the driving force behind “We Are the World,” Grammy-winning the anthem of the eighties that benefited hunger programs in Africa. (Youtube the video. It’s still a classic.) In my book, anyone who can co-write a song where Stevie Wonder, Kenny Rogers and Steve Perry take turns singing solos and all of them sound fantastic is a genius. Today, we can still recite Michael’s solo hits, like we did our third grade multiplication-tables. “Rock With You”, “Billie Jean,” “Beat It,” “Human Nature,” and the quintessential “Thriller.” And he had so many others with his brothers. As the Jacksons, “Can You Feel It?” and “This Place Hotel” were tracks that rocked the house. And, as the Jackson 5, we all sang along at some point to “I Want You Back,” “A-B-C” and the perpetual tearjerker “Never Can Say Goodbye.” We can't, can we?

Tonight, on the evening of MJ’s passing, hip-hop impresario Sean “P. Diddy” Combs called into CNN’s Larry King Live and summed up what Michael meant for so many in my generation. “He made me believe in magic.” I normally think Diddy, the awesome entrepreneur, comes across more comically than poignantly, due to his antics on MTV’s “Making the Band.” But tonight, I nodded my head in somber agreement. That’s it. That’s exactly it. I thought about my own childhood in New Jersey. If Michael wasn’t magic, why else would I have begged for a red jacket and a jheri curl? And why else did all the kids I knew from my neighborhood all claim to be one person removed from Michael Jackson? (Mmm hmm. Yeah, well, girl, my momma’s cousin’s brother is Michael Jackson’s cousin.) And why did I and every girl I knew gaze at his Thriller album cover imagine marrying him one day? Those dreamy sparkly socks. That smile.

Sigh. If only.

“Could it be I stayed away too long?
Did I leave your mind when I was gone?
Well, it’s not that I’m trying to get back.
But this time let me tell you where I’m at.”
- Jackson 5 “I Wanna Be Where You Are”

After news broke of Michael’s passing, my friends and I exchanged a flurry of texts, calls and memories. One friend in Houston had gotten to see the Jacksons’ Victory tour and years later still seemed awestruck. Another friend in Brooklyn volunteered that if you played “Enjoy Yourself” at any place or time, she would gladly stop her course of business and get down like the rent depended on it. Calling home in New Jersey, I kidded my brother, who had once performed impassioned renditions of “Thriller” around the house. (He was three, so he thought the words were “It’s a go-ri-llla, go-ri-llla night”. We laughed at the memory.) In LA, my cousin purposed to watch some old Jackson 5 clips on Youtube, if they didn’t make her too sad.

As the mainstream TV news media reminded us today, to be sure MJ had some problems. We all do. So while the coverage of his passing today was at times kind (“He made Thriller,” people still said in amazement). At other times, it was not so much. (One network showed clips of previously televised interviews with boys who had spent nights at his Neverland compound.) In response to the latter, I simply shook my head at the speculation and lack of respect. The man is dead. I pondered that it’s often the gifted who give and give of themselves, only to be torn down. It made me ache for his family.

If I could “Give a Message to Michael” (to borrow from Dionne Warwick) it would be thanks from that little Jersey girl. She is now a woman who, if the DJ spins “Pretty Young Thing” at the right time, will still make an awkward “black girl who dances like she went to private school” attempt at Moonwalking. If it’s true that we never really appreciate what we have until it’s gone, perhaps the blessing in today is that we can finally, really appreciate that in Michael Jackson we had a rare, supernatural gift. It’s a gift one only sees with the likes of people like Picasso. Michaelangelo. Ray Charles. These are people who take our earthy tactile objects -- a paintbrush, a slab of marble, a piano – and then they breathe life into these objects as only they can. As Willie Wonka told us, “They are the magic makers. They are the dreamers of dreams.” Today, they are also Michael Jackson.

And, the magic maker will be missed.
-M. Elle

It's Where You Been and Where You Be...

2009-06-14T18:48:00.012-04:00

Cover Art From Mos Def's "The Ecstatic"

"Everybody act according to the season that they born in

Some in the night, some in in the morning.

Some at noon. Some in winter. Some in June...It's all cool."

- Mos Def feat. Talib Kweli, "History" (Now playing)

I was born on a September morning in a Center City, Philadelphia hospital. Just after 15 hours of labor, set off by the evening news the night before. A newly minted brown baby girl. The eldest child born to one who came from a lot. To another who came from a little. As it ended up, along the way, they met in the middle.

*hums* History, history

So, it's not hard to imagine that I am perpetually late, a former journalist, current news junkie and, well, (*considers how to reconcile my love for coonish reality tv shows and Be-Bop*) boughetto. Lol. In his guest appearance on Mos Def's "History," Brookylnite Talib Kweli raps that he lays down the law down like Leviticus. (Dope lyric, btw. Especially poignant considering that his brother was a Supreme Court clerk and is now a Columbia prof. Tight.) But I digress. Talib's musings always get me to thinking. This time I wondered what if he had decided to be a lawyer instead of a rapper? He would have robbed all of us of his witty, incisive repertoire just for the point of being like somebody else. That would have been a shame.

*hums* History, history

Now, I'm not a rapper. By any means. Not even a little bit. Lol. But daily-- and maybe Bar preparation has kicked my existentialism into overdrive so I apologize. Lol.-- I wonder if I might have been a better scribe in the past than I might be a lawyer in the future. I'm not certain whether stacks and stacks of memorization of countless minutae is for me in the same way that a great song is for me. In the same way a good book or great article is for me. In the same way a perfect verse over a great track is just, well, perfect. I hear Earth, Wind and Fire, Sarah Vaughan, Pete Rock and CL Smooth, John Coltrane, Stevie Wonder, Sergio Mendes and Brasil '66, I light up. I peruse James Baldwin or Nikki Giovanni or a good piece in the New Yorker, I'm sparkling all day. I read the law of Commercial Paper. Yeah, not so much. Lol.

I am truly thankful for these past three years. Law school has disciplined my mind and honed my analytical abilities like few other things could have. I can read a case without eyes crossed. I can write a memo. I can speak the language. And of course I'm thankful for the opportunities it has presented to earn filthy lucre and perhaps, like Willie Gary, more fame than *insert stage voice,* The Grrreat and Powerful Ozzz!! Lol. But I am more and more coming to grips with as Mos says, "where I been and where I be." Who I be.

Where I've been is everywhere. East Coast. West Coast. Midwest. I try to never forget how blessed I've been in life. In universities. Newsrooms. Covering political protests. Speaking to Grammy and Tony winners. Chillaxing on the Vineyard or in LA. Where I be now is always the harder questions for me, or I guess anyone, to answer. As OutKast says on "Synthesizer," "Life is full of evolution." As George Benson sang, "Everything must change. Nothing stays the same." I suppose the great guitarist and Big Boi and 'nem are right :-) With each change, there is loss and gain. A renting of the old garments to be able to properly don the new ones. But before we change clothes ("and go" - Jigga *smile*), It's always important to look in the mirror. Maintain our essential truths. Silence the noise and ask what God put you here for. What are my gifts? What are my goals? (And how do I line those up together and stay out the bread line? Lol) When we can answer that honestly, I think we're on the right train. One that properly acknowedges the promises in our future and the triumphs of our past. Cause "every soul got history: it's where you been and where you be."

-M. Elle

In My Rearview

2009-04-25T17:21:00.019-04:00

The Obamas are in the House! Yay!

Hey family. So much stuff has happened since I've seen you last. So grab a mason jar of lemonade, a healthy slice of cornbread and sit on the porch with me a spell . . .

This year, we elected and inaugurated our first black president. (Yay for last bastion of priviledge being felled. Somewhere Thurgood Marshall is giving Charles Hamilton Houston a dap.) I tried to watch the inauguration as someone who had seen black people for the very first time would have. Or, alternatively the way my great-grandfather, a sharecropper from Camp Hill, Alabama, might have watched.

I was honestly too floored to move when Aretha ascended the podium with her Sunday best on. What a day, what a day. And what a hat! I thought she properly reflected the solemnity of the occassion in a way that only a Detroit millinery could have. (Let's face it, before that day, black folks' inaugurations = Easter Sunday, Mother's Day, weddings or funerals). Go Re Re.

"Time to save the world. Where in the world is all the time?

So many things I still don't know.
So many times I've changed my mind." -Erykah Badu, Mama's Gun

In the months that have followed, there has been a whirlwind in the White House. Michelle O and two little black girls skipping off of Air Force One. Two years ago, who would have thunk it? I pinch myself often and realize how cool it is to live in America. It ain't perfect, but anything can happen. We thought so before, but we really know it now. The possibilities are infinite.

I know it too. I've spent my last semester in law school reflecting on the blessing of being here. Here on this earth, but specifically here in this particular place I'm fortunate to occupy. As Nina Simone once sang, "To be young, gifted and black. Oh what a lovely, precious dream. "

Sure the economy is tanking. Corporate America is questioning the very foundation upon which it was built. Many of my classmates are scrambling for employment, deferred, fired or worried that they will be. In these times, we realize that in many things, the old texts are right. Greed is ever present ("For the love of money is the root of all evil.") But hope is ever present too. ("He came not to condemn the world, but so the world through him might be saved.") From time-to-time, when we're really paying attention, we see slivers of why we're really here. (A plane lands in New York City's Hudson River in the winter's cold, sans fatalities or injuries, even for a tiny baby. *Smile* Yeah, thank goodness someone else sits at the wheel.)

Personally, that assurance has never been more real to me. In two weeks, I will walk across the stage at my law school graduation. It was something that my father first dreamed for me when I was nine and told him I wanted to be the first black woman Supreme Court justice. Lol. And so it will be a (tears up a little) moving experience to be doing it without him in the audience. I want to know what he would have said. I want to see how he would have looked at me after I shook the Dean's hand. It gets me still when I repeat his old mantra ... I remember him saying it each time as if it were the first: "The sky is the limit."

I have been through a lot since he passed three Novembers ago. Worked alot. Learned alot. Sometimes cried. Two Saturdays from now, I know he will be watching from afar. I will celebrate in spirit with those of you who have willed me through school by sending good thoughts. Or sending up big prayers. Or little prayers. Or emails, calls, smiles, or blog comments (like Mahogany why does your monkey tail only post three times a year!? Lol). Know that I am eternally grateful.

And to my Dad, all I gotta to say is watch me fly!

xoxo,
M. Elle

*sings* "That's all I have, ain't got no' mo." (Erykah B.)

PSA: Naps at the Bar

2008-07-08T17:02:00.004-04:00

Anyone who knows me knows that I love Philadelphia. The Roots. Grover Washington. Patti Labelle. Jill Scott. South Street. Water ice. Cheesesteaks. Sigh. Just, the whole deal. Being here for the summer has been grand, in general.

But there are just some things about the City of Brotherly Love (and Sisterly Affection) in which, I would rather not partake: 1) It smells when it rains. 2) It smells when it doesn't rain. 3) The homeless men are very aggressive in trying to spit game. (But most times, they just spit.)

But aside from all of that, there really is just one thing I cannot stand about Philly...

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Exhibits A-Z: Men with Thick, Nappy Beards!!!

A Huey P. Newton, H. Rap Brown-sized 'Fro growing on the bottom of your chin and cheeks is not, I repeat, NOT okay. The Honorable Elijah Muhammad does not approve!!!!!! So, let me tell about this afternoon. It was lunchtime. So, I went to Cosi to get a Greek salad. Once I got inside, I looked at the row of people standing at the Salad Bar, preparing the food. The three people appeared as if this was their first stop out of the correctional facility, as all suffered from disgrunted expressions and excessive tattoos. But this was all very minor to me compared with one man, who had to be Rick Ross' illegitimate brother. I'll call him The Boss.

So, I noticed that the Boss, who later dumped vinaigarette dressing in my bowl, had a six inch afro around his face. Aside from that hirsuite having to be extremely unpleasant in the summer, I can't imagine having to wash comb and dare I say Blue Magic grease that mess every day. Anyway, impolite as it was, I couldn't help but stare in spates in between discussing it with my co-worker friend with whom I stood in line. A quick recap:

Me: Do you think I'll have crispy naps in my tomatoes and tandori chicken? I really don't like naps in my food.
Her: [Laughing] He has a net around it.

But like Doubting Thomas, I did not believe. I tried not to stare at the beard as The Boss asked what kind of dressing I preferred. It was then that I realized -- great day in the morning -- she was right! Sure as I'm standing, The Boss had a hair net around his beard. Pop, pop, pop went my mind to quote LeVert. I looked closer to confirm, eyes blinking incredulously as if I had happened upon a pot of gold. Or a unicorn. Surely not a full-sized hair net was requried to cover this nappy monstrosity? But alas. It. was. As I struggled to remain standing whilst silently humming "Nearer My God to Thee," I hoped for inner peace. The end of the war. For the sun to always set in the west. For birds to fly back north for Spring. And for nappy afro Philly beards to just please, please go away!!

As I closed my eyes, a Public Service Announcement came to me in a dream just like I was Joseph with that Coat of Many Colors (but better shoes). The PSA read "Notice to all: Thou whilst not weareth a nappy beard unless your job includes bringing sugar plums and joy to all the children of the world on Christmas day. Amen and Amend"

And with that, I clicked my heels three times and went on Home to Glory. *Cough* I mean, of course, back to work...

One Night Only...

2008-02-16T01:22:00.019-05:00

It's the Grammy's and Mahogany's Hitting the Red Carpet

Being the law student that I am, I didn't get to watch the show this year. (Darn you jurisdiction cases.) But you know I caught up on all the highlights this week. And who needs to tune in when she can just watch You Tube and peruse the stunning (or utterly piss poor and lackluster) fashions sur la Red Carpet. So as my muse Jigga says, "Just my thoughts, right or wrong... Just what I was feeling at the time... Give the drummer some."

Solange: (or Solan-jay as I like to call her, because what use is a name if it doesn't rhyme with that of your supremely more talented, has everything you ever wanted sister?) However, unless little sister-in-chief is adept at casting magic spells, I don't understand the stars on the black clog-heeled shoes. I suppose she is the bad witch and Beyonce is Glinda the Good. If only we could grab a couple of munchkins (JD and Musiq, where are you in this shot?), we would be well on our way to Oz. Theme music: Can't You Feel a Brand New Day?, "The Wiz" soundtrack. I know I can.

Fantasia: For a girl who can't spell her own name, I would think that she would spend more time with the Letter People and less time making herself look like a poor man's Pepe Lepue (I actually think the cartoon skunk would be offended by her hair display.) Also, is it me or does Fanny's Kool-Aid smile (not as evident here) always suggest she would be a better fit on a Jerry Lewis telethon? Theme music: "It's a Small World, After All", Assorted Disney soundtracks.

Keyshia Cole: Where do I start? The bangs? The hair color? (I think blond actually works for her, so she should have stuck with that) That big freakin trucker tattoo?? Theme song: Ownlee Eue, Kwame. Cause only Keyshia would attempt this...
Ms. Keys: By all accounts, a pretty girl. Pretty on her left. And pretty on her right. One might even argue that she's so dang pretty she can't sleep at night.... (*Clutching the pearls.*) Navy works well on Alicia, but this looks like a dress she borrowed from her older, taller, more svelte sister. She's not a big girl by anyone's standards but the cut makes her look wider. Her hair looks like they put it on top of her head while she sat under the dryer, but forgot to take it out to finish it. I'm going to give her a pass because everyone has an off day. But fret not. No one remembers Ms. Ross's fashion mishaps in Mahogany, only her many triumphs. Live to shine another day, that's what I say. Theme song: Do You Know Where You're Going To?, Diana Ross, "Mahogany" soundtrack.

Ne-Yo I like him alot (he kinda reminds me of Michael J in his hey day). This is why I'm not going to talk about his old man hat. It's why I'm even okay with the shiny suit and church deacon shoes, actually. He has an old soul, goo gobs of talent and a genuine warm spirit, so the whole getup fits. *Singing* And I hate how much I luv youuuu boy. Aww, little Ne-Yo. Lol. Theme music: We are the World, Artists for Africa.

Jay-Z Shawn Carter really looks like the Chairman of the Board here. The grown man's lapel pin is a nice touch too. Theme song: Imaginary Player, Jay-Z. "I mean like I'm the pioneer to this ish, you know? I was popping Crystale when all y'all thought it was beer. Wearing that platinum when all y'all thought it was silver." Yessir.

Rihanna looks very "urban Tinkerbell". Electric blue works very well with her skintone. And I love the bracelet! (I gotta find a cheap version of that somewhere). Shoes are on point too. My pick for best dressed. Theme music: "The Glamorous Life," Sheila E. "She wears a long fur coat of mink, even in the summertime." Rock it girl!

Dee Dee Bridgewater looks like a strong gust of wind would send her airborne, but somehow I like it. Sue me. Lol. Not everyone could pull this off, but it works for her artsy, easy breezy naturale aesthetic. Kinda makes me want to hit up Tendrils in Brooklyn like back in the day when I still had natural hair and forked out $125 for twists. Before I sold out to the man and his counter-revolutionary ways. Lol. Dang you, no-lye Mizani. Theme song: "Dream on, Dreamer," Brand New Heavies. "Hate to put your two feet on the ground/So go on and step aside/ Release yourself and fly."

Well, that's all lovely gals and gents! Till next time, I remain yours truly.
-Mahogany Elle

Christmas Break Top Ten

2008-01-04T22:08:00.000-05:00

"And if you keep it young, your song is always sung."

-Randy Crawford & the Crusaders, Street Life

#1 The test of wills it takes to see if it's humanly possible to remain in ones pink pajamas the entire day. (Trust me, it is).

#2 Watching the first viable black candidate for president GET CRUNK and come away with victory in the Iowa caucus, hereby spawning the relaunch of those "Uppity Negro" t-shirts world wide. (I'm ordering two, one in pink and one in green! The audacity of hope ... loves it!! Methinketh Sam Cooke is right. A change gon' come. Oooh yes it is.)

#3 Within the span of two weeks being in three separate states in the midwest (Michigan), northeast (New Jersey) and southeast (Florida) and it somehow manages to be cold in each one. I guess Murphy's Law has a frequent flyer plan. Cause why the ham sandwich would I be wearing a wool coat in Florida!?! Dang it. Lol.

#4 Watching the late night shows with Leno, Letterman and O'Brien just to marvel at how funny the first and last ones look in those scruffy beards. This further confirms my theory that O'Brien is a leprechaun. It's why he dances like that. He just hides his pot of gold under his desk.

#5 Going to the theatre to see the Great Debaters and loving how it made me remember my passion as a high school debater. (Best speaker against Moorestown High School, Fall '97 thank ya sir. Lol) Why God made a way for me to be here in law school the first place. During Samantha Booke's speech and James Farmer Jr.'s closing before the distinguished Harvard alums I found myself pointing my right index finger toward the screen like an old Baptist deaconess. Tell da story chulrens!!! Those young men and women were amazing. "To be young, gifted and black, what a lovely precious dream!" Donny Hathaway sang. Amen and amen.
#6 Seeing my grandmother smile as my mother, cousin and I did a Soul Train line to Stevie Wonder's "As." Even better was her declaring that she was going to be our road manager and "make a lot of money off of us." Eighty-six, sweet as pie and still sassy. Gotta love her.

#7 Listening to the radio for hours. I am fully convinced that the best music station in the country is in Phi-la-del-phi-a. (Speaking of, is it criminal that I'll do practically do anything for a small chicken cheesesteak? And a Wawa soda. Good thing I'm away at school most of the year.)

#8 Reading the best biography of Muhammad Ali, King of the World and getting a great context for all of the forces and circumstances that made the man the man he was. Even better was reading it on a frigid Florida beach a day after New Years whilst getting menaced by seagulls. No lie, three of them cornered by beach chair after I momentarily laid a banana peel in the sand. I get up to throw it away and they are still like at me like, "Wassup?" Me: looks back, reads a few more pages. Looks up again. Birds: [Walking up on me, talking to each other, like "Brrrr" (Clipse)]. Me: "What do you want? I mean, if you're gully, we can get down..." [But thinking not really, cause I went to private school.]

Kay, that's only eight. But it's '08 so it's skraight. Ha that rhymed. That officially makes my rapping skills a shade better than LL Cool J's. Which isn't saying much. Oh well, they don't pay me for my mike (or math) skills. Till next time. Toodles. And Happy New Year!

- M. Dot

On the road with Obama and Lady O ...

2007-12-11T02:15:00.000-05:00

So...I'm working on exams now, but in my down time I have been following the Democratic primary with zeal. And even more zeal now that media mogul Oprah Winfrey has joined the fray, throwing her support, substantial influence and vigor behind a very worthy candidate, Harvard Law grad, former U. Chicago professor of Constitutional law, author, orator, Senator ... and hopefully a good look for President, Mr. Barack Obama. In case you missed it, Sen. Obama, and the popular talk show host, magazine publisher and businesswoman envigorated audiences in South Carolina and Iowa this past weekend. And from what I hear, Lady O plans to continue to hit the road in support of our favorite "clean and articulate" candidate.

Since the start of the race for the U.S. Presidency, I have gone back-and-forth between voting my brain or my heart. The "safe" bet by most accounts was Hillary Clinton. Mr. Obama, who is clearly qualified, brilliant, devoted and a host of other superlatives sadly is still part of an America that has not yet healed from the divisions of our birth. Still, alas, black. And so I followed the conventional wisdom. America will never elect a black president. No matter how smart he is or how presented. Or thoughtful on the issues. And besides Andrew Young, the once-youthful optimist who stood beside Dr. King, recently said so.

I thought with sadness at how very different the media and America would be if Barack were white. How they might not throw their support behind Hillary, just because the idea of electing a white woman, however cold, entitled and distant she is to the real concerns of real people, is somehow more palatable then letting one of Uncle Amos' distant descendants into the Big House at last. If only Barack was white, then I could support him. Because he would win. Hands down.

I let myself be lulled into this mode of thinking, even after having read Dreams of My Father, his candid and eloquent account of how he came to be, and watching that oh so poignant Democratic National Convention Speech back in '04, the summer I interned at Newsweek Magazine. I watched the speech twice on CNN on a little TV in the Harlem apartment with no A/C that I was subleasing. It must have been 95 degrees in that fifth-floor walkup. But all I could think about was, "The audacity of hope!" Yessir. Gives me chills still. Recently though, I had put all that summer optimism aside for the fall realism I would need to make an informed decision. (As I'm sure someone once told Harriet Tubman, "White folks aint never gon' give us nothin.' Might as well not try.") The underground railroad to the White House was alas a segregated train. It seemed so.

That was until I heard Oprah's speech this weekend in Iowa. For full disclosure, I am not even one of those tune in every day at four... "Miss Winfrey if I could jus' touch the hem of your garment I'll be made whole" type of fans. But occasionally the gazillionaire -- Lady O-- has good stuff to say. This is one of those times. She said put aside all of what the politicos, the pollsters, the Hillary-dipped mainstream media is telling you. And hope. See it for yourselves.

Here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QJJOtT32C0

And in case you think I'm not giving ole Whitewater Hill her fair shake, please read what one of her minions had to say in response to a news story that Obama had cut her lead in NH, SC and in Iowa. Hmm... racist to say Oprah is a shame to her gender for supporting a black man?

You be the judge.

The site, which reports that Obama and Hill are now tied in NH, SC & Iowa:
http://www.411mania.com/politics/columns/64871

And the comment following the story:
Go Oprah! We ALL know if anyone can’t take the attention off of obama’s no experience lack of leadership, refusing to show up and vote in the senate on Iran, Abortion measures etc... Seeking a trillion-dollar tax hike and raising the retirement age for Social Security!!!! Is not in favor of a health care plan to cover all children rich or poor and that he cannot make a decision on his own. You can….YOU have disgraced American woman, YOU ARE A DISGRACE TO THE FEMALE GENDER OPRAH! SHAME ON YOU, now as a last ditch effort you throw Dr Kings name at the black voters, now American knows where you stand on race… SHAMEFUL ACT...I SUGGEST WE ALL TUNE OUT BOTH!!! WAKE UP AMERICA! Its time we stop playing with Oprah and elect a QUALIFIED PRESIDENT!!! not just a man because he’s black and oprah says so, she may know soap and books, but why in he world would anyone jeopardize your future because a TV talk show host said so?... This weekends Oprah circus, will not help obama, its make us all realize Oprahs running the show not obama...Our great country needs a qualified leader, maybe if oprah was legally running, but obama is…. Glad the dog and pony show is over Oprah is a shame to her gender, yes the same gender that made her who she is today and she turns her back on them in a second when race is involved... I think its time WE ALL tune out the oprahbama show, and let’s elect a REAL Presidential candidate like CLINTON!
Posted By: (Guest) on December 10, 2007 at 10:02 AM

*Sidenote: CNN, Fox, NBC, where ARE you on this story?*

"No Comment"

2007-08-24T11:13:00.000-04:00

So by now you all have heard about Juanita Bynum . . .

But just in case, courtesy of the Associated Press:

ATLANTA — Juanita Bynum, a televangelist who has won a national following with sermons about women's empowerment, was badly bruised in a fight with her estranged husband as they met in an attempt to reconcile, police said. No charges were filed in connection with the confrontation between Bynum and preacher Thomas W. Weeks III, founder of Global Destiny churches, police said Thursday. The fight happened early Wednesday in the parking lot of the Renaissance Concourse Hotel near Atlanta's airport, and a hotel bellman pulled Weeks off Bynum, Officer Ronald Campbell said. "She was bruised up and battered," Campbell told the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. "She had purple bruising around her neck and upper torso."

I thought of many ways to start this post. I first thought of Bynum's quote "This too shall pass" in her media statement that she was recovering from her injuries inflicted by her "Bishop" (quotes intentional) husband Thomas Weeks III. But I didn't think that fully represented the gravity of the matter. After all, anything shall pass if we wait long enough. A spate of unfortunate circumstances. A rainstorm. Gas. Lol.

Then I kept reading the news accounts. A number of followers and ministers expressed sadness, dismay at the situtation the fiery "prophetess" found herself in. Some women expressed fear that if a powerful woman of God could be so preyed upon, what did this say for the rest of us? Some people read much into the first media accounts that the couple were both fighting. Sitting in my hairdresser's chair Thursday afternoon, she weighed in. "She looks like she has a temper. I think she can hold her own!"

Under the dryer a few minutes later, I grabbed a nearby hairbook. Ironically Bynum was on the cover, looking "black church chic." Extensive black weave. Frosted pink lipstick and prominent lip liner. Skin glowing as if literally touched by an angel. Inside she talked about her beauty regimen. Kiehls whole lineup. Olive oil for dry skin. She spoke about her wedding, which, news reports say featured her wearing a bodice hand sewn with crystals and a 7.76 carat ring. What the story didn't say was that she was the wife of an abuser. A broken woman. A sheep primed for the slaughter. I wondered if she had seen that other side of the "Bishop" at the time the story ran. Had he offered her the "right hand of fellowship" by then? Was she yet in denial?

To a former reporter Juanita Bynum's situation seemed a perfect story, perhaps fodder for a future book. "Juanita Bynum, Breaking Free of the Chains of Abuse." $17.99, $20.99 for a consecrated handkerchief too. Now at Barnes and Noble. As a Christian, it seemed yet another sad reason to fuel my doubt of the institution we call the black church. Where were the leaders of Christ who speak up when wrong is done? Why was syndicated radio host Michael Baisden the only one pressing loudly for accountability? ("Why is everyone afraid of these preachers?" he asked listeners emphatically yesterday. "They are men and women like you and me!!")

To me, perhaps sadder than the event itself was the non-statement of uber-Bishop T.D. Jakes, of the Potter's House just outside of Dallas, TX. As I'm sure you know, Jakes is the black leader Bush looked to after Hurricane Katrina. With his seasoned sermons, gazillion member church and T.V. audience, he wields more influence over the blacks than the Congressional Black Caucus, Al Sharpton and Colonel Sanders all put together. I actually went to his church once this summer and found him to be refreshingly humble and true to the Word. (However I would be lying if I didn't say that the post-church book sales lines and made the place seem like there should be a Jesus-themed Ferris Wheel outside in the parking lot.)

But when Bishop Jakes was contacted by the media about Bynum this week, his response was more telling than a thousand sermons. "No comment," the Potter's House said. Perhaps he knew more about the situation than he was letting on. Maybe Bynum had an abusive personality too? Maybe she had beat her husband in the past and this was a case of battered men's rage? Maybe he didn't approve of her union in the first place and considered this to be her just desserts? (Rumors float that Bynum and Jakes parted ways in the past over some differences). Maybe he wanted to wait until all the facts came out before coming out on one side or another? Still, I expected at least a general word for those -- Christians and non-believers alike -- who read the news stories. Something like, "We at the Potter's House are praying for Bynum and Weeks," or "We love Rev. Bynum and her family" or ... dare I say "Jesus does not condone abuse." For example Rev. Cynthia Hale, a dynamic Georgia minister said she was saddened by the incident and spoke of Bynum's faith and leadership in her community.

Instead, the Potter's House chose to speak by not speaking. And in this case, "No comment" said a million words.

The Way of the World

2007-08-09T22:27:00.000-04:00

"You will find peace of mind if you look way down in your heart and soul.

Hey, don't hesitate cause the world seems cold.

Stay young at heart. Cause you're never old. That's the way of the world..."

- Earth, Wind and Fire, "That's the Way of the World"

So, I haven't been around. If anyone is still reading (Hello-llo Hello-llo! Lol) I have to apologize. Summer has been productive but awfully stressful. I feel like sometimes I have turned off my creative brain and replaced it with a Blue book, expandable brown folders and enough highlighters to paint me green and call me Miss Christmas. I understand why people get up n' out this field as soon as the loans are paid off. I for one have already formed a multilayered plan.

Since my quest to become the wife/ chief baby mama of a certain NFL balla has not materialized, I have to use my head . . . or my juggling skills. I will either A) join the circus that has taken hold of the crimson rouge and clown pants wearer Ms. Lauryn "L Boogie" Hill lately or B) Give it all up, defect to Times Square and sleep in a tent made of old law books. I make a pretty good trashcan fire. I just have to buy some of those gloves with the fingers cut off.

But before all that happens, I gotta stick the original plan through. Sigh. So here I am Kizzying it up for YT. Or as I heard Tina Turner sing, "workin' fo' da man ery night and day." I just know one thing . . . "rain don' last fo'ever/ Sun gotta shine."

-M. Elle

** Sidenote -- After I posted, I saw that today August 10, 2007, I made 10,000 readers. Yay! Law school has taken much of my time away from writing. But y'all still stop by every so often. Thank you for still reading. I promise to be around more often. **

Staring out my Window ...

2007-05-15T18:33:00.000-04:00

"It's always dangerous when everybody's sleeping and I've been thinking, can we be alone? Can we be alone?/ When will we get the time to be just friends?" -Amy Winehouse

This is very stream of consciousness. Fair warning *smile*

I'm thanking God for time to sit and daydream. I'm looking out my window wondering how things are always greener after a big rainstorm.

I'm thanking God for good music. New melodies. (For anyone who cares, Amy Winehouse is the best thing since beef patties and coco bread, comparable to chasing the ice cream man and catching him. And she's mostly assuredly better than having to get your natural black tail in the house before the street lights came on.) I don't give honorary status out too often, but she's right up there with Teena Marie and the Average White Band =)

I'm thanking God for end of exams and for the beginning of summer job in a new city. Dallas here I come. I can't promise to want to remain out west forever. (I ride for the East Coast! Lol) But I sho' like beef BBQ. Hmm...quandary

I'm thanking God that he cares about all of my incongruous parts and sentiments (I'm a blue-state Christian with some friends who are gay and an affinity for Wu Tang, flossing like Diana Ross in Mahogany and school snobbery. Did I mention that sometimes I sit and wish I was Kim Porter (but with a degree.) Lol. See, nonsensical at bare minimum.

I'm thanking God for creative minds. Every time someone comes along with a new piece of artwork or song or dance (the "Walk it out" excepted. Sorry.) There's evidence of the vast expanse of God. As much as we think we already know or have discovered, there's still more to examine, learn or master. To create. That's amazing. Think about it.

I'm thanking God for family (blood & friends who have become blood)

I'm thanking God...

Possible Impossibilities

2007-05-03T22:02:00.000-04:00

"The glamorous ... ooh the glamorous, glamorous.

The glamorous. Ooh, the flossy, flossy."

~Fergie

Never did I think the day would come when I was shamelessly quoting Fergie. Lol. I couldn't stand it when the Black Eyed Peas took her on in all of her inbred trucker's daughter/former Methie glory to serve as the dancing poster child for a crossover Grammy. But alas, just the same, I can't sincerely knock the hustle, since the powers that work the BEP apparently operate under Jigga's creed: "I'm not a business man, I'm a business man."

Today was full of all sorts of possible impossibilities. We have a black man running for president who was just endorsed by a black woman who is essentially is the sitting president. No, not Condi Rice. Oprah! And they tell me we haven't made it. Flavor of Love 2, Charm School, Whitney, Bobby and Mike Tyson notwithstanding, on days like today, I beam with pride that there is some sliver of hope for the race.

*Clasping my arms singing* We shall overcome, one day ay ay ay ay."

I do fret for Barack though. Love that brotha. Admire his hutzpah. But I do hope some enterprising never-been-to-a-dentist yahoo doesn't make Michelle a nouveau Coretta with this race. Beyond being the wife to the first black president, it would be fabulous to see her get to interior decorate the White House. First item of business: A velvet poster of MLK in the living room and some plastic covered couches for when the relatives from Chicago come to town. As for the rest, top shelf all the way. I'm thinking clean lines, neutral colors. Maybe some prints from Kenya. The possibilities are endless.

"The glamorous... ooh the flossy, flossy"

She's just Jenny from the Block...

2007-03-13T14:43:00.000-04:00

"Don't be mad about the cash that I got
I'm just Jenny from the block.
Used to have a little now I have a lot
But I still know where I came from."
- J. Lo

The clouds have parted. The snow has melted and I am actually coming to believe that spring will actually make it here to Michigan. There is indeed a Balm in Gilead, apparently :) Bossip and YBF are keeping me sane these days as I try to live vicariously through the celebs who have way more interesting lives than I do right about now. I am wading through papers upon reading and more papers. Lawd! But now that I see the sun, I think will try to get crunk ... well as crunk as one might get in the library.

Poring the blogosphere, I envied the D listers who made their way to the Soul Train awards. Yes they were sporting reams of Yakky B weave, and with the notable exception of the fab LeToya Luckett, simply cheap or faux leopard skin dresses that looked like they might have bought them from the same city block stands that sell those velvet Martin Luther King Jr. portraits. But despite the tacky on demand, they had no Contracts to read. No Constitutional law to further confuse themselves with. If I could say that, I might go around looking like "Topsy" too. Lol.

Well I sad to report that amongst the masses was my girl, the oh so fabulous JHud.

*A moment of silence for her departed A-list status*

I scrolled down and saw that not only was she at the Soul Train awards, but she had just been given a free lifetime card to Burger King.

JHud, why oh why? When I read this I first thought, this is simply false. When you are already rolling on double Ds and are a 12+, like JHud you need not publicize your surplus fabulosity to everyone on God's green earth in the guise of free hamburgers. Take it from me! Lol.

But then I thought, I can sit on the couch and think about it or I can help all the curvy girls in the world by taking action. So in the name of Coretta Scott and Maya Angelou and Rosa Parks I have gotten on board that old school bus to equality. I am ringing my grandmother to see if we can helicopter in a quick and easy etiquette class for her. A few highlights from the syllabus....

Item #1 ... We do not gobble up our fast food (in public).
Item #2 ... We fire PR people who tell us it's appropriate to perform at the Soul Train Awards. To quote the bama-speak of Beyonce, who was conspicuously absent, "You must not know" that is the kiss of death for the A-listers Jenny. You should have known that any event featuring Marques Houston the alien and Omarion as headliners was ... well, I don't think I have to say it.
Item #3 ... We do not use poor non-agreeing subjects and verbs in our Oscar acceptance speeches. (We can cry daintily, but not like Big Momma died.)
Item #4 ... We do not constantly pose in pictures, and magazine covers with our mouths wide open. You might catch flies, or something else in there.
Item #5 ... If Hollywood wants to give us a big movie role, daggone it, we take it. Effie gotta eat!! But pass the crusted salmon, hold the cheeseburgers.

And now I must go assemble my JHud intervention team... Oh, a woman's work is never done. Lol.

St. Elsewhere

2007-01-02T01:02:00.000-05:00

Way over yonder there's a new frontier.
Would it be so hard for you to come and visit me here?
I understand...
Would you send me a message in a bottle then baby?
~Gnarls Barkley

I listen to "St. Elsewhere" and feel like they know what I'm thinking these days. It's a New Year, but there are so many things from the past year to carry forward. Blessings to be grateful for. Loss to incorporate.

I haven't written in a while not because I haven't had the material, but because the past month has left me at a loss. My father, at the age of 56, passed away after a long battle with heart disease and a host of other ailments. I got the call one early morning in late November. From my brother's voice -- a measured combination of cool and detached sorrow -- I knew something wasn't right. My father's spirit had taken flight earlier that morning.

Like many parents and their children, our relationship was nuanced. I loved and respected him. We debated at times. Argued in others. He taught me how to think. Showed me the example of working hard for what you want. Was a walking collection of quotes, each of which he would tell us as if it was the first time. "There are no shortcuts to any place worth going", "The sky is the limit", "You stand on the shoulders of your ancestors" and perhaps the most resplendent, "Daddy loves you."

He's the reason I love Stevie Wonder. Gladys Knight. The O'Jays. He's the reason that I skip church most Sundays and instead opt for Sunday Morning or Face the Nation. Or sleep. He's the reason I try to think deeply about issues. (On car rides to school he'd catch me quietly staring out the window and say, "A penny for your thoughts. What are you pondering?") He's the reason I decided to go to law school. (Once when I was about eight or so, he told me I was good at playing semantics but to save my word-bending for a judge. Lol.)

He was fashionably unfashionable. He wore the same pair of British Knights hightops from like '89 to '96, with those old school white tube socks pulled all the way up his knees. (You know those socks.) "Daddy," I would say, "can you please get some new sneakers?" He'd earnestly reply, "Nuthin's wrong with these. I have one pair of sneakers and they're going to last me six years." I would look at him and sigh in reply. He was the grand champion of trash talking while doing everything from playing me in checkers to battling my brother in H-O-R-S-E in the backyard. He taught me how to ride a bike. And parallel park. We watched NBA basketball and he proceeded to tell me everything he knew about every player. Kareem invented the Sky Hook, Wilt Chamberlain scored the most points in a game, Julius "Dr. J" Erving and Moses Malone were the best thing to ever happen to the Philadelphia 76ers. He introduced me to The Temptations ("David Ruffin with a Tuffin"), the Jackson Five, Earth Wind and Fire (my fave group to date) & Parliament Funkadelic. The music was mine because it was his.

He was a man of contradictions. Strong and fearless but yet vulnerable. Serious but charmingly funny. I really can't encapsulate all of things he meant to me. He gave me the task of writing his obit a long time ago when my sister passed. I tried to pull it off. But written words don't really do it. How do write down a life when the real meaning is in the advice given. The song sung. The hopes birthed. The prom date he once threatened. ( Sorry J.) Lol.

Perhaps for now, while the tears still flow liberally at any slight reminder of the man that was, it's best to use something I learned the first time we watched "The Godfather" -- one of his favorites -- together.

Omerta. Silence.

~M. Elle

On that day...

2006-11-22T11:55:00.000-05:00

"Sinner man where you gonna run to?
Oh sinner man where you gonna run to?
Oh sinner man, where you gonna run to-o-o on that day
I ran to the sea. The sea was bleedin'.
I ran to the sea. The sea was bleedin'.
I ran to the sea. The sea was bleedin'.
Oh on that day."
- Nina Simone

I remember the summer of 1999. My pastor was praying for us as we returned to college, and he looked at me and said "God has placed his hands upon you." I believed that. But knowing and doing sometimes are two different things.

In the story of Jonah, we would always talk about how it's not possible to run from God. God told him to do something. Brotha was scared, so he thought he would just sail on away. One whale's stomach later and he figured out that that plan wasn't going to work out. Lol. Paul wrote later that neither "height nor depth, angels nor demons, things present nor things to come shall be able to separate us from the love of God."

Sometimes I feel like I've been through so much it's hard to trust the pulling of God. He gives us strengths and gifts that we can choose not to or choose to use. But it's often hard to decipher what exactly we should be using them for. It's even harder to know what our calling is sometimes. But sometimes we do know and we don't pay attention or we're scared so we pretend we don't hear God. That's when we end up in the whale's stomach. Not preaching, just speaking from experience. I ask God for direction, but he often doesn't yell, doesn't split the clouds. He forces us to listen for his whisper.

I pray for the faith to heed :)

M Dot

Pop, Pop, Pop Goes my Mind...

2006-11-10T16:03:00.000-05:00

So I have whatever flu-like virus is going around on campus. Woke up and it felt like I was toting a bag of rocks on my head. (At first I thought it was one too many margaritas from last night (That would equal a whole "2". Lol) But my throat was also John Blazing. Argh. As someone who never gets sick, best believe I'm gonna play it up when I have the opportunity :)

Anyway, my day didn't get any better when I learned that Gerald Levert passed away... at 40! Lawd help us. I swear if they don't get black men by clubbing them over the head when they're driving in the wrong neighborhood, they get them on the streets. If not on the streets, then with heart disease (see Gerald Levert or Barry White.) Or as in Gregory Hines, August Wilson and now Ed Bradley's case... all too early with cancer. I hate to be macabre, but what is really going on?

Have to find my Levert music. I keep hearing "Pop, Pop, Pop Goes my Mind"...

Almost There...

2006-11-01T20:01:00.000-05:00

Now playing* "Almost There" - The Jackson Five

"No matter how hard, the times may seem.
Don't give up our plans, don't give up our dreams.
No broken bridges can turn us around.
Cause what we're searching for, will soon be found.

Hey good people, how ya doin'? How ya momma doin'? Yours truly, M. Dot has been MIA for good reason. I've been serving time. LOL.

Law school is no joke. And that's the God honest truth. I should be getting another line jacket by the time this year is over. It's that serious :)

So much has happened in the world since last we rapped. Flava Flave has spawned another love child... Janet's back (and still black. Lol)... the Tigers lost the World Series... Halloween has come and gone (I was in the library dressed up as student afraid of end of the semester finals)... Reese and her hubby split. I guess it's like George Benson sings, "Everything must change/ Nothing stays the same." I don't really have anything to say that's not related to Torts law or not related to writing a legal memo. Yuck... I have turned into a law student drone.

The people here are cool. The weather is cold, but that was to be expected. I love my place and the fact that I am close to my diva, newly turned 85-year-old grandmother, who still manages to outdress me on a regular basis! Love her too much. Lol. I am trying to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Pending I do alright, I will have another set of opportunities I didn't have before I got here and another set of skills that I can use to help people... or sell out for filthy lucre. Hee. Hee. But right now it's a process. I am in the thick of it.

I feel like Harriet.

Will let you know when I cross dat ole rivah. Lol

Mahogany on the View

2006-07-25T15:55:00.000-04:00

"...Back on the scene, crispy and clean"

After an extended hiatus to engage in negroesque summer activity, like taking a trip to Detroit (home of fingerwaves and clear nailpolish on dudes) for a sorority convention and indulging in the summer time fun of eating barbecue chicken, water ice and putting too much powder on, I, like Quincy Jones, am back on the block. But, I write with heavy typing fingers, my friends. There is a matter of grave concern that grieves my heart this evenin'.

It can be summed up in two words: "The View"

Now, normally I am at work when "Three white women and a negro" comes on the tube courtesy of ABC. But I catch up with clips in the office courtesy of every black girl's best friend, You Tube. Sadly, it has come to my attention that the View has now become a forum wherein said black femme can encounter a trio of hateration (and holleration) from two hags and a "Bitsy" ("Bitsy is the proper dog name for Elisabeth Hassleberry.. Hasslehoff.. Hum... her name is obviously not that important to me. Lol.) Since Starruh's departure from The View (and soon departure from marrying men who are batting for the Yankees... oops), we have seen a revolving door of black women who have chomped at the bit to share their views on the issues of the day and more importantly whether they have real hair or not. Brandi/Mo'Nique/fill black woman's name have each come on the show in the hopes of filling that famous seat in which one negroetta can wax poetic about life. In the past few weeks though each visit has been marred by Baba Wawa asking one or two... or ten culturally bias and, i don't know... c-r-a-z-y questions.

Act one:
Barbara enters the set, her lisp in tow, and sits to chat with Mo'Nique.
Barbara: So can we properly call your kids creatures?
Mo: [Trying to suppress the Baltimore by jerking her head to the side for a second to get her bearings] My children are NOT creatures.
Joy: [Making some crack about black kids and their ghetto names]
Mo: Actually my kids' names are Jonathan and David

Fade out

Act two:
Barbara is at the desk chatting with Brandy. She reaches out to touch her hair
Barb: Is that a wig?
Brandy: No, it's not a wig
Barb: But it's not your hair...

Fade out

The level of disrespect in these two instances was just astounding to me. I had to pinch myself to make sure that we were not in 1965 when this kind of thing was approved hook, line and sinker by the original gangsta, Mr. Jim Crow. My original inclination was to quote one Jay-Z... "Niggah what? Niggah who?" But I digress... the point is that the show is now horrible at very best and that Baba needs to request an upping of her meds, pronto. No one has informed me (*checking fax machine to see if I missed the memo*) that in 2006 it has now become appropriate to question a black woman about her style choices or ... gasp... reach your wrinkled fingers up into the crown of her hair to feel around. (Please see Jay-Z quote again for refrain). The moment that that becomes acceptable, you will see yours truly, Mahogany Elle marshaling the Klan parade down the town center of Jump Back, Georgia, clad in a glittery captain's hat and purple draws. I for one like the idea of living in a world where some things remain sacred. In this case, that would be black women's hair -- not an open topic for Bitsy or Baba. Lol.

In closing, I would like to posit an alternative viewing of the show for those of you who still insist on watching. This would be the episode where Babs and company call my phone and inform Mahogany that she will be making her cameo. It would happen a little like this...

Mahogany: Girls, I was able to clear my schedule to join you for the taping. Hope you're grateful
Babs: *Looking at me incredulously*
Mahogany: Well, close your mouth. Carry on. Isn't it time for the Hot Topics? Your mustache waxing--white women swear by that, right?
Babs: White women? *Looks at Joy and Bitsy*
Mahogany: Anyway, I know you have some questions for me. I saw the show with Brandy. So, shoot... at your own peril
Babs: Actually, we did want you to come on and have you talk about...you know, your people
Mahogany: Mmm hmmm
Babs: So what is this about black women and fake hair?
Mahogany: Do we ask you about your collagen injections, store-bought posteriors?
Babs: Well, no, it's just that...
Mahogany: *blank stare*
Babs: Well, *reaches hand out*
Mahogany: Yes it's real. Touch it and draw back a nub to go with that lisp.
Joy: *Cackles and tells some unintelligible joke*
Mahogany: You want a beat down too, Toucan Sam?
Joy: *Looks on in silence*
Mahogany: So, what else would like to inquire about? Remember, I'm here for you as your black people ambassador. Think of me as the Kofi Annan of TV.
Joy: Well I just want to know what is it with black women and these kids' names?
Mahogany: Like Ty'Quindia, ShaTeesha, etc. etc. Well, Bill Cosby was supposed to be having a meeting with the NAACP about it but alas he's detained in a tennis match on the Vineyard. I for one have no connection to the likes of people who name their kids weird stuff. But then again, there's Apple and Moses Paltrow and Rob Morrow's daughter, Tu (as in Tu Morrow). So you see, the spooks don't have name creativity on lock, per se...
Joy: I see...
Babs: Well this has certainly been interesting. We learned a lot about black people today.
Mahogany: Smiles tartly while fanning hair back
Babs: One final question. How is it that at 40, 60, 70 even, you really can't tell how old a black woman is. Is this some sort of voodoo magic from slavery days? Maybe it's all that chicken grease you eat? Crisco?
Mahogany: Well I will let you in on a secret. It's a special recipe that we have passed down for centuries. It's called...
Babs and Joy: *sitting the edge of their seats*
Mahogany: Black don' crack. We don't bottle it up for outsiders, but ask about it.
Mahogany: *Stands up and waves arms out in Diana Ross stance as stage smoke emanates from the desk* Toodles.

On All Fours

2006-07-04T11:59:00.000-04:00

Happy Fourth of July one and all! In honor of Independence Day, I've compiled a list of fours. Enjoy...

Four shoe lines I like: Nine West, Steve Madden, BCBG, Adidas
Four songs I hate: Jiggle It (by Young Someyoungnegro or other), anything post-Fergie by the Black Eyed Peas, Unbreakable by Alicia Keys and For You by Kenny Lattimore
Four men I'd marry (*smile*): Idris Elba, Dhani Jones, Quest Love, Barack... oops, missed my chance
Four words I'd never want to hear: You were almost hired...
Four words I'd always want to hear: I do love you
Four stores I love: Banana Republic, Lord and Taylor, Bloomie's, DSW
Four flavors to try... in Philly water ice: cherry, lemon, vanilla, tangerine
Four people I'd die to meet: Andre 3000, Nikki Giovanni, Earth Wind and Fire, Idris Elba
Four quotables: "Is every nigga with dreds for the cause? Is every nigga with golds for the fall? Naw..." (Outkast), "Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know" (Keats), "Be author of your own horoscope" (Common), "Caint worry bout what another nigga think, now that's liberation and bay-bay I want it" (Kast).
Four albums that would accompany me on a deserted island: Earth, Wind and Fire "That's the Way of the World", Stevie Wonder "Songs in the Key of Life", Anita Baker "Greatest Hits", Sergio Mendes "Greatest Hits"
Four words that describe my current ethos: live.love.write.happy

Tis all.
*smile*

The (Pseudo) Glamorous Life

2006-06-26T09:46:00.000-04:00

Now playing: "What Cha Gonna Do with my Lovin", Stephanie Mills

So last Friday, I skiddadled from work early to doll up for my chapter's anniversary celebration in PA. I pulled out a dress I had only worn once before for a New Year's Eve fete in the District. Luckily my recent amped up visits to the gym counteracted all the Au Bon Pain Asiago cheese bagels I had been getting in as of late. The dress, a deep red, fit magically. I liked to think I was au courant in current. Get it?!!! Lol...

I rolled out with a few soror friends of mine (shout out to La and her linesister, M). What awaited us was a nice spread in a locale plush with chandeliers and a spiraling staircase inside. Outside, a great gray fountain heralded our entrances. The hors d'oeuvres were grand (scallops, bruschetta... some caviar that I merely admired from afar (ahem, I've not yet arrived at that stop. Lol)

We all chatted and giggled, everyone cheery because we got a chance to dress up and be cute. And I don't know what y'all heard bout them AKAs, but we do know how to do the dang thang if I so say so myself *smile*. After mingling, it was on to the next room for dinner and music. And this, my friends, is where the affair took a turn for the worse. To illustrate, let us, beloved, pretend we are, alas in the Sunday mawnin' get-happy service. I'm the preacher.

Me: "One"' (let the church say "one"),
Me: "Man" (let the church say "man")
Me: "Band" (the church is now silent)

Yes, I said it... our gala performer was a one. man. band. (*Holding head in hands*)

I cannot illustrate the atrocity that was this man without demostrating some of the selections that he thought befit our event. Exhibit A: "What a Wonderful World" by Mr. Louis Armstrong. Mind you, this man had neither trumpet nor Ole Satchmo. What he had was a keyboard with sound effects. What he had was the unnerving tendency was to try to imitate the people whose songs he was attempting to sing. *Our keyboarder... I'll call him Mr. Bojangles... sings in a voice that suggests he gargles with marbles* "And I sayyyy to myselffff, what a wonderful wwwworld." Simply put: the worst.

Was this all you ask? Ha, ha. Silly you. Surely you jest. For the man would not let us leave until we heard his version of "I Believe in You and Me" by the Four Tops (note to all wedding type singers out there, please let Levi Stubbs and the brothas handle this one. For the love of all...), Montell Jordan's "This is How We Do it" (this one is actually too painful to recount in detail. I am not a fan of Montell Jordan. At all. But I would give him permission to kick Bojangles' tail if he saw him in the street. Really, it was that bad.) The kicker was *drumroll please* "America, the Beautiful" by the late Ray Charles. We joked that instead of mingling and chatting, we should have been standing at attention ready to salute the flag. I would have preferred to offer my 21 gun salute at Mr. Bojangles' feet if only to see how fast he could dance. Lol.

Just kidding.

Maybe.

Living my life...

2006-06-20T13:19:00.000-04:00

"Like it's golden... golden..."

So I'm waiting to hear back from my colleague about the editing job. Turns out the person who has it now isn't sure if she wants to leave completely or stay and work part-time. In the meantime, I have definitely secured my spot for law school. Struggled with the decision and with what school (paralysis by analysis strikes again! Lol), but I feel comfortable in it.

Earlier this week, I just got my first freelance piece for a mag I've always wanted to write for. So excited, as a writing M. Elle is a happy M.Elle. And aside from pining away for a car that I can't yet afford and abiding by an... eek... budget until I get paid (in peanuts) next week, life is grand -- really grand.

Isn't it really nice when you just be in the moment? When you can just sit and take time to be thankful for all the wonderful people (friends, family, sorors) and opportunities God puts in your path? I am totally in that moment now. Totally blessed. Totally thankful.

*smile*

Go?

2006-06-09T09:47:00.000-04:00

Now playing: "Go", Common

"Thought forever it would last for/ But forever moved faster."

So as always, I seem to find myself at a crossroads, one choice will propel me ever forwards towards my dream (magazine editor), another towards stability and filthy (Range Rover-type) lucre (law school). Up to this point, I had fully turned my attention towards the latter... fed up with being a fact-check monkey, working for silly editors and living the pseudo-glamorous life of calling up celeb reps to ask things like "Did Terrence Howard actually carry a man-purse to the Oscars? Is it true that Amerie can dress waaaay better than she sings? And that Cee-Lo looks like that crab from Sponge Bob Square Pants?" (Answers are yes to all three, in case you were wondering. Lol). After an email from an old colleague mentioned an editing position that might be opening, I found myself once again excited by the life of media. And... once again, back to the drawing board. Back to paralysis by analysis, as my dad would call it...

When I was little I always thought of adulthood as some forever, far away place that I would go to once I was tall enough, someplace long in the distance. It was someplace where I could do what I wanted and no one could tell me to come inside when the street lights came on, or to make me eat liver and squash, or to make sure my jacket was zipped up to my neck. I would be setting the rules, I would be determining what I wanted. I would, alas, be the boss of me. Now, as irony has it, now that I am here -- the question is, what is it that I want?

:) M. Elle

Celeb Quiz

2006-06-06T16:37:00.000-04:00

Otherwise known as lazy posting *smile*

yours truly,
~M. Elle

Which celeb are you like?

1. Which describes your perfect date?
a. Candlelight dinner for two
b. Amusement Park
c. Roller blading in the park
d. Rock Concert
e. Have dinner & see a movie
f. Dinner at home with a loved one

2. What is your favorite type of music?
a. Rock and Roll
b. Alternative
c. Soft Rock
d. Classical
e. Christian
f. Jazz (actually R&B... but it's not on here. I smell d-i-s-c-r-i-m-i-n-a-t-i-o-n! LOL)

3. What is your favorite type of movie?
a. Comedy
b. Horror
c. Musical
d. Romance
e. Documentary
f. Mystery

4. Which of the following jobs would you choose if you were
given only these choices?
a. Waiter/Waitress
b. Sports Player
c. Teacher
d. Policeman
e. Bartender
f. Business person

5. Which would you rather do if you had an hour to waste?
a. Work out
b. Make out
c. Watch TV
d. Listen to the radio
e. Sleep
f. Read

6. Of the following colors, which do you like best?
a. Yellow
b. White
c. Sky blue
d. Teal
e. Gold
f. Red

7. Which one of the following would you like to eat right now?
a. Ice cream
b. Pizza
c. Sushi
d. Pasta
e. Salad
f. Lobster Tail (Duh... Lol)

8. Which is your favorite holiday?
a. Halloween
b. Christmas
c. New Year's
d. Valentine's Day
e. Thanksgiving
f. Fourth of July

9. If you could go to any of the following places, which would it be?
a. Reno
b. Spain
c. Las Vegas
d. Hawaii
e. Hollywood
f. British Columbia

10. Of the following, who would you rather spend time with?
a. Someone who is smart
b. Someone with good looks
c. Someone who is a party animal
d. Someone who has fun all the time
e. Someone who is very emotional
f. Someone who is fun to be with

Now total up your points on each question:
1. a-4 b-2 c-5 d-1 e-3 f-6
2. a-2 b-1 c-4 d-5 e-3 f-6
3. a-2 b-1 c-3 d-4 e-5 f-6
4. a-4 b-5 c-3 d-2 e-1 f-6
5. a-5 b-4 c-2 d-1 e-3 f-6
6. a-1 b-5 c-3 d-2 e-4 f-6
7. a-3 b-2 c-1 d-4 e-5 f-6
8. a-1 b-3 c-2 d-4 e-5 f-6
9. a-4 b-5 c-1 d-4 e-3 f-6
10.a-5 b-2 c-1 d-3 e-4 f-6

NOW, take your total and find out which Movie Star you are:
(10-17 points) You are JANET JACKSON:
You are wild and crazy and you know it. You know how to have fun, but
you may take it to extremes. You know what you are doing though, and
are much in control of your own life. People don't always see things
your way, but that doesn't mean that you should do away with your
beliefs. Try to remember that your wild spirit can lead to hurting
yourself and others.

(18-26 points) You are GLADYS KNIGHT:
You are fun, friendly, and popular! You are a real crowd pleaser. You
have probably been out on the town your share of times, yet you come
home with the values that your mother taught you. Marriage and children
are very important to you, but only after you have fun. Don't let the
people you please influence you to stray.

(27-34 points) You are BEYONCE KNOWLES:
You are cute, and everyone loves you. You are a best friend that no one
takes the chance of losing. You never hurt feelings and seldom have
your own feelings hurt. Life is a breeze. You are witty, and calm most
of the time. Just keep clear of back stabbers, and you are worry-free.

(35-42 points) You are PATTI LABELLE:
You are a lover. Romance, flowers, and wine are all you need to enjoy
yourself. You are serious about all commitments and are a family
person. You call your Mom every Sunday, and never forget a Birthday.
Don't let your passion for romance get confused with the real thing.

(43-50 points) You are MAYA ANGELOU:
You are smart, a real thinker. Every situation is approached with a
plan. You are very healthy in mind and body. You don't take crap from
anyone. You have only a couple of individuals that you consider "real
friends." You teach strong family values. Keep your feet planted in
them, but don't overlook a bad situation when it does happen.

(51-60 points) You are OPRAH WINFREY:
Everyone is in awe of you. You know what you want and how to get it.
You have more friends than you know what to do with. Your word is your
bond. Everyone knows when you say something it is money in the b! ank.
You attract the opposite sex. Your intelligence overwhelms most. Your
memory is the next thing to photographic. Everyone admires you because
you are so considerate and lovable. You know how to enjoy life and
treat people right.

My Favorite Things, Take II

2006-05-26T10:01:00.000-04:00

*Note to reader: This original post has been amended. Yes, there is some truth to the idea that women can't make up their minds. So...sue me*

Now playing: "My Favorite Things", John Coltrane.

On the ride into work today, inspired by the lovely melody of Mr. Coltrane on the horn and the unflappable Mr. Tyner on the keys, I thought about some of things I love in music. *singing* "These are a few of my favorite things..."

Twenty-five songs I couldn't live without:
1. "Keep Your Head to the Sky" Earth Wind and Fire: If I had an iPod with one song on it, this would be it. Philip's heavenly falsetto, the precise guitar, and the skyward message just makes me think. Whatever the challenge, whatever the task, looking upwards from whence your help comes just motivates us to work harder, be stronger, understand our place in this infinite universe. To endure. And Mr. Bailey sings, "Master told me one day, I'd find peace in every way/ But in search for the clue, wrong things I was bound to do/ Keep my head to the sky for the clouds to tell me why/ As I grew and with strength, master kept me as I repent/ And he said keep your head to the sky."

2. "Another Star" Stevie Wonder
3. "My Favorite Things" Coltrane

4. "Kiss of Life" Sade: Maybe it's the soft opening key strokes, the velvet sax or something about how the Nigerian-English chanteuse sings "There must have been an angel by my side/ Something heavenly led me to you/ Look at the sky, it's the color of love." I grew up on mixtapes that my dad would make featuring Ms. Adu. I mimicked the woodwind in her voice, trying to lend my best childlike imitation to "Is It a Crime?". When this song came out, I realized that this was as pure as music could get. *singing* "Look the sky is full of love."

5. "The Glow of Love" Luther Vandross
6. "Stay This Way" Brand New Heavies
7. "Fantasy" (Live) Earth Wind and Fire

8. "Dream Merchant" The New Birth: I think New Birth, which I discovered in high school, is quite possibly the most underrated R&B band of all time. From the opening swells -- when the preacher-like Leslie Wilson sings "Hey, hey mista dream merchant, bring her back to me/ Make my dreams come true" -- to the rising of the drums and the "woooo woooo" of the able background singers, to the anguished rap that polishes things off ["Mista dream merchant, would you please do me a favor. If you happen to see my baby somewhere, tell her I'm waiting with open arms. Would you please make my dreams come true?"], this song spells c-l-a-s-s-i-c.

9. "Best of Your Heart" Rufus feat. Chaka Khan

10. "Ain't No Stoppin Us Now" McFadden and Whitehead: Ask anyone from Philly what the city anthem is and whether they're eight or eighty, they'll tell you it's Ain't No Stoppin Us Now. Maybe it's cause it's the personification of the Sound of Philadelphia. The driving bass and drums, the silky soul voice of the duo dressed in white seventies suits... the fact that you play this and I guarantee you one thing: you will start a massive electric slide of strangers, and people will get to partying like fan bangs and medallions are still in. *singing* "Don't chu let nothin' nothin' stand in your way/ I want y'all to listen, listen to every word I say. Ain't no ntoppin us now. We're on the move." Can I get a soul clap for the getdown good people?!

11. "You Remind Me" Patrice Rushen

12. "No One Can Love You More" Phyllis Hyman: Probably my favorite songstress. Ever. Her voice is rich, flute-like and ebbs and flows like the swelling of the ocean. Okay that was decidedly wack...LOL...but it's the only description that really fits her sound. It's like she doesn't hit one note at time, she hits a flood of them -- effortlessly, powerfully. So when she sings "Questions people ask of me for loving you/ Why should I say the reasons of my own?" you really believe her. Though we know she wasn't lucky enough to live to see that lasting love, she breathes it easily in this song. RIP Ms. Hyman.

13. "Just The Two of Us" Grover Washington Jr. feat. Bill Withers

14. "Exodus" Eddie Harris: The coolest jazz cut on earth. Period. Though it's shy of just three minutes, it exudes social poise and graciousness (those clad in apple and salmon will know what I mean), the upward mobility of the DuBois talented tenth, the cool of Joe Louis and Billie Holiday in their prime and the boogie black people from one of the those Escalade commercials *smile*. Honestly, I love it.

15. "Everlasting Love" Chaka Khan
16. "Running Away" Roy Ayers
17. "It's Your World" Common

18. "What They Do" Roots: Okay, I'm putting it out there now for all the chickens that might be reading. I'm marrying Quest Love. So... step off. Lol. I love the 'fro, yes, but what I really love about Quest and the Illadelph boys is their laid-back cool. If we had to take it back to high school, me thinketh these were not the cats who were getting wild to the gangsta stuff. They seemed to have been the folks you would have do your AP English homework... a class of people I like to call the cool nerds. (I still have my membership card, I think. Lol). From the nice drum kicks to the lovely guitar, "What They Do" is what Black Thought would call "Official hip hop consumption/ The fifth thumpin'/ Keeping your party thumping with an original something." Yeah. Nice.

19. "I Love Music" O' Jays

20. "I'm Gonna Make You Love Me" Temptations and the Supremes: Mr. Kendricks was lovely ("I'm gonna do all things for you a girl wants her man to do/ Oh baby...Every minute, every hour, I'm gonna shower you with love and affection/ Look out it's coming in your direction.") And Miss Diana held her own too. ("And I'm gonna use every trick in the book/ I'll try my best to get you hooked/ Hey babyyy"). Yeah, that line spoke for itself. Lol. The song is golden.

21. "Sunshine" Enchantment

22. "That's the Way I Feel About You" Bobby Womack: Let us pause a minute and have church in preparation for the opening lines. "You know, I'm a true believer that if you get anything out of life, you've gotta to put up with the toils and strife." Don't think I need to say anything more. Okay, one thing -- love this guy. I do. And Mr. Womack sings. "So if I'm weak for you, I don't minnnd." Man, if we had cullud men who would sing stuff like this today... Okay, I digress. Lol.

23. "Golden Lady" Stevie Wonder
24. "Be Thankful" William DeVaughn

25. "Home" The Wiz Soundtrack feat. Stephanie Mills: You cannot go to a black talent show or pageant without hearing this song, "You're Gonna Love Me" from Dreamgirls (btw, can't wait for Jennifer Hudson's take), and Whitney's "Greatest Love of All." As the subtitle to Nikki Giovanni's "Ego Trippin" goes, "There must be a reason why." Ms. Mills, in her Broadway debut, brings the house down, singing of living triumphantly in the world of Oz. "We must look inside ourselves to find/ A world full of love. Like yours, like mine. Like home." I've heard it so many times, but still gives me chills. Sing it girl!!

Another one

2006-05-23T15:22:00.000-04:00

You Are Apple Green

You are almost super-humanly upbeat. You have a very positive energy that surrounds you.
And while you are happy go lucky, you're also charmingly assertive.
You get what you want, even if you have to persuade those against you to see things your way.
Reflective and thoughtful, you know yourself well - and you know that you want out of life.

What Color Green Are You?

A quiz...cause I'm bored at work

2006-05-22T17:26:00.000-04:00

You Are 40% Open Minded

You aren't exactly open minded, but you have been known to occasionally change your mind.
You're tolerant enough to get along with others who are very different...
But you may be quietly judgmental of things or people you think are wrong.
You take your own values pretty seriously, and it would take a lot to change them.

How Open Minded Are You?

(Wo)Man's Search for Meaning

2006-05-22T10:05:00.000-04:00

Now playing: "Makeda", Les Nubians/ "Copacabana" Barry Manilow

[This is the height of randomnosity. You've been warned. *smile*] So, I haven't been to church in a month of Sundays and haven't felt a burning desire to go. Now, I'm not one of those "Is there really a God?" type of people. I know that there is God, that if there is nothing else that is real in this universe, there is God. But, sometimes I don't feel the need to get up early on Sunday, dress up, listen to a sermon just so I can say that I was doing my robot Christian duty. Take this past Sunday for instance. I woke up, but instead went back to bed and then later decided that it was appropriate to attend the Church of Good Shoes (Steve Madden). Snagged some snazzy bejeweled espadrilles. Then decided to make a Tower Records run...just for one teeny CD, I told myself. Anyone who knows me knows that this is like a crackhead saying he wants a smidgen of the stuff.... Ruben Studdard saying that he wants a spoonful of grits... Patti Labelle saying she's only gonna sing one note. Well, you get it.

I walked in, determined to find the greatest hits of Sergio Mendes and Brasil '66. (For those of you who haven't heard "Mais Que Nada", it's lovely). I had to backorder it, and since I'm an impatient breed, had to get some others to feed the fix. Settled on the duo of the soulful, earnest India.Arie and a stretch for me, the greatest hits of Shaolin's own -- Wu Tang. Lol. I left, my car radio playing "Wu Tang Clan ain't nuthin to F--- With", me half-giggling/ half-aghast (grown as I am, still haven't gotten used to hearing a rowdy bunch of brothas cuss up a storm...And yes, I looked for the edited version, but no haps. I guess there isn't a market for a family-friendly ODB). When the piano chords signaled that C.R.E.A.M. was about to start, I turned up the radio. Sure this wasn't proper Sunday sermonizing. There was no golden plate being passed around. But sometimes the cool of silence (or a RZA-induced bass) is the only thing you need for reflection. And so, it was that on the 7th day that there was Wu. Let the church of Mahogany say amen.

We As a People...

2006-05-11T13:50:00.000-04:00

Besides all those speeches about being the "architects of civilization", "originators of language and culture" and most importantly-- if you judge by BET videos, "the Beyonce booty bounce"-- I have come to realize that we as a people are indeed a treasured, rare breed. We can beat box and pop rock, give a sermon on the mount to music and pop a collar all while making bucks upon bucks in corporate America (Sir Jigga). We can resemble a Brooklyn bred cricket, but lend such artistic prowess to the genre of film that it would be hard to imagine black america without our art (Spike Lee). Or we can dazzle on the court (Allen Iverson), in the studio (Mariah Carey) or in our pursuit of political power (Barack Obama). Or, like Common, we can just be...

...Completely nuts
So, unlike the greater New York City population, I didn't curse at the screen as last week's initial installment of "House of Payne" pre-empted the long-awaited Girlfriends finale. At home in Jersey, I actually got to see Joan act a fool in all of her horrible circa '91 green dress & Muppet-eyed glory. But, I got a peak at Tyler Perry's new show the following day and shook my head in horror about our future as a people. Thought #1: Black people, as I am aware, do not habitually go around their house shouting and gesturing with their necks. Why then do we have this representation on this chitlin-circuit church play passing for a sitcom? Thought #2: Why must the mother in said shows always be 400 lbs? I'm just saying... Now big-bonededness runs in a lot of black families, but not to that extent. Why must mammy waddle down the stairs and threaten her hubby with bulging eyes and a pointing finger? But through it all, Tyler still has his fans. I guess it's like anything else, eat the meat, leave the bones... I still say the likelihood of us as a people ever being free is intrinsically dependent on the eradication of all Tyler Perry TV shows. Period. Lol.

... And sometimes wonderful
So, I attended my brother's graduation from the one and only Morehouse College this past weekend and reveled in the pride of their tradition (and an appearance by a coffee sipping Denzzzzel *smile* whose son was also graduating) and was sooo proud of us as a people. Linked arm over arm, amid a slight drizzle that came and went from the early morning hours and on (magically, for the first time ever, I saw no black folks running from the rain!), stood the largest graduating class that the school had ever had in its 139 year history. Heads reverently bowed, the brothers of the House, swayed like a gigantic fraternity as bass voices lent themselves to their time-worn school song, "Dear Old Morehouse." They sung as the words reflected the sacrifice, struggle and hopes of our forebearers. And as they put on their hoods, cloaking themselves for the first time not as men of Morehouse but official Morehouse Men, I nearly teared. For the last four years, they had had the unique honor of attending and excelling in a school environment that taught them that to be black is not to be inferior, is not to be shiftless or lazy, is not to be materialistic and selfish, but it is to be proud, to be strong, to be articulate, to be mindful of elders, to be smart, to be humble. For their experience, they were grateful. And, as a newly minted sister of a Morehouse Man, so was I.

*smile*

Sometimes I actually think we as people will overcome after all...

Of Mice and Motown

2006-05-05T16:53:00.000-04:00

Now playing: "I'm Gonna Make You Love Me" The Temptations & the Supremes

I grew up on this stuff, but have only recently appreciated the vast depth of this Motown supergroup. Because of the close similarity of The Temptations movie and my all-time fave, The Five Heartbeats, I refused to watch the former until recently. Two weeks ago, I finally watched it. My thoughts were that the story was good, and kindled my interest in songs like "Aint Too Proud to Beg", "Beauty's Only Skin Deep" and "Don't Look Back". But, of course it was vastly skewed as Otis Williams, whose only real musical claim to fame is being the original group's sole survivor was the teller (he who lives until the end gets to write the story). Watching the movie set me on a path on intrigue, to rediscover this music, these people who made up this group.

Being the daughter of a Hittsville aficionado had it's benefits growing up. In the past, I've read Motown memoirs, like Diana's "Secrets of a Sparrow" and Mary Wilson's "Dreamgirl," her "scratch your eyes out" account of being cast in Duchess Diana's shadow as she pulled no punches (and many nights on Berry Gordy's "director's couch") to ascend to stardom. But, as much as people love to hate Miss Ross, I just couldn't imagine anyone else singing that fitting mice-squeak lead to "Reflections" or "Someday We'll Be Together."

And it's the same way with the Temps. Who would they have been without David Ruffin "With a Tuffin", his effortless timing, soulful delivery and stage presence, even if the man did succumb too early (hopefully not like Whitney) to the perils of drugs and alochol? I searched for their story and found an account by David's "common law" wife. I plan to read soon, to get more on the story of this troubled man, and group, that was by all accounts, uber-talented, but ill-fated. Like many other black superstars--Phyllis Hyman, Donny Hathaway, Paul Williams--gone too soon.

For Bryce

2006-04-15T00:07:00.000-04:00

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty. That is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know. ~Keats
Got some bad news yesterday. The younger son of my mother's best friend passed away. After a basketball game two weeks ago, he had complained of chest pain. "Go to the doctor, Bryce," his mother advised. Characteristically stubborn, the sandy-haired second son delayed it. At 4 a.m., he rolled out of bed shaking, before collapsing on the floor. His girlfriend called 9-1-1. 45 minutes went by while the EMTs tried to work life into his limp body. Before 5, he had finished his time on earth at 25.
If memory begs truth, to remember Bryce is to remember a guy who I was not so fond of...okay regarded with a disdain that matched my feelings on brussels sprouts as a child. Two years younger than me, he was the kind of boy who would bait me into arguments that couldn't be won without a fight that involved him poking me or in one case I will never forget, giving me a slap across me face. As a young Mahogany, swift and sweet as I thought myself to be, I was indeed a devout fan of Old Testament law. Namely "an eye for an eye". *smile.* So seemingly justified by the Pharisees, I retaliated swiftly, pushing him and scratching a hole through his new navy sweater. At age 9, I was more prone for a spelling bee than a fist fight, but something about that boy inspired the absolute worst in me. Our mothers made us apologize to each other. I wanted him banished from my house, but agreed to say sorry as my mother's famous leather belt loomed in the distance screaming a warning. We held an unsteady truce.
It would be some years later that I saw him in a different light. Last summer, I was running the indoor track at the gym and saw a lighter-toned athletic-built guy yelling at a white middle-aged court mate whose paunch begged brewskis. "Move the f----n ball!!!" the bass voice admonished. Lol. The angry phrase stopped me mid-stride in laughter. I looked down to the court which was a level below the raised track. I know that guy. But the voice, chiseled 6-foot tall tatooed physique of the grown man seemed incongruous with my memory. Is that Bryce?
He was too far away for me to say hey, so I kept on running. It just so happened that we left the gym at the same time. "I thought that was you," I said, as I looked up and smiled. He gave me a big hug and asked how I was doing. I told him. Asked him. He talked about working long hours at a hospital to fund his college pursuits. Talked about playing basketball in a local league. Looking at him. Listening to him talk, it was like night and day from the kid I who once annoyed me so much. He was calm, peaceful almost. An alright guy after all. I headed to my car and told him I was proud of him and told him to take care of himself. Later that summer, I saw him at a family cookout at his mom's house. Same spirit. Same bear hug. He had grown up from the backyard fight sessions. We both had.

The last time I had seen Bryce before that summer day at the gym, was six years before at my own younger sister's funeral. The day was a whirl as people I barely knew made incessant small talk. "So sorry for your loss" one blabbered. "She's in heaven now." another said. The words seemed empty. They meant well, but had no idea what I was feeling. Like someone had just gutted me and took my heart as proof of purchase. Just before I got into the car to go to the burial, I saw a young guy walk over to me from my right eye's peripheral vision, arms outstretched. "Bryce!" I said, returning the hug and empathetic smile. It meant more to me than saying any of the things that bit at my ears like mosquitos.
Someday I had hoped to return the favor.

In Durham, it pours

2006-04-08T14:05:00.000-04:00

Soundtrack: "Can You Stand the Rain?" New Edition

On a perfect day, I know that I can count on you. When I first saw the lovely Gothic campus, filled with green quads, stately buildings, the trademark chapel and scores of bright, well-intentioned students, I fell in love. I knew that the school was for me. Spring in North Carolina is a feat of warmth, beauty and aesthetic spectre unmatched by anywhere I had ever seen. So on that weekend campus visit, I was sold on Duke. Hook, line, sinker. Four years later, I had a world class education backed by my own long hours in the library, my motivation to want to use it to better my community as a writer.

When that's not possible, tell me can you weather a storm? But I would be lying to say that every minute of my experience at what was then ranked the #3 university in America was awash with bliss, the brilliant Bluegrass and the late nights watching our basketball team trounce our opponents handily (well, most of the time. Lol). There were, it seemed, obligatory racial incidents every other year. Whether it was a protest over the school's sloth in hiring black faculty my freshman year or the student newspaper printing David Hororwitz' half baked list of the "Top Ten Reasons Why Reparations are a Bad Idea" my senior year. The list included inflammatory statements like "black people already have reparations: It's called welfare." It prompted study-ins, an appearance by Columbia scholar Manning Marable, media speakouts and a series of articles by the local newspaper, the News and Observer, of which I directly or indirectly participated before realizing that the university could really give a box of week-old JuJuBees about it.

Storms will come. This we know for sure... So, as you might imagine, it didn't strike me as much of a suprise that yet again, it was yet another spring and yet another racial incident. Except this time, it was a totally perfect storm. The conflation of race, gender and social privilege (or lack thereof). A struggling single mother/ stripper/ North Carolina Central student alleged rape by a trio from the school's pristine lacrosse team. They asked her, as we've all read by now, to dance for a few of them. When she and her partner arrived, 40 men gazed on. They were taunted and humiliated, and then one was allegedly raped. Supporting her contention was the fact that she fled the off-campus house without her money, her shoes and three red fingernails that she had apparently lost in the battle to free herself from the three attackers. The campus magnolias that drew me years ago to the school now seemed to be complicit in masking the scent of a crime. And now the university finds itself embroiled in a situation that surpasses the circumstances of the immediate. It's forced to confront many of the simmering racial tensions and questions of privilege that have existed without voice for so many years. Questions of why a virtually blue blood Northeast-bred lacrosse team could be slapped on the hand (or not even) for years of drunken wildness and crazy behavior while neighbors (largely black, largely poor) complained and their arrests mounted? Questions of why we live in an America where men who don't have any financial need could secure scholarships at a nationally-ranked university while another, attending a school more tailored for the working masses and residing in Section 8 housing had to strip for their enjoyment just to pay her tuition?

Can you stand the rain? So, I find myself now on the cusp of reuniting with my classmates for a campus celebration and I'm racked with indecision. With questions. How is it appropriate that we dance and celebrate, while on the other side of town a young woman is forever changed by the unthinkable behavior of students who celebrate the same school? And do I have faith anymore in a university that seemingly endorses illegal and wild behavior? ... Well, until someone gets hurt and the media cameras are glaring down upon the university. It strikes as ironic that all of this is happening in the middle of the admissions decision season. For the next few weeks in April, applicants will decide if they'd like to attend the school. I'm not sure how this situation will effect the outcome of the class of 2010. But I do know that it would serve to enlighten the powers that be if students en masse decided to enroll at other comparable schools. But if not, it would only be right that the administration takes a serious look in the mirror (and not just a temporary, "let's have a candlelight vigil and sing Kumbaya" moment for the cameras). But a real serious inventory of how it negotiates privilege.

Young black women everywhere are depending on it.

Aww...I'm going to Hell

2006-03-28T09:54:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I spent the weekend in Michigan at an admitted law students preview. Yes, it was cold as you know what. Yes the snow on Saturday caused me to imagine hibenating for three years under a mountain of torts books. But, I had a great time. Well, almost...

Once I got to campus, I met cool peeps of every hue. From one guy who worked for years as an engineer to another dude who had started up his own dot-com, these were people who had done every imaginable thing before deciding to make the move to continue their education. One such lady, Caucasian with mousy brown hair, had two masters degrees, one in math, another in some type of organization management, and this was all before thirty. But she traversed the world, and specifically this weekend -- the campus -- in a world of her own, unaware of many of the hidden signals, the quick glances, the unspoken language that comes with sight. It's because she was blind.

We happened to register at the same time and spoke a greeting. The standard "I'm still deciding on a school... don't know about this wintry midwest...unsure about buckling down for the first year...yada, yada" that pretty much everyone had exchanged. The "Where are you from? How do you like the campus so far" kind of thing. Anyway, we quickly became cool. As she couldn't see, I sort of let her seeing eye dog follow me into the main auditorium and sort of guided her around campus and where I walked around to get a feel for the place. I even helped her and the dog back to the admit quarters a few blocks from campus so she could feed the dog before the evening mixer. All of the admits were supposed to attend one event and then split up into others depending on their preference. It was my intention to attend to gathering for the folks of melanin hue (and to get a sense of the brothas...um, hello?! Lol) and so I informed the blind woman...let's call her Kay... that I would be heading out.

It was at that point that she informed me that she would call me when she was ready to be guided back to off campus quarters were all the admits were staying. "Umm come again?", I thought. So, how is it that we're make the jump from "I'm helping you in one instance" to "I'm the personal, perpetual seeing eye guide negress"? But, me, not wanting to incur the wrath of the disabled, replied "Uh... okay." But, all the while I was thinking, isn't it a little bit of an imposition? Don't I have other people I want to meet? Other events I want to attend? Disabled people are in two schools, I thought: the first includes those who don't want to be treated any differently than anyone else, who don't want you to take any special precautions for them, who'd like you to regard them like anyone else-- independent. Then there are those who are more needy, who assume the help of others, maybe sometimes to an extent that's a little presumptious.

So, I hurried out to the black folks event, hung out with a triumvirate of cool bros, my friend S and a few other brown folks till just after 1:30 a.m., and climbed into bed, not thinking one iota about having to be on guide duty. The next morning, on the way to criminal law, S and I saw Kay standing about 15 feet away with her dog and speaking to a Caucasian man who seemed like he was assisting her. "Whoosh", I thought. Glad it's him and not me. I didn't want to get roped in to that again, but I feared she would see me...oops... hear me go past. I asked my friend, S, what to do. "It's not like she can SEE you." she said. Lol. (With Kay's heightened sense of hearing, she probably heard S say that, but I didn't think about that at the moment as we hurried by to the class.)

I wanted the freedom to do my own thing, to socialize without a ball and chain, to hang amongst the folks and not worry about having to guide someone around constantly. Kay found a way to make it around with the young man who guided her (and who from what I could peep from afar was possibly macking too? Lol). I didn't need to feel bad, right? But as we walked past... the guilt set in. How dare I with full sight, in good form shy away from helping someone else? How could I in good conscience sneak by a blind woman quietly holding my breath so she wouldn't hear my voice. Lol. Yep, I'm rolling to Hades... I'm gonna be first in line with a white hat on for "captain". Me and Beezlebub are gonna be playing golf over the Lake of Fire. Yikes. Aww dang... I'm going to Hell y'all.

I am...

2006-03-17T13:43:00.000-05:00

I am: a writer
I have been: broke
I will be: successful (making progress, but so much more to do. Lol)
I see: my computer screen
I'm listening to: "Nights Over Egypt," The Jones Girls
I'm drinking: Blackberry SoBe Life Water (a.k.a. bootleg Vitamin Water)
I had: oatmeal and peaches for breakfast
I'm working on: a story that never ever ends. (Like that song from "Lamp Chop's Play Along")
I'm thinking about: how to quietly tunnel out of here from under my desk. *whispering* "Ole Man Rivah, He just keep sailin' alllllong"
I'm planning to over the weekend: get my "hurr did" at the Dominican shop, attend a sorority tea
I need: an elliptical machine in my house (won't give me an excuse not to hit the gym.)
I don't need: stress or high blood pressure (luckily don't have either... right now)
I like: anything old school (music, fashion, T.V. "Can I get a shout out for "Good TImes"?)
I'm good at: coming up with logical solutions to problems
I'm bad at: being on time
I'm cheering for: The Blue Devils to take the tourney
I secretly like: the argyle print on the Tarheel's uniforms.
I'm: gone!!

Sure he may lack melanin...

2006-03-13T17:13:00.000-05:00

But the boy is niiice.

Duke rides Redick to ACC tournament title
BY KEN TYSIAC
Charlotte Observer

GREENSBORO, N.C. - In a brilliantly played ACC tournament final Sunday, J.J. Redick dribbled to his right off a high screen and into open space.

Before Boston College's Craig Smith could get a hand in his face, Redick rose for a 3-pointer that put Duke ahead for good with 77 seconds remaining in a 78-76 victory at the Greensboro Coliseum.

"You can't have Redick shooting the shots he did," lamented Boston College forward Jared Dudley. "You've got to get the ball out of his hands."

That didn't happen. Redick scored 26 points and claimed his second straight ACC tournament most valuable player award as Duke won its seventh title in the past eight seasons.

Redick, the senior guard who already had won back-to-back ACC regular-season MVP awards, received an emotional pep talk from Duke assistant coach Chris Collins after being removed from the game with 17 minutes, 11 seconds left in the first half.

Collins told Redick he wasn't talking to his teammates on the floor and didn't have a good look on his face.

"He's like my brother, so we can be honest with each other at any moment," Redick said. "He fired me up. He got me going."

Redick came off the bench to make three 3-pointers in 1:25 and gave top-seeded Duke a 57-47 lead with 11:49 remaining. No.3-seed Boston College, which already had come back from a 10-point first-half deficit to lead by four, rallied again behind senior guard Louis Hinnant.

Hinnant scored 19 of his 20 points in the second half, making four 3-pointers and a breathtaking, driving dunk. The Eagles led 65-61 after a Sean Williams alley-oop dunk, but Redick tied it with a 3-pointer with 1:53 to play and made the go-ahead shot 36 seconds later.

Smith and Hinnant missed shots in the lane in the final minute, and Hinnant's 60-foot desperation hit the backboard to the right of the rim at the buzzer. Redick made five of his seven 3-pointers in the second half and led Duke (30-3) with four assists.

"I've told him a lot, `If you miss and we lose, then we'll walk, arm in arm, off the court together. But don't pass up things,'" said Duke coach Mike Krzyzewski.

After Hinnant's last shot missed, Duke senior guard Sean Dockery picked Boston College guard Tyrese Rice off the floor, consoling him and Smith. Dockery told Rice, a freshman, that he is a great player with a great future.

"They just played well," Dockery said. "I don't think they should be on the floor. They should be happy and keeping their heads up."

Dudley said the Eagles (26-7) came to the ACC tournament to win it, and they were crushed after their second two-point loss to Duke this season. Seconds after the game ended, Boston College athletics director Gene DeFilippo mumbled a hollow "thanks" to Duke fans who congratulated him on how his team played.

While Smith sat in a chair outside the locker room, somebody told him Boston College might meet Duke again in the NCAA tournament.

"You never know," Smith said.

Weekend

2006-03-12T22:16:00.000-05:00

Now playing: Stay the Night, Mariah Carey

-I'm on the super late bus, but this song is off the chain. Genuine Grade A, vintage Mariah. Having heard just half of "The Emancipation of Mimi" before the Grammy Awards, I thought that the silicone diva with the God-given pipes had gotten robbed when she didn't get album of the year. But, now that I hear this one, it's more of a "We didn't land on Plymouth Rock, Plymouth Rock landed on us" kinda moment. Where is the good reverend Jesse Jackson when you need someone to boycott the recording industry powers that be? Geez...

-In other news, I had a fantabulous weekend avec friends in B-More. J. threw a late Mardi Gras party that should go down in the Negro Social Registry for years to come. Lol. Can we say the Black Martha Stewart? He cooked miniature po'boys, two kinds of authentic bread pudding, jambalaya, corn muffins with jalapenos and the piece the resistance... the best pralines I have ever had! As someone who has only mastered how to microwave Lean Cuisine and add 1% milk to cereal, I truly respect the hustle. Hats off :)

-So admittedly, I haven't been following the NCAA basketball season as closely as I should be, but this is a PSA for all the ahem... haters out there. I see the Blue Devils are ranked uhm...#1 for the Tourney once mo' gin. I started to talk junk, but seing as how any team, no matter how impeccable the legacy is a potential choke artist as the Ides of March approach, I will hold my tongue... for now. But sleep on this: Grant Hill, Elton Brand, Shane Battier, Jay Williams...and lil' J.J. Nuff said. G'night blokes.

If I Ruled the... Oscars

2006-03-06T22:58:00.000-05:00

And then we'll walk right into the sun, hand in hand...
We'll walk right into the sun, we won't land.

"You know it's hawwwwwwwd out heah fo' a pimp" would not be the first dose of hip hop the staid Academy of Motion Pictures audience would have seen on the grand stage. Martin and Malcolm would not have yet another reason to roll over again in terra firma as I shielded my eyes from the TV screen :-)

I could have my own version of J. Lo's Oscar dress. Great style that girl has. If only I had her budget (but not Senor Skeletaur for a hubby)

The oh so graceful but ever so pale Nicole Kidman would have to wear a darker colored dress and a flashlight around her neck, so we could see her. Four words: Casper the Friendly Ghost.

Every man could dress as well as the oh so pimptastic Terrence Howard. He even pulled off a borderline "Brokeback" brooch and croc man purse. Think Marvin Gaye said it best: "Mercy, mercy me!"

There would be no affirmative action for average-to-ugly white women (ie Hilary Swank, Sarah Jessica "Toucan Sam" Parker, Felicity Huff "cause I look like a" man and the alien... I mean Olsen... twins). Instead, plain white girls would be called uh... plain white girls.

Every Oscar host would have smart zingers like Jon Stewart who quipped about a year of movie remakes. "Walk the Line--it was Ray with white people." Classic. It's what I've been saying all along! Lol.

Instead of giving loads of free jewels to celebs, they would give free meals to the needy... Or, at least free jewels to me.

I could go home instead of still being here at work on a Monday at 10:42 Eastern Standard Time cranking out files. And I would stop getting blank stares from higher ups when I explain that it's past 1865, so I no longer work extra hours for free. (Do I look like Phyllis Wheatley? Scram! Lol)

If I Ruled the World...

2006-02-27T18:38:00.000-05:00

Now playing: Nas feat. Lauryn Hill, “If I Ruled the World”

If I Ruled the World…

Work days would start at noon and end at 4, in time for Oprah and to catch the subway before the evening rush.

"A Different World" would STILL BE ON. (As I see it, Whitley and Dwayne would have kids that would be like cousins to Ron’s. Shaza would come back to be with Freddie and Kim would be living in a bangin’ crib and practicing medicine on the Vineyard! Albeit, while rolling in a … you guessed it, burgundy Range Rover.)

Every Tuesday would be the first day of spring.

The stankety stank “lady” I sit next to at work would have to undergo mandatory employee “ghettosity adjustment training.” She would also have to come in with a real hairdo and not be allowed to sport a raccoon slung from a hair elastic. (I too am for the ethical treatment of animals. Lol.)

I would marry a man with Idris Elba’s looks, Dave Chappelle’s sense of humor, Will Downing’s voice and Sen. Barack Obama’s intellect.

I would go to the gym everyday and twice on Sundays.

Winter would not exist. At all. In any form.

At no point in time would close talkers be allowed to come within five feet of me for a conversation. For the ones with repugnant breath, an alarm attached to my earrings would go off if they crossed said limit. (At that point a midget would emerge from my desk drawer to handcuff them and take them off to Sing Sing.)

There would be a direct monorail from my house to Bloomingdale’s.

Every restaurant would make lovely crème brulee!

They would give awards for good Scattergories players. (I swear I would win. Try me suckahs! Lol.)

They would actually have pots of gold at the end of rainbows. And unicorns. I mean, you don’t know how disappointed I was to learn that they didn’t exist in kindergarten. It was like, “What? What do you mean?!” Lol.

Instead of setting us back 10,000 years as a people, the likes of Trina and the Ying Yang twins would band together and use their ill-gotten lucre to actually try to help educate some of their non-English speaking brethren. Actually, if the twins would just enroll in an “English as a Second Language” class, that would be a good start. I’d be happy.

We Be Clubbin'

2006-02-19T18:19:00.000-05:00

Now playing: "Da Art of Storytellin", OutKast/ "Da Butt", E.U.

So Friday, as the workday ended and I prepared for the second leg of my twice daily hour and 20 minute commute from midtown (sometimes I feel Harriet Tubman had nothing on me!), I had a little conversation with myself. It went a little something like this...

Mahogany: So what shall I do for fun tonight? Self, now remember think long and hard. Come up with a REALLY good idea okay?
Self: How about I go to bed early, like 8 pm?
Mahogany: Word is bond. Sounds fun to me...

*cue the breakdancing crickets here*

So as the evening chill becomes more and more unbearable for "tropical me" this conversation seems to be occurring more often. Seems like I'm on the express train to becoming an old woman quick, fast and in a hurry. Argh...

Luckily, my friends, knowing my general ethos on wintertime socializing, habitually stage interventions. (Shout out to Sawruh La who came through this time around!). Last night, La allowed no excuses from me and made sure I was one among the Jersey crew heading out to a winter white Philly shindig thrown by the oh-so-gorgeous brothas of Kappa Alpha Psi. Yes, I was asleep in the car on the way there, but that's not the point. Lol. I can't remember the last time I cut such a rug and had a fab time! (Oh yeah, it was a wedding... ahem, in May). Anyways, I did totally step out in "grown and sexy" fashion, bronze wedge heels and all. (*Pause* LOL!! Okay, Totally kidding about that last pronouncement, because I soooo hate that term. What is the world coming to when Carefree Curl Babyface can pronounce himself "grown and sexy"? It's sort of like calling yourself "classy"... if you have to say it, you probably aren't. Further illustrative reading/listening: Trina's "Glamorest Life")

Anyways, I truly felt the Good Lord look kindly upon us as we all boogie oogie oogied, not allowing any of us falling through a hole in the wood planked dance floor of an otherwise trendy nightspot. From the Black Sheep to Vanity to Slick Rick, we.got.down.

While I can't say that I'll be out and about every weekend before spring, it's nice to make the scene every now and again. And nice to know you have friends who will drag you out if you don't...

Back to knitting, oatmeal and "60 Minutes" :)

Green is the color

2006-02-08T16:12:00.000-05:00

I know, I go from preachy to silly... so sue me, I didn't have enough sleep last night :)

Your Heart Is Green

Love completes you, but that doesn't mean you seek it out.
When love comes your way, you integrate it peacefully into the rest of you life.

Your flirting style: Laid back

Your lucky first date: Walking around aimlessly and talking

Your dream lover: Is both enthusiastic and calm

What you bring to relationships: Balance

What Color Heart Do You Have?

No Longer Pure

2006-02-03T17:13:00.000-05:00

I finally did it.

Admittedly, I felt dirty. Walking out of the store, I felt like I left a piece of my inside. A piece of me that began with Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam, a piece that got mixed up on the mike with Q-Tip and my Midnight Marauders cassette tape. A piece of me that danced with Kid and Play and Heavy D clad in pink and purple leg warmers and a sky blue headband, pony tail to the side. Lol

I...
bought...
an...
iPod...

A while back I posted about the inherent evil of these little plastic devices.
See "Bucking the Force."And while, I'm much too stubborn (read: "hard-headed") to recant anything at all that I wrote (oddly enough, I still agree to some extent with our music's place as status symbol rather than communal property), I must admit that this little credit card-sized music device is the best thing since red Koolaid, Garbage Pail Kids cards and white boots on Rick James! Bought at a "huster's price" of $199? Sadly, yesssss. Looks about as sturdy as a future Flavor Flav marriage? Yessss. But, as Whitney loves the pipe, like Tina loved Ike, so am I wedded to this thing.

Every day, without fail, it takes me from George Benson's "The World is a Ghetto" to Talib Kweli's "The Blast" to Diana Ross' "Touch Me in the Morning". Express train, no local stops. On the way home from work, there are "Disco Nights" courtesy of GQ and "Never Can Say Goodbye", brought by my local sponsor, the Hot Buttered Soulman Mista Isaac Hayes.

About two weeks ago, after my CD player skipped for the umpteenth time while playing Curtis Mayfield's "Move on Up" and getting my jog on, I resolved to upgrade. After looking at several PC magazines that reviewed mp3 players, I decided that Apple seemed to have the best reivews. So, I drove to a New Jersey land of the pristine melaninless shops (give you a hint: no one around had an "eesha" component to their names) and entered the store aiming to buy an iPod shuffle. As John Steinbeck wrote, "The best laid plans of mice and men..."

After much thought, I punked out and decided I could not be a third-class iPod citizen, as my fellow subway riders would openly scoff at my inferior device. I made my concerns known to the very kind salesman who said, "There's no shame in the Shuffle." I said, "But alas, I work in New York City." He laughed, nodded and said, "We'll they're just a bunch of iPod snobs up there anyway." I stood, gazing at the mulititude of black and white shiny new Nanos and wondered if they really were equal to their littler siblings, who stuffed in a store corner sans their own display, were segregated, seemingly as "3/5ths of an MP3".

I debated and delayed it. And then, deeming it appropriate in regard to my ongoing quest to sell out for the filthy lucre, I decided to *cough* join "the force". I make no apologies. Lol. (You will not get me to admit I am on the right path, as I still believe Apple is engaged in some sort of secret mass mind control tactics.) But, when I play old Michael-Lisa Lisa-Stevie-and Earth Wind and Fire, it seems that you could tell me nothing.

And so, on I rock.

Black Folks Don't Read

2006-01-21T15:29:00.000-05:00

Or so says Sir Aaron McGruder, in all of his Boondocksian wisdom. Anyways, that remains to be seen. (As I can't count the number of brown folks on the "A" train I've seen reading "Flyy Girl" or any number of the flashy oversexualized melanin-endowed dime store novels that abound. But as usual I digress...) Anyways, you must read this hilarious entry by one of all-time fave scribes, Mr. Paul Beatty. (If you get the inclination, his book, "White Boy Shuffle" is worth its weight in gold.) Beatty proves you don't have to be a solemn psalmist to get through our central Negro truths nor a coonish Chicken George. He seems to, instead, take a page from Willie the Shake, who depicted a conversation between a father (Polonius) and a son (Laertes). "This above all," the dad said, "to thine own self be true and it will follow as the night does the day, thou canst not then be false to any man." Whether it's Stratford-upon-Avon or the East Village, some things remain.

From the New York Times, January 22, 2006.
Essay, Black Humor, By PAUL BEATTY

My introduction to black - excuse me, Black - literature happened during the summer between eighth and ninth grades when the Los Angeles Unified School District, out of the graciousness of its repressive little heart, sent me a copy of Maya Angelou's "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings." It was the first book I'd ever opened written by an African-American author. Notice I said "opened" and not "read." I made it through a few pages before I began to get suspicious. Why would a school district that didn't bother to supply me with a working pair of left-handed scissors, a decipherable pre-algebra text or a slice of pepperoni pizza with more than two pepperonis on it send me a new book? Why care about my welfare now?

I read another paragraph, growing more oppressed with each maudlin passage. My lips thickened. My burr-headed Afro took on the texture of a dried-out firethorn bush. My love for the sciences, the Los Angeles Kings and scuba diving disappeared. My dog, Butch, growled at me. I suppressed my craving for a Taco Bell Bellbeefer (remember those?) because I feared the restaurant wouldn't serve me. My eyes started to water and the words to "Roll, Jordan, Roll," a Negro spiritual I'd never heard before, rumbled out of my mouth in a sonorous baritone. I didn't know I could sing. I tossed the book into the kitchen trash. I already knew why the caged bird sang - my family was impoverished every other week while waiting for my mother's paydays - but after three pages of that book, I knew why they put a mirror in the parakeet's cage: so he could wallow in his own misery.

After this traumatic experience, I retreated to my room to self-medicate with James Clavell, John Irving, Joseph Wambaugh, the Green Lantern and Archie and Jughead. It would be 10 years before I would touch another book written by an African-American. As my wiser sister Anna says, "Never trust folks like Maya Angelou and James Earl Jones who grow up in Walla Walla, Miss., and Boogaloo, Ark., and speak with British accents."

It's always struck me as odd that there hasn't been a colored Calvin Trillin, Bennett Cerf or Mark Twain. Hell, I'd settle for a cornball Dave Barry who'd write, for the rap magazines, columns with titles like "Boogers: The Ghetto Sushi." The defining characteristic of the African-American writer is sobriety - unless it's the black literature you buy from the book peddler standing on the corner next to the black-velvet-painting dealer, next to the burrito truck: then the prevailing theme is the ménage à trois.

After throwing away Angelou's book, I was apparently on some urban watch list. I'd been discovered by a consortium of concerned teachers who, determined to "get through" to me, introduced me to the expansive world of African-American literature, which in those days consisted of four books: Angelou's autobiography, Richard Wright's "Black Boy," Alice Childress's "A Hero Ain't Nothin' but a Sandwich" and James Baldwin's "Go Tell It on the Mountain." That was pretty much the entire black canon, though every SAT prep book that ever put me to sleep confirmed the existence of at least one poem written by an African-American. ("In the line, 'What happens to a dream deferred?' the poet dreams of: (a) equal rights (b) showing up at school naked (c) a white Christmas (d) a fancy car, diamond in the back, sunroof top, so he can dig the scene with a gangster lean (e) all of the above.")

My journey to black literary insobriety isn't so different from how I came to appreciate free jazz after growing up in a house that contained two records, the soundtrack to "Enter the Dragon" and "Rufus Featuring Chaka Khan." It turns out that I enjoy never fully understanding what's in front of me, and I masochistically relish being offended while thinking about why I feel offended and if I should feel offended. I also live in Manhattan's East Village.

I found the work of the novelist Darius James while passing through Cathy's bookstore on Avenue B and at the Living Theater on Third Street, hearing him deliver voodoo shibboleths as unruly as his stringy dreadlocks. No one laughed harder at his jokes than he did.

"Lil' Black Zambo was a little nigger boy," he wrote in his 1992 novel, "Negrophobia." "Or pickaninny. Or jigaboo. Or any number of names we have for little colored children - shine, smoke, snowball, dinge, dust, inky, eggplant and chocolate moonpie. And since Lil' Black Zambo lived with his mammy in a one-room hut made of mud and leaves near a croc-infested swamp in the Jungle, we can call him 'gator bait, too. . . . Zambo's pappy, Tambo, who liked to drink cheap coconut wine, ran off long before Zambo was born, so Zambo and his mammy were very, very poor. They didn't give out welfare checks in the Jungle. The Jungle was uncivilized. Or at least that's what Zambo's mammy, Mambo, said. 'When we gwine git civilized so I can git on d'welfare?' "

Bob Holman, then a director of the Nuyorican Poets Cafe, probably feeling guilty for offering to pay the royalties on my first collection of poetry in draft beer, gave me a first edition copy of the poet Bob Kaufman's "Golden Sardine" (1967). I'd heard the name, dropped by aging Beats looking to reaffirm their movement's diversity. I read that, and quickly snapped up Kaufman's "Solitudes Crowded With Loneliness" (1965) from St. Mark's Bookshop, and therein found the answer to what happens to Langston Hughes's deferred dreamers - they become what Kaufman called (in his made-up word) Abomunists, as demonstrated by these selected riffs from his book "Abomunist Manifesto" (1959):
ABOMUNISTS JOIN NOTHING BUT THEIR HANDS OR LEGS, OR OTHER SAME.

IN TIMES OF NATIONAL PERIL, ABOMUNISTS, AS REALITY AMERICANS, STAND READY TO DRINK THEMSELVES TO DEATH FOR THEIR COUNTRY.

ABOMUNISTS NEVER CARRY MORE THAN FIFTY DOLLARS IN DEBTS ON THEM.

Some black humor I found on my own bookshelf. I reread Zora Neale Hurston's freewheeling story "Book of Harlem," written circa 1921. ("And she said unto him, 'Go thou and buy the books and writings of certain scribes and Pharisees which I shall name unto you, and thou shalt learn everything of good and of evil. Yea, thou shalt know as much as the Chief of the Niggerati, who is called Carl Van Vechten.' ") I heard Richard Pryor shout-out Cecil Brown on "Bicentennial Nigger," and figured that if Pryor was giving the man some dap, then Brown's novel "The Life and Loves of Mr. Jiveass Nigger" (1969) must be worth a look-see. It is.

My friends were the biggest help. I'll never forget the film director Reginald Hudlin shaking his head in pity when I told him I'd never read George Schuyler's 1931 novel "Black No More." ("Don't you know who that is?" a character in Schuyler's novel asks. "Why that's that Dr. Crookman. You know, the fellow what's turnin' niggers white. See that B N M on the side of his plane? That stands for Black-No-More.") The poet Kofi Natambu practically refused to speak to me until I read Ishmael Reed, and the novelist Danzy Senna smiled wistfully when she showed me the cover of Fran Ross's hilarious 1974 novel, "Oreo." I'm usually very slow to come around to things. It took me two years to "feel" Wu Tang's first album, even longer to appreciate Basquiat, and I still don't get all the fuss over Duke Ellington and Frank Lloyd Wright. But I couldn't believe "Oreo" hadn't been on my cultural radar.

The writer Steve Cannon, professor emeritus of the Lower East Side, pointed me in the direction of the New York Public Library's Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, where I stumbled on the black-faced minstrel jokes of Bert Williams, typed on yellowed parchment. The paper was dry, but the century-old wit was still surprisingly fresh. Even more of a shock was my discovery that W. E. B. Du Bois, the pillar of African-American stolidity, had a sense of humor. His 1923 essay "On Being Crazy," while by no means hilarious, is at least an example of the great man letting his "good" hair down to engage in a little segregation satire.

I wish I'd been exposed to this black literary insobriety at an earlier age. It would've been comforting to know that I wasn't the only one laughing at myself in the mirror.

This essay is adapted from Paul Beatty's introduction to his new book, "Hokum: An Anthology of African-American Humor."

Word on the street...

2006-01-19T17:57:00.000-05:00

So, I’m not normally one who dabbles in scuttlebutt, but the word on the street that grows ever louder (The Enquirer recently ran a story, and you know they get their facts right!) is that the oh so fine Denzel Washington has been seen catting around with Sanaa Lathan. The problem, sources say, got so out of hand that his long suffering wife, Pauletta, a strong, non-ambiguously black mother of his four children, put his petutie out. I surely hope that it isn’t so, as I would be much obliged to boycott Ms. Lathan (whose movie, “Brown Sugar” is one of my faves.) How can she in good conscience help break up a family? But then, I asked myself, why am I so willing to hate on Sanaa and not Denzel? Was I somehow silently agreeing to the creed that says “This is what men do, so don’t hold them at fault, but we women know better?” After all, I didn’t offer to never watch “Malcolm X” or “Man on Fire” again, but found myself disliking Sanaa with a quickness that rivaled only the speed at which I could type “that homewreckah heffah.” Have I willingly drunk the Koolaid? The question of the day…

Meanwhile, in other news, CNN reports that Bin Laden (and ‘nem) are planning more attacks on the US. Great. While, I’m not one to worry (God will take me when it’s time), but why does Mr. Laden have to notify us when he is about to do something? It isn’t nice or helpful. Doesn’t help us plan our vacations any better. So, Bin, please keep that news to yourself.

On other news, just read that soul legend Wilson Pickett passed away. At 64. Of a heart attack. It’s such a shame, but we can rattle off a list of black folks (men in particular) who have been felled because of heart disease in recent years. NFL defensive end Reggie White. Gospel singer Ron Winans. Stage and screen actor Paul Winfield. The list goes on. Now, I hate “we as a people” phrases, but sometimes they fit. That said, "we as a people have to take care of ourselves better!" That’s just it. No excuses. So, I have a date with the elliptical machine tonight. I’m trying to stick around as long as possible, as I have a lifetime of junk to talk. Lol.

Peacables…

2006: One Time for Ya Mind

2006-01-15T22:50:00.000-05:00

A believe a trio called Shalamar said it best. "Make that move right now, baby/ You only go around once in a lifetime." (~from "Make that Move", which plays now)

Well this being the case, I am trying to do all that I can to make things quite crunktastic this year. (Read: I'm rocking till the wheels fall off and I'm rollin' down the skreet with one skate and a sneaker!) I tend to be a swim-upstream-and-against-the-current kind of chic, (I have never read a Harry Potter book and there's that anti-iPod thing too) so as you might expect, I don't really do the whole New Year's Resolution thingie. (I will, however, admit that I am on a self-created new "meal diversification and exercise expansion program". Lol) The plan includes plenty of veggies and me running like Harriet Tubman on the elliptical machine and treadmill, but also not falling to pieces if I may or may not have had some Creme Brulee Haagen Daaz within the last 24 hours *smile*

So far, I haven't fallen off the wagon... well too badly anyway. The first two weeks of this nascent annum bring good things in other ways too. I was just admitted into my first law school and am on the waitlist for two others (two schools in DC, one in Chicago) :) Glory be. I think I will actually "make that move" and go. Change is/will be good and who knows, it may give me more fodder to write. Goal is a book in two/three years, blowuptuated in five. (Range Rover, a Mr. Mahogany, 2.5 kids and complete house staff in TK years. Lol)

To mark the three-day weekend, I find myself celebrating my new old school acquisitions, courtesy of a Christmas gift card. Midnight Star and Shalamar are the newest members of my family. Please welcome them with your own rousing acapella versions of "The Midas Touch" and "For the Lover in You." (Did I ever mention how much I love me some Howard Hewett?! Heaven's to Betsy. Lol) I've decided today for the umpteenth time that I could listen to my music all day, write, and be pretty content with life. All the rest, seems sooo extra. Lol.

As you can see, I don't really have anything coherent to say today. I have made one vow--to post more often and expound more esoterically. Lol. So, that said, stay tuned for an upcoming point-by-point analysis of the Supreme Court hearings featuring Uncle Kracker... I mean Scalia... I mean Alito. I have an upcoming interview planned with the kind gentlman who cleans his hood and cape. Keeps that mess... sparkly white *smile.* Boy, oh boy, how I do just love America.

Lastly, I would have to admit to negligence if I didn't give a shoutout to those oh so innovative, thrice imitated, but never ever duplicated ladies who started this all off today, on January 15, 1908, on the campus of Howard University. To my Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorors, Happy Founders Day!

Skeeeeeeee Weeeeeeee

Pie = Life?

2005-12-24T00:40:00.000-05:00

Somehow I thought I'd come up as Sweet Potato. Suppose not.

You Are Cherry Pie

You're the perfect combo of innocent and sexy. Those who like you enjoy a contradiction

What Kind of Pie Are You?

Of Raindeer and Raindrops

2005-12-23T16:33:00.000-05:00

It's Christmas. Which means that once again I am freezing my petutie off near the Great Lakes, preparing for the ensuing feast. And, oh yeah, the gift/curse that is family. After my flight touched down yesterday morning, I arrived in Detroit Metro. The road to the house was a white that seemed to whisper "Jersey girl, wasn't it smart to pack those extra heels and no snow boots? Boo boo for you. lol" A roadside thermometer read "27 F." That means California dreamin for Michigan. Perhaps I lucked up. Only the next week will tell.

Before I knew it I was at my grandmother's. After greeting me with a warm hug and engaging in the initial excited let-me-have-a-look-at-you-i-haven't-seen-you-in-a-year chit chat, the divafied octogenarian woman that is my mother's mother told me to hang my coat next to her mink. She then stood back, took a sharp look at the winter caboose I am sporting and says that it "wouldn't hurt for me to miss a meal or two." Lol. Grandmothers, gotta love 'em. Well, at least she didn't greet me with one of those Diahann Caroll "Get that ring before spring" speeches. She'll save that for my older cousins. Lol

Today was all about the lazy, or... lazier than average me. I woke up at 11 a.m. and went to the den to watch Tony Danza-Martha Stewart-The View. Man, I miss Wayne Brady. None of these fools can hold a candle to the football-head, master singer/actor/comedian. The View was tolerable, but those chattering women can sure work a nerve at times. And poor Star. Her skin looks like it's running away from her face. Her hair is hooked though.

After I finally extricated myself from my pjs, I hung out with a cousin today who's a freshman at a Massachusetts college. We chatted a bit about classes and his pursuits on the JV basketball team. Then, as he went into explaining life as a freshman during exam week, it dawned on me how officially old I am getting. I started my freshman year in 1997... yikes. This spring, I will go back to campus for my fifth reunion. People will have kids, mortgages, 401 k payments. Yikes.

Last night, I went to a party with an aunt. Thrown at some swanky riverfront venue by some city big wig. Lots of politicians, real estate brokers, investment dudes. All pushing 50 +. Hooray for me. Lol. After attending such party, I came to two conclusions. 1) I must have been put on earth to attract A) old dudes and B) crazies. 2) After you've seen one old dude gyrating his hips and doing the Detroit Hustle... you have truly seen it all.

If you can move that picture from your head long enough to read this line, know that I am wishing you a Merry Merry Christmas, Happy Fake Afrocentric Libation holiday (I mean Kwaanza. Ashe, Ashe! Lol) and Happy Hanukkah. Love always, Mahogany Elle.

Jive Turkeys in Blue Badges

2005-11-28T22:20:00.000-05:00

"Why am I wearing handcuffs?" - D'Angelo, "S---, D---, M--------"

My Thanksgiving weekend was filled with new friends and old… mac and cheese…greens and, of course, poultry. And, a healthy dose of… being harassed by the man, lest I forget my melanin quotient. Let me explain. I’m from a suburb where black folks are the majority. This is evident in the preponderance of soul food restaurants, the sightings of young cornrowed lads with white-on-white Urrr Force Ones and white tees, and by the stacks of Glory greens on grocery markdown right before the T-day feast. So, being from such a place, one would expect that the police would somehow be acculturated to the more melanin endowed among us. Not exactly.

My brother and I were sitting outside the local library a few nights ago making smart use of the free wireless access from the comfort of his rental car, a candy apple red Mazda 6. What nefarious pursuits where we engaging in? Um… checking our e-mail. Lol. Suddenly, out of nowhere comes the 5-0. Two cops approach the car from each side. Each bares a flashlight and shines it in our faces. I put the window down and purposefully overenunciate, explaining to the officer on my side of the car that we are using the "In-ter-net." (My mind thoughts continued —"Not plotting to blow up the building. Not soliciting the crack man. Not even evading Mr. IRS".) The cop tells me to talk to the other one, who happens to be of the Caucasian persuasion (I guess he is the boss man.) So, I lean over the driver’s seat, from my passenger’s side and speak to the other officer. "Hi there. We’re just using the Internet." The officer asks me, "Are you students here?" (He gestures to the community college right next to the library.) I explain, "We are using the library’s Internet." (And since when do you have to be enrolled at a community college to use free local Internet?) My younger brother, the most kind, non-threatening black man one could encounter, who just so happens to be an oak solid 6’4", panders to the cops, perhaps in a lesson taught by my dad. "We are [Ourtown] residents, sir." The cop, after looking in the car, changes his focus and explains that the reason we were approached is that we are sitting in a handicapped spot.

Um, right… That spot, as well as all of the other spots in the lot were unoccupied. Why? Cause the freaking library was closed!!! Our lights and engine were on, indicating that we were not parked there permanently, but standing. I start to explain this to the cop, in perhaps not the nicest of tones (by now my inner Aquanetta, fresh off of yet another law school application and armed with a basic knowledge of Constitutional rights, is nearing the surface). My brother hushes me up. "[Mahogany,] Let’s just move to another space. It’s not worth all of this." When the bossman cop agrees to his promise to pull away, my brother sighs and says to me, "Listen, I don’t mess with cops." I marinate on that for a second. It’s probably the best survival strategy for a black man. The status quo is unfortunate, but I guess his methodology is crucial to the endgame of staying alive as long as possible. And, granted we were not being beat down like Rodney King. They did not ask for our working papers like in apartheid South Africa. And, granted, they did not make us get out, spread our arms and legs and sing like on the Five Heartbeats. Lol. But, call me stupid, call me rash, call me uppity. I can take it. But, I’ll be Boo Boo the daggone Fool, if I’m going to let some cop unduly harass me without cause.The day I see people in less diverse communities being questioned while sitting in front of a library with a laptop inside their own, not-stolen car is the day that I will shuffle along and display my teeth, while singing a rousing rendition of "Ole Man Rivah." And, I’ll cap that mess off with a spirited tap dance complete with "jazz hands." But, until then…

(In other news -- For everyone wishing to know how the "In this Corner..." music battle turned out, I'm waiting for more votes. I promise to post the results soon.)

And, in this corner...

2005-11-17T20:15:00.000-05:00

Now playing: "The Food," Common / "Imaginary Player," Jay-Z
So admittedly, I’m negligent y’all… I haven’t had time to write with this lengthy commute, long hours and yada, yada. Lol. So, grab a spot on the couch and let’s get reacquainted, shall we? How was your week? Catch the UPN lineup on Monday? Hear that Jennifer Hudson will be filling the shoes of Jennifer Holiday in “Dreamgirls”? That girl can blooow! I can’t wait...

The mild weather here in the Apple has put me in a delightful mood today. I came into work listening to a radio battle between Prince and Michael Jackson. You know my soft spot for old-nose Mike, but I realized that sometime between “Purple Rain” and “Human Nature”, that I was really torn. Two of the greatest geniuses of our musical time and we have to pick a winner? Impossible… (Okay, you twisted my arm. Mike still wins but only because Prince was contraband growing up in my house.)

Listening this morning reminded me of how many other heavyweight match-ups (old school of course) there could be. So, get out your dusty 8-tracks, cassette tapes, CDs and gasp…I-Pods and tell me who’s the best of these fantastic four. I’ll post the winners later this week.

Sisters with Voices — Chaka Khan vs. Patti Labelle
Anyone who’s heard Patti belt out “Lady Marmalade”, “Isn’t it a Shame” or “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” could join me in the first pew of her Pentecostal On the Way to Jordan, By the Way of the Cross, up the Rough Side of the Mountain, Holiness Assembly Church of Labelle. Lol. But listen to Chaka blow on “I’m Every Woman”, “I Feel For You” or “Hollywood,” and you just have to chant, “Chaka. Chaka. Chaka Khan. Chaka Khan!” So, whose chops do you bank on?

Battle of the Baritones —Isaac Hayes vs. Barry White
I swear every time my dad played “By The Time I get to Phoenix” I’d complain. The song took so long to get started, I’d say, I could get my petutie to Phoenix before Isaac was finished. But they didn’t call him “Black Moses” for nothing. Listen to his take on the Jackson Five’s “Never Can Say Goodbye” or the theme from “Shaft” and you’ll be ready to join him on the mountain. Lol. But, Barry White, who would probably beat Luthah as the man responsible for starting the most black families in the U.S., was just an icon. His rap on “So Much To Give” is one for the ages. Not to mention his classic, “Never, Never Gonna Give You Up.” So musically, who truly gives it up?

Dolce Duets — Tammi and Marvin vs. Roberta and Donny
Listen to Tammi and Marvin sing “Heaven Must Have Sent You From Above, or “You’re all I Need to Get By” and you realize why they were rumored to be together. Their voices blend together perfectly, their enthusiasm matched only by the pounding percussion of Motown’s house band. The duo, who both prematurely passed, thankfully left their legacy for us to still enjoy. So, fortunately, did another guy who left us too soon — Donnie. When he sang “The Closer I Get to You” with Roberta and my fave, “Back Together Again”, there was no question that their best moments were performing together. The hard question is which duo triumphs?

Get in the Groove — Parliament-Funkadelic vs. James Brown
Sing it with me y’all…“With the groove our only guide, we shall all be moved. [Feet don’t fail me now!]” When George Clinton begins his incantation on “One Nation,” you fall under the power of his cloak of many colors. Head starts bobbing. Feet start tapping. Dance, the funk summons you. Lol. And don’t even crank up “Flashlight” or even think about playing “Atomic Dog” lest you want to get mauled by a pack of Ques. But does the President of Funk stand a chance against the Godfather of Soul? He who jammeths to “Super Bad” or “Gonna Have a Funky Good Time” has often been thought to jammeth the best. But James against the intergalatic funktasticness? You be the judge.

Non Sequitur(s)

2005-11-06T18:09:00.000-05:00

Now playing: "Here's That Rainy Day", Astrud Gilberto /"Make This City Ours", Sarah Vaughn / "Fair Weather", Chet Baker

I spent the weekend catching up on my old cinema. Watched "Claudine" for the first time. I know, I know... I wondered why I had never come across it before. Anyway, Diahann Carroll and James Earl Jones were so cute. And regal. Together, they battled poverty, life circumstances and da welfare man to carve their little niche in the world. Reminded me of James Baldwin's "If Beale Street Could Talk" albeit with a funkier soundtrack, sung by Miss Gladys and her Pips and penned by Mr. Curtis Mayfield. (Including one of the favorite songs, "The Makings of You". *singing* "Add a little sugar / Honeysuckle and / A great big expression of happiness") Aside from one, "Mama please, muh muh mama, what we gon' do, mama?" scene ... I thought it was a good flic.

I also watched "Fame" for the first time since the late 80's. I never thought about it before, but that movie is so daggone depressing. Geez Louise. I know everyone gets together for a rousing rendition of "I Sing the Body Electric" at the end, but the getting there is really melodramatic. One kid grapples with poverty and not being able to protect his little sister from abuse... another comes painfully to grips with his identity... yet another with the fact that he has omnipresent dusty cornrows and cut-off sweatshirts (Lol... Okay, I won't mess with L-E-R-O-Y. That was my boy!)

Speaking of cornrows and the black aesthetic, earlier this week, I saw a gentleman of the Caucasian persuasion with a Kufi (knit cap) on in Port Authority. I actually think that’s a first for me. Oddly enough, as much I have seen the majority folks interpreting the "ethnic other" through rapping (see 8 Mile) and song (see Justin Timberlake), I have never seen a white dude in a Kufi. I guess there is a first time for everything.

Speaking of first times, yesterday my faith is modern music took another blow. A friend sent me the link to Mr. Kevin Federline’s hip-hop debut. Um... right. So, I made it to the part where he complained of the"Pavarottis" chasing after him, at which point I had to shut it off. Poor, poor man. And, our poor, poor abused English language. Lol.

Speaking of English, Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles took to the U. S. this week for their stateside tour. I must say, that in spite of my urge to make fun of the woman who has been compared to a horse and worse, she looked quite the fashionista in her fuschia suit and natty pumps. Not bad for a home-wrecking mugly mistress. I guess all's well that ends well. Free from scampering about under the cloak of darkness, now all she has to do is wave and smile for the cameras.

So, my new theory is skip writing, skip law school. I should like to be a royal as well. Me thinketh my title would be the Duchess of Harlemworld

Toodles *smile*

Ten Things I Love About Thursday

2005-10-27T21:47:00.000-04:00

1. I’m fond of calling it "Friday eve."
2. I don’t feel bad about leaving the office early, for once.
3. By the end of the day, I will have officially completed my first law school application and will be one step closer to selling out for the Range Rover(Yay!) … Republican party affiliation and Vineyard summer home purchase soon to come. Then, it’s on to filthy rich, teflon racelessness a la Tiger Woods and Oprah. Stay tuned peoples. LOL.
4. I finally got to see an episode of "Everybody Hates Chris." (This daggone commute has been seriously cut into my TV watching.) Anyways, love it. I see why it’s all the rage.)
5. I get to think about the office Halloween party tomorrow, consider a range of costumes --Fantasia sporting a "Will Rede 4 Fude" T-shirt… Star Jones (complete with false eyelashes and a sarong-wearing hubby)…Whitney with wig and hat combo accessory (crackpipe not included)… L’il Kim in a Louis Vuitton jailsuit) -- and then realize that I sooo don’t have the energy nor the deniro to squander in such an endeavor.
6. Learning this a.m. that "Curious George" dropped his nomination of the mascara-burdened Harriet Miers to the high court. After my initial tap dance and impromptu song, "Joke’s on you… Boo-Boo da fool," I did feel a tinge of sadness for her, as that must have been quite embarrassing. And, it wasn’t her fault she has a dummy for a mentor. Still, she should have known better to go along with it. And this isn’t because of her apparent lack of qualifications. I’m talking about the fact that what savvy Supreme Court-ready mind wears midnight blue and ten thousand gold lapel pins to a press conference in this day and age? The Secret Service should have nabbed her. Pronto.
7. Today erases the painful memory of yesterday, when during a chance listen to the radio I heard some crack and gubment cheese-fed teenager singing about some "lady lumps" or something to that effect. Horrified was not even the word that was I.
8. Hearing that, due to hard work, all-around hypeness and journalistic prowess, a good friend will be moving up in the news and living in the lap of luxury soon. And that I will have yet one more place to visit during my scheduled world tour... coming to a city near you *smile.*
9. Not feeling too guilty that I am too sleepy to think of a #9.
10. Or #10 LOL

Okay, I'm gone till November. Will hollareth soon.

Twice Told Tales...

2005-10-12T19:20:00.000-04:00

So, one of my favorite shows for the past few years has been UPN’s Half and Half. And, I’ve finally figured out why. It probably has something to do with my being very much like Mona Thorne (creative, independent, sarcastic, music-lover) who very much wants the diva status of a Big Dee Dee (the lights of Broadway, the roar of the crowd, the dazzling marquee LOL) and the future bling potential of a little Dee Dee (Range Rovah, holla if ya hear me!). Anyway, because I apparently didn’t have enough to do at work today, I checked out Mona’s new blog on the UPN site. And funny enough, most of her “100 Things” fit me, though I’ve edited where necessary. Check it out.

1. I am multi~~cultural~~ lingual. (If you can "code switch" as much as I do, you oughta get some recognition, I say. LOL)

2. I consider myself a realist.

3. I was born at ~~7:34 AM~~ in mid-afternoon after 15 hours of labor. (Yep, I was a fan of C.P.T. even way back in ’79. And still didn’t move until after noon.)

4. I am a classic ~~Scorpio.~~ (Virgo: but the neat freak stuff doesn’t apply. Ask anyone who’s seen my room. But somehow, the hard-working part does. And did I mention that my CDs are neatly lined on my bookcase in alphabetical order?)

5. I value love above all things. Friendship is a close second. (Amen.)

6. I think I'm intelligent.

7. I prefer Africa to Antarctica. I'm talking temperature here.

8. I am drive left-handed. (I think it’s because my ambidextrous father taught me.)

9. I love to eat anything doughy and sugary and processed. Let's face it. I'm American. (As Bell Biv Devoe once said, “Word to the Mutha.” But I've recently developed an affinity for veggie burgers and spinach/ artichoke heart salads. Let's hope it lasts.)

10. I was a ~~latchkey~~ kid of a stay-at-home mother and workaholic dad.

11. I watched ~~waaay too much~~ some TV in my youth, but it was limited pretty much to Cosby, and Different World with some appearances made by the Wonder Years and a few other shows. My parents thought it was generally a brain drain.

12. ~~I love to collect artifacts and knick-knacks from around the world~~. (I’ve only been to Canada, near Detroit, outside of the U.S. But it’s a goal of mine to travel once I blowuptuate.)

13. I would rather write my thoughts than speak them. (Totally.)

14. I am spiritual.

15. Green ~~used to be my~~ color~~, now it's purple~~. (Green still is my color. I have a kelly green cashmere sweater that makes me just so happy.)

16. When I was little I would open an umbrella and jump off the carport pretending to be Mary Poppins. (I would also pretend to be one of the snotty people in The Wiz and once made a Yellow Brick Road out of a roll of paper towel. My mother luckily didn’t spank me.)

17. I also wanted to marry ~~Aquaman. It took me a long time to learn how to swim. I really respect his skills & his rapport with sea life~~ John Travolta from Fame. (So strong, so dashing. So disco. LOL)

18. I hate camping. Wiping with a leaf is just gross…not to mention harsh. (Yeah, I don’t do outside activities in the woods.)

19. ~~I want to climb Manchu Picchu before I die.~~ (See above.)

20. I consider myself bohemian. (Sort of, but not really. I mean, I do have natural hair and tend to be an independent thinker. But there is a latent bourgeois element that always seems to surface. For instance, me and Ann Taylor are like THIS.)

21. I secretly wish I could sing. (I can, but you won’t get me to sing by myself, unless I’m driving solo or at home.)

22. ~~Sometimes I write songs that no one will ever sing…anywhere…ever.~~

23. People who solicit door-to-door give me the creeps.

24. I used to play the flute ~~trombone. Didn't get a lot of dates with that one~~. (But, for some reason, reading music fast while playing seemed impossible to me.)

25. My CD collection is enormous. Too many to count. (Like Teddy Riley used to say, “Yep. Yep.”)

26. I love to wear ~~stacks~~ knee-high boots in the fall. (Two pairs are my favorite: one in chocolate suede and another in cognac leather. Both are Anne Klein.)

27. I prefer handmade jewelry. (Or just quality jewelry. There is nothing worse than cheap accessories.)

28. I am truly allergic to morning. (Here, here! Someone feels my pain.)

29. I ~~know how to kill a plant.~~ I have a green thumb. (Who knew Johnny Appleseed had a black sista? LOL)

30. I have favorite artists in just about ~~every genre of music. Except Zydeco~~ year of black music. (On my CD shelf, Jay-Z sits comfortably next to John Coltrane. Down the aisle a bit, the Lost Boyz kick it with Chaka Khan.)

31. I adore [good] cheese. ~~It can be in a can or~~ in the form of a log. (Don’t let me around one of those Hickory Farms trays at Christmas. It’s ovah!)

32. My license plate reads ~~MONAMIA~~. (“IMTOOFLYFORTHISCOROLLA”… LOL, just kidding.)

33. Without ~~coffee~~ sleep, I am not human.

34. ~~I think press-on jewels are cool. Press-on nails are wrong.~~ (I’m against fakeness in general, except for a masquerade ball. LOL. And glitter and press-on anything is so 1989...)

35. I'm a ~~techno~~ audiophile. (I still own a cassette tape Walkman. And what?!)

36. I'm not afraid to admit that I still pick up Shakespeare and actually read it from time to time. (The bard a merry me maketh.)

37. I also enjoy works by ~~Alice Walker, Hemingway, Ishmael Reed, and John Grisham~~ James Baldwin, Toni Cade Bambara and Saki.

38. In high school I was a ~~band~~ debate/mock trial team geek (who got mad love though. People respected my gangsta! LOL)

39. I would rather die than not VOTE (Too many people died so we could.)

40. I was born in ~~1977, the same year as Kanye West, Liv Tyler, Laila Ali, Fiona Apple, Orlando Bloom & Darth Vader~~ 1979, the same year as “Off the Wall” by Michael Jackson.

41. I sometimes write ~~poems~~ blogs about my purpose in life and what it all means.

42. I don't like to gamble. I don't get people who do it regularly.

43. I do not iron clothes or make my bed. They're both a huge waste of time. (Totally agree. Anything and everything can unwrinkle itself by the day’s end. And most stuff doesn’t need ironing if you take it out of the dryer right away.)

44. I love playing board games. But I hate to lose. (I’m fierce in Monopoly. Park Place, son!!)

45. ~~When I dance people think I need medical attention~~. I'll dance till the cows come home, but only after some gentle coaxing. (I tend to not be that first person on the dance floor.)

46~~. I have a rose tattoo. It's bigger now than when I got it.~~

47. ~~I used to smoke. It seemed so cool at the time. Now I can't stand the smell.~~

48. ~~I actually smoked mistletoe once. Don't think I'll do that again, either~~.

49. ~~I prefer to listen to music on shuffle.~~

50. ~~I have regretted many of my past relationships.~~ That's why I proceed with caution. (I pretty much proceed with caution in general.)

51. My dream trip is to go to Egypt & ~~Israel~~ Brazil. There's just such incredible history there.

52. ~~I have a fascination with Mr. Potato Head. He is daring, unique & ever evolving~~.

53. ~~I wish I knew how to play guitar. But I quit after three lessons~~.

54. ~~I secretly like all things "teen."~~

55. ~~I adore Hello Kitty~~. I like to sing the song from “Curious George, the curious little monkeeee!” (The only thing that still bothers me is that we never got to know the Man with the Yellow Hat's name. How come? He was a person too... LOL)

56. I think the sexiest people on the planet are those who don't TRY to be sexy. (Let’s see, Jay-Z, Idris Elba, Barack Obama...)

57. I admire every day people more than celebrities.

58. If I had three wishes the first would be to wish for more wishes. That would take care of the other two… OR I would wish for: No more war… No more disease… and last but not least, a calorie-free, great tasting doughnut. (Or: “Mo money, mo money, mo money” to quote the Wayans brothers. LOL)

59. I hate to disappoint people. Especially family.

60. I often laugh ~~myself awake. It's annoying and pleasant at the same time~~. (It comes very naturally.)

61. ~~I wore an eye patch as a child. They said it was to strengthen my other eye. I think it was an exercise in humiliation~~. In seventh grade, I had to quit soccer for a while because my bones were growing too fast and it made it hard to run. Thank goodness it was only temporary.

62. I also wore corrective shoes. (When I was really little… like one or two.)

63. ~~I'm a bit of an insomniac~~. One I go to sleep, it takes heaven and earth to move me.

64. I live in semi-organized chaos.

65. I hate when others wake me. (Unless it's really nicely. But even then, it had better be for a good reason. *smile*)

66. ~~I prefer flea markets to malls~~. Bargain shopping is an acquired skill. (Repeat after me, “D-S-W Shoes”… I should have a trophy.)

67. ~~I'd like to be Wonder Woman when I grow up. I mean, who wouldn't want to fight crime in high heel boots? And if I had that body, I'd rock that outfit twenty-four seven~~.

68. I only know how to cook eggs & pasta. (terriyaki chicken, “black people’s macaroni and cheese” and sweet potato pie. That's it, unless you count whipping up a mean bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch or microwaving Lean Cuisine.)

69. ~~I choose not to wear perfume. I prefer oils. But I do not wear patchouli, as most people assume. I have my own secret blend.~~ (I hate oils, juices and berries and all dat ish. It’s a slippery slope. Once you go that route, then people expect you to start selling them bean pies on the corner. I wear: BCBG Girl in "Nature", which actually doesn’t smell like nature, but has a crisp, clean scent. Also wear Chic by Carolina Herrera.)

70. I'm most inspired by the poetry of ~~Rumi,~~ Nikki Giovanni ~~and Jill Scott~~. (“I am BAD!” from Ego-Trippin)

71. I'm passionate about knowledge and learning…and cute (smart) men. (Like the deacons say in the Baptist church… “Well, Well!”)

72. ~~I tried to learn Japanese. I cannot speak a word.~~

73. I'm allergic ~~to lilies. They make life miserable~~ dust, but not a fan of cleaning.

74. I dislike ~~set-ups and blind dates.~~ ~~Especially when my mother is behind them~~ the fact that I apparently have a sign on me that says “Only try to kick it if you have more than one gold tooth and are over 45.”

75. I keep a pair of skinny jeans in my closet to inspire me. They mostly taunt me.

76. ~~I also have a pair of eating pants in the closet. I don't need them, but I'm afraid to give them away~~. I hate trying on clothes when I have gained winter weight. It’s like the “junk in my trunk” is laughing at me in the mirror.

77. My ~~mother~~ brother knows me better than anyone.

78. I ~~recently~~ have not conquered my fear of ~~horses~~ being drowned at sea. (The ocean roar simultaneously mocks and soothes. LOL)

79. I consider ab workouts ~~a form of torture~~ necessary so I don’t end up looking like Big Momma in her "Sunday Go to Meeting" clothes.

80. ~~I don't run unless I'm being chased.~~ I like to run for no reason at all. (Probably has to do with the fact that I ran track for six years.)

81. It takes exactly one hour and fourteen minutes to blow dry my hair. (Plus 15 minutes. I also resemble a cross between Diana Ross and the Lion King when I'm finished.)

82. My birthday tends to ~~be a disaster~~ ebb and flow. (One year I have a fabulous partay, another, tired from the work week, I sat on the couch and watched TV in my pajamas.)

83. I still listen to "Thriller" once in a while.

84. I secretly wish I could be a gymnast. But as you know by now, I hate exercise.

85. I once found a dust bunny the size of a grapefruit under my bed.

86. Hotel lobby ~~pool~~ crashing is one of my favorite weekend activities. (There is no swankier hangout than the Hudson Hotel, if you ask me.)

87. I love to look through ~~gourmet food magazines~~ home decorating magazines but leave piles of clothes on the floor.

88. I ~~rarely~~ always parallel park successfully. (Only because my left-brain dad taught right-brain me.)

89. ~~One of my ex boyfriends is now my ex girlfriend. Thanks to several surgeries.~~

90. ~~When I want attention in a bar, I pretend to be Scary Spice~~.

91. My grandmother is ~~Jewish~~ the boogiest black woman I know. So I get Christmas gifts from Saks Fifth Avenue (like a pumpkin leather wallet) and periodically—with her permission— raid her walk-in closets for items like vintage croc bags.

92. I sing the theme to "Good Times" in the shower. Although I'm not sure if it's 'hangin' in the chow line' or 'hanging and a jivin'. (LOL. It’s the previous. It was on Dave Chappelle. For years, I thought it was “hangin' there alive, yeah!” but a friend informed me that that was “too proper.”)

93. ~~I believe if you eat and no one sees you, the calories shouldn't count~~.

94. Sometimes I open a ~~bag of pretzels~~ box of cereal and call it dinner.

95. ~~Fall is my favorite time of year. It would be winter, but I don't look good in hats~~. (Minus the new pret a porter collections and getting to wear camel and pumpkin, I hate fall. It’s the harbringer of more doom and gloom. Counting down the days till spring. And after that, as Jay-Z says, it’s all “For the summah!”)

96. ~~I've had exactly one proposal of marriage. I accepted, then broke things off. Long story.~~

97. I’m loud ~~snort~~ when I laugh.

98. My first real job was at ~~a churro shack~~ the tennis court in my hometown. (Taking money for court rentals was fine. I wasn’t a big fan of the manual labor part though.)

99. I've been taught that family always comes first.

100. I have more in common with my little sister than I am willing to admit. (I miss her dearly. I love her memories though. I’m also grateful for friends I consider sisters. Shouts out to: S.B., T.B., K.K., L.F., Y.T., N.G., A.H., I.P. and…uh, J. J.W…I know, I know, but you’re honorary *smile*)

Trickles -- Pt. Deux

2005-10-06T17:53:00.000-04:00

A while back, I did a "Trickles from a Faucet" Post... Just my random thoughts strewn about wantonly on the page. Well, seeing as how I am that same paradoxically lazy but overachieving negress who... works too many hours so can’t get the time she needs to really blog/ would rather daydream and think of stories than apply to law school/ would rather shop than read/ would rather listen to music than the incessant bloviation of news TV's talking heads/ would rather try to rationalize the goodness in procrastination and C.P. Time than actually try to change my errant ways *smile* / wouldratherwritealongsentencewithoutpunctuationjust
becausedaggoneiti'mtoolazytopushspace, or maybe just cause I like the way words look all jumbled on a page... all denying each other their own room, but cozy and close like longtime friends (Ashford and Simpson/ Tammi and Marvin/ Q-Tip and Phife)...Anyway, excuse the free thought, but since I beez that girl, here's another installment on the happenings in the month of Mahogany.

-A few weeks ago, with a group of old neighborhood friends, I saw "Roll,Bounce" on its opening weekend and thought it was just the cutest thing! Bow Wow and Jurnee Smollett made such a cute best friend pair. And then, tack on a trash talking friend and a couple of others (including "Mixed" Mike, Naps and even the egotistical disco-fevered "Sweetness" who were just too funny) and you have yourself a movie. About regular black kids going regular things. Skating, playing the dozens. (Read: not shooting.) And you've created? A cute hit. And, judging from the packed theater featuring L'il Boomquisha and Nem where I went to watch the movie with a group of friends I grew up with, it was also a hit among the teenyboppers. And, I haven't even mentioned the lovely soundtrack. My fave is "Pure Gold" by... uhm, you guessed it—Earth Wind and Fire. After more than 25 years together, they still bring the classics. And Philip Bailey is ethereal!

- Do mine eyes faileth me or could it be true that Babyface and wife Tracey are calling it quits? I know people are human. And we all fall short in the grand scheme of things. But I can hardly believe the man who penned "Every Time I Close My Eyes" while courting his wife and the duo who so lovingly collaborated on underrated real life love story "Hav Plenty" (not to mention the now black staple, "Soul Food") are calling it quits. Man. I still love "Love Saw It" and "Two Occasions", but couldn't y'all have taken a cute from Rebum Al (Green) and "stayed together"? For the love of all that is good in modern R&B. Kay, note to self: must pull back from this subject before I have a "Florida (Esther Rolle) after James (John Amos) just died" moment.

- Earlier this week, a colleague introduced me to this song by Chaka Khan. I previously tried to call myself a fan of her music ("Street Player" is one of my favorite albums— "Best of Your Heart", one of my favorite songs)... but alas I must now stand down from accepting such title. I had quite honestly and absolutely had no idea about the extent of the breadth that is this woman/diva. "Please Pardon Me (You Remind of a Friend)" is such a good song, I really couldn't even get to the others on this album ("Rufusized", 1974 for anyone who's interested.) So, new goal is to get to the rest of the album by the weekend's end... In other music happenings, on an impulse and after hearing Bobby Womack’s "If You Think You're Lonely Now" on the old school station last night… (How I do love that song. Every time I hear it, I feel compelled to give Bobby Womack a resounding Baptist "Amen!")...I purchased "The Very Best of Bobby Womack." Among the hits that will be in heavy rotation are the aforementioned as well as "A Woman’s Gotta Have It" & the oh so soulful "Across 110th Street."

*Singing *"I was the third brotha of five/ Doing whatever I had to do to surviiive./ I ain't sayin what I did was alright./ Tryin' to break out of the ghetto was a day-to-day fight [Doop. Doop]/ Been down so didn't really cross my mind./ Knew that there was a better way of life and I was just trying to find/ You don't what you'll do till you're put under pressuh/ Across 110th Street is a helluva test-uh."... Jump back brotha Bobby. Jump back.

- Today, I heard that there was a threat on New York City subway system. Besides hoping against all hopes that nothing bad happens, I thought about how fortunate it was for me that I am not a daily, breaking news reporter. In my book of game rules, um, Negro trumps journalist. So… that said, in case of shooting, natural disaster or terrorist attack, don’t look to Mahogany Elle for a report as only my shoes will be reporting live from pavement, briskly running the other way. LOL. That’ll be all for now.

Music Milestones: the Top 26

2005-09-16T10:36:00.000-04:00

I’m the first to admit it— I hate birthday posts. Not to knock anyone else’s hustle, but we all have them, so why the big deal? Why the superfluous self-congratulation? I mean, it’s not like we were there giving moms and pops a resounding big ups to Brooklyn when they made us happen, right? (lol) Lucky for me, this soapbox sentiment really doesn’t stop me from joining the sorry bandwagon. Witness all ye readers, my reflections on the last 26 years, in sound. And though, you won’t see me pitifully soliciting wishes of goodwill (feel free to stop by the comments box at the bottom), or presents (I’m a big fan of gift cards to Tower Records, Bloomingdale’s, Tiffany & Co. or just plain cash), I do feel a slight tinge of obligation—if only to the admiring fans—to publicize this little known world event. This year—this Saturday to be exact—I say goodbye to my mid-twenties, and hello to trying to "become a real grown up", pursuing not only my star on the Walk of Fame (lol), but those 2.5 kids, picket fence and a mortgage. And, if I fail, you’ll bear witness as I become the fly rhinestone glasses sporting, culdesac living, cat-collecting lady—with as LL Cool J rapped—da’ boomin system.

Presenting my first 26 years… in some of each year’s memorable songs

1979
Michael, Michael, Michael—shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? (lol) Posted up on a brick wall with a tux, highwaters and sparkly socks, you stole my heart. Sure, you would one day descend into a typhoon of coo coo for cocoapuffery, but at that minute, with that song, only your music was "Off the Wall," in the very best way. It’s fitting that you marked Mahogany’s entrance on the world’s stage.

1980
There is "music in the air and lots of loving everywhere, so give me the night," sang the ever-scatting, ever-strumming, always confident George Benson. This was the year the jazz guitarist turned pop singer made it Grammy good—several times over. And though I was still waddling in diapers, this song was such a classic I had to add the album to my collection in college.

1981
There is perhaps no softer sentiment than a saxophone—Coltrane holds the highest title in my book. But since the Hamlet, NC native left us, many have tried to soothe us with the instrument. Few we took seriously. Jazz, we worried in the years since its heyday, was watered down, commercialized, too smooth. Maybe, but a man who called Philadelphia home changed all that thinking. Grover Washington, Jr. and Bill Withers’still timeless collaboration, "Just the Two of Us," showed that the music could be smooth and catchy, but still very earthy and real. It’s a classic still.

1982
You’re walking down a sidewalk. Actually, you’re sort of strolling, tip toeing almost—sort of stealthily and flashy at the same time. You’re looking around you, in front of you, behind you for someone or something pursuing. And suddenly it happens. The sidewalk,rushed with your energy, wait… LIGHTS UP. I can still hardly contain the excitement the first time I saw the video for the infectious "Billie Jean" (years later, of course). Not only was Michael the coolest person on the planet, but he had the power to make the sidewalk rush with power too? How could I harness the sparkle too? I’m still trying…

1983
The year Michael blowuptuated at the Grammys taking home just about every award possible for the previous year’s never-seen-before, never-will-be-duplicated-again, "Thriller." (Don’t worry, this is my last shout-out to the mostly old-nosed gloved wonder). And though, this song never made it to the heights that the title song and others like "Beat It" did, "Human Nature" will always be a great song in my book.

1984
Sing it with me. "Your love" ["Your"], "So good" ["Good love"], "Deserves an Encore" ["Dee-serves an encore."] Cheryl Lynn, the less celebrated half of the now-classic duo with Luther, "If This World Were Mine," was no less a powerhouse vocalist all by her lonesome. The fact that this bumping song still gets heavy rotation on all the old skool stations is just the proof in the pudding.

1985
Pinch your nose and sing along with her nasal, but catchy voice. C’mon, don’t front, you know you knew the words — "Baby, I know you’re wondering/ Why I won’t go ovah to your place/ Cause I’m not too sure about how I feel/ So I’d rather go at my own payyy-ace… I wonda-if-I-take-you-home, would you still be in love bay bay, because I need you tonight." Maybe she wasn’t the darling of the decade like Madonna, but on the radio in my neighborhood that hosted skreet roller skating and summer block parties, she ruled the roost. Straight Outta Hell’s Kitchen, Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam (featuring Full Force), bumped "I Wonder if I Take You Home" with staccato phrasing and funky beats. And I ain’t shamed to tell you that the group’s greatest hits CD holds a place in my collection.

1986
This year was a tough one. Anita Baker’s "Rapture" remains one of the best CDs I own, "Been So Long" one of my favorite songs. But if we’re talking about songs that made this year memorable, I’m going to have to give the nod to the gentleman from Paisley Park. To this day, every time I hear Prince’s "Kiss", the face assumes a spunky attitude, the neck goes into an uncontrollable whop. Though I didn’t have his albums (my mother considered him the spawn of Beezlebub due to his racy lyrics), and though I was only six when this won the Grammy, I knew the song from the radio. The spare funk. The lyrics ("You don’t have to watch Dynasty-y to have an attitude.") The genius. Yeah--let the church say amen.

1987
Allow me to second to get mushy. Actually give me a pass—I was only eight. One of the saddest movies I’ve ever seen was a... *cough*... freakin’ cartoon. With tears in my little eyes, I watched, heartbroken as Fievel and his sister searched desperately for each other after the little mouse became lost while his family immigrated to New York City. "And even though I know how very far apart we are, It helps to think we might be wishing on the same bright star." Sniffle. Still get choked up when I hear James Ingram and Linda Rondstadt belt out "Somewhere Out There" from An American Tail.

1988
I was in the fourth grade. Had the best teacher I could ever ask for. Got to see my track and field idol Ms. Joyner Kersee tear it up at the Olympics in Seoul and on top of all that, I just knew I was grown with my stair step bangs (made possible by Isoplus) hot pink banana clip and plastic tie for my flourescent shirt. There was no end to the positive outlook. So it’s fitting that Bobby McFerrin's "Don’t Worry Be Happy" was my memorable song that year. Aside from the fact that no human being has had the ability to be able to make the sounds this man made avec no instruments, he just had so much contagious energy. And for a youthful Mahogany, it was the perfect accompaniment.

1989
Listening to Jazzie’s spoken introduction, I came to know them as the funky dreds. Soul II Soul, the first tape I ever remember getting as a gift had the beat. They had the voice (thanks to Ms. Caron Wheeler’s powerful chords). And they had the privilege of heavy rotation. Like the song, I "[Kept] on Movin’".

1990
Clown if you wanna, but one of the first tape singles I bought with my own money (it came in a cheesy cardboard sleeve of all things) was Kid N Play’s "Funhouse" from the sleeper hit movie of the same year. To this day, I can’t master that jump-over-your-one-leg-while-holding-the other-in-your-hand-move, but then again, I never learned how to rap either.

1991
Sure I was kicking it in the suburbs of New Jersey, but that didn’t stop me from looking "across the pond" for some new music to add to my budding cassette collection. With soulful vocalist N’Dea Davenport fronting the group, this was the year of the still underrated Brand New Heavies for me. Rare British grooves + jazz + unmatched rhythm? I wanted them to "Stay This Way Forever" like my favorite song from their self-titled debut.

1992
You may not take seriously the rap musings of someone who started her hip hop collection with Heavy D’s "Big Tyme" (1989) and the aforementioned 1990 movie’s 2 Hype dancing court jesters. Ahem, *cough* ask me if I care. (Lol) For me, this was the year rap became real. Real meaning it was emblazoned on my consciousness, thanks to our local radio station. Day after day I listened to C.L Smooth rap on Pete Rock’s supremely laid out track- "T.R.O.Y. (They Reminisce over You)." "Take the first letter out of each word in this joint/ Listen close as I prove my point," he flowed effortlessly. It was the first rap I memorized. And to this day, if you ask me to recite it in my sleep, after I give you the why did you wake me up scowl, I’ll simply pop up and say, "So Pete Rock hit me/ Nuff respect due/ When they reminisce over you. (My God.)"

1993
Speaking of hip hop... The piece de resistance of all time, in my book anyway, was birthed this year. But it’s funny, I still can’t really put my finger on what made this group, this album, so special. Was it Ali’s fabulous integration of jazz on the tracks? Was it Phife’s constant clamoring for the spotlight (short bruhs never had it easy.) Or maybe Q-Tip’s laid-back, chill flow? Whatever it was—obviously the combination of all three— it worked. "Midnight Marauders" is and remains my favorite hip hop album. And in breaking tradition, I couldn’t just break down one memorable song from this release that made ‘93 oh-so-hype. So, it’s a tie— between "Award Tour" and "Electric Relaxation". Do dat, do dat, do-do dat, dat, dat…

1994
Even though she guested on the fantabulous "Buddy" by De La Soul, I didn’t really know she could sing until I heard her belt out the title of my favorite Latifah cut—"U-N-I-T-Y, U-N-I-T-Y, that’s ah unity." If you didn’t know, you had betta ax somebody.

1995
Even though the brotha’s gone, I remember his warbling as if it were yesterday. "Japan are ya in da house? Everybody are you in da house? Baby, baby come on. Baby come on. Baby come oo-ooon." The soundtrack of high school's sophomore year was O.D.B. and Mariah teaming up for "Fantasy". Those were the days…

1996
A hard year to choose — so many songs that come to mind — D’Angelo’s "Lady", Aaliyah’s "If Your Girl Only Knew", LL Cool J’s "Doin It Well", TLC’s "Diggin on You." All nice songs that recall the high school year before the college application process started and my only real concern was getting the outfits straight for Homecoming. I guess I have to give the nod to those bruhs from the Midwest, not because I liked their song—I hated it—but because it’s the most memorable. Because I made my dislike known, two of my high school friends, who I’ll call B and M, made it their business to corner me and sing it at every given chance. (Gentlemen, may your children be born looking like Shabba Ranks! lol) So, for this reason only, Bone Thugs’ "Crossroads" definitely sticks out as reppin’ 96. "Somebody, anybody tell me why/ [Mmmm… why?]"

1997
Though DJ Kool’s "Let Me Clear My Throat" played incessantly on the radio, the song that truly had my ear this year was… Aqua’s "Barbie Girl." (lol) Just kidding. I don’t think anything played could compete with my love for the Notorious B.I.G.’s "Mo Money, Mo Problems." (A close runner up was "Hypnotize." We actually saw him smile in the video. Happy. Happy. Joy. Joy)

1998
I counted it a small victory that the day before it came out, just as I was preparing to return to North Carolina for my second year of college, I snagged gold. I got the store clerk to hand me over Lauryn Hill’s debut album a day early. Immediately, I loaded it into my Aiwa and couldn’t stop playing it. There were so many songs like the radio-friendly "Zion" and "Ex-Factor" that were gems. But the one that I will truly remember was "Doo Wop (That Thing)." The harmony. The beat. The verse. Loved it all.

1999
If I hadn’t heard Jilly from Philly sing the song on the "Roots Come Alive", I wouldn’t have known the words. Love Ms. Erykah Badu to death, but there is a thing called enunciation, which she still hasn’t mastered (she pokes fun at herself for this a few years later on "Mama’s Gun," singing "What good do your words to if they can’t understand you?"). Even with the audible gobbledygook, backed by the supergroup from Illadelphia, "You Got Me" still shined. Quest Love was on drums. Black Thought was on the mic. The song was on my mind. *singing* "Babydonworrayyouknowthatyougotme-e-e."

2000
Sure, like Destiny’s Child sang, I was an "Independent Woman," nearly ready to take on the world. But the song that captured my attention was of a cooler sort…cooler than a Polar Bear’s toenail to be exact. Dem’ boys from the ATL released "Stankonia" (in my mind 1998's "Aquemini" was the more classic album, but this one was more ubiquitious) and though the radio-friendly hit was "Ms. Jackson" (a good song), my favorite, perhaps because it was the perfect song for a campus party stroll, was "So Fresh and So Clean." (Jay-Z and Mya’s remix to "Best of Me" was also memorable.)

2001
The first CD I bought by Mr. Shawn Carter was also one of his best (second only to his debut "Reasonable Doubt" in my opinion). Though I got on the bandwagon late (my clean collection hadn’t yet resorted to thuggery with the genre being represented only by the pristine Q-Tip, Pete Rock and CL Smooth, Heavy D and a few candy rappers like DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince), I so appreciated the flow that was Jigga. Favorite song from this year was "Song Cry."

2002
LL Cool J’s "Luv U Better" made my buy the aging and ever-wack rapper’s "10". I still get clowned, but I don’t care. This was a hype song, even if "Ladies Love Cool James" raps like the Cat in the Hat. (Lol)

2003
OutKast blew up the charts for "Hey Ya" and as much as I loved the video featuring Andre 3000 serving as backup for his own all-Andre band (complete with singers displaying their "jazz hands"), I have to give the nod the duo between Ms. Knowles and Mr. Carter. "Crazy in Love" was the "get hype" song of this year for me. This was the year I finally had to convince myself to finally stop saying I "just"graduated from college (*sigh*), I needed some new thing to get excited about (Lol)

2004
When the Black Album dropped, I being the ever-stubborn listener, wasn’t swayed by all the buzz. What could Jay-Z possibly do to try to match his debut and "Blueprint"? And then I heard "Encore". As much as I think Kanye is on the special bus on the mike, behind the boards, the man is nothing short of genius. John Legend pushes the piano keys. I, moving forward on my many roadtrips to New York City and D.C., pushed play—repeatedly.

2005
This year it’s just sooo hard to pick the one that screams "2005" in the year of Mahogany. After hearing droves of rappers/singers descend upon the airways, without—I’m certain— as much as the ability to spell their own names, I have heard only a few good songs. But, there are some leading contenders like Mariah’s throwback to old Mariah, "We Belong Together." And of course, there is the ever grandiose wall of sound that is Mr. West. (My personal pick of West production is Common's "It's Your World"). But to symbolize the year— I think I'd lean towards something more universal. As Ms. Shirley Bassey sang famously for the James Bond soundtrack and in his sample, "Diamonds are Forever." Only time will tell, but they just might be *wink*...

Hope Floats?

2005-09-07T13:35:00.000-04:00

My hope is built/
On nothing less/
Than Jesus' love/
And righteousness/

I had to sing this hymn to myself to help me get some of my thoughts together... away from the constant informative but trying buzz of NBC and Fox News. Away from the inundation of articles, pleas for help, and cries of mistreatment by our "justice for all"-promising government.

All this week and last, I read the stories of the unlikely (families saving themselves by scratching out of attics, many successfully just escaping their watery graves), the improbable (a six-year-old left to care for six children all under the age of 5, after they were separated from their mothers) and the downright impossible (Bush saying that no one could have predicted the damage that the storm and the ensuing levee breakage could wreak on New Orleans. ) I nearly fell apart looking at the photos of the scene in Time's cover story on the flood and the aftermath. One woman—-a heavyset black lady--could have easily been somebody's Ma'Dear, or the nice woman at church who makes the chicken fundraiser dinners to raise money "for the chulren to go to school." Could have been, except for the fact that she was floating face down, arms out as if she were momentarily seized by the Holy Spirit. But the picture made it ever so obvious. This was no Sunday morning passing move of the ghost. It was her final resting place.

To a slightly lesser extent, my emotions weren't any more quieted when I saw two more photos, circulating on the net, which paired two groups of people— one white and one black, both equally desperate, dragging black plastic trash bags of items they obtained. The difference, as an angry Kanye pointed out so bravely (even if a bit jumbled) on NBC last week, was that one was described as "looting", the other as "finding". How a photographer shooting from the air could have done enough reporting to differentiate remains to be seen. But what appeared to have happened was res ipsa loquitor. It spoke for itself. Black people, it seemed, stole. While, white people did what they had to do to survive.

I could hardly make sense of the images I was seeing. And, a question kept popping up in my head — why exactly was this happening again? Our country, which could send commandos into David Koresh's Waco, Texas compound at the drop of a hat; which could find Saddam in his narrow, underground lair; which could in its infant years, wrestle itself free from an oppressive British monarch with nothing but a ragtag militia determined to scratch out its independence, could not muster even the slightest bit of concern that people.were.dying? I listened to Mayor Nagin's expletive laden pleas...and understood.

I hate to get on the bandwagon and state the obvious, but talking to a friend last night, we wondered what might have happened if Hurricane Katrina hit—say, yuppie Connecticut? Or maybe suntanned Malibu? Would people have been left to drown simply because their leader was more content to fly above with his dry and safe canine, then to actually touch down and walk (maybe swim even?) among the people, still fighting for their very lives. Maybe his mother conveyed the government's attitude towards the hurricane victims best, when she spoke of the victims, "many of the people who, you know, are very underprivileged anyway", who had been evacuated to Texas as being in a situation that "works very well for them." Yes, Mrs. Bush, I'm sure these people think it's just the cat'spajamas. (Send my apple pie to George H.W. See him on the golf course.) Meanwhile, the senior Bush's octogenarian peers lie on conveyor belts at a Louisiana airport, some slumped in their wheel chairs, others bobbing in rat-infested, filthy waters because of circumstance and poverty.

I'm told hope floats.

All the Way Live -- Or Not

2005-08-29T22:09:00.000-04:00

"Well it's too late baby. No, it's too late/

Though we really did try to make it/

Something inside has died/

And I can't hide and I just can't take it"

As sung by the Stylistics

I know, you read this and you think, well Mahogany must be crying her eyes out over some Casanova catting around. Nyet, my lovely blog readers. I sing this song only to mourn the loss of the MTV Video Music Awards... ahem, to a traveling band of rogue nigrahs and their amigos!!

To think that I semi-rearranged my schedule to make sure I was home to view the awards show which in the past has produced such priceless moments as Eminem fighting a standard issue puppet dog, the Wayans brothers co-hosting and becoming the nouveau Venus and Serena Williams, and my absolute favorite--Puffy and his minions of Bad Boy performing a moving tribute to the Notorious B.I.G. when it actually appeared to be a tribute and not another McMansion-getting ploy for the nattily clad, tap dancing Ronald McNegro (a.k.a. Puff Daddy a.k.a. P daddy a.k.a. Diddy a.k.a. Poppa Diddly Pop).

So imagine my disgust when I tuned in at around...oh, 10 p.m. (Pray to loose that C.P.T demon from mah bones, chuch!). Anyways, I'm looking at the screen and there is Puffy in the middle of some sort of monsoon... or is that him directing? What the devil? It was taking me too long to figure out what was going on. So, I took the opportunity to journey to the kitchen to get some ketchup for my fries. And, check my e-mail. And, alphabetize my CDs... LOL

By the time I get back the show I'm still as thoroughly confused. Why is Eva Longoria (the most trying to be J. Lo person I have ever seen with mine own eyes) struttin about in ruffles and pannie-draws? Are ya jokin', I wonder? And then when her rationale doesn't draw cheers from the audience like I am sure she had hoped, she looks sort of deer-caught-in-the headlights. As she should be. Where was her momma--letting her out the house looking like that?

Love the performance of Kanye and Jamie Foxx. But my previous "Special Bus" thoughts (see my 8/26 post) still stand about his flow. Glad he had Jamie to add in the live vocals *singing* "Goldiggggah", but what was up with latter gentleman's goatee with the extra "scruff and tuff" at the bottom? He reminded me of what the offspring of Cee-Lo and Sammy Davis Jr. might look like. Jamie -- love ya brotha. Love the acting. Love the spirit. Love the suit. But, that was not a good look.

There were a couple of other things I failed to understand about the show. Like, why was 50 Cent performing? Wasn't he so 2001? I mean, really... He sings another version of the same song in every one of his raps and then proceeds to prance about the stage in the same undershirt I see him in EVERYWHERE? Isn't it time to put it in the hamper, Fitty? Geez. And not to be macabre, but part of me wishes those trashbag pants he was sporting would have caught on fire as he rapped in glowing ring. At least it would make the otherwise useless pyrotechnics something to watch.

And, is it me or does anyone else not believe that Kelly Clarkson is a rocker? I'm sorry Kelly, but no matter how dirty your feet look from walking in the crowd, no matter how much you yell, no matter how much you stick out your tongue and try to look cool... I DON'T BELIEVE YOU. Sorry, I saw you on Fox primetime with all of the confetti streaming down, while you kissed a crazy Barnum and Bailey refugee clown... I mean Justin Guarini...crying and singing "Moments Like This" when you won on American Idol. You had crazy Punky Brewster-stlyle highlights and a red prom dress made from some sort of faux velvet material. I saw you Kelly. LOL. And rocker are you not. You have pipes, not hating. In fact, Strangez Shante on that note. But please stop trying so hard.

Which brings me on to other news. I found it problematic that we had to watch Kelly... and that random Chemical "we love Beezlebub" band yell at the top of their lungs when a REAL bonafide rocker and utterly too cool for the show diva, Ms. Gwen Stefani, sat in the audience filing her nails and eating Cracker Jacks. What was MTV thinking?! I mean really. Even I, who sometimes grows tired of the Neptunes' clankety clank beats and am quite decidedly none's "hollaback gurl", am known to walk about my house singing this "ish is bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S." lol. Plus, she was rocking her OWN style... and she always does with such aplomb. I would have cheered for the 5-inch stilletos alone *Making a mental note to google where she got them*. But no... MTV says we have to watch a pretend rocker... and her dirty feet. Hrmph...

Among the other travesties...R-uh Kelly morphing from your average Joe Red devil pedophile to -- I dunno -- a pedophile with multiple personalities performing what could be thought of as his latest addition to the overflow of chitlin circuit church plays "Trapped Inside the Closet". (I personally am glad to say I didn't witness this one as it came on before I commenced viewing. (or maybe when I took that long, Diddy-induced break?) But to hear it retold and see the photos was more than enough.). Next on the horror list I did not witness but was told about was 50 cussing out Fat Joe. *And now a moment of silence for the Little Rock Nine, Martin, Malcolm, Fannie Lou Hamer and everyone else who gave their life or life's work to open the door for crack rock porchmonkeys to have their stage. Wait... give them a moment to roll over in their graves. Martin, you all the way over yet? Okay. Shall we?* *Clearing throat* Joe, please thank Our Lady of Guadelupe, and Fitty, your grandmomma ... and the heavens above... that you are not saying "Welcome to McDonalds. How may I help you?" lol I swear... you nigrahs have about a half a G.E.D. between you and you get riches, recognition...and a prime TV awards show... and ACT CLEAN OUT! I have no words... Meanwhile, while you wild out, a group that has been rocking for years, while wearing ... ahem, mascara makes off with all the awards. Now, who's the real gangsta? lol

Lastly, Destiny's Child showed a brave face and came out in their final (for now?) appearance at the VMAs. As much as this almost brought a tear to my eye, I was disappointed to see that the admittedly talented and vivacious Beyonce was playing Miss "stand back, don't block my stage light" Diana until the very end. Will state the positive first. The hair was hooked. The bangles were on point. And, I almost thought she had dialed Ms. Ross to borrow the dazzling dress that she and her 'nems (the Supremes) debuted in on the Ed Sullivan show back in the 60's. But why, on their very last MTV appearance did Beyonce make it so painfully obvious that they were not now/were not ever in the past/ nor were they ever going to be truly a group. I could just visualize Tina Knowles backstage scurrying to help B with hair and makeup and fabulous sequined dress, while Michelle and Kelly look from the wings with forlorn eyes. Finally as curtain call nears, and the girls, still sans dresses mention this sad fact to their patron saint, Ms. Knowles. She scowls at them, her lips forming a tight beak. "You want dresses? Very well then." *She pries open a chest in the corner and finds two rayon dresses from Solange's 1987 Christmas party and throws them at them.* She adds, "Here, now scram!" LOL And though all of this is just in my mind's eye, we might as well have been backstage. Poor Kelly and Michelle. I do wish them well. I hope they can salvage the remnants of their mercurial fame for lifelong riches. And I do hope that in the years to come they aren't like me, left looking at the TV screen tuned to the once-cool MTV Video Music Awards, wondering when things went wrong. Remembering when it was all so snazzy. When the VMAs were fountain from which other award shows drew their youthful piece de resistance. Singing quietly... "It's too late baby. It's too late."

Mahogany Musings...

2005-08-26T23:30:00.000-04:00

Just my thoughts--right or wrong. Just what I was feelin' at the time. - Jay-Z

8:15 a.m. -- Okay, so I admittedly have lent my share of haterade to Kanye (Or bighead Kanyeeze as I like to call him.) I love his production skills (see Jay's "Encore" and Talib's "Just to Get By".) But, I've always felt like he raps like he takes the short and yellow bus to school. Perhaps that's ignant... *cough* ...Anyways, however much I clown, the best of his tracks make up for any of his flowicist deficiencies. A case in point, a song I can't stop playing on I-tunes (on my computer)... "Diamonds from Sierra Leone." Every morning, I've been waking up to Shirley Bassey singing "Diamonds are forever/ They won't leave in the night/ There's no fear that they might hurt me/ Diamonds are forever, forever, forever ... Forever, FOREVAH!" Love it in all it's fabulousity. All of it's drama, pomp and circucmstance. This week, Mr. West also made the cover of Time where they've called him the "smartest man in pop music". Hmm... anyone else see a wittle stwetch here? But, okay, I won't judge a book by it's ... well, you know. So, I'm all about poring through it on the ride in today.

9:55 a.m. -- Okay once again, I am on C.P.T. *Geez, I can't stand it! I'm going to need not to have the black time gene anymore. For the love of all...* Anyways, I'm on the BX2 express bus sitting next to some lady who smells like moth balls and cough syrup. I'm reading the Time piece or trying to...by mentally beaming myself out of the bus and away from the moth balls. Okay, now that I have shut down my sense of smell, I can concentrate. Hmm... first thought. Really well-written. Much smarter take than a stodgy newsmagazine usually comes up with. *Reading further* Witty. I'm sold... Kanye is funny as usual. Conflates angels in a Prague cathedral with a need to cast big-boneded women in his "Diamonds" video. It appears, the construction of contradiction. But, this, it seems, is his calling. It's how "Jesus Walks" can be on the same CD as that song about the ho workout. Irony is the stuff of life. *Pausing momentarily to strike the pose of Rodin's Thinker* I'll take it. That is until I get to the "hip hop for dummies chart" that accompanies the piece. Uhm... how in the ham sammich does one make a chart of such and omit Common Sense... and KRS...wow...and Mos, Kweli, The Roots, MC Lyte... Now, obviously all the peeps couldn't fit on such a list. But these are big omissions. *Imagining the big pile of verbally mangled complaint letters the mag's gonna get this week* LOL... Mista mail reader, sucks to be you :)

10:20 a.m. - 6:00 p.m. -- Switching gears here... I'm doing entirely too much work today/yesterday/ the day/ week before. I haven't been able to do my compulsive e-mail checks. No calls to catch up on TV (*Start of plug* In case you were wondering how my cousin fared on SoapNet's "Who Wants to Be a Soapstar", he made it to the final three people. Shout out to Tou. LOL *End of plug*). What else haven't I been able to do for having to work 10 plus hours straight? Oh yeah, no-- gasp--blog hopping where I habitually soak up the witty underpinnings of the sphere. What's that you say? You mean your editor is watching you like you're *singing* Hey there, how ya doin?/ My name is Harriet, last name Tubman/ I was wonderin' if I could proof this page?/ Maybe fix a graph/ Maybe sweep yo' house/ Here is my work phone/ And you can call me/ But don't forget, the name is Harri. Lawudmercy. I couldn't have been a slave. No jest. They would have had to just shoot me...

7:00, 8:00 p.m.-- Why I am still here?

9:00 p.m. -- Cycle, wash and repeat question. Hrmph...

9:30 -- Heading out... on that midnight train to the Boogie Down. Or on a rare day, driving along on the West Side Highway. Few things are better than watching the George Washington Bridge approach, all blinged out, with Jersey on the left as you follow the North Star home. LOL. And of course you're pushing *cough* 90 mph, so you feel the adrenaline. Of course it's all while chilling out to Patrice Rushen's "Forget Me Nots", blasting J.T. Money and Soleil's "Who Dat?" (threw you for a loop with that one, didn't I? LOL) or singing along to the oh-so-underrated GQ's "I Do Love You." The day's drained away in the music. Rhythm rinses and re-starts. So, by the time I get to catch those eight hours (a must), I'll be ready to -- like Mavis and Pops (Staples) sang -- "do it again."

The Music of My Mind

2005-08-15T19:40:00.000-04:00

A beaming me...Mahogany Elle

Songs I'm playing right now: Message in Our Music -- The O'Jays; Still Water (Love) -- Four Tops; Footsteps in the Dark -- Isley Brothers; Imagination -- Earth, Wind and Fire and the song that best expresses my state of mind right now, Uptight (Everything's Alright) -- Stevie Wonder

I've posted my pic for the first time not because I'm less cautious... (Strangah crazies, this is not an invitation to burn my house down, kay? Thanks. lol) But because I think my smile expresses the appreciation I have for the good peeps over at Yolanda Writes. They've featured R&W as their August 15 and 22 week's "Top Blog/Underblog." While I'll spare you my impromptu rendition of Ms. Diana's "Aint Mo Mountain High Enough" and my ensuing acceptance speech, I wanted to make sure you were properly shouted out. Thanks y'all!

Short post today, but I wanted to leave all you good people reading with some wisdom from Mr. Wonder. It's carried in the vocal chords of Mr. Keith John from the very lovely School Daze soundtrack. The song is called "I Can Only Be Me." God's grace and peace be upon you.

Butterflies begin from having been another.

As a child begins from being in her mother's womb.

But how many times have you wished you were some other,

Someone than who you are?

Yet, who's to say that if all were uncovered. you would like what you see.

You can only be you. As I can only be me...

Flowers cannot bloom, until it is their season.

As we would not be here, unless it was our destiny.

But how many times have you wished to be in spaces, time places

Than what you were?

Yet who's to say, that with unfamiliar faces, you could anymore be you

Love the you that you see.

You can only be you.

As, I can only be me.

Thanks for the Meme-ories

2005-08-11T15:05:00.000-04:00

So I "borrowed" this from a blogger (thanks Will). Anyways, self-diagnosed "attention deficit disorder" me can't sit down in one place long enough to complete the whole thing, so here's a snippet. As they sang in the "Sound of Music", ahem-- a few of my favorite things...

5 locations I’d like to runaway to: Brazil; Nice, France; Greece; Egypt (when this mess in the middle east is over); Kenya.
5 bad habits I have: Procrastination, talking too fast, procrastination, being late every-freakin-where, not finishing what I start.
5 favorite things to do: Writing, shopping, listening to a music collection unmatched in North America, laughing and talking on the phone
5 things I would never wear: Parasuco jeans (guess I could never live in DC), Fashion Fair makeup (that 80's hot pink lipstick has got to go! LOL), a jheri curl, any day-glo colors, a leather skirt.
5 TV shows I like: A Different World, The Wonder Years (But I hated Winnie Cooper...always picking on my Kevin. Hrmph...) Good Times, Law and Order and back in the day... say it with me y'all... 3-2-1... Contact!!
5 movies I like: The Five Heartbeats, The Truman Show, THE WIZ!!!, Kings of Comedy, Crooklyn
5 famous people I’d like to meet: Nikki Giovanni, John Coltrane, Angela Davis, Jimmy Carter and Fannie Lou Hamer
5 snacks I enjoy: Salsa Doritos, cereal (*singing* Can't get enough of Super Golden Crisp. It's got the crunch with punch..Yeah!"), hot cheese popcorn, cherry/lemon water ice (Philly, where you at?!) and mom's cherry crisp
5 biggest joys at the moment: writing, discovering New Yawk, meeting/ talking to people, traveling, living life.
5 favorite toys: my cell, my car (affectionately known as "the Rolla"), my comprutah, my credit card (I know that's four, can't think of any others that I really need)
5 bands or singers whose song lyrics I know: Earth...Wind... and Fiyah (you know they had to come first--I probably know more of their songs then they do LOL), A Tribe Called Quest ("Who can drop it on angle--acute at that/ So, do-dat, do-dat, do-do-dat-dat-dat". Get hype!), the O'Jays (some of the most beautiful songs ever sung like "Loving you, has made my life much sweetah baby/ Ever since I found you, everything is alright/ Everything is so nice." Whoo... just love 'em!), Jackson Five (self explanatory), Gladys Knight and Pips ("If anyone/ Should ever write/ My life's story/ For whatever-- for whatever reason there might be/ You'll be there between each line of pain and glory/ Cause you're the best thing that's ever happened to me.")

Rays from Hotlanta

2005-08-08T13:37:00.000-04:00

Sing it with me y'all ... And with a pen and pad, I compose this rhyme to hit you and to get you equipped for the summertime.

Will Smith, a.k.a. The Fresh Prince, probably didn't have a professional conference of writers in mind when the poet from Stratford Upon West Philly penned this now-classic ode to summer. But, it's a fitting song that describes the good time that was had in Atlanta last week at Freaknik '05... I mean the national convention of writing brown folk. By day, journalists discussed the happenings of the day, from hearing from T.D. Jakes on the mega church's place in the black community to voting rights education from everybody's fave baby dad-- the admittedly oh so fresh and clean Rev. Jackson (True story: He was staring hard...I mean long enough to take a picture... from two tables away as I lunched, clad in pearls and Jones New York, with a mentor of mine...*Shaking head* Uhm, no comment. And no, Mahogany me was not interested in becoming baby momma #2 LOL).

So anyways, of course yours truly was at everyone of these in depth, thought provoking discussions (that statement is absolutely true... if Al Sharpton doesn't get a touch up every other month and if Flava Flave has a dental plan in use.) Okay, so maybe I wasn't actually at any of these talks. Instead, I was chatting it up with a host of media moguls trying to get them to cosign my goal to take over the world. LOL. But, although the heavy hitters abounded, what seemed to draw the real news was the constant partying.

*And now for an illustrative song break* "3 in the morning, the pancake house, 4 in the morning you can hear [us] start to shout, 5 in the morning, calling a cab. 6 in the morning, talking bout the fun [we] had. 8 in the morning, just gettin' home, talkin' bout the overnight scenario--scenario."

One had only to look in the hotel lobby to see the culluds making use of the space as macking grounds... As dawn approached, the staff would turn the air conditioners on in the hopes of possibly luring the legions of negroes away from the public area, but a tropical people who have survived slavery usually find a way to adapt. Chilly air? We put on sweaters. They put the chairs up? We stand in pimpin' pods (circles) like whaat?! Club Lobby was in full effect every day... as Naughty by Nature once said, till the break o' break o' dawn. Unlike many locations that you can find M. Elle at, this location saw no discrimination. There we were, young and old (and real old) mack professionals, amateurs and aspiring mack artists. (*Sidenote - Why is it that, in addition to the rare occasion of the said rebum *shaking head* I always attract the attention of old and/or effeminate men? Clutching pearls... Um scuse me, if you have four grandkids, a mortgage and outstanding alimony balance, kindly step to the rear. Toe thong sandals and a Burberrry sarong? Please follow the gentleman in front of you. *singing w/ Ms. Cracky Houston* "My name is not [Terry]/ So, watch what you say/ And if you still need her, then be on your way! End note*)

Still as it was the place to be, on one of these said nights, a triumvirate of friends journeyed to the lobby to see what we might see. We got to chatting with a brotha (and his friends), a professional at a media organization that shall not be named and learned that he was Dave Chappelle's seemingly long lost cousin (or at least in spirit). The man delivered a spontaneous comedy routine over the span of at least an hour that left us all in stitches. Unfortunately, I didn't bring my notebook, but here, from my wiz bang memory, are excerpts...

On marriage and money: After asking me whether I would ever consider signing a pre-nup (Of course not), this man, we'll call him John Q. Negro, commenced on said speech. If I walk into a situation with three kwatuhs (quarters), I want to leave with my three kwatuhs. Even if I'm dead. I want them to lower me in the casket and then have somebody flick my three kwatuhs in there with me... (After a possible split) If I have to pay, at least make me think that I'm paying the baby's tuition or somethin'. Don't be up in my house that I paid for with another ni---ah. Then I'd have to have a prob-a-lem. I'll be in the bushes everynight nekkid with gloves on. And, I'm stabbin' everybotay!"

On upward mobility: John Q., although a successful media pro, told us of his aspirations to aspire to greater heights. Over his bed, he said, he has a picture of Oprah's beau, Stedman. For he is John Q's deepest inspiration. Every black man should aspire to win a woman with millions, he said. Every night, I pray. I touch his head and pray (mimicking the preachers that push folks down at the altar by touching the wall) and I say, Lawd, you know what I NEED!

To a homeless man: The man came out of nowhere as the group of us walked down the street. Granted it was past midnight, but the man should have known better than to ask him this. Or at least, now he does. Homeless/crack man: "Ey yo', mista can you come with me to the gas station?" John Q. Negro looking at the man like he has three eyes, "Man, I don't know you!" Homeless/crack man: repeats question. John Q, "Nuckah is you crazy?! Yeah, Ima go to the gas station with you stranger killah. Where's the gas station? Oh, in that dark alley? Okay, let's walk down the alley. You gonna get yo' boys to jump me? Okay cool."

[END NOTE -- Thanks for your patience with me, y'all it's been quite the hectic, with school starting, traveling, job hunting, and general buffoonery. More soon, I promise!]

Is You Is or Is You Ain't?

2005-07-19T20:15:00.000-04:00

now playing: Maiden Voyage, Herbie Hancock

I think Black Sheep said it best, "Back on the scene, crispy and clean. You can try, but don't worry cause you can't intervene..." Not really the way I was feeling today, but I have to sort of hype myself up cause I admit I've been feeling a little, well, blue. I'm at a crossroads career/school wise and I have been hoping that God will point me in the right direction. And ...uhm point me to the bling... well at least enough to be comfortable. To totally permutate Billy Dee Williams' classic phrase in "Mahogany", "Success is nothing without [a bangin' 401 K]". Ha. How I do make me laugh.

Anyways, whenever, I'm a little indecisive on course of action, jazz seems to come in at just the right moment (Do ya thing Herbie.) And, in times like these, it strikes me as especially amusing to read up on the goings on of the world's most important citizens-- celebs, of course. Doing so somehow makes me feel more grounded and practical. And, of course I get a kick out of their stunts (see Cameron Diaz drop kicking a photographer, or Jay Z snatching a paparazzi's camera BK style.) Anyway, I once created a magazine feature that fictionally paired celebs, talked about what they had in common and what would precipitate a case of Splitsville. Luckily, I've found it among the relics of the past year (my stacks of books, CDs and take out menus). Don't know about y'all, but I would pay good American dollars to personally witness any of these unions. (or maybe just write a bounceable check. LOL) Presenting for the first time on Rhythmandwords...

“Is You Is or Is You Ain't my Baybay?”

Tyson Beckford and Tyra Banks: You might be hard pressed to find a better-suited duo: Banks, the diva who is said to have fought hataration from the likes of a Naomi who shall not be named to ascend to the top ranks of the modeling world and Beckford, who made Toni Braxton’s “Unbreak my Heart” video sing with his catlike gaze are so in love.
They fight over who gives the camera “better face” and who rightly deserves the nickname “Ty Ty”
She keeps her contract with IMG modeling and her “America’s Next Top Model” T.V. deal
He keeps the memories of when he was the best eye candy since Christopher Williams

Ludacris and Diana Ross: When he moves, we move, just like that. But the ATL-playa was knocked to his knees when he encountered the original Detroit diva, Ms. Ross. They share a love for the spotlight, large mouths and of course, the biggest hair on God’s green earth.
The fight over who has the better ‘do, who can rock fur coats with more ghettois sparkle and whether more seduction seeps from the diva’s disco hit “Love Hangover” or Luda’s “Splash Waterfalls”.
She keeps her Afro wig and screenplay from the Motown film, “The Wiz” (she played Dorothy) He keeps the “Awl his Cadillac spills” and shiny new Air Force Ones

Mike Tyson and Angelina Jolie: The former boxing champ and pouting actress have one thing in common – they both, off screen and on, respectively, know how to kick a--. Jolie fell for the prizefighter because of his hunger for sport, his raw emotion, and yes, that Maori warrior tattoo around his eye (it’s so dreamy). Tyson admired her love for older men and her willingness to try new things (like becoming an adoptive mother)
They fight over whether she can really body slam him, who has better tattoos
She keeps her knife collection, previous divorce papers
He keeps his punching bag, previous divorce papers

Snoop Doggy Dog and Sarah Jessica Parker: These two came together over an obvious love for the bling. Sarah worked it out to no end on “Sex and the City” and now that it’s in reruns on TBS, the couple has had a little more time to borrow some of each other’s style pointers. For ’05: fur is still hot for the Dizzle. The S.J. Pizzle will still be rocking the Manolos.
They fight over whom the mirror calls “the top dogg of them all” (see Snoop’s rendition of Slick Rick’s classic, “Lodi Dodi”). Also, there’s conflict over access to the clear pimp polish (Snoop uses a lot for those second coats)
She keeps her shoes (of course) and royalties from “Sex in the City”
He keeps his pimp cane and chalice

Missy Elliott and Jermaine Dupri: Not only do these two hitmakers share the fact that they put a lot of time in the studio (she counts “Hot Boyz” among her hip hop hits, one of his best known collaborations was with Jay Z on “Money Ain’t a Thang”) but at just 5’ 1 and 5’3 respectively, they both share the experience of having been turned away from a few amusement park rides.
They fight over who holds a lifetime membership to the Wizard of Oz’s “lollipop gang”
He keeps Janet Jackson’s # on speed dial
She keeps her UPN reality show, “The Road to Stardom” and her Virginia Beach mansion

Jay Z and Lani Guinier: The owner of the “flow of the century” matched up with one of the Harvard Law School’s most loquacious black scholars? Look out Will and Jada. We think we have the new model black couple on our hands. Guinier will trade her tenured professorship for life as a rap roadie (“L-to the izz A, N to the izz I, that’s the anthem, get your d--- hands up!”). Jay will learn a few SAT words to accent his colorful phrasing.
They fight over whether Guinier will take time off from offering analysis of the affirmative action debate to indeed be “the hottest chick in the game wearing [his] chain”.
He keeps his millions and sexy Brooklyn accent

She keeps her legal briefs and institutional culture navigation map

Here's a chance to make it...

2005-07-18T19:38:00.000-04:00

If we focus on our goals. We can ditch it. We can take it. Just remember that you've been told... It's a Different World.

So, my brain has been in stasis as I hadn't been able to think of a darn thing to write. Well, it's another week, another Monday, yada, yada. I spent the whole weekend doing absolutely nothing, well except for assisting with chores like pulling weeds and sweeping down the stairway (*note to self -- do not come back to parents' home without personal manservant Belvedere in tow*). I also read story after story on the latest evidence as to why Karl Rove (aided by his White House minions) is the devil incarnate. The third and capstone activity pour moi was watching taped Different World reruns at my aunt's abode. (It really doesn't take a lot to make me happy *smile*). I do so miss that show and what it stood for -- chronicling the lives of intelligent, funny black people. *Drafting my "Bring on a Reunion Episode Petition" as we speak.* So, I took it upon myself to go through the vault and pull some of the classics...

- Dwayne's mother comes to visit and his girlfriend Kenu prepares a Japanese lunch for the three of them: Whenever I think of this episode, I think of Patti LaBelle shrieking "They're fighting over you like a bone scrap. Do you think I raised you to be a bone scrap?... AND THEY DROPPPED MY PRUNE COBBLER TOO?! I'm mad now!" She was just great--a black mother personified, ready to attend to the every concern of her beloved Chipmunk. This episode also features Whitley once again calling Kenu everything but her name (Ki-Ki, Ki Li Da Da, Kookali, Kenusabi). Pure hilarity. But Kenu finally hits the road... to my (and Ron's) amusement.

- The crew goes to visit South Carolina: Kim and Freddy happen upon boytoys they later find out to be homies "pushin' dope for da man" (to quote Curtis Mayfield). Dwayne and Ron mistakenly happen upon their bags which are filled with deniro. Needless to say, dudes are on the lookout for them and try to kill them all. But then Sinbad comes in the nick of time and in the midst of a storm to save the day with his classic "Star Trek" V-hand grip and breaks those fools. Loved it.

-Of course the piece de resistance was the wedding: Diahann Carroll, playing Whitley's mom, was fabulous, or as Shaza told her, "Besides this obvious display of bourgeois blabeddy blab...you look good!!" I do have a confession to make. At the time, a middle school-aged M. Elle wanted Whitley to marry Byron. (After all, she was going to be the wife of a senator. Need I say more?) But after watching it 20 more times since it aired originally, I understand why she was destined for Mr. Wayne. After all, he let her be herself. Anyways, the ceremony's greatest moments came from Dwayne ("Please. Baby please!") and Ron, who looked like he was ready to take the ni$%ahs who wanted to knock Dwayne out. But of course, the most classic phrases came from Ms. Carroll. I love her Scarlet O'Hara tinged pre-ceremony instructions to Shaza. M. Elle has even used them on occasion at probate shows and the like to unbeweavably coiffed audience members. "Will you kindly sit in the rear, so your crowning glory doesn't block anyone's view?" And of course, her "Die, just die!" when Dwayne appears in the aisle is irreplaceable. Classic, just classic.

And, of course they are many other great ones... like when Whitley and Dwayne have to be a team for the college quiz bowl(*imitating Whitley "Harrah's in London!! My momma took me there")...the apartheid episode (when Whitley starts dating dashing Julian)...the episode where Dwyane sells his comprutah Peabody to raise tuition money for Whitley... the Kappa Lambda Nu episode...and the black history episode where Kim recites Nikki Giovanni's Ego Trippin'... (DW fans out there, feel free to chime in for any others if you can make a good case. *smile*)

Requiem for our Maestro

2005-07-03T21:13:00.000-04:00

When I heard the news, courtesy of my brother, it hit me like a thud to my chest. *Deep breath* Oh no. Not Luthah.

Even though legendary crooner Luther Vandross had been sick for some time, it's like I thought he'd always be here. And now, I'm sad--perhaps hypocritically so. Because, very few of us outside of Mary Ida really knew the real person inside of that velvet tenor, the boisterous jeweled jacket-donning showman, the gifted songwriter and arranger. The man whose voice we loved through weight gains and losses, through personal scares of stroke and sickness, through his and our lives. And yet, it seems superficial. How dare we moan and groan when we indeed we can't answer the questions of what his favorite color was or what he liked to cook most or even what his most enjoyed song was? Did we know what TV shows he watched, or whether he was quiet or gregarious at home? Or, how was it to be the man, that crazy uncle in the Nutty Professor, called da' black Pavarotti? I wonder what it was like of knowing that somewhere in America at any given moment a child was being conceived by the power of your vocal chords? LOL Or that a past couple somewhere else was split apart, listening to you, reminiscing on a love that they once had? That must have been some pressure, some responsibility. But, he carried it so very well. So well, that he left a legacy admirable by any standard that will carry generations through the ebbs and flows of the lives of those just scratchin' and survivin' to those enjoying the spoils of glamourous life. So, I wanted to remember Luthah as he sang it best, forever, for always, for love.

It was So Amazing, the first time I recall him singing. I was in the second or third grade and piled into a white station wagon with a play aunt of mine and a bunch of her kids. We were on the way to Sesame Place in Langhorne, Pennsylvania for summer fun. I'm pretty certain someone got their hide tore up on the way there (I can't remember who, but this aunt was notorious for threatening to pull the car over to whoop somebody's behind and usually lived up to her promises LOL). But, besides the preponderance of bad behind kids in the seats around me, what I remember most clearly is the radio."Stop to Love" was on and the "He touched my neck/ Stop kicking me/When are we getting there?!!" craziness momentarily abetted for us to all sing along as if Mr. Vandross was the guest vocalist at our moveable Romp-a-Room. *singing* "I love you stop. Stop! I still love you stop. Stop!"

Growing up in the years since, I often listened for Luther at family cookouts. Like fried chicken and potato salad, he never failed to appear. Sure there were also the Temptations, William "Smokey" Robinson and a little Dennis Edwards blasting from the box. But he was always there, Creepin' into the rotation--once, twice, maybe three times in an hour. But, it was Never Too Much to hear him belt out "skibbety dibbety dee dee (Well alright!) in Bad Boy/Having a Party or sing, "We are one having fun, walking in the Glow of Love." But for me, even more than singing along with Luther in a crowd, it was easier to be a Superstar in my room with a broom/paper towel roll as a mike. With my Teddy Ruxpin and black Barbies as my only audience, there were no pressures of constant tour dates, of always having to be perfect for adoring fans with an Endless Love for your music. Fans, who though they meant well, always wanted you to give them yourself, even when you were worn out/ sick/ tired "If Only for One Night, one more perfect song, they'd beg. Surely, Anyone Who Had a Heart would have told them to back off just a little and would have made Luther slow down a bit. Rest a little. Take five like Dave Brubeck. But it seems as though this was his calling--to give the wonderful music we craved and then journey on to the next life. Each Brand New Day he was granted, he gave us more. And though many of tunes were about matters of the heart, the topic never seemed old. It's probably because in life, as he sang, there's Nothing Better Than Love. Now, it wasn't always pretty. All of us can recall times past where A House is Not a Home touched a chord as my man sang softly, then belted, "Now and then, I call your name and suddenly your face appears, but it's just a crazy gae-eee-ame. When it ends, it ends in tears." And though his other popular tunes never really delved into the deep confusion that love sometimes leaves, he did help others tap into the underbelly of the word. His catchy "Da-da-dup, Dup-dup, Da-da-da-dup" scatting famously marked Stevie's classic "Part-Time Lover" and had me singing on the ride home from school like I knew what the heck they were talking about. But normally he showed us the sunny side of the subject. Promise Me, you'll keep your faith in love, that you'll treasure this gift from the Creator, he seemed to ask us. So, If This World Were Mine, I'd want to thank Luther for all the wonderful songs he left us, all the moving stories he told. It seems as the years passed, the struggles he faced never obscured his purpose to teach us that Once You Know How, you just never forget how to love. If I had the chance, I would say, "You are so missed. You spiced up so many lives, started so many parties--and, ahem families *smile*. Don't You Know? We love you. But then again, I bet a million dollars that you know.

Rest in Peace Luther Vandross.

Miss Cleo says...

2005-06-27T00:27:00.000-04:00

That I'm taking the lazy way out yet again (funny how this overachiever deal doesn't at all translate to my blogging.) I think this "How Do Your Friends See You" quiz is true, except for the fussy part (totally not me, I tend to go with the flow, unless of course, I perceive a nincompoop to be running the show. In that case, I will revert with a quickness to doing things my way, like Sinatra and Jay-Z *smile*. Also, I'm more laid back than this suggests (it helps that I have Stevie, Kweli, The Roots and E. Badu on regular rotation.) Most importantly, M. Elle does take risks...ahem, when she has reasoned out all things in advance and has decided that adverse affects will be minimal. Negative residuals of this personality: a usual state of "paralysis by analysis", with major career/life decision-making on pause while "pro-con" lists are made and remade and 50 friends are consulted by phone. Thank God for cellies *smile* Positive aspects: People always turn to me for advice because of my gut insticts (which are oddly right about 98 percent of the time. *shrugs*) My people know I love to laugh. But, you'll never spot me hanging from any chandeliers like a newly emancipated porchmonkey under a haze of debauchery. My mother did not a common woman raiseth. LOL

Slow and Steady

Your friends see you as painstaking and fussy.
They see you as very cautious, extremely careful, a slow and steady plodder.
It'd really surprise them if you ever did something impulsively or on the spur of the moment.
They expect you to examine everything carefully from every angle and then usually decide against it.

Hateration...Hollaration

2005-06-24T18:29:00.000-04:00

Now playing: The Roots, "Silent Treatment"
*clearing my throat* So, after all of my urging on of the Pistons, wishing ill to Robert Horry and casting aspersions about the misplacement of melanin on Duncan vs. "Man Up" Manu... I must concede and demurely express my congratulations to the snores... I mean, the Spurs of San Antonio for winning the NBA Championship. Gladly, I missed the silver and black confetti, as yours truly, after all of my anticipation found herself asleep...ahem, clean knocked out as the fourth quarter began. *Shaking my head* It's seems just as well that my body was telling me, to paraphrase the oh so fine Mr. Christopher Williams, "Don't wake me, I dreamin'." As to the various haters far and wide who seek to rub in the defeat, you get the uh, silent treatment. Actually -- two words: next year. Okay, a few more: we'll still take ANYBODY in an alley fight! LOL Where ya at Ben?! Rasheed? Shoot... Ricky will get down with his mask on and L'il Tay can throw a mean bony elbow.

On the Midnight Train to Texas

2005-06-21T16:26:00.000-04:00

So a certain someone who shall not be named had the sheer audacity to uh...haze me up on my own daggone outfit. These bloggers, I swear. LOL. I guess that person, whose name rhymes with Tex-Mex will be quieted knowing, despite an exhausting two weeks in M. Elle's world, she has returned.

cues radio to Aaliyah and Timbaland, "It's been a long time. Shouldn't of left you [left you] Without a dope beat to step to [step to, step to, step to... Fricky, fricky, fricky]."

Lucky for me and everybody pulling for da "313", the Pistons didn't give up when they were felled like Teeny did the Tin Man in the Wiz in Games 1 and 2 of the NBA finals. They used their hutzpah and grit to play like the true champions they know they are. And again, in game four. But what the ham sandwich happened in game five? *shaking my head*

I must state again, that you won't get a point-by-point analysis here...I'll leave that to the pros. But a few comments if I may...

I love the ruggedociousness of the Pistons, but here's a thought. Would it be possible to place a barber on the Detroit bench during those time outs? You know, Ben "in a coupla good fights before" Wallace could get a little shape up. Not sayin he should cut the fro, but he could make it look a little less like a parallelogram. For Rasheed "the rugged warrior" Wallace, maybe a little cut and mustache trim? I know that gansta is their motto and I love that. But, like my Alabama granddady would say, a little haircut never hurt nobody. Maybe just mull it over guys.

Ricky Hamilton, my boy, I stand corrected from my previous commentary. Clearly, as you displayed in games three and four, your mask has magical powers...like Rick James' imagined orange glow. LOL. You played like we knew you could, aided by Chauncey (*singing* "C" is for cluuutch, that's good enough for "3") Billups. Each game I become more of a fan. Ricky with his agility and speed and Chauncey because he reminds me of Sam Cassell in his prime minus the latter's strong resemblance to "Jack the Pumpkin King" in the "Night Before Halloween". Free throws like freaking close to 90 percent? Check. Speed of a lynx? Check. Hustle-osity? Uhm yeah... Like Jay-Z, what more can I say? But alas, in game five, "the best laid plans of mice and men, etc., etc."

Which brings me to my next point. I.hate.Robert.Horry. And his momma. (No, just kidding.) Aargh... the dude has been shooting the lights out ever so nonchalantly for like...I dunno... evah and no one bothers to guard him?! What kind of rooty pooishness is that? And it's not like he hasn't been in the league for a minute... Did not the Pistons watch the archived game footage of the NY Knicks-Houston Rockets series when the man shut them down...beat 'em like they stole something? I screamed, flailing my hands, seemingly in slow motion and Matrix-like at the TV, "Nooooooo!" as Robert went for the shot and too little, too late, Tayshaun "L'il Tay" Prince made a valiant leaping effort to try to block it. (*sidenote* If you read my last post, it seems that none of y'all threw him a meatball sub from the stands to help him bulk up, like I requested, because Horry seemed to smirk as if to say "You--block me? Dude, I can see thru you.") So he shot and... insert a boombastic "Swish!!!", "$$ in da' bank!!!", "Oh, it's so prettay!!!" or or whatever clever phrasing you'd like to describe that yet again, the team I was rooting for was felled by Mr. Horry. And now, the players from the "313" must head nobly into the great west, down 3-2 and valiantly try to shift the sands of fate. I wish them well. And that Tonya Harding sneaks on the Spurs team bus...with her spiked club. To borrow a phrase from Durham, North Carolina, "We finna get dirty."

The NBA on R&W

2005-06-09T23:10:00.000-04:00

Departing from our reguarly scheduled programming at Rhythmandwords (ie the Mahogany Elle Legends Ball) we interrupt to bring you a word from the NBA finals. Now, I didn't think that I would be enthralled on what was sure to be a visually lackluster series, filled with hard fouls and fundamentals from two stellar defensive teams, but as I watched the game last night, I realized that there's quite a lot to say (not about strategy, I'll leave that to the pros), but on the players.

I love Tayshaun Prince. I really do. He's scrappy, plays hard and has arms that could extend around the globe. (Literally. LOL) But, at 90 lbs soaking wet (*laughs* Okay, okay, I'll give him 120 lbs max) it's a little distressing to watch him go up against guys who are so much bigger than him. Though he plays tough, his jersey flaps in the wind, hanging off of his slight frame like a sheet on a clothesline. I feel like his momma yelling at the screen, "Boy eat a sammich before the game!". I get so worried that I want to go to the stadium and be like of those people who feed the homeless on subway cars. So here's my PSA for anyone with Finals tickets who wants to assist L'il Tay. Please discretely run up in the stands and throw him a meatball sub. Let's hope he can use those "Go, Go Gadget" arms to catch it, eat it and bulk up a little. He'll thank you when he's older. LOL

In other news, try as I might, I cannot bring myself to root for Tim Duncan for two reasons. 1.) He never shows any sort of emotion. There, I said it. True, the man is talented. True, he works hard. True, he's a team player. But I never have the sense that I can feel his passion for the game looking at him play. It's like no matter how many points he scores, he's just sort of there. Which brings me to my second reason, which hinges on the fact 2.) that he reminds me of a giant marshmallow. Really, he does. Now, let me qualify. He's not quite the mallow of magnitude from Ghostbusters (*rapping along to the B. Brown track in my head* "Too hot to handle, too cold to hold. We're ghostbusters and we're in control." LOL.) No, Duncan's more of a figurative marshmallow. I can't explain it. I see Duncan. I think marshmallow. *Shrugging and raising eyebrows*

Which brings me to my next point. Whatever bland adjectives come to mind watching Tim Duncan, the complete opposite happens watching his teammate Manu "Man Up Ni&%ah" play like he's at the Rucker or something. LOL. Man...I hadn't been following him closely before, but watching dude (I almost typed "the brotha") last night, I was thinking maybe he should have gotten the melanin instead. LOL (No racism intended, but Detroit, how y'all gonna let a white boy dunk on you twice?!! Especially, on my boy Rasheed "the rugged warrior" Wallace. LOL. Wow, was that was something to watch.) Well, the Pistons may not have gone home with the victory tonight, but there's still hope. Why? ... Two words -- Ricky Hamilton.

It took a long time, but I really respect and am rooting for Mr. Hamilton (whose nickname has always been "Ricky", not "Rip"... I don't know where that mess came from. LOL) The reason it took a while for me to get on board is because his college team stomped mine in the NCAA championship five years ago. And then, he poured salt in the wound my mercilessly talking junk when it was over. (I must have stared at the screen for a half-hour after the game was over, annoyed with his antics.) Anyways, in the years that have followed, I have seen how hard a worker and most of all what a talented athlete and poised individual he is. That said, Ricky, here's my message to you. I know Farnsworth has his umbrella, Odd Job has his deadly bowler hat and Nelly has his platinum caps, but when can we lose the daggone mask? LOL. It just seems odd, 'tis all. But maybe that (in addition to protecting his ever-breaking nose) adds to the lure of celebrity that is Mr. Hamilton. Which begs the question of what the mask mystique can do for people in other fields of work. Just imagine visiting your lawyer and he's wearing a plastic mask? (His rationale is it helps him "in the court"). Or your minister? (It's for the fast breaks to the "sinner's bench") The possibilities are endless...

*Announcer's voice* "This has been a production of the NBA on R&W"

Unsung Legends

2005-06-07T21:29:00.000-04:00

Now playing: Earth, Wind and Fire, Reasons (live)
*Singing along with Mr. Bailey* "It's all about looove. It's all about love." So, in this spirit, I've decided to turn over a new leaf. The lovely and sweltering summer weather here in NYC has given me a decidedly warmer approach to humanity. Translation: I think I have been pouring the haterade a little gratuitously recently. I certainly don't want anyone to misinterpret my sarcasm. I do love black people (Most black people. *smirking*) So today on this blog, I want to take a minute to pay some of our unsung heroes a tribute. It's sort of the "Mahogany Elle Legends Ball"... unfortunately, I won't get a chance to sport the Vera Wang as Oprah did (boo...) (Though like a remixed version of Stephanie Mills in the Wiz, I know if I continue to click my heals, the blowuptuate fairy will grace me with my magic Range Rover and glass slippers). Anyways, back to the honorees. Yes, so I'm thinking the celebration will be later this year. There's only one complication. Unfortunately, I'm not sure who these honorees are. I know what they have done, but couldn't pick them out of a lineup if I had to. Perhaps you, friends, bloggers, countrymen, can quell my confusion and crack the case so the invitations can be sent out on time (or at least on C.P.time) ... Thanks.

I've always wanted to know who was the first person to come up with the "rat" tail in the 80's? Who was the first person who sat up in his barber's chair and told Willie the barber, "Nah, man. Don't cut a little patch in the back of my head. I'd like to grow it much longer than the rest of my hair, thereby proclaiming my cool status loudly for all to see, along with my parted eyebrow. " I can't help but wonder how Willie, the middle-aged barber who lived through the Afro and Caesar alike, MLK, JFK, and the Detroit riots, replied. Or maybe he just gave that "I know you're crazy" look that old black men somehow all learn to do the same way. Anyway, if anyone has leads as to this first tail sporter, please inform him that M. Elle would like to bestow upon him the first "I thought up some ridiculous ish and got away with it" award. Thanks.

Who was the guy who engineered the fireworks for Michael Jackson's Pepsi commercial in the 80's? I'm not sure that this guy deserves a legend award in a good way, but quite possibly because C-O-Nspiracy theorist me suspects that this is where Mike first started to go downhill. After that first surgery on his head, which was necessary (and to a little M.Elle quite scary...I thought I would lose my favorite singer!), he caught the operation bug. In the years that would follow, he was back to get his nose chipped away, then hacked off, then the butt chin installed, then the cheekbones chiseled *sniffle*. And suddenly, he looked nothing like the poster with him in the bowtie and yellow sweater that my older cousin had... he looked nothing like the man with glowing socks I so admired. *Mocking Ricky's mom in Boyz in da Hood* "Look at what they did to my boy!". Since I'd rather not blame a man who is currently under so much fire in the courtroom and is quite obviously Coo Coo for Cocoa Puffs, I'd prefer to locate said engineer and present him with the second unsung legend award for totally destroying the greatest Moonwalking red jacket wearer ever. Thanks, man. You took my heart and stomped on it, singing "Mama say, mama sah. Mama coo sah". You're a cruel, cruel man. *sniffle*

Who first told Nick Ashford (of Ashford and Simpson) that a long perm was a good idea? Not hating on the brotha at all. Really, I'm not. He and his wife are a wonderful songwriting team that came up with the classic "Solid as a Rock" and my favorite, Diana's version of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough." But everytime I see Nick, I can't help but ask what Valerie said the first time he came home with three feet of unadulterated permed tresses. Call me narrow minded, but that would have been a signal for me to give buddy the walking papers (that and the fact that I spot him with mascara on in photos. Uh...what's really good with that?) I'll say again, I love the fact that they're icons and that they've been together for so long and I'm possibly wrong for saying I'd let a no-lye come between me and my man, but I'm just wondering how she reacted that first time. I'd also like know how he got to be that smooth to pull off the same 'do for thirty years and not blink an eye. That's some cool brotha! The third prize, the "So Talented I can get away with a Diana Ross 'do and no one will blink an eye" award goes to Nick and the mystery hairdresser who convinced him to make that move thirty years ago.

I have more awards to dispense, but seeing as how it is Africa-hot up in here, I'm going to have to hit you up with the second round at a later date. The committee is also taking recipient suggestions, this being a democracy and all, so in the words one rapper, holla back youngins (whoop. whoop.)

Shameless-selfpromotion.com

2005-05-31T21:29:00.000-04:00

My holiday weekend was an eventful one. I made it from Saturday to Monday with hair in tact (my pressed tresses narrowly escaped a drizzle but did okay until the very end, so that spelled s-u-c-c-e-s-s in my little book. And trust me, if you had to sit in the beautician's chair as long as I did, as she wielded a smoking comb and flat iron, you would see that wasn't an overstatement.) The highlight of Sunday was a beautiful wedding in which my "play" cousin played groom and his wife, my soror, played bride. The lovely couple was picture perfect and the wedding planners left no stone unturned. Ice sculpture with their names engraved? Check. Lovely floral arrangements complete with white lilies, pink tea roses and classic sprigs of ivy? Check. A wedding service where no one fell out on her train? Check. A reception in a gorgeous marble room with three entrees from the sea and the land? Check. Waiters who wait by your elbow in case your beverage should disappear from your cup? Well, you get my drift.

It was quite the wonderful experience every wedding should be and I was glad to see that once again, we can pull out all the stunts just as well as anybody. (As the new husband and wife danced at their reception, I was filled with joy for them. And, even the playing of Lionel Richie and Diana Ross's "Endless Love" didn't set off my gag reflexes in the way it normally does. It was that beautiful.) But that said...sometimes Nay Nay and Boo Boo don't need to come to the picnic, y'all. Let me explain...

No sooner than I fully took in the revelry of the evening (my calves, which played close kin to feet that were in three inch t-strap heels are still tired from the endless cha-cha, electric slides and party walks), was I forced to stare, mouth agape at a display that was nothing short of ... Hmm, what are the right words? Cullud shenanigans? No... that doesn't quite capture. I've got it... complete and utter ghettofabulosity. Yes, that's it. Imagine a conference on the state of black America with Anthony Anderson as the keynote speaker. Then, times it by three. Okay, stay with me.

At the reception, after we honored the bride in song, a family friend/play cousin's boyfriend decided that the event provided the proper venue for him to propose to his intended. No doubt, this was with some coaxing from his girfriend's family, but I digress. Anyway, the DJ calls him to the mike at which point the boyfriend calls her out on the floor and makes a grand announcement professing his undying love for her and asks her to marry him. Aside from the fact that I am elated at any display of black love and commitment, I could not... uh, "fix my face" to reflect that sentiment.

Stunned was I at the defiance of all etiquette. To make sure that I was not alone in my perception, I looked around at the guests, most were oblivious (after all, they were probably chatting about...I dunno... the bride and groom's wonderful day.) Others had expressions similar to mine (which to give you a mental picture looked something like Diahann Carrol's character in the wedding episode of "A Different World" after Dwayne rolled up at Byron and Whitley's wedding to claim his girl. Except there was no "Die, just die" and finger pointing from me. Nope, M. Elle was able to hold her tongue and her composure. Later, I communicated with an etiquette aficionado (i.e. my Louisville, Kentucky-raised grandmother) in the case that I had misjudged the newly engaged couple's scruples. She confirmed my sentiments. Another I asked, even went to far as to make a tongue-in-cheek suggestion... that the couple help pay for the wedding reception. After all, they also made it their engagement dinner, party and photo op. (They also had the audacity to greet the bride's guests at the tables as if it were their party. Hrmph!) Now, never let it be said that M. Elle is a snob. Never let it be said I don't have a heart. Never let it be said that I'm a Grade A Hater. But sometimes I have to ask myself, black people, couldja, I mean... could we, musn't we do it better? Please? *Shaking my head*

In other shameless self promotion news, as of today, M. Elle has reached her 1,500th reader. *beaming like I'm four and my mom just gave me a Koolaid popsicle* Yay!! Thanks to you guys for reading. I really just started this in late March as another writing outlet. Who knew I would become so enthralled with blogging and reading the sentiments of so many witty writers on the web (Yes, police are at present pulling me over for excessive alliteration. (*Addressing cop* Yes, officer, I understand, but if repeated consonant sounds are wrong, I don't wanna be right.) Anyways, more from me soon. *smile*

On Early Cullud Vacation

2005-05-26T21:07:00.000-04:00

Now playing: the classic soul hit "I Want to Thank You" by Alicia Myers

I usually frown upon such endeavors...but this was pretty fun to fill out. Ahem, yes I'm taking the lazy way out...don't clown cause y'all aint even coming into work today (LOL). *Nodding my head cause I caughtcha*...Well, anyway, these "blogthing" folks are right, I'm a combo of the three. Till we me again, may your Memorial Day weekend be filled with burgers on the grill, peace, love and sooooul *smile*

Your #1 Match: ENTP

The Visionary
You are charming, outgoing, friendly. You make a good first impression.You possess good negotiating skills and can convince anyone of anything.Happy to be the center of attention, you love to tell stories and show off.You're very clever, but not disciplined enough to do well in structured environments.
You would make a great entrpreneur, marketing executive, or actor.

Your #2 Match: INTP

The Thinker
You are analytical and logical - and on a quest to learn everything you can.Smart and complex, you always love a new intellectual challenge.Your biggest pet peeve is people who slow you down with trivial chit chat.A quiet maverick, you tend to ignore rules and authority whenever you feel like it.
You would make an excellent mathematician, programmer, or professor.

Your #3 Match: ENFP

The Inspirer
You love being around people, and you are deeply committed to your friends.You are also unconventional, irreverant, and unimpressed by authority and rules.Incredibly perceptive, you can usually sense if someone has hidden motives.You use lots of colorful language and expressions. You're qutie the storyteller!
You would make an excellent entrepreneur, politician, or journalist.

What's" Your Personality Type?

Be

2005-05-25T00:32:00.000-04:00

"God makes you valuable. Whether you recognize the value or not is one thing." - Mos Def, "Black on Both Sides"

So, I admit I was one amongst the crowd yesterday. It was 10 p.m. and after a great dinner chat with a friend at a nearby spot, this chica was resigned to being a groupie...of album release dates, that is. Try as I might to wait a couple of days until I bought Common's "Be" (I had previously been listening to the preview on okayplayer), I found myself at the Virgin Records store in Union Square. Standing in line (and M.Elle would rather march on Washington behind Al carrying his bucket of Popeyes than stand in somebody's line *smile*). Deciding whether to purchase the regular version or the two dollar DVD enhanced version. (I decided on the former. Big head Kanye was already getting enough of my money for his "jewry" endeavors. LOL)

Admittedly, I had heard enough snippets to convince me that it was indeed a gem (we talked about that yesterday). Though, I'm not necessarily a member of the Church of "Instant Vintage" Latter Day Rappers. (i.e. I agree with Panama, let's let this stew a bit, before we put it on the shelf next to Tribe's Midnight Marauders or Mos and Kweli's Blackstar or dare I say 'Trane, Miles and Ella.) That said, it IS the BEST thing I have heard in a long, long time. And, though I won't write a review on said blog (I'd much rather use this free space to emote LOL), I will share the particular effect the end of the complete version of "It's Your World" had on me.

As pops Lonnie gave yet another spectacular delivery of spoken word/truth/
admonition/encouragement to the masses who might put said sounds to their ears, I found myself doing something I hadn't done since I first listened to the piano-driven soul wrenching title track of Lauryn's Miseducation. I cried. Lest you think I'm a sappy girl *turning my nose up at you if you do*, it wasn't out of sadness, really. It was really out of a profound and deep respect for the power of music. Of words. Of youth starved for honesty. I thought about how the song probably started as a concept in someone's head. (Maybe it began with the beat in Kanye's...Common laid the verse and his father topped it all off along with a bevy of young kids talking about what they wanted to "be".) And before they knew it, they had crafted a piece of art/journalism/ghetto hymn that gets some kid through his high school exams and spurs him onward, that encourages a single mother waiting to transfer trains in between jobs, that tells a writer that she's doing something worth doing. I started to get emotional as the kids in the song rounded off what their plans were "I want to be an artist... I want to be an astronaut...I want to be the first African American female president." Such a simple thing, youth giving voice to their aspirations. But speaking delivers such power. And then, Lonnie delivered the real goods...

"Be here, be there. Be that, be this. Be grateful for life. Be grateful to life...Be you...Be aware. Be boundless energy...Be food for thought to the growing mind. Be the author of your own horoscope.. Be amended, five fifths human...Be a brilliant soul sparkling in the galaxy, while walking on earth...be eternal."

As I've written before, res ipsa loquitur. Or as the age-ripened deacons say in street corner churches -- Amen and amen.

Trickles from a Faucet

2005-05-21T16:43:00.000-04:00

Now Playing: "It's Your World" by Common (the smoov brotha's back!)

So, I've been blog-hopping as of late, reading the contributions of all the myriad talented verbal freestyle artists on the web. (Big shouts out to everyone I've parleyed with on comment pages in the last couple of days). Can't really say that I have a solid topic today, but just had a few thought drops I thought I'd share if you'll indulge me...

a. This is old news to many of you, but Common's Be is hot!! I don't think I've been this excited about an album coming out since Lauryn's Miseducation. Then, at the end of the summer just before I was about to go back to college for my sophomore year, I remember hounding brotha man in the record store around my way in Jersey until he agreed to give it to me a day early. (What can I say, a little negotiation and charm never hurt before *smile*)

b. I posted a l'il nod of agreement on Sid's site (she originally stated this sentiment) but Public Service announcement #101: Joss Stone is overrated! Please don't accuse me of racism, but how much of a look would she have gotten had she been a big bone-ded girl (read: Jill Scott) or a soulful singing sista with nappa haya (read: India.Arie)? I thought she couldn't sing when I first heard her album riding around in Cali with my cousins last spring. And, the Gap commercials just reinforce my perception. My dislike isn't about color, I love me some Teena Marie (*whisper* And you might catch me listening to Simon and Garfunkle and Average White Band from time to time, but that's off the record.) But, I don't like people pretending that they're trying to sell her on talent alone. It's like Vanilla Ice, or Snow (remember the vanilla reggaeman from the 90's?) ... If we can agree that she's getting a look because she represents a certain wish for domination of everything...including soul music, then it's awl good as them gulls from OutKast's album say, but when the truth isn't told about that, I get a little annoyed. *Brushing the hateration off my shoulders* Okay, that said, where is Remy Shand these days? I liked that cut he released. LOL

c. Meritocracy triumphs: Naima wins as America's Next Top Model, Yay! I told myself I wouldn't write about reality TV show results on said blog, but I'm really glad that the best person actually won. She took the best shots (even though the judges were trying to hate at the end, what was up with that??) and won it all. Maybe the Detroit native can now go back and help run the city. It seems like Kwame da Mayor could use some help (LOL)

d. One of these days, I'm going to have to learn how to cook. I've either ordered out or dined out every day this week. See, what had happened was, my original plan was to have a live in chef (tee hee, that's right), but I haven't yet gotten there. Still waiting to blowuptuate, homies. But, here's to next year. Stay tuned, bloggahs...

Okay, back to Common. * Humming "It's Your Wor-rrr-rrld. Oooh." *smile*

On Life's Golden Pond

2005-05-13T20:59:00.000-04:00

He walks across the room, bellowing like the years have earned him that right. In this instance, they have. He's clad in a fishing hat, khaki jacket and with the wisdom of time. So, one expects that the first utterances you hear from him will be filled with insight and perspective. Patience. Except that for all of his sagacity, there's something major perplexing him. He can't seem to figure out what do with the daggone telephone.

"Hello?! Hello?! What do you want?" he asks the operator impatiently. Moments ago, he had her ring him to make sure the phone in his Maine summer phone worked. But seconds later, he forgot why someone would be calling him, just after he and his wife have arrived. A life with sunset nearing, it seems, can't be lost in the particulars.

This is how I met James Earl Jones this week, who with the wonderful Leslie Uggams, stars in the wonderful re-adaptation of "On Golden Pond" on Broadway's Cort Theatre. And, in this performance, Jones, the legendary baritone behind Darth Vader and "this is CNN" and winner of Tony awards for his past performances on the "Great White Way", very well could have been my late granddad.

His character, Norman Thayer, is English professor emeritus from the University of Pennsylvania. (My granddad, son of a sharecropper, was a Meharry graduate.) Norman is regal and his cadences hold on to familiar trills of the South. (Forthright in manner and speech was the only way the kind man born in Camp Hill, Alabama did it.) Despite his letters, Mr. Thayer has an impish way about him, admitting it only when his wife calls him on it. (I remember my granddad smirking as he tried to hide a piece of peanut brittle before dinner.) Norman finds his way when he goes fishing with his grandson. (My granddad drew his joy seeing us wide-eyed at his tales of battles with Indian chiefs or listening to him lend his earth shattering baritone to "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot"). If there is an award for playing a black grandfather to perfection, Jones gets a nod from me. (More of note for him, I'm sure, is that incidentally, he's deservedly up for a Tony.)

But his prowess and proximity to my granddad's way of doing isn't the entire reason the show affected me. Even more than Jones' knockout performance, is a story line that winds around and into the depths of the definition of family and of life. The lack of communication that confounds those connected by biology. Expectations met and missed. And the one that sometimes eludes us the most -- forgiveness.

Without giving away the play, it ends with a realization that life is precious, especially as life begins its journey to twilight. That point hit me most when Jones, near the close, suffers a fall, a result of his weak heart and carrying too heavy a load. I, sitting amongst throngs of elderly groups of men and women out for the matinee performance, gasped, wishing/hoping/praying that he would get up and the play wouldn't end with his demise. Before the conclusion was revealed, the effect was already felt. I thought about all of our lives' journeys and the meanings within the dash (that line that separates our entrances and exits in the world.) And, suddenly, there was no protective barrier of "this isn't real" between the stage and my seat. I was forced to think about how long the great ones like Jones would be around to continue to deliver their all (After all, granddad had since passed on eight years ago and we more recently loss Ossie.) It made me think about myself. How could I better go about injecting meaning into the dash? How could I make the time matter? I thought about my sister, who in 12 short years here, somehow found her way. Cancer didn't take away her joy. It didn't take way her laugh. Her love for people. Her light. Her memory.

Wiping my misty eyes, I pored out of the theatre amidst the chattering old ladies who conferred with each other. I walked past the old men, who paused on the sidewalk for a smoke, before making their way to hotels or the subway. I thought about all of them . What they had done in their years. The uncertainty of their futures as day by day their friends pass on. Walking down the street, I aimed to make my seconds, minutes and hours count. They may not be perfect.

But they can be golden.

For my sister (May 11, 1988 - June 30, 2000)

Bucking the Force

2005-05-08T09:34:00.000-04:00

nouveau tech vs. raheem's gargantuan original

Why this Black Girl is Ipodless

“I’m asking if y’all feel me and the crowd left me stranded.” – Talib Kweli, “Respiration” (Blackstar)

I recently had a discussion with a good friend of mine. She’s a smart, funny, African American law school student and she’s admittedly part of the force. A newly transformed Bostonian, she marches with the beat of the urban intelligentsia, tuning in daily. She’s on it jogging, walking to class, waiting for the T train. Together, she, with the legions of sporting metal rectangles and earbuds, with the click of a finger, beams up her inner Scottie. Her method of choice: the Apple I pod portable music device.

As sure as there are bourgeois black folks up in Fort Greene, as sure as Amy Ruth can put her foot in some chicken and waffles up on 116th and Lenox Ave., the “I force”, the legions of folks with the metallic machines, are in every city. The energetic young man tucks it into his messenger bag briskly walking to his Midtown Manhattan office. The daddy’s depositing my allowance into my account trust fund baby cloaks hers with pink jewels from Sunset Blvd. And the upwardly mobile children of minority baby boomers display theirs with their keeping-up-appearances to uplift the race Louis Vuitton book bags in DC and the ATL.

When I see them on the subway in the Apple, they’re often looking into space, lost in an Ipod induced haze. Fiddling with my lesser CD player, I imagine that they smirk at me. In reality, it is only the blank looks on their face that signify something real. As one magazine put it, we pod, therefore we are. The unwritten subtext being: and you are not.

I was asked by this same friend, on a recent visit to Boston, would I consider getting one? Looking up from my computer, I answered, almost if on reflex, “Heck naw”. Why, she wondered? To paraphrase Lauryn Hill, “‘Scuse me if I get too deep” but the whole idea seems to run counter to music. The first “beats, rhymes and life” were organic, created by primitive people who meted out their stories with no more high tech tools than their calloused feet and hands. Music told a story/ gave a warning/ worked the healing. Literally, it sprung from the earth.

Fast-forward to now and we seem to think that how we hear our music is a symbol of entitlement, not of shared entertainment. It’s an object to own instead of one to enlighten the masses, a measure of privacy, not one of bombastic playfulness (see: Radio Raheem of “Do The Right Thing” lore). To me, it’s a sign of the times. By allowing us to retreat into our separate corners, we brush the communal “dirt off our shoulders,” like Jay Z says. For, we think, the Ipod haze becomes us and we are one with the machine. And, lest you think I’m speechifying, I’ll be the first one to admit that my portable CD player is linked to my dome. I do understand the need to be alone with your tunes, playing the off-the-cuff notes that only you might need to hear. You know -- that secret playlist with a little latter day Keith Sweat sprinkled with Another Bad Creation's B sides and Positive K (the one hit wonder of “I Got a Man” fame)? LOL

It’s just that all of this uniformity makes me want to try to question the current we’re moving in. Getting a daily look at those white earbuds just makes me miss the time when music meant community, openness, an exchange of energy, not solely commercial goods. I’d love to see people “clap their hands just a little bit louder!” like little Stevie Wonder asked a live audience to do in “Fingertips Pt.2”. And when I’m walking down the city streets, it might be nice for old time’s sake, to see a high top faded-brother break out the shoulder top radio, or nod intently, as LL Cool J said, to the bass of a “booming system” as cars ride by. If only to nod to Public Enemy and fight the tiny metallic powers that be...

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

2005-05-03T02:00:00.000-04:00

self-love: always a good look

Listening to "I Can't Stop Loving You" by Kem, who admittedly is a broke Al Jarreau. *smile* But so I love this song...

I told myself I was going to fade "quietly into that good night" (A sista got a project to finish. Or to paraphrase another Kem song -- a deadline's "calling my name, gurl.") But a friend recently informed me that the blog powers that be were looking for me. So, being the law-abiding citizen that I am, I thought I'd nod to protocol and like the mighty O'Jays, "give the people what they want". That is, before ducking out again for a bit. (Gotta get this work done before I'm fired, then evicted and end up writing by the light of a skreet lamp and trashcan fire. That would be most unfortunate because to my knowledge, they don't air ANTM in Central Park...

So, getting back to the matter at hand, today, I watched with much appreciation as several bloggers, including my Soror X, Cee, Kajuana and Brown Sugar posted about the age-old question of color, hair, etc. *M. Elle sings* Talkin' bout good and bad hair / Whether you're dark or you're fair/ Go on and swear / See if I care / Good and bad hair. Being that I'm a relative neophyte to blogging (been at this for exactly five weeks), I don't know any of you personally. But, I was really, really moved by the fact that this whole issue has affected all of us to some degree. Regardless of what shade we say we are -- Mocha Almond, Caramel Frappe, or in my case, Choco Latte (LOL) this issue has got us all hemmed up. So while, I thought I was going to quietly dip out, this discussion has been one that has been so near to my heart, that I, well, had to chime in.

What you'll see below is a story on issues of self: color, hair texture, self-love from a friend that after 25 years, I'm proud to say I now know very well. The story is called "Majority of One" (you might have seen it in "Chicken Soup for the African American Soul"). It's only the voice of one woman, not intended as a treatise for anyone else to follow. But, I do hope it's fodder for the discussion. And, till we meet again, (soon I promise) peacables chulrens.

Majority of One
I wanted to do it for so long--throw out my chemically relaxed hair for a natural. I had long admired sisters who sported braids, afros or locks and tossed their heads in defiance of mainstream-endorsed beauty regimens. I want to be one of them, I often thought, but continually struggled with the idea of shedding the thick, dark brown, longer-than-shoulder length hair that I had been told I was blessed with.

It was so tied to my identity that I could not bear to part with it. From my wide-eyed childhood to long-legged adolescence, each trip to the beauty parlor was marked by a beautician's friendly question. "Chile where in the world did you get all that hair?"

Not knowing exactly how to reply to the question, I would look at the floor and whisper, "Thank You," while secretly harnessing the attention my hair brought. Those precious times were a marked contrast to how I often felt about myself as a darker-skinned black adolescent, when it seemed that lighter-skinned people were all the rage, in the suburb where I grew up.

I once asked my mother, who like the rest of my family has a caramel brown tone, if I was adopted. She pulled out ultrasound images from a scrapbook to assure me that I was not. And later, she created a poster of chocolate toned blacks, like Iman and others, to show me I was beautiful. As thankful as I was for her reassurance, I thought she was doing her motherly duty and still struggled to find something about me that was beautiful. I thought about those trips to the hairdresser, how special they made me feel, and so I turned to my hair for acceptance.

People had always made a big deal about my longer-than-average-black-girl hair. It was special when my mother allowed me to wear my hair "out" because on those days, I could truly swish and sway my hair with the best of my lighter-skinned peers.

[In college], I was glad I didn't have to wear a weave or extensions... But by my junior year, I realized how long I'd been buying into the mainstream-enforced black women accepted notions of beauty. The ruse was exposed and I was not, after all, like Samson. My hair just didn't hold that much power anymore.

Again I questioned, "What about me was beautiful?"

That summer, I wrote a poem celebrating African Americans who had the courage to make strides that included wearing their hair natural in the sixties and seventies. One line read, "I wasn't there but I heard about those who dared to put down the hot-comb for a minute, don a dashiki and look themselves in the mirror, exclaiming, "Beautiful." I longed to be like the people I felt so strongly about, people who found their beauty and acceptance in themselves. The excuse I made to myself was that natural hair was a statement of beauty for another time and plaece. But deep down inside, I was really unsure whether I could ever be beautiful if I discontinued my 14-year relationship with no-lye chemical relaxers. I knew I had long been afraid of finding out. So, after as false start my senior year, I thought I would give it another try.

I am going to go natural, I told myself.

The first three months were easy. I had gone longer without a perm before. The real test began in the spring, when my "waves" grew into full-fledged naps. April came, and my friends at church, who, like me, knew no lives without perms or presses, asked, "What are you planning to do with your hair again?"

I was confident in my decision, but at times felt like Thoreau's "majority of one." Weeks went by. I pressed on but not without doubt. Was I crazy? Was this reasonable? Would this allow me to live and work in mainstream America?

I felt like the world wanted me to just pick up an Optimum no lye and be done with it. But I had to fight, I had to do it...By May, I decided, for the first time, to get braided extensions so no one but me could witness the war being waged between my fragile, permed hair and the stronger natural roots that rose like defiant Zulu warriors month by month.

As the mercury rose, my roots encroached on the territory the relaxed hair had held unchallenged for years -- my heart. July came and it was time to take out the micro braids. Once they were completely out, I vacillated between going back to a perm and continuing my quest. I started to shield my roots from the public view with a scarf. Then on a Friday in August, I looked in the mirror, grabbed scissors from a drawer and snipped a little from the back. Just enough so I can change my mind and get away with it, I told myself.

I snipped some more.

When I was done, I knew it would be an adjustment. I could no longer toss my head to and fro and have my hair swish. But I could finally look myself in the mirror, and smile, exclaiming "Beautiful." And that was all right with me.

Mahogany on Montel

2005-04-27T01:30:00.000-04:00

Now playing: "Four Leaf Clover" - Erykah Badu.
"Like the wind/ I am free / Going places, being things I wanna be."
So, Montel dropped by my crib the other day and we had a heart-to-heart chat. Turns out that he and a she-who-shall-not-be-named talk show diva are vying for the rights to interview me (Sniffle, I knew the day would come when the bell would ringeth pour moi. *Getting out a pen and paper to write my thank you speech*). Monty thought that if we leaked this a little early on said blog, it might pre-empt said broadcast diva. And not to undermine a woman *cough Oprah* who I much admire, but payolla talks in mysterious ways. *Raising hands upward* Hashonda!!* Ahem, so as DJ Hi-TEK says, peep game...

Where did you get your name, Mahogany Elle?
Well, Montel it's a nod to a diva who exemplifies style and class, wit and sass. Lauryn Hill, in my opinion, made it cool for brown skinded girls to be beautiful. Growing up in a family where my parents were caramel and my grandmother and aunts were very fair skinned, I wondered what was nice about my skin tone. But, when Lauryn came out and got so much love, I knew there was hope lying in the wings for the chocolate chicas. In the remix of the "Sweetest Thing," dudes chant "Oh Mahogany, Mahogany. Oh Mahogany L!" This being one of my favorite songs, the phrase stuck with me. So I've claimed it, albeit with a francais twist.

Interesting, interesting. So, tell us why do you write?
It's like breathing to me, I can't imagine moving through this portion of time and space without it. Growing up, my parents exposed my siblings and I to alot of things. But the thing that stuck with me most, besides listening to all kinds of music with my dad, was listening to Nikki Giovanni's "Truth is on the Way", a collection of poems she recorded with a gospel choir. Her wordplay, her emotion, her honesty struck me as amazing even at a young age. I didn't really plan on it, but I knew that sort of reflection was going to be a part of my life at some point.

You just mentioned music a little bit. What kind of influence does it have on you?
Wow. Too much to talk about. My father was an audiophile. Every Saturday night, he would come home, go into a room downstairs, put on his headphones and work with his reel-to-reel machine. He had tons of records. Tons. Everything from Earth, Wind and Fire (who I love to this day) to his favorites, the Temptations (I still hear him exclaiming, "David Ruffin with a tuffin!"). There was also the Jackson Five, Diana Ross, Stevie Wonder... even a little Crosby, Stills and Nash for good measure (smile). Those nights were sort of his "dad" time. He would obviously be tired from a long week of work, but he always let me come sit and listen with him, or watch him make mix tapes (some of his friends would ask him to do the music at their parties). To this day, music is very much a part of how I think, what I write and who I am.

What's in your disk changer now?
The Brand New Heavies, Grover Washington, Jr., Curtis Mayfield, Van Hunt and Stevie Wonder
Okay, sounds sort of retro. We're going to get you a shag rug and lava lamp. Hahaha. Okay, Mahogany are you reading anything now?
"Dreams of My Father" by Barack Obama. The man is a genius. Great writer. Great thinker. Great heart. I felt like I wanted to cry when I saw him give that now-famous speech at the DNC last summer. And now, for him to be the third black senator since Reconstruction...that makes us all so proud. *Getting choked up* Don't let nobody turn you 'round Obama!!

Okay, a few more questions if you'll indulge us
Certainly.

Other influences from growing up?
Watching the NBA was definitely something my dad and I did.

Really? Who was your favorite player?
#32, Magic Johnson. To this day, I still believe that my childlike faith in the old Lakers willed them to a back-to-back championship. (smile) But now, I don't watch the NBA so much...especially not Fro'-be and the Fakers. Too many big babies. Too much crying. Mahogany's a busy girl. She doesn't have time for that. LOL. I favor college hoops now. But, just to pre-empt you, we won't be discussing the team won the tourney this year.

You mean UNC?
[silence]

Okay, moving on. Game for a little rapid fire?
[Still a little salty from the last question] Bring it Monty.

Quick -- favorite city?
Philly -- lovely energy and home to Jill Scott and the Roots. Do You Want More?

Best song?
"Keep Your Head to the Sky" by Earth, Wind and Fire

Top three dislikes?
Slaveship tight subway cars, hip hop's slow decline into chatter and bling, getting hollered at by dudes with gold fronts

You can interview two people living or dead, who are they?
John Coltrane, the best saxophonist ever, and the unmatchable Langston Hughes...who inspired me at young age with "Simple's Uncle Sam."

Okay, now Dr. Montel's going to test your music reflexes: Nice and...?
Smooth

"We Got the...?
Jazz"

*Montel's sings* "Luuuuuuuuuuuuuuv..."
"them and lea-eave them. That's what I used to do-oo-ooo"

My, Mahogany. You're impressive.
Thanks. I try Monty, I try. Okay, ANTM and my Bloomie's catalog are beckoning, are we done here?

*looks to the side before exclaiming* Supercala
fredjalisticexpealadocious *Now looking at Montel with eyes askew*

*smiles sheepishly*. I had to try to throw you a curve...But you're matchless!
Thanks, and psst... don't sweat the technique.

Set lights dim.

Spootieottiequotaliscious

2005-04-26T01:45:00.000-04:00

They've got five on it

Watching Jerry Maguire this weekend, I realized that there are lots of movies with lines trumping the oft-repeated "show me the money". So, I've taken the liberty of going through my little black cinema vault, in the hopes of finding a few spottieottiequotaliscious moments. Share the popcorn with your neighbor and don't forget to pass the jujubees. *Singing OutKast* "Let's go to da mooooovies..."

-Eddie, the substance abusing lead singer of the Motown-era singing group the Five Hearbeats knows that Flash, the leader of a rival group, is gunning for his spot. Eddie is backstage in a drunken stupor and tries to get all up in his face.

Eddie: "You wanna be me?! Hmm? You wanna be me? Well, you caint get it. Cause YOU AIN'T GOT IT!!!" [pounding the door like the po-po]

And caint nobody sang like Eddie Kang

-Then, there is the art that is School Daze. In Spike Lee's classic tale of life on a black college campus, Julian, president of Gamma Phi Gamma, a fictionalized black fraternity, dislikes Dap, the militant Huey P. Newton-meets-H. Rap Brown cousin of one of his pledges, Half Pint. Dap gives the hataration right back. But they come face-to-face one day and Julian (i.e. "Dean Big Brother Almighty") decides to get on a soap box of his own, albeit a very shaky one, to teach him a lesson about black history.

Julian: "YOU do not know a thing about Africa ... I am from Detroit -- Motown. So you can Watutsi yo' monkey a#$ back to Africa if you want to!"

I so love intelligent black people. Really, I do. LOL

-What I wanna do now is go back. Waaay back. Back into time. *Mahogany wipes the dust off this attic find and sings with Rose Royce* "You might not ever get an itch, but lemme tell ya it's better than digging a ditch ... It's always cool and the boss don't mind sometimes if ya act a fool, at the Car Wash!!!" This movie, with Richard Pryor, Bill Duke and a host of other legends, tells a tale of working all day at a dead-end job. One car wash employee, T.C. , wants to be a cartoon character and shares his musings with friends. He's kind of like that dude from around your way who keeps trying to convince you that he's "bout ta blow up as a rapper"/ "just got signed"... Yeah, you know the type. Anyways, this guy is just as convincing.

T.C.: Yeah, man I would be able to walk up buildings. I would be sharp, sharp, sharp. Cause I would be the FLY!"

-And, not to let him hog the moments or anything, but one more nod to Spike. In my book, Crooklyn was a much slept on jewel. (I can see you smirking now) Furreeall though... I luv-did-did that movie. True, it has no real point, only tells the story of a middle class family in Brooklyn in the 70s. But I'm sold cause it shows in a cute and funny way that real, normal, non-magical black people exist in real families who a) do not have side jobs as hustlas and b) have more than a basic mastery of English. LOL ... Anyways, at one moment in the movie, Troy and the other young girls on the block are chillin' on her stoop, making observations about the people around them, when two of her friends share their thoughts on the silky tresses of one of their friends.

First girl: Ooooh, she got good hurr!
Second girl: (Correcting her friend) She got PETER RICAN hurr.

Later, Troy goes down south to visit her Aunt Song and a cousin who's about her age. Aunt Song is kinda crazy, but in a good (your great aunt Willie Mae might be a little like her) way. She loves her midget dog, Queenie and her chile "with good hair". Troy, whose hair she attempts to comb out and press, is another story.

Aunt Song: What you call these -- beads, shells and things?
Troy: They're called braids...(the comb pulls her hair) Ouch!
Aunt Song: You got nerve to be tenderheaded? With all these naps?!!

LOL. Classic, just classic.

Ahh... Koolaid -- 5 for $1 ... Now & Laters -- 10 cents ... Hug juices -- 25 cents ... Growing up young, gifted and black? Priceless. *smile*

Stay tuned. More spottieottiequotalisciousness in the coming weeks...

Coming soon...

2005-04-24T19:26:00.000-04:00

Diana sang famously, "Do you know where you're going to? Do you like the things that life is showing you? Where are you going to? Do you know?" Just a little contemplation to kick off the new week. *smile* Stay tuned for more cinematic thought from the vault...

Goings on About Town

2005-04-22T01:11:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting by my window with Fertile Ground's "Colors of the Night" on. The breeze is delicious. So is this group's jazzy, mellow, neo-souly style. So, anyways, like them girls on 'Kast's Stankonia say, "It's awwwl good."

Went to a party Wednesday night downtown. It was cool enough to make me not regret missing ANTM, which I've been known to work my schedule around. LOL. Will not disclose the name of the magazine that was hosting it, for fear of negatively blowuptuating a publication that's trying to be on the up and up. That said, a few comments if I may. Don't worry, I'll tread lightly. Cool? Okay, on we go...

Um, the editor, an older woman, looked nothing short of a hag on wheels. It wasn't because of her age (my 84-year-old grandmother is the flyest woman I know), but because she had an ill-fitting strapless dress on with the accessory of fatback hanging out over the edge. She was also sporting a two-toned weave that looked like it was the remnant of a non-road savvy raccoon and his brother. On top of that she had the sheer audacity to get up on a stage, shake her tailfeather and hike up her dress displaying her legs as the syncophantic audience clapped their approval. *Jaw dropped here* Perhaps I am naive, a little classic and conservative at times, but I have never with mine own eyes seen such a display. LOL It was, as that 80's group sang, "more than words."

Anyway, moving on past the shock of the hour, I watched with amusement as B-list celebs made their entrance and posed for photos (spotted Bokeem Woodbine and Camille from the season before last's ANTM sans her drawn-on clown brows). But the two who made the night truly worth it were Shirley Murdock and Kelly Price, who appeared on stage about an hour after the EIC's display. Together, they sang an acapella snippet of the classic, "As We Lay". I, taking a break from playing it cool on the dance floor, had been sitting away from the stage, resting the camel Nine West heels and the feet therein. That was, until I realized who was on stage. At that point, said fatigue was forgotten and I jumped up.

SHIRLEY MURDOCK!!!

At that moment, I was in chuch y'all. She took it to town, that's all I can say. Kelly even expressed her awe at being next to the gospel/R&B diva, simply saying, "I'm a groupie right now." She, of course, held her own too.

*Mahogany lends her alto here, you know, in the case they need my help* "In the second, in the minute, in the owwww-rrrrrah!! Hey, hey, hey. As we lay!" LOL

The piece de resistance was when Shirley offered a little bit of a remix at the end, singing "And, before you lay, you-you-you betta pray". Lowering her voice into the mike, "Cause God aint gon' give ya somebody else's huzzzband." I was too through.

Turn to ya neighbor and if ya can't say amen, say ouch.

Res Ipsa Loquitur

2005-04-20T00:39:00.000-04:00

now playing: "Dust" - Van Hunt
"It's just another day, another episode. I'm hiding under the world."

So, a friend reminded me that I never commented on the outcome between me and said roomie. (I'm sorry, it's gotta be that happy-feels-like-spring-crack I'm still on. Plain forgot.) Luckily all's square. We chatted and it's now back to the Peaceable Kingdom...the Niagara Convention...the Rainbow Coalition, well you get it. All's gravy. The agreement we reached is no surprise parties for her and Aquanetta -- with her multicolored rollers, store-sported houseshoes and parole violations -- stays at bay. Fair enough. LOL

In other news, I went to a branch of the city public library today to do some research for a project. First, let me say that it was Africa-hot up in that piece! I felt like I had just crossed the Mason-Dixon sans my freedom papers and da man was in steady pursuit...Um, so here's a thought. Do we not pay taxes in the big apple so we can get some A/C circulating? Geez Louise. Then, on top of that, a gentleman sitting next to me at the public computer desk was so aromatic that I had to vacate the premises with a haste rivaling Clarence Thomas spotting Angela Davis in the skreet. Lawd, lawd.

But my real point in writing is to ponder the crossroads at which I find myself currently. I was recently informed that I have the chance to go back to school (for journalism), at great cost, but still at great opportunity. At issue is the fact that I also have the inclination (it began as a whisper and now reaches L'il Jon-esque volume) to abandon the less traveled road of poetic lore altogether, and leave my down-for-the-people inclinations and notebooks to gather dust. This of course would free me for more nefarious pursuits (*cough* law school... next year) with the mission of obtaining the burgundy Land Rover and summer home on the Vineyard. Then, will come my ensuing disaffection to the Republican party. LOL

Sigh...

Why couldn't I have just been a rapper? If I could make beats like Kanye, I'd be ballin' right about now. If I had the flow of say, Jigga, I'd be chillin and could retire to write without regard for filthy lucre. But alas, blessed only with a predilection for gab, and sans the raw lyricism of the aforementioned, I'm left without the famed "Jesus piece", and instead with the "piece(s) of paper bearing my name." As I came to no conclusion/decision by the time the sun set, I looked to the election of the Pope as inspiration (shout out to Benedict XVI). This man, the leader of 1.1 billion Catholics, declared publicly that he was but a "humble servant". I thought to myself, wow, he's been in this for the love. Sure, he's big pimpin' now, but how many years was he toiling namelessly in pursuit of a seemingly elusive dream? In that instant, as the crimson curtains pulled back at the Vatican window where he addressed the faithful, I was reminded by old dude (and Mariah... cause "Make it Happen" plays now) to keep pushing. Someday, the bell will toll for me too -- Mahogany Ellus, the first. *smile*

The Soundtrack of Love

2005-04-15T23:08:00.000-04:00

L-o-v-e is in the air. Ahem, not for me, yet, but apparently for everyone else on God’s green earth. So, as I frantically figure out what to buy my two cousins who are getting hitched in May and June, respectively, I log on to theknot.com and browse their gift registries. Crystal salt shakers, silverware and candlesticks galore, oh my! Not to throw the slightest bit of hatarade on the nuptials’ parade (*Smirking* never that), but when I make that move, me thinketh salt shakers will be the farthest thing from my mind. I mean, come now, I’ve lasted 25 years, without a set of my own and I still manage to throw down (*giggling* Okay, (whispering) once in a blue moon.) But really, all of this prompts me to wonder, how come no one asks for the necessary stuff of life? Like a year's supply of Koolaid for the newlyweds, for instance? To cite "The Wiz," one simply “can’t be caught dead without red”. And, how about a barbecue grill? (The best wedding gift for a cullud man, one would think.) Or, how about (*drumroll please*) the favorite music of the couple in question? I for one, could imagine myself -- after listening to the endless bloviation of the officiant and the “Akunamatata” of an old guest who decides to catch the Holy Ghost and fall out on my Vera Wang train -- just wanting to cool out to my fave music en route to the private “after-party”. What’s that you say, you too? Well, not to fret, I’ve made it easy for you. Here’s a list of nine songs that don’t normally make these kind of lists, but that I know would keep it quite the crunk, as Luthuh sings… for ever, for always, for luv

“All About Love” Earth Wind and Fire: When Maurice White starts out singing “Paint a pretty smile each day / Lovin’ is a blessing, yeah / Never let it fade away / It’s all about love, yeah,” that’s really all that needs to be said. EWF has a way with words that only they can truly embody with their music. Like their other love song jewels, “Reasons”, “Imagination” and “I’ll Write a Song For You”, this one is just perfection.

“Golden Lady” Stevie Wonder: Part of one of his most complete and introspective albums, “Innervisions”, the song begins with a short piano solo. Then, drums and organ kick in. Soon we hear Stevie singing as if in a dream, “Looking in your eyes / Kind of heaven eyes / Closing both my eyes / Waiting for surprise.” The amazing thing about this piece is the visual element. I swear the man sees more than I can and all the elements flow together very nicely. I guess that’s why I love dear Stevie so.

“The Makings of You” Curtis Mayfield: The “gentle genius” who gave us “Freddie’s Dead” and “Pusherman” from his “Superfly” soundtrack, was no less adept at the whimsical renderings of the woman in his life. Truth be told, the beloved writer and guitarist had me at the first words. “Add a little sugar, honeysuckle and a great big expression of happiness / Boy, you couldn’t miss, with a dozen roses / Such would astound you / The joy of children laughing around you/ These are the makings of you.” (Sniffle.) Gets me teary every time.

“Everlasting Love” Rufus featuring Chaka Khan: Quite possibly one of the greatest voices like freakin’ ever (when I was little, I was convinced that she and Patti Labelle were sisters), Chaka breaks it down like she’s singing alone in her bathroom and thinks no one’s listening. Except the difference with her and the rest of us is that the chick kills it. When she sings at her lowest register, “All ya need is an everlasting love. All ya want is, a satisfying love,” you believe that maybe, just maybe, that’s true.

“Hello, It’s Me” The Isley Brothers: Maybe it’s because I spent a lot of time as a little girl at my father’s knee reading liner notes from the records in his extensive collection. Maybe it’s because deep down inside, I always wanted a gold crusted cane like Rudolph. But, I have always loved me some Isleys...Ron, O’Kelly, Ernie, Rudolph and Marvin...*Stomping the “stage” in my room.* (You know, Fitty sing-rhymes about being a "p.i.m.p.", but has not one thing one these brothas.) This song is a departure from their trademark guitar-heavy funk, but shows why they’ll always have a place in our black classic lexicon.

“Another Star” Stevie Wonder: Though he’s better recognized for “Ribbon in the Sky” (also a great song) and “As” (which runs a close-second in my book), this song is love at it's best and worst-- the height of passion, heartbreak, and just pure … (wrinkling my nose because words escape me here)… I just don’t know what. But listen to it and you'll see what I mean. The first time I heard it, about three years ago, I was driving home and almost had to pull over. Drums? Check. A ridiculously tight flute solo? Check. Stevie in rare from? Check. George Benson singing backup? Check. Whew, it’s just like that. Best line: “For you there might be a brighter star, but in my eyes, the light of you is all I see.”

“Love Saw It” Karyn White and Babyface: No one can koo-kah-kah-koo like Karyn White. And, Babyface put it on you, like no other singer in his late eighties/early nineties heyday. (I think I was in middle school when this came out, but I knew this was hype even way back then.) The best lines speak volumes: “Love called my name / Love saw me change / Love rescued me from the danger of pain.” One day, says I, one day.

“For the Lover in You” Shalamar: I have a confession to make…I used to think Howard Hewett was cool as all get out. Shielding my face as you laugh. Okay, I admit, he’s about knee-high to uh... Jermaine Dupri. Yada. Yada. And I’ll grant you that the whole black man’s mullet thing he had going on never was a good look. But, his falsetto on this song was incredible. I still hear him now, *singing* “With this ring, I’ll show you, there ain’t no may-bay! This is for lovah in you And this ti-i-i-i-ime we’re gonna last forevah” My lawd!

And the crown jewel…

"Ain’t No Mountain High Enough" Diana Ross: *Hair blowing in the wind as she greets her fans who have braved the rain for an encore performance in Central Park*. Stage lights dim. Spotlight on Mahogany Elle...I mean Diana... sing-whispering, “If you need me call me / No matter where you are / No matter how far/ Just call my name / I’ll be there in a hurry/ On that you can depend and never worry/ No wind. (No wind)/ No rain. (No ra-yeen)/ Or winter’s cold (who-oo-oo-oo) /Can stop me baby (oh babe)/ Baby (baby)/ if you’re my goal! As much as I know the story of how she earned her way to the top via Berry Gordy’s couch, of how she knocked her fellow Supremes in the knees to be Queen Bee, of how Emmanuel Lewis has secretly made his home in her 8 foot weave for the last twenty years…LOL (okay, just kidding about the last part) … All of that -- all of it -- is lost to me when she sings defiantly over the swelling strings, “Ain’t no mountain high enough, nothin’ can keep me, keep me from you-ou-ou!” This may be more to the credit of Ashford and Simpson’s production expertise, than her canary-like voice, but whatever it was, it worked. It's a classic.

And there we have it, friends, brothers (or sisters), countrymen… the end. So, when it’s announced that Mahogany Elle has been swept away by some New York Times-reading, spade-and-dominoes-playing, Tribe Called Quest-and-Five Heartbeats-loving, Snoop-and-Smokey-Robinson-quoting, can-get-down-on-some-crème-brulee, but not-too-boogie-for-chicken-wangs-type-of-brotha, and is headed down that road to forever, please refer to this list. And, no crystal salt shakers please. In the spirit of that dude from Amistad, just give us us music. e

Attitude of Gratitude

2005-04-11T01:11:00.000-04:00

(now playing: "Be Thankful", William DeVaughn / "Aint No Stoppin Us Now", McFadden and Whitehead)

In case you're wondering, the situation with my roommate is pending. She's away. Back at the ranch, analytic me and Aquanetta me are in a conclave deciding how to phrase my words for the uh... "Welcome Back Kotter" party. Stay tuned.

In the meantime, I thought I'd file with some lighter thoughts. I'd have to credit William DeVaughn's "Be Thankful" which just came on, with putting me into the mood of gratitude. (You know, the seventies ode to the streets, "Though you may not drive a great big Cadillac / Gangsta whitewalls, T.V. antennas in the back /You may not haaaaave a car at all / But remember brothers and sisters, you can still stand tall / Just be thankful for what you got ... Diamond in the back, sunroof top, dig in the scene with a gangsta lean, whoo-hoo-hoo!") Cat daddy! LOL

Anyways, nice anthem for a nice Sunday. Actually got to church on time (I think C.P.T me can record that one in the history books). Nice sermon, on living as an example, courtesy of Rev. Calvin Butts. Nice array of negro spirituals. Nice hanging out with friends after. Nice food. Nice nap. LOL

So, don't really have a point today. I'm confident that things will work themselves out as my great-grandmother used to say, "Lawd willing and the creek don' rise." And due to Willie DeVaughn, I'm now thankful too. *Popping the proverbial collar*...Diamond in the back, sunroof top, dig in the scene with a gangsta lean, whoo-hoo-hoo!")

*smile*

Culture Conundrum

2005-04-09T03:15:00.000-04:00

(soundtrack: "Afro Blue", John Coltrane / "Exodus", Eddie Harris)

For nearly four months, my roommate and I have co-existed like Edward Hicks' classic American oil painting, "The Peaceable Kingdom." You know, the one where the lion kicks it with the lamb and the other creation of the earth in a magical scene? No lamb chops or wool sweaters for the lion. Just peace. Well, anyway living here in this slice of New York City has been something like that. Sort of refreshing, in fact. We've gotten along well. I put up with her cat. She, an Italian American, tries in her own special way, to understand how natural-hair-me can go from past-her-shoulders bone straight (press and curl, I explain) one week to curly 'fro (add water = instant negro, I offer) the next. We talk politics. Music even (we're both big O'Jays fans.) We don't get in each other's way. And we both chose careers sort of off the beaten path (me as a writer, she as a Ph.D. candidate who speaks and reads Latin fluently). All in all, it's been great. Something like the Niagara Convention must have been like in 1910 when W.E.B. Du Bois was surrounded by the great white folks (totally serious about this statement) who helped him start the N.A.A.C.P. We're different in color but similar in motivation and ethos. Anyway, even with all of this, the skeptic in me knew that something had to eventually give. One day, someday...

Yep. No day like the present.

I got home from a fabulous N'Awlins style dinner with some of my writer friends around 9:30 p.m. Talked on the phone with my momma for a while about the impending wedding of a cousin in June and assorted colorful family tales. Settled down to listen to a few notes from the genius from Hamlet, North Carolina (John Coltrane for the agnostics out there). Was feeling like just being. That was until my roommate stumbled into my room drunk at 11:30 p.m. (*Ding* First clue that this wasn't going to be a good night.)

roommate -- "Oh [Mahogany], I thought you were going home for the weekend."
me -- *blank look* (Momma still on the phone)
roommate -- "I just thought I'd have a few friends over. For a party. Now."
me -- "Oh?" (looking out into the living room at what looks like the entire Classics department at a school that shall remain nameless). "A few?"
roommate -- repeating "I thought you were going home."
me -- "Uh ... please ... shut my door."

At that very moment I felt like I, the only black girl of about 12 people in the apartment, was caught in some sort of out take from Chapelle's "When Keeping it Real Goes Wrong." I was no longer the happy-go-smiley Mahogany of springtime lore (see "Happy People"). No. I was now stuck in a vortex that morphed me into "non-smiling/ violating her parole/ wears curlers and houseshoes to the grocery store" Aquanetta. Suddenly, I knew not which path to take. Should I bust up in there and pull a Ron Artest, jumping into the crowd, my pink cardigan flapping in the wind, my arms flailing? Should I pull my roommate aside and explain in the best "non offensive negro" voice I could muster why this was not exactly acceptable? Or, should I draw some inspiration from J.C. and chill out a sec? I'm guessing you know which one I chose. Sigh.

And now that 15 minutes have passed since I started typing, listening to "Afro Blue" three times over has mellowed me out a little. So has playing it at a volume loud enough for me to summon both the Zulu ancestors and the seen-everything-before pigeons who chill on the roof across the way... A few more minutes go by and I have now come to a truce with my passive aggresive other self. Eventually, I'll have to talk with her about this. And I'll need to find away to get my point across with the clarity of theatre, but without the pathos of chitlin' circuit church plays (i.e: "Madea's [add anything here]", "Arms Too Short to Box with God", "Momma Done Burnt Da Chicken", etc.). And, without reinforcing the stereotypes her left-leaning friends still have about the more melanin endowed who walk the earth. It's times like these that I long for the wisdom of W.E.B. and his contemporaries. The brilliant man talked about the two masks that African Americans wear, that of our public/mainstream selves and our real ones. Yeah, I wish he was still around.

He might have advised me on which one to pick up for my performance.

Happy People

2005-04-06T02:33:00.000-04:00

("Do I Do" by Stevie Wonder. Heavy Horns. Spring music. Fits today.)

The weather was so nice late this afternoon that I decided to go for a nice stroll in Midtown. On my way to the subway, I passed students sitting placidly on university steps. Tiny kids playing jump rope on the green. Flip flops back on frat boys. Students, people were awake and fresh it seemed, after a long urban hibernation. Even on the train. A duo, sort of a B-list version of Sam and Dave, came aboard the "1/9" from another car and instead of the inaudible groans one normally senses from passengers, people actually seemed to await what clever song/jokes/cut-rate batteries they would offer their captive audience.

They chose "This Little Light of Mine". My headphones and I were deep in love, concentrating on OutKast's "West Savannah". So beyond the first note, I couldn't initially gage the strength of their performance. But glancing at the older Asian lady sitting across from me, it seemed they were making their mark. She, in fact smiled. Igniting the smiles of her neighbors to her right and left. Which caused the performers to smile. Which caused me to smile. (Funny how that works, right?) *Smile*

I guess spring does that to you. Everyone was freer, happier. Seemingly less aggressive. Oddly, no one tried to bumrush the train as the doors closed. I heard no dude get clean cussed out for pushing up on someone's ample posterior. Even the folks at Ray's Pizza (shout out to Ray's) seemed as if they'd snacked on some of that "happy crackety crack." It was surreal...in a good way. Anyways, I, having caught the jovial mood as I walked, decided to make a day of the smiles. I ventured out with a friend to see the 7 p.m. show "Guess Who". Distracted by the funny tag team of Bernie and Ashton, I watched the racial card being thrown back and forth at me like I was caught in a some sort of hyper-version of "monkey in the middle". Except none of the tosses went over my head. Luckily for me, my earlier spring-sprung smile wasn't misplaced watching the screen duo singing to "You'll Never Find," by Lou Rawls, the epitome of laughable machismo. But as the lights turned up and we headed back uptown, the cynic in me prompted myself for some day spoiler.

None to be had.

Once home, I even found the antics of my roommate's cat (which I normally find to be one of the devil's chulren) amusing. And then there was Charles Barkley on Letterman, talking about why people are scared of large Negroes. LOL. I so love that man! ... And, there he was, cracking me up from the T.V. Maybe there was really joy in the New York City air. Or maybe it was just the wise words of a great poet of our time, Ice Cube -- "I have to say it was a good day."

Vintage Veritas

2005-03-31T23:12:00.000-05:00

So I'm sitting here playing Eric B. and Rakim...*doing the head whop from my chair* ("I aint no JOKE, I used to let the mike smoke, now I slam it when I'm done and make sure it's BROKE.") That was serious stuff. Of course I wasn't exactly all in the know back then. But I identified in my little "black-girl-who-wears-a-funny-uniform-because-she-goes-to-a-private-school-and-gets-clowned-because-she-can't-do-the-"Bobby Brown"-quite-right" way.

As I click on the next song in my playlist, De La's "Buddy", I'm not feeling obligated to the traditional blog mode tonight. Paragraphs and sentences seem so blah. So, as an "analog girl in a digital world" (shout out to Erykah Badu's "Mama's Gun"), I'm shaking things up a bit. So sit on the curb, pour a glass of Crystal Pepsi or eat the faux Koolaid from a few Pixy Stix. Just be in the house by the time those streetlights come on. Announcing, my old school/new school edition of "Good and Betta"...

New School Good vs. Old School Betta

Bling... "Black medallion, no gold" (De La Soul)
Diamonds are a girls best friend. But they didn't need to sparkle when their lyrics shined

Leanin' back... the Whop, the Smurf, the Kid-n-Play
Joe says we don't need to dance and that's cool. But if you could nail these, you were so cool (my Jack and Jill buddies tutored me when they saw me floundering in my rhythmless abyss. *sniffle* Thanks guys!)

Queen Latifah singing showtunes... her singing "U-N-I-T-Y"
She deserves the mainstream recognition she's finally getting. But how fierce was this refrain?

Stankonia... Player's Ball
B.O.B. was hot , but not quite "coola than a polar bear's toenail."

"Holla" ... "2 Hype"
Hova made this phrase cool, but Kid-N-Play made theirs legendary. I still have a flourescent hat I etched the words on. With silver puffy paint y'all. Puffy freakin' paint!

Layered wrap... Asymmetrical two-tier with side parts
These days one style fits all, but raise your hand if you wanted to be Salt or Pepa (or Spinderella).

Cropped coat... Plastic red Michael Jackson jacket
Cute, classic looks are nice, but I begged my mom for one of these...and a Jheri curl, so I could have curly hey-ah. (She said I had "clean lost my mind." That's a direct quote. In retrospect, thanks Mom.)

Ciara... Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam
Even the purist in me likes "1, 2 Step". But "Head to Toe" and "Take You Home" were untoppable. Still classic.

White ankle socks... Fluorescent colored socks mixed and matched
Perfect for those who rock vintage Adidas like me. But remember layering your two pairs of "slouch socks"? I had pink and green ones. I'd wear green and pink on the right foot, pink and green on the left. And when you put your ankles together, they'd look like checkers. Word up.

John Legend... Christopher Williams
"Ordinary People" is infectious. But this other light-skindeded brotha wore a song out. Anyone still "Dreamin"?

Chapelle's Show... In Living Color
I fall out when Rick James yells, "Unity, It's a celebration!" But the man with da git-taw "Wrote a song bout it, like to hear it? Here it go." (And I still snap three times in a circle for good measure.)

"G-g-g G-Unit" ... "The jungle, the jungle, the brothas, the brothas"
Fitty makes that money, but De La and Native Tongue made me love them