What is Art?

Most people in America think Art is a man's name. - Andy Warhol

it's national blog posting month (NaBloPoMo) every month but i'm jumping into the fray this time around because the theme is ART -- whatever that is.

i inadvertently celebrated this magic moment by meeting elaine at moma in midtown for an exhibit that had unfortunately closed the day before. to lift our disappointed spirits, we sat in their sun-drenched cafe and had tea and biscotti, and then we left wishes on yoko ono's wish tree in the rock garden. i left elaine at the jewelry counter of the folk museum's gift shop next door and skipped off to the west side for a boxing class.

i live an art-drenched life, so this month should be pretty heavy-duty if my camera phone holds up. let's see what develops.

pie!

so there i was on saturday morning, flying through the underbelly of the city on the 1 train with my gigantic vintage purse next to me, listening to public enemy, looking for all the world like it was 1922 - bob wig, lashes, heels, the works. i am surrounded by what can only be described as the unwashed masses. why shouldn't they gawk at me, i remember thinking. i would. i looked like i lived in a time warp. or a time machine.

here's a colorful tidbit: the navy blue dress i wore was a special number that i fought for on ebay like a frackin' tigress. it had this bizarrely conservative off-white/ecru doily of a lace collar that was so starchy and conservative, it seemed anything but tame to my way of thinking. i looked for all the world like a sexy librarian -- my favorite way to dress up.

to be completely honest with you, my dress is technically straight out of the 1930s. when it comes to dressing in 1920s attire, i'm a little insecure about my overall look because i'm not flat-chested and i don't have an androgynous boy body that the clothes seem to require. my decade is the 1940s or the 1950s because my hips and my chest are the same inchwise, i've got a total hat head and -- as many a construction worker in this town tells me constantly -- i've got good legs.

the kicker is that i had carefully wrapped, straight-out-of-the-oven hot property perched in my lap. i entered the roaring 20s jazz age lawn party's pie contest with not just any pie, mind you. i made a sweet apple wood smoked bacon apple pie. and i was really excited about it. so excited, in fact, that i wasn't really wound up at all about the audition i was heading towards at telsey casting in midtown -- the lead role in the broadway musical sister act.

yeah, you heard me the first time -- but i don't mind repeating this one. they turned the movie sister act into a musical, developed it in san diego (i think), ran it for awhile in london's west end with whoopi goldberg in the starring role, briefly. and now, it's time for the broadway run. they had auditions for most of the cast two weeks ago. rehearsals start in january of 2011. interesingly enough, whoopi goldberg produced this. i met her when she was one of several producers for george c. wolfe's harlem song.

renee emailed me about this open call on a saturday -- a blue sky, sun drenched, picture-perfect saturday, by the way -- which also happened to be the first day of the lawn party and the only day for the pie contest. everything happened all at once. i should have been crawling the walls about the audition but instead, i was obsessing over pie. pie! would the crust be flaky enough? did i put in too much sugar? what about the bacon and the tartness of the granny smith apples -- would that combination work?

i didn't even bring my book to the audition. i brought one song -- unthinkable! because if they didn't like what i was singing, they could ask me to sing something else and (heh!) i had nothing else, so that would be that. but for some reason, i wasn't sweating it. pie!

this character is an aspiring disco diva, so i picked my favorite abba song, updated my resume and sailed in as close to the noon start time as i could. not that it mattered. the room was packed. everyone was well dressed and well-heeled and chatty, with just enough makeup on to look fresh in the blazing heat. when i saw someone holding a card that said 205 in big type, i thought, 205 people? i almost left. but for some reason, they started with 200, like a weird checkbook. so i stayed. i sat there, panic-stricken, as #239. that pie had to be on the judge's table on governor's island by 3pm. would i make that deadline?

fortunately, God always sends help when i really need it. even if what i'm agonizing over is something that's as insignificant and meaningless as a pie contest. for lo and behold, my friend mindy sailed into the audition room like a superhero, changed into her vintage attire in the bathroom and took the pie to governor's island. before i got seen, she texted me that the pie hit the table as #9. i was free to panic something else but there was no time. all of a sudden, i was next and then all of a sudden, i was in the room and then all of a sudden, i was done.

i must say, it was a good feeling, stepping into a room full of beautiful talented black women in that 25 - 45 year old age range, all of us our own individual lovely selves. we aren't an anomaly. we aren't anyone's stereotype. and we are legion. i met quite a few who were from the south. two from atlanta, in fact. and one of them had only been here for a few weeks.

who knows if i got the part. who knows if i'm what they want. who knows. it's such a massive crap shoot. and ironically enough, as i've said time and time again on this blog and as is often the case with acting and "getting the part", talent has absolutely nothing to do with it. what's important is that i threw my hat in the ring. i didn't leave that stone unturned. i got seen for it and i did a solid audition. who doesn't love the song dancing queen, anyway? who's that idiot? in a way, the pie contest probably allowed me to relax and not take any of it too seriously, and that usually means a better performance.

oh, and about that pie contest? i won!

reconnections

i was clearing out my junk room (believe it or not, it's almost done!) when i uncovered a box that had a lot of letters and cards in it from old friends and loved ones. as i began to sort through them, i unintentionally read a few. amazing, the power of the written word. actually, what's really amazing is the power of letters. not emails - letters. it was all so personal and heartfelt and...intimate, somehow. even the most casually tossed off note from my neighbors, thanking me for spontaneously gifting them with pound cake. i loved the handwriting, the little drawings in the margins instead of photos to show me things, the random postcards from all over the place. it made me want to get some stationery and write, write, write.

so many of them were from people that i hadn't seen or heard from in years. one of them, from a friend who passed away several years ago, was so full of love and feeling for me that reading it made me cry - in part because it made her so real, and it made me realize how much i miss her.

where on earth were these long lost friends? what were they doing now? were they happy? did they remember me?

of course, these letters were written before the age of facebook (or even friendster - remember them?) so of course i jumped on facebook to find one friend that wrote an especially compelling letter that i never answered. his name was mo and the letter was a fast paced catching up on his happy creative life in northern california, a place that my arty/guitar driven/punk rock undergrad set in austin texas seemed to gravitate towards like moths to a burning man bonfire. he gave me all his contact information and was looking forward to a return letter. i can't even begin to tell you how badly i felt when i realized i probably never wrote him back.

mo, beautiful mo. pasty as a glass of fresh buttermilk, with hair that looked as though it was cut at random by a blind, drunken barber. refreshingly, he had no tattoos - at least, none that i could see. his clothes were mostly safety pinned onto his lean, lanky frame, and he wore heavy steel-toed boots, even in the summertime. he would dumpster dive for fun when NO ONE was into it and emerge from what i considered to be unimaginable filth, victorious - with delicious things to eat, cute things to wear, fun things for anyone's home.

once i remember him hitting a particularly odd motherlode - more donuts than even he could carry home. (heh.)

the thing about mo is that he was basically a very sweet guy. he didn't seem to have not one hateful mean-spirited evil bone in his sturdy, sickly looking body. he looked like he was an alcoholic, drug addled mess - but he wasn't. he was polite, smart, and kind of a goofball when we were alone. he would occasionally make me laugh so hard, i'd snort. mo was a good time, especially at a punk rock show. i vaguely remember seeing some pretty cool shows with him around. and i distinctly recall that he was respectful of the fact that at the time, i wore a beehive for a living.

why didn't i jump all over him like a spider monkey when i met him? i have no idea. probably because he didn't jump all over me. and anyway, i was so not into schtupping my male friends. i knew girls who befriended guys with sex in mind - they considered that to be an option, somewhere in there. i grew up with a lot of brothers and no sisters, so i naturally assumed that God would give me more when i made my way into the world. sisters, too. and lots of play cousins.

so i found mo on facebook. crazy, right? in our last exchange, i thought, wow. i should write him that letter. so i'm working on what's becoming a not-too-overwhelming package.

now i'm remembering bull, whose real name is raoul, who would protectively walk me home from the p.a.c. at night. and then sometimes we'd make a pit-stop at the hole in the wall and play pool. he was mexican, with a peruvian grandpa i think, and he was from eagle pass, texas. the kind of guy who could build or fix anything. i loved him just as soon as i met him. his hair was falling out in clumps all over his head. he said it was drugs. i had no idea what he meant by that. i thought he had the mange.

he was bespectacled and straight-faced and frank and always thinking of someone else's feelings. or mine. even mine. really strangely super-animated and goofy, in our finer moments. to this day, we are siblings, to the soul.

good grief. i'd better write him, too.

it's official!

as of today, mercury is in retrograde until september 12th. this means that means the planet mercury slows down and looks as though it's going backwards, even though it isn't -- kind of the way the local subway train is neck and neck with the express line and seems to go backwards when it nears its next station as the faster train zips by.

i should say that although i sound like a massive hippie that reeks of pachouli and b.o. and good vibes, i'm actually a penny-pinching, health-conscious, meat-eating vegetarian that makes every attempt to become more and more aware of *sigh* the circle of life *pause* and how so much in the world affects all of us. so, no -- i don't follow astrology, per se. but i'm aware of how the planets and stars can enrich our lives, if we're paying attention. i still clip my plants and cut my hair according to the pull of the moon, the way my great-grandmother taught me. (the farmer's almanac is a friend of mine!) more on that little tidbit some other time.

mercury is in retrograde four times this year -- quite unusual. what kind of a ride you get depends on what sign mercury is in retrograde within. this time around, it's virgo. critical, critical virgo. intellectual, yes. but critical. and whaddya know? virgo is also ruled by mercury, so this should make things especially sticky. and interesting.

everyone i know is dreading the next few weeks, for all the funk that's coming down the pike. there's always havoc in the air, stuff always goes screwy. but i've decided to look for the silver lining this time around. because this time around, i'm not going to freak out when things break down, when the subway never comes, when my phone won't work, when i miss opportunities because of missed calls or when my computer slows to a crawl. i'm not going to lose it if something out of my past rears its ugly head, no matter who or what it is. i'm going to rise above all this stuff and -- you guessed it! -- go with the flow.

i'm also going to clean and reorganize this apartment, clear out that junk room, throw out a lot of stuff and edit my closets. get my piano tuned. find a good seamstress and get some vintage clothes altered for the fall -- especially those wiggle dresses. work on my left hook and my right cross. do a little bit everyday to get stronger, get healthier and get my body back.

that's it for now, my fellow hippies. now, get back on your grind.

so beautiful

this is a snapshot of last night's summerstage performance in west harlem of motion theater lab, dancing under the stars at jackie robinson park's ampitheater.

the event was nothing short of wonderful -- with some truly breathtaking moments. an evening of dance with earl mosley's institute of the arts and motion theater lab that began with a hipfunkinghop dance class, taught for all ages by choreographer calvin wiley. by the time we showed up, everyone that felt so inclined was onstage behind this man who looked as though he were directing traffic in a really elegant way. even people in the audience were dancing!

i love harlem, i really do. it's not just harlem, actually. it's brooklyn, too. but for me, it's harlem. whether it's the architecture, the food, the history that's alive in the streets, the languages spoken all around me by black folk from the diaspora speak everywhere i go, or the vibe that is who we are -- i am saturated in blackness. i can't imagine living in a place that doesn't take my black perspective into consideration, on all fronts. if i did, i'd probably never leave the house. that's probably a part of the reason why it's so hard for me to imagine living anywhere else. this place has really spoiled me as a negress. but then again, so did the atl. and charleston.

this thursday -- gil-scott heron is at marcus garvey park. next week -- doug e. fresh is at jackie robinson park. first the black cowboys, now this. what a cool summer i'm having! more photos later.

my movie watching progress so far...

This is the IMDB Top 250 movie list. I thought it would make me a less ignorant film actor if I watched more movies, so I figured this list would be a good start. I’ve seen everything that’s in bold letters. Wow. I really don’t have too far to go with this one. Time to crank Netflix a little harder. If I do, I’ll be done with this list before the end of the summer.

1. The Shawshank Redemption
2. The Godfather
3. Inception
4. The Godfather: Part II
5. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
6. Pulp Fiction
7. Schindler’s List
8. Toy Story 3
9. 12 Angry Men
10. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
11. Star Wars: Episode V – The Empire Strikes Back
12. The Dark Knight
13. The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King
14. Star Wars: Episode IV – A New Hope
15. Seven Samurai
16. Casablanca
17. Goodfellas
18. Fight Club
19. City of God
20. The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring
21. Raiders of the Lost Ark
22. Rear Window
23. Psycho
24. The Usual Suspects
25. Once Upon a Time in the West
26. The Silence of the Lambs
27. The Matrix
28. Se7en
29. Memento
30. It’s a Wonderful Life
31. The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers
32. Sunset Blvd.
33. Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb
34. North by Northwest
35. The Professional
36. Citizen Kane
37. Apocalypse Now
38. Forrest Gump
39. American Beauty
40. American History X
41. Taxi Driver
42. Terminator 2: Judgment Day
43. Vertigo
44. Lawrence of Arabia
45. Alien
46. Amélie
47. Saving Private Ryan
48. WALL·E
49. The Shining
50. A Clockwork Orange
51. Paths of Glory
52. The Departed
53. The Pianist
54. To Kill a Mockingbird
55. Aliens
56. Spirited Away
57. The Lives of Others
58. M*
59. *Double Indemnity
60. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
61. Chinatown
62. Requiem for a Dream
63. L.A. Confidential
64. Reservoir Dogs
65. The Third Man
66. Das Boot
67. The Treasure of the Sierra Madre
68. Monty Python and the Holy Grail
69. City Lights
70. Pan’s Labyrinth
71. The Bridge on the River Kwai
72. Raging Bull
73. The Prestige
74. Back to the Future
75. Inglourious Basterds
76. 2001: A Space Odyssey
77. Life Is Beautiful
78. Modern Times
79. Singin’ in the Rain
80. Some Like It Hot
81. Amadeus
82. Downfall
83. Full Metal Jacket
84. Up
85. Cinema Paradiso
86. Braveheart
87. The Maltese Falcon
88. Once Upon a Time in America
89. All About Eve
90. Rashômon
91. The Green Mile
92. Metropolis
93. Gran Torino
94. The Elephant Man
95. The Great Dictator
96. Sin City
97. The Apartment
98. Rebecca
99. Gladiator
100. The Sting
101. The Great Escape
102. Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade
103. Star Wars: Episode VI – Return of the Jedi
104. Slumdog Millionaire
105. Unforgiven
106. Bicycle Thieves
107. Jaws
108. Avatar
109. Batman Begins
110. Die Hard
111. Blade Runner
112. On the Waterfront
113. Oldboy
114. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
115. Hotel Rwanda
116. No Country for Old Men
117. Touch of Evil
118. The Seventh Seal
119. Fargo
120. Princess Mononoke
121. For a Few Dollars More
122. The Wizard of Oz
123. Heat
124. District 9
125. Strangers on a Train
126. Cool Hand Luke
127. Donnie Darko
128. High Noon
129. The Sixth Sense
130. The Deer Hunter
131. Notorious
132. There Will Be Blood
133. Snatch
134. Annie Hall
135. Kill Bill: Vol. 1
136. The General
137. The Big Lebowski
138. The Manchurian Candidate
139. Platoon
140. Yojimbo
141. Ran
142. Into the Wild
143. Ben-Hur
144. The Wrestler
145. The Big Sleep
146. The Lion King
147. Million Dollar Baby
148. Toy Story
149. Witness for the Prosecution
150. It Happened One Night
151. Life of Brian
152. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
153. The Bourne Ultimatum
154. Finding Nemo
155. Wild Strawberries
156. Trainspotting
157. Gone with the Wind
158. The Terminator
159. Stand by Me
160. Groundhog Day
161. Scarface
162. The Graduate
163. The Thing
164. Kick-Ass
165. Amores Perros
166. Dog Day Afternoon
167. Star Trek
168. Ratatouille
169. Gandhi
170. V for Vendetta
171. The Wages of Fear
172. Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels
173. Twelve Monkeys
174. The Secret in Their Eyes
175. The Grapes of Wrath
176. How to Train Your Dragon
177. Casino
178. The Gold Rush
179. 8½
180. Grave of the Fireflies
181. Diabolique
182. The Night of the Hunter
183. Judgment at Nuremberg
184. The Incredibles
185. The Princess Bride
186. The Killing
187. The Wild Bunch
188. Kind Hearts and Coronets
189. Children of Men
190. The Exorcist
191. Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans
192. In Bruges
193. The Best Years of Our Lives
194. The Kid
195. Dial M for Murder
196. Nights of Cabiria
197. The Hustler
198. Good Will Hunting
199. Rosemary’s Baby
200. Ed Wood
201. Harvey
202. Big Fish
203. King Kong
204. Let the Right One In
205. A Streetcar Named Desire
206. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
207. Sleuth
208. Rocky
209. Magnolia
210. Letters from Iwo Jima
211. Kill Bill: Vol. 2
212. Shadow of a Doubt
213. Mystic River
214. Stalag 17
215. Network
216. Brief Encounter
217. The African Queen
218. Rope
219. Crash
220. Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl
221. Bonnie and Clyde
222. The Battle of Algiers
223. Planet of the Apes
224. Duck Soup
225. The 400 Blows
226. Manhattan
227. Patton
228. La strada
229. Toy Story
230. The Conversation
231. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
232. Barry Lyndon
233. Changeling
234. The Truman Show
235. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
236. Little Miss Sunshine
237. Anatomy of a Murder
238. The Nightmare Before Christmas
239. All Quiet on the Western Front
240. The Adventures of Robin Hood
241. Mulholland Dr.
242. Spartacus
243. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
244. Monsters, Inc.
245. My Neighbor Totoro
246. Ikiru
247. Shaun of the Dead
248. Rain Man
249. The Philadelphia Story
250. Arsenic and Old Lace

See more progress on: watch the IMDB Top 250 movies

I love boxing and I don't know why

I love boxing and I don’t know why.

I love to hit my trainer and I love to hit other people in the class and I love to hit that bag. I completely and utterly LOVE it. So on the surface, I suppose it looks as though I’m physically attacking someone else. And I am, which is kind of a kick because that’s a felony in most states. And yes, it's fun. Big fun. But to me, it’s as though we are two opposing sides of a chess game and I am using my body to think my way through every move that the other side makes. If I’m crafty, I could anticipate their move before they do, based on the moves they’ve made before – just like chess. After a certain point, you can see how they think. And if you study their thought processes closely enough, you can see why they think the way they do. You can go as far and as deep as you want, one swing at a time.

Boxing, as it turns out, is a thinking man’s game.

There’s a lot of strategy involved. I suppose this is me blatantly stating the obvious but I’ll say it anyway: once you’ve mastered technique, it’s all mental. Or sometimes, it’s emotional. You can apply this rule to anything. Take singing, for example. The technique I’ve mastered allows me the freedom to let go and pretty much let God – or what some call inspiration – take over. The thing is, there are definitely a lot of mind games that happen before anyone gets in the ring and takes a swing at anyone else. And the movement, the swinging, the aggression – it’s constant.

Boxing, as it turns out, is dancing.

I can’t use my body for much of anything with this sport if it’s not strong enough to give a punch or take one and if I don’t have any endurance. Or coordination. As it turns out, I have all three of those things. I just didn’t know it. I am much stronger than I think I am – physically and mentally. Whenever I box, all of this becomes a little more apparent and a little more of that strength is revealed to me. And of course, all of that strength and self-discipline spills out onto every other part of my life. It's a way better workout than aerobics. At least I'm learning a skill I can actually use.

Okay. Maybe I do know why I love boxing.

a NYC free-for-all

so last night i’m hanging out with the artist/activist richard bell, who loves to casually announce in the most arbitrary moments imaginable that he’s the luckiest man in all of north america. he’s an aborigine from australia, by the way. we’re in an aussie bar called 8 mile creek in soho, surrounded by his ex-pat buddies and a few negroes who’ve shown up to say good-bye to him. sadly, his artist’s residency has come to an end. he leaves on friday.

suddenly, beautiful beaming lovely elaine – a printmaker from melbourne who’s been in the city for a month or so – breezes in, looking sunkissed and relaxed. she’s spent the day at the beach, and she looks it. she’s got a stack of books that she says she “found” in a bag on the sidewalk on the way there, just a few doors down. they are beautiful blank books, some of them moleskin, a few filled with sketches. and then she reaches into her bag and pulls out a handful of rubberbanded pencils and pens that she can barely get her hand around. she holds it up like it’s a torch, a beacon in the night. you should go see, she nearly squeals. it’s amazing stuff. and then, as if to prove it to me, she gives me a blank book. it’s red. and it’s lovely. i decide to call the book elaine and tell her that i’ll use it to write lyrics for my songs. i’ll do a gig later and i’ll say, this came from the elaine book and only she would know what i meant. she laughed and gave me that rubberbanded clutch of pens to pick through. something to write lyrics with. kismet, beautiful kismet. and that was that.

still and all, i sat there, chewing on my sausage roll in disbelief. (had to try some aussie food—and frankly, it’s a little too english for me. but more on that later.) but my curiousity got the better of me, so out i went and sure enough, there were not one but 4 bags full of art supplies, cushions, you name it. i was bent over one of the bags so completely, it looked like i was about to tip over and take a nosedive. much of the stuff had not been used. yikes, i thought. someone will see me out here and think that i’m trying to steal something and call the cops on me. after all i am black. i pulled two pristine beige soft cover blank books out with a quickness, shoved them under my arm and and headed back with my find.

we marvelled over all the books as we sat at the table, decided that the person who wrote and sketched these things was a woman and wondered why such nice things were on the sidewalk. when we saw some guy at the bar walk in with one of the bags, that did it. overwhelmed by curiousity (and yes, disbelief), elaine (my new bff) and ralph (the coolest guy ever) went back out there to see what was left and if anything else had been added to the pile.

sure enough, there was more stuff.

as we stood there, looking over the clothes (italian merino wool?) the heavier stuff (a scanner?!) and books (ginsburg’s howl?!), a blonde woman appeared in the doorway with a box, harried and completely out of breath. as it turns out, she had to leave the country the next day because of visa constrictions. she was canadian and had lived in the building for 7 years. now she was being forced to leave – or eventually face deportation. she had an apartment full of stuff that she couldn’t sell on craigslist because she simply didn’t have time. she tipped the door open with one weary arm and sighed. did we want to see any of it?

did we ever.

we marched up five flights of stairs to this cute little place. she had bagged what she could – friends were coming the next day to help her move that stuff – but the rest was up for grabs. and it was a LOT.

we picked through some amazing stuff. what did i get in my free-for-all? a pinhole camera. a beautiful elegant large umbrella. a wooden bath mat. a white 70s looking lomo colorsplash camera. a handful of beautiful ink pens. more blank books. a stunningly beautiful and well-tailored man’s italian overcoat. a woolen scarf. a woolen wrap. probably more stuff than that, actually. i’m still too groggy and out of it to inventory all of it.

we were like a bunch of little kids, all of us. she seemed genuinely relieved that her things were going to good use and that weren’t going to end up in the garbage. exhausted but relieved.

as we drifted through the rooms of her cute little place, chatty and upbeat and full of wonder, looking at all the cool stuff, taking in her fun downtown new york city life, feeling her melancholy, giddy with excitement over everything we found, and even more excited when she said we could have it, i felt such a rush.

i’m still not exactly sure what that rush was made of. the presence of the divine, perhaps.

we kept reassuring her. she kept begging us to take more stuff. there were some things that were so nice, we insisted that she keep them. what about our friends at the bar, she asked. was there anyone else who would want any of this stuff? just tell them to ring her buzzer, or come back in the morning, even.

you should have seen the reaction we got when we went back to the bar. priceless.

See more progress on: I'm gonna spread my wings and take to the sky by doing one New and Fulfilling thing in July, August, and September 2010

why do i love dolly parton?

when i was a kid, dolly parton was everywhere.

she had her own variety show, she was on magazine covers, she wrote books, she was constantly popping up on tv shows here and there, she was all over the radio and she was a bona fide movie star. bizarrely enough, she was a real doll, as far as i could tell. a little too big, a little too blonde, a little too pasty, a little too much make-up -- just like barbie!

as a kid, i had play clothes and i had school clothes and i had church clothes. but it was dolly who taught me what stage clothes were. they weren't necessarily costumes, by the way, and they were always beautiful. it seemed as though they were meant to augment some inner part of who she was. she made me wonder what my stage clothes would look like. i honestly think i started assembling those gowns and such, in my head, as i was watching her.

i didn't know much about her personally, except that she came from a big southern family. i liked that, because i did, too.

i'd like to say that i kept up with dolly over the years, wondering what she was up to or hearing about some oldies tour she was doing or something like that. but she was always there like always, and like always, she was everywhere. she never faded into the where are they now? bin. she was never a has been. she just kept going. she was always there. even when she wasn't there, she was there -- as a songwriter, as a producer, as a philanthropist. it wasn't until much later that i realized the true nature of her creative impact.

her trajectory is an interesting one. once she achieved success, she simply maintained it. no simple feat at all, to be sure. i think she's been able to pull it off because she's so grounded. she got married at 18 -- and stayed married. no alcohol/drug problems whatsoever. she didn't have any children to take up the lionshare of her time and energy and her husband had his own life. so she kept working, and as opportunities came her way -- producing movies, for example -- she took them. she used all that glitz, a closet full of blonde wigs and those gigantic ta-tas to distract everyone from the fact that she's actually a supersmart businesswoman and a gifted songwriter. no one is exactly as they appear to be.

think about it: would she really have gotten that far if she'd been a flat-chested brunette?

nevermind the 45 grammy award nominations or the 7 grammys, the 42 country music association nominations or the 10 cmas, the academy of country music's 39 nominations and 7 awards, the two oscar nominations, the tony nomination. ignore the grand ol' opry induction in 1969, the star on the hollywood walk of fame in 1984, the star on the nashville walk of fame, the honorary doctorate. recieving the kennedy center honor in 2006. that theme park, the one that employs thousands. yeah, nevermind that stuff.

get this: she's a multi-instrumentalist (guitar, banjo, autoharp, piano, fiddle, harmonica, drums, appalachian dulcimer and pennywhistle). she's sold more than 155 million albums worldwide. she's written more than 3,000 songs. she's got 41 top 10 country albums and 25 number one singles. she's had a top 5 country hit in each of the last five decades. as of a few years ago, she has her own record label. she's had her own publishing company ever since her days of performing and writing songs with porter waggoner, and needless to say, she owns all of her publishing. actually, she's always owned her publishing -- something that most recording artists/songwriters toss to the wind just as soon as they get signed.

at this juncture, i'd like for you to think about your favorite performer and ask yourself if they play any instruments, if they write any songs, or if they own any of what they're creating (if they actually create anything at all). most of the recording artists in this industry wake up one day and realize that all of a sudden, they're out of fashion and everyone has moved onto the next. they usually have no assets, no homeownership and no money. if their relatives didn't clean them out, a nasty divorce ravaged them financially. or it's drugs and alcohol that caved them in. that old chestnut.

what do you think kris kross is doing or the rest of those little kiddie hip-hop send ups like abc - another bad creation? (hey, they were from the atl!) where in the world is sinbad? he had is own talk show! and he hosted that vibe late night talk show! and he was emcee for the ms. universe pageant! remember how big kid n' play were? what do you think they're up to now? look at the jackson 5. (ew.)

why didn't that happen to dolly? probably because she doesn't do r&b. (heh.) let's face it. r&b is producer-driven, trendy and mostly disposable. on the other hand, country music fans are infamous for their rabid loyalty. not being in a band and having to deal with those group dynamics couldn't have hurt, either. oh yeah. and she's not a corporate tool.

for me, it really boils down to her songs -- she wrote them, she owned them and she used that financial base to do whatever she wanted creatively.

i don't think i could ask for a better role model.

what i got for my birthday

something for every day of the month, in no particular order:

1. selections from the 3 course tasting menu at MoMA's Terrace 5 with Los Angeles Brian
   
2. an ice cream maker from williams-sonoma
3. a fascinating bio on the curzon sisters
   
4. a facial at queen jane day spa
5. small, slight shopping sprees at kiehl's (musk "love" oil), h&m (a bikini) and sephora (murad's pomegranate facial peel)
   
6. creating my own blackgrrl crossword puzzle
   
7. slow but steady weight loss
   
8. a bottle of ethiopian honey wine
   
9. a moroccan oil gift package
   
10. an impromptu guitar lesson from a stranger
    
11. an afternoon of leisurely schivtzing with my permanent boyfriend at spa 88
    
12. a jillion happy birthday wishes on facebook and twitter
    
13. well-edited closets
    
14. clearing out my junk room and finding cool stuff i didn't know i had -- like a pair of never worn still in the box with tags steve madden wooden high heels. *sigh*
    
15. a movie every single day of the month (thanks, netflix!)
    
16. tickets to a musical -- The Heights
17. late night dinner at Fiorello's (a Roman cafe, ironically enough)
    
18. in boxing class, learning how to pivot and lean in when i throw a punch for maximum impact
    
19. writing a new song, every day of the month
20. learning how to fingerpick on guitar (thanks, jon!)
    
21. discounted spa treats for me and renee at jeniette
22. an air conditioner in the living room (wow.)
    
23. dim sum with the lovely lisa brown
24. watching sokhna dance with mangos at lincoln center
    
25. cocktails at dutch kills on a sunday with ralph, eric and cybel (and abe and ben)
    
26. spending a sunny saturday afternoon wandering down the coney island boardwalk
27. a surprise birthday party at covo (!!!)
28. a beautiful painting from cybel
29. a cool r. crumb book from sara jane
30. and last but not least -- a stunning halter gown from renee
    

Queen Esther's Top 10 Summer Reading List

These books are what I'll be diving into as the weather gets warmer. I know a lot of this isn't light beach reading but frankly, there's no room for that in my life right now -- partly because I'm doing some serious research for my once-abandoned one person show about reparations called The Big Payback, and pushing towards finding a place where it can develop and grow. It's easy to find other ways to keep things light and fluffy when the heaviness and seriousness tends to dwell in the art I'm creating. Which is kind of where it belongs.

I must say, it's wonderful, to get lost in what I'm writing, day after day after day. There are moments that stretch into hours where ideas go rushing out of me in a rush of colors and intensity and wonder. It leaves me standing there, taking it all in as I write it all down dutifully. The whole process feels freeing and restorative -- and redemptive, somehow.

These are in no particular order. (Seriously.)

1. Stormy Weather: The Life of Lena Horne by James Gavin
2. One Drop of Blood: The American Misadventure of Race by Scott L. Malcolmson
3. The History of White People by Nell Irwin Painter
4. The Viceroy's Daughters: The Lives of the Curzon Sisters by Anne Courcy
5. Wrapped Up in Rainbows: The Life of Zora Neale Hurston by Valerie Boyd
6. In Search of Nella Larsen: A Biography of the Color Line by George Hutchinson
7. Passing by Nella Larsen
8. Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness, and the Politics of Empowerment by Patricia Hill Collins
9. Seeing the Unspeakable: The Art of Kara Walker by Gwendolyn DuBois Shaw
10. In the Shadow of Slavery: African-Americans in New York City, 1626 - 1863 by Leslie M. Harris
    

Sermonette: Jesus Cares

It's Sunday. Time for church.

Today's sermonette, Jesus Cares, comes to us from Times Square Church in New York City's theater district. Enjoy and be blessed.

dang, aaron!

has everyone that's black and american seen this boondocks episode that aired last sunday entitled "pause" except me? in it, aaron mcgruder skewers tyler perry to the hilt. from what i understand, he lets fly with so much insider information that supposedly mr. perry fired his entire staff. when you're rich and famous, getting ridiculed in the media goes with the territory. that's why they pay you tens of millions of dollars -- to soften the blow. but apparently, this was quite a blow indeed. did mr. mcgruder strike a nerve, perhaps?

first of all, let's look at the genre. adult-themed cartoons have been all the rage for quite some time, thanks to south park. with a cartoon, you can put any celebrity on blast, lampoon them to smithereens and call it social commentary. satire in adult cartoons are a legitimate way to delve into controversial subject matter that a sit-com would never touch. sometimes the stuff they come up with is nothing short of jaw-dropping. its interesting, it's inspiring, it makes you think -- all the things that television should do, and usually doesn't. that's why i LOVE adult swim.

simply put, that boondocks episode was scathing, brilliant television. i am in awe of aaron mcgruder because basically, he's his own entity and he can pretty much do whatever he wants. there's no way that tyler perry can destroy him or ruin him or fix it so that he never works in this business again. mr. mcgruder has established himself and he is his own man. i think that's tremendous.

i don't like it when anyone in hollywood stereotypes us. it doesn't make it any easier to take when black people do it. as a matter of fact, it makes it harder for me to ignore. i'm as uncomfortable with stepin fetchit as i am with tyler perry's madea but what makes madea especially toxic is the way his popularity outside of the black community has given (black) comedians permission to parade around in a dress and behave the way that they do.

my grandmother is nothing like that. is yours?

no, tyler perry isn't the first black man to put on a dress for comedic effect. but flip wilson's geraldine wasn't a black female stereotype. geraldine was a cute chick with a boyfriend named killer, a job and a life. every so often, you'd get a glimpse into her world -- but she was herself, and that was that.

here's another tidbit: not very many people know that buckwheat was a girl initially, played by a boy. remember buckwheat? so yeah, we've been listening to this one note samba for quite some time.

i mean, really. someone or something in media is always and forever on a mission to emmasculate black men and denigrate black women. the inference that it takes a black man to portray a black woman is now commonly accepted in our collective cultural subconsciousness. a black woman has her own strength, and there's absolutely nothing that's especially masculine about it. don't believe the hype.

a few days after this episode aired, mr. mcgruder tweeted: Tyler Perry has mastered the Evangelical-Christian-Afro-American-homo-erotic genre of entertainment. Good for him!!

good point.

i get the feeling that mr. mcgruder doesn't like the hyprocrisy of a gay black man using jesus to justify his cross-dressing antics or the success of his mediocre work. i could be wrong, but i'm not so sure that he's anti-christian. more on that later.

i've included the entire episode below for your viewing pleasure. enjoy!

double oy!

i really pushed myself in boxing class this evening, which means i'll wake up sore tomorrow and limp through a better part of the weekend, recovering. i'll be lucky if i can ride my bike to church on sunday...

another 50 cent

After I read the book The 50th Law (co-written by 50 cent and the brilliant somewhat controversial Robert Greene), there were some who suggested that I take a look at a few interviews he's done recently, most notably with that Tavis Smiley (who couldn't ever hope to hold a candle to the interviewing skills of Bryant Gumbel).

After viewing this and other interviews, my initial assessment stands.

Hip-hop/rap artists cultivate menacing dangerous thug images to grow and validate their brand. (Don't believe me? Just ask Tupac.) Whether that's who they really are is irrelevant. What matters is that everyone believes that they're a gangster. (Former corrections officer Rick Ross knows all about this. Yeah, he tried to deny it -- but the truth will out, eventually.) If you really sold crack in the ghetto, it authenticates you. (Jay-Z, anyone?) Ultimately, hip-hop/rap has created a climate in our (African) American culture and in the world that has denigrated us and undermined who we are as a people. In the long run, it's done way more harm than good. The world is sure that we are the ghetto dwelling scum of the earth because of this supposed art.

Maybe I'm not the one to talk about this. I'm still sitting around listening to Public Enemy and the Pharcyde. What do I know?

Not surprisingly, most hip-hop/rap artists who are successful don't make the lionshare of their money in music. They are haberdashers -- but more importantly, they are hustlers. They sell cologne, vodka, clothing, movie tickets to whatever film they're starring in. Anything but music. Because music really isn't selling these days.

Think about it: 50 cent made $100 million by selling vitamin water. Vitamin water! Is he some sort of financial genius? He agreed to invest his capital in someone else's idea. I think that those are the kinds of opportunities that come your way when you're rich and famous. All you have to do is say yes and write a check. I don't think that's genius. I don't even think it's particularly smart. It's just common sense.

One thing is for sure. If 50 cent starts making movies, he'll probably do a far cry better than Tyler Perry.

In this video, BBC Radio 4's Today presenter Evan Davis speaks to 50 Cent about how overcoming your fears can help you get ahead in business.



In this video, 50 Cent talks to Tavis Smiley about his dark music resonating with audiences and the reaction to his success. Yes, it's the entire video. Yes, it's a little long. Yes, it's well worth watching.

Watch the full episode. See more Tavis Smiley.

drift overload

yesterday was crazy. or maybe it was just me.

there i was, popping gum absentmindedly and listening to boston's more than a feeling on my iswitch while i was waiting to be seen for a musical theater audition, swinging my crossed leg back and forth like a metronome and thanking Jesus that they only wanted 16 bars of two contrasting songs because that's pretty much all i had in me. i remember looking down at my bag and seeing my boxing gloves, knowing that i would go to class after this and feeling the muscles in my shoulders jump a little, just thinking about my feeble puny arms and all the pushups i wouldn't be able to do.

and then my mind just kind of trailed off...

i love boston. i would get through boxing class a lot easier if i could listen to 70s dinosaur rock. or even dinosaur jr. junior kimbrough. kim wilson and the fabulous thunderbirds, austin texas, the nation's capital, capital punishment, crime and punishment, dostoyevski, bee beards, hippies, beautiful hippies, the groovy murders, the east village, the lower east side, side by side by sondheim, musical, i'm here for a musical, an original new musical, why do i love musicals?

these shoes are murder, murder she wrote, angela lansbury, catherine zeta jones, tommy lee jones, men in black, the man in black, johnny cash, cash and carry, carry nation, sufferagettes, david bowie, bowie knife, knife in the water, water? whoa - i'm thirsty! where's the water fountain? the fountainhead, ayn rand, randy the cowboy in the village people, that beautiful indian, i wonder if he was gay, gay 70s disco, gloria gaynor, i will survive, i will survive this audition, audition the book, audition a musical about auditioning, a chorus line, i can't dance well enough to be in the chorus of any musical, i'm auditioning for a musical, am i up yet or what.

what am i singing. only 32 bars. i can make it through 32 bars. bars. bars of chocolate. chocolately klondike bars! what would i do for a klondike bar. not much, actually. i'd rather eat an apple. less work burning it off on the back end. work out, right after this! oh God please don't let me be late for boxing class...

top ten - the stuff i love

stuff i love...

1. the taco truck on 145th between broadway and amsterdam. i haven't had chicken chalupas that good since i ate at seis salsas in austin texas (the nation's capital) way back in the 90s.
2. the murad pomegranate exfoliating facial mask. murad products make my skin glow and this facial mask is a little miracle in a packet. whenever i slather it on (usually in a steam room), i can feel it eating away at the dead skin on my face. delicious!
3. wall street bath and spa - if i want to go to a real russian banya in manhattan (because the russian/turkish baths on 10th street are neither russian nor turkish) that's not expensive and hassle free, i go here.
4. as a musician, artistdata.com lets me update everything, all at once.
5. i love old cool guitars -- probably because i can't afford to spend thousands on the kind of stuff that everyone else plays. i think that vintage danelectro guitars are twang-tastic. i want one with the amp in the case. and yes, i'm looking for a teisco del ray.
6. those gigantic incredibly delicious chocolate chip cookies from tiny little levain bakery. absolutely without question the best chocolate chip cookie i've ever had, bar none.
7. listen up, ex-pat texans: they're serving migas for brunch at good enough to eat. and they're so good, it's actually a little wacky. just goes to show what wonderful things can happen when the chef/owner steps aside and lets the tex-mexicans make what they know. by the way -- i've never had migas anyplace else in this town. if you have, let me know.
8. i lovelovelovelovelove boxing.
9. i lovelovelovelovelove my guitar coach.
10. believe it or not, i actually have a cremier-fromager. and i love him, too.
    

the longest day, the shortest night

ah, summer solstice. the first official day of summer. here's a little video (banned, of course - made by germans who thought it would be fun to pick on swedes) that celebrates it better than i did.

happy father's day, daddy

i can't even begin to say how much i miss my daddy.

yes, that's right. i'm an african-american woman with parents who were married to each other for nearly 50 years. my daddy left this world last year at the age of 92. no man worked harder than he did to provide for his family. back in the day, he held seven union cards. seven! i don't know anyone with more than two. my mother still lives in the house that they raised us in - all five of us. a big house, in cascade heights, in the ATL. and she's still running their real estate business, singlehandedly.

it makes me sick to my stomach, the things that everything in the media continually feeds us about black men and black fathers. while it's horrible that this garbage gets ingested worldwide, what's especially disturbing is that we've started to believe it about ourselves. we can't even make movies or tv shows about decent hardworking black fathers. absolutely everyone thinks they're unicorns. no one believes they're real.

so let me set the record straight, on my end: i had a daddy, a granddaddy and a great-granddaddy -- all of them, hard-working, sober, responsible, dedicated, church-going family men. and i know i'm not the only black person out here who can say that. the glass is hardly half empty.

today would have been a day of fun for him. he would have been celebrated in church, with a special service for fathers, surrounded by people congratulating him and wishing him well. and then of course a nice big dinner , surrounded by family, and then his easy chair and phone calls from near and far all day long from everyone that knows him, and opening all kinds of gifts and yelling at the grandkids and telling everyone what to do. the remote would be in his hand like a scepter, and he'd wave it around for dramatic effect whenever he would punctuate anything he'd have to say. and he had plenty to say. about everything.

if i couldn't be there, i would have sent a huge bouquet of flowers and something permanent and cool, something that he could touch and say, my only daughter gave this to me for father's day, like a tie clip. if i were actually there, i'd make dinner and serve it to everyone dutifully -- and in the middle of the meal, daddy would turn to my mother and say, in a stage whisper, our only daughter is serving us dinner, in this really astonished overly dramatic can-you-believe-it voice. like it's this massively huge thing that's not really happening right in front of him but it is. like it's something i never did when i came home. it's not like it never happened at all, ever. me making dinner and serving it and cleaning up afterwards was practically my entire childhood. i suppose he expected me to stay in that kitchen, making his oxtails and rice, until marriage put me in someone else's. but that was not to be.

it feels like i'm going to grieve him for the rest of my life. who knows. i probably will.

i'm actually okay with it, if that's what happens. everyone handles these things differently. i really don't know how else to be. besides, i am told that such traumatic things can sometimes trigger massive creative explosions. it makes a lot of sense, that something truly beautiful could eventually come out of so much sorrow.

oy!

i recovered from last night's fabulous friday night fish fry and the japanese flag i found myself flying unexpectedly by sleeping in, hanging out at a fun family picnic in brooklyn and then wandering through the russian riviera with my permanent boyfriend.

we watched the sun fade as we sipped italian white wine and noshed on cheeses and such, and held each other and whispered sweet nothings and watched a scary movie.

and now i sit, practicing guitar and absentmindedly watching some tim burton movie while one of my well-off neighbors smokes some pretty strong pot in the well-groomed backyard of their tony brownstone.

happy days.

the things i'm going to miss

i'm going to miss boxing class today and all the stuff that goes with it -- the run that happens when i come out of the room and the steam/sauna that happens after that. but mostly sparring with my instructor and pounding that bag.

i'm going to miss that long and arduous bike ride up and down the west side highway's bike lane, because i've got so much crap to do that only a fast-moving train will accommodate me.

i'm going to miss sleeping in and daydreaming and chugging water mindlessly and yes, i will miss my guitar.

i am in audition and callback purgatory. that means everything and nothing. it's like chasing a shadow in the midst of a fog that disappears as suddenly as it arrives. even if you get whatever it is, there's always the possibility that it can slip through your fingers like a vapor. they can edit your character out of the scene or even the entire episode. they can call you back ten times and then not give it to you. or they can go in another direction after you're absolutely certain that it's yours. (that one is my personal favorite - it's such a great way to say "we don't want you.")

and yet, i jump through those hoops.

it's a full time job, to stay in a constant state of readiness. more and more, it feels like that's a battle that i'm winning. probably because i'm into boxing and it's fun, and i'm getting my body back. once i get the gig in question, the work is fun, too. getting lost in that process, growing into a character, shooting ideas into the air and trying new things. that's too much fun.

no -- the audition is where the fun stops. the audition is the work. it is punishing, it is backbreaking, it is unforgiving. sometimes i'm good at it. (i think.)

i've got to stick to my routine in my downtime. (stick and move, stick and move...) tom petty was right. the waiting is the hardest part.

am i a hoarder?

after seeing one too many episodes of that A&E tv show hoarders, i spent the better part of the day in my junk room, sorting, organizing and throwing things away. most people i know who live in nyc don't have a room to shove stuff into, to make the rest of the apartment look halfway decent. i've been doing it for years, so you can imagine what it looks like. that room has spoiled me. if things keep going this way, it will undo me. i need it now -- or rather, we need it now -- so circumstance has forced me to seriously deal with everything in there. and of course, nothing makes it happen like a deadline.

i don't know what it is -- change in the weather, weight loss, hanging out at everyone else's hot spots, or the nightmarish situations those filthy obsessive people get themselves into -- but for some strange reason, i'm turning into howard hughes.

or maybe i'm just reveling in the special feeling that only a clean room can give me.

feng shui says the first rule is, declutter. wish me luck. i'd like to give myself a cleaned out second bedroom for my birthday.

and no. i'm not a hoarder. things are in complete and utter disarray in there, but i know where everything is.

...about that seattle cop...

everybody's seen the video by now -- a seattle cop named ian walsh gets into a shoving match with a 17 year old black girl and punches her in the face. hard. it's pretty compelling stuff, him pulling his fist back as swiftly as he did, with or without the backstory. partly because every news organization all over the world is showing it over and over and over again, sometimes in slow motion, like peckinpah. and like peckinpah, the violence becomes more disturbing the slower it gets. was it racist? who knows. clearly, this cop was losing control of the situation and (according to the seattle authorities) he did what he was supposedly trained to do to regain it. but when even bill o'reilly comes down on the side of the black teenaged victim, it should give anyone reason to pause.

what happened?

the cop stopped the 17 year old black girl and an 18 year old woman for jaywalking. jaywalking! who gets arrested for jaywalking? everybody does it -- which is probably why he wasn't taken seriously when he spoke to them in the first place.

not only did they verbally berate him when he told them to come over to the police car (surprised?) but one of them even walked off dismissively. (i mean, wow. some would get a bullet in the back for that one.) once he put his hands on the 18 year old, she began to struggle in an effort to get away. the 17 year old got in between them to defend her, a shoving match ensued, and then they were off to the races. so the upshot of it all is, he didn't hit this girl because she was jaywalking. that's why he stopped her. he hit her for putting her hands on him, for resisting arrest, for being a public nuisance, for obstructing an arrest. and so on.

there's a lot that's wrong with this picture.

i found this situation sickening to a dizzying degree, mostly because neither of the victims seemed to have any real respect for authority. both of them were blissfully unaware of protocol -- how to talk to police officers, how to behave when one approaches you, what is illegal and what is not. jaywalking is one thing but once he told them to come over to that police car and put their hands on the hood, it was a whole other ball game. they should have known that.

it's also especially unnerving because they never seemed to understand how much danger they were in. anything could have happened. his gun could have gone off "accidentally," if you know what i mean. happens all the time.

don't get me wrong. i don't like cops. i'm sure there are good ones, but too many of them move forward full tilt on the slightest assumption, violently and with menace, trafficking in stereotypes to harass decent hardworking law abiding black folk everywhere. whether you're driving while black, opening your front door, out with friends on the eve of your wedding day or simply a black ivy league professor in your own home, minding your own business -- racial profiling by the police will come for you sooner or later, if you're black. that's why i assume i'm dealing with a bad cop when i deal with any of them. if i'm right, no harm done. and if i'm wrong, it's a pleasant surprise.

thank God someone's camera phone was fully charged and at the ready, or we would never have known about any of this. well. i would, because it would have been our news item -- the kind of thing we discuss amongst ourselves ad nauseum (like girl x) and white people refuse to believe because there's no proof. but even when there is proof, there's no proof. didn't we learn that lesson with rodney king.

whatever happened to officer friendly?

goodreads review: the 50th law

The 50th Law by 50 Cent


My rating: 4 of 5 stars
i don't like 50 cent. i never have and i probably never will, in spite of the way he's recently cleaned up his image and repackaged himself to mainstream/middle (white) america, readying all of us for his next incarnation. he's not stupid. he knows that his gangsta rap moment has played itself out and it's time to move onto the next -- probably acting (he's getting his tatoos removed for this purpose) and producing. there's an astonishing amount of money in film/tv, no matter which side of the camera you're on. truthfully, he's become more of a businessman and haberdasher, like most of his ilk who are successful -- with a line of clothing, vitamin water and whatever else makes him more money, all the while maintaining a menacing dangerous image to validate his brand.

and therein lies the problem.

it started out with its heart in the right place, as a way to report what the black urban underclass was experiencing, something that the rest of america was blissfully unaware of. but eventually, when hip/hop and rap saw the money, it branded and sold itself to the highest bidder in the name of multiculturalism and opportunity. now it's pretty much a black-faced caricature of itself. the thug posturing and posing that's supposed to represent all black american men of a certain age. the idea that bitch=(black) women. the casual/liberal use of the "n" word. and many more things that have fostered a climate in our culture that's perpetuated almost as many stereotypes about black people to the world as stepin fetchit, arguably. all for the sake of money, material things, and beef/"reputation" (whatever that is).

i hope it was worth it.

so i was thinking all of these things and more as i read this book. i read it because a friend suggested it and admittedly, i am a huge fan of Robert Greene. i've read pretty much all of his books and i think he gives an interesting and thought-provoking take on media, power and societial dynamics. this book is basically mr. greene taking on the idea of fear, the 50th law, and using 50 cent's life story and personal philosophy to augment and illustrate his intent. mr. greene didn't take this lightly. he followed 50 cent for years and was a fly on the wall in his life in and out of boardrooms, heady confrontations and power moves. he did his homework, and it shows.

it's a provocative premise. curtis "50 cent" jackson is probably the only gangsta rapper out here that was actually a gangster in real life and not a wangsta, someone that cultivated that image to make money. rick ross (the boss), for example, was a corrections officer in florida for years -- and in spite of him insisting that it's not true, there are pictures and paperwork to prove it.

we've all heard tell of what it takes to be a gangster. why not hear it from the source?

this is what makes the book a fascinating read. it delves into the details of mr. jackson's life as a drug dealer in queens and his rise as a gangsta rapper to pull up details that augment this idea: all of us have the capacity to live a fearless life, and to live life to the fullest, and to live to the fullest of our potential, we must find a way to eliminate that fear by any means necessary.

apparently, curtis has come a long way. it's no surprise that what he has observed by working for gangsters initially and usurping them to create his own power base has come in handy when doing business in the corporate world and the entertainment industry.

i don't want to get into too much detail. it's a very juicy read and in the end it didn't tell me anything that i didn't already know about fear and how it can undo you. but i must admit, mr. greene found a very interesting way to tell it.

View all my reviews >>

the real girls in the room

today in boxing class i watched a guy that was much bigger and stronger than me hit the bag like a total girl. he didn't put his body into it. he didn't pivot. he just threw his arm forward repeatedly in an almost absent-minded way, like a little kid. he had this stupid grin on his face while it was happening, like he knew what he looked like. and he certainly seemed to care but it couldn't be helped.

oh, yeah. and he had chicken legs.

he had a friend with him, who was just as big and strong and goony as he was, and who hit the bag the same way that he did. his friend wasn't smiling. he was watching the women in the room and the way their punches landed with impact and power. neither of them were really working hard with all of the cardio that keeps you exhausted and out of breath and on your last leg. squats. sit-ups. push-ups, endless push-ups. once things became a strain, they backed off and did the minimum -- the way some girls do, that don't want to sweat their perms out or whatever.

sparring with the boxing instructor made chicken legs giggle. i remember thinking, he's such a chick. i wonder if these two will come back?

george (my boxing instructor) is 100% right. boxing isn't the exclusive domain of men because they have more testosterone or whatever. it's all a matter of technique. either you know how to fight or you don't. the guys who don't know what they're doing are the real girls in the room.

i don't know why i want this so much. because i'm learning so much, all at once. because my body is changing. because it's fun, and when something is fun, it's not work -- especially when it is work. because it's a useful skill. because i have more stamina, overall. because when i do it right, it's like dancing -- and when i do it really well, it's like dancing and flying at the same time.

...and the Tony goes to...

i should have made some hard and fast predictions about who would win a tony and who wouldn't but that's no fun when pretty much everyone knows -- or thinks they know -- how it's going to go. it's thrilling to see greatness onstage or onscreen but i think actors get awards for their body of work -- not necessarily for their particular performance. it's all about star power. remember back in the day when an oscar nomination for katherine hepburn meant that she would win? everything she'd done was under consideration, everything was under that microscope. even her personal life. especially her personal life, probably. you gotta have a backstory.

something to think about, the next time the actor you're cheering for loses. or never gets nominated in the first place.

i just saw a documentary called i knew it was you about the film/theater actor john cazale. (you know who he is, you just don't know it. he's just that good.) he was only in 5 movies. they all received academy award nominations for best picture. something like a total of 40 nominations. although hitting five in a row is quite an accomplishment for any actor, mr. cazale never got one nomination for his work -- and yet, he was and still is the actor that other great actors are in awe of and inspired by. his work still resonates.

awards, evidently, aren't everything.

i must say, i especially liked viola davis' thank you speech. maybe it was the dress, but i thought she was radiant.

the aftertalk is always interesting, isn't it. here's denzel and viola in a backstage q&a.

i don't want to be famous

let's get one thing straight.

i don't want everyone to know who i am. or where i live. or who i goof off with.

i don't want to be harassed in public places, or followed through the streets like a common thief, or hounded and singled out whenever i'm recognized because of some acting gig i had.

i don't want people taking pictures of me at random. like when i'm eating salad with my fingers. or when it's laundry day and i'm wearing something especially filthy. or when me and my friends are on the beach, naked. or whatever.

i don't want a detail of security guards.
i don't want a stalker.
i don't want to be a prisoner in my own home.
i don't want people staring at me all the time.

i don't want to drive a big fine fancy car. i don't want a fleet of cars in my backyard. good grief. i don't even know how to drive. (yet.)

i don't want to be on cribs.
i don't want my personal private life on display.
i don't want to be easily found.

i don't want to be a celebrity, a glitterati, a media whore, an A lister, a B lister or any variation therein.

i don't care if i'm ever bankable as an actor or not.

i don't want handlers.
i don't want to give anyone my autograph.
i don't want to take pictures with strangers.

i don't want the minutae of my personal private goings-on -- however real or imaginary -- to be the fodder that sells magazines or tabloids or drives up internet hits or whatever.

i don't want anybody telling me what i can or can't do creatively -- or who i can or can't work with, for whatever reason. or where i can or can't go. or who i should or shouldn't hang out with.
i don't want anyone telling me what to do, period.

i don't want to be famous.

i am the antithesis of all that noise. i am an artist.

i am incapable of treating my art like a hobby because i am following my God-given creative impetus where ever it leads me.

to quote harlan howard - He wrote the songs -- i held the pen.

more later.

...zzzzz...

there's a lot going on this weekend -- big apple bbq in madison square park, the puerto rican day parade, tony awards parties, world cup parties -- but because i took two boxing classes tonight, i'll be in hibernation: oversleeping, daydreaming and spring cleaning.

oh, yeah. someone suggested i take "before" pictures in a bikini so i can chart and monitor my progress. not a bad idea. photos don't lie -- and neither do scales.

and now a word from our sponsor

hey, new york/tri-state area folk! believe it or not, there's going to be an actual new orleans style second line jazz parade in three different neighborhoods in the city this month. for details, click here. and yes, i'm going.

thank you

i stopped in the corner bodega on the way home tonight for my usual naked protein shake. now there's something i couldn't have said not even 5 years ago.

actually, there's one one either side of the street. and up the street. and down the street. they're peppered all over the neighborhood and they've gotten pretty swanky, with their inlaid wood walls and shelving, those gourmet organic potato chips and toblerone bars and all the other specialty items that many would think have no business being sold in the ghetto. those well-chilled imported belgian beers are a far cry from st. ides or colt 45, if you know what i mean. but that's the thing. we've been snacking on such treats all along -- it's just that we always had to go below 96th street to get whatever we wanted. now that white people are here, everything is shifting to accommodate them. and it's really aggravating.

why couldn't they accommodate me? i like toblerone bars.

there's the usual suspects in this narrow space -- dominican old men, loud kids messing around and buying candy, crackheads, buppies, arabs chatting back and forth with the guy at the cash register and reading the paper out loud and the like. oh, and white hipsters. always, the white hipsters.

everyone is talking all at once. there's arabic music playing underneath it all, and every so often the cashier sings along absentmindedly. he's on and off the phone, he's laughing and talking to his pals, he's yelling things to the back grill, he's popping gum. it's a real sonic blast. as i move to the back and then the front of the store, all of it comes at me in waves. most of it is indecipherable but i 'm listening to the arabic for a change. i think it sounds pretty.

after i pay for my things, i say thank you in arabic. moroccan arabic, to be exact. this stops the cashier in his tracks. for a moment, he's like a deer in the headlights. his pleased expression is one of genuine disbelief and some bewilderment. he mumbles you're welcome in arabic and bows to me slightly. and he smiles slightly, still staring. as i leave i see his friends looking at me with the same expression.

nothing bridges the gap quite like polite behavior.

i remember when i lived in a building on the upper west side that was filled with eastern europeans and gnarled old jews. they treated me like i was an alien. i still remember the way they would point at me and stare, dumbfounded. one day, i started to say hello and goodbye to everyone in their own language. there were quite a few languages, believe me. it wasn't easy -- but after awhile, it became a game and we were all in on it. the next thing you know, i was getting hamentashen every year at purim. i remember coming home late one afternoon and having a group of them invite me to sit with them, to watch the sunset. it was beautiful, to be accepted for myself -- but it was wierd, to be inside that circle and watch them exclude others.

more on exclusionary tactics later. i know that eventually, that cashier and i will have a nice long chat. for now, i'm practicing my arabic -- one phrase at a time. learning to say thank you is a pretty good start.

a day in the life of queen esther

wake up early. too early.

realize that you're not ready for your 10:20am audition because you haven't learned the original song they sent you. no, they didn't send the actual song. they sent sheet music. and you know what that means. it means that you have to find the song on iTunes, and if it doesn't sync with what's on paper, you have to find a pianist to play through the song so you can record it and obsess over it for nearly a week until you know it well enough to give some semblance of a performance when you go into that audition room and face most of the production team. not a "sing your way through this" kind of a deal. i mean, nail it to the wall. perform.

thinking about this exhausts you so much that you immediately go back to bed. and thinking of standing in front of that long table freaks you out so totally, you can't go back to sleep. so you lie there and stare at the ceiling and try to remember the melody of the song, to somehow reassure yourself that you've got some of it marinating in your head. but the only thing that comes floating back to you is the last song you had to learn overnight. it's called how blessed we are from the musical big river: the adventures of huckleberry finn. and once it comes back, it stays.

this is the start of your day. fun, right?

when you finally crawl out of bed, you are more than relieved that you popped a zantac before you went to bed because you ate something before you abrubtly fell out. simply put, acid reflux is a bitch. nevermind what you're supposed to eat. none of that really matters. not with you, anyway.

by 9:30am, you run out of the house like your butt is on fire - with the wrong address. once you actually get there, they've been alerted and all is forgiven. you go into the room and give one of the best auditions you've ever squeezed out of yourself, ever. everyone is smiling and warm and glowy. it feels like an amazing first date.

and to think - they were actually expecting queen esther marrow.

you run out, get time sheets, run to the bank, deposit money, run out of the bank, find a mailbox and mail stuff, run to drop off the time sheets. somewhere in all that running, your commercial agent calls. you've got an audition in the flatiron district for a lowe's spot. you stop and ask: what about the one i thought i missed yesterday, the pizza hut spot? they put you on hold, pop back on the line after a brief pause and say, you can go in for it but you have to go before 12:45pm. that means you drop everything and go now. everything is your new boxing gloves. you're annoyed that you're going to miss your 12:30pm kickboxing class but a national commercial is at stake. you very quickly get over it.

you zip over to chelsea from columbus circle, you do the deed. you go home and change clothes because you need casual attire for the lowe's spot and you know the wrap dress you're wearing just won't cut it.

when you come out of the subway, you buy a gigantic melon in the street from some mild-mannered dominicans. and it's so supercheap, you smile all the way home. you turn on the soaps while you check your makeup and change your clothes and slice that melon and shove it in the fridge to chill. you leave your place in a t-shirt and blue jean skirt. you think to yourself, yeah, i look like i'm married and shopping for stainmaster carpet. as you're running down the street in the flatiron district, looking for the address, you run into chris. he comes to the audition with you and afterwards, he takes you to lunch at la petit abielle. a really terrific salmon salad, actually. you have a wonderful conversation. as it turns out, chris used to box as a kid. you show him your boxing gloves. he laughs at your pink hand wraps. we take the 1 uptown - you jump off at 50th and hit the gym. he goes to catch up with a friend for the museum mile festival, which sounded like way too much fun.

after the gym - which did not include boxing conditioning class, and that makes you feel cheated, somehow - you could go run around but you'd rather go home. because you haven't touched your guitar what feels like forever, you've got rewrites to deal with and yes, you are officially in preproduction on something else. besides -- it's taco night.

the end -- more or less.

oh. here's that song that you couldn't stop singing all day long, from that musical you weren't auditioning for, as sung by jennifer leigh warren, for those of you keeping score at home. enjoy the money note!

great news!

i'm going to be a judge for the jazzmobile jazz vocal competition this year. it's happening on monday july 26th at gospel uptown - a wonderful venue right above 125th street on adam clayton powell blvd. and yes, the food is kind of amazing.

i think it's a great idea that they include a vocalist on the panel each year and i'm honored and somewhat floored that they chose me. God knows i'm going to take my duties very seriously.

and hey, vocalists - it's not too late to audition for this! they will see you on thursday, june 10th from 3:00 PM - 8:00 PM at the Harlem School of the Arts, 645 St. Nicholas Avenue, NY, NY 10030 (between 141st & 145th Street). *If they are not able to audition all singers registering by 7:00 p.m., a second day of auditions will take place on Friday, June 11, 2-5pm.

more details as they develop.

an impromptu beauty day

i must be pretty serious about conditioning class because went to modell's and got a pair of boxing gloves today, and a set of pink hand wraps to go with them. i just couldn't take using the gloves at the gym anymore. they're way better than nothing but most of them are falling apart. and as if that weren't bad enough, they have the worst stench imaginable. my hands reek when i'm done - like i've been handling rancid meat. i have to soak them in hot soapy water and antibacterial solution before i go home because i don't want to carry that funk with me on the train. when i don't wear my hand wraps, it's even worse.

and then of course afterwards, i paid my eyebrowist a visit, got a mani/pedi and had a salad at one of my favorite spots in soho. because evidently, i'm such a lady.

i'm supposed to have a beauty day once a week because i learned a long time ago that if i wanted to look a certain way, i had to give myself over to that on a regular basis. that's just a holdover from theater/musical theater, when i was doing 8 shows a week with one day off and i'd spend that one day off in a spa. now that the weather has turned great and i'm getting into the habit of riding my bike everywhere, i have to up the ante. i need to sit in a steam room after every conditioning class, especially if i'm going to ride my bike home. what am i saying. i need it, regardless. and a banya once a week? glorious.

egad. what am i saying? boxing gloves? eyebrowists? russian bathhouses? yes, new york city is turning into an expensive generic nondescript strip mall, yes, everyone is leaving to make art elsewhere, yes, i can't afford it. but hey - it's still new york city. even when things are supposedly pretty bad, they're still pretty good.