30 Days of Birthday -- Day 13: Reality Check (Yes, this is Prince.)

Awhile ago, I had a weird conversation with what I'll describe as an Italian-American musician who angrily reassured me repeatedly that Prince wasn't really black. His proof? Several scenes in the movie Purple Rain, wherein a beautiful Italian woman portrayed his long suffering mother -- and a dark-skinned black man was his brilliant, tortured, violent, abusive father. (Surprise, right?) When I pointed out the fact that this film wasn't a documentary about Prince's life, he laughed.

"What about his skin, his hair?" he said flatly, waving me off.  "Come on! Just look at him."

Ok. Let's do that. Let's look at Prince.  (And while we're at it, let's take a look at his momma and daddy.)

For the record, Prince Rogers Nelson is 55 years old, he's 5'2" and he's African-American.  Because let's face it: creative and heavy-handed casting options may obfuscate the truth but snapshots from high school never lie.

 

  

This is what Prince looked like when he was a teenager. Now that's an Afro! (It was the 70s. Didn't everybody have a blowout?) Here's an interesting tidbit: his nickname as a kid was Skipper.

Here's another shot of him as a high school senior -- looking especially Italian, don't you think?

By the time Prince was 18, he had a record deal with Warner Bros. Here he is in his first photo shoot.

I don't know why but that belt is really doing it for me.

...and of course, this is his first album cover. This album came out in 1978 when he was 20. Remarkably, he's still rockin' that 'fro. What a trippy shot. (Why, it's almost as though he doesn't want you to see what he looks like...!)

After this, a strange thing happened: Prince got a perm. 

I distinctly remember seeing this poster of Prince -- with this perm and naked on a white horse -- on my cousin Leslie's bedroom wall when I was a little kid.  Our conversation went something like this:

Me: (sitting on the floor, playing jacks -- stops and stares at the poster) Who's that supposed to be.

Leslie: (propped up in her bed, leafing through a fanzine with him on the cover -- flabbergasted) That's Prince!

Me: He looks like he wants to be a Princess.

Leslie: (puts down her magazine, makes a disapproving face) That's not funny.

Me: (ignoring her) I wasn't kidding.

Pause.

Me: (cont'd) Why doesn't he have any clothes on? Don't they wear clothes in his kingdom?

My Aunt Willie Dean/Leslie's mother passes by Leslie's door as I say this. She laughs so hard she hoots.

Leslie: That wasn't funny, either.

Aunt Willie Dean: (from down the hall) Yes it was!

Me: What does his music sound like.

Leslie: (getting excited) It's really funky.

Me: Well, that's good.

Leslie: (excited) You wanna hear it?

Leslie plays the album before I can answer the question. We both stop what we're doing and listen. Aunt Willie Dean comes to the doorway when she hears the music and listens, too. Leslie sings along softly. She's a lousy singer. She knows all the words.

Me: He sings like a girl.

Leslie: (defensive) No, he doesn't.

Aunt Willie Dean: (in a consoling tone) Yes, he does.

Leslie: (snaps) Well, what if he does? There's nothing wrong with that.

Aunt Willie Dean: (same consoling tone) No, there isn't.

Me: Of course there isn't. I love Sylvester.

Leslie throws a pillow at me as I start singing Do You Wanna Funk. Aunt Willie Dean laughs and walks off. End scene.

Ah, childhood.  Even as a tot, I was full of snark.

Here's the interesting thing. That first album could have gone the way of many debut efforts but the label wanted to make their money back and Prince wanted to be a star.  So he did what every budding star does: he focused on the visual and created a look for himself, amped up the sex (in this case, he decided to be pretty and somewhat effeminate -- way less of a threat to girls like my cousin and thus, more alluring) and last but not least, he took all of his clothes off. (And on album covers, no less!)

He also made himself into this racially ambiguous, hypersexualized creature and sealed that myth into the pop vernacular with an Italian mother in the ever-popular Purple Rain.  And now? Lots of people believe he's biracial. Mission accomplished.

Sorry folks -- a lightskinned momma and a black daddy doesn't make you biracial. Someone should tell that to the people who published this book.

 Unbelievable.

Prince's singing and songwriting helped a great deal. But that wasn't enough. He himself had to hook the audience with a compelling visual -- and that hairdo, that nose and that skin tone wasn't gonna make it happen.  This tiny little man had to obscure his race to make it okay for anyone to find him attractive -- while toying with the idea of being a sexual behemoth of epic proportions, thus selling himself to the highest bidder. It's kind of hilarious, the way he woke up in the 90s after selling millions of albums and realized that he was a gigantic corporate tool.  His shock seemed genuine. What a hoot.

Clearly, his transformation didn't end with the look on his second album cover. Still and all, it's interesting to see exactly when he decided to turn that corner.  

The Afro he's sporting now is no surprise. What with his image being so clearly tied to a perm or a cold wave or whatever, wouldn't everyone be compelled to see him with new eyes if he went in the opposite direction?

He's looking a lot like Phil Spector in this shot, don't you think?

I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong but it seems that if you want to make it in the entertainment industry, what you look like matters more than just about anything else. It takes a lot of strategic planning and forethought and risk to make things happen, and gobs and gobs of money -- money that has absolutely nothing to do with songwriting or performance.

30 Days of Birthday: Day 12 - A small reminder

30 Days of Birthday: Day 11 - Toxins and Carcinogens, Part 2

I'm not paranoid.  I'm not some loud mouthed upstart that's raging against the machine or the federal government (or "the man" if you prefer) and all the nefarious things they can't stop doing. I'm not politically astute. I'm not a protester. I don't believe that the government should give me anything. (And yes, Europe is winning on this one.) My I pay my taxes -- and no, none of the things I pay for with my taxes are entitlements.

I figure I'm batting a thousand because I know who my representatives are and I vote in every election but it's moments like these -- moments when I read about what's in my food, what's in the products I use on my skin, what's in the air that I breathe and the water that I drink -- that make me feel like I'm turning into a gigantic hippie. At this point, with all the damage that's been done, there's probably a little hippie in all of us. 

Who doesn't want to eat clean food and breathe clean air? Who wouldn't complain if there were something wrong with those things? Who wouldn't want to do something about it?

I believe that if we habitually put our money where our beliefs are, we can collectively change the world, one purchase at a time.  I'm already making readjustments with the products I use on my skin and in my hair and that has me rethinking my food choices all over again, even though I eat clean most of the time.  Getting around this GMO issue is going to be sticky because it's so pervasive.

I intend to take especially good care of myself from now on and that starts with what I eat and how much I exercise.  The truth is, if I want my body to look a certain way and if I want to feel a certain way, there are some things that I just can't eat anymore.  Fast food is simply not an option. It's a herculean struggle to keep sugar, salt, fat, corn and dairy off my plate. And I love dairy products but none of them are particularly fond of me. Clean food -- nuts, fruits and vegetables, certain kinds of fish -- is my medicine. 

Here's my plan, so far:

1. Every 3 months as the seasons change, I'm going to do a thorough cleanse and I'm going to a Korean day spa for a proper soak and scrub down at least once a month. 
2. It's not that hard to find farmer's markets with locally grown organic food.
3. There's a lot of organic food markets in the city. (Who knew?)
4. When it's time to eat out, Clean Plates really helps.
5. I have to drink more water. Thankfully, my Britta water bottle fits in my purse.

This isn't like that tv show Bewitched, where I snap my fingers and get the body and the good health and the physical energy I want. It's a process. This takes discipline and sacrifice and work, work, work -- and more importantly, it takes time. I had to change the way I thought about food. I had to be patient when I didn't see results. My palate had to readjust. And no, I don't like a lot of the vegetables I'm eating. But I LOVE the results. 

The funny thing is, I wasn't that far off the mark in the first place, but I'm fairly certain that the readjustments I'm making now will matter a great deal in my future.

30 Days of Birthday: Day 10 - (More) Flash Fiction

This is yet another very short story I yanked out of my laptop and dusted off and put in the summertime rewrite bin, an eternal snapshot of my New York City life.  When I say that I should write a book, MPB says I already have -- I just have to organize all of it and give it a good edit. Now that I'm finding pieces like this, I'm starting to believe he's right.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

                                                            TRAIN RIDE

Run for the train.

As you stand at the top of the stairs, you feel the blast of warm air, like the subway is gasping.  You start down the stairs and the whole world starts up the stairs, at you.  It is a tidal wave of people, an endless barrage of old people and baby strollers and small children being dragged around by the wrist that leaves you wedged against the wall, close enough to the train to see it leave you breathless.  The teller tries not to laugh at you and fails miserably.

Wait for the train.

Find yourself staring down that long dark empty tunnel as though you and everyone else on the platform staring with you were attempting to will the train to appear. Know that when you see those headlights, you and everyone around you, with your collective pacing and complaining and the tension that is bouncing around inside all of you, had something to do with it finally showing up. You tell yourself that you can keep this up all day.  And you do. 

Get on the train.

Every detail from every train ride melts into each other until one ride is indistinguishable from the next, and then somewhere in between switching to an express or catching the cross town shuttle, all of it becomes one long ride to nowhere.  You may not be wearing the same clothes but it’s the same train ride,day in and day out. The clean seats.  The screaming babies. The vomit.  The obnoxious tourists. The businessmen. The intimate conversations you didn’t want to hear. The foreign languages you don’t understand.  The walking sickness next to you dying and then in front of you begging gradually becomes the same gaunt homeless faces passing you by with the same story, bony arms outstretched for anything you’ve got, like death on holiday. By midday, you look up at someone in a cheap suit sitting across from you inhaling a gigantic hoagie absentmindedly and you realize you haven’t had anything to eat all day.

Your one constant is the book you are reading.  When you read, you are elsewhere.

Get off the local and transfer to the express line.

It’s an unspoken rule that everyone reads over everyone else’s shoulder.

You give your seat to a pregnant woman and glare at the guy next to you. More confirmation that chivalry is dead. You check that subway map next to the door, the one you think you know like the back of your hand, because you’re not sure which stop is yours. The tangled mass of train lines at the lower end of the city spangle the map like the back end of some wierdo’s psychedelic rainbow trip, As you lean down to get a closer look, the plumber in front of you readjusts politely.  You know that you just gave him something to wank off about later because your blouse fell open for a moment longer than it should have and he saw more than he was supposed to.  You sigh and let it go. 

You know that’s all the action you’re going to get for a long, long time.  For a moment, you are grateful to him for not smirking at you.  You look at him for a moment.  Older. Stocky.  Strong.  A touch of gray.  Pale watery blue eyes.  Filthy hard working hands, the kind you were raised to believe that a real man ought to have.  He looks Czech. No, you think to yourself.  Polish.  You are rewarded for your unfailing powers of observation when he pulls out a Polish newspaper from his back pocket. A moment passes.  You stand over him and lean in, pretending to read over his shoulder.  His friends who are sitting nearby stop talking and watch you.  As he attempts to turn a page, you stop him and pretend to finish a last paragraph, then indicate that yes, now he can turn the page. Everyone laughs. You laugh, too.  He offers you his seat. When you refuse, he insists.  Surprised and grateful, you take it. As he leaves, he pretends to give you his Polish newspaper.  You pretend to take it. You both laugh again and wave goodbye. You will never see him again.  You think to yourself, I love New York.  And you mean it.

30 Days of Birthday: Day 9 -- Sunday Sermon

Pastor Carter Conlon of Times Square Church: And the Word of the Lord Came

30 Days of Birthday: Day 8 - Carcinogens and Toxins, Part 1

i don't know what happened to me. all of a sudden, i want to get all of the toxins and carcinogens out of my life, toot sweet. the thing is, i'm not sure what has to go. i didn't wallow in alcohol, i never smoked cigarettes and recreational drugs didn't become this ritualistic habit that everyone else has embraced. i maintained that stance in my post-college adult life because as an actor and vocalist, my body is my instrument and it's maintenance and upkeep is a full time job -- especially as i transition to on-camera work. (for more on that process, click here.)

in my perpetual search for the best sunscreen i can get my hands on (yes, it's european), i began to do research on toxins and carcinogens -- the things that poison so many of us on a daily basis, a little bit at a time, from the inside out. what i discovered was more than a little disturbing.

the one ingredient that really freaked me out was sulfates - and yes, there are hundreds of varieties. once upon a time, everyone made their own soap. then in the 1930s, someone put sulfates in soap (and lots of other products we use on our bodies, like toothpaste) to make them sudsier. and it worked - but it also tended to dry out the skin and hair.  nowadays, more than 90 percent of shampoos and body washes contain sodium lauryl sulfate (SLS) -- widely known as a skin irritant -- or sodium laureth sulfate (SLES).  this stuff is linked to premature baldness, enviornmental cancers, cataract formation, contact dermatitis and more. it's in baby products, too. (yeesh.)

this infographic sums up quite a lot. in the meantime, i'm going to go through all the products i use on my body to make sure that they're sulfate, silicone and surfactant free.

30 Days of Birthday: Day 7 - The Civil War exhibits at The Met

 An ambrotype image of the Pattillo Brothers of Henry County, each holding D-guard Bowie or side knives: (from l to r) Benjamin, George, James and John -- Company K, 22nd Regiment, Georgia Volunteer Infantry. They enlisted together on the same day -- August 31, 1861 -- and served with the Army of Northern Virginia.  If you'd like to know what happened to them in battle, click here.

When I spend the day at The Met in the Balcony Lounge -- listening to jazz, rewriting and rereading, and yes, thinking way too much -- sometimes I wander into an installation to distract myself and clear my head.  There are several on hand that coincide with the anniversary of the Civil War and they are wondrous.

The exhibit Photography and the American Civil War is the one that has consistently pulled me in from the inside out, in part because I love to tromp through history books and sift through it all to find out What Actually Happened.  This is the war that was photographed exhaustively, the first major conflict to come alive inside that lens. The hoi polloi was understandably transfixed.

What's especially alluring (and yes, disturbing) is that the people in the photos look real. Really, really real. There's just no other way to put it. Most of them look as though they are reaching through that expanse of space and time and whatever else stands between us, and really seeing me. The kicker is that a few of them look like people I actually know.  The brothers in the photo above are no exception.

I can't see a piece of art once and get everything out of it and walk away. The more I look at it, the more I see, the more inspired I feel.

These photos are ethereal.  I can't get them out of my head.

30 Days of Birthday: Day 6 -- An Intensive Summer Workshop

I started that workshop this week, which is kind of fantastic because I'm forced to write and rewrite all of these ideas out of my head.  And yep, that's exactly why it's not fantastic at all.  Thankfully, inspiration is there more often than not. There are plenty of places for me to hide and disappear all day. So far, so good.

The flow of my day feels a little surreal. I'm grateful that I've got enough time to write and develop new ideas.  Here's what's keeping me up late at night:

1.  My musical The Billie Holiday Project -- it went so well at at The Apollo last spring that I'm absoutely determined to develop it.
   
2. A dance piece with Francesca Harper called Billie Holiday Deconstructed
3. A treatment for an as of yet unnamed TV show
4. A short 10 minute film
5. A one act play that's all over the place

Next week, I'll hand over 15 pages of dialogue from a theater piece I'm working on about modern black girls.  It's kind of like a black feminist version of The Colored Museum.

Pithy Quote of the Day

30 Days of Birthday: Day 5 -- A New Dress

This is a beautiful vintage gown of a dress, circa 1930 something -- a perfectly delicious, carefully ruffled, buttercup yellow, moire taffeta sliver of loveliness, puffed sleeves and all -- that I found on Etsy. There is no zipper. There are no closures. It's cut on the bias. It simply slips on over my head.

(This is the part in my head where I hear Madelene Kahn saying, "Taffeta, darling..." to Gene Wilder in that train station scene from Young Frankenstein. *sigh* Mel Brooks, I love you.)

I'm seriously thinking about wearing this to the Jazz Age Lawn Party. We'll see how I look in it when it gets here.

The quality of vintage clothing is so much better than what's affordable now.  And it's always a real kick in the head to wear unique things. I simply can't stand seeing what I'm wearing on anyone else.

I do so love to wear old things. It's like I'm wearing history whenever I dress up in it and strangely, it makes me feel connected to the past in the most reassuring ways.  I will wear a 1930s day dress and pass a shop window as I zip down the street and I will glimpse someone from another place and time, and lo and behold, it will be me. That doesn't creep me out. It gives me comfort.

Newton thought that time was absolute. Einstein proved that it was relative. Isn't there a theory that says everything is happening all the time, simultaneously?  Why yes, there is. Everything forever, all the time.  When I wear vintage, this makes perfect sense.

*sigh*

I am seriously addicted to the good stuff on the Discovery channel.

30 Days of Birthday: Day 4 -- Take out the garbage

30 Days of Birthday -- Day 3: My Body, My Self

I don't know what happened to me.

When I was a kid, I was full of verve. I had a ton of energy that was boundless and explosive, energy that kept me moving from the moment I leaped out of bed until I was forced to go to sleep. I didn't know it but in a way, my body was my best friend. I took care of it inadvertently but it was excellent care, nonetheless -- thanks to my father's heart attack, we ate clean for the most part -- fresh fruits and vegetables, and chicken, lots of different kinds of fish and game, usually roasted.  We weren't allowed to eat candy.  Thanks to my mother's budget, we hardly ever ate fast food. We had a swimming pool, bicycles, acres of wooded area to run through and explore with plenty of trees to climb.

(Yes, I'm from the South.)

Later in college, there was no alcohol, no hard drugs and no carcinogens of any kind.  Initially, I wasn't interested. When I got curious, I couldn't afford it because at that time my real name was Poverty McBroke-ington.  Not having money meant that I cooked for myself most of the time, so I maintained the eating habits I had when I was a kid. What I could afford was monthly facials at a deluxe spa. And plenty of sunscreen. And a decent pair of running shoes -- along with a sports bra that would keep Pancho and Lefty completely stationary.

What can I tell you? Your money follows your priorities.  I didn't realize it at the time, but the foundation had already been set in concrete from childhood. I couldn't eat garbage -- well, I could and when I did, I felt like garbage, so I stopped. I didn't know how to drive, so I rode my bike everywhere. And on a college campus that covered 3 zip codes, I put in some serious mileage every day.  Last but not least, I wore sunscreen religiously. I even wore sunscreen on cloudy days. Force of habit, I suppose. When you're constantly reinforcing good habits, the payoff is immeasurable.

By the time I got to New York City, I was really broke -- but I got a gym membership, anyway. And a bike. And lots and lots of sunscreen. I still ate at home, usually. And when I had money, I got facials.  Sometimes this routine was easy to maintain and sometimes it was very hard. But whenever I fell off, I always dusted myself off and got right back on that horse. I was so used to living this way that it felt weird to not do it.

Jump cut to here and now. I've been team natural for years but I've only made a concerted effort to grow my hair long for the past four years or so. Thanks to a skincare regimen that has included high end products, regular spa visits and sunscreen, my skin is flawless. I've been more off than on with the gym these days because I've been busy with other things but today I hit a snag: it took me 15 minutes to run a mile. Unthinkable. And therein lies the fork in the road. I can either keep eating or I can start running all over again.

Needless to say, I'm getting back on that horse. My goal is to run a mile comfortably in less than 10 minutes within a month.

What's the moral to this little story?  Good health isn't an accident -- and neither is beauty. Coco Chanel was right when she said there are no ugly women -- only lazy ones.

It's a lot of good habits, all piled up on top of each other, and it's a TON of hard work. It's the hard work of staying on that treadmill for an hour. It's the discipline of eating clean instead of popping into McDonald's.  It's getting the products and the professional treatments you need to take care of your hair, skin and nails. And it never, ever stops.

Little did I know that maintaining an eat clean/live clean regimen was my saving grace. I just thought I was too broke to live the good life when lo and behold, I was living the good life all along. I seriously wish someone had told me that being a girl was this much work, though. It'll be worth it, knowing that I'll look 28 when I'm 50.

30 Days of Birthday - Day 2: A parting shot, from the Philly comic con

Here's a snapshot of Princess Leia, Han Solo and I before we go out and conquer the universe. (I'm the one that doesn't need a gun -- or a costume, apparently...)

30 days of birthday - Day 1: June's NaBloPoMo, comic cons and everything else...

Ah, the joy of writing prompts, morning pages and that sudden burst of inspiration that sends me reeling into a creative expanse that knows no bounds. When such hurricanes touch down and take me away, blogging is sometimes where I momentarily land.

I'll be celebrating my birthday every day this month. Really, it's the usual high octane hi-jinks.  No additives, no artificial colors or preservatives. I am 100% pure fun.

I'm also finding different ways to wear myself out physically on a daily basis (God, I love boxing...) and I'll be eating clean for the foreseeable future, because my body is so unbelievably happy when I do.

Today finds me at the Philly Comic Con with MPB -- a nerd prom of epic proportions. (He's working -- I'm the one that's goofing off.) Not surprisingly, they're expecting a jillion people. Comic cons are more popular than ever, and with more and more comic books and graphic novels becoming blockbuster Hollywood movies (The Avengers, anyone?) and TV shows (The Walking Dead, anyone?), it's only a matter of time until the rest of the world shows up. At this point, the entertainment industry tends to use them as a kind of pop culture barometer.

The Javits Center is too small for the New York Comic Con. Yes, that's right -- you heard me correctly: over 675,000 square feet isn't enough space for their weeklong comic book geekfest fandom cosplay shenanigans. They blew it out at 116,000 attendees, with scalpers selling passes in the street for several hundred dollars a pop. The San Diego Comic Con is even worse. It's pretty much understood that it's impossible to get tickets. Consider this: last year's event was sold out -- over 130,000 tickets, gone in less than 90 minutes -- more than 5 months in advance. 

It's not just the east coast or the west coast, either. There's comic cons in lots of other cities, too. Philly is no slouch -- and neither is Chicago. 

So yeah, comic cons are kind of a big deal.

While the publishing world can't stop whining about how nobody's buying books anymore, comic books and graphic novels seem to be exploding all over every genre there is, with more on the way all the time. 

Think about it: for days on end, you can dress up like your favorite superhero or whatever, get original artwork from your favorite graphic novel or visual artist, get an autograph or take a picture with the star of a cult horror movie or tv show, see movie and tv premieres before anyone else does and on and on it goes. If you're a gamer, this place is just this side of heaven. 

I'll find Darth Vader later. Right about now is the time for me to carpe some diem: run a few miles (the Westin is so dope!), find a shot of wheatgrass, get lost in beautiful art at the Philadelphia Museum of Art and write, write, write.

They have a word for that?!?

Yes, they do. And yes, I am.

You're welcome.

Variations on Eating Clean, Part 1 -- Eat Skinny

Now that my winter weight is (slowly but surely) coming off, I've had to find a new way to recommit myself to eating clean from the inside out  -- because somehow, flat out eliminating stuff was so harsh that I have always had a sinking feeling that the extreme tough love approach on my stomach will backfire on me in the worst way imaginable.  The thing is, it hasn't. Outside of the odd moment of weakness here and there, most of the bad things on my list -- like fast food, sodas, junk food, pizza, rice, potatoes, bread and corn, for example -- are gone, anyway.  When I eat badly, I don't feel good. Nothing makes me want to jump back on the wagon faster than falling off of it.

If you think about it, this is the way your grandparents ate. (More on that later.)

I do miss sitting around at home, watching movies and munching on hot popcorn that's slathered with real butter and salt (three things that are an absolute no-no in the eat clean program) -- but corn bloats out and distends my torso horribly and it takes several days for it to go away.  I don't know when that kicked into overdrive. Loved the stuff as a kid. Lived on it in college. Eating it now is unthinkable -- unless I want to walk around looking like I'm 3 months pregnant.

Actually, touring Europe with Blood really caved it all in for me. Lots of cheeses, fresh bread, cured meats and NO exercise for weeks on end. My cholesterol went through the roof. What a mess. I had to fast for a few days to regain my equilibrium and get everything back on track.

When I tripped up over this list created by Oprah's guru, I stopped beating myself up, mostly because I've already made most of this a habit. I don't usually eat breakfast until after 12pm. I keep a Britta bottle in my purse. I usually cook at home.  That sleep thing is tricky, though. Forget that splurge meal. I can't handle it.

Whatever I'm not doing will get dealt with when I'm incapable of chewing anything after my next round of oral surgery that happens in the next week or two. (Yikes.)

Oh, and by the way: Rule 18 is super hard -- but I have to admit, I can see and feel a difference when I wake up in the morning. And it does wonders for my acid reflux.

The Next Gig: Tribute Night - George Jones, 5/23

...and as always, there's NEVER a cover charge at Rodeo Bar. This will be a hoot. See you there!

Happy birthday, Malcolm X

“Well, I am one who doesn’t believe in deluding myself. I’m not going to sit at your table and watch you eat, with nothing on my plate, and call myself a diner. Sitting at the table doesn’t make you a diner, unless you eat some of what’s on that plate. Being here in America doesn’t make you an American. Being born here in America doesn’t make you an American. Why, if birth made you American, you wouldn’t need any legislation; you wouldn’t need any amendments to the Constitution; you wouldn’t be faced with civil-rights filibustering in Washington, D.C., right now. They don’t have to pass civil-rights legislation to make a Polack an American. No, I’m not an American. I’m one of the 22 million black people who are the victims of Americanism. One of the 22 million black people who are the victims of democracy, nothing but disguised hypocrisy. So, I’m not standing here speaking to you as an American, or a patriot, or a flag-saluter, or a flag-waver — no, not I. I’m speaking as a victim of this American system. And I see America through the eyes of the victim. I don’t see any American dream; I see an American nightmare.”

                                                                      — Malcolm X, The Ballot or the Bullet, 1964

Its breathtaking, to think of where we could be as a people and as a nation, if our black leaders who came to prominence during the civil rights movement hadn't been slaughtered, in many instances at the behest of the federal government.  This country might have lived up to its true promise, and the ideals we like to believe that we embody -- things like "freedom and justice for all" -- wouldn't be handy catchphrases and branding favorites.  Anyone who attempts to console themselves by saying those things repeatedly isn't somehow making any of it true -- and it doesn't minimize guilt or entitlement.

Ultimately, the brochure doesn't match the destination hotspot. There isn't freedom and justice for all. There isn't equality for everyone. We aren't a democracy. (Not really.) And no one seems particularly interested in addressing any of this. Probably because everyone has been lulled into a functional stupor by reality tv, fast food and middle class poverty. (What's the first sign of malnutrition? Apathy. No wonder they don't want us to have vitamins...) If people were taught to think critically in schools, if we ate nothing but clean food and were given a living wage, this would be a completely different country.

There, I said it.

For your listening pleasure, here is Malcolm X's seminal speech The Ballot or the Bullet in its entirety. Anyone who considers themselves to be an American should listen to this very carefully. 

pithy thought of the day

writing and rewriting and then some

surprise! i'm writing erotica -- under an assumed name, of course. i don't know what that name is yet but i've found a pseudonym generator, so i'm well on my way to something interesting. perferrably a guy's name.

someone dared me to do it and i figured, why not.  it's a pretty popular genre -- and when i say popular, i mean pert near everyone is doing it. i've heard from way too many writers who reignited their careers by taking up a pseudonym and writing erotica.  i haven't seen very much that explores any of it from a black female perspective, though. maybe i can change that.

strangely, it's the kind of thing that feels easy to churn out of me, now that there's relative calm in my life.

i'm working on rewrites on this libretto and i'm working on lyrics for a new song cycle and i'm working on submissions for the bmi musical theater workshop and i'm working on a dance performance idea. somewhere in there when my brain starts to glaze over, i'll pull out this erotica and reread it and think, hey this is interesting and then i write a page or two and put it aside. and then i'll go back to what i was doing. if i keep this up, i should have something interesting by the end of the summer. not a short story. probably a novella. a novel seems too cumbersome, too heavy, too much.
 
aside from all this writing, there's that soulful country/rock album i'd like to finish as a birthday present to myself.

apparently, this is a real incubatory moment for me.  this fall should be explosive.

when it's time to get out of the house and spend the day someplace else, the balcony lounge at the metropolitan museum of art is idyllic.  they have wifi, they serve high tea (amongst other things) and they have books and periodicals to get lost in. here's the kicker: not anyone can get into this lounge and it's usually empty on weekends, so i'm left alone.

as if all of that weren't enough, it's adjacent to the asian wing, so when my mind goes completely blank, i can walk to the next room and sit in front of a bodhisattva and be completely and utterly overwhelmed. what more could a nerdy blackgrrl ask for, really.


(i instagrammed this one a few weeks ago. it's ginormous.)

 i can't really think about budhisattva and not have this steely dan song swing through my head. (great album...)

pithy thought of the day

"What do you do all day?"

Talent works, genius creates. -- Robert Schumann 

Once upon a time, a friend set me up on something of a blind date with a guy that she thought would be perfect for me -- whatever that means. We met up one random evening and after some initial awkwardness, we began to relax and talk easily. When I told him that I was an artist and explained what kind of performance I was into at the moment, he asked me what I did all day.  I didn't mind the question -- when I'm around certain kinds of people, I get it a lot. I usually enjoy giving a pithy response because what I have to say is so unexpected. No one seems to have any earthly idea as to what this creative life is really like.

It was the way this guy asked me that question that made my spidey sense tingle. Asking me what I do all day is fine by me. Talking down to me is unacceptable.

The funny thing is that it came out as a bit of a snarl, probably because of some leftover resentment for that LA actress ex-girlfriend I wasn't supposed to know anything about. Lord knows I have a good idea as to what she was doing all day. So all things considered, maybe that vitriol was meant for her but he had no business aiming it at me, regardless. This was our first date. This was the one moment when we both put our absolute best foot forward, right?  Try though I might, something in me couldn't ignore what lay underneath it all. So I answered his question.

This is what I told him -- more or less.

There are two kinds of artists -- those who replicate and those who originate.  I am an originator.

Replicators are not in the habit of forging ahead with their own ideas, going through the hell and high water of growing them to end goal completion by any means necessary. The are usually ready, willing and able to facilitate someone else's project. Don't get me wrong -- the enormity of work, dedication and talent that it takes to pull that off cannot be overstated. You take class to stay honed and focused, to keep everything on the level, to keep what you've got, to learn more. After a certain point, you get a show and you're working 8 shows a week on Broadway or in Germany or Japan or God knows where. All of a sudden, 8 years goes by and you don't know what happened.  All you know is, you have to get another show.

While I have certainly proven myself capable of replicating ad nauseam, that's just not who I am creatively. I'm not the kind of artist that auditions a lot and then sits at home, praying for the phone to ring so I can have a job.  Yes, I audition -- and trust me, the constant state of readiness that it takes to audition well is a full time job in and of itself -- but that process is the side dish in my creative life, not the main course.  If I want a job, I create it. So what I do every day is a little different than what other artists do.

At this point, I had my date's full and undivided attention. Unfortunately, he had completely lost mine.  He asked me about things I'd written but I was evasive.  Still and all, I kept going at a brisk pace, mostly because I wanted to wrap the whole evening up when dinner was over.

My day typically resembles that three headed dog from Hades. First and foremost? Maintenance and upkeep. I'm transitioning to on camera work and in that world what you look like is everything apparently, so I wear myself out with boxing on a daily basis and slowly I am growing into the habit of eating clean. There's the hard work of being a girl, too -- I have an eyebrowist -- and then when the physical stuff is out of the way, there's a slew of classes to take, just so I can stay good at what I do.  (Like on camera acting class -- so crucial during pilot season.) Voice lessons. Guitar lessons. Piano lessons. Practice, practice, practice. The art of the hustle is always on -- auditions, callbacks, go-sees, gigs.  Basically, I have to be ready all the time.

Secondly and just as important? Growing and developing new ideas. I am forever swimming through rewrites and workshops and readings, oh my! All of that gets scheduled into my everyday life, with auditions and callbacks sandwiched in where ever they will fit.

Last but not least, of course, is the gig itself.  I do a lot of different things so a gig for me could be bouncing around on tour in Europe, co-staring in a musical, playing a swanky private corporate party or tiptoeing to the mailbox barefooted in my kimono to get a residual check for an episodic.

Of course, he wanted to know what I did that day. As I politely refused dessert, I happily obliged. I had no intentions of ever speaking to him again so why not put a bow on this puppy? Here's the rundown:

I had a late night gig, so I slept in. I jumped on and off the phone, zipped through my email, looked over rewrites and messed around with a song idea on my guitar. Then I had a boxing conditioning class that was so brutal, I sat in the steam room afterwards for 30 minutes, trying to twist my torso without wincing. I paid my eyebrowist a visit afterwards -- beauty is pain, according to RuPaul, and he was right -- and then I dragged myself to the Performing Arts Library, where I did some research for a new idea. I had a callback for a voiceover that was pretty quick and then I met up with a good friend for tea and advice. I went home with a fresh perspective on my rewrites and buried myself in them until it was time for dinner.

My date went home with a fresh perspective that night. Maybe I did, too. I resolved to work smarter, not harder. Oh, and no more blind dates -- with non-artists, anyway.

An Important Reminder

Ten Things Every Black Woman Should Have If She Lives in New York City

I've seen way too many of these "ten things" lists floating around -- and so have you. Most of them say things that are generally true for anyone, not just women.  None of them speak to me, especially when they say insist that's not the case.  Unless you're rich, independently wealthy or bankrolled in some other way (your parents bought your apartment! yay!), living in New York City is a very difficult proposition. The fabulousness of paying four figures a month to live in Williamsburg or Bushwick or Harlem just isn't enough after awhile. Something else has to soften the blow. 

If I didn't have all of these things, the quality of my life in New York City would take a decidedly downward turn. FYI: This list is not in order and it's totally in flux. Next week, it could morph into something else.

1. A strong sense of personal style -- By now, you should know the difference between fashion (what trends/a clothing designer/your favorite pop star tells you to wear) and style (self expression).  You and your closet shouldn't be at the mercy of what's in or what's out.  I'm aware of what's fashionable and a lot of it looks like (expensive) fun but if I can't look like myself when I put my clothes on, what's the point. As a performer, I'm in the business of expressing myself.  Being me when I get dressed is the natural order of things so maybe there's an unfair advantage in there somewhere.  New York City is the place where your individuality is an asset because it sets you apart from the common herd.  Then again, if you really don't love yourself enough to be yourself in the first place, the wheels are going to come off that bus pretty fast.
2. Excellent physical health -- You don't have to be in peak physical condition to live here but trust me, it helps. When I moved to Harlem, I lost weight and stayed lean in part because I suddenly found myself walking and riding my bike everywhere.  It was a drastic change from a place like Atlanta, for example, where everyone drives everywhere for anything.  Even going up and down the stairs to get on and off the subways will wear you out, if you do it on a regular basis. Then again, you can jump in and out of cabs to get around -- if you can catch one.  Aside from all that, being sick can be pretty expensive -- and what with all the money you're already throwing up in the air to live here, you really don't want to spend more on something that possibly could have been prevented.
3. A friend in the Garment District  -- When what is fashionable and trendy loses its luster, it gets sold -- sometimes for as much as 90% below what you would have paid when it was on the rack.  You can sign up for alerts for sample sales to your favorite designers -- but if you know someone who works there (and what with six degrees of separation, you probably do), they can let you into the sale before it happens.
4. A spiritual life
5. A strong connection to your family (how ever you define it) and your community (the world your family lives in).
6. A sister who will (lovingly and tactfully) tell you the truth and a brother who will always have your back.
7. Your Own Private Hair Guru -- I don't care what you've got -- a tight weave, a closet full of wigs, a blow dryer that's your hair's best friend or a T.W.A. When it's time to get your hair done properly, you've got to have your go-to person on speed dial.  They're affordable, they're convenient and they usually know your hair better than you do. You didn't open a phone book to figure this out. You asked a sister and she told you what's up. Black folks live and die by word of mouth. Period.
8. A well worn passport -- The importance of traveling internationally need hardly be stressed. Get out there. See the world. It will change your life. (Start here.)
   
9. A museum membership -- This is quite literally the gift that keeps on giving. There are hundreds of museums, cultural sites, historical establishments and the like in New York City.  Most of them are internationally recognized and much lauded, and quite a few are trendy little hotspots.  Some of them offer memberships. If you join at a certain level -- and yes, you can write most of your fee off on your taxes -- that's where the fun begins.  There are events, parties, galas, previews for openings and lots of other exclusive diversions, not to mention added discounts and free passes to other museums all over the country.
10. A diverse group of friends that includes at least one WASPy looking white guy -- Because when your fun night is over, someone has to put you in a cab. When there's some flak in any given social situation, someone has to smooth things over. And if there's a "problem", someone has to talk to the police -- and you and I both know that probably shouldn't be the black man in the room.

a happy epiphany

now that eating clean and not eating at night has become the rule in my foodie life and not the exception, it feels odd to not eat that way all the time.  the upshot is, i'm sliding into clothes that didn't fit me last spring, so the weight loss was gradual enough to stick.  maybe it's the change of seasons, but i find myself using clothes to measure the changes in my body instead of the scale. it's much more rewarding, much more satisfying and way more quantifiable than a golden number to hit that somehow "completes" me.

boxing everyday took inches off my frame but i hardly lost any weight. you're gaining muscle, my sparring partner/coach would say, waving me off. you're getting stronger. i was sad because i couldn't fit into my favorite little black dress. now i'm thinking, as long as i can wear all the clothes in my closet -- including that dress, eventually, if i keep this up -- who cares what i weigh.  and of course, all of this is making me very happy that i didn't toss out the vintage clothes that i love, simply because they didn't fit anymore. slowly but surely, i'm getting back into them.

so that's my happy epiphany for the moment. what's yours?

12 Little Big Things

When I was an undergrad at the University of Texas at Austin, I went through a leadership program sponsored by the YWCA that gave me specific tools that I have used ever since to manage my life. The core of it seemed simple enough but the entire six week process ultimately served to unravel my way of thinking and showed me how to my live on purpose.  Certain things had to be undone and broken down and cleared away before the good stuff could sink in and take root. The people closest to me could sense a profound change in me and marveled at the person that I was becoming. I couldn't see it then but in retrospect, it was like someone turned on all the lights.

Whenever I see lists like this, I recognize what that innocuous little class taught me and I feel a profound sense of gratitude.  I have pretty much incorporated everything on this list into the most mundane moments of my world. A big thumbs up to #6 -- if anything has kept me outside of my comfort zone, it's growing and thriving as a working artist in New York City.

Interestingly, the first habit is the most important one. I constantly refine my goals and priorities -- two lists that live and breathe, on paper and in my mind's eye, in technicolor, all the time. S.M.A.R.T. goals are Specific Measurable Attainable Realistic and Timely.  If you don't get this one right, the wheels are coming off the bus with a quickness.

What's especially vital is having your very own private working definition of success -- one that you refine and nurture when you see fit -- and a teflon coated attitude that won't let anything or anyone encroach upon it.

*sigh* If I knew then what I know now...

...these are a few of my favorite things...

Oprah's got her list, I've got mine.  So there.



1. Talenti Gelato --  Straight outta Dallas, Texas -- where else? -- this Italian delicacy (by way of Argentina's helado) is the best-selling gelato in the country.  The only reason why its #3 on the premium ice cream list is because you haven't tried it yet. I haven't touched my ice cream maker since I fell into a pint of this stuff. Woe is me.



2. BonChon -- Hands down far and away without a doubt the best fried chicken wings I've ever had in a restaurant.  Dizzyingly, astonishingly good.



3. Curlbox --  This is an inexpensive, exclusive, monthly subscription service created, owned and operated by a sister that's filled with natural hair products galore. (And yes, her company was the first to cater to natural hair.) I get to try out all kinds of wonderful stuff from the comfort of my own couch -- videos. Twist outs and curl creams and leave ins, oh my! No wonder my hair is growing like crazy.



4. Bra Smyth -- Oprah was right: most women (85%?!?!?) are wearing the wrong bra size. Kind of makes you wonder who told you which bra to get in the first place.  I don't know how I ended up with what I did, but I was way off -- by, like, two cup sizes. (Egad.) Until I whittle my way back down into a size that I can pluck off the rack at H&M, the upper west side's Bra Smyth is my spizzot. I especially like the little parlor-like fitting rooms and how attentive the ladies are, to get the measurements just right.




5. SEW Bespoke Clothing -- MPB is too big and tall to buy most clothing off the rack. When its time to get his next suit, this is where I'm taking him.

Flash Fiction: "Last Call"

Whenever I say that I should write a book, MPB says I already have -- within this blog. He's probably right. Until I get organized and publish something substantial, here's a short, swift, flash-y idea that I've been working on, in spurts.  Enjoy.

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Last Call

          Every night, the same scenario.  Last call happened along unexpectedly.  No music.  Bright ugly lights. Big ugly bouncers, moving through the bar like human cattle prods, whistling and shouting obscenities. When only a select few remained, someone would pull the grate down and lock the door, signaling the moment when the evening shifted gears into a higher octane world. Candles were everywhere.  Soft music drifted through the air like chiffon. There were plenty of drugs and whatever else anyone wanted.  It was beautiful and morose.  And then it was over.  Eventually the grate went up again so everyone could stumble back into the full-fledged sunlight and the traffic and their day jobs and the rest of their lives. 

          This was the pit-stop I made on my way home, sometimes several times during the week. It was my way of unwinding so I'd be able to relax when I got to my apartment, which was no Shan-gri-la.  I just got a roommate, a skinny French girl named Claudette who apparently had never heard of deodorant.  Instead, she would douse her armpits with expensive perfume and wonder aloud as to why Americans bathed so much.  The funk that followed her out of the bathroom whenever she bothered to take a hot shower was enough to make my face twitch involuntarily whenever I thought about it. 

          Of course, Claudette didn't smell a thing.  Lucky girl.

          It wasn't just the smelly foreign white girl.  It was everything.  My life had glazed over into a series of hapless misadventures that left me feeling restless and unsatisfied.  I didn't know how to undo any of it so I numbed myself out with cocktails and dead-end relationships and waited for some kind of an upheaval.  A cool guy.  A new job.  A decent haircut.  The Lotto.  Something that would change things so drastically, my present scenario would be a distant memory, like things that happened to me when I was very young.  Something to think back on and remember with such clarity, it's almost as though it happened to someone else.

          The bar was clearing out as I arrived.  I bumped into one of the regulars on my way to the backroom.  She was bobbing back and forth gently, buoyed by a steady stream of drunken freaks who were making their way towards the exit.  She had a pink dress on and she was so high she just stood there in her strappy sandals, her eyes rolled back in her head, her yellowy hair all over the place.  If she had been lying down, I would have assumed that she was dead.  Nice shoes, I thought and I began to wonder if they were my size.

          I slid into a booth and put my feet up, exhausted. 

          The DJ cranked into that song "American Woman".  In my head, I turned up the Butthole Surfers' version and began to sip my first drink.

        Bouncers laughed and exchanged war stories.  Some guy across from me was smoking something that was making him cough violently.  Two girls in the corner were making out and giggling.  That blonde junkie was standing right where I left her.  Some guy had come along and put his arms around her, at first it seemed to steady her, but then as it turned out, to steady himself.  They both began to sway slowly to the rhythm of an invisible metronome, lost in the clicks that seemed to emanate from their bodies.  When the clicking noises fell out of sync with their movements, I realized that the sound was real.  Somebody was doing it in the bathroom.

          Somewhere in between the coughing and the clicking, someone let Jake inside.  He was pale and dark, a writhing tangled mass of bucolic imaginings, of venom and sickly sweetness and vomit and flowers. Jake liked me but he didn't know what to do about it.  Neither did I.  We'd been having a kind of Mexican stand-off of a relationship for awhile now.  No commitment.  No emotional responsibility. The fact that we were deeply in love was a big secret to everyone, especially to us. It seemed to augment our friendship and make us abnormally happy.

          Jake was drunk and he was high and in high spirits. He made his way toward me, spewing one rollicking non sequitor after another, filling the place with spontaneous combustions of laughter.  He paused in the flow of action that swirled around him to slide into the booth and kiss me intently on the mouth. Wide-eyed and startled, I pulled away. Although he smelled like a bar of soap,  his clothes had a slight odor to them that I recognized instantly.  It was my roommate. Clearly, she had been all over him. From the smell of it, she still was.  I could barely stand to share an apartment with her and now she was in my bed, putting her smelly body all over my precious Jake.  And there I was, squished in between them, fully dressed and unable to escape.

          As he held me in his arms, I felt the weight of time and familiarity between us.  It frightened me.  He was a dead end. And yet I clung to him, struggling to hold on to something that wasn't really even there.  He was my situation personified: the day job I wouldn't leave, the roommate I wouldn't get rid of, the myriad of issues I wouldn't face. I saw the world I created in his heavy-lidded eyes, beautiful and arcane, making love to my worry.  Did I know him at all?  How could I.

I knew that he'd have the smell of that girl on him, no matter how clean he was.  That was the last straw. It was over.  Somewhere in me, the night had finally ended. Instinctively he held me closer but I was already gone--out the door and into the sun that was waiting to shine on me.

My kingdom for a comfy sofa...

This classic moment in comedy -- hasn't everyone seen this? -- is brought to you by Monty Python.

The thing is, I'm looking for a comfy chair -- a comfy sofa, to be exact. I don't know why I'm having such a hard time. Probably because I'm not looking by myself. At this point, I've given up on the idea of a sleeper sofa or something brand spanking new that's affordable.  Jennifer Sofas, IKEA, La-Z-Boy. They're all out. I'm either going to find it refurbished at a flea market or a secondhand shop, or I'll pay way too much for it from some high end place like everybody else does.

I really like this one. It's so ugly, it's beautiful.

Or maybe I should just throw in the towel and go for baroque. (Heh.)

After a certain point, all of it looks good. Just not in my apartment.

Except this one. This one does not look good. I'm not even sure it's a couch.

I mean wow, right?

There's no rush but it would be nice to get this whole sofa question answered before my birthday gets here in June...

Happy Cinco de Mayo, y'all...

While everyone gets trashed on margaritas and inhales copious amounts of Mexican food to celebrate -- what, Mexican Independence Day, right America? (wrong!) -- I thought it would be nice to have a two minute history lesson that explains it for those amongst us that might be curious as to What Actually Happened.



As much as I love the History channel's little blurb on this topic, this needs to be told from a black perspective -- like most of American history.  Because apparently, you won't know what really went down unless we tell it.

Here's the bottom line, plain and simple: If those French troops had provided much needed reinforcements to their Southern allies at that moment in the campaign, the Union might have lost The Civil War. And this country would be a very different place.

To dip into my archives for the golden oldie entry that goes into detail -- In Observance of Cinco de Mayo: A Lingering Afterthought -- please click here.

Oh -- and if you really want to crack up, watch this.

May the fourth...!

Happy Star Wars Day!  Today's that special day that everyone shares their favorite moments from the franchise (when are they not sharing those moments?) so here's mine. MPB's work takes him to comic cons regularly and sometimes, I tag along -- it's like a big nerd prom! --  hence, my photo op with those storm troopers and then some. 

The way to (re)watch any Star Wars movie is to see it through the eyes of a real super geek as both of you stare transfixed at that Robot Chicken tv screen.  Here's where it all started: "Go for papa Palpateen!"



I'm telling you, nothing's better than watching this stuff with someone who can explain all the minutae. 

Before Robot Chicken came along, I seriously couldn't stand Jar Jar Binks.  He's so many racist characters and stereotypes rolled into one. On the one hand, he's the Stepin Fetchit of the galaxy -- bumbling, clumsy, stupid, inarticulate.  On the other hand, I can tell that from his propensity to scream at the very idea of trouble, he's also got quite a bit of Butterfly McQueen in him, too. And what's up with the effeminate sway of the hips, the Jamaican patois, the dreadlock hair/ear/whatever? I mean, seriously. What in the world was George Lucas thinking?  Couldn't he have found a well-educated, intelligent, thinking black person to set him straight? God knows he's been dating one for years.

Well. Thanks to Robot Chicken, I can laugh at Jar Jar Binks now with (relative) abandon -- even if watching too much of him makes me feel like I just got slimed.

Here's a Geico commercial!



And here he is with Darth Vader...



...and here's a fan that really stuck their foot in that sparkly moment.

"Is there any more mac and cheese?"

I still feel that French cooking is the most important in the world, one of the few that has rules. If you follow the rules, you can do pretty well. -- Julia Child

Never one to leave an interesting tidbit alone, I dug further into that delicious bowl of macaroni and cheese and found all kinds of yummy factual goodness about its origins. As one story goes, Thomas Jefferson brought back a pasta machine from a lengthy sojourn in Rome. This is why his daughter Martha Randolph -- the hostess of the house after his wife died -- is credited with creating the dish by combining macaroni and parmesan cheese.

That doesn't make any sense to me. Why would Martha Randolph -- or any other white woman with money and status -- even think to toil over a hot stove to "create" anything?  You and I both know that if that was the scenario, she threw that pasta maker at some anonymous slave, they came up with mac and cheese and she put her name on it because it was served at her dinner parties.  The End.

And why do historians continue to openly ignore Sally Hemings and the (at least) six children she had with Thomas Jefferson after his spouse -- her half sister Martha -- passed away? The DNA evidence is irrefutable. What's especially rich is that none of Jefferson's white heirs have ever had to prove that they are related to him. Saying so is enough.

Interestingly, I tripped up over this book -- Thomas Jefferson’s Crème Brûlée: How a Founding Father and His Slave James Hemings Introduced French Cuisine to America, by Thomas J. Craughwell -- that was a real foodie curiousity.  Apparently, it was Jefferson that brought French cuisine to America, not Julia Child. Who knew? James Hemings -- his deceased wife Martha's 19 year old half-brother -- was promised his freedom if he stayed in France long enough to learn how to cook and bake Jefferson's favorite things. He was then required to teach another chef how to make them. It took Jefferson 11 years to make good on that promise. (Hm. I don't suppose I'd be so giddy to let my freshly trained chef waltz out of my life, either.)

Jefferson was in Paris for several years as US Ambassador to France.  He was also learning important things like how to grow grapes to make his favorite wines. From what I've read, he really loved his bordeaux.  Here's a colorful aside: a 14 year old Sally Hemings was there, too -- as a handmaid to Jefferson's youngest daughter Mary. (Yes, that would make his kid Sally's niece, for those of you keeping score at home.)  While she was in France, Sally wound up pregnant with Jefferson's baby. (Insert *gasp* here.) And now you know the rest of the story. Or do you?

The good news is that once the smoke cleared, Mr. Hemings started his own catering business. The bad news? Five years after he was freed, he committed suicide at the age of 36, in Baltimore Maryland.

All that, so Jefferson could drink delicious wine and eat in high style -- and thanks to a well-cultivated vineyard and all those chefs James Hemings trained, he most certainly did, even after he was completely bereft of funds.

Something to think about, the next time you tuck into a bowl of mac & cheese.

Comfort Food: Mac & Cheese

Nobody makes mac and cheese better than my momma. Not even me. Especially me -- and I can cook my butt off.

I don't really know very many black folk who wouldn't co-sign that statement, probably because of the emotional connectedness we feel towards the foods we love. One bite of something delicious brings us back to a beautiful childhood memory and into the arms of the person who turned a slice of cake or a piece of chicken into a celebration of life and all the goodness that the world could hold. For some of us, eating those things brings us right back to those moments. No wonder we've got weight/body issues.

So of course, it is with all of that in mind that I post the absolute best mac and cheese recipe I could possibly find, anywhere, ever. Do I eat mac and cheese?  Rarely.  It's not a dietary staple for me. It's a treat -- and I believe that if you're going to have a treat, you should really do it up.

How many people does this serve? I dunno. Technically, 8 to 10 but hey -- once I put it on the table, it's gone and only 4 or 5 people got some, so...

Ingredients:

3 cups of large elbow macaroni noodles

3 cups of shredded mild Cheddar cheese

2 cups of shredded Moneterrey Jack cheese

1 8 oz. block of Colby Cheese

1 8 oz. block of Monterrey Jack cheese

2 cups of milk

1 jumbo egg beaten

2 tsps of ground white pepper

1 dash of black pepper

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Boil the noodles for 15 minutes or until tender, then drain. Then put noodles in a bowl and add the milk, 2 cups of the mild Cheddar cheese, the shredded Moneterrey Jack, the white pepper and the jumbo egg. Mix thoroughly. Dice the block cheeses into 1 inch cubes and add them. Mix again, put in a 4 quart baking pan and place into the oven for 20 minutes. Remove from the oven and top with  the remaining cup of Cheddar cheese on the top and the black pepper. Place the dish back in the oven at 450 degrees for 20 minutes or until top layer of cheese is starting to brown. Remove from the oven, cool for 5 minutes and serve.

May Cake

Nothing is going on and everything is going on.  It's all up in the air and it's all down on the ground and it's everything or nothing and nothing is going on. The sun shines so brightly these days -- with a blue sky brilliance that makes me feels so alive. And then I run outside and it's effing freezing and I'm walking home shivering like a small poodle and I'm thinking, what is the what.

The engine is revving forward and all systems are go and something in me is on pause. 

Spring cleaning abounds.  This seasonal winter weight gain is melting off me like I'm a snowman on the beach. I'm editing my closets very carefully. And thanks to that wacky tv show Hoarders,  I can't stop decluttering and throwing things away.  Needless to say, rewrites abound.  And of course, having a sinus infection and temporary laryngitis is pretty much the icing on my many-layered May cake.

The NaBloPoMo theme for May is Comfort -- whatever that means.  At the moment, I'm finding a lot of comfort in my ukulele.  I really don't know how to play it but its so simple, I can play it, if you know what I mean -- and every time I get a new chord right, it feels like I won the Lotto.

Okay, back to my closets and my rewrites. Just in case you're interested, here's what I'm working on with that uke: Ten Arpeggio Excercises!

the bottomless closet

 our minds want clothes as much as our bodies. -- samuel butler

although the hard work of eating clean has me slowly melting back down to a size 4/6, i've thrown open my closet doors way too often these days and wondered why i don't have anything to wear.  most of it is probably because i've emotionally outgrown a lot of what i put on every day. it also doesn't help that there's too much in the back that i haven't worn in so long, i don't even recognize certain things. that's not good.

this is the reason why this spring finds me furtively editing my closets more so than usual and finding that the usual tax write off donation pitstops -- the salvation army or housingworks, for example -- aren't doing it for me anymore. i don't know why.  it still annoys me that i missed a huge swap-meet downtown a month or so ago. (there's nothing like an even trade for an instant upgrade.)  and for some strange reason, i don't have the patience or the fortitude for everyone's favorite gigantic online worldwide swap meet, ebay.

i had a vague recollection of a news item i saw years ago about an organization dedicated to helping women who were on public assistance transition into viable careers by giving them the confidence that they needed to present themselves well in an interview setting and providing professional work attire. that made so much sense to me. how in the world could anyone ever land that ideal job if they don't look the part, even if they have all the skills they need?

a quick google search (how did we ever get along without it?) led me to the bottomless closet. initiated by volunteers in 1999, they've helped thousands of women in new york city much more than clothes. a great outfit for a job interview is just the beginning. they have professional development workshops,seminars and programming that keeps women coming back and creates a supportive community. now that's where i'd love to donate those low-heeled office pumps i hardly ever wore.



everyone has to learn how to get dressed, no matter what we want to do. somewhere down the line, someone taught you how to tie a tie or that this blouse was appropriate or they gave you a suit or whatever.  clothes are powerful weaponry and although i suppose it takes a certain skill set to wield them well, the important thing to remember is that the gun is loaded, regardless. what you wear and how you wear it is working its elfin magic and communicating volumes to the world, whether your choices are painstakingly deliberate or completely haphazard.

hm. now that i'll be emptying my closet of who i was, its time to rethink who i am. one thing is certain: none of my vintage clothes are going anywhere.

Salt, Sugar, Fat

i'm veering away from processed foods anyway -- it's been a slow, painful, well thought out process -- but the book salt, sugar, fat: how the food giants hooked us by michael moss just might send me careening over the edge, right now. the reviews alone have been enough to scare the living daylights out of me.  unbelievable but true: the companies that create fast food, drinks and condiments are so consumed by greed that they have created the just right balance of salt, sugar and fat to keep the general populace mindlessly addicted to food -- and to keep their profits soaring into the stratosphere.

it's a chemical reaction, really. through fat, sugar and salt, companies like kraft and frito lay have scientists that have found what they refer to as the bliss point: this is what happens when processed food hits same the pleasure center in your brain that clicks into overdrive when you're high.

the concept vanishing caloric density is especially frightening when applied to baked chee-tos, a favorite of fast food scientists. the chee-tos melted away before the brain could register it as having been consumed, so the hapless victim keeps eating it.  no wonder i inhale those things when i eat them.

are things changing for the better? yes, they are -- but not fast enough. farmer's markets and the push towards organic whole foods is hardly enough. ultimately, it comes down to the individual breaking the cycle and choosing to not consume processed foods.  that's not easy to do when you don't even know you're an addict in the first place.
                    

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