Black Country Gold -- with The Pointer Sisters (and Elvis)!

I can't even begin to tell you how often I sat next to my Uncle Tyrone's stereo in his den as a small child, casually thumbing through his extensive album collection until my fingers happened upon this album and then I stared and stared and stared.  The Pointer Sisters were such a huge watermark for me in so many ways -- for style, for panache, for the way they embodied the past and yet were so much a part of the now.  I must have memorized every nuance that I saw in this picture an effort to absorb just the slightest bit of that elan.  They were as brown as me and they reveled in their blackness in this really deliberate way that was just as powerful and authentic as a well-coiffed Afro and a fist in the air. And I loved them for it.  Actually, I still do.

In my mind's eye, I am the fifth one at that table and they are the sisters I never had.

As the story goes, they couldn't afford designer items for their first album cover and they didn't have a stylist to borrow them, so they raided their mother's attic, wore their grandmother's clothes and came up with something beautiful and timeless.  Sounds exactly like me. When I came to New York City, I had nothing to sing in, so I'd raid Domsey's on a regular basis. Only $5 for a vintage cocktail dress. Ha. Even I could afford that.

This country song -- Fairytale, written by Anita (lyrics) and Bonnie (music) -- is one of my favorites.  It sounds so upbeat and it's full of heartbreak and misery. (Perfect!) Everyone in the industry was genuinely surprised that they wrote this -- except them, of course.  Sure, they grew up in Oakland, California -- but as it turns out, their parents are from Arkansas (!!!) and they've always sung country music.  This wasn't the only country song they recorded, either.

The stats? In 1974, The Pointer Sisters won a Grammy for Best Country Vocal Performance by a Duo or Group and Anita and Bonnie were nominated for a Grammy for Best Country Song. And then Elvis covered it the following year. (Ka-BOOM.)

Thank Jesus all of my uncles had really great taste when it came to music.



Here's The Pointer Sisters, singing it live. I just looooove the way they look -- the flowers, the make-up, all of it.  I know stylewise I'm leaning ever so slightly in this direction when I perform. I just can't help it.



...and here's Elvis, singing it in full on drugged out Vegas glitterati pantsuit regalia -- giving it his all.  Interesting, to hear a male voice sing it.  And even though he's kind of out of it, he's still got it. Go, Elvis.

Lyrics:

I'll pack up all my things and walk away,
I don't want to hear another word you have to say
I've been waiting for so long,
And just found out there's something wrong
Nothing will get better if I stay
There's no need to explain anymore
I tried my best to love you,
Now I'm walkin' out the door
(Walkin' out the door)
You used me, you deceived me,
And you never seem to need me
But I bet, you won't forget me when I go

Oh no, no, no

Seems I've been lost in a dream
Pretending that you care
But now I've opened up my eyes
And found it's all been just a great big fairytale
I've been lovin' you so long
Don't think I even know how to forget you
But now the way that things have been
I think I'm better off alone than to be with you
You don't love me it's plain to see

There's no need to explain anymore
I tried my best to love you,
Now I'm walkin' out the door
(Walkin' out the door)
Ahh, you used me, you deceived me,
And you never seem to need me
But I'll bet you won't forget me when I go
Oh no, no, no

Seems I've been lost in a dream
Pretending you were mine
Someday you'll open up your eyes
And realize that a good woman's hard to find
Yes I've been lost in a dream
Pretending that you care
But now I've opened up my eyes
And found it's all been just a great big fairytale

Four Little Girls (and Condi, too)

Fifty years ago today at about 10:22am, the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama was bombed by four active members of the Klu Klux Klan, an American terrorist organization. Their names were Robert "Dynamite Bob" Chambliss, Herman Cash, Thomas Blanton and Bobby Cherry. They belonged to a splinter group of the KKK of about a dozen members called The Cahaba Boys that met every Thursday night near the Cahaba river to drink beer and gripe about ridding the south of Catholics, Jews and black people.  Why did they create a splinter group? Because they didn't feel that the Klan was radical enough. This, at a time when the city of Birmingham was called Bombingham (by us, of course -- because it was happening to us) because since the mid 1940s, so many homes and churches in the African-American community were getting blown up on a regular basis with no federal government intervention whatsoever.  And of course, all of the bombings were officially unsolved cases.

Very few people know that Condoleezza Rice -- the first black woman to serve as the United States' national security adviser, as well as the first black woman to serve as U.S. Secretary of State (2005 - 2009) -- could very easily have been one of those little girls.

A native of Birmingham, Condi was an only child to a teacher and a Presbyterian minister, both of whom were well-educated in historically black colleges, staunchly middle class and Southern natives, having survived the Great Depression and some of the worst racism this country had to offer.  They both knew the importance of a formal education and constantly stressed this to their child.  Initially home schooled (are you surprised by that one?) Condi's mother went so far as to enroll her in the first grade when she was 3 years old.  She could read music before she could read.

Here's a picture of the future Secretary of State with her mother Angelena, at home in Birmingham, Alabama in the 1950s.

She was 8 years old when her playmate Denise McNair -- 11 years old at the time -- was killed in the bombing.  Denise attended preschool at Condi's father's church, where he was a pastor.  When Condi was 11, her family relocated to another city in Alabama and shortly thereafter, to Denver, Colorado and then finally to Palo Alto, California.  And the rest is history.

I wonder: If those southern white terrorists knew that bombing that church would have caused the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, would they have done it anyway?



Here's a 1997 interview of filmmaker Spike Lee for 4 Little Girls -- his first feature length documentary.  Interestingly, it was an article he read in the New York Times Magazine in 1983 when he was a first year film student at NYU that prompted him to make this movie.  His thoughts about how the movie got made are also very telling.

Documentaries are so important.  These girls would be lost to history books if Mr. Lee hadn't made this one.

A few days ago, the Congressional Gold Medal was given to the families of the four girls -- the highest honor a civilian can receive.  Somehow all of that rings hollow, especially in light of the fact that Carolyn Bryant -- the woman who pointed out Emmett Till to her husband and brother-in-law from the backseat of a sedan  -- is still alive and well at 74 years of age and relaxing comfortably with her loving family in Greenville, Mississippi. She's an accessory to his murder. Why has she never been prosecuted? Why isn't she in jail?

As if on cue, Congressman John Boehner wept openly during that Congressional Gold Medal ceremony.  When they prosecute Carolyn Bryant and many others like her for their crimes against African-Americans during the civil rights movement, I'll believe the sincerity of his tears.

a quick update

i didn't win in my region for the 2013 mountain stage newsong contest (womp-womp!) but my songs were automatically entered into the general round (the deadline is sunday, september 15th!) and i'm still in the running for the people's choice category. voting will remain open until tuesday, september 17th.

if you'd like to vote for me, please click here. and as always, thank you for your support.

Viva NashVegas!

Crash-landed in this terrarium/bio-sphere the locals call Gaylord Opryland early this morning with MPB for a long weekend.  At 2,800 rooms, this place is the biggest non-casino hotel in the world. Not surprisingly, we needed a color-coded map to find our room.

I could live here forever.

This whole place is covered by a gigantic dome and filled with tropical plants, exotic flowers, waterfalls -- and undulating rivulets and ponds and eddys, oh my! filled with beautiful gigantic koi.  -- Everything a modern blackgrrl like me needs is here: elegant restaurants, indoor/outdoor swimming pools with huge whirlpools, a world-class spa with steam/sauna, bars, cafes, eateries, a conservatory garden, water that lights up and dances and whatnot...

I just wandered into the wrong end of this place and ended up on a little bridge on Delta Island (yeah, they have an island), watching a boatload of folks appear from underneath me and slowly drift down a river filled with enormous happy catfish -- snapping pictures with their iTablets, sipping cocktails and chatting in dulcet tones.

Its like I came to Nashville and ended up in Costa Rica.  Sort of.

MPB will be at the comic con in the convention center. I'll be hammering out new ideas, working on running a 10 minute mile consistently (God help me), working on new songs and writing my butt off.  I should go sightseeing but I kind of don't want to leave here. I think I've fallen in love with this place.

Oh, I almost forgot. Happy Friday the 13th!

Pithy Thought O' The Day

Image of the Day

I voted already. Did you?

I went to a local elementary school with MPB a few blocks from home and voted this morning. I didn't have to show any ID whatsoever.  I signed where indicated, took a numbered card, and then I gave that card to a volunteer before I stepped into a booth, pulled a lever and did my civic duty.  We got there so early, we were actually the 8th and 9th voters for the day. Huzzah!

I can't even begin to imagine what we as a people had to endure as we as newly freed former slaves were systematically disenfranchised from every aspect of society, including the voting process.  Tens of thousands of honest, hard-working, tax-paying Americans lost their lives to the brutality of home grown terrorism run amok, simply because they wanted to exercise their right to vote -- while the federal government looked the other way. The Voter ID Laws -- now active in 30 states -- shouldn't surprise anyone that's paying attention.

Was any of that 2012 voter fraud information real? No, it wasn't.  (Surprise!)

Here's your challenge for the day:  can you can pass the voter's test that the state of Louisiana gave to African-Americans in the 1960s? If you'd like to try, please click here.

Butterflies = Love? Think again...!

If your special someone gives you butterflies, that means your body is having a "fight-or-flight" response.  As it turns out, you have a second brain in your stomach, which is why you should probably pay more attention to your gut feelings.  Those butterflies are a reaction to a perceived threat. Yes, that's right: what you're really feeling is stress. If this stress persists, you're supposed to seek medical attention. (Heh.)

I recently accused a male friend of pursuing relationships that gave him butterflies because he was addicted to the ongoing adrenaline rush and the way the "just right" girl always seemed to freak him out without her having to do anything at all.  He disagreed, of course.  "I'm in love!" he insisted. (Uh-huh.)

A shrink I know put it another way: butterflies = fear. You're either afraid of that person, afraid of what you're feeling for that person or afraid of losing them.  And remember, folks: fear is the opposite of love.

Something to think about, the next time you stop seeing someone because they don't give you that fluttery feeling in your stomach.

Oh, nevermind.

Here's Michael Jackson's take on the subject.

Butterflies

All you gotta do is just walk away and pass me by
Don’t acknowledge my smile when I try to say hello to you, yeah
And all you gotta do is not answer my calls when
I’m trying to get through
To keep me wondering why, when all I can do is sigh
I just wanna touch you

[chorus]
I just wanna touch and kiss
And I wish that I could be with you tonight
You give me butterflies inside, inside and i

All I gotta say is that I must be dreaming, can’t be real
You’re not here with me, still I can feel you near me
I caress you, let you taste us, just so blissful listen
I would give you anything baby, just make my dreams come true
Oh baby you give me butterflies

[chorus]
I just wanna touch and kiss
And I wish that I could be with you tonight
You give me butterflies inside, inside and i
I just wanna touch and kiss
And I wish that I could be with you tonight
You give me butterflies inside, inside and i

If you would take my hand, baby I would show you
Guide you to the light babe
If you would be my love, baby I will love you, love you
’til the end of time

[chorus]
I just wanna touch and kiss
And I wish that I could be with you tonight
You give me butterflies inside, inside and i
I just wanna touch and kiss
And I wish that I could be with you tonight
You give me butterflies inside, inside and i
I just wanna touch and kiss
And I wish that I could be with you tonight
You give me butterflies inside, inside and i 

This is what's next.

For all the news that's fit to print, please click here.

Work With What You Got

I saw this Canadian movie Goon last night and totally I loved it.  I tripped up over it on The Movie Channel (which is pretty spot-on, most of the time).  Or maybe I loved Seann William Scott and what a brawler he was. And ditto for Liev Schreiber.  Jay Baruchel -- who played the hockey-obsessed best friend -- co-wrote it.  Not surprisingly, it's based on a true story about Doug "The Hammer" Smith. I don't know what's cooler -- the tale of his life run amok or the story of how the movie got made.  Filmmaking is so convoluted sometimes that it's amazing any big budget projects get made at all.

Goon vaguely reminded me of that Paul Newman movie Slap Shot, which is still hilarious.



Here's a compilation of Doug Smith's career in hockey.  Some of it is actually kind of breathtaking.  It's hard enough for me to throw a left hook with my feet planted on the ground. I can't even imagine trying to pull that off in ice skates.  Why was I not surprised when they revealed at the end of the film that he's a police officer now?




Oh -- and this poppy little ditty was all over the end credits. Who in the world is Socalled and why havent I heard of him before?

That rapper should sound really familiar -- it's Roxanne Shante!

Future Gratitude

H

Here's the top ten things I did today that the future me feels truly grateful. (The truth is, I do most of this stuff every day.)

1. I did my morning pages. I don't know why/how that sets everything right creatively but it does.
2. I used exceptional products on my skin, as usual. I've been borderline obsessive about my skin since college and the payoff has been nothing short of immeasurable. More on that later.
3. I used plenty of excellent sunscreen.
4. I used exceptional products on my hair -- an argan oil 7-in-1 leave-in conditioner, to be specific -- which is growing like crazy.  (Gotta love Curlbox.)
5. I gobbled down my daily supplements: biotin, collagen, calcium and a powerhouse 
6. I didn't eat any garbage.
7. I pulled out my guitar and wrote a pretty cool rock and roll song.
8. I had a great consultation with my periodontist. After two years of x-rays, cleanings, implants and bone graftings, Invisalign, here I come! (Finally.)
9. I put in ten miles on my bike. I know that doesn't sound like much but it's way more than the mileage I would have clocked from my couch.
10. I worked on rewrites.

Truth be told...

I can honestly say that a big part of the reason why my life is so scrumtrulescent right now is because there are certain people that aren't in it anymore.  No wonder I'm finally losing my "happy" weight.  Interestingly, the apartment is less cluttered and more organized. There's no drama, no strife, no games, no manipulation, no gossip, no contention, no funk whatsoever.  My parents no longer call me every other week to inform me in no uncertain terms that I'm wasting my life and what I'm doing is garbage.  (And yeah -- not getting those phone calls in the middle of the night still feels weird.)

I love my permanent boyfriend. I love my guitars. I love to make cool art. The lack of stress feels light and breezy, like a new kind of permanent inner tropical vacation. Wheeee!

My only real regret is that it took so long to get here.  And that's nobody's fault but mine.

Now when stuff tips over and goes left, I relinquish it without a second thought, no matter what it is.  The less I struggle to hold onto whatever it is, the smoother things go, the better everything gets, the happier I am, the more joy overwhelms me.

I'm still stuck on getting a right cross that's stronger than my left jab.  I'm still figuring out how to play my own songs on guitar with conviction.  I'm still trying to make the perfect hair butter. I am still learning how to sing.

My Big Iron Skillet

I cover this song on my next album. Am I unleashing my inner feminist or what. 

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

My Big Iron Skillet

You out doing wrong again it's plain for all to see
And you think that here at home is where I ought to be
There's gonna be some changes made when you get home tonight
Cause I'm gonna teach you wrong from right

With my big iron skillet in my hand
I'm gonna show you how a little woman can whup a great big man
If you live through the fight we're gonna have when you get home
You'll wake up and find yourself alone

You say you're sick and tired of me and that I look a mess
But it's never dawned on you this is my only dress
I have never met a man who's quite the likes of you
I don't know why I ever said I do


With my big iron skillet in my hand
I'm gonna show you how a little woman can whup a great big man
If you live through the fight we're gonna have when you get home
You'll wake up and find yourself alone

With my big iron skillet in my hand
I'm gonna show you how a little woman can whup a great big man
If you live through the fight we're gonna have when you get home
You'll wake up and find yourself alone

Silver lining

I'm running around in whatever sunlight I can find, letting creativity flow out of me however it wants -- practicing guitar, working on rewrites and listening to hot jazz to keep warm.  Disappearing into museums and drifting around and bouncing ideas in my head is a necessity.  Morning pages are essential. Making good use of my library card is an absolute must. I"m getting obsessed with boxing all over again.  My body is starting to wake up. More oral surgery means more drugs. Silver lining.

The other day, I made the most perfect upside-down cake and I was so happy, I quite literally jumped for joy. What's up with that?

happy labor day

all of a sudden, it's not summer anymore. there was this cold snap and it rattled the sunshine and the warmth out of everything and then it rained a lot and that was that. it's pretty soggy outside now.  not that rain is going to keep anyone in my neighborhood from barbecuing on the sidewalk.

hello, fall.

i'm inbetween decisions, bouncing ideas around, up to my neck in rewrites and, as usual, i'm running with scissors.  i feel quite fortunate because songs are still coming at me -- fully formed, full of feeling, insistent -- and i'm full of resolve to finish what i've started, namely self-releasing my next album, getting my musical the billie holiday project developed and produced and making a short film idea a reality. 

in the meantime, i'm doing a severe amount of spring cleaning and throwing things away with strategic abandon. God. i am such a hoarder. something has to snap me out of it or so help me Jesus, i'll end up like one of those old ladies that's buried alive in a houseful of clothes, useless expensive piffle and of course garbage.

i've returned to boxing with an absolute vengeance -- because nothing annoys me more than not being able to fit into my clothes every season.  and besides, i think i'm actually getting good at it.

ok. gotta go.  time for that daily five mile run that's supposed to give me the endurance i need to not collapse from exhaustion when i really throw myself into a boxing conditioning session.

Happy Sunday!

This song -- Blind Willie Johnson's God Don't Never Change -- was one that I'd sing a lot when I first came to New York City.  Now I'm relearning it and incorporating it into what's next.

More and more, I'm embracing the sounds of my childhood. I can't even begin to imagine where this will end up but I'm enjoying the sonic regression.

...and now, a word from Brother Crouch...

Andre Crouch and The Disciples -- Jesus Is The Answer

Happy birthday, Louis Armstrong!

''

"(Armstrong was) the key creator of the mature working language of jazz. Three decades after his death and more than three-quarters of a century since his influence first began to spread, not a single musician who has mastered that language fails to make daily use, knowingly or unknowingly, of something that was invented by Louis Armstrong."  -- Dan Morgenstern, Oxford Companion to Jazz

"Armstrong is to music what Einstein is to physics and the Wright Brothers are to travel." - Ken Burns

"He was born poor, died rich and never hurt anyone along the way." - Duke Ellington

Louis Armstrong wasn't just a smiling magic Negro with a handkerchief and a horn and a growl in his voice.  He was a citizen of the world, a consummate performer, an ambassador of jazz and an innovator in his own right.  He was an unrepentant pot smoker.  He was elegant. He was New Orleans personified.  He was more than gifted -- and he was nothing short of brilliant.

His image and sound have so permeated the popular vernacular that it's an astonishing thing, to look into his beautiful African face and listen to him explain his life in his own words.  As a jazz vocalist, I can't veer too far away from his work.  I have two box sets that have been in heavy rotation lately and I'm looking for another one.

Strangely, it augments my forays into harmelodics with James "Blood" Ulmer quite nicely. I have no idea why.

...and now, a word from Mr. Cleveland...

James Cleveland sings I Don't Feel Noways Tired. (And nope, neither do I.)

Chorus: 
I don't feel no ways tired, 
I've come too far from where I started from. 
Nobody told me that the road would be easy, 
I don't believe He brought me this far to leave me. 

Vamp: 
I don't believe He brought me this far 
(repeat as desired) 

I've been sick (I don't believe), 
but God brought me (He brought me this far). 
I've been in trouble (I don't believe), 
but God brought me (He brought me this far). 

I've been friendless (I don't believe), 
but God brought me (He brought me this far). 
I've been lonely (I don't believe), 
but God brought me (He brought me this far). 

Please don't leave me (I don't believe), 
don't leave me Jesus (He brought me this far). 
Don't leave (I don't believe), 
don't leave me Lord (He brought me this far). 

I don't believe (I don't believe) 
that God would bring me 
(would bring me this far). 

I don't believe (I don't believe) 
that God would bring me 
(would bring me this far). 

I don't believe (I don't believe) 
that God would bring me (would bring me this far just to leave me). 

pithy thought of the day

Happy birthday, James Baldwin

"To be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a rage almost all the time." -- James A. Baldwin

 What a profoundly brilliant man. His work is so alive, so relevant and so full of feeling, its almost heartbreaking to read it because I can feel his vulnerability -- and ultimately, my own. It stultifying to think that he wrote Go Tell It On The Mountain when he was 18 years old. Yet as an essayist, I can't think of anyone that could shine brighter, with an intelligence and an insightfulness that some have described as frightening. 

There's a reason why his essays aren't commonplace in this country. Still and all, it's pretty cool that he's on a postage stamp.

Happy birthday, Jimmy. You are sorely missed.

a random snapshot

i have three songs to learn for a musical theater audition on saturday. when i got stuck and couldn't find anyone to plunk out a particular melody for me, i called a blactress and thanks to her, i reconnected with a pianist who had my back when i found myself lost somewhere inbetween an audition and a callback a few months ago. he's a nice midwestern white boy from kansas city who lives a few blocks away from me. and that's exactly where our story would end -- in kansas city where he's visiting his folks until monday -- if it weren't for his quick thinking.  a flurry of emails ensued and ka-BOOM -- i've got mp3s of the melody and the chords without the melody, so i can sing along to it and practice.  unfortunately, i won't be able to go into that room with a pianist but i will go in ready. you really can't get much better than that.

is this guy a gem or what.

i don't feel bad when i don't get the gig.  i feel bad if i did a lousy audition and i don't get the gig. usually, there's at least a million reasons for not getting the gig and hardly any of them have anything to do with talent.  but that's really difficult to explain to people who have these weird ideas about what it takes to make it in the entertainment industry because they watch way too much pop tv and they think that talent matters.

ok, enough with the beating of that dead horse. back to learning these songs, guitar practice, p & g tips, pilates and the grace that gets me through all of it.

30 Days of Birthday: Day 15 -- (More) Flash Fiction

I'm exploring some flash fiction that I forgot I wrote. Working on stitching them into something more comprehensive. Until then, enjoy.

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

Bedtime

Now that I am the kind of insomniac that daydreams about sleep, I sometimes wonder what was so terrible about bedtime when I was little.  At the appointed hour, my mother would walk into the den with a flourish, clap her hands three times as though she were summoning the palace guards and that was it.  Bedtime.  There was no such thing as arguing or tantrums or any of the time-honored tactics that proved themselves effective in other households.  She simply wasn't that kind of a mother.  I resisted with the empassioned fervor of an unjustly incarcerated inmate awating a twelfth hour pardon, feverishly watching the clock, holding out, hope against hope, only to be sent to my room, to my bed, to sleep.  I resented it, of course.  Each night found me wide awake, staring at the ceiling and stewing in my five year old rage.  Later, I could hear my mother's high pitched squeal of a laugh, promptly followed by my father heh-heh-hehing over the din of applause on the TV set: they were watching The Johnny Carson Show -- and I hated them for it.  Obviously, the good life began after bedtime.

Summers in Charleston with my grandparents were basically more of the same, thanks to my grandmother's uncanny sense of timing.  My brothers and I were usually bathed, pajama-ed, prayed up and tucked in before we realized what hit us.  As everyone sat on the porch and ate boiled peanuts and crablegs, their lively conversation would ebb and flow through my open window. I would watch their words fall and crash against the ceiling.  Sometimes I would sit up and lean against the headboard of my bed to look out the window, in an effort to steady myself amidst this sea of verbal chaos.  Within the confines of this strange and powerful lullaby, I fell asleep with wide open eyes, eyes that saw so many ideas unfold within me that I would often wonder, for days on end, how they would emerge.  In my world, dreams were for the sleepless.  I was quite young, but old enough to realize that no dreamlike state could compare to the world I inhabited when my imagination unleashed itself.  This was the time to be awake, I thought to myself each time I fell asleep at that windowsill, while so much in me was alive.  I knew that I couldn't go on like this.  I had to think of something.  I had a lot of living to do.

Strong reading material seemed to be the only available remedy.until adulthood offered other more suitable options, so an innocuous little scheme was hatched: I sandwiched books inbetween the mattress and the box spring of my bed and read them when everyone assumed that I was asleep.  The wee hours of the morning would find me writing little vignettes by the light of a huge industrial sized flashlight that I had "found" underneath the kitchen sink.  The light was so powerful, I would attempt to conceal it by playing "tent", a precarious undertaking which involved propping up pillows against the sheets to create a secret cubbyhole, lined with comic books, typing paper and hardbacks galore.  I couldn't have been happier.  From the doorway, it looked as though the bed was attempting to digest a sunbeam.  I lay there quietly in the light and the darkness, wallowing in a wordy undertow that spun about the room and into my head, languishing there.

I should have known that nothing that good could last for very long.  It took her awhile, but my grandmother caught me one night, sitting amidst a pile of Jet magazines, reading an encyclopedia.  This incident, like so many others I starred in, became something else to sit on the porch and laugh about, but for me it confirmed what I already knew:  being a child meant having to endure the necessary indignity of constantly being told what I could and could not do, where I could and could not go, what I could and could not have, what I was and was not capable of.

Nowadays I can watch my dreams come true but bedtime happens whenever it happens.  I have my days, days when I wake up in my loftbed fully dressed and surrounded by paperwork, my laptop still on and running and resting in my lap, the TV going, the phone ringing me into a semi-conscious state.  I also have days when I go through the ritual of bathing and putting on my bedclothes and calling it a night, even if it is noon and I have to pull the shades to do it.  As I lie there, wide awake and dreaming, somewhere in the netherregions of my subsconscious thoughts I can still lean against that windowsill to see bright stars in a blue-black sky.  I realize, as I begin to fade that  in all the years since childhood, there are moments when I have found myself wishing that someone would walk into the room and clap their hands and say that word.  More often than not,  I am left to clap my own hands as I fall asleep to the lull of the cityscape and it's mourning tide.

30 Days of Birthday: Day 14 - A cool documentary

I used to go to The Angelika quite a lot, until their tiny screens and crappy seats wore down my resolve.  Now that there's going to be an Alamo Drafthouse uptown soon and AMC Theaters (like the one on 84th and Broadway) are stepping up their game with comfy bark-o-loungers for everyone, there's no reason to go downtown -- unless something interesting is showing.

This documentary 20 Feet From Stardom is way more than interesting.



It's an irresistable premise:  the stories of the (mostly) unsung vocalists who spent a lifetime singing back ups for some of the biggest names in the business are unravelled before our very eyes -- and ears. Clearly, its essential viewing. 

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.