In the meantime, you can find me joining the twits, chirping away. It’ll all be recorded on that nifty little widget to your right.
Brazil was awesome in so many different ways (food, soccer, people, nightlife, monkeys, Brazilian Jewish weddings). My Paris trip was semi-successful. I succeeded in sending Passoa and Nicolas Feuillate (plus a beautiful white dress for ONLY 10 EUROS!!) in a box to myself, but I did not succeed in going to Club Silencio. I and a friend went to a café early in the evening, and one of his homegirls met us. Four bottles of wine were consumed between the three of us, on my empty stomach. And I’m already a lightweight. I was a hot-ass mess by midnight, which is when us peons can get in without being a cardmember. Maybe one day…
Venice was excellent: the weather was sexy, Mestre was cheap and beautiful, the Biennale was enriching and fulfilling. I stayed with some people that I found on airbnb.com, and they were unbelievably nice and lovely. I just arrived in Berlin this evening. I’m so broke, I don’t know how I’ll survive until Tuesday. Soon after checking into the hostel, I went walking and came upon one of the Turkish Doner Kebap places that Germany’s famous for, so I got a strange, cheap, massive one so that I wouldn’t be hungry tomorrow and want to spend money on food. I wish I were still getting residuals. And I wish I didn’t get awesome auditions while I’m on the opposite side of the world.
That’s the skinny on me. Gonna keep my online life to a bare minimum and just lurk a bit, and try and focus on not being down to $100. Again. So close to my 29th birthday. There will definitely be randomness posted here from time to time, so if I’m sooooooooooo important to you, check this space maybe once a month.
Y’all stay sexy.
Me - 3, Mercury - 0
Now that that’s out the way (I am hyper-vigilant when that bastard goes retrograde), WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!! My long-awaited travels have finally begun!
I began saving for this current trip (and the one coming up in September to Europe) in January of 2010. Waaayyyyy before I had even entertained the idea that I might even submit for a commercial – and even when I submitted, I doubted that I would be cast (and even after I was booked, I was sure I wouldn’t make the final cut for either versions) – I had decided that dammit, I’m going to Brazil in 2011, and Italy too. Back when I was participating in the CAMAC residency program in 2009, the Venice Biennale international art show/exposition was in full swing, but I was on a strict budget and couldn’t afford to go. I wasn’t sure how I was going to make the next one, especially considering how flat broke I was for four months after getting back from France, but I was determined to make it for sure. I had saved up a cool little amount by the middle of last year, but when I was booked for the commercial, and then made the cut in both versions, and the residuals started coming in, I knew for a friggin’ fact that both Brazil and Europe would be a reality for me in 2011.
I’m somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico right now – or maybe even Guyana – finally on my way to Brazil after years of exhortation from my Brazilian friends. I first met minha amiga Brasilera otima, Renny, in one of my animation classes during my fourth year at USC. I don’t really remember how, but we befriended each other and started hanging out a lot. By way of her, I met a whole gaggle of Brazilian kids at USC, most of them super cool and friendly (especially considering the fact that they’re all fabulously wealthy, sheesh), and we all partied together, saw films together, went out together, and such like. Some of my best college memories include those guys and gals. Most of them moved back to Brazil as soon as they were done with school, but there’s a few still hanging around LA, and we try and get together every once in a while. I’m the token poor black friend *wicked grin*. Sometimes I joke with Renny, making her promise to take me to a baile funk party in one of the favelas, and in return I’ll protect her with my blackness and fluency in Brazilian vulgarities (my favorite being “Porra!”)
One USC Brasilera friend in Sao Paulo announced her wedding date earlier this year, and so the date was settled. I SUPER CAN’T WAIT!! I hear Brazilian Jewish weddings are quite the event, plus it’s going to damn near be a college reunion, I’m so happy and excited. Thank Christ the exchange rate works out in my favor for this trip, because for Europe, I’m either going to have to bring pb&j sandwiches or just eat once every other day. The dollar to euro ratio SUCKS right now for Americans.
I first started learning Brazilian Portuguese back in 2006 using Pimsleur CDs, and y’all, omg, the Pimsleur method is like immediate. They use native speakers, have you repeat to match their intonation, and you start speaking whatever language you’re learning right away. I’m learning Italian right now, plus refreshing myself on the Portuguese, and when I get back I’m going to start German.
OK that’s it. I may or may not check in frequently with updates, I don’t know. I’m just going to float on, taking in everything as I experience it, etc. On this trip, I’m just gonna abide, man.
Nossa! Legal! Maravilhosa! SHOW!!!!
I had a catering gig last month for a staffing company I work for intermittently. It was a commemoration of the 100th year that the Los Angeles Country Club has been at its current location. I was bartending that evening. I arrived to work early because that’s how I get down, checked in, was shown my bar, and I started setting up. There was a stack of boxes that I needed to empty filled with liquors, wines, and sodas to stock the bar with. I squatted down after a few minutes of working to get a six-pack of Diet 7-Ups (EW!). The seat of my pants split up the back, from the crotch all the way to heaven above. I was wearing big white panties.
I gasped with surprise. I spent approximately seven seconds in disbelief and shock. I cussed like an old man on meth straight from one of Stephen King’s old novels set in Maine. I held my ass and looked for someone who could help me. I found a girl about my age who was a full-time employee for the club, and after she laughed her ass off, she showed me to a room where they kept needle and thread. I retired to the ladies’ locker room, took off my pants, and thought about how much progress I’ve made over the years with the sewing machine but had never learned how to sew by hand.
After a few minutes of ignorance and ass-foolery on my part with the needle and thread, a woman walked in and gave me a puzzled look. I laughed and explained to her what happened. Well, must have God liked me that day because it turned out that she was ten minutes early for her call time and was quite adept at sewing by hand and was more than willing to help me. I watched closely as she threaded the needle and started sewing the seam. I had never really seen stitching like the way she had done it, so I made mental notes for, you know, just in case in the future. She sewed it up really well, and it hasn’t busted since.
Why was this humiliation so wonderful? Because. There’s a sculpture project I’ve been working on since December, and I got stalled back in February. Today was the first time since then I’ve even gone to my art studio aside from making rent payments. I submitted for an art show that it looks like I’ll be participating in come the end of July, and I decided to get my ass back there and tough out this snag – maybe I could come up with a work-around. As soon as I picked up the thread and needle, last month’s superhappyfuntime100% came back to my memory, and so did the nice lady’s methodology, so I tried it out. AND IT WORKED!
TRIUMPH! ART! YES!
David Lynch creating real-life Club Silencio in Paris
By Sean O'Neal June 15, 2011
As part of David Lynch’s interest in doing everything besides make another movie, the budding musician and entrepreneur has announced plans to build the Parisian nightclub Club Silencio, modeled after the location of the same name in his 2001 film Mulholland Drive. Lynch is personally designing the furniture and otherwise sculpting the interior of the “1920s-like Parisian salon,” which include a concert hall, restaurant, library, and cinema—all reserved for an exceedingly exclusive clientele composed of an “international who’s who of artistic professionals.” Reportedly, only members will be allowed to attend nightly events at such as movie premieres, concerts, and literary conferences before Club Silencio opens its doors at midnight to a non-member, but still very elite and carefully selected crowd.
And naturally, the connection to the film invites some obvious questions: Will it feature tape recordings in place of bands? An unusually angry emcee? A blue-haired doyenne who sits ominously in the balcony? A nightly tear-jerking performance from Rebekah Del Rio? Will there be discounts for women who have just had their first exploratory lesbian commingling? Is it in fact a living metaphor for the manipulated illusions of filmmaking itself? That’s yet to be determined, but we doknow it serves finger foods until 6 a.m.
Do you know what this means? It means I’ve got to rustle up some connections!!! I’m going to Europe in September for 14 days with plans to visit the Venice Biennale for about 5 days, shopping in Paris for two days (I’ve got to stock up on Cote D’or, Passoa, and get something from The Kooples), and spend the rest of my time ambling around Berlin. Looks like trying to bonafide my way into this venue is added to my Paris itinerary.
I’VE GOT TO GET INTO THIS CLUB!!!
1. I’m finally getting toned: it turns out my problem was lack of complete protein in my body. If you live in LA, go to the GNC at the shopping plaza on Overland and Venice. I forgot that dude’s name who helped me but he knows what the hell he’s talking about.
2. Started a modern dance class – highlight of each week. Started the commercial acting class my agency wants me to take – squirm city, can’t wait for it to be over, and I BETTER book some damn work when this is through!
3. Currently working on getting an additional agent. I should be doing beauty editorials and MAGIC Tradeshow. I feel really underused right now, and my savings will run out pretty soon and I’ll lose my studio if I don’t get paid soon.
4. Started reading “Robert Smithson: Learning from New Jersey and Elsewhere” by Ann Reynolds to kick off my personal pedagogy, and I can tell already that it’s going to be so fulfilling and such a help! #ARTDORKALERT
5. Looks like I’ll be participating in a group art show later this summer! I’m getting nauseous with uncertainty and nervousness just thinking about it, but I’ll dive in headfirst anyway.
But enough about me. What about YOU?
I got a phone call Monday – I was booked for a music video shooting on Thursday. Apparently it’s for a Mr. Wiz Khalifa and someone else. I don’t know who that is, as I’ve no television and I haven’t listened to popular radio music in three years. I’ve seen his “name” pop up every once in a while in my Facebook feed, and after a quick Google trip, it seems he’s quite popular. I have no personal opinions about him or his music though. Got waxed today just in case… ya know…
Here’s hoping I don’t have to compromise my dignity tomorrow afternoon. Not sure if I’m going to be featured or just shaking it in the background next to a pool while other rappers point at me and nod with that knowing nod that’s like, “Yeah… you know how it is… bitches be dancin’ next to the pool in heels for no damn reason whenever I come around…”
I have to go shave now. Full report to follow on Friday, stay tuned…
OK OK, it’s three days later, so sue me.
Long story short, I didn’t have to wear lingerie and grind against anyone with money being thrown at me. It was actually probably the best work day I ever had, for several reasons :secret smile:.
It was actually a music video for a British rapper called Tinie Tempah from London, featuring Wiz Khalifa. Mr. Tempah is quite a nice young man, and his friends too! The song is called “Till I’m Gone”. It was shot in Elysian Park and Watts by the same director who did the Smirnoff commercial I was in back in August – we have mutual friends, and he likes to use people he knows in his projects. The weather was beautiful, the look was “muted hip-hop 90’s” (a term I coined), and the vibe was pretty cool. I wore my fro and some shades. I stopped listening to the radio a few years back, so I had never heard the song before, but by the end of the day it had grown on me – it’s quite nice, actually. Whenever I find video for it, I’ll post it here. And I hope I won’t have any reason to blush…
The next one of you who, out of the blue and for no damn reason other than you think that all women everywhere should never look like she’s having thoughts or a bad day or it’s frickin’ four in the morning and she’s tired – the next one of you who tells me to “Smile!” will straight get shanked. And I mean that. Nothing ruins my day more than some random dude getting all in my face, demanding that I rearrange it to make him feel better. I swear I’ll go apesh*t on you entitled bastards. Get a life and stay outta mine! Shit.
Happy Frickin’ Monday.
I went out last night to El Cid – it was Jellybean Benitez’s return to Los Angeles, and absolutely NO ONE in this world spins soulful house like this guy. He’s amazing. I ordered my Long Island, got to sippin’, and soon started dancing because the music was beautiful. While taking a brief break, a man introduced himself to me. A tall man. A bald man. A gorgeous, chocolate, well-dressed man that I could just look at all day. As we talked – about Chicago, house music, the South, Jellybean – I realized that it has been eons since I’ve dated a black man seriously, and I could tell that he was intelligent and good-hearted. Possibilities started to play themselves out in my imagination as he described his job as an event promoter.
Then he mentioned his husband.
Good day. Look up there at the page bar. There’s a new page with a poll. It’s called !*POLL*!. Take this poll. Do it only once. The page will rest there (in peace) for a couple months.
Sometimes I wonder who’s reading, if anyone’s reading, and I’m surprised when my friends here and there say they check on my blog. I ‘d like to know more about YOU, my audience. Also, leave a comment on the poll page and tell me what you think of my blog. Let me know if there’s anything you’d like me to write more of or less of. I’m still not going to be too personal though – I don’t believe in oversharing.
One day about a month ago, I was at the gym, working it out on an elliptical, watching TLC’s “Say Yes To The Dress” on my personal monitor. It’s a reality show that follows an NYC bridal dress shop; specifically, the quest of the brides-to-be to find The Most Perfect-est Dress Everrrr, and the quest of the employees to close sales. It’s not usually the kind of show I would watch, but there was nothing else on that piqued my interest.
In this episode, a dress-seeker took some time to tell America how her fiancé proposed to her, and how it was everything she had ever wanted, and how happy she was. I’m sure this interview happens on every episode. As the show went to commercial break, and as I pumped my legs and arms in ardent pursuit of bodily perfection in time for my trips to Brazil and Europe, I lapsed into a hypothetical daydream of the future – what if one day, I was proposed to? An image of a faceless man appeared in my head, and he presented me with a ring and asked me to marry him.
I nearly had a tearful panic attack on the elliptical. I nearly ran with fright from the gym, no goal in sight.
I didn’t get into grad school.
I’ve been researching MFA programs ever since I finished undergrad at USC in 2006. I’ve looked at Columbia, Yale, Hunter College, NYU, UCLA, Otis, Art Center, CalArts, UC Irvine, and a few others. An older artist friend of mine told me that the biggest mistake that she made was completing her graduate art degree and then moving to a different city; basically, get your MFA where you plan on settling. It made sense (still does), so I crossed the East Coast schools off my list and focused on the ones more centered around Los Angeles. When thinking of my career goals, I decided that any grad program that I participate in must offer me the following:
- an emphasis in film photography
- labs where I can do my own printing
- a lax attitude toward interdisciplinary work
- paid TA positions
Those are the four major components that must be present for my graduate education. After all was said and done, UCLA’s MFA program was the only one left standing among my original choices. Besides, if accepted, I could ride my bike between my place and the grad studios. It’s the only place I applied. Their MFA program is notoriously hard to get into. I still cried when I got the rejection email. For about five minutes. Five minutes of whatamIgonnadowhatamIgonnadowhatamIgonnadowhatamIgonnado.
When I thought of my immediate future, I visualized the summer camp I’ll be working, my trip to Brazil, my trip to Germany and Italy immediately after, and coming back to begin my post-graduate education. My rejection means an almost-certain return to an existence I haven’t had to deal with for a while, an existence where I’m wondering where in the hell I’m going to get my next meal, how in the hell am I going to pay my landlady, how in the hell will I be able to afford to get from point A to B, around to C, and onward to D before getting back to A. That existence was marginally bearable, and wasn’t the most fun thing ever. Unless I book another national commercial or my first ad campaign, this is what I’ll have to look forward to come September. Grad school was going to be my physical savior.
As you may well know, I'm black, female, pushing 30, and a Dallas native living in Los Angeles. I am here to explain the Texas black colloquial term, "ho." Believe it or not, the word "ho" is a catch-all noun. It can be a person, place, or thing; many times, people use it to refer to a place or thing. Par example:
[we see two men in their mid-20s working on the engine of a car, tools littering the driveway that it's parked in]
Young Man 1: Yo Brandon, hand me that ho right there.
Brandon: (pointing at a monkey wrench) this ho?
Young Man 1: Yeah, thanks.
Example Deux: [two teenage girls sit on a park bench, having an animated conversation]
Girl 1: Girl, you missed it last night!!
Girl 2: You know I got sick, I was so pissed! What happened?
Girl 1: Giiirrrrlll, everybody must have heard about that party, 'cause by the time I showed up, that ho was sweaty as hell and 'bout to bust!!
In BRAINWASHED, we explore the portrayal of African American women as sexual objects in the chapter Studs and Sluts. Check out this Fan-Made movie short that was inspired by the book. This is a fantastic example of what can be done with a little ingenuity and access to a computer!
Greetings. In a nod to the new look of my blog, we shall take some time to ponder the Greek name in question.
…siiiggghhhh. My general opinion of most of the women featured on the “Real Housewives” franchise is pretty low, and for reasons that you don’t even have to guess. You know. So when I was watching Bravo one day, and the commercial promoting the upcoming season featuring a brand new city (at the time) came on, and I saw that one of these women had the audacity share my name while making an idiot of herself on national television, I was incensed, I tell you! How dare she!
I caught an episode.
I’m so glad I was wrong. I can’t believe I’m typing this, but this Alexia is a welcome breath of fresh air among these women, most of whom seem to be oblivious, tactless, and not too thoughtful. Now, it’s not like I know this woman personally, and people being people, I’m sure there are aspects of her personality that could use improving. Just like me, you, and everyone else in this world. Plus, this. But I get this sense that she has been and is a hard worker. She could be a little less indulgent toward her son, but at least she calls him out when necessary. She’s decidedly more down-to-earth than her fellow “housewives”, and doesn’t seem to take her personal feelings out on others. In other words, she doesn’t behave like an emotionally immature seventh grader with privilege for ages. Maybe that’s all we can ask for anymore.
Alexia is a shortened form of Alexandria, the female version of Alexander. It means defender of mankind. I’m sorry; I’m leftist and all, and I respect all people as people, but a lot of y’all can go to hell. My mommy wanted to name me Alexandria, but her mother, the late, great Mollie, the grandmother I feared and still love, said that it was too long a name for a little baby, so no. So my mommy shortened it. I wonder why Mrs. Echevarria’s parents went with this name. It’s not very common: I’ve only met three other people who shared it.
In conclusion, my name still rocks, and isn’t sullied by the Miami socialite who shares it with me.
I have been an avid bookworm since I started learning to read in kindergarten. I have been a Stephen King fangirl since I was nine years old. This was the year that my mom remarried, that we moved down to the suburbs of Houston. It was the first time that my sister and I actually lived in a house, and we thought it was so cool. There were five rooms! And a kitchen and a breakfast room and a living room and a dining room and a den upstairs! And Otis (my step-dad) had a big screen TV! With cable!
Sometimes, they would let us watch movies late at night on Fridays and/or Saturdays. One night, we settled down in our pajamas in front of a movie that had started 30 minutes prior. It was Kubrick’s The Shining. My sis and I LOVE scary movies, and it pleasantly freaked the hell out of us. It dawned on me that I had seen this title in what we were calling the “office”, on a bookshelf; a thick yellow book that proclaimed THE SHINING by Stephen King. I wasn’t daunted by the length of the book – I was reading “The Baby-Sitter’s Club”, and there’s all kinds of chapters in that! I wanted to see how hallways of blood would be described. So I picked it up.
It was the first novel that kept me up for hours at night, hanging on to every word, dread and suspense in my heart; not just because of the subject matter, but because of the King’s use of language. After I was well into it, my mother saw what I was reading and expressed concern. Didn’t they talk about sex? Isn’t there cussing? (What’s funny is that my mom never tried to censor my choice in literature, but when it came to music and film, the above was NOT acceptable no matter WHAT the context.) She never told me to stop reading it, though. After I was done, I took on The Stand, and then The Dead Zone. I loved each dearly, and I was hooked. I’ve read almost ever novel, novella, and short story written by Stephen King since then – excluding the Dark Tower series – and although my opinion has changed about a number of his stories that I enjoyed at first (Rose Madder? The Tommyknockers? Desperation/The Regulators? blegh!!!), I’m still his number one fan. Cell, Lisey’s Story, Just After Sunset, and Full Dark, No Stars are all must-reads. You must read them. I’m telling you. Go. Now.
Wait- not yet!! First, my take.
Under The Dome is the shit!!!! Under The Dome is classic King! Under The Dome pulls no punches, never patronizes, never proselytizes, and breaks your heart. And the ending doesn’t make me feel all stabby with rage.
I don’t want to spoil anything, so here’s the story’s skeleton: one day, out of seemingly nowhere, an invisible yet solid force-field of a dome covers a small New England town, sealing them off from the rest of America. Shit gets started immediately. Throw in a town selectman with delusions of grandeur, his entitled son’s grudge against an outsider trapped in, and some good old political corruption, and you’ve got a hell of a story. I’ve always loved the characters that Stephen King creates, mainly because you can tell that these people could exist in real life and probably do. He knows Maine because that’s where he’s from, he knows small towns populated by working class to working poor folks, because that’s his background also. There are several characters in Dome that are central to the story, and he makes them drive the novel in such a way that it transcends being just a sci-fi type of “whatarewegonnado???” survival story. Every single thing that they do, you expect them to because of who they are, because they’re not just stereotypical archetypes. That’s what this novel is all about. Different kinds of people, and what they do together and individually under duress.
This isn’t a full-on review because that’s not how I operate. I don’t like to give away anything except the super basicness when it comes to books or movies, and I hate giving plot summaries. One thing I love about this novel, and several others, is that when it’s all over, there’s this fulfilled feeling, a closure in spite of the fact that not all mysteries are necessarily solved within the story. For that reason, I love going into a new book (or film, or even new CD [Yes. I still buy CDs.]) knowing as little as possible about it. For that reason, you’re just going to have to buy the book – or check it out from the library – for details ‘cause you ain’t gittin’ ‘em from me, playboy.
So go. Now.
The only day that looks remotely interesting is Saturday (Paul van Dyk, Erykah Badu, and Arcade Fire), and they stopped selling single-day tickets two years ago, the bastards.
I’ve got Brazil, Germany, and Italy to look forward to, so what-eh-varrrrrr.
a notification. a recognition. anticipation. pairing. music. 5 o’clock shadow. guitars. Animal. nostalgia. save empire records. a beckoning. platonic embrace. an invitation. drinkety-drink drinks. fun. smiles. photos. competition. victory dances. elizabeth berkeley. hand on my neck. it’s been 4 months. it’s been two years. my homegirl. taco joint. tetris ripoff. radishes. a pulling away. desire. passion. feelings. unrequited. leave me hanging. morning dancing. effusive g-chatting. 10 unexplained tearful outbursts. art. sex. 90’s heartthrobs. waiting. awkward texting. privileged schoolgirls. glue. food color. salts. scents. a play. more effusive g-chatting. replays in my mind. desire. passion. feelings. interestingness. mystery. I like. I want more. more replays in my mind. desire. passion. feelings. thoughts. future? interestingness. mystery. hmmm. rationalizations. uterus. ovaries. estrogen. birth control. desire. passion. feelings. mystery. burning. yearning. trite words. replay the past. imagine summer. it’s been 4 months. how many more months? it’s been 2 years. 2 more years?
My body is disintegrating. I feel like shit on toast. I look like an ogre. Alexia’s my name, hyperbole is my game.
Let me tell you what I LOOOOVE. I LOOOOVE how that I’ve been on track with my workouts; not losing much weight, and yet getting slimmer and firmer. Feeling healthy, fresh, beautiful, and energetic. And then my uterus starts acting up, I have an allergic reaction to my grandmother’s blanket while I’m in Dallas that leaves huge red itchy welts on my face, chest, arms and hands, and then I come down with an awful cold so it’s been a week since I’ve been to the gym; and THEEEENNNNNN after three months with my new agency, wondering if I should even bother, doubting my appearance and demeanor, I FINALLY get invited for a casting for a Levi’s print job while I’m looking like an ogre. And although it went okay, I probably won’t get it.
I F*CKIN LOVE THAT SH*T!!!!!!
First of all, it’s true. Writing it down does help. I don’t keep a fitness diary or anything, I just know what my goals are, and every Monday I weigh myself and measure my waist. I’ve restricted myself to dessert once a week, protein once a week, a mass of carbs once a week, and strictly healthy vegetarian eating supplemented by my supplements as I go along. It’s very easy for me to gain muscle mass, and muscle mass is heavier than fat, so I’m less concerned with weight loss than I am with my size goals. I’m getting older and my body is changing, so maybe 140 is my new 130. So up until about a week ago, I was doing most excellently.
Before I left town last week, though, my uterus started having passive aggressive fits with me. This happens whenever I miss a pill (I take low estrogen birth control in order to suppress my periods; if you don’t take it at the same time every day, you WILL spot for a month). It feels like it wants to ball up into the deathly cramps that it used to, but that would be no fun, so it turns on low doses of pain here and there, randomly, for a couple of weeks. That bitch. She knows I crave dark chocolate and sugar whenever she does that. So this is how I flew to Dallas last week, and I was going for a few days to see my new baby niece. My other sister had her a few weeks ago, and she’s so adorable and sweet! I’m really enjoying being a spinster aunt! But Sunday afternoon, in addition to passive aggressive uterine pain (temporarily cured by Manischevitz + Skittles), I started breaking out. On my lower face. On my wrists and hands and arms. On my boobies and clavicle. I still feel like a leper. The itching has stopped, thank friggin’ Christ, but now I look like I have friggin’ herpes all over my lower friggin’ face, and I look like an abuse victim elsewhere. This is how I arrived back to Los Angeles on Tuesday. But I’m not that vain, I’m reclusive anyway, and I’ve been feeling even more so recently, so whatevs. I go to the gym Wednesday morning, make it to the afternoon p/t job, start feeling a low grade fever, so I take more Benedryl that I swiped off my dad while I was in Dallas – asleep by 8.30. Wake up the next morning feeling like shit on toast, and no one can take my shift that afternoon for me, and then I get word that Levi is looking for beautiful, stylish, confident women to be featured in a print campaign, and I’m confirmed for the casting. WHY NOW? WHY NOT TWO WEEKS AGO? Because God said so, that’s why.
Last night, the few times that I could get to sleep, I would invariably dream that my former boss, Tulsa, lived in a swanky IKEA-designed house in the sky, and that I was staying with her and her adult adopted protégés (that don’t exist). I’m serious. This was the background of every dream I had last night, with slight variations on the theme. During a three hour stretch of sleeplessness early this morning, between sneaking onto facebook and playing Tetris on my phone, I devised a plan by which I could feel beautiful, stylish, and confident by 2.20 today. I decided to start with my favorite fantasy where I’m reunited with my deported ex-boyfriend, I confess my love to him, he doesn’t turn me away, we make sweet love and elope together. Then, I would watch an episode or two of the Simpsons on my favorite website. Then, I’d watch the YouTube clip I favorited recently from the TV series “Martin”, the one where he suspects all his friends of stealing his cd player, when really it was bruh-man. Then, I would look at some pictures of my nephew, and some footage of him dancing, because the thought of him warms my heart. Then, I would cleanse and scrub my face during a long shower, do a peel off mask, use my best lotion, put on my coolest outfit, throw on my afro wig - heretofore known as Miss Mojo – all this while some soulful deep house is playing on my new laptop speakers on full blast.
It kind of worked. I got down to the casting, a little breathless, but feeling great and not at all nervous and awkward and weird like I usually do. They asked me about my heritage, and once I got the clue that they’re looking for interestingness, I laid claim to my Creek Indian heritage for the first time. I usually don’t do that, even though it’s true. You know how some black folks are. They’re not satisfied with being “just black”. I am. Every once in a while, I get the “what are you?” question (as if I’m some sort of fabulous animal or mineral), and I say “black” because I’ve never met any white or native family members, so what’s the point? Well, this time, the point was a huge chunk of change that will be put to good use during my unemployment cut and my two overseas trips later this year, so if they don’t want “regular black” today, then we’re throwing my Creek in the mix. The jeans fit nicely, I danced in front of a camera, told them about the most adventurous thing I did, and walked out with a smile on my face.
Now I’m back in bed, and again, I feel like shit on toast. I really hope I book this job. I’m with Industry Talent. They represent my homegirl Diana, and when she started working for them, she lobbied to get me signed on. I’m serious, ever since I met her three years ago, she’s believed that I could make a career out of modeling and talent work. She’s believed it more than me, actually, and now she’s my agent lady. It’s nice having some competence on your side, ‘cause letmetellyou, I’ve got some agent horror stories, and I wouldn’t even bother anymore if it weren’t for her and the others working there submitting me. They let me know that that they submit me quite a lot on a lot of different projects, but this is the first one that I’ve been considered for. It’s hard when you’re black, and you don’t quite fit the set mold that exists for black+female in the model/talent world, and most of your pictures are outdated and not very good in the first place. It’s an arbitrary science. I just want some cash so that I can survive until grad school. Plus, I actually have to pay taxes this year. The Outrage!!! (Not really, I can afford it, I just didn’t realize I had moved up a tax bracket)
Will our heroine get the job? Will she be paid on time if so? Will she feel new again on Saturday morning, in time for the dance class she wants to take? When will the uterus EVER stop the madness??? Why does our heroine still have hopes of seeing a man barred from ever entering the United States again? Will her thighs NEVER cease??? These, my friends, are questions for the ages.
The hotness, it burns
My passion unrequited
It feels wonderful
So tall. So attractive. More acting prowess than many will give you credit for. And yet, it wasn’t until I saw this when I swooned. I’m smitten by you. I can’t help it. One day we’ll run into each other at an Along Came Mary event, me doling out risotto from behind a buffet table. All I want is a wink. Just one wink.
I went out one evening to Avalon with some cool acquaintances to take in some enlightened drum n bass. I was wearing my wig, my souvenir v-neck from the Prince concert, and 3 inch heels. We eased onto the dance floor, dancing, having a nice time. When I dance, I tend to travel after a while; I ended up on the other side of the venue. Right in front of some hipster dude wearing the requisite flannel/plaid button-up. He exclaimed. He wrapped his arms around me from behind. He vigorously grabbed and caressed my muffin top. He wouldn’t let go. The more I struggled, the further he buried his face into my fro.
*meaning, intoxicated with mdma/ecstasy, for all of you who are even more of a square than I am
I don’t celebrate holidays. The only reason I do Halloween parties and outfits is because that’s the only time people want to throw costume parties, it seems like. The only reason I make any sort of deal out of New Year’s Day is because that’s when my family gets together every year for dinner in Alabama, and I love my family to pieces. I don’t do New Year’s resolutions. But it seems that while I’ve been away from Los Angeles, a few certainties have hit me regarding my survival over the course of the next ten months.
I don’t know for sure yet, I’ll find out tomorrow, but it looks like my unemployment is all tapped out. If so, it’s sort of a good-bad thing. The past year is the longest stretch of time since undergrad that I’ve had stable income to pay rent and bills – mostly from my unemployment claim - and I won’t have that anymore. At the same time, however, I’ll finally be able to quit LAUSD. I’ve mentioned before how tedious and frustrating it is to have my schedule tied down to a job that NEVER calls. I’ve only worked ONE DAY so far this school year. My sub job has been paying my unemployment since they have been unable to provide at least 25 hours a week for me. But if I’m tapped out, then there’s no reason for me to stay. Parting will be bittersweet – I’ve had some experiences teaching that I’ll never forget, and I’m spiritually richer for it – but since I have the full faith and backing of an model/talent agency now-
oh wait, I never wrote about that, did I? I will…
…since I have agency representation now, I’ll be free to get up every morning and go to the gym for a good two hours and BURN OFF THESE TWENTY POUNDS I’VE MANAGED TO PUT ON OVER THE PAST YEAR!!!! I’m telling you, it sneaks up on you man. You gotta watch it. And the funny thing is, I’ve been working out! I saw my pictures from a show I did last month, and I’ll now look at them every day to remind me that I may be cute, but if I’m gonna get any work I had better stop being so self-indulgent.
So if my claim is tapped out, I’ll have to grind harder for my bread. I’ve got to get new pictures ASAP, and the way my body photographs right now just won’t do. I used to be a much more disciplined eater. I don’t do diets, and when I fast/cleanse, it’s for the health of my body and not for losing weight: I’m all about being proactive about my physical health, is all. Just a couple years ago, I was doing much better. It’s not just that I was much slimmer, it’s that I felt like I could fly, run, and jump off anything; and it was that I knew that I didn’t have much money but I had my happiness and health. I fell off the wagon. I’ve been eating much more bread, cheese, and processed food with no quarterly fasting breaks, and eating after 8pm (damn you, Europe!!). Just because I’m vegetarian and eat better than most people doesn’t mean I can do whatever I want. I don’t have “one of those metabolisms”. So although I don’t do the resolution thing, I am wiping the slate clean and going back to my better habits starting tomorrow (I’m on a Delta flight right now).
The superduperohsoswellI’msohappyyay upside to being cut off from my unemployment and therefore quitting LAUSD is I’ll now have time to work in my art studio I’m renting now! I’ve already started work on a project that I first conceived exactly one year ago, but couldn’t really get a move on because of lack of space. That Smirnoff commercial I did was a blessing not just in the sense that I got a nice chunk of money, but that I have been enabled to do what I’ve been purposed to do in life. I can now afford studio rent and a few equipment purchases here and there, and I suspect that my current project will be done by the middle of the month. I’m so excited!
So I guess the point in writing all this is now that it’s all on the intertubes, I can’t renege now. I’m not trying to lose 20 pounds by the end of the month because that would be ridiculous. What I’m going to do is reclaim my better habits so that I can have that flying feeling again, and the side effect will be that my bosoms won’t be bursting through my clothes anymore and this muffin top that’s trying to be born will recede, and in turn I’ll look better in my new pictures, which should result in bookings for well-paid work, which will fund not only my living expenses but my career ones too, so then I don’t have to worry about being cut off from my unemployment claim anymore.
Updates here and there, now and then, soon to follow.
I know I know, I’m almost three weeks late with my debriefing. And it’s not like I have a good excuse, either. It’s not like I have a JOB or anything. I want to go stream-of-consciousness here with this, so bear with me.
JESUS it was cold! My friend and I wanted to go have a nice and fancy-schmancy dinner but it didn’t work out the way we planned, but that’s okay because PRINCE!!!
Anyway, there were two opening acts that were pretty great. The first was a young lady named Esperanza Spalding; she’s a jazz singer and plays the bass cello, and her bass guitar player was hot-t-t-t-t. Yaaayyyiissss, chile… Her ‘fro needs its own zip code. Visit her website, she’s terribly talented. And the second act was Lalah Hathaway, Donny Hathaway’s daughter. She was beautiful, and her set was really nice, although she didn’t “break it down” like we were expecting. I bought a t-shirt for the low-low price of $40. Hey, can you blame me? You better not try! Before the show started, they were showing Finding Nemo on the JumboTron with
bastardized elevator music smooth jazz playing on the speakers. Surreal. The stage was in the shape of The Artist’s symbol. Our seats were okay, I’m remembering how he emerged from below the stage as the band played this church-ey number and his backup singers got down at the very beginning. It was electric. It was magic. His perfect, smooth skin glowed, his voice was on point, his dance moves were bad as ever, and he played the hell out of that guitar! My homegirl and I screamed like pre-teen fangirls and I was dancing in the aisles (and was soon rebuffed by an usher). To the best of my recollection, here are the songs he and his crew did, not in chronological order:
- The Beautiful Ones
- Cool (written for The Time)
- Sexy Dancer
- Purple Rain
- Diamonds and Pearls (YES!)
- If I Was Your Girlfriend
- Bring It Down (written for Tevin Campbell)
- On The Arms of an Angel (by Sarah McLachlan)
- Raspberry Beret
… and a few more that I think I’m forgetting. It was all very spiritual. I almost cried. He didn’t play “Let the Rain Fall Down” or “Dirty Mind” – my two personal favorites right now – but I’m sure that’s forgivable. For so long, he wouldn’t even play old songs because of his religious convictions. Ever since he divorced his last wife, though, he seems to have loosened up quite a bit. My mom says she doesn’t like Prince “because he’s nasty.” When you press her on it, she says “You know what I mean!” I told her that she’s not allowed at any showings of my artwork. Of course, being the prude that she is (though always lovable), she’s talking about Prince’s highly sexual and gender-bending lyrics and ways of old. To her, if that’s the subject matter of your music nearly forty years ago, then no matter how you evolve down the line, you should always be judged according to your earlier work, and of course sexual = wrong. SMH. This is why she’s not allowed to view my work. It’s highly provocative and explicit, and sometimes visceral (if I have my way and get into grad school), and I don’t want to have to keep smelling salts on my person with which to revive my mother and her oh-so-delicate disposition. Back to The Kid. At least one of those guitar solos had to have gotten me pregnant, I’m just gonna wait and see. In any other circumstance I’d verify with several pregnancy tests and swallow the schmushmortion pill promptly, but Prince is the only man whose child I would bear. His show was in three sections, each with it’s own costume change of course! Can we take a second and ponder his beautiful physical body? Christ, that dude is the same age as my parents, and he hasn’t aged not. one. bit. My parents are really good looking for their age too, but damn! His muscles, his skin, his 3 inch boot heels and perfect coif… le siiiggghhh… I’ll tell you what, it ain’t nothin’ like a manly man who ain’t a-skeered of being his own effeminate self. I don’t know what I’d do if I ever had the chance to meet him, but I’m sure it would involve hyperventilation on my part. It was really interesting seeing all the people who had come out to see Prince. It was all ages, all races, and seemingly all kinds of backgrounds represented. That’s the true mark of an artist – the ability to keep it real within yourself and in your work, and at the same time touch many others from all walks of life. It’s what every artist should strive for, in my humble opinion. All in all, I had an excellent time. I don’t get to see my homegirl that often, and when I saw the concert dates announced in the New York/Newark area announced and realized I actually had money in the bank for once, I though of her immediately. We go all the way back to the 9th grade – a long time for me because we moved around a lot in my awkward years.
In conclusion, I’ll now be stalking that bass player ‘cause DAYUM he’s fine!