Memo To All Men Everywhere

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.

Nerdy-Derdy

I love xkcd.  This one is my favorite.  Appeals to my spirituality and my art-theory-dork-ity.

All of Your Hopes and Dreams Will Be Dashed Upon the Jagged Boulders Below

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.

*sigh*

POLL TIME!!

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.

Love ya!

I May Need A Shrink

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.

Story of my 20s

This song was written by Prince, and listening to the lyrics, I’ve always thought it was about fleeting passionate romances with “others”.  Sounds like my dating life 2004 to present.

Personal Pedagogy

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.

FAT HO BURGERS: A Special Comment

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!!    

/scene