Hey Starbucks! No...Crowds Do Not Endear!

If you've been in any Starbucks over the past few weeks, you've witnessed the emergence of their red "holiday" cups. I've held quite a few of these cups as I've drunk either my venti green ginger tea or the venti calm tea...Ginger when I need to wake up and calm when, well, when I need to take it down a notch.

The cups are a lovely shade of red, nice and bright, appropriately festive. They are also coated with the most asinine, saccharin, "Christmasy" sayings that I'm sure are supposed to make me feel all warm and gooey inside. Except they don't. Take this one for example:

"Lost mittens return, cab rides are shared and for a few short weeks CROWDS ENDEAR perfect strangers who exchange warm greetings in lieu of a passing nod."

My first complaint is that that sentence has to be the most awkward phrasing of all time. I'm not an English teacher so I'll leave commentary on the mechanics alone. Let me just talk about the content.

First of all, if you lost your mittens, they are not getting returned. They are resting peacefully in mitten purgatory. You'd best get yourself to the mall so you can purchase a new pair and increase some store's fourth quarter profits.

Let's not forget, Starbucks thinks you should take a cab to the mall. Cabs are so nostalgic, so very Miracle on 34th Street. Plus sharing will help eliminate global warming, right? Well, call me cynical but the only times I see people catching cabs in LA is when they're stuffing luggage into one at LAX, or else they're climbing into one, drunk after partying at some Hollywood hot-spot. For all you big-city east-coasters out there, when it's cold and you're running late, be honest, you are not going to share a cab with someone else unless that person is a rich and famous celebrity with an US Weekly cover. Plus, if you aren't living in a big city, do you even see taxis?

Third, the writer of this "sentence" has clearly never been to a mall right before the holidays, let alone spent any time in a crowded Starbucks where people will try to decapitate you if you accidentally pick their drink up off the counter. Maybe the writer has never heard someone growl, "Read the name on the cup!" after you say, "Sorry, I thought that was my soy chai!"

I'd love to see what might be written on this cup after the writer tries to get a parking spot at the Glendale Galleria on December 23rd. I suppose I should be more hopeful for our consumer culture, I mean, holiday spirit. I'm sure reading these warm greetings on the cups will really help folks get through the holidays intact. I'll have to eat my words if I see a story in the LA Times detailing how reading this very cup saved someone on the 405 from road rage.

If I do see that story, I'll give everyone who reads this blog a dollar!

Catalyst

It's one in the morning, the time of night the street outside actually quiets down to only a solitary car wicking it's way along the pavement. I should be sleeping, but obviously, I'm not. I can't help feeling like I'm waiting for something to happen, and if I go to sleep, I'm going to miss it. I just don't know what it is that I'm waiting for, or what I'm expecting to happen.

With our "pull yourself up by the bootstraps" mentality in this country, we're taught to believe we can control things, that something will only happen if and when we decide to make it happen. Except that's not always the way it works. Sean Bell, the black man in New York City who was fatally shot by police a couple of days ago for no apparent reason certainly could not have anticipated that he would never see his wedding day. Something happened to him that he did not expect.

I know, that's an extreme example. It's just that lately, I've had this feeling that something rather unexpected is about to change my life. Maybe I'm about to get another cold. Maybe we're going to have an earthquake soon. I don't know. Maybe it's just that I'm feeling a need for change. Do I secretly want something momentous to happen so that it will serve as a catalyst for that change?

Right now, I just need to change my state of wakefulness. I'm going to go count some sheep.

Attending Catholic Mass

I haven't been to a Catholic mass since I was in 8th grade. Today I found myself at a small church, St. Martha's in Huntington Park, attending the noon service. My mass attendance happened quite by accident. One of the schools I'm working with is in a building next to the church and I couldn't get inside it. I paced around to four different entrances. No luck...every single one was locked. No amount of banging on the school doors or calling the office helped me get in. The entire time I was outside the school, I could hear the singing coming from the church. I figured, why not go over and check it out.

I walked inside to see a small congregation, perhaps 30 parishoners, kneeling in prayer. They were mostly older women with a smattering of old men and a couple of young women with children. The priest was quite young with a head full of thick, luxurious black hair. I couldn't help but think that he was very good looking. I felt a little guilty for wondering why he'd become a priest. I suppose it's not something we think the average GQ- reading guy of our generation wants to do.

Huntington Park is about 96% Latino, so of course, the priest said mass in Spanish. Even though my Spanish is just as non-existent as it was on the day I first arrived here in Los Angeles, eight years ago, all those years of Catholic school training served me well. Despite the language differences between myself and the parishoners, I was able to identify exactly where we were in the service, and was able to kneel and stand as appropriate. The warm cloak of ritual can sometimes be so comforting and familiar in situations where we feel a little bit like a fish out of water.

It was really touching to be able to see the genuine warmth in the eyes of the old man who grasped my hand and said, "Peace be with you" in Spanish during the "Sign of Peace" portion of the mass. See, there are some instances of black and brown unity in this city!

I left before people started lining up to receive Communion. I'm not Catholic and I didn't want anyone to feel uncomfortable if they approached me about going up to the altar and I refused. It might not have happened, but you never know. I think I was also secretly praying that the school would be miraculously unlocked when I walked outside. Nope. It wasn't...further proof that you can't make bargains with God.

So Many Decisions, So Little Time

How do you make decisions regarding your life? Do you mull things over or do you exist in the realm of snap decisions? I'm a thinker, an analyzer. Probably an overanalyzer. Sometimes that analysis gives me a headache...and I think it may be giving me more wrinkles on my forehead.

I've always secretly admired those individuals who operate primarily from snap decisions. As a result, I've been trying to turn over a new leaf and go with my gut more. I think I may be getting a little too good at it. I found myself deciding to do something so quickly today that the decision and the action were pretty much simultaneous.

I'm talking about really trusting your gut. More than that even, I'm talking about trusting and listening to your soul. Whatever we call it, in our everyday lives, we are taught to not trust it...after all, if we can't buy it in Walmart, it must not be real. We are taught to only see what's in front of us, to analyze the data, make a pivot table, consult others who are experts...and on and on. Do the data/chart/Excel spreadsheet thing for awhile and then try to make a decision without all that. Yes, try to make a decision based on what your soul is saying instead of what some pros vs. cons T-chart is telling you. It's hard to make that decision by listening to your soul when you're out of practice. At least, for me it is.

It reminds me of Malcolm Gladwell's book, Blink. His theory is that we often make our best decisions rapidly, within the blink of an eye. He has a very technical term, "rapid cognition." I suppose it's useful to remember there's a name for what I've felt when I've met someone I dislike instantaneously, or the opposite sentiment I've experienced with others with whom I've felt an immediate connection.

I'm not talking about making snap decisions like that sad girl, Jenn, on the Real World Denver. Jenn has been in a gazillion commercials for this season's show and now has the unfortunate distinction of forever being known as the girl who said, "And then I realized, Oh my God! I'm having sex!" (I wish I could tell Jenn that somebody must be pretty bad in bed if she just "realized" she was having sex...) I think we can all agree, that's just being stupid, not making a snap decision.

But what if my decision was just pure stupidity as well? What if my intuition, soul searching, gut-trusting, rapid cognition powers were being clouded by, for example, pride or anger? --Oh heck, we might as well throw all of the rest of the seven deadly sins for good measure. Any of them could have come into play...I'm definitely a skilled practioner of a few.

Yes, as refreshing as it felt to not endlessly analyze and re-analyze every scrap of information at my disposal, two hours later I started thinking, "Did I make the right decision? Did I do the right thing?"

Ultimately, I think I did. I feel a certain peace that I don't think I'd feel otherwise. I can't count or measure that feeling, but it's quite real.

I'm going to trust it.

Notre Dame Lost And I Am Crying... Sort Of

Now that I've wiped the tears from my eyes over tonight's miserable Notre Dame loss to USC, I can get back to re-living some of the happier events that took place today, before the sun set over the Coliseum. The happiest thing by far was the fact that my dad came out for the game.

We headed down to Brewer Park, on the corner of Exposition and Vermont, at around noon. My half-Irish luck shined on me: I thought we'd have to pay for parking but we managed to snag a spot on a street just a few blocks away from the park.

It was the first-ever Notre Dame tailgate for my kids and they were definitely overjoyed to spend some time with their grandpa. He brought them some official Notre Dame Band t-shirts and Olinga, my oldest son, couldn't wait to put his on. My dad played with the pep-band and of course we danced and cheered, "Let's Go, Irish!" along with the rest of the crowd. After he finished playing, my dad let Olinga play his trombone. He also taught him how to do the Irish jig.

Of course, all good things must come to an end. Before we knew it, it was time for my dad to head to the Coliseum to watch the game. We said goodbye and headed back to our car. On the walk back west on Exposition, our fellow entrepreneurial Angelenos were out out in full swing.

There were folks wearing USC shirts but selling bootleg Notre Dame shirts and hats. Then there were the people who were charging much moolah for any available street parking. Imagine being asked to pay $20-30 to parallel park on a street in a residential neighborhood. You don't want to pay? Well, there's an implied threat if you don't. It's called, "Good luck having your car completely intact when you stumble out of the Coliseum at the end of the game."

During the five mile drive back to our house, I was so hopeful that Notre Dame would remind USC exactly how the Irish saved civilization. It didn't happen. Instead, I was subjected to three hours of camera close-ups of Brady Quinn looking sad.

Alas, my tears have finally dried and I have a new hope: Could my dad be coming back for the Rose Bowl? We shall see!

'Cause We Are Living In A Material World

Yesterday we were so grateful. We eagerly gave thanks for the blessings we have, the food we were eating, the good friends and family that surrounded us and all the cute shoes stacked in our closets.

Today, all that's forgotton. It's the day after Thanksgiving, "Black Friday", the day Americans abandon all common sense and go out and impulse shop. We forget our thankfulness in pursuit of all the things we've been lusting after. Those discounts sound so delicious, we can't discern between needs and wants. Our eyes glaze over at the sight of a 30% off sign and we lose all rational thought.

Last year, a woman was trampled in the rush to get a dvd player that was on sale. This year, we can expect to see more of this kind of behavior. After all, people are taking guns to stores to protect themselves from other agressive shoppers that are just waiting to kill or be killed over that Playstation 3.

I've never been shopping on the Friday after Thanksgiving and I'm glad to say that I haven't. I don't want to be pushed over a pair of pants or shoved over a sweater. It's much more fun to go take a nap...which is exactly what I'm going to go do!

Michael Richards, You Need To Call Oprah

By now, the whole of America has seen Michael Richards' n-word laced rant delivered at the Laugh Factory here in Los Angeles. Everyone is just sooo shocked that he would use the word. Americans are wondering, "Did the Kramer from Seinfeld that we loved so much have this bottled up rage and anger at black folks back then?"


There was the gathering of black leaders in LA outside the Laugh Factory saying that it's just outrageous for these kinds of things to be said in this day and age. Richards was summarily condemmed for his comments. As he should have been. Michael, Michael, Michael...Everyone declares his career is done. Finished. Finito. Kaput.

I don't know about that though. I think there is a definite way he can save himself.

Michael needs to get himself onto Oprah to have a nice l'il heart to heart talk with her. They can talk about how the n-word is used so frequently nowadays that it seems that the only real reason we're upset is that Michael Richards is white. So, while on Oprah, I think it would be a good idea for Michael to come clean and acknowledge that he's part black. Yes, that's right. You read that correctly.

It shouldn't be so hard for him to come up with a black relative from somewhere in his family tree...and his hair is kinda wavy so it's slightly believable. He can tell us how it's the hidden secret in his family and he just has always had this self-hatred that comes through at the most inopportune times.


Remember when Don Cheadle, Terrence Howard and Ludacris were on Oprah last year to talk about the movie Crash and she challenged them about their use of the n-word? Remember how they said it was a term of positive endearment? They also said that black foks could use it but white people couldn't. It's like talking about someone's mom: I can talk mess about my mom, but you better not say anything about her. So, if Richards is really part black, can we still be upset for him using the n-word? Not according to most rappers who use the same rationalization, even though somewhere around 85% of rap records are bought by white teenagers.

Yeah, if Michael repents on Oprah, he's all good. They can have a nice chat about how our double standards on use of the n-word make it hard for folks like Michael to know what they can and can't say in public...cuz we all know he'll still say it in private, right?

Still Speechless

I went and partied it up at the Depeche Mode party at Cinespace in Hollywood last night. I had a great time dancing -- really, it was well worth it to be a little tired today.

Since I still can't really talk, I figured it was highly appropriate for me to wear my custom made t-shirt, featuring the lyrics from "Suffer Well".

Please don't speak...you'll only lie.

I should probably still have it on today...all fiction writers are really liars, right?

Speechless

Everybody seems to bring their "ho" clothes to Vegas so maybe it was the scandalous outfits I saw folks wearing this past weekend that left me speechless.

Literally speechless. I can't talk. Or rather, I can talk a little bit, except my voice ends up sounding like some ultra-whispery phone-sex operator, or what I imagine that sounds like since I've never talked to one before.

How did this overnight laryngitis happen to me? Well, the lady behind the deli-counter in Barstow had her super scientific theory as to how my laryngitis came into being.

"You must have won some big money and done too much hollering in Vegas!"

I think she was waiting for me to tell her, "Yes, I won a thousand dollars!" Except, no, I don't gamble.

I don't know how it happened. I just can't talk and it's definitely frustrating. Try calling your salon and booking an appointment with your hairdresser. "What day do you want to come in? I can't hear you."

If you think that's bad, I just tried to order a soy chai in a Starbucks and the lady behind the counter had to ask me to write it down because she couldn't hear me.

Maybe I this is a sign that I need to stop running my mouth so much and instead listen more.

Going To Vegas

I'm getting ready to endure the long trek up the 15 to Las Vegas.

I hate Las Vegas. I'm only going for work. Sigh.

Wish I was going somewhere where there wasn't porn littered on the sidewalks.

Wish I was going somewhere where drunk people didn't bump into you every five seconds.

But I'm not. At least I hope there isn't a mirror above the bed in the hotel like there was last time.

Now I'll Be Late All The Time

It must have just slipped off. I certainly didn't notice it was gone until I looked down at my wrist and only saw a tan line.

My watch was gone.

I began the search immediately by retracing my steps back along 107th Street in Watts. I searched my car, dumped out my entire bag. Nothing. Nada. No watch.

I had this watch for almost a year and I absolutely loved it. It was a simple design: A mother-of-pearl background, roman numerals, a black strap...so simple that it should be easily replaceable.

Except I went back to the store where I bought it and they no longer have it. Styles have changed.

I know it's just a watch but I sort of feel like someone ran over my puppy.

Customer Service Doesn't Exist At Macy's

Customer service at most department stores is a thing of the past. Salespeople are not there to explain, help you compare, or help you find anything in their store. They are there to charge your credit card and ask you if you want to open a new one.

This was especially apparent at Macy's yesterday during their, "Biggest one day sale of the season."

Macy's Scene One: The dressing room

Me: Hi, I have some stuff I want to try on.

Salesperson: You can only take in six things.

--Now, last time I was at Macy's, I took a whole bunch of mess into the dressing room, certainly more than six things. I feel like I'm at Target...but whatever.

Me: Ok. I have seven so where should I put these? I hold up a pair of pants. I don't want them to get picked up by someone else.

Salesperson: I don't know. You can only take in six things.

Me: Well... can I just set them here? I motion to a rack next to her.


Salesperson. No. That's only for clothes already tried on. You can go buy them and then you can take them in with you in your shopping bag. You can only take in six things.

Macy's Scene Two: The Shoe Department

Me: I'd like to try on these three shoes in a seven and a half.

Salesperson: Are you sure because we're kinda busy and it's going to take me about five minutes to find these? She turns to yell something at someone else working there.

Me: I'll wait, but yes, I'd like to try them on.

She huffs away. I wait and a couple of minutes later, she reappears with three boxes which she sets down on the floor in front of me, without saying anything. She walks away, still without saying anything. At this point, my expectations are so low that I'm not surprised. Then I opened the first box.

There's only one shoe inside. What am I supposed to do with just one shoe? I get up to go over to the register where she's ringing up another customer. I wait till she's finished.

Me: I'm sorry but there was only one shoe in the box you brought me.

Salesperson: Well you can look around. She sweeps her hand in the direction of the chaos of tried on and rejected shoes. I'm sure the other shoe is around here somewhere.

I am patient but I'm not a saint. So, I took this as a sign that I should leave Macy's before I said anything that might really hurt her feelings.

Too bad because the shoes really were cute and I was thinking of buying all three pairs. Oh well for Macy's and their fourth quarter profits.

Should I Believe My Horoscope?

Do you believe in astrology?

Sometimes I want to...but common sense tells me it's just total rubbish.

One of those horoscope sites is always spamming one of my email addresses so tonight, I decided to play with fire and click on the link. This was supposed to be my day today:

"You'll meet with social opportunities, but your mind will be on business not pleasure. There are some important tasks you'll want to start thinking about."

Well, that could be somewhat true since I got to work at 6:30 this morning and left at 7 tonight and yes, there were definitely some important tasks I had to think about. But when are there not? Isn't that what usually happens at work?

What exactly is a social opportunity? To me, social opportunity means being invited to a party or having someone call me up and say, "Girl, let's go get our nails done and our eyebrows waxed!"

I don't think I came across any bona fide social opportunities today. My one true social opportunity was walking to the third floor snack shop with a colleague and salivating over the M&M's sitting on the shelf. I don't think my earlier post from today about next week's Depeche Mode party does not count because I've known about that for a week.

Then this horoscope had to go and say, "Hi ho! Hi ho!....it's a good thing your energy and drive are on the up- swing!"

Clearly the author wasn't around to observe my dark circles today. On top of that, who the heck says, "Hi ho!"? The first time I read it, I thought they'd left out a comma, as in, "Hi, ho!" All I could think was, "What? Who you callin' a ho?" I had to read it a couple of times to make sure that wasn't what was being said.

Actually, if I add the comma and read it that way, the whole meaning of that sentence changes.

Yeah, I definitely don't think I believe in horoscopes, but goodness, what a difference a comma can make!

Depeche Mode at Cinespace

I've been a little wary of going out in Hollywood since my last experience, but for my favorite band in the whole world, Depeche Mode, I'll give it another try.

I'm going to this Depeche Mode release party at Cinespace in Hollywood next Monday. I've never been to any of the fan parties out here in LA so I hope it's not some sort of awkward scene where folks are trying to prove who's the most hardcore fan.

It's a Monday night and it starts at 10:30 pm...and I'll have been up since around 5:30 in the morning, but I figure I only live once so I might as well go. Feel like coming along?

True Love or Trophy?

Tonight my husband and I went to The Grove to catch a movie. I wanted to see Babel. He wanted to see Borat. We ended up settling on The Departed.

I'm still not sure how we arrived at that as a compromise.

No matter, in case you haven't seen it, I won't spoil the plot at all. I'll only say it's long. Violent, too. No, I'd actually say it's very violent. I guess that's what you get when you go see a crooked cop/gangster movie these days. I kept my hands over my eyes quite a bit. Ultimately, though, I left the theatre thinking about another subject even more.

Who is loving black women?

You see, in between purchasing tickets and the show start time, we had a good two hours to stroll around, catch some dinner, be star-struck by Ben Stiller... and observe the dolled-up Angeleno masses. I saw a good number of black women. Beautiful black women. Jaw-droppingly gorgeous black women. A few were with men. But by far, if they were with someone, they were with their parents, their children or a trio of sistah-girlfriends.

Seeing all those black women tonight made me think of guys I knew at college who had one girl on the north side of campus and one on the south side of campus. There were so few black men on campus that although both black women knew about each other, they tolerated the situation because it was apparently better to have some "love" than none at all.

Non-black friends, in their well-meaning naivete, would sometimes ask, "Well, why do you all restrict yourselves? Why not date someone who's not black?"

Um...hello! It's not like we see a ton of non-black guys stepping to black women. If I think about it only from a black-white standpoint, aside from my Irish father marrying my black mother, I rarely see white men with black women. I know Sanaa Lathan had her cute movie called Something New where the white landscaper totally falls for her....but when's the last time you saw this in real life?

You hear those crickets chirping too? I'll admit, it's a sarcastic question on my part because I know that statistically, black women are the least likely to marry of any segment of the American population. On top of that, of all groups of women, if they do marry, black women are also the least likely to marry someone who's not from the same racial background.

My observances also made me think of stories my mom has sometimes shared about the cruel comments some of the black men in her high school made about her dark skin, followed by a "Why would I date you when I can get me a white girl?"


I heard the same comments when I was in high-school, almost thirty years later. Except for me it was, "I don't have to settle for a light-skinned chick like you. I can get me a white girl."

Ooh, that one used to annoy me! But in case you think I'm living in the past, let's fast forward to the present.

What do you think I saw black men doing tonight? Well, they were either:
a) holding hands with their boyfriends (mostly other black men, interestingly enough) or they were
b) walking, eating, sitting, kissing, laughing and talking with... white women.

Don't get me wrong...Even if I've personally known plenty of white girls who, while going through a rebellious phase, messed around with black men, only to later settle down with the socially-acceptable white guy, and even if I've known plenty of black men who were looking for their trophy white woman, I do believe in the inherent purity and beauty of interracial love and marriage.

Indeed, who am I to question whether what I saw tonight was true love or pursuit of the forbidden? Who am I to assume it's pursuit of a trophy?

I wish that everyone fell in love regardless of skin color.

I don't think that's always what I'm seeing around me. I think I see many people living out idle fancies and vain imaginings. Judgemental of me to think this, isn't it? Maybe. Probably.

But, if everyone was choosing their partners on the basis of love, if that was actually happening, we'd see a heck of a lot more black women with men...and they'd be from a diversity of backgrounds.

Reading & Listening Is Born

For awhile now I've been wanting a good place to capture the bulk of my ruminations on the music I'm listening to and the literature I'm reading.

I finally have one.

Tonight, I switched this blog over to the new blogger template, so if you've been here before, yes, this site does look a bit different. And, I was on such a roll with all the upgrading that I went ahead and created my new blog, Reading & Listening. That's not to say I won't still be subjecting this site to Depeche Mode tributes, but I read so many books, newspapers and magazines and I listen to so much music, this blog can't capture it all.

There's only one post there so far, but there will certainly be more since reading and listening are huge parts of what make my world go 'round. Go over and pay a visit!

"Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya!"

Does that sound familiar to you?

Do you know what should be said next?

If you know the entire dialogue sequence, then you and I would probably get along very well.

You see, I'm watching The Princess Bride with my two sons and it's nice to be able to share a film with them that's been one of my favorites since I was a teenager...and my boys think it's cool. "Mom, this is the best movie ever!"

I don't know about all that, but it does have a giant, an evil prince, sword fights, true love, suction-cup torture, a six-fingered man and R.O.U.S's (Rodents of Unusual Size). You tell me another movie with all that?

I used to have at least half of the dialogue in The Princess Bride completely memorized. This once served me well during a long road trip with an equally obsessed friend and her family.

Between the two of us, we probably spent a good couple of hours enacting entire scenes in the backseat...surely driving her parents a bit crazy in the process. Of course, we both loved declaring, "Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my father. Prepare to die!" Saying that still makes me laugh out loud.

Not many movies have that timelessness. Somehow I don't think that twenty years from now people will be laughing that way at Borat.

Stay Black And Die

Apparently the world is a brand new place today. Not only is Britney Spears leaving Kevin Federline, but the election results are in as well. We now have Democtratic control over the House and Senate.

Oh and Donald Rumsfeld resigned this morning.

Should I be celebrating? It seems that plenty of folks are poppin' open the Cristal. But...

At the end of the day, these overwhelmingly well-off Democratic leaders sit down in the same restaurants and social clubs as the overwhelmingly well-off Republican leaders and slap each other on the back, "Great debate today on healthcare! See you tomorrow!"

Their kids go to the same college-prep private schools. They go home to the same kinds of neighborhoods...and they probably aren't thinking about the kids I'm going to see in about 40 minutes. Kids without a dentist, without a safe park to play in, kids who are physically smaller due to poor nutrition.

I'm sure many of these politicians genuinely care and I'll admit, I'm feeling a little cynical this morning. I'm feeling a little like, "Big deal. I still gotta stay black and die."

You know what I mean?

Do You Have A Prostitute In Your Past?

If you do, you're now risking more than catching a nasty case of syphilis.

That prostitute you hooked up with is carefully watching the fallout from the Ted Haggard gay sex scandal. In case you've been hiding up under a rock, Ted is the preacher and leader of thousands of evangelical Christians here in the US and the male prostitute he's been allegedly (love that word!) getting cozy with over the past couple of years came forward and ratted on him.

Now, Ted, a father of five, has had to resign from his job and he's mocked on all those talking-head political pundit shows. "Haggard's finished. He represents the hypocrisy of the Christian right."

And that's just the start of his problems.

Ted's wife has probably turned all ghetto on him and smeared vaseline on her cheeks in preparation for the beatdown she's going to hand-deliver. She'll probably whup his ass and then ask for forgiveness. Then Ted will have to foot the bill for therapy for seven people --his wife, himself and the five kids.

But, enough about Ted. Let's talk about you.

Have you ever paid a prostitute? Sure, I agree...prostitute is such a loaded word. I completely understand if you prefer the word escort. If you've paid for sex with an escort, did you make the escort sign a non-disclosure agreement?

No?

Hmm. I guess you could find yourself in the same situation as Ted.

Maybe that escort you've been paying will decide to call up your boss one day and say, "I just couldn't take the fact that he was going to work everyday, pretending to be a normal, Monday Night Football kind of guy. He's such a hypocrite!"

In fact, I'll bet there's a whole lot of folks working in Washington D.C. that have solicited prostitutes...I mean, escorts. Do those fat cats think we're stupid? Do they think we don't know what's going down when they take trips to Japan?

Oh, you don't have a prostitute in your past? Well, that's good. I'm glad to hear it. But, I'm sure there's some skeleton, some scandal, some personal weakness. Something you'd rather the rest of us didn't know.

What are you going to do when someone decides to come forward and reveal something about you to the world in pursuit of truth, justice and the greater good?

Bill Clinton Called Me Today

Yes, that's right.

The big B.C. called. I should have suspected this would happen since Al Gore called yesterday and so did Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa. Unfortunately, I was out of the house every single time they called so I only heard their voicemails. I'll have to give them my cell number so that next time they want to talk to me, they can.

If you think that's big news that all three called me, well, I have an email from Barak Obama sizzling in my in-box. He's the future HNIC in case you didn't know...and no that doesn't stand for Hockey Night In Canada. Barak wants to know if I have the same urgency that he does. Umm...I think so. We are talking about saving that cheerleader on Heroes, right?

There are also about fifteen emails from John Kerry. I haven't read John Kerry's emails but I gather this is a really rough week for him. Maybe he should get a MySpace profile so he can get a few hundred "friends" to cheer him up.

I'm sure they'll post really heartfelt comments about him like, "Thanx 4 the Add!"

Come to think of it, next election, I'm sure we'll discover that MySpace is the tip of the political iceberg. We'll probably just elect whoever has the most friends into office.

What's Poppin' Light Bright?

Light Bright?

I almost didn't realize the man sitting on a table outside the Starbucks was talking to me. But I was the only person walking toward him. You see, it's been a couple of months since I've heard the term, an unfortunate reference to my skin color.

I took in his white wife-beater tee, the black shorts, hanging off his ass so that his blue and white striped boxers were fully visible, the fake platinum and diamond chains, the red and black Nikes.

Yeah. Ok. Does he really want to know what's poppin' in my head right now?

His terminology makes me think about all the guys I've known over the years that would say in casual conversation that they'd only marry a light-skinned sistah because they wanted pretty kids.

"But what about your relationship with (insert name here)?" I'd ask.
"C'mon, you know I just fuck around with them dark girls."

His outfit makes me think about how tired and played the pimping of the ghetto is. Last time I heard, Xzibit, Snoop, Warren G, Dr. Dre and Eazy E's widow no longer live in the hood. They're millionaires living in gated mansions so thug life can't get to them so easily.

He makes me think of the heartbreak I see on a daily basis. I just took a driving detour due to loads of police tape. I managed to gaze past the officer sternly directing me to turn, only to see the very visible lump laying in the middle of the road, covered with a white sheet.

All this came to mind as I strolled a span of thirty feet under the scrutiny of his gaze. I replied, in most neutral tone I could muster, "How you doin, brotha?"

"So, wassup?" He started to get off the table.

"Oh don't get up, I can get the door myself."

The teacher voice and teacher look I groomed a few blocks away at the school I taught at in Compton comes in handy sometimes.

He sat back down, silenced. I don't know if he was going to get the door or not but I'm a grown woman and I really don't have time.

And that's what's poppin' with Yours Truly. Light bright indeed.

My Personal Bodyguards

Another Halloween and I have to tell you, as I strolled through the streets of Los Feliz, I knew I had nothing to fear.

I was protected by the dynamic duo of a corn-rowed Ninja Turtle and Spiderman. I think they look pretty fierce, don't you?

Unfortunately, after six blocks of running door-to door, gleefully exclaiming, "Trick-or-Treat!" the Ninja Turtle got a little cranky. He smelled a box of Dots that a nice old lady handed him and declared, "It's not chocolate! I don't want it!"

He then pitched the candy into the bushes.

I wanted a black hole to swallow all of us. I was so embarrased. All you parents out there, I'm sure you understand. If you don't have kids, believe me, if you ever do, just know that when your child pitches candy into a bush, it's past time to go home!