Wednesday, September 29, 2004


toothy Originally uploaded by niarain.
At the moment, Blogger is trippin', so I will leave my photo aspirations be for now. Once I figure out all the finer points of my new phone, however, I will finish the three (three!) posts I've started this week and never with photos! Woohoo!

Monday, September 27, 2004

Sex on Wheels

Sigh. I will never have it. I did fun things this weekend, but honestly I am too lazy and distracted to post on them right now. Maybe later tonight. In the mean time, click the link and fantasize with me...

Sunday, September 26, 2004

Do me a favor...

Google "nessacary." Yes, there are that many no-spelling assmonkeys in the world. They can't all be typos.

Friday, September 24, 2004

I do not condone mocking children.

That's just cruel. I do, however, think it's kinda funny when children who have a tenuous grasp on spelling decide to expound upon Big Political Issues and start stumping for Bush. Is that wrong? Poll time: Leave a comment--should I remove this post out of respect for the other blogger's age (she's only 14) , or leave it up because (fill in the blank) ? Update: I took the link down. I work with kids, and I just couldn't live with myself knowing I would be leading grown folks to judge a child. I am such a fucking bedwetting liberal. But I will say she thinks "...the War in Iraq... is nessacary," and is "definately a Republican. I do NOT want Kerry to win. He keeps changing his answers to everything. Or he says he does and doesn't want it." George, if by some cursed, cruel twist of fate you do win (steal) the election again, PLEASE do not leave this child behind....She was rootin' for you.

Mmmm, Sushi.

I wake up, I eat, I shower, I work, I sleep. These are the actions that make up my day. They are not always in this order, but usually, they all occur, eventually. This, as you can see, is not all that exciting, so I have been trying to come up with things to make my days more interesting. Things like this blog. Things like hanging out with (now gone) ISF. Things, if you haven't heard of it, is a website that lets lonely and/or bored people make up reasons (meetup groups) to meet up with people they don't know who share some common interest. Examples: writers meetup, bloggers meetup, parrot owners meetup. Last week I attended The Black New Yorker's Dinner Party Meetup at the Park Avalon, and had a fabulous time, so I thought I'd give another dinner meetup a shot--this time as organizer of the NYC Sushi Meetup! I don't know why I thought this was a good idea. I can't organize my sock drawer. But dang it, I love sushi, and I want to share that love with the world. Or at least with a small percentage of the NYC population. Which is how I found myself at 2nd on 2nd (27 2nd Ave., F or V at 2nd Ave.) this evening, sipping a choco-mandarin cocktail in the dim light, waiting for someone to show up for the party so we could get our collective grub on. TBNY showed up first, followed shortly thereafter by a friendly fellow named Karl. The first official Sushi Meetup was under way. Yay, sushi! We ordered drinks, and checked out the menu (which, though of dinner menu size and heft, incidentally, seemed to be devoted entirely to drinks, except for the very last page). Unfortunately, this was when I discovered that, despite the restaurant's listing under "sushi" on Citysearch and this graphic on the restaurant's web site, they don't sell sushi. Hell of a place to pick for a sushi meetup. So we finished our drinks and moved. In fact, we followed TBNY's and Karl's noses to Sushi Park (121 2nd Ave, F or V to 2nd Ave stop), and thank sassafrass we did. Sushi Park, while not spanktastic, was pretty darn good. It's actually a Korean-run restaurant, which means you can get jigae and sushi at the same time if that tickles your fancy. And if you spend more than $14 on sushi, it's half price! Yay, half price sushi! Of course, we did not realize this when we settled down to order, and frankly didn't understand why we were being given a 50% discount (I only just learned why here) even after we left. But we took the discount and ran, yessireebob. It almost seemed naughty. Halfway through the meal we were joined by Heavenly Diva, and in short order we were all chatting and chowing like old friends. I had the spicy combo maki, dragon maki and rainbow maki, and it was all very good, but at those prices, what I had is almost besides the point. The food was good, the waitstaff was friendly, and the company was great. HD and TBNY together are a force to be reckoned with, and Karl was a riot. By the end of dinner we were all laughing so hard we were in tears (I highly suggest that, should you ever meet TBNY, you ask her about her last karaoke experience. She even acts out the best parts). In all, despite the venue complication, I think we had a pretty good time, and I'll do it again. If you want to join us next month, click here.

Thursday, September 23, 2004

Will someone please explain to me...

...why I walked into my doctor's office this morning seeking a measles booster, and walked out with a prescription for the morning after pill? Does this happen to other people? She just volunteered it. With eleven refills. After I told her there was no chance I was pregnant, haven't been sexually active in what anybody but an ascetic would consider to be an embarrassingly long time, and checked just to be sure she wasn't prescribing it out of concern that I would become pregnant while the measles vaccine, known to cause birth defects, was running its course. She just thinks it's something women of childbearing age should have on hand, she says. What does she know about me that I don't know? ask I. I just don't get it. I'm all, "I need a measles booster," and she's all, "When's the last time you had sex?" Whaddywho? I'm not going to go so far as to say I smell a eugenics conspiracy--she seemed well meaning enough--but that's a little weird. And eleven refills!? WTF?!?! So, now I'm sitting here, with this prescription mocking me and my lack of a sex life, because there is no way, short of immaculate conception, I will need this anytime soon, and I suspect that in the case of an immaculate conception, it wouldn't do much good. WTF. VVSFSI.

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

Fight for New York--no matter who wins, we all lose.

Xquizzyt1 posted this hilarious post on her favorite expression: THIS is why we can't rise as a people!!! She followed it up with a more serious sequel, on how we (black folks, in case you couldn't tell) manage to hold each other back. If she doesn't mind me borrowing the expression, I've got another example to add to the already towering heap of evidence that indicates we do such a goddamn good job of devaluing ourselves that we don't need racists to do it for us. Drumroll, please.... THIS is why we can't rise as a people!!! Def Jam: Fight for New York. Have you heard of it? It's Def Jam/EA Games' latest collaborative contribution to an ongoing multimedia campaing to further decrease the value of black lives. Joy. Here's the objective, from the official website:

Battle for Control of Hip Hop’s Underworld

Survive the gritty reality of the urban underworld in Def Jam® Fight For NY™, the only fighting game featuring five intense fighting styles, hardcore hip hop music, more than 40 hip hop artists and celebrities, and seedy urban venues. Develop your fighting skills, get down with a crew, and battle for control of the underworld.

Translation: Manipulate digitized young men of color (including "...Fat Joe, Flava Flav, Freeway, Ghostface, Ice T, Joe Budden...Ludacris, Method Man, Redman, Sean Paul, Slick Rick, Snoop Dogg, Xzibit, and many more...") through 90 levels of beating the hell out of each other, breaking occasionally to ogle and manipulate (even more) ho'ed out versions of such paragons of feminine virtue as Lil' Kim, Carmen Electra, Kimora Lee Simmons, and fictional/digital ride-or-die bitches Shaniqua and Shawnna. To a hip hop soundtrack. Alternate (meta) translation: manipulate actual youth of (any) color into believing that watching dark men bleed over a sham form of "power"--control over "the streets"--is entertainment. To a hip hop soundtrack. Gee, sounds great! You know this shit is going to make crazy money. You know these silly-ass, modern-day minstrels think this shit is cute--that somewhere Ludacris' ass had a look at his digital counterpart and took it as further evidence he had arrived. That Kimora Simmons was in some production studio going, "no, make my breasts bigger!" and giggling over the outcome. That Flava Flav thinks he's got his career back. Did they think of anything else? Anything other than the money they would make, or how cool it would be to be video game characters? Like the fact that the goddamned characters would turn black-on-goddamned-black crime into a sport*!!! I'm tired. I'm tired of these silly bitches claiming left, right and center that they care about our people, that they are representing any sort of legitimate lifestyle, that they are keeping anything real but their real desire to make money at any cost. Def Jam co-founder Russell Simmons' (raised middle-class and now living in a giant goddamned house with a gold fucking designer toilet for his lovely wife to rest her model-cum-fashion designer-cum-Dukes of Hazzard on dope-- ass upon) bitch ass*** had the nerve, after Bill Cosby's infamous NAACP comments, to question Cosby's approach to improving the state of certain black youth. A few quotes from Simmons:

Hip-hop mogul Russell Simmons praised Cosby as "a great American" but said that "pointing the finger may not be helpful -- we still have more struggle as a society and more work to do" to reform it. He rejected the notion that hip-hop music has had a coarsening effect, saying it "is the soundtrack that reflects the struggle" of young people today. --From the Washington Post, 7/03/04

He [Cosby] is trying his best. But I don't think it's helpful....In terms of my appreciation of the spirits of all the people who are in struggle, and wanting to help those people...I hope that I'm the kind of contributor that Bill Cosby has been his whole life. But in terms of the approach, you know, I don't carry that judgment thing with me. I believe everybody's doing the best they can." --From the Philadelphia Daily News 7/26/04

Simmons wants to "be the kind of contributor that Bill Cosby has been his whole life," and this shit is his effort? How the holy-rolling-motherfuck is this helping us?!?! How many kids could you have helped put through college with the money you spent decorating the butt-ugly, tacky-as-hell house--no, fuck it, just the living room--splashed all over MTV Cribs? Voter drive my black ass. Bill Cosby spent ten years making the image of a whole, healthy black family the top rated show on American TV, gave $20+ million to Spelman and has a whole goddamned foundation for dyslexics, bitch. You got a "voter drive" and pretended to donate some sneaker revenue to reparations, like that's our biggest problem. But Cosby's got it wrong. Okay. And the sad thing is, there will be people who will defend this game, this bullshit image, and all the hypocrites perpetrating it. It's just a game. It only reflects reality--"the soundtrack that reflects the struggle." Mmm-hmm. Clearly these jackasses spend more time on this shit than reading Baudrillard. It's the hyperreal, bitches! This shit is the billboard! How many upper and middle class youth--black or otherwise--can you list who walk around with goddamn 'do-rags on their heads, gettin' their asses kicked out of school over some bullshit chest-thumping, selling drugs, failing classes, smoking weed and generally actin' an ass because they think it's somehow key to their identity? I know several. Oooooh, arrrrrrggggghhhh, I am so pissed! Make all the arguments you like about it being "just a game," "not that deep," or an urban spin on the traditional fighting game theme. Just know that while you are doing it, there will be folks--black, white and other, rich and poor, young and kinda old--spending hours listening to, watching, directing state-of-the-art, digitally enhanced people of color brutalizing each other. To a hip hop soundtrack. Yeah, thanks Def Jam, Rush, EA. Because this is exactly what we needed. *On the other hand--can you match Lil' Kim up against Flava Flav in a bitch-fight? 'Cause that would be the shit. **I apologize for the vulgarity, but goddamn I'm so angry I want to cry. The "bitch" quotient ran high, but I kept the "fucks" to a bare minimum. And "shit" shouldn't really count. ***I rant against Simmons not only because he is the head of Def Jam, but also because he has spent the last several years trying his damndest to be taken--with an unfortunately fair degree of success--as some sort of sociopolitical power-broker speaking for the urban black community. Last year he was awarded some honor by SHiNE (Seeking Harmony in Neighborhoods Everyday), a non-profit "dedicated to ending youth violence and promoting respect for diversity," (CSR Newsire, 2/21/03, emphasis mine). Maybe he was redecorating his house the day endorsement of this game was approved. God, I hope so. Talk about tasteless. That shit looked liked Donatella exploded up in there. A little opulence to reflect your status is one thing, but gold toilets and leopard chaises fairly screams "I've had my money for five minutes" nouveau riche.

Only In New York

I'm standing at 81st and CPW, waiting to cross the street. A silver SUV pulls up to the light. Inside, a brother sits, also waiting for the light to change. He is bumpin' his music and chillin' with his dog, and lookin' angry. What's so strange about that? you ask. The dog was a toy poodle, sitting happily in his lap with its head hanging out the window. The song....Where is the Love. And not the BEP version. The Flack and Hathaway version. He seemed to be having a moment. Just thought I'd share.

Monday, September 20, 2004

More Non Sequiturs

Somebody managed to find my blog by Googling "erotic stories without pictures." I have no idea how in the hell Google came up with my blog. I mean, true, I have no pictures, but I am pretty sure I never even used the word "erotic" in my blog until just now. VVSI. Which in this context has nothing to do with diamonds and everything to do with being very, very strange, indeed. Perhaps there should be a new scale of absurdity that borrows from the current diamond clarity scale. It could go from S (strange) to VVSFSI (very, very super f---ing strange, indeed).

I went to the street fair on Columbus yesterday and bought a gorgeous pair of earrings from this sister, who makes some truly beautiful pieces that are totally affordable and timelessly stylish, so check her out. ----- According to Human for Sale, I am worth exactly $2, 029,230.00. Not to toot my own horn, but I was in the top 20 valuable wimmins for the day. And this despite being shorter and wider than desirable. Woohoo. What's your worth?

G Mail

Does anybody have a gmail invite that they are not trying to scam fiddy dollars for? I just found out I'll be needing a new email account by Thursday since somebody (Callalilies) decided to shut down our AOL affiliation.... :) Update: Muchas gracias and gourmet goodies to Saffron, who saved my emailing ass with a Gmail invite, and ditto to Xquizzyt1 for offering. And yes, Miss TBNY, I was referring to you, tryin' to hustle somebody for the Gmail. You wrong. :)

Sunday, September 19, 2004

What? WHAT? Who thought this was a good idea?

Generally speaking, I am against man-wigs. This is the reason why. I think bald is sexy, certainly sexier than this. I mean, I don't know what state this says to you, but to me it says DC (damncrazy) not NY. Thanks to Shasta McNasty for alerting the world to this site in her blog.

Saturday, September 18, 2004

Friendly Fire

I used to have a friend who would refer to films not by title or star, but by catch-phrase. The Sixth Sense, for instance, she called "I see dead people," and xXx was "Bitches, come!" I miss that friend. I haven't heard from her in ages. I think I have been friendly fired.

Friday, September 17, 2004

Brushes with Celebrity, Pt. II

Forget that Ruivivar cat. I met The Black New Yorker! Jealous? You should be. I should say I met TBNY blogging entity, including Heavenly Diva, 'cause I did. We all had dinner at Park Avalon (225 Park Ave S. between 18th and 19th, take the L, N, Q, R, W, 4, 5 or 6, or hell, get thee to 14th St./Union Square, however you can), and it was good. First, let me say, that both TBNY and HD are lovely ladies, and all kinds of fun. I cannot believe more people have not signed up for their Meet Up. What's wrong with y'all? Anyway, I can attest that neither TBNY nor HD are this person, so if that was what kept you away, you can come to the next one (notice I didn't say this person wasn't me....mwahahaha! Okay, I'm playin'. I can't even pretend that's me.) Now let me tell you what you missed at this one. I had read some bad things about Park Avalon while I was deciding whether or not to attend this little shindig, but in the spirit of adventure, I went anyway. I'm so glad I did, because now I will have the memory of this meal to look back on when my current cushy gig is up and I'm back to being unable to afford anything more decadent than ramen and baked beans. (Hey, throw some scrambled eggs and frozen veg up in your ramen, et voila! Gourmet pan-Asian. Toss some fried egg and stewed tomato on your baked beans and presto! English pub food. See? You can be poor and siddity at the same time. It's all a state of mind....) Anyway, I started my meal off with PA's signature Hot and Dirty Martini (which must be the official drink of NYC commuters in the summer)--a dirty martini (that's with olive juice for the novice drinker) made with olives steeped in jalapeno juice! Yummy. But only for the adventurous martini master, I should say. Not a "my first martini" martini, Sorry, TBNY. As I nursed my martini, I followed with the lobster and shrimp dumpling appetizer. The four dumplings, garnished with mushrooms and a tangy red sauce, were very good--delicately flavored and well dressed. I couldn't say they left anything to be desired--a little dim sum on Park. Not at all bad, when tasted with that in mind. Entree time. I had read somewhere that PA served swordfish dusted with porcini mushrooms. Maybe it did once, but it didn't tonight, alas, so I had to settle for the wasabi crusted big eye tuna with black forbidden rice and yuzu vinaigrette. Did I say settle? I meant Oh. My. God. Get me more. The tuna, prepared medium according to my specification, was crusted with a very mild wasabi mixture and topped with fresh herbs, on a bed of, well, black forbidden rice (Why the forbidden rice gotta be black? That's not right! Oh, you know you were thinking it, too). The tuna practically melted in my mouth, and the wasabi was just strong enough to lend flavor, not enough to overwhelm. The rice was amazing. Truly. Delicious, slightly tart, and the perfect backdrop for the tuna. It is my new favorite tuna dish. For dessert, I wanted the cheesecake that I'd read about, but that was not to be either, so I opted for creme brulee, instead. The menu claimed it would be dressed with fresh berries and biscotti. It came with biscotti alright, but it was a bit soft, and there was just one sad little strawberry. I don't know what that was about. Did they run out? Did they think putting "soft biscotti with berry" on the menu would be triflin'? Who knows. The point is, the dessert did not live up to the entree. Still, the portions were generous, the entree was perfection, and my whole meal, with drinks, dessert and tip, set me back $60, which was precisely what I had expected to spend. TBNY, who is a fan of the $40 date, chastised me for going overbudget, but I felt it was worth every penny. Now I'm exhausted, and ready to roll into bed sated, with a smile. Mostly sated, anyway. ;p

Thursday, September 16, 2004

Non Sequiturs

First: Where can a woman get a decent nose ring or nose stud in this town? By decent, I mean only that it stays the same color and retains its stone, if applicable, for longer than 43 seconds. I have bought them at Claire's, I have bought them at tattoo and piercing shops in the Village, I have bought them from street vendors. Every last one has proven to be a disaster. The Claire's studs are ridiculously clunky, and all the others lose their stones within minutes, if they don't turn green first. I have been in this city three months, and have tried 11 nose rings in the last two. Eleven, dammit! I have a monthly nose ring budget now, for chrissakes. Ridiculous. Know where I can get a good one? Click here. Second: What the hell is wrong with Tiger Man? I mean, it's not right that the brother was ordered jailed without his lawyer present, and considering he grew a tiger and crocodile to adulthood in a Harlem apartment without losing life or limb, he might just have a "a special gift for dealing with wild animals that others cannot comprehend," but still. He crazy. With a capital CRA. Third: My biography*, available from Price Stern Sloan books. ^_^ Idea stolen from ISF* who I am sure would approve were she here. Fourth: I finally got a Swiffer, to deal with the NYC high-rise parquet floor situation. Let me tell you, I didn't like my last boyfriend this much.

Tuesday, September 14, 2004

Strange Fruit

For once, there are no jokes to make, nothing clever to say. I went to the showing of the documentary Strange Fruit at Bluestockings (LES, 172 Allen St; F or V to 2nd Ave stop) today. The 2002 film, by director/producer Joel Katz, reveals the history of the heartbreaking anti-lynching anthem written by Abel Meeropol, a Jewish schoolteacher from the Bronx, and made famous by Billie Holiday. Katz explores Meeropol's character and talent as well as the social and political climate of the lynching era through interviews with Meeropol's adopted sons (children of Julis and Ethel Rosenberg, executed in 1953 as communist spies), Amiri and Amina Baraka, and Farrah Griffin, among others, and features performances of the song by Cassandra Wilson, Pete Seeger, and Lady Day herself. The song bears relevance today, as the film points out, not only in terms of our progress (or lack thereof--Jasper, Texas) in the eradication of racism, but in the parallel between yesterday's McCathyism and today's post-September 11 charges of anti-patriotism, slung at any individual who dares speak up and question the "shoot first and ask questions later, we're taking away your rights for your own good" direction in which the nation has been led. The film is deeply moving, short and powerful, like the song for which it is named. STRANGE FRUIT Southern trees bear a strange fruit Blood on the leaves and blood at the root Black body swinging in the southern breeze Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees Pastoral scene of the gallant south The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh And the sudden smell of burning flesh! Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck For the sun to rot, for a tree to drop Here is a strange and bitter crop. -- Music and lyrics by Lewis Allan (Meeropol), copyright 1940 The documentary aired last year on PBS, and for those interested, is distributed by California Newsreel.

Sunday, September 12, 2004

Savaged by a Fyxen! IT:MA--Viewer discretion is advised.

Sadness, internet superstar friend is leaving for happier lands tomorrow, and taking all of her strappy heels with her. I thought I'd let her add some parting words. I cannot be held accountable for what is written herein, even though I transcribed it, and I do not endorse this statement, though the president and the swift boat veterans might: "I have found in Sid more than a friend, more than a confidante, more than someone that I can share sesame noodles with on a work-filled Saturday night: I have found a pornographer. Who would have known that this unassuming, kind, buxom bevy of a girl had more under her Star Trek belt than an Ivy League degree. Having expected that she would regale me with tales of Dostoevsky, I was pleasantly surprised to find that she was just as at home making my big butt look bigger, and nothing could have made me more happy. And it is with great pride that I can say we have not only dodged errant rodents in 88 Noodle House and ordered far too expensive deli food in the wee hours of the morning, delved through piles of glorious shoes at the mecca we call Rainbow, and hit every single Starbuck's from the UWS to Macy's; we have made the world a far better place. Because it is about more than making a fat tummy fatter; it is about more than making big boobs bigger; it is about pride. For each and every letter I get from a man appreciating the grandiosity of my bodacious succulence, I also receive letters from women who are touched by the utter revelry which has been captured by this girl we call Sid." If you'd like more internet superstar friend, you can always visit her here, but not if you're under 18. Bye bye, ISF. Have fun in gay Paree!

Friday, September 10, 2004

I got some kimchi, I got some kimchi, do do do dooo do

Today, I was introduced to Woo Chon Restaurant (8-10 W36th St., between 5th and 6th Ave, B, D, F, N, Q, R at 34th St./Herald Sq.). This is how it went down. Scene: Mulling around cheapo-hoochie clothes shop Rainbow, waiting for internet superstar friend to get her 7,000 pairs of $5 stilettos tallied. Her: Wanna stop by this place I know around the corner? Me: It's almost 12, I think I'm on at 1 today, we have to hurry. Her: Okay, well, let me just show you where it is, it's really good. Me: Um, I'm afraid I might be late. Her: We'll just stop by and then get a cab, it's called Woo Chon-- Me: It's Korean? Let's go. They do takeout? Cloud of dust erupts dramatically as players exit stage right. End scene. I wasn't expecting any place fancy; I just thought it would be like the other little cafeteria-style places around Herald Square. I was wrong. It was kinda fancy. Apparently, it's one of the highest rated Korean restaurants in town. Since we were in a hurry, I didn't have time to settle in and enjoy the atmosphere. I hastily ordered kimchi jigae and a Manhattan maki to go (tuna, salmon, yellowtail, eel and avocado, mmmmm. I'm like Homer Simpson with a donut when it comes to good sushi; I just want to sit around gorging on it until my little gullet swells to bursting. Come to think of it, I'm like that with donuts, too....but I don't feel so bad actually doing it with sushi.) She got the bulgogi lunchbox, I think. We took our food and hopped in a cab back uptown, and immediately began to stuff our faces. I started with my maki. She tried her panchan and didn't like it (she crazy) so she gave it to me (thas' cool), and then lit into her grilled beef. Scene: Rear of a cab jerkily wending its way through midtown lunch hour traffic. Her (grubbin'): Irsgurd, ri'? (grub grub) Me (grubbin'): Mmmm, irsderishurs, ilushurshi! (grub. grub grub grub.) End Scene. The maki was very good, though not the best I've ever had. I was also a bit disappointed to discover you only get four pieces. That isht was $9.50, so I was expecting a few more--say, twice that number. You can get a mean eight piece rainbow roll at Akasaka in New Haven for that. (Akasaka* is the joint. There are only two reasons to go to New Haven, and Akasaka is arguably the more important of the two.) When I got back, I broke out the jigae, rice and panchan. They give you a half-dozen kinds of panchan, even with takeout, which I think is a deal-sealer, for me. Seeing as I had two trays of panchan instead of one, though, I never even made it to my jigae at lunchtime. The panchan was nummy, and I think I ate a solid pound of cooked rice. By the time lunch was over, I had a fully distended belly and pleasant chili-buzz to carry me through the afternoon. I'm just now eating my kimchi jigae (jigae is a spicy stew, BTW. There is a whole menu beyond bulgogi and kalbi, you know, but nobody ever talks about anything else. Yeesh.). It's got a thinner broth than the jigae I've had at other places, but it's still mighty good. Wan'know how good? It's so good, I found a whole ass of pork sliced up in it, and I just picked it out and kept on grubbin'. (I gave up eating all creatures but the swimmers almost five years ago, and though I have had the occasional chicken- or beef-broth contamination incident, I haven't had a run-in with pig. Tomorrow I'll either be sick as a dog or off the wagon...) The lunch menu didn't say anything about pork, but I ain't mad at 'em. I should have known better and asked, just to be sure. Koreans are like black folks that way--they'll throw some pork in ya grub in a minute. Thank god they don't know about scrapple. Or do they? Anyway, I am thoroughly pleased with this place. I'll have to go back. It's pricier than I would normally go for, but until I find something closer, or cheaper (the UWS really doesn't have enough non-european restaurants, in my opinion), it'll have to do. *Everybody was always all loved up on Miya or Haya's in New Haven. What was up with that? I mean, unless it was because underage peeps was always gettin' sake-bombed in thur...they couldn't hold a candle to Akasaka. Plus, once I saw mad exterminators in, like, space suits outside Miya. Nasty.)

Thursday, September 09, 2004

I think I have ADHD.

Seriously. As I type this, I have seven windows open on my computer desktop (nope, now it's eight), because I keep thinking up other things I need to research, read, buy, write, or do, right this minute, before I forget.

I tried to make breakfast this morning, but when I got to the kitchen I remembered I needed to put my laundry in the dryer (I was rather proud of myself for even getting the laundry into the machine, because I often start it, let the water fill, and then wander off before remembering to put in my clothes, and wander back when the machine stops, ready to load the dryer, wondering how in the hell I forgot to load the machine again). Then I decided it was absolutely imperative I research some social theory books to flesh out an article I was working on, so I Googled some things, and then immediately got up because I remembered I had never put the water on to boil for coffee, which I did, and then I decided I needed to put the coffee in the french press right away. Unfortunately, I had also started heating a frying pan for eggs (it seemed really important that I turn on the other burner when I turned on the coffee water because I just knew that if I turned it on, I wouldn't forget to put the eggs in. I forgot. But only for a few minutes, while I was tying up the trash). I got breakfast together, but decided I had to unload the dryer immediately after I ate so I could dry the other load that I had started sometime between load one and breakfast. All this was going on, I should point out, while I was supposed to have been editing an article due, oh, a year ago. Seriously. I'm not kidding about that. It was due a year ago. Incidentally, I finished the article due a year ago, but abandoned the one I began with, probably for good.

And that was just this morning. There would be more from the afternoon, but I took a nap.

Anyway, I know that, since the NYT Magazine article last month, everybody thinks they have an attention deficit disorder, because the article described such common behaviors. At least I think it did, according to what somebody told me. I never finished reading it.

I don't even think I have adult ADHD. I think I have the kids' kind. Which I know is impossible, but honestly I think if any adult had kids' ADD, it would be me.

The thing is, unlike many other minor head-cases these days , I have no desire whatsoever to medicate (which I think might actually tip me over into the major head-case category, because they never want meds), because, despite the fact that I obviously have problems, I rather like my life and am genuinely afraid that medication would make me perhaps more productive, but intensely boring (to myself. I'm probably already boring the hell out of everybody else). I mean, I'm productive enough in my job now, my efforts just sort of stretch out around the clock rather than being concentrated in 8 hour bursts (and thank god I found a job that accomodates that, yeesh. Before this gig things were ugly, veeeerrrrrrryyyy ugly.) So I don't know what to do. My happy Texas friend suggests I do meditation exercises, but I just know I won't be able to sit through 'em.


Tuesday, September 07, 2004

Cthulhu, fajitas and my third and fourth vertebrae: or, things no one cares about but me.

So, after a largely uneventful ride on a Chinatown bus, I got into Boston late Saturday night. The bus, in true CB fashion, picked us up at a random corner in midtown (marked only by a sign outside a newsstand) and dropped us off on an equally random corner in Boston. I lived in Boston for years--hell, I was born there--but thanks to some trick of genetics, habit, or a bad burger ingested in London way back in my carnivorous day, I have an uncanny knack for forgetting. I can wipe the details of a place from my mind inside a week, easy, and I've been gone from Boston for over a year. In other words, I didn't recognize a thing when I got off the bus. I asked the driver where we were, and he responded, "Okay, bye-bye!" Which I guess is all the direction you get when you're paying something like $0.10 per mile to travel. Eventually, I sorted myself out. End Worldcon Weekend Chapter One. Sunday dawned cool and clear, thank sassafrass, and I headed off to the Con, where I hastily picked up my registration materials and shuffled off to the Exotic Mythologies panel. The panel itself was a great idea--there really is a lot of lazy, redundant writing going on in spec fiction these days, and the whole western-European-hero-quest schtick has been done to death. (Clearly, lots of people like imagining a world with little- to no- ethnic/historical diversity, which is a shame, not only because there are so many ancient and even relatively modern mythologies from all over the world that would make great contributions to spec fiction, but also because, well, this sentence has gotten to be so long I've forgotten my other point. You've already forgotten the first one, haven't you?) Unfortunately, there really wasn't enough time to explore the issue, the moderator kept cutting panelists off in the middle of good points, and the only people who would come to a panel on non-western myth are people who are already interested in the issue, so they were pretty much preaching to the choir. Still, I walked away with a few new must-reads: Anne Harris's new book Inventing Memory, H. Rider Haggard's Nada the Lily (I know, not new, but new to me) and Suzanne Alles Blom's Inca: The Scarlett Fringe. (I picked up a copy of L.A. Bank's "urban" vamp novel Minion, too, which I plan to read tonight before bed, since it's a pretty slim volume.) Then I went to a panel called "The New Weird," and it flew by, though it seemed nobody could peg anything but China Mieville as "new weird." I went to a few more panels, but they all became a blur after that. End Worldcon Chapter Two. My sweetness-and-light friend came all the way up from Philly to join me in the afternoon, and we wandered around the art show when we realized the panels really weren't all that, er, necessary, shall we say. The art show was a mix of fantastic and banal talent and themes. I collected a whole grip of bidness cards that I now need to sift through--Michael Lavoie, an illustrator with a talent for drawing ghoulies that make my skin crawl, Omar and Sheila Rayyan, whose talents I wish I could afford, this guy, who not only has pictures of what looks like a demonically-possessed Valerie Bertinelli, but who does a whole bunch of other stuff, too, and Martha Plotz, a "fiber artist," who gets respect for coolest bidness card design--each was unique and hand-drawn, and since I took a card that I have no intention of using to buy goods because the card itself was so pretty, I'll plug her work here. We spent a few hours shopping the dealer halls (where they had these crazy Cthulhu slippers and stuffed dolls that I thought were cute, but overpriced), eating, and arguing with the Hynes Convention Center catering staff, because this crazy woman at the register was convinced I had a steak fajita when all I had was beans, and I finally had to stick my damn fingers in the beans to prove I wasn't trying to scam them, silly cow. As it turned out, it was a good thing she was being such a witch, because SAL friend looked at the receipt and discovered they had tacked an extra $5 onto the bill for no reason, so they were in fact trying to scam us. Argh. Evil at work. We got our money back. End Chapter Three. When we finally got around to the much-anticipated Masquerade, we were enormously impressed, firstly because you don't realize just how many people attend these things until they are all crammed velvet-clad elbow-to-mock light-saber into a giant auditorium, and secondly, because the participants clearly worked really hard on their costumes, and not just because there would be a $500 prize at the end. Much respect and my sympathies to the woman whose act, Inside the Mind, involved sliding across the stage, face down on a skateboard, boobs dragging the ground, dressed as a turtle with the Discworld on its back. I was afraid she was gonna lose a nipple for a minute there, but she pulled through just fine, and the costume was very cool. The kids in the junior division were hilarious, too, and the winner, Death of rats, was adorable, despite being dressed up as, well, Death of rats. That's no easy feat, folks, to be cute as a skeletal rat. We had to cut out early to make our crazy-overbooked Chinatown bus back to the city, so if anybody knows who won the adult division, I'd be much obliged for information. We rolled into Chinatown around 3:30 in the morning, bleary eyed and in need of chiropratic services (which, incidentally, we probably could have gotten in the area, even at that hour, had we looked hard enough). The cab uptown rang in at $16.10, more than what we paid to get back to NYC from Boston. Oh well. Beats the subway. End Four. Overall, it was much as I expected it to be, and plenty of fun. I didn't really feel totally isolated, as I had feared, nor did I make any new friends, but hey, I was there for about 4 hours. I wish I could have stayed longer, gone to a party or three, and had more money. I would definitely go again. Next year, Worldcon is in Glasgow, so I need to start saving now. Okay, really I just want an excuse to go to Glasgow, because I love boys in dresses, and this Worldcon didn't have nearly enough men in kilts. From the Noreascon blog. Fortunately for me, I worked today (yay, holiday pay!) so I am well on my way to Glasgow. Until then, back to the daily grind. End.

Sunday, September 05, 2004

Greetings from Worldcon....

Yay, Worldcon! Yay! So here are my thoughts: 1. I see black people! Four of 'em, besides me! Oh, wait, three--the fourth just changed a trashbag, so unless he's feelin' real helpful, I don't think he's here for the Con. And, like, ten Asian people! Yay! 2. Conditioner! For a group of people so obviously inclined to have hair as long (or at least creative) as possible, wherever that hair will grow, the attendees here could use some instruction in the use of conditioner. Dang. I'm just sayin', Worldcon '05 organizers, consider partnering up with Pantene for a sponsorship deal or something. Maybe there could be some little freebie packets at the member table, and perhaps a Paul Mitchell hairshow-style demonstration booth alongside the NASA table next time....(I think I may be a lipstick-SF-ian, which would be like a lipstick lesbian, but not.) 3.Panels are interesting, but sometimes the moderators become scary control freaks who shout down the other panelists and change topic whenever they disagree, and that is a bit stank. I guess that's what happens when you give us fringe personality types a measure of control... 4. Free WiFi! Which I am going to quit now, because even as we speak I am sure someone is trying to hack into my 'puter to steal my dirty stories... I mean, yes, I have a firewall, but you can never be too careful with these things. So, bye!

Friday, September 03, 2004

Reading Is Fundamental

If I didn't have a set of D cups, I swear, I could be a man. I like Monty Python, Terry Pratchett novels, FHM, classic rock and movies with lots and lots of bare-knuckle fighting (okay, maybe I could be a 14 year old white boy). And sometimes, usually when it's most important, I just don't read. [This is a male trait if ever there was one. Before I catch hell for pointing that out, read this. Every woman can tell you a similar story. Not reading (instructions, directions, fine print, etc.) seems to be embedded in the Y chromosome (as in the time a friend came to visit me, got lost, chewed me out for giving him bad directions, and then, under questioning, 'cause I gave that fool directions including landmarks and all kinds of other shit, he admitted he had skimmed them, not liked them because they didn't look right--mind you, he had never been there before, and I lived there, yet, he thought he could do better--and then taken a totally different route, dumbass. We ain't friends no mo'). For further illustration of my gender confusion, check out me profile, or this entry. I really do think Eddie Izzard is one of the sexiest things on three legs. And that is saying a lot, considering some of his wardrobe/makeup choices.] So today, having finally gotten my money back from Freshdirect, I made hasty plans to attend Noreascon 4, a.k.a. Worldcon 62, a.k.a Dorkfest 4000. After buying a day pass and booking a hotel for the night, I went back to the dorkfest website and tried to register for the Masquerade, which was the whole reason I was planning to attend on Sunday, and juggled my work schedule to accomodate it, rather than going today or tomorrow, which I already had off, and which would have involved more dances, the Hugo Awards ceremony, and been somewhat cheaper. Now, when I heard there would be a masquerade, I assumed this meant a masquerade ball, where people dress up, put on masks, and have scandalous trysts. Or at least dance spastically to '80s muzak while wearing stiff, flowy or sparkly attire. But no, the Noreascon Masquerade is not a dance. It's a costume-contest/talent show, which requires participants to parade around on stage to music of their choosing, for a few minutes, before an audience and judges. Incidentally, this is my idea of Hell On Earth. I have stage fright of truly epic proportions (which nestles deep in my psyche, bizarrely, right next to my near-sociopathic need for attention). I could easily have discovered this little tidbit at any time over the last several weeks, well before finalizing my plans, just by clicking on the Masquerade link on the Noreascon website. But I didn't read. Until after the fact. And now I must decide whether or not to cancel my hotel reservation and try to switch days ('cause there are dance parties Saturday) or keep what I've got, because there are some really great discussions Sunday, anyway, like the one on using mythologies other than Celtic folkore in spec fiction, for once. Or to cancel the hotel and take the money to go Saturday and Sunday, and crash with friends. Crap.

Thursday, September 02, 2004

Lies and the Lying Liars Who Took My Goddamn Money and Lied About Giving it Back

How did I see this bullshit coming? So, I checked my balance today, to see that, as expected, Freshdirect fucking lied about my money being given back to me in a timely manner. So I called and spoke with another friendly service rep, who told me, in so many words, that I could go screw myself, for an additional two days. Because they expected it to be cleared, but it wasn't, and so could I check back then? And when I tried to calmly explain that, no, that was no good, I have to have my money now (because I was planning to go to Noreascon this weekend, and that was going to cost me $100 withouth the hotel room I was planning to reserve, and in fact need to reserve, now bitches, now, except I said all this withouth any swearing, threatening, or raising of voices, because I'm not the kind of person who loses their shit at people who have no power over the situation) she told me she could have an evening shift manager call me back. She said his name was Charles. She wouldn't give me his last name. That was probably wise. So I hung up, and then thought, wait a goddamned minute. It's noon. I know they have a manager on now. So I called back. This time I got the same lady I talked to yesterday (she was nice) and she put me on with a manager who told me no, the first person I talked to today was wrong, they were calling all the banks (because it wasn't just me, of course, they had assed around with a lot of people's money) and would get it released, at least on their end, by the end of the banking business day. After that, it was up to the bank. Now, all of this still begs the question: What the hell are they going to do about all the trouble they've caused? Answer: Escalations. This would be the department Freshdirect has set aside for dealing with People Who Cannot Be Mollified. They have a whole department for this. Is this common, needing a pissed-off-customer department? That cannot be a good sign. The long and short of it is, you write them a little hate letter spelling out all the ways they have screwed you, and somebody in "Escalations" reads it, probably has a good laugh, and then sends you back a letter, maybe saying something like, "Our bad, but that's all you's gettin' from us--an apology." You know, all Kobe Bryant-style. Anyway, before I managed to complete my hate letter, I had to go to work, and by the time I got a minute to have a look-see, they had actually managed to un-lie and get my money back into my account. I'm still done, though. I just notice those punks gave me a meat-sauce WW lasagna. I don't eat no stinkin' meat! I ordered the veggie kind. Grrrrrr. Thanks to Berry, who posted the info for Fairway on her blog, I got a new love...Let's see if it lasts!

Wednesday, September 01, 2004

Let us talk for a moment, boys and girls, about customer service.

So, when I first moved to the city, I met Freshdirect. We were introduced by a friend. For only $4.95, I was told, Freshdirect will package up your reasonably-priced groceries and deliver them to your door. Cheap, fast, easy. I was seduced. The love affair began. My first order was delivered by a polite, strapping young man who handled my boxes as gently as you would a baby, and came with a free soda. Wow, I thought, wow. My second order was equally gently delivered, and came with a whole free pizza and a free soda, though they did mix up the seasoning I requested with one of my fish orders. Still, I thought, wow. They gave me a credit for the messed-up fish, too. That was nice. Still in the early stage of love, the one where you will overlook anything to keep this floaty, fuzzy, happy feeling. My third order marked the beginning of the end. My groceries were delivered by a shifty youth who tossed my boxes on the floor and high-tailed it out of my apartment as fast as his baggy pants would allow. I soon discovered why: somehow, in transit, one of my boxes had been dropped--the box containing eggs. Eggs which leaked all over my bags of fresh-ground coffee and what have you. Rather than, say, telling me what had happened or going back to get replacement items, the delivery geniuses opened the box, removed the whole package of ruined eggs, leaving another dozen cracked eggs and sodden coffee behind, and I guess just hoped I wouldn't notice. I did. Already, my lover is taking me for granted, I thought, neglecting my needs, while I continue to feed his (via a direct link to my bank account). I was bitter, but I figured, okay, everybody makes mistakes. I complained, they said they would credit my next order, and I figured everything would be okay. Then I got today's shipment. The order was, once again, perfect. Yay, I thought, yay. We are in love again. Everybody goes through tough times, and we have come through ours together. I put my groceries away, and made plans for the rest of the afternoon--buying produce (which I get from Fairway, because I just don't think that is the kind of thing that should be slapped together on an assembly line and boxed, and because I want them to stay locked in brutal competition for as long as possible, which is great for me, the consumer), buying cleaning products, buying a going-away gift for internet superstar friend, who shall soon be jetting back home to Paris, renting a hotel room for Worldcon. All of these things, you'll note, require money. So I checked my bank balance. And discovered that Freshdirect had billed me twice for my order. Now, I only order once every 3-4 weeks to keep delivery costs down, so you can imagine how much my order cost the first time I was billed. By the way, since some of the prices are dependent on final weight, they actually withhold an extra 25% of the estimated cost until the order has been finalized--delivered and recorded as such in their system. So I am actually having more than what the order costs withheld by my bank until the final charge comes through, which can tak a few days. Now double that amount. Yup, over $300 has just been snatched from my reach. Mind you, this is my bank account, not some piddling, easy-to-remedy credit card mix-up. I am very unhappy. So I called Freshdirect, right-a-fucking-way, because, oh, hell no. You do not fuck with a black woman's money. And I get this nice woman (they are always nice, I'll give them that), who at first thinks I am just concerned over the extra 25%, but then she gets a good look at the records and goes, "Oh, hold on, I'll go get someone from the accounts/credit department." Because I think she was a black woman, and she knew full well you don't fuck with a black woman's money. And when she came back, she said she had talked to the people in the credit department, and they could have my money released by tomorrow. Usually, she said, they wouldn't even be able to do it that fast, but they were trying to expedite the process. That's nice. Now, let me tell you why that is a problem, and not at all nice, really. Tomorrow is not my day off. Today is my day off, my day for cleaning and shopping and taking care of all the shit I won't be able to take care of again until next week, and I am working even more then, so who knows when I'll get another chance to do these things. And why is it Freshdirect can take my money, twice, quick as lightning, or at least fiber-optic light, but need two damn days to put it back? That don't make no damn sense. And don't even get me started on how I would have been treated had the shit happened in reverse, and I owed them some money. I would have been charged penalty fees by Freshdirect and my bank. Why don't they pay me penalties? I should get an "oops, we fucked up your account" refund. And lord, thank god this happened now, and not next week when my student loans get debited from my account. If Freshdirect caused that to bounce, do you think they would have done the right thing and covered all the check-bouncing fees from my bank and lender, and straightened everything out with the bounced-check-trackers, who can make life very nasty, indeed? No, no they would not have. They would have said, "Oops, our bad, we'll get your money back as soon as it is convenient for us, but you are on your own with the rest of it." I almost want to have one of those on-the-floor-in-the-dark-listening-to-Lisa Lisa-breakup-cries, except my floor is too dirty because I can't afford to go out and get the cleaning supplies I need. I feel so let down, so used. I was such a good customer, Freshdirect, I always tipped and referred other people and everything. You totally don't deserve me. That's it. The affair is over. I want my shit back, Freshdirect, you thieving punk! Don't call me ever again!

An Interlude, Wherein I Spend Some More Money

And money well spent it was. I popped in Tower Records before work this afternoon, and bought myself four new CDs. I like to buy CDs once or twice a year, in bundles like that, so that I suffer sticker-shock at the register and then I can really get in a good bitch-fest about how goddamned expensive CDs have become since the olden-days. Anyway, here's what I bought: The Rough Guides to Bhangra and Brazilian Electronica, Essential Bollywood, and Bebel Gilberto's new CD, Six Degrees. Here's the keeper: Bebel Gilberto, Six Degrees. I am in love with her voice. She and Sade, have, hands down, the sexiest voices in music, I think. I mean, there are cute voices, and there are powerful voices, and there are beautifully trained voices, and then there are voices that are just wonderfully evocative of a Sunday morning (afternoon and evening) in bed a deux. I wish I spoke Portuguese. Here are the ones I am totally going to rip three, four songs max, onto my hard drive, and then try to sell on Ebay: The Rough Guides. There are actually some pretty ill songs on the Brazilian electronica deal, but I've realized, belatedly, that I'm not all that into electronica in general, and putting the smutty words in Portuguese and layering tracks with those impossible-to-catch syncopated Brazilian beats does not help matters. As for the Bhangra debacle--listen, I realize I should just have bought a Panjabi MC CD and been done with it, but sometimes you gotta take risks. Here are the ones I haven't opened yet, and might return before I open it, sos I can still get a Panjabi MC disc instead, but really I liked Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, Lagaan, Asoka, and Dil To Paagal Hai is on the way from Netflix, so maybe I will regret returning it: Essential Bollywood Oh, too late, I couldn't resist. Not at all bad, but not, as claimed, essential. Damn. Who wants to start a CD swap party? Everybody can come to my place, put their unwanted CDs in a bag, and go home with something different at the end of the night. It could be like a swingers' party, without any of the hangovers or suspicious damp spots! Any takers? Anybody? Oh. Okaythen. Maybe if I listen to everything a few more times, I will love it. That's how I ended up singing that damned stupid-ass LFO song "Summer Girls" a few years back. I hated, hated, hated that song, and yet could not resist singing "Summertime girls are the kind I like, I'll steal your honey like I stole your bike," every time it came on the radio, which was every six-and-a-half minutes. Grrrr. Now I need to get that out of my head. Bebel, take me away!

Hello, my name is...Freak Magnet Magee

I must look crazy. Either that, or like some sort of nutter-empath, because people feel free to just say the craziest isht to me. All kinds of people, all the time, just up and talk to me, out of nowhere. Yesterday, I was minding my own business, tapping the last of my pre-payday resources at the ATM, when this old, but totally sane looking lady turned to me and said: "We won a medal in the marathon!" Me: Blink. Blink. Blink. As I have managed to totally avoid watching a single Olympic event this year, this totally threw me for a second, since I was pretty damned sure I ain't did no runnin', and I sure as hell ain't did it with her. But once I figured out she was talking about the Olympics, I tried to feign enthusiasm, politely smile, and hustle out. But she wasn't done with me yet. Her: "Blah blah blah he was from Chad...blah blah Italian was in the lead...blah blah blah attacked by some crazy guy...blah blah blah...silver medal!....blah blah blah..." and on she went. Now, we were in one of those little ATM cubbies that hold two machines, a trash can, and a chain that used to bear a pen, but now is just a dangling chain, and nothing else. This is not a space for protracted conversation, lingering looks, or intimacy of any kind. It is a place for one to quickly and anonymously take $20 out of your account, leaving $0.15, without an acrylic-tipped teller being all up in your business. Everybody knows ATM space is a sacred, silent space. People who know each other, who go into the ATM cubby together, stop speaking when they cross the goddamned threshold. What was wrong with this woman? And I was clearly trying to leave. I had my hand on the door to go, and had even opened the door a few times, but she Just. Kept. Talking. And I was too nice to go, "okaybye." So I stood there, waiting for her to wrap it up. (As it turns out, she was full of misinformation anyway, since it was not an Italian in the lead and the American medalist was not from Chad.) So finally, she wraps it the hell up and I make it out the door with her on my heels, and I turn and politely say, "Well, thanks for the information, have a nice day!" because at this point I am sure she is nuts, and the hussy looks at me like I'm the crazy one for talking to her. Like, the ATM space is perfectly okay for giving strangers unsolicited, detailed accounts of shit they don't care about, but it's verboten on the sidewalk. Whathehell? And I still cannot for the life of me figure out why in the name of sweet baby Jesus (why doesn't anybody ever say salty baby Jesus, or crunchy baby Jesus, or sesame ginger baby Jesus? 'Cause that would be tasty, too.) she decided to tell me at all. I mean, she started with this rambling story about the American medalist being from Chad and bringing his immigrant family over to the US or whatever, and maybe she thought I would care because I'm black. Maybe she was just so thrilled at the news that she had to share with the first person she saw. Whatever. The bottom line is I let that fool eat a good five minutes of my life. And then today, freak number two. The nature of my job requires I spend a fair amount of time being shuttled around in hired cars. Sometimes, this can go well, as when there is silence, the driver takes long calls in his native tongue, or we find some common, unthreatening topic of conversation and just chat for a while. Sometimes, however, this goes horribly, horribly awry, as when the driver mistakenly believes I am from his native country (and thus available for talking about intimate family shit), or am a possible date (and thus available for becoming intimate family shit), or am a hooker (and am thus just available. Being mistaken for a hooker, for absolutely no reason at all, other than being brown and around, has happened to me more times than I care to admit.) My driver today started out friendly. He talked a lot, about this and that (this being cosmetic procedures in Latin America, which he'd had and which he wanted [Seriously] and that being hooking up with old ladies from internet dating sights [No. Seriously. I swear, he brought all this up by himself.]). Between the two topics, he asked where I was from. He thought I was "Spanish" (I'm not, and told him so). But sometimes, especially when dealing with a certain type of man, I have to pause to consider my answer, and his motivation, because too many men really do think black and brown women are just, like a damn 7-11, open to anybody all the time. And that really pisses me off. Because it is so disrespectful to assume you have the right to approach me that way. I'm pretty sure his ass would not have said more than two polite words to my white or Asian peers. They would be treated with quiet respect. Or at least some damn quiet. But he sees a brown woman and thinks, gee, this could be something. What? What the hell? I mean, yes, we are all brothers and sisters in the struggle, or whatever, but buddy, you are my driver, and don't fucking forget it, you know? Do you tell the other assistants and executives you drive about your lift-and-tucks, or your dating dilemmas, or even dream of mentioning the word sex? No. So don't think you can act an ass with me, either. I wish it was just him, but it's not. I recently toured a house in the midst of renovations, and got a few too many winks and stares from the construction crew. Now you may be thinking I'm paranoid. Any woman in a house full of construction workers would get that, right? Except there were four other women in the house, all white, and none were being treated to that behavior. They were seen as off limits, and ignored, if not actually respected, but I was fair game. And that's bullshit. I mean, short of reverse-botoxing a scowl on my face and running around with the name of my Ivy-league alma mater emblazoned across my forehead at all times, how can a sister get some respect? Damn. Well now I'm just pissy. I should have written about what I had for lunch.