"That must have been a great loss for you," The Benefactor said,
"losing your cousin."
"Actually, I don't feel one way or the other about losing Cuzzo," I told
her, because of something he said to me on his deathbed. The Benefactor said it
was a blessing I got to speak with him before he passed; many others don't have
that opportunity. She encouraged me to proceed.
When I was 11 years old, that whole side of my family was summoned to the
hospital by The Elders. Cuzzo was sick with what they told me was A Big Heart.
Having too big of a heart seemed like a small thing to take Cuzzo down. I
thought nothing could take him down.
Cuzzo had one of The Elders contact my grandma with a specific request to
see me. The day my mom and I stopped by, he spoke with both of us briefly, then
asked to speak to me alone.
I stood near the door wanting to escape, but Cuzzo gestured for me to come
closer. He was so thin and fragile-looking with tubes and wires poking out
everywhere, the complete opposite of how I remembered him.
"Don't be scared, now," he said. "You're never scared."
He gave a dry laugh that sounded more like a cough.
"Come closer so I can see that pretty face of yours."
As I sat bedside, Cuzzo told me he was going to die soon. I asked of what,
since it seemed to be a lot more than just A Big Heart.
"AIDS," Cuzzo said faintly. I didn't know what AIDS was but
assumed it was pretty serious to lay Cuzzo out like that.
"I don't have much time left, baby girl," he said, "but I
want you to know that even though I won't be here physically, I'll always be
with you. Remember what I taught you as a little girl. Don't miss me
when I'm gone."
“Huh?” I said, perplexed. I didn't know how not to miss him.
"In our family somebody's always dying or being born. There's always
somebody to take somebody else's place."
I wondered who would take his.
"What I'm about to tell you don't ever forget," Cuzzo said, his
voice barely above a whisper. "Keep beating the other side, just like me
and your grandma taught you."
He paused, inhaling deeply.
"Your cousins, teach them what you know. They might
not say much but they do look up to you."
"I'm only 11, though," I said. "I don't think people will
listen to me."
"F*ck other people, listen to your grandma, me, and yourself,"
Cuzzo said. "Remember, I've always been part of you, ever since that other
game. Listen to us.”
Cuzzo followed up by saying that if he had his way, he would have never had
me in that other game.
“It is what it is, though,” and I knew exactly what he meant: since Cuzzo
received those orders from someone who outranked him, his hands were tied in
the situation.
“Your grandma took over for me after that other game, and that's alright. Us
three, we're a lot alike. Listen to your grandma and me and soon you’ll take
over yourself."
"Take over what?" I asked.
"Take over The Game. You got their Money as a little girl. I
gave you Power. Now get their Respect. All of it."
"How?" I asked him, as usual.
"By any means necessary," Cuzzo said.
A few minutes passed and Cuzzo fell silent. I picked up his arm by the
wrist; it fell limply by his side. I buzzed the nurses, who came rushing into
the room. They ushered me out of the room and down the hallway where my mom was
waiting.
The next day I got a call from The Elder who put me in that other game,
asking what my cousin told me on his deathbed. With Granny listening in on a
separate line, I told her Cuzzo told me to come for the other side’s Money,
Power & Respect by any means necessary.
The Elder laughed.
“Your cousin’s gay,” she said. “It’s why you were able to spend so much time
with him growing up. It’s also how
he died of AIDS. Since he tells you so much, did he tell you that?”
The AIDS part, yes. But Cuzzo, gay? Considering the source, I was skeptical.
“He had new girlfriends every
week, though… how can he be gay?” I asked.
The Elder laughed again and said those women weren’t his girlfriends, they
were his employees. Granny took over the conversation at that point, rushing me
off the phone.
“This Elder added another piece to the puzzle, eh?” said The Benefactor.
“And Cuzzo’s a gay pimp, look at that.”
We chuckled.
“Bit by bit we’re finding out how that closet of stacks was built,” she
continued. “Gambling, extortion, prostitution… sounds like a true gangster
story to me,” she said.
“Now, when gangsters die, it’s usually quite the spectacle: an all-out affair. Tell me about
his funeral.”
10/15/12
Money, Power & Respect
9/25/12
The Study
First semester of my eighth grade year, I entered The Study. Teacher found someone outside the school and familiar with kids like me who offered to help. A benefactor, if you will.
First I had to take a series of tests, including an IQ test. When the results came back, my new benefactor was in a cheerful mood. Half-jokingly, I asked if I broke the tests.
"No, but you did score higher than most kids. Most adults, even. It's not everyday I come across a certified genius," she said.
Like my English teacher, The Benefactor wanted to know why my reaction was so subdued.
I told her bits and pieces of my story, how tough it is trying to find yourself in a family full of God-like egos, and how I missed just being a kid.
"You're not a child anymore," The Benefactor said. "In fact, it sounds like you haven't been a child for quite some time. Who wants to return back to childhood anyways?" The Benefactor shuddered dramatically at the very thought.
She told me stories like mine weren't uncommon in cities, and that gang initiations can start very young.
"The good news is there's a way out."
She told me gangs are only able to survive through group mentality and that I, being a genius, can beat the other side by breaking the mental chains associated with them.
"Ok… duh. My grandma and uncle told me that," I said, ever the know-it-all.
The Benefactor said she was glad they did and asked if they told me how.
"Various ways," I said cryptically. It takes me a while to warm up to strangers.
The Benefactor said she could supplement their advice by offering help in the form of a five year plan: get out of The Life and that other game and into The Game.
The primary objective of The Game was to use my intelligence and unique skill sets to become part of a different gang: The Ivy League. Once there I could continue pursuing my goals of learning a lot and getting big money while in the company of like-minded people. The one caveat in receiving this help is that I had to tell my full story. How I rose through the ranks, so to speak.
I started out telling The Benefactor about Cuzzo and how he was an almighty presence from our very first interaction. The Benefactor asked where he was now and I told her Cuzzo had died two years earlier.
8/22/12
Grandma's Girl
After getting out of that other game and coming back inside, my mom and I visited The Elders and The VIPs far less often. She wasn’t aware this other game had taken place, so it was difficult explaining the crowds of people greeting us and pressing dollar bills into my hands as we made our way to the apartment.
That’s when Granny, the second oldest Elder, took over.
At the time, Granny lived on the opposite side of the city, worlds away from the block where that other game took place. She and her six siblings—The Elders, collectively—grew up in a neighborhood similar to the one where that other game was played, a former slum where restaurants, coffee store chains, office buildings, and a Catholic high school for boys now stand. Growing up, she and her four sisters used to play the same game I did. Their two brothers and an endless supply of male cousins were the VIPs.
The Elders made tons of money over the years and split it up amongst themselves. When they started having kids and their kids starting having kids, some of them were taught that other game, too. A few made it out, but not with their minds intact. Most others didn’t make it out at all.
“I can’t believe she played that game with you, you’re just a kid!” Granny said after I came to her with all the money I’d made. Up to that point I’d just been holding the cash, unsure of what to do with it all. Spending it freely would have raised a lot of questions and brought some serious attention to that other game.
She plotted vengeance as we figured out how to get rid of the money. We consulted one of my five uncles for guidance. Unk has much experience with the other side, cleaning up the aftermath of their messes in court. He told me I’d avoided a big one playing that other game, but the good thing is I made at least 50 times my weekly allowance, if not more.
“Everything from here on out is small money, but never forget that you, as a person, are priceless,” he told me.
Ultimately, we gave the money away to a nearby church where our family has a dedicated pew.
After we got rid of the money, Granny asked me to give up the deets. If we’re going to beat them at their game, she said, I have to spill their secrets.
I thought I was already out of that other game, but Granny said that other game had just begun. I told her there weren’t many secrets to spill; nobody dared touch me in that other game, unless it was to hand me their money afterward. The biggest secret was one of my own: I’d won the game through reading Cuzzo’s mind.
Granny didn’t seem shocked and wasn’t in awe like the others were when I told them I could read minds. When I told her they thought I was an angel because of it, she guffawed, slapping the table to balance herself.
“You’re no angel, you’re a very lucky and smart little girl.”
Playing that other game, I had forgotten I was only seven.
“If you spend enough time with someone, after a while it is like you’re reading their mind,” Granny said.
“I can do it, too, you know. In fact, I taught The Elder who got you into this other game how to do it. That b*tch.”
Granny convinced me to disconnect from Cuzzo’s mind and suggested I start reading hers instead.
I was skeptical at first. Then again, I was skeptical of most adults after playing that other game.
The way Granny spit it, through observing, learning, and implementing her ways, I could win the game this Elder started with me.
“I don’t know why they chose you,” Granny said, “but they chose wisely, ‘cause I’m on your side. They won’t always listen to a little girl like you, but they’ll for damn sure listen to me.”
Once I accepted her offer, I was all Granny’s responsibility.
We connected immediately.
We stay out of the streets, inside is safer. Hoodrats disgust us, but their antics are amusing. We don’t listen to rap music, just the Top 50 charts and Bing Crosby or Nat King Cole if we’re feeling frisky—and only at a reasonable volume. We watch Matlock at 9 am, our block of soaps operas at noon, Oprah at 4 pm, and Golden Girls at 8 pm, and the news between shows. We go to bed early and wake up before dawn. We stock up on prunes and milk of magnesia to stay regular. We’re not big on flashy gifts or wads of cash, we prefer compliments on our cooking instead. Oh, and we take sh*t from no one, especially that b*tch next door that keeps letting her dog use our front lawn as a toilet.
Reading Granny was the anti-hood. As often as I could, I’d let her know how boring I found the new rules of the game.
“It’s more exciting than being dead in the streets,” she’d say. Point taken.
One day, Granny surprised me with an announcement: we were finally gonna get back into this gangsta sh*t I kept talking about—and getting hit with a fly swatter for for saying “gangsta sh*t.”
Unbeknownst to me, Granny was regularly calling shots over the phone, dispatching orders to her siblings and nieces and nephews. This day, she decided to let me back in on the operation.
Granny would offer up a tough scenario and ask my opinion on what I’d do if I had a limitless supply of money to fix it. At first, I thought she was taking scenes out of the soap operas she devours. Over time, I realized the scenarios she’d offer up were nothing like what was on TV at the time.
Most often, the two of us would figure out how to divvy up that closet of stacks Cuzzo showed me. We put our vote on which families in The Elders’ and VIPs’ hood would get their light bills paid that month. Whatever was left over at the end of the month, we saved a portion of for ourselves and funneled the rest into that church with the family pew.
One of the toughest scenarios we encountered was that of the junkie mom.
Junkie Mom was one of the many people from that hood who bet for me in that other game. Granny told me The VIPs were ready to wipe her out because she owed them a lot of money and hadn’t paid up.
“What would you do?” Granny asked me.
I told her I would spare the junkie, not only because I personally got a lot of money from her, but also because I knew she had five small kids living in a one-bedroom apartment there. If The VIPs wiped her out, who would take care of her kids?
Granny was pleased. “You might be an angel after all,” she said, and delivered our verdict in a call to The Elders.
Junkie Mom was spared, but wound up dying anyway a few years later from a drug overdose. Her five kids grew up and joined The VIPs.
Soon after Granny let me in on the higher level aspects of that other game, she moved in with my immediate family. I was fed more rules of the game daily: introductions are everything, so make sure they’re good ones; fear no one; be clever—but not a smart a$$, nobody likes a smart a$$—and hungrier than the rest to get ahead; getting A’s and winning awards is the way out of difficult situations; if somebody feels some type of way about that, 1. F*ck ‘em and 2. Give ‘em more reasons to talk and be jealous; every time you leave the house, remember you’re representing more than yourself: you’re representing me, my kids, and your cousins, too; carry yourself well and always be prepared; as often as you can, show people we’re not part of that other game’s team.
Et cetera, et cetera.
I took vigorous mental notes over the years, but the downside to receiving all that wisdom so young and so often is that one gets jaded quickly.
Hearing about everyone else’s issues and trying to solve them while also keeping grown folks from coming at each other’s necks got very messy and exhausting, even with Granny on my side. By the time I was thirteen, I felt like I’d sacrificed my childhood so ungrateful people could live better. I was all the way over it and wanted out of The Life, but couldn’t see a way out. The Life was all I knew.
Around this time, my middle school received the results of a standardized test taken a few months earlier. Even though my grades had started to slip from the stress of playing that other game, my English teacher came up to me excitedly, saying I scored the highest of all the students in the school.
My unenthused demeanor concerned her. She wanted to know why scoring yet another win wasn’t cause for excitement.
I told her some of what I got into after school hours with Granny and how I was feeling the burnout from it. She asked why I was put in that other game, and I told her my history and the battles of my youth. My middle school English teacher was the first non-family member to label what I was part of: a gang.
I burst out laughing, not seeing the connection between TV and movie gangsters and Granny and myself. I saw none of our family in shows or movies like that.
Very seriously, Teacher asked if I wanted out.
“It’ll be tough since you live with one of the major players,” she said. “Tough, but not impossible.”
After consulting with outside resources (“No cops,” she promised), she came back the following day and asked if I wanted to participate in a study.
8/20/12
All's fair in love and war
When Cuzzo and I got back to the apartment, one of The Elders had a new game for us to play.
I didn’t see any boards or game pieces anywhere, though.
“This is a different type of game, baby girl,” Cuzzo said. “One where we always get the bad guy. Remember your preschool friend? In this game we go after the bad guys that did that to him.”
I was intrigued.
The way Cuzzo put it, all I’d have to do in this game was stand outside, do nothing, and get the bad guys close enough for the VIPs to handle the rest.
We played this game once a week after church, while I was still dressed in my Sunday Best. Like Cuzzo said, all I did was stand outside while the creepers approached, one by one. The Elder who started this game and Cuzzo kept watch from windows overlooking the block while an ever-changing handful of our other “cousins” waited in a van around the corner.
When the creepers got within arm’s reach, it was on: the van full of fam sped around the corner, snatched the creeper up, duct-taped a bag over his head, dragged him into the van and sped off again down the block.
For months this happened, every Sunday after church. It was astonishing seeing those guys snatched up over and over again, like lemmings. Or a live-action movie. In fact, this other game was so much like watching a movie that, after a couple weeks of playing, I started directing it.
First, I took it upon myself to inform an approaching creeper what was about to go down.
“You’re about to die,” I said to him.
The creeper laughed and asked who taught me words like that.
I didn’t get a chance to answer before the van sped around the corner like clockwork and the creeper met his fate.
Within a week of starting this other game—maybe even a little before this new game had begun—Cuzzo and I established such a connection that we were speaking to each other without using words. He’d think something and I’d feel it, and vice versa.
One Sunday I was standing there catching creepers when, out of nowhere, this feeling of extreme boredom washed over me. It wasn’t a feeling I immediately recognized, especially while playing a game. I looked up at Cuzzo peering through the blinds. Our eyes met and he nodded.
I told a standby VIP sitting on the front stoop that if they really want to make this game fun, they should try switching up the kinds and colors of cars they use. As an added bonus, the cops can’t trace the activity (something everyone involved seemed especially concerned about) since a different car is used every week.
The VIP perked up and spread word to the others.
Next time I came over, The VIPs sped around the corner in a blue van instead of their usual black. Some weeks they rolled through in a full body pickup truck. My fave was when they used stolen luxury cars: Benzs, BMWs, Jags speeding down the block overflowing with saviors and foes.
After that, grown folks in the neighborhood started coming up to me, giving me a dollar or two “for my service.” My mom always taught me not to accept gifts from strangers. But Cuzzo always taught me to Get Money, so I channeled him for a second opinion.
After playing that other game the following Sunday, I asked one guy who came up to me how much he was willing to bet I’d catch this one creeper we kept hearing about on the block… and it was a hell of a lot more than a dollar. The next person who came up, a very sweet old lady The Elders told me was heavily involved in the church there, bet her rent money I’d catch him. Others bet $20 here, $50 there. By the time I turned seven, I was making $100 a week just standing there and doing nothing.
Cuzzo always told me what I great job I was doing, helping the kids in the community. By keeping these bad guys off the streets and making money, we were doing A Good Thing, he said.
I told him this game was too easy.
“I tell them to their face they’re gonna die and they still fall for it. Weird people give me their money to see creepers killed every week.”
Cuzzo nodded knowingly. “It’s their nature,” he said.
He paused for a moment, sensing something was amiss.
“If you want out, you know what to do.”
I walked up to The Elder who started this other game and told her I could stand outside and catch all the creepers they wanted, but I’m still not catching the ones into boys.
She paused for a moment. Then she called the other Elders over, excitement in her voice.
She told the others that I was an angel. She used my age at the time and the fact that Cuzzo and I could talk without words as proof. The fact that I could play such a dangerous game and emerge unscathed—plus the amount of money I brought in—was further proof, according to this Elder.
The others formed a circle around me, staring in awe and talking among themselves in whispers. I felt indifferent about the matter and didn’t understanding all the fuss surrounding it. All I knew was I made it out of this other game a winner with big bank.
From then on, any business I had was conducted indoors, just like Cuzzo and The Elders.
8/15/12
Everything has a cost
After Cuzzo crowned me queen of the kids on his block, we visited the VIPs much more regularly. During one such visit, Cuzzo took me on a walk around the 'hood. This was A Big Deal since Cuzzo rarely ventured outside. The first thing I noticed was that the block was empty. No people, no birds… no nothing. Even stray animals crossed the street at the sight of us walking down the block. “Is it about to rain?” I asked Cuzzo. “Nobody’s outside.” “That’s because they know better,” he said. “They’re watching though.” He pointed toward the windows overlooking the street. We walked to the corner store. “Get whatever you want, baby girl. On the house.” I grabbed an armful of candy and other snacks while Cuzzo looked on in silence. On our way out, Cuzzo nodded to the cashier and we left without paying. As we headed back to the apartment, the eerie quiet of the streets swallowed us whole.
7/30/12
Taking the psycho path
Since kindergarten, the enemy (PPs) has been drawn to me. It's the classic battle of Good vs. Evil; they can’t resist the temptation. PPs are predatory by nature and constantly seek out potential victims, preying on the weak-minded and people who seem like they’ll stay silent. Sometimes that potential victim appears to them as a pensive young girl with her nose in a book, just minding her business. Here’s some news for you if you didn’t already know:
It’s a trap, b*tch!
A lot of people don't like to think of children as PPs; it makes them uncomfortable. But they have to start somewhere.
PP#1 made himself known immediately.
Everyday it was something new: loud and frequent tantrums; an incredible level of violence: the cops were called once for threats PP#1 made toward our teacher and teacher’s aid—in kindergarten, mind you; an extreme lack of respect for authority figures: our teacher’s skirt ripped during one tantrum of his; later on, PP#1 revealed he ripped it on purpose to humiliate her in front of the class.
Our teacher’s attention was constantly redirected toward PP#1 and his antics. It was literally never-ending with this kid.
While PP#1 terrorized our classroom, I stayed above the madness, doing my work and minding my business. I guess PP#1 wasn’t used to not receiving huge amounts of attention. Everyone else fell for it, but not me. This confused and angered him.
One day while perfecting my tumbling routine during free play, PP#1 ran up behind me, grabbed my butt, and flipped me to the ground head first. I sat up dizzy, head pounding, nose bleeding—and furious. Luckily, the kindergarten aid saw all this go down and promptly informed the teacher, who sent PP#1 to the principal’s office while I went to the school nurse.
That's the thing about PPs: they might seem like normal people up to a certain point, but you'll always find serious flaws in their logic… major oversights. PP#1’s major oversight was spilling all his secrets to me. Even though he flipped me that day and bloodied my nose, I was one of the few other kids he talked to in class, precisely because I was quiet. He had the balls to say to me one day that he didn’t know I could speak until he made my nose bleed. I thought back to my older cousin and how we love us some curious, stupid motherf*ckers. After PP#1 said that, I decided to show this kid just how big my voice actually is.
In first grade, I had the pleasure of having PP#1 in my class again. One day, he made the incredibly unwise decision to try me again, this time with another boy as his partner-in-crime. PP#1 told me that they were going to rape every girl in the classroom, including the teacher. He said he’d start with me because I was the smartest… like that makes any sense.
Before he could even finish his sentence and approach, I stabbed PP#1 in the eye with a No. 2 pencil. (They never see the left hook coming.) The other boy ran away while PP#1 writhed in agony on the ground.
The teacher ran over and escorted him to the nurse’s office. She came back sometime later that afternoon without him, and resumed teaching as if nothing had happened. It was the first time in two years that our classroom was silent and us kids could learn in peace.
After school that day, the teacher asked me what happened earlier with PP#1. She said I had “Got him good,” and since I was typically about mine and not a violent person, she wanted all the deets. So I gave up everything, starting with the flipping incident in kindergarten. The color left her face after I told her what PP#1 said prior to his stabbing. I asked her how bad the damage was to his eye, but she wouldn’t (or couldn’t) say.
I found out just how bad it was when PP#1 came back to school the following week. He had an eye patch and looked an awful lot like a pirate. I told him to tell the other kids why he looks like that now, and surprise! He couldn’t speak. Every time somebody said something—anything—to him, especially if they were female, his one good eye would tear up. Since PP#1 rarely said anything after his stabbing, I got to say all I wanted, all the time. And our classroom continued to be peaceful.
Until the parent-teacher conference, that is.
The teacher had summoned all of our parents together to discuss the stabbing. PP#1 was there, the boy who ran away, me, and all of our moms. I relished the opportunity to tell everyone The Full Story.
As the teacher introduced everyone, and before I even got around to telling them what PP#1 said right before I stabbed him, PP#1’s mom had an outburst:
She backhanded him in front of all of us. The eye patch had come off by this point, having been replaced by some really thick-lensed glasses that flew across the room. Again, PP#1 said nothing. What can you say to… that?
After reminding PP#1’s mom that the cops were right outside the school building, our teacher instructed me to begin telling The Full Story. I looked over at PP#1’s mom, but the teacher told me to look directly at her and tell it, just as I had a week or so earlier.
After that, we never heard from PP#1 again. His mother immediately withdrew him from the school, and freedom was ours. I told my teacher I was concerned about PP#1’s mom; she was REALLY mad about the whole situation. Teacher told me that she concerned everyone present that day, but with my kind of family and an entire school district on my side, I didn’t have to worry about a thing.
“They’re the ones who should be worried, if not outright terrified of you.” She winked at me.
With PP#1 gone, I continued my reign of the school. Teachers came up off their A+s with ease, and I won quite a few local and national awards for both academics and art in elementary school, all starting in first grade.
Cuzzo was so proud of me. After the parent-teacher conference, my mom and I visited the VIPs again. When we arrived, it was to great fanfare. Little kids were running alongside our car as we parked, trying to get a glimpse. One of my cousins came out, scooped me up, and handed me to Cuzzo, who was standing on the front stoop. As I hung there awkwardly in the crook of his arm, Cuzzo told all the little kids to gather ‘round and observe their queen.
My mom and I both looked up at him like, “Really, Cuz?” and he pointed our gaze toward the block full of kids popping up around us like, “Yeah, really.”
Even though I was mortified at the time, I gotta give it to him: Cuzzo has quite the sense of humor.
And so it was throughout elementary and middle school. Cuzzo taught me much about The Game during those formative years, things that I continue to use today. That one PP I met in kindergarten and destroyed in first grade, Cuzzo told me there’s thousands more out there, waitin’ and underestimatin’. He told me I was related to some of the best PPs out there—or worst, depending on how you look at it. He told me that I already know all their secrets—PP#1 gave up a lot of them voluntarily—and that those secrets can be used against them if they decide to step out of line.
In other words, Cuzzo helped me take my gangsta to a whole new level.
At six years old.
7/23/12
Blood is thicker than Kool-Aid
The summer before kindergarten, my mother took me to visit some Very Important People we’re related to. She had told them how, as a preschooler, I transformed my friend Moe’s life in less than a year’s time. These VIPs wanted to see me personally to tell me what a great job I did. At the time, I was still unsure of what made the simple act of being a friend so remarkable. These VIPs were going to shed some light on the situation for me.
These VIPs of ours live in the kind of neighborhood where, to this day, needles and dope bags are found on the ground; gunshots are heard often and mattresses are kept close by to press against windows in case there’s any stray bullets; regular cops won’t do, the US Guard roam the streets with AK-47s, M16s, and other assault rifles (really); and you’re lucky to make it out alive—and without kids or a drug addiction—past age 18. It is literally the worst neighborhood in the most crime-infested part of the city.
And these VIPs of ours run it.
The day my mom took me to visit them, I noticed a long, dark trail of something starting from just in front of our parking spot, down the block to our VIPs’ building, up the front stairs of the building, and up three more flights of stairs to the spot right outside of our VIPs’ door. The trail stopped there; an even larger pool of whatever it was had accumulated on the landing.
I looked up wide-eyed at my mother.
“What is that?”
“Kool-Aid,” she said.
The only problems were: 1) Who wastes that much sweet, delicious Kool-Aid? and 2) Kool-Aid doesn’t dry brown.
Once we got inside the apartment and greeted everyone, my mother chatted it up with The Elders while my older cousin took me aside. I asked him about the trail leading up to the door. He asked me if I was afraid of it.
“No. I don’t know what it is.”
“It’s blood. It’s been there a week. The other kids and grownups here are scared to look at it.”
“Oh. I’m not like the other kids.”
He laughed.
“That’s right. You saved a little boy’s life, didn’t you? All the kids around here think you’re a hero.”
I blushed and looked down, embarrassed that others knew what had happened before I had the chance to fully process it myself. I failed to understand then what would happen many more times in the future: my reputation had preceded me.
Cuzzo put his finger under my chin and lifted my head up.
“Don’t be ashamed of that, baby girl. You did a good thing. If you keep it up, you can do many more good things.”
“How?” I asked.
Cuzzo led me to his bedroom and walked toward his closet door. As he opened it, stacks on stacks of dollar bills taller than I was were revealed.
In front of this closet full of stacks, my cousin taught me some basic rules of The Game.
Cuzzo said, “Just like you’re not scared to save somebody’s life or scared to see that blood trail, don’t be scared to get physical. There’s some crazy people out here who will try and step to you because you’re a girl and a kid, but you’re smarter than that. Make ‘em regret it.”
Cuzzo said, “I hear you like to read. Keep that up, baby girl. Knowledge is power.”
Cuzzo said, “This ‘hood here, never be a part of it, even though you, your mom and her brothers, your grandmama and her siblings, and my grandmama and her siblings all come from it. You only visit and do business here, never live here.”
Cuzzo said, “If you keep doing good things, not everyone is gonna like it. In fact, some people will hate it. F*ck what these other b*tches & n*ggas have to say about what you do or don’t do. Get money.”
I laughed at the cussing. Adults never kept it real with me like that, especially at that age. I laughed again some years later when Biggie Smalls & Junior M.A.F.I.A. came out with the song “Get Money,” whose refrain goes: “F*ck b*tches, get money. F*ck n*ggas, get money.” Because of what my cousin taught me that day, I automatically knew Biggie was the truth when it came to rapping.
Finally, Cuzzo said, “If you ever have a problem, baby girl, you let me know. I’ll handle it.”
Before we joined The Elders and my mom again, I asked my cousin what happened to cause that blood trail leading up to the door.
He paused and looked me straight in the eyes.
“Somebody didn’t mind their business,” he said, the laughter of The Elders and my mother rising faintly in the background.
7/13/12
Moe Betta Blues
Before I jump into my elementary school years, allow me to flesh out my preschool ones a bit more. Looking back, there are a number of things apparent in my self today that originated in my earliest school days.
The kid in the last post I mentioned, the one whose mom asked my mom to get me to teach him how to tie his shoes (whew), that kid’s name was Brian. In addition to not knowing how to tie his shoes, he was also my very first bf ever in life. We were together all the time: we sat next to each other during reading time, ate across from each other at lunch*, played with each other at recess, we even laid our mats near each other for nap times. So presh.
Since Brian was a year older than me, he aged out of preschool before I did. The year Brian left, the homie Moe enrolled.
When Moe first showed up, all the little kids were intrigued. He never said a word, but had the most fabulous, luxurious hair: a massive, jet black, curly explosion. Love! It wasn’t until a few weeks after his arrival that he started to stand out in a different, more unsettling way.
For one, he never spoke. At first we all thought it was because he was new, but even after knowing him for most of that year, I don’t recall Moe ever saying a word to anyone. He wasn’t deaf; the teacher and teacher’s aid would ask him if he could hear them and he’d always nod yes. He wasn’t mute either; after befriending him (ok, I made him my unofficial 2nd bf after the void Brian left behind), he’d whisper things to me, but only me.
Another thing, he was scared of almost everyone outside of his mom, especially men. During his first few weeks at our preschool, he’d burst into tears whenever we went to the nearby kiddie gym (male instructor) or the male janitor came by our classroom. Before he started whispering to me, whenever somebody asked him something he’d just sit or stand there with tears welling up in his eyes. I felt so bad for Moe, I asked the teacher what I could do to help him. She said that was very nice of me, and the best thing I could do for Moe was to be his friend. So I was.
From then on, Moe took Brian’s former spot in my little four-year-old life, minus the mock misogyny. Since Moe rarely said anything, I got to say all I wanted, all the time. It was pretty awesome. Fun fact: before Moe arrived, I was the quietest kid in the classroom. At first, people thought I was deaf and mute, too. In reality, I found most of the other children stupid and not worth speaking to, lol.
But Moe was worth my words. I’d help him out during our writing/penmanship time, and read books to him from our classroom kiddie library. Brian would never sit still long enough for me read to him, ugh. Eventually, Moe and I were having our own Top Secret Very Important Convos in the sandbox during recess. The adults around us could hardly believe it.
By the end of that school year, not only was Moe speaking actual words (only to specific people though, and so quietly you had to lean in to hear him), he wasn’t as scared of the gym teacher or janitor anymore. He was even smiling, and often. When he first came to school, all he did was cry.
Progress!
Our teacher and teacher’s aid were so impressed they told my mom and Moe’s mom about our friendship and his transformation. Moe’s mom thanked me personally one day, with tears in her own eyes. She said Moe really needed a friend like me.
There are more preschool stories I can recall, memories of me laying down the foundation of my gangsta. The ones I’ve already told you stand out the most, though.
In any case, those preschool years were the perfect training ground for what came next: elementary school.
* Brian would tell any and everybody how much he hated girls and how gross we were, yet he always gave me—and only me—half of his snacks at lunchtime, unprompted. His mom also gave me a stuffed animal, plastic jewelry and some other trinkets on my birthday for teaching him how to tie his shoes. Respect. Thanks Brian's mom! [back to para. 1/para.2]
7/4/12
Allow me to re-introduce myself
My last few posts here have all been a means of setting you, my readers, up for the epic story of how I entered The Game. Some knew all along, but it remains a mystery to many others.
First, The Game itself. The Game is difficult to describe, but once you're playing it, you know it. I could provide infinite quotes from various people discussing the ins and outs of The Game, but I think this wikiHow article on entering the rap game (lol) does a good job of covering the basics:
• [Your hustle] strengthens your mind. The longer you keep at it, the better you will be.
• Get ideas from books on your particular hustle. If there isn't one, write it.
• Be real. Rapping about your own life gives the song credibility.
• As long as your song makes the point you're trying to convey, length doesn't really matter.
• Be inspired by those whose hustle you respect.
• Rap does not have to be written; many rappers also freestyle. Be creative.
• Keep your rap original. Never copy someone else's style.
There's a lot more to The Game, of course, but those points sum it up nicely.
Now for the re-introduction.
I was literally born into The Game, having come from a long history of game players. The rules have been passed down from generation to generation in my family, and they haven't changed much over the centuries. My first and most important teachers of The Game were my parents and my grandparents. Of course, my entire family--and there's many of us--has had a hand in my ability to play this game. We do it very well individually, but together, we are quite the force to be reckoned with.
From the very beginning, it was a fight. I was born a few weeks earlier than I was supposed to have been. According to my mom, I was one of the tiniest babies on the floor: all of me, from head to toe, fit entirely in her hand. Luckily, I gained enough weight to be released from the hospital in less than a week's time. The Game was already in full effect by this point.
Fast forward two and a half, three years and I'm in preschool: reading books, writing my name on stuff, tying my own shoes. The tying-my-own-shoes bit even got my fellow preschoolers' moms noticing. One lady asked my mom to get me to help teach her son how to tie his shoes; he was a year older and still wearing those Velcro strap-on shoes.
these monstrosities. Baby swag.
I didn't think shoe tying was remarkable at all--the reading or writing, either--but it sure made me popular with all the preschool moms.
It was around this time that I realized I was different from the other kids. The teacher gave us an exercise one day: cut out paper shapes with kid-friendly scissors. Simple enough. But for the life of me, I couldn't get any of the scissors to work. It was incredibly frustrating for a three-year-old. After calling the teacher and teacher's aid over for help, they finally came to the conclusion that it wasn't the scissors fault: I was left-handed.
Left-handers' brains are wired differently. A 2006 study from the journal Neuropsychology suggests that left-handed people's brains are faster at processing multiple stimuli than right-handers. What that means is: left-handers typically have the upper hand in sports, gaming and other activities where players are forced to juggle large volumes of stimuli coming at them quickly. Left-handers more easily use both hemispheres of their brains to manage that stimuli, resulting in faster overall processing and response time. Like a computer!
Fascinating stuff. But anyways, that incident with the scissors in preschool was the first time I realized something was up.
Next: The School Years
6/22/12
“There’s a difference between recognition and fame”
In light of my recent posts, a few people from my past have stepped forth wondering if I’m referring to them. HA! Ironically, these are people I wasn’t even thinking about while writing, much less targeting my slow-simmering rage at. It still works for me, though: by thinking I’m even remotely referring to them and their actions, they expose themselves as just the kinds of people I am talking about. Smh.
All I have to say on that is this: Watch how you approach a G, y’all.
In these online rants—directed toward no one specific in most cases but everyone in general who’s ever said or thought such nonsense—I’m just telling my story. ALL of my story, and that includes the ugly parts. Those ugly parts helped me get to this point just as much as the fantastically great ones. I value my readers enough to keep it 200% real with them, and the reality is: not everything is perfect. None of this happened overnight or without extreme sacrifice and
focused effort on my part and those of many other people, too.
You don't have to like the truth I'm spitting—everything isn't for everybody. But one thing you will do is respect it.
These are powerful thoughts not everyone is ready for. But that’s not my problem in the least. So Imma continue to vent here on my blog. I know you feel me: in the past week alone, 3K+ page hits confirm that. That is validation to me that these things NEED to be said. If my words are helping another person out there feel a little less alone or crazy, then Mission Accomplished.
So anyways, I was having a convo recently with the bf about the trappings of fame. I frequently say that I never want to be famous, just rich wealthy. Especially after being recognized by the butcher in the grocery store, I just wasn’t feeling the inevitable, which is some sort of recognition. But I misinterpreted all of that as something else: fame blossoming.
I wanted no parts of it. This is what fame does to you:
Admittedly, I tune in to it on TV or via celebrity gossip sites, but in real life, fame is a nightmare to me. I want zero parts of that mess!
While we’re having this convo—with Kanye West’s Last Call playing in the background… how appropriate, lol. I can relate a lot to ‘Ye’s story—bf says something most profound: “There’s a difference between recognition and fame. A big one. Being recognized is a good thing.”
And he’s very right:
recognition – noun; the action or process of recognizing or being recognized, in particular:
• identification of a thing or person from previous encounters or knowledge
• acknowledgment of something's existence, validity, or legality
• appreciation or acclaim for an achievement, service, or ability
fame – noun; the condition of being known or talked about by many people
Recognition is defined more robustly, having a much deeper and varied meaning than simply fame.
I can dig that.
Also, recognition is the most applicable word for my situation. Not everyone reading this is the enemy; in fact, the vast majority are family, friends, and supporters. In the three years I’ve been running this blog, I’ve received one, promptly deleted angry comment a year: always from Anonymous, and always about some real-life celebrity I insulted. You guys should see the comments I got when I spoke on Janet Jackson’s cutlery cheeks, lmao. Girlfriend has some SERIOUS stans!
Talking to the former dean I referred to in my comeback post about the popularity of my blog and some of my concerns surrounding that, she also had some profound things to say. One of them was that all those page hits show that others out there can relate to my story. She reminded me that I’m very well-equipped to tell it. And what a wonderful position to be in, reaching so many people at once with two of my most powerful tools: words and the internet.
My mind was blown all over again.
Something else the dean noticed is that my face and personality is all OVA this blog. She said she doesn’t think that’s unintentional, and she’s right. Especially in IT, women like me need a voice. Some people out there don’t even know that we exist, much less what we look like or think about or the obstacles we have to overcome. Very few, if any, others in a position similar to mine seem to be speaking to and for us, leaving me to claim what is rightfully mine. Woop woop.
The dean said my story is very inspirational, and that more than a few girls and women—and boys and men, too—need to hear it. All of it.
So long story short: I’m gonna keep venting and trash-talking all over this internet, and those who feel me are gonna keep reading and relating.
Seems like a fair enough deal, no?
6/19/12
Like Crabs In a Barrel
Since childhood I’ve heard the same refrain: “You’re different/weird/trying to act white/bougie.” Certain family members and peers were first; the rest of the world soon followed. As I’ve said in a previous post, I’m blind and deaf to the BS. But this sort of talk in particular annoys the hell out of me.
Who says being different is bad? They always say it like it’s a bad thing. And maybe it is, for them: being different and breaking out of somebody else’s mold for you is a threat to the mundane. Being different is also a threat to more than a few people’s egos—especially if you succeed at it. If being different means I don’t have to turn out like them or have their life, then yes, I am all about being different!
A former co-worker around my mom’s age said to me, unprompted: “You’re so weird and wild.” She was looking at the wall stickers with which I’d decorated my small, bland, awkwardly-shaped office space. I don’t see how that’s weird or wild—even she was unable to explain herself when I asked what exactly she meant by that—but again: threat to the mundane-slash-breaking out of others perceptions of what can be and definitely is possible. It also helps that I trust the opinion of very, very few people over 50.
The “trying to act white” bit is a killer: it slays me every time
I even heard this from a white girl* once… sad. And confusing. Anyways, who says wanting something better for yourself is evidence of wanting to be white? No race in particular has a monopoly on success. The very thought is self-hating for those who espouse it. I made a decision very early on to not let the barriers other people put up for themselves—and subsequently try to create for others: misery LOVES company—keep me down.What I think such people are saying when, according to them, someone is “acting white”— that is, when I actually hear them—is that they have never observed someone that looks like them doing big and varied things… legally
That’s sad in and of itself—read a book or something—but if they need somebody to show them how it’s done, I’ve already stepped up to the plate and made my home here. Come visit sometime, but minus that nonsense you be talkin’.Being a young, different, weird, white-acting-to-some-ignoramuses kinda gal, OF COURSE people are gonna think you’re a member of the elite, the bourgeois, the bougie. I actually don’t see much wrong or incorrect about this statement. What is wrong, though, is the implication behind the word: that me—and others like me—think we’re better than others. In my world, there is a distinct difference between those who unapologetically can vs. those who willingly don’t. Whether they realize or not (probably not), there is a choice which camp you belong to. I refuse to be restricted by those in the Willingly Don’t camp projecting their views of themselves and their self-imposed limits onto me. They know good and damn well they wouldn’t tolerate that from somebody else, why should I?
Mind over matter, my sweets.
I never really understood—well, cared to understand—the whole crabs in a barrel mentality. But I totally get it now. If you’re in a bushel of crabs, about to hit the boiling pot, and you see some other, infinitely more fabulous crab near the top on the verge of escaping, hells to the no you’re not going to fester and die alone! I get it.
But I’m not a part of it. I’m too busy getting out.
*Said white girl was also a real, live, in the flesh prostitute (not exaggerating, she was rather proud of it), making her comment even more comical and strange. This is real life, yo! Hoes be losing... hardcore. [back to paragraph]
6/15/12
Who Runs the World… Girls! (and Women)
6/6/12
The motivation for me was them telling me what I could not be... oh well
::Peeps out from behind the drop curtains bashfully::
How ya been dudes & dudettes? I know I've left you hanging since January (omg longest blog break evarrrr), but only for fantastic, magical, and fabulous, fabulous reasons.
This past April/May was a very transformative time for me: I got a new job, complete with title and pay upgrade (woop woop!), left some dusty b*tches in the dirt where they belong, hit up my five-year class reunion (a former dean asked me if I was famous after hearing about my blog taking off... lol. More on that below), moved into my very own, no roommate apartment in the city that birthed me... and much, much more. The changes have been magnificent and wonderfully overwhelming.
Throughout all of this change & excitement, one of the things keeping me going was all the people that told me it wasn't possible--a former college classmate had the balls to tell me to my face that because he doesn't read blogs, what is the point of creating and maintaining one and who reads blogs, anyway.*
The ones who questioned what I was doing and why, especially with a degree in Literatures & Cultures in English (with a focus on Expository Writing, heyyy).
The ones who did everything in their limited power to try & discourage me from this success.
Hi haters!
My own father didn't even see it for me; as a techie himself, he didn't
see the point in concentrating in English at an Ivy League school when,
according to him, "You could study that anywhere and for much cheaper."
Perhaps. But is IT something other than languages and codes and
communication? Because last time I checked, it wasn't. Going to a school
like Brown helped me see that, and an infinite number of other valuable things. Having graduated and proving even--no, especially--my Daddy wrong helped him see that, too.
Anyways, for those naysayers I have only a phrase and a song.
Phrase: "Getcha hustle up hoe, look like you doing bad."
Song:
To the lovers & friends, the supporters who saw it for me & this blog, the ones all over the world who buy & rock my Lego heart pins, the ones who helped prep and guide me along the way, I have a song, too:
I may not have as much time to update the blog as I'd like these days, but the payoff and recognition continues to astound me. Recently, the butcher at the grocery store recognized me. He called out from behind the counter, saying I looked familiar and asking if I had a blog. When I confirmed I do have a blog but haven't updated in a while--no name-giving, cuz I'm not tryna be stalked in these skreets--he yelled out "Lisa Bee!"
Though I have this very public blog--whose page hits are in the six figures now, after months of no updates... thank you, readers and curious haters!--in real life I'm an immensely private person and it kinda concerned me that some random at the grocery store identified me. Especially since I never hit up the meat counter, I buy my meat pre-packaged and -processed like a healthy person
My own family members check this site regularly looking for some insight into my personal life--I can't really blame them: hey, I'm an interesting person (so I hear). But what a strange dichotomy that I feel more comfortable sharing with complete strangers than my own fam, especially via the internetz. It is what it is I guess, but know that if you want the actual realness, face-to-face and not stalker-to-personal blog is it, baby. This blog offers but a small and carefully curated glimpse into the awesomeness & complexity that is the Real Lisa. Bet that.
In addition to the off-the-street recognition, every time a former professor of mine** travels around the world--France, the Netherlands, LA, NYC--I always, always get another heart pin order from some mystical, faraway place on the globe. This, too, in addition to the naysayers, lets me know I'm doing something right. It motivates me to keep going.
The response has been and continues to be overwhelming. I wish I could promise you a set date on which to expect my next post, but between being a bawse and stepping my money game all THE way up, it's tough to say. There's many exciting new developments on the horizon, and so very much to learn and share with you guys & gals.
It's going to be one hell of an experience and I want to take all of you along for the ride.
Be patient, my dears. I'm coming back for you.
* This from a guy who also works in IT. Cute, right? But just like "dude"--notice that's in quotation marks--had the cajones to tell me that to my face, I have bigger & heavier balls that drag when I walk. Slain people--"The pen is mightier than the sword"--& small ideas can't rise from the dead. Nice try, though. [back to paragraph]
** The one whose "Electronic Media" course--in which we had to basically build our own website through which to tell a creative non-fiction story by the end of the semester...yes, it was an English class--sparked my interest in doing all this web stuff as a career. [back to paragraph]
7/26/11
I'm baaaaaaaack
It's been a long time... I shouldn't have left you... without a dope beat to step to:
Yeah, I know. It's been a hot minute since I've had the chance to update my blog ::crickets chirping:: The fact of the matter is, I got super busy working and being on my freelance grind within the past two months or so. Like anything that I'm passionate about, I threw myself into networking and securing tech and writing gigs full force... unfortunately, to the detriment of other things I enjoy doing, like blogging (and my nails). I'm sorry about that.
What I'm not sorry about is the major changes that are going on in my life right now. Not only did I start from scratch doing something I know knew little to nothing about (freelancing), I did it all while still dealing with the aftermath of the car accident I was involved in last September. And I did it successfully
There were a few bumps along the road, namely issues with payment and figuring out how to organize my time. When you're in business for yourself, you're always on the clock. And being my own boss was, as I've said previously, one of the most rewarding yet challenging things I've ever done. Needless to say, I haven't had much time to devote to the one thing that started it all (besides my drive and ambition, of course 
But I'm back now, with tales of my fantastical adventures (freelance and otherwise), updates on my hair & nail situations, hella dope music, and my wry, irreverent take on current events and assorted randomness. Stay tuned, folks!
6/9/11
New Obsession: The Hershel (woo!)
After much debate over its hilarity--or lack thereof--the bf FINALLY managed to get me to see the genius in a little cartoon called Squidbillies.
A family portrait: Granny, Rusty, Lil, and EarlyMy Squidbillies epiphany came with one episode: "The Original Gator Hator," which features the star of Lil's litter of squids with an unknown man, that star being Hershel Walker Cuyler Them Dawgs Is Hell Don’t They (I call him "Baby H" for short).
Baby Hershel's little "woo!" gets me everytime. D'awwww.
Some background on Baby H:
- Partially named after mixed martial artist, former football player, and Georgia native Herschel Walker
- Unofficially adopted by his Uncle Early, whose yell of destruction he adorably imitates
- Impresses Uncle Early with his incredible acts of violence (i.e. killing off the rest of his siblings after Early takes the litter to see Saw 3)
- Shaped like a molar, slightly cock-eyed, fond of giant hats
5/12/11
This made me LOL: "Imma Get U Back OFFICIAL VIDEO"
OMG why?! That kitchen... the basement... shoulda never gave you nuccas the internet and a green screen, smh. He's not gonna get anything back but a restraining order with this mess!
4/15/11
It's the #ReturnOf4Eva ho!
I've been bumpin' Big K.R.I.T.'s latest (and entirely self-produced) mixtape, Return Of 4eva, since it dropped on March 28th. I knew he was good from hearing him on tracks with other artists, including Curren$y and Wiz Khalifa...
...and from downloading his previous mixtape, K.R.I.T. Was Here (2010), but Return Of 4eva tops even that worthy effort.
With his infectious Southern drawl and laid-back, bass-heavy beats, K.R.I.T.'s sound is certainly enticing to the ear. I'm a sucker for accents--I even want my future kids to have an English one for no reason except mommy's entertainment--and K.R.I.T.'s thick-as-molasses Mississippi twang captivates and charms just as much as his beats and rhymes.
He also hilariously drops references to other classic hip hop songs throughout the mixtape, as he does on the hook to "High & Lows" (if you're up on your rap game, you may recall the "All these horny girls wanna fuuu..." line from the Slimm Calhoun ft. Andre 3000 song "It's OK"). You can also hear Project Pat's "Alright, alright, alright, alright" from "Chicken Head" on K.R.I.T.'s "Sookie Now" ft. David Banner, and Andre 3000's doubtful questioning from Outkast's "Miss Jackson" on the retro-sounding "R4 Theme Song." This is one of those rare albums for me where every one of its 24 tracks is worth a listen.
Return Of 4eva leaves no doubt as to why K.R.I.T. was selected as one of XXL's Top Eleven Freshmen of 2011. He is certainly one to watch. Give your ears and bass system a gift and download K.R.I.T.'s free mixtape tout suite (that's French for "with the quickness"):
4/7/11
The Color Purple
Purple is the color of royalty according to human color psychology. It became associated with royalty and nobility from Greco-Roman times, when Tyrian Purple was only affordable to the elites. The color is even said to have been a favorite of Egyptian pharaoh Cleopatra. It's also said that a purple room can boost a child's imagination or an artist's creativity.
"Combining the stable and calming aspects of blue with the mystical and spiritual qualities of purple, Blue Iris satisfies the need for reassurance in a complex world, while adding a hint of mystery and excitement."There's even a purple language, so to speak. There's more than a few phrases out there incorporating the color in terms both positive and negative. A "purple cow," for instance, is something remarkable, eye-catching, or unusual. "Purple prose," which describes exaggerated or highly imaginative writing, tends to be used negatively. "Purple speech" is profane language, and "purple haze" describes a drug-induced state of confusion or euphoria--a strain of potent marijuana and a type of LSD are the usual culprits.
Believe it or not, there's a word for fear of the color: porphyrophobia. Yet, nothing in the modern English language rhymes with purple (or orange for that matter). Unique!
If you've been following my blog for a while, you may remember my Chakra Khan post. There, I mentioned how the color purple correlates to the Crown chakra at the top of one's head. This chakra is often pictured as a lotus flower (the symbol of which I have tatted on my wrist... #winning), opening to allow spiritual awakening in an individual. The Crown chakra is also considered the well that intuitive knowing is drawn from. In other words, the Crown chakra--and its correlated color, purple--is a tool used to communicate with one's deeper spiritual nature.Purpleness is next to godliness, as they say
Purple also has sexual connotations. I first became aware of this back when Teletubbies was popular. Everyone said the purple one was supposed to be gay because of his coloring, the triangle shape on top of his head (a gay pride symbol), and because he clearly spoke with a male voice but carried a purse.* A little Wiki searching helped me figure out how all that purple = gayness stuff came about:
The purple hand is a Lesbian Gay Bisexual and Transgender (LGBT) symbol that derives from an incident which occurred on Halloween night, 1969, when sixty members of the Gay Liberation Front (GLF) and the Society for Individual Rights (SIR) staged a protest at the San Francisco Examiner in response to a series of news articles disparaging LGBT people in San Francisco's gay bars and clubs.Wow. How did people instantly learn random facts before the internet again?
Anyhoo, that's the extent of my interesting purple facts, so my ode to the color ends here. Well, after this quick shoutout:
*A little murse (male + purse) action never hurt anyone! I'd totally carry one if I were a dude... or at the very least, some kind of messenger bag. Cue that Beyonce song:
3/2/11
If you like RuPaul's Drag Race, you'll ♥ Maurica from the LES
These videos have been giving me life since yesterday. I love this bish, she sounds just like my Dominican girl friends from NYC. All she cares about is finding someone to pay for her tits and her BBQ, and I can respect that. Kinda NSFW (glorious, filthy language throughout) but you'll live if you just turn the volume down a notch or plug in some headphones. DASSIT. Partake!
2/19/11
Video: Kanye West ft. Rihanna & Kid CuDi - All of the Lights
The video for "All of the Lights," off Kanye's acclaimed My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy album, dropped today. Early thoughts: very colorful, kinda basic... then again, his last video was pretty macabre. What do you guys think? Personally, "All of the Lights" is a dope song but, admittedly, I'm a bit underwhelmed with the video.
