If you haven't already heard, Jersey's latest sensation since Joe Budden is a cat who goes by the name of MFeenz.
Feenz gave up a life of hustling and bead-snatching in the NOLA to take on a life of local news by day, and pop culture reporting by night. Long gone are the days of diamond-encrusted chains and video girls with low SAT scores. Feenz has replaced those accessories _ donning a shamefully expensive camera around his neck at all hours of the day, and personally caring for all those King Magazine models who are now out of work (and surprisingly interested in becoming mojos - mobile journalists, that is - like their man Mike).
Please check out the latest pop culture commentary - from Lil Kim to those Harlem Heights kids over at his blog mfeenz.com.
In addition to taking over as the other half of my listening pleasure (one half being anything from Toronto-rapper Drake), Keri Hilson has totally rekindled my love for sneakers, or sneakies, as I've decided to call them (or type them, because to be honest, I don't think I'd actually say "sneakies" but I'd definitely type it: "sneakies" ... see, it's kinda cute).
As her apparel in videos and public appearances seem to suggest, homegirl appears to be quite the fan. Today, after lunch with my cousins, I copped the above bad boys: tan canvas, a yummy cherry print and yellow soles layered over white rubber, and just a touch of gray. Mmmm, I don't know about you, but that just made my left ovary quiver.
For a while there, I'd quelled my desire for sneakies. In a conscious effort to achieve my highest level of everyday sexy, I was sticking to a heels-only shoe plan. I mean, I wasn't rocking stilletos around the city every single day, but I was committed to boots with at least a 2.5 inch heel.
The angle and height just do something for my hips -- I mean, the look of 'em at least. And I have a couple tricks for making the experience comfy. Nonetheless, it dawned on me today that sneakies do something undeniably good for my spirits.
Pulling open a box of fresh Nikes, slipping the sneakers past the crisp off-white paper, sliding them onto my waiting, new-sock covered feet. WHEW. Just puts me through the roof, baby.
And I mean, what's sexier than inner-happiness manifesting itself in the outer appearance?
Right, that's what I thought. And they're comfortable too.
Thank you, Keri Hilson. I didn't like your jeans in the "Turning Me On" video, but I do like your taste in sneakies.
I came in to work today and was totally wow'd by a story about this brother Jerome White. The 27-year-old grew up listening to Japanese music with his Japanese grandmother.
Now, Jero (as he's known) lives in Japan, and performs traditional enka (it's a Japanese music genre). He's a pop star and all that. Peep the AP article here.
Don't let the yoga and Brit soul music fool you, n.harlem wakes up feeling gutter some days. So, from now on, Saturdays shall be deemed "Stuntin' Saturdays." That's not to be confused with "Soulful Sundays."
If Damon Dash took over Jay-Z's "Big Pimpin" boat (complete with video girls), steered it up the Hudson River to retrieve the remaining members of Dipset, a couple well-toned, artsy male dancers and a DJ ...
If Mr. Dash took the yacht out to sea, found himself shipwrecked on an island where a trail of popcorn and queen-sized pantyhose led to the only known signs of human life -- Tyler Perry's School of Acting, Directing and Sangin,' perhaps ...
If all the boat's crew signed up for classes, found their way back to New York, and opened up a show at 37 Arts in Manhattan, then do you know what you'd have?
You'd have “Hip-Hop Monologues: Inside the Life and Mind of Jim Jones,” - a show that I can best describe as a an album come-to-life -- musical interludes, raps and heavy on the skits ... I mean, acting.
The performance told Jim's real-life story through a fictional scenario. The scenario, you ask? A trip back to the hood puts Jones in the wrong place at the wrong time. He's left at the mercy of a judge who orders the Uptown guy to complete three tasks 1) talk to the kids, 2) apologize to the women and 3) attend a sex addicts anonymous class.
Yeah. Like, for real.
Jones' efforts to complete the tasks takes audiences on a journey through the rapper's sordid past - from his early days selling drugs (at his mother's behest), to his emergence as The Diplomats second-in-command.
Where the performance lacked in polish, its cast made up for in enthusiasm. Jones' story ain't Broadway steak, but, it's a damn fulfilling sandwich from the deli - lots of flavor, sufficient meat and nothing short of expectation. There were a couple laugh out loud moments, a few sad ones too, and in the end ...
Get your hands out! Now somebody pat me on the back for FINALLY paying for my cruise to the Bahamas.
In honor of the occasion, check out this video that my best friend just LOVES.
Unfortunately, K won't see the post. She's boycotting Stoopidfreshmind because of a post she thought would be detrimental to a certain love situation I find myself in. (Baby, come back!)
Sorry, I say too much. Is it too early in the morning to blame it on the alcohol?
Sometimes I look back on my childhood and wonder how the heck I made it out.
I mean, my girls and I would go on hours-long bike rides - no helmets, no cash, no cell phones -- not even an old Dasani bottle filled with tap water. One summer, we rode our bikes from 41st and Cleveland all the way to K-Mart off Cline Avenue.
And for nothing.
We didn't even have money to buy drinks from the 25 cent pop machine out front.
(If you're not from my neighborhood, then lemme tell you that the trip included some double-lane streets, a small bridge, a couple sex offenders in rusty backwood doublewide trailers, several perilous dog encounters and so on. Oh, and pop=soda if you were scratching your head about it.)
A week or so ago, my homeboy and I were stealing ... er, um ... cultivating music from the Internets, and he was saying how much he wanted to acquire Jodeci's "The Show, The After Party, The Hotel" album.
Apparently, the song "S-More" was his jam back in 5th grade. And just in case you don't recognize the title, let's review the lyrics, shall we?
Open up my door I hear you knocking at my door Let's me know you want more Come and get it if you with it I'll touch you How you like it Is it sensitive Do you wanna give, give s-more
This was his jam at age 10. And yet, 15 years later, P is not a sex addict, nor a womanizer. (I don't think.)
Sometimes I wonder how years of listening to Total didn't launch me into a world of weird phone sex orgies and stripping.
What songs did you listen to back in the day that have you wondering how you made it to adulthood somewhat well-adjusted? Take any risks that somehow didn't result in your death?
Share, children. Mama wants to know! We all want to know.
One day, before I'm old and wrinkly, I'd like to check out South by Southwest. Sigh. Just add it to the list along with meeting Maya Angelou and doing naked yoga on a mountain in Fiji.
Check out E. Badu's freestyle somewheres 'round the end.
This video is a departure from my usual. BUT, it's Saturday, and I'm feeling kinda froggy. So, yeah. Check out All American Rejects' "Gives You Hell." Ah, the lives we could live. Personally, I like the rocker life better.
If you live in the Chicagoland area, then you're probably sick of the song I'm posting. In which case, you can go to YouTube and listen to "Candy Rain" (cuz that's what I was going to post).
Sorry. I've been listening to WGCI "LIVE ONLINE" for the past three days. And since I haven't gotten my fill of Steve Harvey and Strawberry Letters, I'll keep doing it!
So check out K'Jon and his single "On the Ocean." I'm listening while I drink my O.J. What chu doin?
I'm posting this song, not necessarily because I like Daniel Merriweather (although I do), but mostly because I love Adele and she sounds fantastic on this joint.
"Water and a Flame" ... it's a song about a love affair that just cannot/will not work out.
I thought about a myriad blog topics this morning on my way to work, but didn't feel passionately about any.
_ There's the man I may or may not have worked with at some point in my life (not necessarily now), who unashamedly poots at his desk. This guy literally lifted his right booty cheek and groaned upon release. -- Oh, I mean, he may or may not have ...
_ The death of my roomie's beloved beta fish, Chico. Peter took him to the toilet. I hit the handle. And Felipe mourned.
_ The grits I desire, and the bacon I'd like to see on the side.
_ The advice I got on avoiding men who can't commit. The source? A 36-year-old man who has never been married, has no children and owns no real estate. In a backward way, he knows what he's talking about.
_ Oh, and of course, there are the recent train stories: the baby I secretly took a picture of (sorry, she was uber-cute, clinging to somebody's pink lipgloss). And then the girl who gave me the most predatory stare EVER ... thought I'd have to hit her with a Rollerblade. It doesn't matter if your shades are mirrored, dude. We're the only two people on this end of the train and your whole head is turned in my direction. I'm afraid.
I didn't think any of those were blog post worthy. At least not on their own. But HEY, I'll be back.
Is it necessary to break up with somebody you aren't in a relationship with?
A friend of mine has gone on two dates with a certain somebody, and will meet with that CS (certain somebody) today to say: "Hey buddy, this isn't going anywhere."
At first, I thought "breaking up" with this CS would be a total overreaction. I mean, why make it a point to tell somebody you've hung out with twice, that they suck a little, and that you'd much rather get stuck on an elevator with Lou Dobbs, Nancy Grace and a full bladder, rather than hang with them another moment.
Sounds like an unnecessary infliction of pain.
But my friend says this CS has grown quite attached -- even referring to the situationship as if it were a burdgeoning relationship. So I later agreed that, perhaps, letting this guy know in no uncertain terms that there will be no relationship is probably the best way to go.
I guess if I were REALLY into somebody, I'd want that somebody to let me know if I was the only one on the loveseat feeling butterflies.
What do you think?
Is it necessary to break it off with somebody you're just not that into, or would it be better to simply fade into the background (stop returning text messages consistently, sending them to voicemail, unfollowing them on Twitter ... unfriending them on Facebook)?
Did I hear music by Lemar and just not dig it initially, or is this really my first time? Can't tell, but I heard this on Pandora.com and kinda liked it.
My weekend was a series of brunches, lunches, dinners and movies. I got the black polish poppin' at Taste of Asia nail spa, copped some jeans that fit both my tush and my waist and hung out with some family, a buddy from IU and a homie from high school.
And since that thang _ the weekend, I mean _ is just ending for me, I'm gonna cautiously ease back into the blogging thing. Don't wanna rattle myself, y'all. :)
So here are some tunes to listen to while you read your email and update your Facebook, Twitter and GChat statuses. (I heard this jam on my way in to work. Hope it does for your day what it did for mine.)
it's what i like to a call "a turning point" ... sure, it doesn't look like much, but it means TONS.
a friend of mine gave me a little lecture about all this unnecessary cynicism i've been spreading around the universe. GUYS! i really do, in my heart-of-hearts, think folks _ women folk, men folk _ we're all just trying to be happy. and despite any previous ruminations, i really count myself among that number of happy-seeking people.
i have a cadre of wonderful men in my life. all of whom are contributors to the overall wonderfulness of the world. djs, activists, writers, hoopers, trappers (ok, ok, the trappers are works in progress), teachers, blue-collar hunks --- and despite my part in a couple bad romantic situationships, i really do believe that the good men in my life are indicative of the men out there in the world.
trying their best. flawed, but in a good way. supportive. wanting to be needed. fellow builders. all that good stuff.
i now declare today "say something good about brothas" day. yes, i know, i know. that should be the policy every day.
but i've decided to make an active effort to manifest good words, especially in those place where i've been anything but positive.
spread the love. and dance in your underwear today. just cuz. :)
Chiiiild, I woke up this morning, and if I must say so myself -- your girl's curls were banging.
I hopped on the train with my vanilla frap-in-a-bottle, closed my eyes after I was done and I was finally able to shuffle through the iPod Touch without opening my lids. (Add that to my ability to do headstands and fry bacon, and you'd think I was a superhero.)
On my walk to work, I heard two loooovely songs, I thought I'd dedicate both. The first is for Gelly, who listened to me whaa-whaaa-whaaa all week; and the second is for A-Rab who has done the same. I love you both.
For you, E. :) Thanks for listening ... and advising through your weird experimentation.
Addendum @ 8:56 a.m., March 14 ... I do NOT accept my future as a drunk auntie. LOL. I was having a bad day when I wrote this (obviously), and after further review, have decided wholeheartedly that I will indeed get rocked up (left ring finger) and have beautiful little curly-haired babies who'll be the ring-bearer and flower girl, respectively, at somebody's wedding. I may still, in fact, get a little tipsy at the reception, but will NOT -- I repeat -- will NOT be the drunk auntie. "Too cute for that ..." ;) ************* This is the sign that I've decided to wear on my chest. After having accepted my future as the favorite-auntie who's drunk at everybody's reception, I am at peace.
Well, I'm not really at peace, but I'm at least on chill. I'm practicing for my new role by drinking copious amounts of patron and then attempting to do the Casper Slide ("Two").
A friend of mine may or may not have posted a video on my Facebook wall of herself (and a backup dancer) singing "Paranoid."
It was hilarious. And minus the part about checking a guy's phone and whatnot (I turned in my detective badge in 2007), the whole "insisting on being alone" thing is true. BUT HEY! This isn't about detailing my failures in love (I like to talk about them broadly so that, although you're SURE that a certain topic refers to something I'm going through, you won't go sending me the numbers of couselors in my area or the names of books I need to order). So I'll continue to love timidly, question everything a man says even if I see it on his license and walk cautiously even when it's unnecessary. And Stoopidfresh will continue to be about music, and, of course, lists like this:
HOW TO SPOT A FUTURE "DRUNK AUNTIE": 1) Her philosophy on men starts with the phrase, "Lemme tell you why ninjas ain't sh*t ..." I, of course, have moved beyond such tell-tale phrases. I just say cynical things and dress 'em up like fact. For example ... well, wait, I don't wanna say because then you might try to call me out later. 2) She lets you know that she does not cook, she will not cook and that you must be out your rabbit(rabid?)-ass mind to even THINK she should cook. Granted, I'm no chef, but I try. And to tell the truth, I don't actually think the unattractive thing about not cooking is the actual absence of cooking. I just happen to think that a long list of "NOT gonna do" its is usually an express pass for the drunk auntie line. Do-ers get laid. Keep it in mind. 3) "Two Can Play That Game" is her Bible, and she worships at the church of Alexis K Taylor. The eye-for-an-eye, pre-determined reaction for his reaction to your action game plan never works. In real life, Morris Chestnut would have thrown Vivica the deuces five minutes after "Brickhouse" stopped playing. (Okay, maybe not that quickly, but you know what I'm saying.) And as for Taylor ... lol. Sometimes she is indeed telling the truth, but most of the info will just make you into a Robocop, paranoid about a fella's every motive.
I'd keep going, but quite frankly, it's Friday (and Saved By the Bell the College Years is on). So on that note, add your own thoughts. You know I loves em.
This is my roadmap of a break-up. It's a little long, so if you want to skip all the wordage, then scan on down to the video and E.Badu will break it all down for you in 10 minutes. Feel free to disagree, to add, to not ... I'm just happy you're here. :) Each one, teach one. ------------
Break-ups are a mother.
The arguments, the power struggles ... wearing out your iPod battery because you've been playing "Get It Together" on repeat while you wait for the celly to show a missed call, a text, a voicemail ... "damn mufudga, call me! Call me ... rrrr, I hate you!"
Like I said ... break-ups are a mother. Sure, one second you're feeling like Chrisette Michelle on her new joint. Making a little list of Things To Do: Bobby the next-door-neighbor (kiiidding); delete cell number; delete photo album from trip to Rhode Island; throw away bear ... oh wait, no, keep him; tell bear what a sucky, deadbeat daddy he has; change Facebook status ...
But after all is said and done _ unless he (or she ... cuz I'm an equal opportunity hater) was a total bum, then there's always that twinge in your belly at the thought of your past lover flashing their pearlies, or even ... GASP ... bumping uglies with a new Betty (or Beau).
This is the turning point for some -- the point in which at least one of the two parties may wave the white flag and turn the ship around. I mean, who wants to wait until AFTER their recently-X'd boo has spit-shined all the boys (or girls) on the yard to get the old thing back together? Right. Nobody. Which means early intervention is necessary. The relationship MUST be mended. (Usually the person saying this is just being selfish, and still won't be sh*t after the return happens. But they're sure happy as h-e-L.L. Cool J. that you aren't rocking anybody else's bells.)
If both or at least one of you can stay focused on the fact that the relationship actually did suck, then there's stage four. (Oh yeah, 702 was stage one, Chrisette was stage two, and jealous-twinge was stage three. Keep up.)
Stage four = anger. This is the "you tried to trick me" stage. It's when you start thinking, "This no-lovin David Blaine son of a b-word had me folding his shirts and skipping out on Cosmos with the girls!" or "This shady heifer had me rubbing her feet and cleaning the ice off her windshield ... flipping pancakes and acting in love. And she breaks up with me??! FRAUD!" Things can get ugly here. But please, leave the window-busting to Jazmine Sullivan. That ish will getcha locked up.
There's a chance that the so-called fraud will feel the need to defend their previous loving. They'll reassure the tricked party those feelings were NOT fake. In which case the other party get the warm feelings back and begin to think ... "wait, maybe he/she did mean all those things. I can't leave!" This can, of course, result in the make-up Jodeci tunes replacing all those damn Toni Braxton, Donny Hathaway, "Love & Basketball" soundtrack, "Sad Love Song" playlists.
Three nights of flipping the mattress and then both parties may or may not begin to realize that the problems are still there. Conversations about what went wrong will happen, and this could go really well or really terribly ... and so, of course, the process may or may not begin all over again, and it's back to 702.
Whatever the case, the ish is a terrible cycle. And it's why I will no longer be involving myself in such matters. (I may or may not be lying.)
Like I said, break-ups are a mother. And the only dope thing about 'em is the music.
Now, here I am on Okayplayer, as usual, and I run across this "short film" for Jazmine Sullivan's "In Love With Another Man."
Having spent 2/3 of my previous, previous relationship listening to this song and meaning 2/3 of the words, I was ready for something special, something beautiful.
And while anything might seem like a step-up from the visual somewhat-tackiness of "Lions and Tigers and Bears" and the early disappointment of "Bust Your Windows," the latest video has done nothing more than made me resolute in my decision to watch the fan-made version of the video.
By that, I mean I'll be watching a five picture loop of Jazmine in various photoshoots ... all images stolen from the net and slapped into an iMovie file.
At least then I wouldnt' have to fight my way through this "movie" which reminds me of something from a public access drama. I've seen more heat from episodes of "Ghostwriter." And as I remember it, nobody's voice or choice in clothing was as annoying as the ones selected for this poop.
That being said, judge for yourself.* And enjoy ...
Hopefully you listened to the "No Mo Bacon" song. (If not, then scroll down and click on the guy who looks like your church basement-dwelling Uncle Charles.) Now check out The-Dream's remix to "Rockin That Thang."
Remember that episode of "Saved By the Bell" when Jessie takes all those caffeine pills and in a druggie meltdown begins singing "I'm so excited ... I'm so excited ... I'm so ... scared," -- remember that?
Well that's not what this post is about. That was just an exercise in remembering. On to the meat and potatoes ...
At this very moment, I'm watching the episode of "Saved by the Bell" where Jessie meets a guy on a blind date at the Max, and falls deeply, madly almost in love (conversation rules the nation) with him. Then of course, Mr. Dreamy hops up from the booth and reveals himself to command the height of one who is knee-high to a Canadian goose in snowshoes.
Almost instantaneously, Jessie regrets inviting Tiny Tim to a party she's attending. So why the change of heart?
As if the vertically-challenged don't have to deal with enough (what with hemming pant legs, straining to peer over people at concerts, and struggling to reach the top shelf at grocery stores), it turns out taller people are better compensated than their shorter colleagues.
To add insult to injury, height has not only been linked to larger paychecks and greater self-confidence, but also to higher intelligence.*
Geez, talk about a bum deal.
Which of course leads me to write a little something, something about short men. Sure. I've dated my share. They haven't all been the same, but because I like to work in generalizations sometimes, I'll say that the shorties I've dealt with have in many cases (not all), attempted to make up for their inch-deficiency in jokes, flashiness or scrappiness.
Not always a bad thing. I'm pretty much sold if a guy is funny.
I will admit, however, that I'd be likely to date an unfunny Boris Kodjoe (at least for a spell), and I'd probably date an unfunny guy with Omarion-height just as soon as B2K reunited and took over Obama's cabinet duties.
Despite being a short person myself, I've always pictured my dream guy to be at least a head taller than me. And as a standard, the fellas I tango with are never ever, ever shorter than me. (Cruel, cruel nature, I know.)
For one, I'd have major qualms about passing on two shares of short genes to my future children. (In which case I should probably marry Yao Ming, considering that I'm 5'3.)
And on an even less scientific note, I can't help but think of my father's description of short men as "chappish." -- I think that's Southern, Gary-ese for immature, and therefore more likely to argue with their woman over petty things. The philosophy being that bigger guys are more self-assured, and less likely to feel the need to defend themselves on the small stuff (no pun intended).
Now that I've told you what I think, I wanna know ... what do you think?
This isn't about music, or movies or relationships. I just needed a moment to vent.
In the nearly three years that I've worked for my company, I've spoken to some interesting characters. I've been screamed at by the woman who had her dogs cloned in South Korea (and was later found to be the same one who kidnapped a Mormon man for sex). I've gotten a news tip from Tom Brokaw. Jesse Jackson and his people called (conference-style) when an icon died -- I think it might have been James Brown. I've talked to David Banner while he was making a sandwich, the Dream while he rode through Indianapolis and Mos Def while he was just being his hilarious self.
I get sad calls too. There are veterans who aren't getting their benefits, folks losing their homes to foreclosure, sick people frustrated by their insurance companies, and so on.
But of all the calls I get, I'm always at a loss for words when a parent, or an aunt, or an uncle calls regarding their missing child. What do you say to that person? As much as I want to say sorry, I don't, for fear that I might be confirming the worst. And moreso, I worry that sorry is simply too weak a word, in the midst of a somewhat shallow (on my end) exchange.
I keep it business-like, but of all the calls I field here on the desk - missing child, missing teen, missing anybody stories rattle me the most.
It's Sunday guys, so if you're feeling more reflective than usual, say a prayer for the folks I just described. After I transfer the call, I can never think of anything better to do.
Alicia Key's "Thing About Love" has been on repeat in my iPod headphones for the past 30 minutes, thanks to a longer-than-usual ride on the subway.
You see, friends, I'm what one might describe as the musical version of an emotional cutter. I'm no fan of self-mutilation, blood or any experience associated with suicide, so I'd never do the razor blade thing. (I don't even think I could withstand an 'Indian burn,' to be quite honest. Eek.) And this is not to make light of a serious problem. But rather, to explain that, though I've always had an affinity for depressing music, it's in times of deep shi-dootiness, that I will rotate between Amy Winehouse, new Kanye and Donny Hathaway.
This, of course, leads me to compile a list of "Songs to Wallow in Shi-dooty" to. Feel free to add your own. I'll take them as suggestions.
As one who seems to handle break-ups better than uncomfortable relationships, I could use the list. First up ...
Surely, this list alone should depress you sufficiently. Still, feel free - in fact, I encourage you - to contribute your own sad tunes to my list. Now let me get back to Alicia ...
PS Though I'm sure I'll still be a bit mopey, I'll stop this pity party in approximately 15 hours. I have plans for the evening. :)
So, once upon a time, back when I was still in college and life was a blur of classes, chapter meetings and semi-shacking up, a sista like me was just raring to get away. Two words:
Spring Break.
My girls and I hopped on a plane and headed straight out to sunny Tampa, Florida. Okay, so it wasn't very sunny. But it was 'away.' And while traveling the drunk-girl strewn streets of Ybor City, the ladies and I ran into a group of clean-cut, sexy somethings from Northwestern University. We all linked up a couple times that weekend, and had great fun. In fact, one fella taught me how to stop the fizz in a Corona by stuffing a lime in, corking it with a thumb and flipping the whole shebang upside down.
But this post isn't about that guy, it's about another one. I was taken at the time of the trip, but I couldn't help but to notice a certain cool cat with a Q-Tip swag. His name was ... well, maybe I shouldn't drop his government, but I would like you to check out a DJ set of his own creation.
Throw it on while you get ready for the clizub tonight. Click here.
I think it's cool that Q-Tip was kicking it in the crafts room with Martha Stewart today making -- you guessed it -- Q-Tip holders. Check out .5 seconds of the show featuring Mr. Tribe Called Questhere.
PS A crafty Cathy and a rapper in one room, and it turns out that the rapper isn't the convicted felon. Haha! Take that stereotypes!
American Idol: South Africa style. Lauryn! Roberta! Please come back and show this woman the way. Please!
Addendum: the more I think about it, the more I think laughing at this woman is mean. I take back 89 percent of my laughs. The rest, however, are gonna have to stick. Sorry.
I don't want to like this song, but I do. There's something about Lil Wayne. I love him on remixes, but any other time I just can't seem to contain my hate.
Luckily, I can watch this video and take jabs at him for posing on the strings. "Look! He's a poser! He can't even play the guitar for real. He's faaaaking it, guys!"
(Okay, now I feel better.) Check out "Prom Queen" ... by that one guy ... with the hair.
Despite the fact that I'm on a 90-day date fast. -- No, really ... I'm trying to get in touch with the real me. (Pause.)
And despite the fact that I'm tired of seeing Musiq rebuking spaces in every single song title he has anything to do with, I'm gonna post this video because quite frankly I LOVE the song.
Even though it's all love-infused and slow-winding, and thusly, a detriment to my efforts -- sorta like a playing Whitney a song about " ... all white bricks" -- please listen to and enjoy, "sobeautiful."
Turn to your neighbor and say, "Neighbor, woo woo woo."
I may or may not have gone to the skrip -- I mean, strip -- club last night with the girls. And the DJ may or may not have joked that, "Y'all here cuz you just ain't have sh*t else to do, huh?"
Though I can't confirm whether I or any of my sistren decided to cap off a random night with a random jaunt to a certain silver pole and plastic shoe emporium, I have several new insights -- not just on strip clubs, and dancers, but on everyday relationships.
1) As evidenced by the number of men screaming at the TV, no matter how well a woman can stop, drop and make it jiggle, Dwayne Wade's moves during a big game will garner more attention than any donk will. I don't care that the chick on stage was wearing a neon green bathing suit and see-thru platforms. I don't even think wings and beer would have helped.
Moral of the story: Never gain a talent for the applause of men, or anybody else for that matter. Do the pole stuff for the cardio, and enjoy that chicken with just a dollop of ranch dressing. Delish.
2) A smiling woman isn't necessarily happy. Sorry to bring you down, but I refuse to believe that having some old gym teacher of a man grope and fondle you at the edge of some dusty, sweaty booty-tainted stage would make any woman happy. At least not with a room of 20 men watching (and the other 10 screaming at the basketball game). Perhaps the idea of paying bills brings some sort of reward, but still ... I don't believe the smile. It's not even a cheesy smile; it's one of those empty porn smiles. And I'm not buying it.
Moral of the story: next time a chick smiles _ whether it's after another one of your corny jokes, or perhaps during an awkward first date _ don't believe the hype -- that smile might just be joy that dinner was free, or perhaps she's just too doped up or tired to cry. If she's a baby, then it's gas ... oh, and you're a sicko.
3. Men are from Mars. Women are from Venus. The chick who comes out with the most enviable thigh muscles* makes her way to the stage and leaves with $5. (One friend may or may not have joked that homegirl was supplementing a track scholarship. Her legs were killing the game, I tell you.) But a rather thin woman who comes out in a one-piece, body-hugging overall thing that looks like it was made from a sweater straight out of Bill Cosby's closet -- she walks away with a small fortune.
Moral of the story: Men and women simply have different tastes. (Or perhaps skinny sweater girl had built up a clientele ... I don't know.) Ask your male friends who should win "For the Love of Ray J," and it's likely you'll have different responses.
4. Food and sex go hand in hand. My friends and I, though we may or may not have been at the club, may or may not have seen a man go upstairs with a stripper, only to return to the main floor some 30 minutes later with a fish dinner and a smile.
Moral of the story: Guys want sex and food, and in some cases, don't give a rat's fat one where they get it. Wait, was that a bad generalization? Read the aforementioned sentence with "Some" before the word guys.
5. There is no five. But I didn't want to end the list on four. It just didn't feel right. If you may or may not have been to the strip club, then share what you've learned. For now, check out Chris Rock's take.
