when getting a drink of water from the outdoor hose, let it run a few seconds first due to this morning two slugs came flying out of the hose of possum track when dad turned the water on.
heart dad
Eww.
Stagger Lee is a friend of mine who rolls Jeeps, drinks Crown Royal, fights in desert wars to protect my sweet ivory ass and is generally much, much cooler than me. This essay is hers:
You know, I just looked at the HotGhettoMess.com site, and found it sad, yet funny. And it made me think�
Anyone on your site that knows me personally knows that I can be described as �the whitest black girl I (or we) know.� Even my girlfriend describes me that way, and she�s white.
Why? Is it because I know and use the proper pronunciation of ask? Is it because if I�m fixin� to do anything, it actually involves tools and taking something apart? Is it because I don�t use chemicals in my hair to straighten it out like, say, a white girl�s hair? I don�t understand.
Help me, someone.
Indeed, I am not hood. I lock my doors when I drive through the hood because I�m afraid of getting carjacked, not because I�m expressly afraid of my own people. I don�t listen to a lot of rap music, not because I don�t like it, but because there are only so many times people can be unoriginal before it drives me crazy. I read books because I like to read, not because someone said I had to read. I had roommates in college that were convinced I was white until they met me, based on phone conversations. Damn right I�m not hood.
Everyone knows someone like B-Rad in �Malibu�s Most Wanted.� You know, that one white boy (or girl) that doesn�t seem to understand that they are not from or in the ghetto. Everyone knows someone like Carlton in �Fresh Prince of Bel-Air,� that one black kid who seems so lost because he doesn�t know who he is. Most of us fit somewhere in between those two extremes.
I can still remember when my family moved to North Carolina. My mother fought tooth and nail to get me into the Gifted and Talented Program, because that�s where I was placed in every other school system I had been in. Finally, she succeeded, and that�s when I found out about stereotyping. This was the first time I found out that black equals dumb. From then on, I would be the token black kid in almost any and everything I did in school. And if I wasn�t the only black child in the class, there most certainly would not be a black male in there with me. In junior high, where image is everything, I remember hiding my report card from other kids so no one would think I was a sellout because I was on the smart kid track. When I got to high school, I discovered that the only time I had black kids in my classes was if the class was non-academic in nature (i.e., gym, band, shop). I was actually told by my �guidance� counselor that if I wanted to play sports on a varsity level, that I should pick the easier classes, if I wanted to keep my GPA up. That�s funny, because I had soccer players and tennis players in my advanced classes, and no one told them that they were too hard or taxing on an athlete�s brain. When I applied to NCSSM, my high school told me my grades weren�t good enough. Imagine their surprise when I got accepted and the little white valedictorian wasn�t. Then, they deemed, it must be because of demographics and Affirmative Action. I was subtly told that if I wanted to play sports, it would be better for me to stay at my home high school, which was in a more prestigious conference, than attend NCSSM because I would have more of shot of getting an athletic scholarship from a bigger school. Now, I�m not saying that they told me that because I�m black, but I�m pretty sure they wouldn�t have told me that if I were white.
In college, there was a new twist added; the black guy with white girl �problem.� I had friends whose daily conversation in the quad was about why black man X was with white girl Y, when there were all these fine Nubian sisters out there that he could have. They were totally pissed off about it, even though the white girl was as nice as she could be. During Homecoming, there was a white sorority that entered the step contest, and to the horrors of most black students, they won. Now, of course, according to the majority, it was rigged, and the white girls had to win because if they didn�t, they could claim reverse racism. They won, because they were the best. It�s as simple as that, but please don�t tell my Nubian brothers and sisters out there that there are white people who can dance better than they can. And Goddess help us all, when Eminem came out with The Slim Shady EP, whoo Lord. �That white boy is stealing our music just like Elvis did!� they cried. And like, hello, what was 3rd Bass, a rap trio that was 2/3rds white?! Somebody help me, y�all.
But the main problem, according to my contemporaries, was the interracial dating grand scheme. You know how some people are� white girls are stealing all the available black men that aren�t already gay, in prison, or married from us. That�s funny, since I haven�t noticed any secret plan from any white people that says �steal all the black men.� So I asked around, and heard all kinds of different reasons. However, the three that stuck out most in my mind were: 1) white girls are (supposedly) freakier than black girls. 2) white girls are more longsuffering or put up with more crap than black girls. And 3) they aren�t as ghetto, so I�m moving up in the world. Well, okay then. If you met your white snow princess at the local swap meet, guess what? She is ghetto too. If you believe what talk shows tell you, the average white girl that dates a black guy lives in a single wide trailer (yep, not even a double wide), shoots smack, and dreams of a day when some tall, dark and handsome black man with corn rows sweeps her off her feet to move to the projects with him, his 4 baby mommas, and 6 kids. You would think that if anyone wanted that, black or white, that we wouldn�t want him or her in the gene pool at all. But no, it�s all part of the plan of the white devils. Here�s a newsflash: I personally would say that 80% of white girls with black men are with black men that WE DIDN�T WANT TO BEGIN WITH. Yeah, I said it. And if you�re so concerned, why don�t you go find a man, instead of wondering about hers?
Now, of course, someone will point out the obvious, that I shouldn�t be saying any of this because I�m a lesbian. Yeah, but I�m a black lesbian, dating a white woman, so that puts me in the same category. But you know what? She doesn�t live in a trailer park, has a job that doesn�t involve the words �you want fries with that,� and she�s not dating me to piss her parents off. Here�s the best explanation I can give you: there�s mathematically more white lesbians than black ones. Therefore, it shouldn�t be that much of shock that I�m with a white girl. Should I go out and get a black girlfriend too? Would that make you feel better? Let me make it plain�if my girlfriend was ghetto, she wouldn�t be my girlfriend. There, does that make it easier?
So yeah, I will sit back and laugh at things like www.hotghettomess.com and www.templeofblackjesus.com. You know why? Because that�s not me, that�s not who I am, and that�s not what I strive to represent. Here�s another newsflash for you: if I�m not black enough for you, then you�re probably black. You�re the only people it matters to, anyway. Because no matter what else I do or say in this world, I�m still black. And I will be until the day I die.
Remember that time Kerry pwned Bush in the presidential debate? That was awesome. Honestly, I didn’t know he had it in him. I keep hearing that Kerry’s better when he can come from behind, and he’s won all his races by pulling out the stops at the last minute (that’s certainly what he did to take Iowa). If this is true, then I am for it.
Here are some of my favorite moments from the first debate.
I didn’t see the VP debate because I had class. (“Why don’t you call me sometime when you… have no class.” Rodney Dangerfield, I loved you well). So any feedback from people who did see it would be most welcome.
Don’t forget the next one is Friday, apparently at 9:00 PM on ABC. Town hall. That should be funny. And maybe, oh, I dunno, some domestic issues. Rock. On.
Oh, and I saw Dennis Miller on Leno last night. Boy, does he suck. He’s become like an awful right-wing latter-day Robin Williams — hirsute, sweaty, and spewing a non-stop string of over-prepared material like Teddy Ruxpin. There’s no interaction, no off-the-cuff remarks (and Leno killed by ad-libbing that floundering Toys R Us is more like “Toys Were Us.” The audience preferred a live reaction to Dennis` static routine that Dennis had to skip his scripted joke!)
Gordon Gano + Anthony LaPaglia = Bad Dennis
Heh heh heh. My first writing assignment was a short narrative told visually (which is to say, what you see is what you get — no internal monologues and shenanigans). I daresay I am the grand high champion of WYSISYG writing, even though that means the characters are always glancing and looking and walking and crossing and it’s a bit demented to read (please consult the Shanda and Dan canon for evidence).
Anyway. I thought y`all might get a snerk out of this. This is what my poor professors are up against.
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���Berkeley consulted his list. He was a regular looking white-collar dude, a little soft at the neck and middle, still wearing his suit from the office, but the light of the dairy case was yellow and unflattering to him. He was alone in the enormous aisle with nothing but the sound of his own asthmatic breath and an instrumental version of �Maybe I�m Amazed.� He lightly bounced his hand-cart on his knee in thought.
���The bottom of the list said �YOGURT.� Berkeley looked at the yogurts. There was a lot to look at. There was plain and fruit on the bottom and fruit mixed in and tubs and cups and plastic lids and foil lids and full fat and non-fat and God help me nowadays there was even low-carb. Berkeley sighed and pulled his mobile phone out of his jacket pocket. Immediately, as if summoned, a young woman appeared at his elbow, and he started so badly he nearly dropped the phone.
���She was college age, maybe older, with two big white girl afro puffs like a Fraggle. She wore a tight tank top with a cow on it for interest and a button-down shirt over it for modesty. She had kohl eyeliner and a hemp necklace and a corduroy skirt and Berkeley could not stop staring at her.
����Hey,� she said. �Whatcha buying there?�
����Yogurt.�
����A most EXCELLENT choice!� she said, clapping her hand onto his shoulder and throwing back her head. Berkeley stared at her hand like he�d just found a dollar in a dumpster. �Protein, calcium and active yogurt cultures,� she said. �An excellent nutritional decision. But which will you choose?� She popped her gum noisily as an ellipsis.
����That�s kind of the problem,� said Berkeley slowly.
����Problem? That�s no problem at all. Any of these options would be suitable.� She broke eye contact to wave her arm at the dairy case in a theatrical gesture, and Berkeley took the opportunity to glance at her chest. She looked up and he snapped to attention. �Put that phone away,� she said. He obeyed. �What I would recommend is one of each, my health-conscious friend, my lactose-intelligent compatriot. Each one has its merits as you or your significant other will certainly find. See the �YOGURT� on your list not as a problem – a communication breakdown, a passive-aggressive test of your knowledge – but as an opportunity. Seize that opportunity, sir. Seize it by the convenient individual serving size.�
���Here she cleared her throat and stepped back. The light in the aisle seemed white now, almost holy. Berkeley squared his shoulders, straightened his spine, steadied his gaze and filled his basket with yogurt as high as it would pile. He looked at the girl with the afro puffs and gave her a stiff nod. She nodded back and raised him a small salute. He marched down the aisle out of sight, his basket so heavy he had to hold it with both hands.
���When he was gone, the girl stepped back toward the shadows of the beer case. There she pulled a pen and notepad out of her back pocket and wrote furiously. She flipped it closed. The cover read �NATIONAL DAIRY COUNCIL, Guerilla Division.�
���Just then a man in a work shirt and blue jeans appeared in the aisle, studying the cheeses and the list in his hand with a furrowed brow. The girl with the afro puffs smiled and watched, chewing the end of her pen.