operation: benetton ad.

you see, lovely blog readers, your protagonist has a bit of an issue.

i haven’t had sex in a while, and really good sex (also known as having my back blown out) is such a distant memory that i’ve got a better chance of recalling my life in utero than recounting any details of sexual exploits. so, in what i’ll call my months of solitude, i’ve had the opportunity to think really hard about what i want when i get back out there. i’ve pined away over my usual celebrity eye candy (mos def, chiwetel ejiofor, christian bale, don cheadle, q-tip, et al) and had a few moments to reminisce on past crushes/ eye candy (one time for marvin from trader joe’s and that fine-as-all-fucking-getout dude who used to ride the same train i did a few yrs back). but what i haven’t actively had was some kind of glimmer of hope. anyone who’s really legitimately a potential boo for me. crushes and eye candy won’t do. going back to former paramours won’t work — if they were what i wanted, they would not be formers! instead, i need something new, something fresh . . .

enter operation: benetton ad.
it all started w/ the idea i’ve been kicking around for quite some time: the concept that i should possess a stable of he-bitches of all colors, shapes, and sizes. i mean, why not? i can’t seem to get precisely what i want in one place, so why not split it up? go on foreign film dates w/ my art nerd, hit happy hour with the lush, cuddle up next to the around-the corner boo, have the sponsor get me that dress i want, and quite possibly have one strong backed strapping individual to have me grinning consistently whilst walking crookedly.

well, lo and behold, the warm winds of late spring and summer have blown a lot of newness my way. first, there was that lovely piece of curly haired extra gorgeous southerner, in town for a conference. swarthy, as white folk tend to say. mmm, mmm, mmm. he has a girlfriend and lives far away from philly, so i’ll leave him where he is. until/ unless there’s a reason not to.
second, there was the lite brite (translation: he looks like christopher williams might could be his daddy) from the starbucks near my job. i think he might be slow. but he’s nice to look at. eye candy is important. there’s a young asian man whose family owns the nail salon i go to. he is SO PRETTY. and a youngin. he’s legal, though. seems to be unreasonably interested in the things i use to adorn myself (earrings, bangles, sneakers, nail polish colors). i like him, though, and wouldn’t mind sitting on my sofa w/ him while he paints my toenails. there’s a chicano in the mix, too. he seems to be focused on marrying me and figuring out how on earth my spanish is as good as it is. he makes me laugh. sometimes. the language barrier is interesting.

and then.
lawdy JEEZUS.

today, i met a fine ass barber who gave me his card and said he’d cut my hair tomorrow . . . LORDY BE, I CAN’T TAKE IT.
he’s covered in tattoos. amateurish ones that scream “i’ve been into some bad shit in my life,” and he has the unmitigated gall to smell good. lord help me!
he is, in the words of my beloved uncle, “niggafied.” that’s what he calls any non-black person w/ the most black american swagger ever.
i mean, i prefer to just say he’s very much an around the way asian dude
but the swagger
he got that big dick swagger i tend to only see in black men and others who’ve been victimized by the prison industrial complex.

WOOT

*fannin myself*

but yeah.
i’m building myself a stable so i can get what i want until i’ve had my fill. currently, i’m not even close to being done!

U-N-I-T-Y, that’s a unity . . .

addendum: in my infinite wisdom and continual quest for creative ways to express myself, i have decided to regard to the stable of he-bitches as he-bees. that is, i am a he-bee keeper, and i’m going to be maintaining an apiary of dick. buckwild apiary’s mission statement soon come.

oooh, he can get it.

well, shit, he can.

check the rhyme: john legend, “green light (featuring andre 3000)”

a musical meme

(aj, you’d BETTER answer this shit)

IF YOUR LIFE WAS A MOVIE, WHAT WOULD THE SOUNDTRACK BE?
So, here’s how it works:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that’s playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don’t lie and try to pretend you’re cool…

Opening Credits:

owusu & hannibal, “upstairs downstairs”
word.

Waking Up:
mos def, “mr. nigga”
um, yeah. i guess that’ll work.

First Day At School:
hope, “bring me flowers”
errrrm . . . aight.

Falling In Love:
outkast, “millenium”
me & everything around me/ is unstable like chernobyl . . . yeah.

Fight Song:
kissey asplund, “with you”
makes NO sense whatsoever.

Breaking Up:
muhsinah, “reconstruct”
YES. finally something that makes sense.

Prom:
j*davey, “valley of love”
if i graduated in 1988 and not 1998 maybe it’d fit.

Life:
cee-lo, “bass head jazz”
my life is never this chill. ever. but maybe that’s what i’m headed into?

Mental Breakdown:
bilal, “slyde”
of course it’d be a bilal song. insert ignorant gossipy remark here.

Driving:
the roots, “the lesson pt. 1”
it fits. whaddaya know?

Flashback:
andre 3000, “chronomentrophobia”
the fear of clocks/ the fear of time. yeah. kinda works.

Getting Back Together:
the roots, “the next movement”
the title works. the song itself doesn’t, unless i’m cutting a rug w/ said former boo to this song. and i doubt i would be.

Wedding:
muhsinah, “gogh”
the refrain says “let’s go again” so maybe this works? am i even getting married?

Birth of Child:
candido, “serenade to a savage”
hey, nobody said it was the birth of MY child!

Final Battle:
esperanza spalding, “ponta de areia”
makes.zero.sense.

Death Scene:
res, “how i do”
this shit has zero rhyme or reason, but it totally fits.

Funeral Song:
dwele, “blow your mind”
well, i always did say i wanted motherfuckers to celebrate @ my “homegoing” service.

End Credits:
outkast, “so fresh, so clean”
fuck and yes.

i love this video.

devendra banhart gives me the willies, but:

the video’s concept is kinda fresh.
the song doesn’t suck asscakes.
and for once, it appears that mr. banhart has taken a bath. well, knock me down with a feather.

LOVE the show of kali, as well.

an oldie but goodie

erykah badu’s pussy

isn’t any of my business.

it’s not any of yours.

it’s not any of anyone’s except her, the babies that have and will come out of it, her coochie doctor, and whomever she’s sleeping with.

no matter if it’s wilford brimley, common, all of new edition, the current president . . . IT DOESN’T MATTER.

you aren’t paying any of her bills
what you eat doesn’t make her shit
shut the fuck up
and quit hatin.

cryin like a hit dog

(and maybe you are?)
(this is a rant, straight up)

dear penis-havers:

if you ever find yourself complaining really hard about what another dude is paying for child support, create an advocacy group. do something to change the law. have a balanced, fair, honest assessment of the situations that are being mediated (however poorly or well) by the courts. the “keep a nigga” baby (phonte said that, not me) isn’t the only kind of baby. there’s often the “that nigga switched up” baby, and the “he started doing drugs” baby . . . sometimes the “i really shoulda left that nigga alone when he told me he was married” baby. often, in my experience, there’s the “fuck that, nigga i’m not getting an abortion” baby. why? because abortion isn’t anyone’s fucking party, and male contraception comes in at least two trusty flavors: vasectomy (with a lower mortality rate than a tubal ligation!) and condoms. that doesn’t make any woman less responsible for her own contraception, but i’m sayin. motherfuckers love pointing blaming ass fingers after the kid comes and ppl stop wanting to even look at one another.

often, going to court is a final choice for two otherwise rational adults. in my personal experience, the legal proceedings of divorce kind of demand that agreements be reached (either with or without a court), and put into writing to be made binding unless both parties agree to change things. this is usually effective if the divorce is amicable. if it’s not — and it seems like most divorces aren’t, for the same reasons there are ‘fatherless’ children — then it gets hairy and ignorant.
and nobody’s gonna tell me that everyone remains a grownup when it comes down to the breakdown of a marriage. it’s like when you break up w/ your boo of years (regardless of who’s wrong or right) and emotions get heated. because they do. because you’re human, and so is s/he. fuck outta here… everyone should act sensibly when it comes down to it. but that’s not the most realistic thing to ask when you realize your lady’s been plotting to divorce you for the past six months and only does it after she makes sure you put some money up for a down payment on a house. it can’t happen when you marry your man because the two of you agree that it’s the best thing to do for the new baby, but that jackass stops coming home at a decent hour and smells like some other woman’s pussy when he does. quit fuckin playin.
puffy pays what he pays not just because of his income. back before justin was actually old enough to know the difference between birthdays bein the worst days & sippin champagne when he’s thirst-ay, puff was on that bling shit. before it had a name, he championed it. soooooo, of course misa hylton-brim is gonna get crazy money for that kid. regardless of her own income as a stylist, puffy makes infinitely more money than she does or ever did. that means that per the law in most states/ commonwealths, it’s based on the needs of the child in addition to the income level of both parents before they split up. the lifestyle comes into question. a lot of it is spousal support, too; the idea is that both the custodial parent and child did better as a full on family unit with the non-custodial parent present.
if you don’t like it:
lobby
protest
picket
wrap your dick up
tell your boy to wrap his dick up
make sure you learn what the laws are in your state or commonwealth
be for real for 5 minutes and remember that the biological function of sexual intercourse is to make babies
respect the whole process
and go to your legislators and tell them to change the shit to really help those babies! i believe moms, dads, kinship caregivers, foster parents, adoptive parents, and anyone else who gives a shit about the wellbeing of a child should band together. these fuckers make laws for us all of the damn time that make zero sense in our day-to-day lives. they’re not necessarily living the same way we are. so of course they do seemingly dumb shit like award $20K per month per kimmussell until they’re 20 or whatever. and you know what? it’s warranted, according to the man who has to “foot the bill.” stop looking at the kids like fucking bills. you weren’t thinking about that shit when all that fuckin and suckin was goin on, WERE you? nobody ever is. i’m still childless after one extended stint as an almost baby’s mama. and you know what? that shit scared me right into the place i am right now: focused on taking care of ME.
but that’s another story.
my point is this: for those of us who can’t hash it out like grownups, we go to court or have a spiritual advisor or whomever help us do so. it happens. don’t talk about the shoulds/ should nots simply because that’s a waste of breath. if it’s gonna be so in your fantasy world, put in the work to create the world you want to see.
and start with your kids, nigga, so they might have a chance at doing it differently than you.

** i do agree with some of what tigallo said, particularly about what can happen whilst fuckin with “ain’t shit” individuals. problem: most ppl with errant babies fall into the “ain’t shit”/ TKON affiliate or card carrying member category. i’m just sayin, if the brotha’s raps aren’t lies then he’s personally invested in the whole child support/ separated parents side of life. fine. that’s his walk. but everyone ain’t tay. everyone ain’t russ, kimora, misa, puffy, or even charlie sheen or denise richards.
some of us got too comfortable with someone and when the lil piss test showed two lines instead of one, folks began to show their asses.
then they end up writing songs like “ms. jackson.” even your favorite rapper’s favorite rapper goes through it. we’re not all at the same maturity level. it is what it is.

*shrug*

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