labcabincalifornia: a list


part 2 of 2: why i love the bay-yay(-yay-yay!!!!)

ok, so at first, i hit you up with a mad corny love letter. and now, i present the sequel: a list of reasons why i love and will be moving to the bay.

• the greatest. radio station. ever. while in san fran, my homegyrl and i stayed in a most magnificent two bedroom apartment (for the price of a decent hotel room) on haight and divisidero. though we didn't spend a whole lot of time there, whenever we did, we got high and listened to the radio. though they had a tv and a dvd player back in some corner somewhere, we didn't watch tv the whole time. this is especially crazy b/c i have a serious television addiction. perhaps this proves that if you don't see it, you're less inclined to watch it. anyway, when we arrived, the owner had the smooth jazz channel on. my friend wanted to listen to kcrw, because she digs their music (she streams it when she's in the chi). looking for that station, she came across what is prolly the greatest radio station i've ever heard, 89.9. i've been doing some searching, and i believe the station i listened to was kcrh. not once did i hear that garbageshit they play on all those other "urban" stations. not once did a dj scream over the song. not once did some young girl from the west side call to put her baby daddy on blast. this shit was straight up good, and for four days i had to have the station on as background music whenever i was in the apartment. soon (hopefully), i'll be able to catch the webcast. i am e. lay. ted.
  
• weather. though mark twain (allegedly) said, "the coldest winter i ever saw was a summer i spent in san francisco" (shout out rrrr), with the latest turn in chicago's climate (62 monday, 30 tuesday), i'm willing to spend a wintry summer in the bay. chillyfoggy mornings, relatively warm days, and sorta cold nights? sign. me. up.!!!! all of my life, i have lived in a place with arctic-ass winters, and the most humidest summers. you can never really put up your summer (or winter) clothes, because the seasons are mad menopausal (comma) yo. and you can't trust a forecast for more than 4 hours because it's bound to change. all a homegyrl asks for is a little consistency. the sun ain't gotta shine everyday. i'm just sick of running a tally of "consecutive days when the temperature is below zero."
  
• women. if people think the only great thing in oakland is mc hammer, how wrong they are!!!! i just wanna thank the women of oakland for being so beautiful. (let this be a lesson to all these designer mullet-rocking, too big for a chicago bears lineman white sox jersey wearing, let me do my best performance of a beer guzzling, pool playing lesbian chicago dykes around these parts: the women of oakland have given me hope that i will not have to sleep with any of you. [not that there's anything wrong witcha. you just ain't my cup of chai. i can't hate too much b/c these women get mad dates. hence, i've come to the conclusion that i'm too sexy for chicago like i'm right said fred. (prolly not. but thinking such thoughts is comforting.)] but i just sophia patrillo'd.) anyway, the bay got dem gyrls.
  
• (and the) weed (sticky green). cali got that goodgood (comma) yo. so much so that it mighta contributed to my blackout during a party. yes, a nigga blacked the fuck out in the middle of a party. lemme put this in context. as a general rule: I CAN DRINK YOU UNDER THE TABLE. i don't get drunk (ax nahmix and saf for confirmation). perhaps it's the genes (i love my grandmother for many other reasons), but i can hold my liquor. well, all i know is i got more than tipsy during this party my homie and i attended. maybe it was lightweight jetlag. maybe it was the fact that we'd walked oakland and berkeley having only ingested marijuana and iced chai, but i was so fucked up that i passed out on the couch in the middle of the illest soiree. i don't remember getting high (again) at the party (which i apparently did), but i have, like, 4 flashbacks of the night, two of which involve two quite loverly ladies. i suppose i had a great time. i heard i did. i mean, a nigga woke up, face in the bed, with her puma jacket on upside down...and my kix were a bit dirty. plus, i lost my CELL PHONE!!!! but since the bay is such a wonderful place, not only did i get my celly back, but i got my jean jacket back, too. minus the joint that was apparently in my pocket. fyi: always pass on bacardi and orange juice. (esp. if you like neither rum nor oj)
  
• kind to the visually impaired. everytime we crossed the street we heard different chirps and beeping. i can only assume it's for folks who don't see. that's like the nicest. shit. ever. especially since i often wonder if i'll lose my eyesight...more on that later in the week. i'm just saying: that's a mad nice gesture.
• (hawaii) 5-0. if you ask, the police will call you a taxi. though cab culture is a bit difficult to decipher in the city (in the chicago, cabbies light up "not for hire" signs if they have a customer already, or aren't on duty; and all you have to do is step to the curb and hold out your hand to hail one.), you can get one if you ask the right person. the night after "the great blackout," we were sort of stuck in the middle of nowhere (well, prolly somewhere, but we ain't really know), and we needed a cab. none were lined up in front of the club like they are in the chi. having no idea which way to go, we asked these two police officers who were in the middle of laughing at someone they'd caught doing something in his car. (wtf?) we asked where we might walk to catch a cab, but the police officer just called us one instead, all the while laughing at her suspect. (wtf?)
• politeness. just the most cheerful, nicest, giving random smiles to a stranger mofos i have ever seen. need directions? not only will they tell you, they will make sure you get to the exact spot they just outlined for you. and if they sense you're lost, they will kindly interrupt your convo and give you instructions on how to get on the right train...they're even nice to vandals. that right there is a picture of a sign on a storefront window. could you be any more polite to muhfuckas fucking up your shit? please and thanks? (wtf?)...the homeless folk? wow. i mean. living in the chi, i've been accosted by sneaky unhoused people. "no, i do not wanna buy your streetwise which is really a chicago reader"...please stop singing negro spirituals at the top of your lungs... but in the bay-yay? gotta love 'em. i'm not saying that homelessness isn't an issue in the bay area, but it's just the way they roll that surprised me. everytime we needed to get somewhere, we pretty much took a train from civic center. the same homeless man was there every time we arrived, and was full of information. from where to get change for a twenty, to how to get to our destination, dude was mad informative. when we decided to do the tourist thing, and head to pier 39, he told us exactly which bus to take. but it gets funny. we got on the bus, and the driver was waiting for the light to turn green. for some reason, our tour guide had crossed the street, and had just made his way back. somehow, he convinced the bus driver to open the door. first, he asked for spare change, and he and the bus driver shared a hearty laugh. then, he asked the bus driver if he knew how to get to fisherman's wharf. which was ever funnier because 1) the bus said "fisherman's wharf" on the front, and 2) right before we'd gotten on the bus, he'd given us very detailed instructions about this particular bus' route. the driver, obviously familiar with this man, just chuckled. this would never happen in chicago. believe me. i used to live in uptown where the homeless folk dwell. ain't no jokin' going on at the 151 bus stop. this just further proves that though midwesterners think they're polite, we're really just a bunch of uptight assholes.
  
• first name charlie...last name wilson. the following is the greatest story i could ever tell you about my first trip to the bay, and typing it here prolly won't even do it justice. so if you ever talk to me, you should ask me to retell the story so you can see me get excited. (warning: long) during the aforementioned bus trip to pier 39, a few stops after we get on, a white, middle-aged, presumably gay male gets on the bus and sits in front of us. for whatever reason, he decides to get up and get something from the bus driver. he chooses to do this once the bus has made another stop. at this stop, two young black women and a black male get on. this black male has on a bomber jacket, a white do-rag, a baseball cap, and a front grill of all gold teeth. he's wearing headphones. said white male accidentally backs into said black male. witnessing this, i immediately tense up, and johnny five on the potential ramifications of wm bumping into bm. this could be very scary, and fuck up my high. wm immediately apologizes. bm says, "no need to apologize, sir." both turn, face, and encourage the other to enter the bus. wm finally relents and goes back to his seat. bm sits behind us while his two friends sit across. bm is singing the new urban hit, "charlie, last name wilson." a few stops later, a mid 30s white woman gets on the bus. at this point, the vehicle is full. seeing this, our friend the bm says, "m'am, would you like to sit down?" and she says, "why, yes," and takes his seat. (wtf?) in the meantime, a young latino dude has said, "thank you, sir," to the middle-aged asian bus driver upon getting off the bus. (double wtf?) a few stops later, an older white woman gets on the bus. since it's still full, our bm--now standing by his two female friends--offers his friend's seat to the older white woman. his friend gets up without saying a word, and sits on the lap of their other friend. all the while, bm is singing, "first name charlie...last name wilson," and my homegyrl and i are shocked at such friendliness. and did i mention that they still have pictures of rosa parks in the front of their buses? (triple wtf?)
  

all of this to say, that i love bay. and i think a lot of it has to do with the fact that its inhabitants are la schmoove/we ain't got nothing to prove. i can't imagine what mighta happened if a middle aged white gay male had accidentally bumped into a black dude rocking the flava flav joints here in the chi. a mean look, a long moment of tension, maybe even an epithet. and the politeness isn't forced, fabricated; it's real. thus, for the past two weeks i've started what i like to call the "keep it california" campaign. it's my pledge to bring the nice to the chi, and into my life. (don't get it twisted, the hateration continues on the blog.) por ejemplo, i was very shitty at the bitterly cold weather yesterday, but i said good morning to three (count 'em: one...two...three) strangers on my way to the gym, and i felt better. sure, i was freezing my black ass off, and the old black lady with the walker just mumbled some shit to me after i smiled and said g'day, but did that affect me?

hell to the naw. and you wanna know why?

because i'm keeping it california, nigga.

that is all.

part 1.

snippets of a random conversation

take 10

(after listening to a freestyle that encouraged using "protection" unless you had an "erection")

summer: you need to work on your freestyle...go to bed.

phoenix: sleepy head

summer: or instead

phoenix: smoke crack

summer: *uncontrollable laughter*

(i rest my case.)

fyi: still taking submissions for the star a rumor monday f.a.q.

(start a rumor monday...)


faq (that's a "Q" not a "G", silly.)

wowzers. next week marks the one year anniversary of the first (and apparently most popular) "feature" on my blog, and i can't believe it. start a rumor monday... has truly turned this here web log into a monster, not only making my dream of popularity come true (a lesson to all the geeks in high skool: you may never become homecoming queen, but you can blog 'til your ass is internet famous), but also assisting in the creation of my online persona, summer m. (who has the audacity to harrass her unpaid interns, coin herself a blogstar, and refer to herself in the third person.)

though i've yet to win any black weblog awards (whoever was the first to say it was an honor simply to be nominated is full of shit), this rumor bidness has really helped my ego. you all know how to make a homegyrl feel good about herself, esp. when this here grad skool be trying to "work me over" if i may use whitney "sho ya right" houston's words. thus, it is with great sadness that i announce the end of start a rumor monday.

listen, i know that my genius often comes off as effortless to you all, but don't get it twisted: coming up with a rumor can sometimes be harder than getting a date. (actually, that's a lie. i could come up with another year's worth of rumors before i ever got a date, but i digress. the point is the shit is sometimes hard.) don't cry; dry your eyes (here comes your mother with those two little guys). here, at fecundmellow, when we go out, we go out with a bang.

start a rumor monday... is for the people. so, before i end it all, i'ma do two t'ings.

1) i'ma answer some of the questions i've received about this here feature throughout the year. from: "why'd you start doing this?" and "where do you come up with this shit?" to: "do you think this shit is funny?" i'll (finally reply). thus, if there's something you wanna know, just ask. i'll publish my answers later in the week.

2) if my math is correct (i doubt it), i've published 49 rumors since december 6, 2004. i'ma go into the vaults, and publish one entry with links to every rumor published so far. tentatively, i'll republish a (remixed) rumor maybe once a month. a best of, if you will. gotta favorite you wanna see again? lemme know.

just my way of saying thanx.

that is all.




is sarm really ending? no, silly. it's just a rumor. i'm reloading. hopefully with more "you pick the rumor..." and guest contributors (that means saf, and other folks who seem to have mad ideas about the next rumor i should start.)

coming up: the 12 days of crunkmas will be back in full effect this holiday season.

loving her: a letter

part 1 of 2: "she's gotta find a lover"
*corny alert*

dearest,

it has been just over a week since we last bade goodbye. you put on your best face, shining brightly, as i, more than melancholy, refused to look you in the eye as i rode away. it was cowardly of me, but you already know this. i'd apologize, but you understand me so well that saying, "i'm sorry, i must return to my current lover," would be a mere insult. because of this, and other things, i love you.

though her decembers and drastic mood changes from sweltering hot to tempestuous and windy cold have made me strong, they have also made me bitter. and, i find, it is near time for me to bid adieu to the one who has been my love for nearly four years. oh how wonderfully exciting she used to seem to me. worldy, yet as comfortable and recognizable as home. big, expansive, yet always welcoming. with her, i became a woman. she took me, young, virid, and immature, and molded my malleable self into someone who can now only desire you. i will forever care for her. i often recall how, before i knew her, i would yearn to be with her, to walk amongst her grandness. and now, she is fully known, so familiar, only sporadically exciting. that once blazing flame has now been diminished to slowly smoldering embers, which will never extinguish, but also never burn in the same way again. and that thought--which had for some time been nothing more than a tenuous conclusion-- is now an indubitable truth, because i have gazed upon and dwelt inside of you.

love at first encounter, is it not? forgive me for being so forward, but i sense we fit like an old pair of slippers, and because of this i feel more than compelled to return to you--soon, and permanently. we had the loveliest four-day affair, no? and she knows this. benumbing was her greeting when i returned. tall, dark, frigid she towered above me. and at that moment, i knew all the reasons why i love her, and all the reasons why i must leave. you? you are small and dense, intimate, predictable...with periodic earth-shaking suprises to remind those who adore you that you will sharply wake them when your magnificence has gone unrecognized. shaking them back into consciousness from tranquiling pacific dreams. telling us: walk up and down my hills, dwell in my valleys, yell from the edge of my cliffs, cleanse yourself with the waves that brush my edges.

and though i've only encountered you once and briefly, i am firm in my faith that, once you see them, you will love me more for my faults. my occasional unhappiness, my polyamorous ways. the fact that you already know and accept my lust-filled affection for harlem is more than amazing. you know that my love for her, though intense and exciting, by no means compares to my love for you. my appetite for her is impermanent, fleeting. she is "watercolor," she, "washes off."** a mistress, she is, but my desire to eternally grow with and through you is as evident as the fact that the words i write will never eloquently articulate how deeply and passionately i feel for you. but i know you know this already. and i know you love me anyway.

oh san francisco, oh berkeley, oh oakland. how i think of you often and always. i will return to you soon--fully. all of me. i promise.

love,
summer m.

*hey harold, tell that string playing quartet they can shut the fuck up now.*

**anne sexton, "for my lover returning to his wife"

so there you have it, folks. i love not a woman, but an area of california. so much so that i wrote it the (most) corniest love letter i could muster in about 20 minutes. thank you for your attention. you may now return to your regularly scheduled program.

coming soon part 2: why i love the bay, california.

next week: the hateration is back, playa.

have a good turkey day.

(start a rumor monday...)

giving thanx.

oh, it's that time of year again. the leaves are changing, it's colder than a muthafucka outside, all the college kids are suicidal because finals week soon come, and we recall white man and red man breaking bread together, briefly forgetting the continual and perpetual effort to drive out, exploit, and annilihate the latter race. (anyone in the mood to watch disney's pocohantas? have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon?) oh yes, it is time to give thanks yet again, smash out (shout out saf) on some turkey, dressing, and, if it's your steez, some (keep it) funky (jo jo) chitt'lins.

in honor of the thanksgiving holiday, fecundmellow hit the streets hunting down various celebs and personalities to ask what they are thankful for this year. unfortunately, i had to interview these folks myself.**

fecundmellow: _____, what/who are you giving thanks for this november?

tom cruise and katie holmes: *in unison* we're thankful for sperm donors.

oprah winfrey: i am thankful for the fact that i was able to lose and maintain my weight, yet keep the bosom on which my dedicated fans rest upon and suckle in tact.

robert "kels" kelly: i'm thankful legal terms such as "with all deliberate speed," are applicable to more than skool desegregation...and michael jackson. i'm definitely thankful for michael jackson.

kanye west: i'm thankful for 50 cent.

diddy: i'm thankful for proactiv solution. it moisturizes the situation and preserves my sexy.
fecundmellow: can you lift your bottom lip so that it touches your top one maybe?
diddy: takethattakethattakethat.

dub-ya: i only give thanks if condi is willing to take it if you know what i mean. *laughs*. i'm thankful that these democrats are some mark ass bitches. nigga, what!?!?

osama bin laden: i'm thankful for the war in iraq.

star jones: are you gonna eat that?[...] no? then i give thanks.

terry mcmillan: i'm thankful for cheek implants.
fecundmellow: that's face, not ass, right playa?

mayor ray nagin: have you seen new orleans lately, muthafucka?
fecundmellow: why, no sir, i haven't.
mayor ray nagin: *stares*
fecundmellow: i see your point. moving on.

black people: we're thankful mcrib is back at mcdonald's!!!! (seriously, black folk, what's up with the love for mcrib (comma) yo?)

hey, man. it's week 9. i never promised these things would be funny.

**where in the hell is harold gibson? i need a new (unpaid, allegedly sexually harrassed) intern!!!! submit all applications via the comments section. single lesbians of color encouraged to apply. (also, if your name is anita and/or hill, don't bother to apply.) thank you, the management.


it's a short week,
tuesday: star jones
wednesday: i reveal my love. (heads up: this one's a two-parter.)

coming soon: what's that? a year of start a rumor monday? say it ain't so.

the sum and saf half part 2
Racism 101: A Primer for White College Kids (and the Black Kids That Want to Protest)

For those of you who don’t live in the Chicago area or don’t check the local news, several weeks ago some undergraduates from the U of C got into a bit if trouble for throwing what they referred to as a “Straight Thuggin’ Ghetto” party. This party, organized by three white males and one biracial (symptomatic) female, required the attendees to wear baggy clothing, listen to “gangsta rap,” and consume malt beverages from paper bags. Pictures were taken at this event and briefly posted on the internet. News of this spread very quickly, and all of a sudden, Neo negroes and white liberals all over the South Side were in an uproar. Local newscasters were interviewing confused-ass colored kids that are about as adept at distinguishing between “culture” and “blackness” as they are at telling Paul Wall and Mike Jones apart (have you tried that shit?). All the while, school-wide email apologies were sent to the student body bleached with white guilt and “my best friend is black” rhetoric.

Upon reviewing the “evidence,” we at the Sum-n-Saf Half found this “Straight Thuggin’ Ghetto” Party slightly hilarious and relatively harmless. Why? Because these silly ass white mutha fuckas don’t know shit about a thug or ghetto-ass parties. But we suburb hoes having watched countless hours of BET Uncut, Supa Soul Sundays on MTV2, and matriculated through 80%-black high schools in two of the blackest mu’ fucking states in the country (IN and OH, nigga), know a nigged out party when we see one. Because we possess such incredible credentials, and a sincere desire to help clueless white kids up their ghetto credibility-slash-authenticity (cause we are race women in this beyotch), we have compiled a list of guidelines with which you can gauge whether or not your party is truly “straight thuggin’” and/ or “ghetto.” As the patron saint of ghetto – The Game – would say, hate it or love it, niggas!

• The following must be present at your party: strippers w/ stretch marks and/or bullet scars, somebody’s kid sleep on the couch or underneath the coats on so-and-so’s bed, wing-dings, onion dip, and Kool-Aid (red or purple, and yes, these are flavors).
• The party starts a good three hours after you said it would; not because nobody has showed up yet, but because you haven’t picked up the speakers, the chicken, and you had to go back under the dryer twice at the salon.
• Somebody’s baby-mama or –daddy will show up in that beyotch UNINVITED, talking mad shit about y’all’s “support issues.”
• The host’s or hostess’s mama will come out of the back room to hit the blunt.
• The weed is in bowls on the coffee table instead of pretzels and chips.
• There are 5-10 gaps between songs because you only have a 1-disc player.
• It’s mad adult nigs packed in that beyotch, but actually the party is in celebration Lil’ Man’s 8th birthday.
• Somebody is barbecuing some part of a pig in a barrel somewhere on the property. And there are no napkins, but mad barbecue sauce for the slathering.
• Spades, bid whist, or casino is being played...on a collapsible card table... for money.
• In the tin garbage can full of ice in the kitchen, the following beverages are on chill: Henn, ‘Ronas, MGD’s, Alize, and ‘Notiq.
• Somebody is mixing up a potent-ass batch of Thug Passion (the better to date rape yo' baby cousin with...).
• Tupac will be played in a consecutive hour block, in memory of.
• A fight will break out over some scuffed shoes or something equally as dumb.
• One of the following movies is on the television, on mute: Menace, Baby Boy, Soul Plane, Friday, Half-Baked, or Lion King (Trick luh the kids).
• The police will show up at the party…in a paddy wagon. And someone will be escorted out…in handcuffs.
• Somebody will get shot. And possibly killed.

Finally, if this is a real life, genuine let me offend the black kids on my campus kind of party, we at sum and saf would appreciate it if you did it up southern university (like region, not like the skool) style and donned blackface and an omega psi phi t-shirt, and stepped and fetched yo' ass all the way to the beer bong section of your frat house. Thank you.

Until next time, this has been the sum and saf half.

snippets of a random conversation take 9


(on the way to the airport)
sum: am i an arrival or departure? i always get confused.

saf: departure, nigga.

sum: but i'm arriving at the airport.

saf: did your black ass get off a plane, muthafucka?

(this is a perfect example of why i'll miss saf when she returns to the mistake on the lake.)

i'll reveal my beloved soon. cross my heart.

(start a rumor monday...)

the (hella) late edition.

see that smile? that's pure, unadulterated joy, muthafucka.

back from the bay, and i, summer m., blogstar extraordinaire, queen of all hateration, guru of mad crankiness, am in love.

details forthcoming.

sum and saf strike again.



yeah, it's the (comma) yo kids hitting you up again with a collabo blog. last week, we presented a retrospective of the bet 25 soiree. this week, we take aim at neo-soul nigs.

"How to tell if You're a Corny Neo-Soul Nig."

You had an ankh-shaped wedding cake.

“Orange Moon” was your wedding song.

You call your kids your “seeds.”

You call your girl your “earth” or your “rib.”

You call your grandparents your ancestors.

You cover for failing to pay the electric bill by lighting candles for so-called ceremonial purposes.

You have matching thumb rings.

You can’t get an erection without the following: 1) Sade playing in the background; 2) aroma therapy candles; 3) pouring libations; and 4) chanting to Eshu.

When it rains, you dance and when you dance, it rains.

Dudes- you call other dudes “Sun” (and not on some Mobb Deep shit).

You call females “Queen” (on some Halle Berry shit).

You own Jill Scott’s poetry book, all of her albums, a concert tee shirt, and you’re cryogenically sealed your flyer to her after party.

You own the following CDs: N’Dambi, Ledisi, Adriana Evans, Lizz Fields, Julie Dexter, Donnie, Ursula Rucker, Yahzarah, Geno “Junebugg” Young. (self-roast. sum owns all this shit.)

You have an ongoing monologue about the various dimensions of your personal energy.

Your mood corresponds with the weather, like a mood ring and shit.

Dudes – you wear Jesus sandals.

And you put your ‘locks in assorted, intricate up-dos.

If you don’t live near a beach and have a cowrie shell anywhere in your vicinity…

Carol’s Daughter in your internet bookmarks.

You went to Philly just to see Black Lilly.

You’ve never been to Philly, but you know what and when Black Lilly is. (self-roast.**)

You own the DVD of “Sankofa: The Director’s Cut.”

Your dog is named Zion.

Your son is named Zion.

Your daughter is named Zion.

You changed your name from Leroy to Zion.

You call your house Zion.

You claim not to use credit cards because you don’t want to be too tightly bound to the materialism of this plane of existence, yet, the truth is your parents fucked your credit up by putting their phone line in your name back in the day.

You seriously considered majoring in black studies in undergrad.

You wear a gele, but carry a Louis Vuitton purse (that’s that neo).

You used to date a pussy poet.

You are a pussy poet (punany lives!).

You paid to see the Def Poetry Jam show at a theatre.

Georgia Me is your homegirl (like you went to high school with her and shit).

You believe in astrology (Librans and Pisceans are funny as fuck, for the record).

You know all the principles of Kwanzaa.

You celebrate Kwanzaa.

You act like you like your meaningful Kwanzaa gifts.

But you still take Christmas gifts like a mu’ fucka (again, that’s that neo).

You buy your signature fragrance from the dashiki nig on the corner.

You wear dashikis.

You have more than one.

You’re an Okayplayer charter member.

You actually started a discussion board on that bitch.

Your screen name on that bitch might be something “Thirdeyeblind,” “Euphratesthugniggas” (if you catch this, you’re live) and “Femadrift.”

You fuck with “Electric Circus” harder than anybody (including Lonnie Sr.) should.

You and your girls have a book club. (self roast)

You slept on the sidewalk to get tickets to the Sugar Water Festival.

You deny owning Lil’ Kim’s “Hard Core.”

Moreover, you deny that “Queen Bitch” is the shit (“I am a diamond cluster hustler/queen bitch/supreme bitch…”).

You have a talking drum in your apartment.

And one of those thumb piano things.

You had henna tattooing at your baby shower (and your ass ain’t Indian…dots not feathers).

You had a nude photo shoot when you were pregnant because you were your “most beautifullest.”

Your four-year-old has locks.

Kindred are your relationship role model.

You’ve got six kids because you kept on trying to track your cycle with the fucking moon.

You’re divorcing neo to marry soul.

You don't need nick's notes to get this shit.


feel free to comment here, or on saf's blog.

until next time, this has been the sum and saf half (the tentative title of our forthcoming reality tv show.)

**self-roast: basically, to call yourself on your shit.


also, i'm going to the bay this weekend, so no essay. and shit will prolly be late next week.

it's ok. i know you'll miss me.

snippets of a random conversation take 8



(1 am)
summer: niggahhhhhh!

janelle: whatup, ho?

summer: chillin'.

janelle: i got a new cell phone.

summer: word?

janelle: yeah. it's got everything. pictures, texting, vcast...

summer: that's cool.

janelle: yeah. it'd be the shit if i could afford all the features.

summer: *uncontrollable laughter*

(start a rumor monday...)
tuesday edition (better late than never, right?)

janet jackson with boyfriend jermaine dupri (jd)

inside the velvet rope: the janet jackson interview

last week, fecundmellow was able to catch up with the mj's baby sis, janet. we asked her about love, breast implants, and her alleged daughter. though frank in our question asking, we cannot say she was candid and revealing in her answers. harold gibson, still unofficial, unpaid, allegedly sexually harrassed fecundmellow intern, transcribed the interview. because, you know, when he shows out, nala gets to use him as a chew toy. enjoy!

fecundmellow: before we officially begin, penny, i just wanna let you know that i wanted to be you when i was six. i played your record everyday. and, i damn near broke my leg and my spectacles trying to do that chair move from the pleasure principle video. like the mini-movie for "thriller," there should really be a warning before that joint plays: do not try this shit at home, and if you do, DO NOT, we repeat, DO NOT use a folding chair.
janet jackson: you know my first name ain't penny. it's janet. miss jackson if you're nasty.

fecundmellow: of course it is. can we begin by talking about your alleged daughter?
jj: let's wait awhile.

fecundmellow: ok. for real, damita jo. may i call you damita jo? seriously. jd? you can do better than that, homie.
jj: like a moth to a flame burned by the fire. my love is blind, can't you see my desire?

fecundmellow: no, not really.
jj: suffice it to say that that's the way love goes.

fecundmellow: c'mon janet. do you really love him?
jj: yes honey, i love him. he is fine. he does a lot of nice things for me.

fecundmellow: i know he used to do nice things for you, but what has he done for you late-ly?
*summer m. and janet break into choreographed dance.*

fecundmellow: how does it feel to play "auntie" to three white kids you know aren't your brother's?
jj: are you insinuating that prince michael i, prince michael ii, and paris aren't my brother michael's children?

fecundmellow: is that your original nose?
jj: touche.

fecundmellow: while we're talking about your brothers, would you happen to know how much gel jermaine uses to get his ken doll-like hair?
jj: you know, this is my family you're talking about.

fecundmellow: you're right. my bad. don't take it personal. take the bitter with the sweet. easy come. easy go.
jj: you are a true jackson fan.

fecundmellow: let's talk about nipplegate. do you really think it's fair that your career plummeted because you showed half your rack? i mean, britney spears gets to run around having babies by a nigga calling himself k-fed or daddy instead. you show the world a lil chest action, and white people lost their shit. will a black woman ever be able to show a lil breast on tv?
jj: that was an accident.

fecundmellow: may i accidentally touch your chest?
*jd literally hops off his chair and tries to get in summer m.'s face, but he ain't tall enough*

fecundmellow: is your alleged daughter being raised by your older sister, rebbie?
jj: i will not discuss that matter.

fecundmellow: could you at least tell rebbie i think her tune "centipede" is one of the greatest, if not most underrated songs of the 80s?
jj: will do.

fecundmellow: why won't you talk about your alleged daughter?
jj: because this is a story about control. my control. control of what i say. control of what i do. and this time i'm gonna do it my way.

fecundmellow: will we ever get to see the chubby, dream street, charlene from different strokes janet again? i miss her much.
jj: will you please stop looking at my tits?

fecundmellow: yeah, sorry. it's just that they're so, um, buoyant. do they double as life jackets when you swim?
jj: *no response*

fecundmellow: but back to jd. do y'all have to request a booster seat when y'all eat at denny's?
jj: this interview is over. *gets up, waits for jd to jump off his chair, and leaves*

fecundmellow: now why you wanna go and do that love, huh?

if you didn't get some of the references, just ask nick. he don't need no (yeah, "don't need no") cliff's notes, homie. gosh nick, i heart you so much. i think of you often, but i digress...

start a rumor?

later.

promise.

(you get a two-fer this weekend. if you're looking for this weekend's essay scroll down. it's just below this long ass post.)


tearing the roof off the suck: sum and saf hatin' on b.e.t. 25 strong
if you haven't noticed already, saf and i find each other hilarious. i don't think i'm all that funny, but saf thinks i am; saf doesn't think she's all that funny, but i think she is. after thoroughly entertaining ourselves for 12 hours in the car, we decided that we are fly enough to have our own reality tv show. while we work on a pilot, check out our hating on the b.e.t. 25th anniversary special. (warning, this is loooooong):

Red carpet question: Weren't you glad to see that AJ finally cut those Goddamn draids?

Why do black people keep thanking Bob Johnson?

With a name like Paige Johnson, odds are you'll suffer from Hilary Banks Syndrome.

And is Bob Johnson's son lightweight retarded?

HICKORY, MISSISSIPPI (Bob Johnson’s birthplace)? Is that near Nutbush?

How long will Donnie Simpson be able to skate through life on a handsome black man pass?

Note to Queen Latifah: Saying "he is fine" after you mention a man every time you give away an award or introduce someone indicates you're gay. Get your Sheryl Swoopes on, homie. If your career plummets, it won't be because of coming out. More than likely, it'll be because of Taxi and Beauty Shop.

Why do you get the feeling that Arsenio, Howard Hewett, and Hammer did some "pre-bonding" before their segment, if you get my drift?

How much did Hammer have to hock to rock a fur to the awards?

Did Arsenio literally turn into Rev. Brown from “Coming to America”?

And, uh, why did Arsenio know so much about Johnny gill? Did they fuck?

New Edition still got it!!! The same moves, that is.

Are they ever going to fire Ronnie's uncle and get a real choreographer?

Ummm...Are we supposed to attach some special significance to the fact that Johnny was the only member of NE with a pink tie?

And while we're on NE, why can't they get a Vegas act? Celine Dion’s old ass got one.

BOBBY BERESFORD BROWN!!!! Whitney was right. That nigga is DA KANG OF R&B!!!! And he dedicated that shit to RICK JAMES, BITCH!!!!!

While we’re on the subject, who re-taught the nigga Bobby the words to his songs (Y’all remember the nigga’s memory lapses on ‘Being Bobby Brown)?

Ronnie and Ralph as Bobby's back-up dancers? Will they be doing that shit when the nigga releases the new album? Cause NE's career really ain't shit right around now.

Black people will give a tribute to a dead person to the point that you wish that mu’ fucka was a white supremacist.

Don't you love that you can get black people crunk no matter how expensive their outfits are?

Sidebar: Black commercials are more offensive than burning crosses at this point.

Who wrote Whitney's spoken word piece? Jill Scott, Alicia Keys, or T-Boz (all respected R&B poetesses)?

And why, when she had three, four years to prepare to return to the spotlight, couldn't Whitney get her weave right?

On the subject of Whitney's headwear, didn't you lightweight expect her to step out on stage with that wig and visor from the show?

Will Steve Harvey please quit recycling those goddamn Kings of Comedy jokes? BTW, L-U-F-F-A ain't L-O-O-F-A, nigga.

"Luther brought out the best and the blackest in all of us" - Wouldn't this be a more appropriate statement to make about R. Kelly?

Were they shouting out fat Luther or skinny Luther? 'Cause those are two distinct niggas.

How come John Legend sounds like the cowardly lion when he sings (and I mean the term "sings" very loosely)? Put 'em uuhhhhppp.

Why did John Legend have on those "make me look like a serious musician" glasses?

And doesn't John Legend's mini-Fred Doug make you mad when you KNOW he is not that conscious nig?

Honorary black man: Bill Clinton.

"Teen Summit served as a father to a lot of us kids" - How fucking tragic is that shit (comma) yo?

R. Kelly, Marion Berry, Rodney “drunk ass” King: black people are too damn forgiving.

Why is this mu’ fucka R. Kelly still not in jail? DAMN!!!

And is this muhfucka really a positive model of black manhood? I mean, dick shit aside, isn't this nigga partially responsible for a large degree of our cultural retardation?

And what is this nigga's inability to properly conjugate his Goddamn verbs? That shit really pisses me off?

Is it just me, or do you love it when Snoop has the ponytails?

And aren't you glad he left that dried-out nigga Bishop Don Juan in the audience?

And don't you think Bob Johnson specially requested that he leave that embarrassment to the race in the audience?

Let's give these niggas props for remembering that Wu-Tang was a force to be reckoned with in the late nineties, even if they've gone to shit now.

And was I the only one that jumped up when I saw that Mary and Meth was about to do the ol' skool classic?

And am I the only mu' fucka that loves it that Mary still busts that same step from "You Remind Me," no matter what?

Why doesn't Leon ever age?

Ummm...Black women are going to hold church when Mary sings, no matter the occasion.

Gospel music makes you realize that Jesus is just the ultimate white patriarch, with all that talk of fathers and children and benevolence and shit.

No matter how hard you pray neither Kirk Franklin nor Donnie McClurkin will go to hell fast enough.

Other than Usher, Diddy, and the two above mentioned men, no gay shit is allowed at the black awards.

Bobby Jones should be included on that gay shit list, too.

And Arsenio…

And Johnny Gill…

And didn't Kevin Liles and Puffy look happier together than Puffy and Kim Porter?

Why did Puffy's suit look like somebody's granny's velvet sofa? Is it just me, or is he blurring the lines between metro and homo at this juncture?

Back to Kirk Franklin: Will someone please tell me what this dwarf-ass nigga does besides bother the hell outta me?

Wait. Maybe that's the point.

No matter how she changes her weave, doesn't Yolanda Adams always end up looking like Predator in drag?

Ummm...Was Whitney transfixed by the beauty of Shirley Caesar's voice, or was that just the crack?

Just when you thought Fantasia Barrino was alone, Serena Williams tries to read a teleprompter.

"Or get back like Beale and Camille..." Who the fuck is Beale?

After all that shit she talked on the Proactiv commercial, why is Crucial Keys skin still looking like shit (comma) yo?

Does anyone else search for random white people in the crowd?

Why didn't they highlight "BET Uncut"? Why is that shit treated like a dirty little secret, when it's probably the highest rated show on the network?

And why didn't they talk about the essential demise of news programming on the network, so that all we're left with is video shows, "Comic View," and "Bobby
Jones Gospel," like all black people need is to laugh, shake their asses, and get their Jesus on?

HOW TO HOLD A BLACK AWARDS SHOW (6 EASY STEPS):
1) Call-and-response whenever the opportunity presents itself.
2) A gospel segment.
3) Make sure Leon is in attendance.
4) Although there are chairs, no one can/will be allowed to sit down.
5) Mary J. Blige will perform (Don't confuse this with the gospel segment; Mary just gets the holy ghost).
6) There will be a tribute because somebody's black ass did die at some point or another.


**this has also been posted on saf's blog. feel free to comment here or there.
**if anyone needs cliff's notes (for white people), lemme know.

this weekend's essays: songs that make you smile


just, because you know, the weather's nice and i don't feel like hating.

• "sunday morning" maroon 5: sunday morning rain is falling/steal some covers share/some skin/clouds are shrouding us in moments unforgettable/you twist to fit the mold that i am in/But things just get so crazy living life gets hard to do/and i would gladly hit the road get up and go if i knew/that someday it would bring me back to you/that someday it would bring me back to you/that may be all i need/in darkness she is all i see/come and rest your bones with me/driving slow on sunday morning/and i never want to leave...
• "peg" steely dan: i like your pin shot/i keep it with your letter/done up in blueprint blue/it sure looks good on you/so won't you smile for the camera/i know i'll love you better...
• "don't stop 'til you get enough" michael jackson: lovely is the feelin' now/fever, temperatures risin' now/power (ah power) is the force the vow/that makes it happen
  it asks no questions why (ooh)/so get closer (closer now) to my body now/just love me 'til you don't know how (ooh)...
• "cars" gary numan (iono why. i just like the music): here in my car/i feel safest of all/i can lock all my doors/it's the only way to live/in cars...
• "every ghetto, every city" lauryn hill: jack, jack, jack ya body/nah, the biz mark used to amp up the party/i wish those days, they didn't stop...
• "kinky reggae" robert nesta marley: i went downtown/i saw miss brown/she had brown sugar/all over her booga-wooga...
  
• that one stereolab song: (i own just about every stereolab cd, but i couldn't tell you a title of a stereolab song if you put a gun to my head.)
• just about anything by m.i.a.
  

do you.

snippets of a random conversation take 7



mom: you know XXX died.

uncle (yes, my mother's brother; and my favorite uncle.): no! how?

mom: his house caught on fire.

uncle: what happened?

mom: well, i guess it started in the bedroom. and you know he's been using that medic alert since he had that stroke. he pressed the button, but they couldn't get to him in time.

uncle: so he was cremated?


if this proves anything, it's that if i go to hell (though there is no hell), it had nothing to do with me. blame my genes.