Monday, January 30, 2006

o week part deux: day 1
start a rumor monday

winfrey: 'don't get it twisted, whitey. i will play sofia and you will be the mayor's wife, ya heard?'

don't get duped...again. much has been said about the latest events surrounding the a million little pieces debacle that blew up in oprah's face as if she stepped in a landmine during a tour of 'nam in '67. having been outted as a studio gangsta (shoutout mrs. robinson!) by the smoking gun, author james frey--who spent the latter part of 2005 reaping rewards and depositing mad scrilla in his piggy bank due to the "oprah's book club" stamp of approval--had to face the music. unfortunately for him, the musician was an angry black woman with a lot of viewers. survey says that shit was worse than getting your ass beat in front of your class in fourth grade when your teacher called your mama because you were acting out. and unfortunately for you, your mama was on vacation from her job and was washing her hair when she got the call. so she came up to the skool in too tight sweatpants, some dirty as, nigga. oprah's mad, no doubt. but let us tell you the real:

a million little pieces is the only oprah's book club pick she ever really read.

(ain't it a bitch when sparknotes ain't available and shit?)

yuh. the edited version of the episode showed winfrey george foreman grillin' lil jimmy (that nigga looked shook on the real) on every embellishment lie he told in his, er, memoir. but on the live show, winfrey said, "but i read the whole book, but i read the whole book" sporadically throughout the show.

"she was devastated," one of winfrey's producers--who wanted to remain anonymous--said in a brief interview. "she couldn't believe the book club choice she finally read in its entirety was full of lies. all she kept saying in our morning meeting before the show was, 'who makes up stories, compiles them, and puts them in a book? who does that? who does that?'"

winfrey has retreated to her santa barbara, ca home called promised land for rest and clarity.

in unrelated news, james frey is really an alcoholic now. fortunately, he can afford the good stuff this time around.

language alone protects us from the scariness of things with no names. language alone is meditation. ~toni morrison

Thursday, January 26, 2006


o week: the return.

get you some.
o week part 1

day 1
day 2
day 3
day 4
day 5

language alone protects us from the scariness of things with no names. language alone is meditation. ~toni morrison

the truth about sum and saf...

we're out of ideas. actually, we're just lazy. submit questions and/or topic ideas here or on saf's page.

the management.

language alone protects us from the scariness of things with no names. language alone is meditation. ~toni morrison

Monday, January 23, 2006

before i begin, i just wanna give a special thanks to all of you who read my last entry, and left really nice and caring messages. a nig genuiniely appreciates your kindness and understanding. i've made an appt. with my personal dr. freud. i'ma try my best to show up this time. i'll keep you posted.

be easy,

start a rumor monday latelate edition

will the real slim shady please stand up?

there's a reason why black people aren't on intervention.** and, folks found out why yesterday...sorta. last night, just days after summer m. confessed to suffering from bouts of depression, several blog readers got the bright idea of staging an intervention. "we were just so scared after reading summer m.'s last blog entry," one anonymous fecundmellow reader said. "we were worried. we decided to head to chicago."

boy were they in for a surprise. the above mentioned anonymous commenter and her partner, along with harold gibson and saf's cousin, miss jessi all met at the john hancock cheesecake factory to discuss helping their beloved blogstar, summer m. "we were mad concerned. she seemed so vulnerable (comma) yo," said miss jessi, sounding quite disturbed. the group decided to "intervene" by showing up to summer m.'s chicago apartment unannounced. they chose sunday afternoon as the best time.

"we waited until one of her neighbors walked into the building. we found her apartment. and then...and then," said the anonymous commenter, unable to complete her sentence. harold gibson helped her, "summer m. is a muthafuckin' white girl."

that's right. the small cohort literally lost their shit when a white woman opened the door. "she was, um, blonde," the anonymous commenter said, mustering her strength. "and, um, she had...she had those white people locs. you know, dirty braids."

"she looks a lot like jewel," miss jessi suggested, "but with locs and shit."

according to all members of the small intervention group, "summer m.'s" name is actually mackenzie cunningham, a 26 year old folk singer and student from st. paul minnesota. apparently, cunningham initially feigned as summer m.'s girlfriend, but no one went for it. "then she was on some a beautiful mind shit, saying a black girl lived in her head and shit. but we weren't buying it," miss jessi said. cunningham then came clean. she explained that the real summer m. had been her roommate during her freshman year at purdue university. summer had been an agriculture major until an unfortunate tractor incident cut her dreams of becoming an agricultural engineer short. "she always smelled like a combination of lye, vaseline, and cow dung," cunningham confided to the group. "her face was always shiny. and for whatever reason, her index and thumb fingers were always red. i never found out where that was from."

apparently, summer's parents allowed cunningham to keep their daughter's computer. there were ample photographs left on her hard drive. cunningham admitted that her blogging had initially been an experiment that spun out of control very quickly. a graduate student in psychology, cunningham explained that she wanted to see if she could convince complete strangers that she was a black lesbian. "i like to call it an internet version of black like me."

"we feel like we really lost an icon," anonymous and her partner lamented. "summer m. was like the meshell ndegeocello of the blogging world. they look a lot alike, you know. now who will black lesbian (feminist) bloggers look up to?"


**i don't know if black people aren't on intervention. i don't even really watch the show.

language alone protects us from the scariness of things with no names. language alone is meditation. ~toni morrison

Friday, January 20, 2006

this weekend's essay: to tell the truth.

every tongue shall confess: i am riddled with self-doubt. it cripples and paralyzes me. i am a professional self-saboteur.

i had more than just technical difficulties last week. true, i did type the entire rumor when all of a sudden a fuse in my apartment blew for the second time in three days. i put who i had on the phone on hold, screamed "fuck!" and smacked my desk. generally, that works. i recover, and rewrite the entry from memory. but last week, as i tried to begin my rumor again, all i could do was just stare angrily at the computer.

then, i crawled into bed.

i am prone to bouts of mild depression. i will go days without leaving my apartment, primarily occupying one room, leaving only for necessities like finding food. several friends called to wish me a happy holiday. i've yet to return their phone calls. in the last two weeks, i've spoken to my mother once. our conversation lasted less than a minute. i've wasted more time than you can imagine. doing absolutely nothing. i feel...uninspired, lethargic, sad.

i don't know why i write this, why i say this here. maybe just to answer the question that seems to always come up whenever i have an "ask fecundmellow" entry: are you like your blogging persona? hell no. summer m. is a character, some monster i've created; someone i invented when i didn't even know i was experimenting. summer m.? she's a know-it-all, just doesn't give a fuck. summer? she hasn't a fucking clue.

i want to write.

all my life the most consistent refuge i've had has been books. want to hear me move from monotone to a voice filled with animated passion? ask me about books. i'll talk then. tell you more than you ever wanted to know. and all my life i've thought of how amazingly romantic it would be to weave stories.

or maybe not.

see, at least once a day i heavily consider the thought that i'm no writer at all. that it's simply a lie i've created and started believing. that, in fact, this whole "i cannot work a real job because i must think and create" bullshit is just bullshit. that i should've gone ahead and graduated from college with a degree in business, and clocked in like the rest of the world. that i've no potential for artistry, but rather a desire to appear as (a) creator/creative. that i've no proclivity for any form of the written word--including fiction and literary criticism. the most debilitating torment i feel inside is the thought that i am a fraud. being outted as gay is the least of my concerns.

the older i get, the more inept i feel. i have never, in my mind, been good enough, acceptable. perhaps this is hard for you, reader(s), to believe. i don't say "i don't think i'm funny," for you to retort, "oh yes you are." i'm not a fisher of compliments. do i think i'm funny? not really. do i think i'm smart? hell no. i'm just not dumb. big difference. do i think i'm a good writer? get the fuck outta here. absolutely not. my writing is weak, sloppy, unrefined. i see writing like saf's, like l's, and i'm wonder "how do they put words together like that?"

*wait. as i type this, mother calls. fucking instincts (comma) yo.*

there's an inner debate i have: am i more afraid of failure or success? i don't think i could handle either. i want to write something of substance, something that will last. if it fails, i will never write again. if it succeeds, i will never write again. and success, failure are not contingent upon tangible signs of approval, but self-approval. a notion so abstract i don't even know what it means. i don't know where it comes from. i don't know why i've never been good enough in my own mind.

i should see a therapist. i know better, but i'm too intoxicated with self-deprecation to do better.

the loudest prayers can never quiet even the meekest sussurations of my impending and inevitable decline.

i need more than holy water to be saved.

all of this to say: if you feel like sharing, wanna lay your burden down. do it here.

thanks for reading.


language alone protects us from the scariness of things with no names. language alone is meditation. ~toni morrison

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

(looking for that rumor? scroll down. it was actually published on time.)
maybe i need an intervention...

in the past month (yes, 30 days), six pairs of sneakers have made their way into my ever-growing collection. along with the puma rs-100's (which i call my peanut butter cups) seen above, i've also added:

the adidas y-3

my first pair of designer sneaks. i got 'em on sale, though. less than 200 bux.

the puma beisser

if the batmobile were a shoe, it'd look like this. ugliest shoe i've ever worn. beisser literally means "bites" in german. and they only made 500 of them. there are 499 left. don't let the design fool you, though. they're mad comfortable.

the puma s-bahn

s'posed to be a street shoe, hence the reflectors.

the puma go blaze

mad comfortable. one of few puma kix you could prolly exercise in. they are my alma mater's colors. or, i guess i'm letting out my inner alpha.

the puma cabana racer

i won't lie, the orange, gray, and black ones are hotter than this pair, but i like these better.


the management

language alone protects us from the scariness of things with no names. language alone is meditation. ~toni morrison

Monday, January 16, 2006

start a rumor monday: company in trouble over king day sale**

"you'll definitely have a dream tonight." because of this statement, the mattress factory is in hot water. the local bedding chain has come under criticism for its most recent sales pitch to consumers. a series of commercial advertisements that had been running in the atlanta, ga area during late-nite and daytime television shows have now been pulled. owners of the mattress factory, located on peachtree (just passed the waffle house), were confronted with a barrage of emails and phone calls when 30-second spots for the "martin luther king i have a dream mattress sale" were seen by african american television viewers in the greater atlanta area.

the sale, which offered 30% discounts on items in the mattress factory's entire inventory and 6-month same as cash on bedroom sets, was set to run from saturday, january 14 through january 16, the official king holiday. that was until a group of protestors began picketing the mattress factory late saturday afternoon. a member of the group spoke to the media, "how could someone deliberately violate the sanctity of dr. king's birthday by holding a mattress sale? this is completely and utterly ridiculous. we did not fight for a national king celebration for no interest until july 2007. we are appalled."

though seemingly unaware of why protestors were so upset, owners of the mattress factory immediately apologized in a press statement. part of which read: we offer our sincerest apologies to those who were offended by the i have a dream mattress sale. like president's day, we understood the martin luther king jr. holiday to be an opportunity to offer customers dynamic and unbeatable deals on the top names in bedding including sealy, serta, and the sleep number bed. unfortunately, we were extremely misguided in our decision-making. [...]we regret our insensitivity.

despite the mattress factory's public "i'm sorry," protestors we not immediately satisfied, and did not leave the premises once the statement was made, and the "have a dream today," banner was removed from the front entrance of the store. "i hate to sound glib," one protestor said, "but they've made their bed, and now we're their biggest nightmare." other protestors responded to this rebel call by cheering and chanting "no justice, no peace." order was restored soon after, however, when the verklempt store manager offered free delivery (along with the above mentioned 30% discount) to protestors willing to leave the premises immediately. to date, the mattress factory sold more mattresses that day than they have all year.

in response to the question of whether or not protestors had sold out by accepting the free delivery, one agitator simply said, "hey, man. a deal's a deal."

in other news, filene's representatives vehemently deny deliberately scheduling their annual white sale today in order to play some kind of sick joke. either way, they have some great prices on bath towels and egyptian cotton sheets. get in where you fit in, playa.

prior mlk musings:

king day rumor 2005

**the real inspiration for this year's king day rumor

my mother on mlk and black people

and don't forget...
bernice king trippin' (um, i think she might have the gay)

later this week: why i ain't blog last week.

language alone protects us from the scariness of things with no names. language alone is meditation. ~toni morrison

Thursday, January 05, 2006

this weekend's essay: play miss cleo.

what are your predictions for the new year?

mine? well...

language alone protects us from the scariness of things with no names. language alone is meditation. ~toni morrison

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

L-O-V-E and i

another 'i love' list to counteract the hateration that will appear on this blog in the '06.

i love/like/heart:
  • road trips with the sis. who else can get me to sing "jack and diane," "don't speak," and "free fallin'" at the top of my lungs? oh yeah!!!! life goes on...long after the thrill of living is gone.
  • growing up in fort weezy. no matter how much it sucked, or how sad it makes me now, that's my birthplace.
  • my new copy of the chicago manual of style. maybe now i can learn how to write good. thanks, charlotte o.
  • late nite convos that stimulate (and activate the left and right brain) seemingly nonsensical dreams, magical new perspectives, and sketches of future fictional characters.
  • the intro to atliens.
  • each and every reader of my blog. 'preciate ya.
that is all.

some other love shit:

the love below
a love supreme
the bay
the bay parte dos

language alone protects us from the scariness of things with no names. language alone is meditation. ~toni morrison

Monday, January 02, 2006

start a rumor monday...beginning of the year edition

small race riot breaks out during kwanzaa celebration

last night, during the closing ceremonies of a kwanzaa celebration at malcom x college, a fracas erupted when a small segment of attendees started singing christmas carols. according to witnesses, a small faction of students from another local school began causing a ruckus during the lighting of the last candle--representing imani, or faith.

"we tried to welcome them with open arms," said nia kitswana (nee rahnika jankins), president of the malcolm x college black student union. upset at recalling the incident, she doused her forehead with jamaican punch body spray to calm herself. "though my treausurer was suspicious when he saw the students arrive, i told him to go ahead and allow them to join in the festivities. according to the faq on the kwanzaa website, non-african peoples may be included in the celebration. they were all dressed in red, black, and green, and brought shaker baskets which, though not made by african peoples are handmade, nonetheless. so i thought it only right to include them. jambo!!"

though the event ended rather violently, things initially seemed to be going smoothly. the students participated in the various kwanzaa rituals, including doing a native tribal rain dance to the sounds of lionel richie's, "all night long." however, during the relighting of the other six candles (fire codes prevent the group from keeping the candles burning the entire week), the group--now sitting in the audience--started snickering, and making rude remarks.

"at first we thought we heard a cross between 'we shall overcome' and 'silent night'," one bystander said. "then for a minute or two, there was mostly silence, with just a little bit of laughing. finally, when nia went to light the imani candle, all of them started singing 'white christmas'. that's when shazza [(nee "you better call" tyrone washington), nia jankins' boyfriend
sun, and vice president of the student union] took off his kufi, jumped off stage and ran towards them. at first the group looked stunned. i guess they didn't see that shazza had on timberlands with his dashiki pants set."

"it just goes to show that the so-called black man cannot have anything for himself in this land of the so-called white man," baraka preached to a crowd of black student union members. "here we are attempting to peacefully celebrate the glorious and rich past that is our african heritage! and the so-called white man wants to throw christmas in our faces. he wants to disrespect me and my orange moon. we don't worship the so-called birth of the so-called blue eyed jesus! we don't honor the so-called kris kringle more popularly known as santa claus. when they try to feed us the matrialism of this racist society we call the new world under the guise of holiday cheer we say stop! so-called white man. i and i will not eat what you are trying to FEED me! i and i will honor my ancestors for seven days and seven nights! and what does he do? what does he do? he infiltrates our ceremony and makes it profane. he puts crown royal in the umoja cup! and what else does he do? he sings "white christmas" the most racist christmas carol of them all. tell me, bing crosby! i need you to tell me. why must you dream of a white christmas! must it be a white christmas? must it be a white christmas? why can't it be a black christmas? i want a black christmas!"

though none of the alleged kwanzaa offenders were caught, most witnesses confirmed that none of them were white. tyrone washington is waiting to be arraigned.

if charged, this will be his second strike.

language alone protects us from the scariness of things with no names. language alone is meditation. ~toni morrison