525,600 Minutes

So this is my third post Thanksgiving post. Two years ago I wrote about Big Mamas. Or the lack thereof. Last year, my post was cut short, because someone had broken into my car. And that leads me to the point of this year’s post. Dang really – have two years really gone by?!? I don’t even know what I was thinking about two years ago – unless I read my old posts. And my car being broken into a year ago seemed like such a HUGE deal – if only I had known that months later it would actually get stolen. Lol. And when I think of these things it causes me to wanna break out into song and start singing, “525,600 minutes. How do you measure, measure a year?”

"525,600 minutes, 525,000 moments so dear. 525,600 minutes - how do you measure, measure a year? In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife. In 525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year in the life?" Seasons of Love, Rent the Musical

Last November I was unemployed, living with my mama, knee deep in like with this man. A year later – I work a job that I love, I have bought a house, and I am now waist deep in dislike with that nygga. Trying to get it down to the knees though. Lol. And so how does one measure a year like that? One can’t count the joy and ignore the pain. One can’t focus solely on the many tears that were shed and forget that there was lots of laughter there too. And one must be grateful for the good, bad and the that sho’ll was ugly – cause it’s all there for a reason.

And so I measure this year in the ordinary. In the everyday. Not in the extremes, but in the things that kept me sane and grounded. The simple things, the lovely, simple things. My grandmama’s Thursday fried chicken and biscuit dinners; weekly Bible Study with my old folk; my daily gmail chats with Mint Julep full of rants, philosophies, and gripes on men folk; great trips with 5 spot; dozens of little girls from the hood telling me how much they love the program I provide thus making me love my job even more; this here blog; my mama’s smile; my parents empty bed that I climb into when I’m feeling blue to watch TV or nap; lazy Saturday afternoons with marathons of The Game; my three aunties whose houses always serve as refuge and whose ears are always open; my daddy calling me beautiful; my brother and I sharing a laugh at anything, everything and nothing in particular; my drive to and from work that serves as me-time where I sing loudly and dance to my favorite songs - regardless of if white people are lookin at me; free drinks from my bartender boos; dinners with the girls where things start with a giggle, then become a laugh, then guffaws; my mama and granny seeing me off every morning like it’s my first day of school telling me to have a great day; my afternoon tea; evening TV watching; annual family gatherings and regular church services. And in all of that ordinary, in all of that everyday, there were unexpected lessons. But even better there was love. Lots of love. And for that I am thankful.

That’s my time y’all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!

Albums in the Key of Life

So apparently I be thinking hard on Fridays. So today, Ima try to keep it easy, breezy, beautiful Cover girl! Yesterday, whilst working, surfing the nets, counting down the hours and listening to Pandora, some Floetry song came on. I skipped it. And then said to myself, “self. You have never been a big fan of Floetry.” And then myself responded and was like, “that is soo true. I wonder why that is.” I mean they (the original ladies) made good enough music and I am partial to all things Neo Soul, but for some reason they just didn’t do much for me. I think it was that first song, “I’m the flocist and she’s the songtress.” With the bright ass video with the row house pumping. Mint Julep, do you remember how it would come on Vh1 Soul all the daggone time? Anyway. As usual I digress.

So anyway this got me thinking about which artists I love lots. And then which songs. And then which albums. And which albums I could play allll the time. Even if I just played it out yesterday. And the day before that. You know what I mean? Those albums that just personally resonate with you. Cause when you play it, you know instantly the impact it had on your life, it takes you back and you remember the good, bad, ugly, and the everything in between about that particular moment/time/experience in your life. The albums you could play backwards, forwards, and sideways. When you don’t skip noooo songs. Even the ones you don’t really like, you still let it play. The albums that are classic in your life – even if everyone else is like, “are you still rocking this like it’s 2001/1998/1984?” Hellz yeah! Ok in no particular order, here are some of mine:

Erykah Badu, Mama’s Gun – I didn’t used to listen to this entire album when it first came out. I fell in love with I'm In Love With You and ignored the rest of the album. But then this guy who I was messing with and who used to smoke (and I’m not talking cigarettes) had it on one night and I was like, “what song is this from her album? I never listen to this.” And he was on some, “nah baby you gotta start this from the beginning and let it ride.” And so one day I did. And the rest is history. I can let that joint ride a whole ride.

Love Jones Soundtrack – Um need I say more? I didn’t think so. By the time you get to Sentimental Mood, panties should be hanging from the ceiling fan.

Outkast, Aquemini – From Return of the G, to The Art of Storytellin’, to Rosa Parks to SpottieOttieDopaliscious aka Damn, Damn, Damn, James, this album has some classic Outkast’s lyrics - that if you recite a line to a fan, they are certain to give you the next one. Plus this was also still kind of before all the white people knew who they were.

Maxwell, MTV Unplugged aka Urban Hang Suite Live – Now the ladies at 5 Spot know that I don’t love me some Maxwell. But I do love me that live album. Yes Lawd. Panties should just get thrown up to the sky and never come back down when this is on.

Jill Scott, Beautifully Human – So like every Black chick, I too loved me some Who Is Jill Scott, but I think that Beautifully Human is a more cohesive album. Cause honestly on Who Is, after Slowly Surely, I skip past that magic number and that "protest" song watching me, watching me with her just trying to buy some batteries - to end of the album. But Beautifully Human has some gems: Talk to Me, I Keep, Whatever, that bass line on Not Like Crazy - stays on repeat.

Outkast Andre 3000, The Love Below/Kanye West, College Dropout - I put them together because they came out round the same time and my ex kept both bootlegs in the car. And so I just have fond memories of bobbing my head, talking ish and riding aimlessly through Atlanta. Soo in love. And I mean when else would I actually sit and listen to My Favorite Things except during Christmas time? And I'm sure we all remember being like, "word Andre 3000 is singing now?" And then being like, "and who is this nygga Kanye West who think he's the shyt?" We'd soon find out wouldn't we?

Lil’ Kim Hardcore - Sophomore year of High School – If it weren't for Ms. Kim Jones, how else would I have learned not to be scared of the dyck and the importance of throwing lips to the shyt and handling it like a real bytch? Ahhhh... I'm sure just knowing those lines alone makes my mama proud.

Lauryn Hill aka Ms. Hill, The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill – Check the previously written post and know that I used to have it on tape! TAPE! And me, Bellini and Dark and Stormy wore it out our whole Senior year of High School. And then I bought the CD in like 2002 and played it like it had just came out yesterday. There is something about still knowing alllll the words to every single song of an album that came out over 10 years ago. Whew.

That's just a sample. I didn't even get into the old school albums. Or my honorable mentions. So, what are some of your classic albums?

That’s my time y’all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!

a special day

do you know what today is?
it's our anniversary!

the 5 spot is 2 years young ya'll!

on october 1, 2007, dark and stormy opened the door and shared her feelings of being a grown woman. amaretto unlocked the secret to saving relationships: cups. as always, bellini spoke to the ladies about keeping themselves right and tight. i pondered the gloriousness of the rubberband man and rum punch closed out that first week with a post that epitomized what the view from here is all about.

women navigating our twenties in search of peace, happiness and love (or not). writing about everything and nothing. from the insane to the mundane; you will find different paths taken, lessons learned and lives lived.

over the past 2 years each of us has grown up and out in ways that we could not have imagined on october 1, 2007 when we set out to create this here blog. jobs changed, cross-country moves made, loves gained and lost (or snatched by b&b's), houses bought, trips taken, new friends made, daiquiris consumed, and most of all lessons learned. i for one have enjoyed the ride and i hope you have to.

ladies, raise your glasses! let's celebrate!

it's our anniversary!!

Gone But Not Forgotten

When I was a young Amaretto I swear I had a good memory. Actually, if I recall correctly it was one of the best! Once something got in my head it stayed and took up residence. Never was I one to claim that I had a photographic memory, but I was never a child who forgot her homework. Never was I a child so out of it that I needed my name and address pinned to my coat. So it’s a little unsettling to me, as I become older and wiser that here lately I am forgetting things. And I am not talking oh I forgot to water the plants, or how old Great Aunt Susie will be this year. I’m talking about I am suppose to be someplace at a certain time and there isn’t so much as a nagging feeling that I’m suppose to be doing something... I’m just sitting sipping my sweet tea watching Maury tell another baby daddy…that he in fact is not the father! Does anyone else wonder if folks are going to celebrate Father’s Day in 2020? I'm thinking no. Is it just me?

Hmmmm. What was I writing about? Oh, yeah.

So Rum Punch has long since sworn by her planning calendar. Since I am just getting on the camera phone craze (like as of March ‘08), I have yet to utilize the wonderfulness that are the schedulers that come with the phone. Nor do I see myself carrying around these…though my mom swears by them. I am a single lady with no kids, so what do I need a planner for? There are no music lessons or swim practices I have to get the little ones to after a day at work. I mean straight up, all I am doing right now is hanging out and working. And yet people say “Remember yesterday when…” and well all I can do is stare blankly, because I don’t remember it…at all.

Forgetfulness is just one of the more annoying things about getting older. You come to expect the reduce energy, the gray hairs found in unmentionable places, the “miss” that becomes “ma’am”. But when you really have to think about what you wore to work last week in hopes not to wear the same outfit…there’s a problem. When as a child your favorite game was Memory and you can’t remember where you parked the car, what year it is, or who the President is, there is cause for concern. Not saying that all these things have happened to me-I am here to entertain, but this type of shyt happens like everyday...so some people. I definitely know a Black man is President, and his name ain't Jesse Jackson....right?

It seems that as more stuff goes into my head, so of that other stuff is falling out. I guess that’s just part of the process of getting older. I might just have to eat more fish, tie a string on my finger and start using a planner if I want to remember what is it is exactly that I am suppose to be doing…

See You In Seven

There's Something About Firstloves...

There are three songs that without a doubt will make me think of my ex. They are: Total’s, Kissing You; 112’s, Cupid and Lauryn Hill’s, The Sweetest Thing. Yes, all songs circa 1996-7. Because this ex who always pops into my mind when I hear these songs, as it has become the unofficial soundtrack of our relationship, was my first real boyfriend, my first love.

We attended the same church. He was the son of a preacher man who loved to walk on the wild side. Yes, he was a “bad boy.” I mean as bad as you can get growing up in the suburbs. He had flirted with me numerous times, but I had paid him no mind. I was at the end of my freshman year, he is junior year, so he seemed sooo old to me. But he was oh so fine. And all the girls loved him. For realz. You remember how it was back then. Anyway. One Friday we got to talking while at a youth function at the church. As we left, I making my way home, he on his way to the go-go club because for him the night was still young, he said to me, “is your number in the church directory?” “Yes,” I said. “I’ma call you.” I didn’t believe him. That was Friday. He called me that Sunday. My older cousin who lived with us answered the phone. “You wanna speak to who,” she asked quizzically. I knew instantly that it was him. We spoke on the phone that Sunday night about who knows what – school, parents, why the sky is blue. And we kept right on talking, for the next few days, months, a year. And somewhere in there we were official boyfriend and girlfriend. And I was in love. And damn I still remember this twelve years later. Ask anyone, Rum Punch don’t remember nathin.

But with him I remember conversations until dawn. Dates to the movies and “fancy” chain restaurants. Sneaking around to see him because I knew my mom would think that he was too old for me. Reading my writing to him. Kissing him in his car. Cutting school and waiting for him to pick me up because he had a half day schedule. Accusations of cheating and silent treatment. A sweet birthday card he gave me that I have now lost. Dreams of being together forever and ever and ever. Him telling me that he loved me. Me saying it back. Him breaking my heart. Me being crushed. But always enthralled with him.

Over the years we would lose touch with one another, see each other again, and fall right back into each other’s arms. I knew that it would never work. He was not right for me. We belonged to two entirely different worlds. I could never come down to his and he wouldn’t dare come up to mine. But I couldn’t quite shake him because whenever he looked at me, really looked at me with that come hither look in his eyes, I would melt and become 15 years old all over again. And maybe he too was transported back to that time we had been together, so many years ago.

Even as I had other boyfriends, suitors, lovers, there was always something about him. I was still connected to him. And I feel that in some way I always will be. Maybe it’s because at 15, love was just a word and that yummy/soft feeling you got when that person was around you. It was pure. Simple. Not what it becomes as you get older. Tainted. Filled with conditions. Suspicious. Scary. Uncertain. Difficult. Weighed down with baggage. Brewing with needs, expectations and hopes. The definition expands and contracts, depending on who you ask, how you feel, where you been, where you trying to go, what kinda love you want, thus making things more and more complicated.

But, shit at fifteen, it was easy. That boy, who is now a man, was delicious and dangerous. Being with him was fulfilling and free. It was beautiful and plain. It was a girl giving her heart away for the first time, without knowing all the consequences that come with that. The price that has to be paid. The lessons that have to be learned. A girl with her heart in her hand, her hand extended to him, happily/foolishly/effortlessly giving it to him. Expecting and needing little in return. And oh so content with what she received. Ahhh to first loves!

That’s my time y’all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!

Back Down Memory Lane

I was riding around with my Morehouse brother the other day, messing with his ipod and playing DJ when I put on an Earth, Wind and Fire song titled All About Love.

“What is this,” he asked.
“Man, this is the elements,” I responded with a shriek.

Yeah he looked at me like I had lost my mind. Mainly because it’s not a well known song, but also because it starts in song and then ends with some deep, old school, spoken word. So I can understand that he was taken aback. But when you listen to the words, man they were smooth with it back then. OK actually there’s some rambling and they were probably high off something, but there’s still plenty of truth in it. Check some of the lyrics:

Paint a pretty smile each day, lovin is a blessing.
Never let it fade away.
It's all about love.
Build yourself a true romance.
There's beauty that surround you
You deserve, just one more chance, my dear, my dear...

After hearing the song my Morehouse brother was the second person to say to me, “This sounds like something Andre 3000 would do.” Probably so. But it was done 30+ years ago and my mother got me hooked on this song. She loovvveees this song! Ya hear me? I mean she would play it and then go line by line and break this song down. And so I love this song.

And this got me thinking about music and its influence on our lives. There are songs we fall in love with because of our own personal experiences: our childhood, the era we grew up in, our first kiss, falling in love and then getting our heart broken, the hot beats and lyrics, songs that speak to our heart, mind, soul, and generation. But there are songs that we love because someone else loved them first and then hipped us to the game.

Growing up riding around with my parents I was forced to listen to their music. Motown, the Chi-lites, the Spinners, Quiet Storm, the list is endless. With certain songs came squeals, stories and then memories from my mother. Friends of Distinction,-You Got Me Going in Circles, “Oooo this song was out when I first started dating you father.” The Temptations-Papa Was a Rolling Stone, “Ooooo I had a party on the third of September and we played this song!” Anything by Chaka Khan, “Oooo we used to see her perform in the clubs before she was famous.”

I fell in love with her songs, but more importantly I fell in love with her stories. I would close my eyes and envision my parents partying it up all over Chicago, hanging out at smoky nightclubs, falling in love, becoming adults. With each memory I saw my mother as a real person, someone who had a life before children, career, mortgage and real responsibilities. A girl who liked to have fun.

And so there I was the other day, a girl who likes to have fun, riding around aimlessly, listening to one of my mother’s favorite songs and then playing some of my own. Creating my life soundtrack and making my own memories so that maybe one day I’ll tell my kids, “Oooo that’s my song…”

That’s my time y’all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!

An extra treat!

A Night to Remember

Everybody's got a bomb, we could all die any day
But before I let it happen, I will dance my life away
Oh they say 2000 zero zero party over, oops, out of time!
So tonight I'm gonna party like it's 1999!
- Prince, 1999


Happy Monday family! 'Tis the season for strutting across the stage in caps & gowns and shopping for the perfect dress or tux for the prom. Over the weekend, I ran into one of my neighbors who is getting ready for her senior prom. We started chatting about limos, after-parties, and everything in between. Before I knew it, I was two-steppin' down memory lane...

I wasn't crazy about the idea of going to prom. I didn't really give a damn about getting dressed up and paying for an overpriced ticket to party with folks that I could barely stand sitting in a classroom with. I just wanted to hurry up and be done with it all and was counting down the days I could give Anytown USA H.S. the finger and be out. But my lovely friends and my mother reminded me that if nothing else, I would enjoy the memory years later and it would make for a wonderful story to tell my kids. Boy were they right.

At prom time, I had boyfriend. He was a few years my senior and I had no intentions of bringing him as my date. The theme was "Party Like It's 1999", because the year was 1999 and we had the most creative prom committee ever. My dumbass high school would only sell couples' tickets, so Bellini and I went half on a ticket. I remember going from mall to mall searching for a dress but all I could find was yards and yards of gaudy fluffiness that you could not pay me to put on my body. Already not a dress chick, finding something I felt comfortable wearing was a hard task. I decided to go the non-traditional route and bought a short dress that, as my mom described, looked like a slip with flowers. I liked it, so who cares.

The evening of the prom, I was actually looking forward to having a fun night out with my friends. We rented a stretch limo. We had dinner reservations at B. Smith's Restaurant. And being the resourceful young folks that we were, we booked two hotel rooms at the Omni Shoreham where our prom was being held. I gotta give it to us... Even as youngins, we had it goin' on!

When the limo arrived at my house, I remember thinking it looked a little full. We rented a 14 passenger vehicle and there were already seven upon arrival to my crib. We still had to pick up Rum Punch & her date, and this other chick (didn't like her or invite her) and her date. The plan was to have a total of 12 in limo. Another friend (we'll call him T) and his date were riding together in a Mercedes-Benz (borrowed for the occasion). Well by the time we picked up the last couple, the limo was mighty tight. I ended up hopping in the Benz with T. Wasn't too happy about that...

Dinner was a nightmare. Upon arrival, our table was not ready. I still cannot understand why not given the many weeks' notice that the restaurant was given. So we were seated late. And then it took an eternity for our food to arrive. Dinner itself is a blur to me. However, I clearly remember how folks came up short when it was time to pay the bill. This is what happens when you invite extra people, who ain't really your friends, in the name of saving money. It was a good idea at the time but unfortunately we got stuck with a couple of trifling broke asses.

We were extremely late leaving the restaurant. I think we arrived a lil' after 11 PM. The prom was over at 1 AM. The prom itself was ok. There isn't much the actual party that sticks out in my memory. Big ballroom, loud music, everybody snappin' pictures... the usual stuff. And I was still salty over the dinner fiasco. The plans for after the prom were to go back to our high school for the PTA's "safe, parent-approved" after prom party. They had free food and a few fun activities. Then we'd return to our hotel rooms and get the real after party started.

My friend T's date decided she wanted to go home, so I couldn't ride with them back to school. Instead I rode up front with the limo driver. If my memory serves me correctly, the limo dropped us off at the school and we took our own cars to the hotel.

Our hotel after party was quite interesting. The two rooms we reserved were connected by a door in the middle. The fellas brought up many bottles of liquor in a big duffel bag. I think we had music playing but not quite sure. I kissed some dude who I didn't even like... but it didn't go any further than that. And not too long afterward, I passed out on top of the bed. The funny thing was there was about five of us stretched out on top of the bed. A couple of more folks out on the floor. And one dude made his bed in the bathtub.

Definitely a night to remember. Or should I say a night I kinda remember. Do you remember your prom night?

Forgetfully Yours,
Dark & Stormy

roommate chronicles

Roommates can be fun and interesting or positively horrible. Ok, there might be a middle ground in there somewhere but finding a roommate who doesn't bother you and keeps to themselves is pretty hard to do. I've had my fair share of roommates in this life. Come with me as I take you down memory lane and highlight my most memorable roommates.

The OR (original roommate): My lil sister a.k.a. the dirtiest roommate known to man. You wouldn't know it now but back in the day I used to really hate my lil sister. Even though in sunday school they taught us we shouldn't hate anyone, I truly did feel venom and wrath when I thought about her most days. Mainly because we shared a room and while I like things decent and in order, she preferred to hide bowls of cereal under her bed for weeks at a time. Ewwww. We fought like cats and dogs about closet space, cleanliness and who would be the one to turn the light out when it was time to fall asleep. We even drew one of those lines down the middle of the room and dared each other to step foot cross it. So I ended up making the leap from my side to the hallway just to exit my own room.

The bestest roommate ever: a.k.a. Rum Punch. I'ma let ya'll in on the biggest secret in roommate success. Come close, you ready.... SEPARATE BATHROOMS and to a lesser but equally important extent, separate bedrooms (i.e. bedrooms at either end of the apartment so no one hears a thing....ever!). We would convene in the living room, lay on our respective couches and watch vh1 soul all day, until the rotation came back around and we would yell out the next video before they even played it. Grocery shopping was an event, since neither of us minded sharing the necessities like water, milk and bread and we'd happily split the bill down the middle. She'd proof my history papers, even though I wrote them at the last minute in the wee hours of the morning mere hours before they were due. Yet we both could retreat to our secret places for some much needed solitary confinement. Those were the days!

The oldest roommate in America: a.k.a. Granddaddy. I didn't literally live with my grandfather, instead in an even weirder turn of events, I lived with someone else's grandfather, a man old enough to be my granddaddy. Ahhhh the things one does for cheap rent in the big apple. Half the time he was gone and the other half he watched over our little block from his perch in his bedroom window. I had to get used to the sounds of salsa music blasting from his room on Saturday nights and the cigarette smoke did nothing for my developing allergies but other than the fact that I could never bring anyone over for fear of having to explain what I was doing living with a 70 year old man (i think), this situation was pretty alright. But maybe that's because I only did it for 4.5 months.

Thankfully, I'm done with roommates....for now. Until the day I find my ultimate roommate, the one who will carry me over the threshold of our new pad. While I anxiously await that day, I'll enjoy my non-roommateness...

No more waking up in the middle of the night in a panic because you think you heard something decidedly non-human scratching and sneaking in the corner.

No more sleeping with the lights and the radio on because you're afraid to go to sleep for fear the non-human thing will crawl all over your body.

No more scurrying to the bathroom in a robe or a towel.

No more lighting 50 thousand candles and scented oil thingies to get rid of the smell of smoke and old people.

No more waking up on a Saturday morning at 8am to a 5 year old staring you in the face asking, "can we play now?"

No more running random errands for your mama nem on your vacation days cause really what would ya'll do if i wasn't here?

No more funny stories that start with "girl, guess what my roommate did last night..."

Do y'all have any funny roommate stories?

When Being a Punk is Necessary

There are like three things I know for certain about myself. Numero Uno: My favorite color is green-pretty much all shades except the lime and electric varieties. Number 2: I *HEART* Sour Patch Kids-having a raw mouth is totally worth the chewy gummy goodness. And lastly, I can say that I have never ever ever been in a fight! Well let me be honest…there was that time I had to kick my cousins butt over the remote because I refused to watch The Last Dragon one mo ‘gin! I mean how many times can a girl be subjected to Sho’Nuff and watching Bruce Leroy glow trying to save his family’s pizza place?! But I’m proud of the fact that I have never had to meet someone down by the oak tree at three o’clock…

But I ain’t gonna lie there was a time that I almost got my ass beat! Come go with me back to 1998. I was a junior in high school who was able to attend the senior prom. Oh the things I saw that night as the class of ’98 got down with the get down. Some fashions were fabulous, and others well… So the next week back on the school yard I decided to share and care with the masses the things that I saw. There was this one girl who’s outfit I felt was a hot mess. Picture a 300 plus pound woman wearing a lot of blue sheer and flowing material in the “I Dream of Jeannie” fashion… thankfully she had some sort of crush blue velvet material covering her stomach area. Oh, and the look was completed with a clip-on ponytail and the blue satin shoes that elves and apparently genies wear. Well as I told my “Somebody Should Have Told Her…” tale to the masses, I was completely unaware that “Jeannie’s” hateful cousin was in the crowd. Rut, roh! Well word got back to me that Jeannie and ‘em were looking for me to talk about some things. How many of ya’ll know that 300 plus pound women, tend to roll with 300 plus pound women? These girls had big man hands, big ole breasts, and big shinny boots-perfect for kicking me down and stomping my head. They were more than capable of putting your girl in a wheelchair for life!

And for the following days, I was a total and complete punk! And I say that proudly. I was looking over my shoulder, quickening my pace to and from class. I mean I didn’t have the type of friends who would run out of AP classes ready to rumble with razors and brass knuckles, my friends would more likely visit me in the hospital with flowers and fruits baskets. But then one day on my way to the bathroom, I found myself completely alone in the hallway with one of the Big’un girls in Jeannie’s crew…

Let me tell you I love fruit baskets ya’ll.

But I didn’t get beat down that day, because I was able to appeal to Big’un. I stated the case for why violence was not the answer and how unwise it would be for her t kick my ass in her Senior year. And if she thought I wasn’t going to press assault and battery charges she was crazy. I told her to think about MLK and the Black on Black crime rates and how we should strive to not be statistics… Okay, I’m sorry that’s the version I’m going to tell my kids…The truth was she told me that Jeannie’s name should never ever come out of my mouth again and if it did I was going to get what I “deserved”. So much for free speech right? And when she was finished telling me that she was sparing me, I apologized and said that it would never happen again...

Thank the Lord for salvation…and I didn’t pee on myself!

But let’s just say that this happened in 2008, would I have been so lucky? Now that everyone has an anger problem? Especially when folks are begging for the right to bear arms based on a constitutional condition that was written when folks lived in the wilderness. And ain’t nobody tryin’ to hear anything other than what they are saying, or ain’t caring about nobody else but themselves. I know that if this situation where to happen today, I wouldn’t be standing tall, taking my earrings off-asking someone to go get me some Vaseline… I’d be like Forrest Gump and be ruuuuunnnning…

And that’s the fourth thing I know for sure about myself!

See You In Seven

memories of a former band geek

This past weekend a friend and I attended the Big Apple Classic. Hampton and Howard’s mens basketball teams squared off in Madison Square Garden, giving New Yorkers a taste of Black college festivities including a college fair, Greek step show and battle of the bands. I’m personally not a fan of either Hampton or Howard but having spent many a Saturday growing up glued to BET (remember when they showed Black college football games?) or huddled in the cold bleachers watching games live, I was jammin’ right along with Hampton’s pep band. And with every new song they played, my face lit up with recognition.

Hampton made Weezy’s confession bout never having ran from nan’nigga and that today was not the day to start sound like a passionate love song, using the brass horns to pick up on the tune’s melodic undertones. It really did! And dammit if they didn’t pull out the classic…

Heeeeey……heyyy……heyyyy……you talking out the sida ya neck… (ok, that sounded betta live but my real band heads feel me!)

My friend looked over at me and asked how I was able to pick up which songs the band was playing so fast. I gave her that girl-don’t-you-know-who-I-am look and said “I am THE band song decipherologist!”

I had to break it down for her. It’s a well-known fact that Black college bands choose their musical selections from a few specific categories:

1) your local dj’s top 8 at 8, what you hear on the radio 20 times a day, both ballads and hip hop joints alike; or
2) a three song melody comprised of hits from The Elements (Earth Wind & Fire for the uninitiated) or Michael Jackson or Stevie Wonder

Now you will occasionally get the adventurous band that strays from these two categories but 9 times outta 10, this is what they go with. And then I asked her, have you never been to a Black college football game, caught the Bayou Classic on Thanksgiving Saturday, the homecoming parade, something?!?

And her response…That just wasn't my experience!

Note: said friend once confessed to me that she used to be afraid of Black people and large gatherings of Black people. Despite being African-American and growing up in a major northeastern city she somehow got it into her head that she should avoid places where lots of black people congregated, you know that extra hood shopping mall across town, high school basketball games, rap concerts, etc. because of the inherent dangers in such gatherings.

Damn Gina!

I looked at her with sorrowful eyes and wished at that moment that the De Lorean would pull up and take us both back to the fall of 1998 and my most memorable Black college band moment. I can remember it like it was yesterday (cue the music).

We had traveled all night on that charter bus from our little high school in our little city with hearts full of excitement and anticipation. We were on our way to the mecca of Black college bandum…Florida A & M University’s Homecoming.

In my teenage mind, we had made it to the big time. For this was where all things band sprung. Where our drum majors came for band camp every summer, where we got our drum cadences from (duckmouth, papa was a rolling stone, P-Sec, you know!), every formation, every drill, every arrangement was certified gold from FAMU. Even our band leader had gotten his chops on the trumpet section there and came back to the hometown to groom us up in the way that we should go.

We all hoped that one day, we too would be lucky enough to get a band scholarship upon graduation and join the ranks of the Marching 100, riding off into the sunset with our oh-so-sexy boyfriend who just happened to be on the trombone line or if we were especially lucky, a drum major! A girl could dream.

We marched our little hearts out up and down the country streets of Tallahassee and tried to act all grown walking through the yard, imagining ourselves as one of those girls, wearing one of those jackets, having the times of our lives, free from parents and restrictions enjoying homecoming weekend with our gaggle of girlfriends.

And when we finally made it to the stadium, spent from the cheers of the parade onlookers, we couldn’t contain ourselves. Black people as far as the eye could see were taking up every seat in the house, waving orange and green pom poms. Yelling, cheering, and laughing with delight. Just having the time of their lives, eagerly anticipating the halftime show.

And then the signal…

beeeeeeeeeeeeeep beep, beep beep beep beep.

The figures appeared. Tall and proud, the Presidential Nine, busting those 90’s slowly, precisely without dropping a knee. Swinging their batons in hand, tall white hats, sparkling clean uniforms with orange and green tassels swaying with every movement, shiny black boots, and that deadly rattler snaring at you from across their chests.

They death marched, clicking off time with short whistle beeps, reaching the middle of the field, and in a flash of caps, they spin, leap and fall into elaborate splits.

Let the show begin…

Man, somewhere in my friend’s fear of Black folks she missed all this…

In loving memory of my cuzo, a proud Rattler!

Songs in the Key of Life

My first love is music. I begin each day with it and I end each night with it. Music is the language of my heart and I could not imagine life without it. Every person has a soundtrack to their life. Songs that signify a special person, a unique place, a family gathering, or even a broken heart. Today, I am having a hard time putting words together. I am finding difficulty in synching my tongue [and fingers] with the body and soul. Therfore I am sharing with you the current melody that my heart beats.

I hope you enjoy.

Tumultuously Yours,

Dark & Stormy