THE BLACK RUSSIAN

RUMOR HAS IT

2010-11-16T23:25:00.007-05:00

AHH THE RUMOR MILL

This week I was asked and then basically told that I have a porn site lurking in the deepest darkest areas of the web. I say that in complete jest because I have not seen it. Lying across my sofa smoking a cigarette, I decidedly replied in a very dismissive manner to the question at hand, “I don’t have a porn site, I don’t have a site at all, I can’t afford to make the one I want, let alone a porn site.”

I finished my call and then pondered the idea. I got mad. “What the HELL!!!” who in their right mind would think I had a porn site, and would bother to spread the rumor as if it were true. PORN? REALLY? PORN??

FELCAIO FOR A FEE

As much as I would LOVE to admit to an arrogance of my sexual prowess, I cannot. I laugh when I think of anyone who would want to see or pay to see me perform any sexual act. Literally, I laugh. With breasts the size of watermelons and the weight to match, a belly that on any given day of overeating, thighs that look like a treat for sasquatch I don’t think even the kindest of desperate male souls would be turned on by a XXX video, starring me!

DENTAL FLOSS LOST IN A SEA OF SUBSTANCE

Monday night at The Z Room Comedy open mic, the topic comes up again. Big girls just can’t wear a thong; it’s just not sexy. It’s just not nice, they don’t make that lingerie for an ass the size of the Great Pumpkin. So I laugh, no porn, no thong, no nothing! And I am reminded of something my sister has been saying about my thong owning big ass you years, “Girl! That underwear looks like the Lycra is holding on for dear life!!” I hate to tell ya folks, but if we want it they sell it. In sizes that would make any man remember why he was in the bed in the first place!

FETISH FOR DUMMIES

Needless to say, there is a whole world out there for those who have a vested interest in the fuller figured woman. And when I mean fuller figured, I mean FULL FULL FIGURED. Magazines as classy as Playboy, with all the fixings Hugh Hefner could have imagined. Women in thong underwear twice the size as what I own and ladies rounder, plumper, and juicier than anything I have ever seen. And I don’t mean “Big Booty Bountiful”, “Black Ghetto Booty” or any other likely named XXX video; I mean 2 tons of fun, having fun with men who enjoy the challenge.

AND THE WINNER IS…….
So I wish I could say that rumors are hurtful, evil or just plain stupid. Sometimes they are, but this time it’s funny and thought provoking. Ladies and gentlemen, I am officially to big for mainstream pornography and not big enough for fetish porn. I won’t be winning any AVN’s any time soon and had I any inclination of delving into that industry, I am sure I would not be sitting in my mother’s basement writing these pages. I’d be in Brittany, watching the tide come in on my porch with a wolfhound named Brutus at my side.

THE LOST ART OF ETIQUETTE

2010-10-29T01:16:00.002-04:00

^{Society became disturbed by etiquette's European history, so associated with extravagance and wealth. What's left is a watered down version of its last marketable concepts; dancing lessons, table settings, balanced walks and appropriate greetings; Charm schools, Debutante Balls, and private lessons.}

^{We can now "buy" a good upbringing, for a small fortune, with the best schools and the best clothes, making everything we do more marketable. But what about the simple facts? What about the basics? What about the things that were once important, when all you had was not what you wore but how you presented yourself and what you said. From your hand gestures to the way you chewed your food. To the way you picked up your knife and fork, those are some of the little things that were just a way of life. But it's bigger than that. It was how we set the standard for what the world will be today. And there's no one thing to blame it's everything and everyone. Because we all forgot and we all should have remembered.}

Do you remember when people shared and were interested in working together for one common good? In corporate culture it is now called "Team Work". Do you remember the days where you couldn’t play double Dutch without 4 people, and the park was where everyone played, young or old? Do you remember? The times where you couldn’t raise your voice at ANY adult, and it wasn’t only "Big Mamma" who slapped you for doing wrong? And whether you lived in apartment or a house, at the dinner table, there were NO elbows on the table, and you didn’t eat without saying “Pass the butter please...” and “Thank you” after it was passed to you. Oh, you could cut up, but you knew better than to take it any farther than a smile or a giggle. And the kids did the dishes after dinner. What happened to those times, when we were rewarded for good work, even when the boss was taking advantage. He at least said “Job well done.” You might not have gotten that promotion, but at least they said “Thank you.” The lost art of etiquette, so far gone, those that still have it are considered weak, bourgeois, or better yet, stupid to participate in such vain activities of the mind.

When we even bring up the issue of culture, do we even suggest that urban culture is the culprit of this substandard mockery of common attitudes? How could we? When we are all in the grocery store watching the "New Age" mother letting her infant children "express themselves" by screaming and stamping, and yelling at her. Should we turn our noses up because she is a career women with a nanny and a job that some of us dream to have? And what about the "Welfare" mother with WIC checks and too many kids to handle. Do we turn our noses up at them because they take longer in the checkout line while her infant children "express themselves" by demanding things she cannot afford to buy? Or do we do what the lost art expected of us, to help them both all along the way. And what about the businessman, late for his meeting, who pushes his way through the crowd with a posture and an obvious feeling of self importance, as if he is the only one on the way to work. And the over privileged college student, who thinks his opinion is more important than any one else's in the classroom. What does it say about us when cities have to place signs on seats in public transportation to remind us of what used to be second nature? To "Give up a seat for the elderly or physically impaired". What are we saying about ourselves?

It says that we live in a world where there are other things of value. Money, power and maintaining a lifestyle that is comfortable to us. And those things are not wrong to want. We want our children to have more than we had. We want to do better than our parents did. It's good to want more. Wanting breeds ambition, challenge and integrity. Its the way we choose to the "More" that we want that is questioned here. These material needs have become synonymous with respect, which has changed the way we all live. In a millennium where the average family struggles to pay for healthcare, and the retired have to go back to work to part-time to pay for their medication, is it just what they all say? That we are living longer so it is draining our social security? Or are we all suffering from the change, that has almost eliminated the ideals of etiquette.

That change has made etiquette a lost art. Etiquette as an art instead of a way of life. Aggressive behavior is praised in business because professional attitudes have deemed it to be more "Progressive". We live, eat and breathe for the next opportunity to make more money because that is represented as successful living. And successful living is respected. Drawn in by the tragedy of fear, we've lost the sense of community, where the lost art lived and thrived. We've lost respect for those who once had the ability to teach it; preachers, reverends, politicians, businessman. To only respect the less human ideals and separate ourselves from the tragedy, for a better sense of security. Material gains have become more respected. And the more we separate ourselves, the less associated with ourselves we become. And that is how the art of etiquette is lost.

Community brought the lost art to us, and gave us it's values. It was meant to be a teaching tool, to ensure that we could all communicate with one another effectively. Reflecting on the basics of humanity, by priding itself on non-judgment. Never existing to separate the masses through class distinction, but when used effectively, brought people together from all walks of life. And we have left it. Left it all behind.

The nostalgia I felt to see a small clip in the news of the last vestiges of the lost art. In New Orleans, at city of recent tragedy, they were able to do what they did annually. for all young girls who lived there. A debutante ball. My heart became alive at the fact that there was still a place in the country that honored the tradition. A tradition that is full of life, love, respect, and all the things that I endure. I shed a tear. A tear because I only hoped for more young women to participate in the process that was once so well respected. To bring to their children, not only the regimen, but what it means, and how it helps to reach all those who one would think are so unreachable. To bring hope, honor and joy to those who played a part, in keeping the lost art alive. We think so much about all else that matters little, and yet so less about what matters so much. The lost art, it taught us that the small things that happen in our lives, are not so much less, but just as big, because they bring us to the larger things in life. Quality of life. No matter where you live, or who you are, or what you have become. The lost art love and respected all that took part, and all that made it prosper. The lost art of Etiquette, it is what we once had, before its meaning was left behind.

lifes, hairpin bend

2009-12-23T13:21:00.002-05:00

life takes a bend,
a drastic turn,
together we stand
and in the cosmic
fire we burn!

to be like crystal
to be white as pearl,
years of labour made me
lost..........in big way and small.

they say,
great is my strength
of enduring,
and my patience, neverending.
not knowing,
the strength of my mind
is drawn from
the loving well of your heart.

i lose much and gain little
that little becomes the strength,
yet whole some,
and sometimes brittle.

ritty patnaik

LIKE DAT @ NY COMEDY CLUB THIS WEDNESDAY!!!!!!

2009-12-01T10:31:00.001-05:00

SATURDAY! OCTOBER 3RD!

2009-09-22T00:20:00.000-04:00

THE LIE

2009-08-06T12:47:00.000-04:00

by: Sir Walter Raleigh

O, Soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless arrant!
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant:
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

Say to the court it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Say to the church it shows
What's good, and doth no good:
If court and church reply,
Then give them both the lie.

Tell potentates they live
Acting by others' action,
Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by a faction.
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition
That manage the estate,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate:
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending:
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell zeal it wants devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust:
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.

Tell age it daily wasteth;
Tell honor how it alters;
Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favor how she falters:
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.

Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in over-wiseness:
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.

Tell physic of her boldness;
Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;
Tell law it is contention:
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.

Tell fortune of her blindness;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay:
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming:
If arts and school reply,
Give arts and school the lie.

Tell faith it fled the city;
Tell how the country erreth;
Tell manhood shakes off pity;
Tell virtue least preferreth:
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing,--
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing,--
Stab at thee, he that will,
No stab the soul can kill.

LIKE DAT IS BACK @ EASTVILLE COMEDY CLUB

2009-06-29T18:03:00.000-04:00

BIG APPLE CON SUMMER SIZZLER

2009-06-12T12:57:00.001-04:00

ROCK & ROLL FOR AUTISIM

2009-04-02T12:29:00.002-04:00

2009-03-23T14:45:00.000-04:00

METAL

2009-03-04T22:18:00.001-05:00

DARRA"LIKE DAT" BOYD ROCKIN ON METAL NOIZE TV

The Cold Cross of Conflicted Interest

2009-02-16T10:26:00.004-05:00

Days seem almost transparent to the conflicted and unassured. It's deafening sound of silence hounds he who is lost in his own delusion. And they live happy lives but they know nothing of what misfortune becomes them in the longs days ahead. It seems so unreal, so cold, So closeted. But in the end there is nothing more, and nothing less.

This life, this world, the generations of nothing reveal all that is inhuman to the most seemingly humane. We are reaching every day for hope that may not help us make the decisions needed to choose between poverty and hunger, death and destruction, ambition or ambivalence. And yet, there are those who move freely through the shadows, knowing nothing more than the cursed life that they live.

All is open to us, if we only just see. The hurt remain in pain because they are considered destructive. The destroyers continue to destroy, and now there are so many, you cannot find anyone who is not participating in the evils of life. The godless remain the devils of the universe, where will we all go now? Treasured is the moment when one can extend out their hand, without it being separated from the arm that helped to extend it. The whore's of society move past you as if you don't exist. They shout "Ебать блядей в пизду и в рот! Говно всем класть за отворот!" as if it does not confirm that they pay with their womb to live. Very soon they disappear, to their infected empty lives, where they die alone and devil dances on their grave. That is the life of the whore. Oblivious, not recognizing, they destroy themselves. Living in indulgence, selling emptiness and cowardice, until there is nothing left.

New York Comicon 2009

2009-02-04T02:55:00.005-05:00

Saturday, Feb 7th 2pm - 3pm Table 3 Sunday, Feb 8th 1130am - 330pm Trade Booth

Laurent Geniez

2009-02-03T00:24:00.000-05:00

L'ASCENSEUR-AVEC DGIZ-ZOOKEEPER-FLORENT MATON-ANTONELLA PARADISO

Laurent Geniez

2009-02-03T00:14:00.003-05:00

Abuelo

HORS PISTES AVEC PACO EL LOBO ET VERONICA VALLECIO
Laurent Geniez (s; electro)- Paco El Lobo (voc; g) - Veronica Valecillo : danse. April 2nd 2008 @ La Mer a Boire - Paris

Zaho

2009-02-01T14:26:00.001-05:00

Kif'n'dir (Que vais je faire? )

Sunday Night at the Gallery

2009-01-27T19:40:00.004-05:00

The Best Date I Ever Had was with Laurent Geniez.....He showed me a Paris I always wanted to see....COOL!

Tribute to Jimmy Gourley with SEAN GOURLEY, CHRISTIAN ESCOUDé, ALAIN JEAN MARIE, ANDRé VILLEGIER, FRANçOIS RICARD et LAURENT GENIEZ

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

2008-12-25T12:15:00.002-05:00

Seasons Greetings to you and your family on this joyous day! Hope all is well and your future is bright!!

Happy Holidays from The Black Russian Blog!

Letters to a Mistress

2008-11-28T08:37:00.003-05:00

C.R.A.Z.Y.

Responsibility. The thought of ever being responsible for anything that happened never occurred to him. It was as if I gave her every reason to harass me. And even after she slit her throat in my bedroom, it was still my fault. Because I tried to prove she was after me. Because I tried to make sure she got caught attempting to take my life. Because I protected myself. When she first called me it was my fault for answering the phone. It was my fault, because I told her who I was. Responsibility. He never once took it, for anything that happened. Not even in the beginning.

Sitting at the edge of the bar alone, I looked down the long end of an almost empty vodka martini. This place, this was my home away from home. My home, was work. But here, here I knew everyone, and everyone knew what mood I was in, depending on the look on my face. It was nice to have a place like that. A place that you could feel comfortable drinking in without any problems, and no one there to bother you.

Natasha saw me come in, and with a smile, she took one look at me and decided to give me a strong one. 3 kisses on both cheeks to her and I took my usual stool close to the kitchen, where I could smell what I wanted for dinner. I didn’t notice anyone at the start of the evening, though the bar was moderately full. All I saw was every physical article that was around me. The detail of the antique cash register, full of dollar bills with a cash drawer that would never shut amazed me. It had small pieces of mirrored glass all over it, and when the front door to the bar opened, the streetlights made them glitter like a thousand diamonds. The plastic palms in the ceiling made you ignore how low the ceiling was, and how badly it needed repair. White lights mingled in between each leaf. When you were drunk enough, they looked like stars. But Natasha would hardly ever make my drinks that stiff, unless I asked for them. And this night I asked for them. Several of them.

It was that kind of day at work. The never-ending kind where everyone is selfish and wants to leave early and expects one person to take on the responsibility of 20. It was the kind of day where you finally had had enough and told your boss, in a kind way to “Fuck Off”. So I did. And afterward I was wallowing in the biggest mistake you could make in a wavering economy, when Marketing Executives like me are getting laid off left and right. Wallowing, on the cusp of the kind of depression you get just before you realize that you just might have to swallow your pride and admit you made a mistake to a person who does not even deserve the apology you are crafting in your head. It was the kind of day that you knew if you didn’t do what you did, you would more than likely go postal in the office and stab everyone around you with the last pen in your desk organizer because they have been stealing yours for weeks and you can’t take it anymore. It was the kind of day where, drinking would not make it better, no matter how much you drank. A day where fucking all night long would not make the pain go away. And then you look down your glass and realize, you don’t have anyone to fuck anyway. That depressing thought made me lift my head and actually look around. Look down the bar and see that there were actually people around me drinking also. And at the end was the most intriguing man I had seen in ages.

He wasn’t the most attractive thing in the world. Tall, thin, balding, grey, looking to be about 50, with eyes of a man barely 40. Time had taken some of his life, but you could still see in his eyes that he refused to let it take it all. His lips were barely existent, but were an interested red against his olive skin. Rose, which I had never seen in a man his age. I almost took him for North African, and was about to stop right there after remembering a freakish affair with a Moroccan. But what took me past that was the Russian that he was speaking.

Usually good with culture, I couldn’t figure it out. I was used to all the old soviets that came in and out of this place, but this was different. Something was not right about his accent, and that caused me to stare, and I did until I was tipsy enough to ask him; “You’re French aren’t you?” It was just a random guess, he had the look but there was still something missing. And what surprised me was that he immediately turned toward me and said, “Yes…how did you know?” Like a silly drunken sailor I said “French, French or North African?” I needed to know if I was getting myself involved in another demanding, over baring lover with tons of cash and a mother who would hate me for life because I was not Muslim. I had done that already and frankly I was not interested. But he answered the answered the sweetest answer that a woman, 2 martinis’s finished and on the brink of unemployment would want to hear; he was not Muslim and he was buying the next round.

We talked for so long we both forgot that he was originally having a conversation with a colleague of his, who was completely annoyed, not by our conversation, but because all of the attention was no longer geared toward him. His name, Thibault Masson, a photographer who traveled all over the world and had been in New York for 4 months. Married twice, widowed once and divorced once. Currently single, he was looking straight down my blouse any moment he could. His colleague was an obnoxious medical student and budding poet, who didn’t realize until hours later that we had actually had several conversations and also that I knew many of his friends. Thus, the attempt made to separate the 2 became easier and easier. Until finally, the budget conscious medical student paid his bill and left.

Thibault, or “T” as he loved to be called, completely entertained me with stories of his travels and the difficulties dealing with models and magazine editors. I entertained him with the counter stories of how difficult photographers were and how the more prominent their work, the more difficult they became. There was work we had in common. There was travel we had in common; he to Moscow for photo shoots more times than he could count, and me to St. Petersburg to open our company’s first Eastern European office. We talked about the responsibility of learning a 2nd and 3rd language. We talked about the responsibility of taking care of older parents; the patience one must have with brothers and sisters who try hard not to be jealous but still are because of your ambition and success. We talked about overcoming depression, drugs, unhappy relationships; we talked about everything that would keep 2 people in a bar, drunk, until 2AM. And when he walked me out, we talked about he responsibility of going home with someone you barely knew. “The world is full of crazy people you know”, he said as he walked me to the corner for a taxi. “But I want to see you again” And kissed me ever so gently goodnight before I got in the cab. It was as if I finally found the man that made sense. Honest, gentle, fun. I looked back and he was still standing at the corner as the car pulled away. He was looking at me with a smile on his face so real, I couldn’t believe any of this was happening. I went got home and slept like a baby that night. The next morning, I never bothered to call the office. I sent for my belongings and began looking for a new way to earn money. Later that afternoon I checked my voicemail and heard the most compelling message. That night he had called to make sure that I got home safely. He wanted to assure me that he was happy to have spent the time that he did with me and that there was no one else in his life at the moment. I found it sweet but still strange. To bad it was all a lie.

Sir Walter Rawleigh

2008-11-25T16:18:00.008-05:00

I Am But Dust

You shall now receive my last words in these last lines. My love I send you that you may keep it when I am dead, and my councell that you may remember it when I am no more. I would not by my will present you with sorrowes let them go to the grave with me and be buried in the dust. And seeing that it is not Gods will that I should see you any more in this life, beare it patiently, and with a heart like thy selfe.

First, I send you all the thankes which my heart can conceive, or my words can rehearse for your many travailes, and care taken for me, which though they have not taken effect as you wished, yet my debt to you is not the lesse: but I pay it I never shall in this world.

Secondly, I beseech you for the love you beare me living, do not hide your selfe many dayes, but by your travailes seeke to helpe your miserable fortunes and the right of your poor childe. Thy mourning cannot availe me, I am but dust.........

Zaho

2008-11-13T10:14:00.006-05:00

La Roue Tourne

Faut jamais rien prendre pour acquis
Parce que tôt ou tard
La roue tourne
Et ça sert a rien de courir

J'ai les pieds sur le sol
Mes rêves guident mes pas
Donc si je veux je vole
au-dessus de mes tracas

Les gens qui me désolent
Nan mes yeux ne les voient pas
Car c'est la vie qui donne
Ce qu'elle réserve à chacun

Peu importe ce qui m'arrive
Moi je m'en fiche (fiche)
Et qu'les gens disent (disent)
Que je suis folle
J'suis pas si naïve
Mais je n'ai plus (plus)
Le temps d'haïr car je sais que..

La roue tourne, la roue tourne
La roue tourne, retour à la case départ
La roue tourne, la roue tourne
La roue tourne, tôt ou tard tout se barre

Dans la fosse aux lionnes
Ceux qui se battent y'en a plein
Désolé si je m'isole
Mais je préfère les gradins

Juste une clé de sol
Pour chanter jusqu'au matin
Du bout des doigts je frôle
La vérité donc je suis à mi-chemin

Peu importe ce qui m'arrive
Moi je m'en fiche (fiche)
Et qu'les gens disent (disent)
Que je suis folle
J'suis pas si naïve
Mais je n'ai plus (plus)
Le temps d'haïr car je sais que..

La roue tourne, la roue tourne
La roue tourne, retour à la case départ
La roue tourne, la roue tourne
La roue tourne, tôt ou tard tout se barre

Assis talons entre les jambes
Oui elle est loin d'être élégante
Elle tourne, elle tourne
Avec ou sans baton dans les jantes
Dur de grimper la pente
Si, si je dois percer
Les jaloux ne m'empêcheront pas d'exercer
Rey, si je me plante
Marlich ça m'endurçi
Sans rancune je vous dis merci
En plein exercice
La vie joue des tours
Frelo persiste car la roue né-né-nétour

La roue tourne, la roue tourne
La roue tourne, retour à la case départ
La roue tourne, la roue tourne
La roue tourne, tôt ou tard tout se barre

Letters to a Mistress

2008-11-12T14:07:00.002-05:00

C.R.A.Z.Y.

“Cancer.” She said to me “The anger becomes a cancer. Something you can’t stop and you can’t get rid of no matter how hard you try. You work and work for so long to forget about it all. The pain, the betrayal, the lack of respect, all the things that you understood were things you could easily get over. And then, just when you thought everything was OK and you can move on, you get angry all over again. Angry because you can’t sleep at night. Angry because you can’t get up in the morning. Angry because your stomach hurts from drinking too much. Angry because you cried at a stupid movie. You start not to be able to fight the pain, and you just get so mad that your blood is hot all the time. Day and night. The heat in your skin makes you irritated. You itch and you sweat. Like a crackhead. That, that is when you finally do something stupid. Something so dumb even you could think of reasons not to. And you do think of them. You pray and pray and pray, but the anger takes over your whole soul. And then you do it. You do the one thing you never wanted to do. The thing you wanted to be better than. Better than them. You make a fool out of yourself in anger. I did it. I did it to your father.”

And then she told me. She told me of the time right before my father was leaving us. When things were really bad that they were always fighting. I barely remembered going to visit him and that woman. I barely remembered her name. But when my mother began to tell the story. The night that it all happened started to come back to me like it was yesterday.

The night of my 12th birthday, it was raining really hard and I remembered my mother slammed down the phone, grabbed me and my sister and put us in the car. She was driving really fast, I thought then, but now I could clearly see that it was the rain that was making the windows so messy. Making everything go by so quickly. We drove for like what seemed for hours, my sister singing songs, me just looking out the window, and then we turned down a narrow road, with trees that covered the lights. My mother stopped the car at the end and got out of the front seat. She opened the trunk of the Volvo and whispered to the both of us, “ You stay here until I come back, and don’t get out of this car!” My sister started to whine about my mother leaving us there all alone, but before she could even say anything, my mother had shut the door and walked away. She was gone for what seemed like hours and I had to go to the bathroom. When I couldn’t wait anymore I opened the door and stepped outside the car. Frightened that I just committed the mortal sin of not staying in the car, I took one good look at my sister and said “I’m just gonna go pee OK?” “No! Don’t leave me!” she whined. And jumped out of the car behind me.

The rain had finally stopped when I found a small patch of bushes to squat over. Trying really hard not to make any noise, I bent over and began my stream. “DiDi Look!” my little sister said. “What! I’m tryin to go!” I sneered back. “Look over there! What’s mama painting on that house over there!” As I looked up through the trees I saw her. She was on a ladder with a huge paint brush painting on the house what looked like the words; HOME WRECKER, in big red letters. Just then lights came on from inside the house and I saw my father. He opened the back door and saw me squatting, my sister next to me with her mouth wide open, and my mother, soaked from the rain with a paintbrush in one hand and a butcher knife in the other. I closed my eyes when I saw her lunge for him with the knife. I did not see my mother again until I was 16 and my sister was 12.

“I was hurt and angry, and that snide little bitch he was with just kept acting like she did nothing wrong. But it was her. It was all her. Now I am not saying you are the same person Di, but I tell you, even if it were not her fault, I would have still blamed her because just like I said before, that anger is like a cancer, and you will find every other reason but you for why it all happened. You will use every little thing to blame except for you.”

She continued on to tell me what she felt and started to console me. “You see, every breath you take as the other woman is a breath that needs to be stopped. And all you think about, all you talk about with your friends, as the wife is a way to kill the bitch that wrecked your family. You may be in the right, she may be crazy, and she definitely is doing these things to you. I know its true Diana, I saw them. I was there when she was calling you and leaving dead dogs on your front porch. But honey, I tell you right now, if you want to win this war, you’ve got to think like she does. She’s got the upper hand on you now; she’s got his ear, and all this time and all this way away is not going to make him see what she is doing to you. You can send as many pieces of proof to him as you want to, but all it will ever be is a stack of paper. So you have to choose. If you love him, and lord knows I don’t know why, but if you love him, you need to make a choice. Either walk away from it all or just play the game the way it needs to be played. The way I taught you. Now, I can help you. I can keep you from doing stupidness, but you have to be willing to suffer the consequences.”

And after all that, all that she told me, there was nothing more I could say. I didn’t know how to answer. My own mother telling me stories about my father and what she did to bring her relationship back from the dead. I don’t know if they are really happy, and I dare not ask him, for the woman she showed me today, was a woman I had never seen before. Willing to tell me her secrets just so that she could help me survive. I would have chosen not to do anything. I would have chosen to walk away. But the thought of letting someone treat me this way without showing the world what she had done was enough to take my mother’s had and say to her, “OK mama. Tell me what to do.”

That night we laid out a plan that would bring Naima to her demise. She would never know what was coming and she would never know how it happened. Until it was too late. My mother explained to me that she was so mentally and emotionally unstable that it would be easy to get her to nibble at the bait. “Like a rabid dog” mama said, “Hungry and crazy not knowing whether to bite the hand that’s giving them the food or to just eat the food. She will go for everything you give to her. And when she finally takes the big piece of cake it will be poison.” We talked for hours and drank until our stomachs were swollen. And when the night was at an end, we had every single step of the plan in place. Starting with the first piece of bait that we knew Naima would go for. She was so ravenous for me, that all she ever wanted was a confrontation. So I would give her one. The next time she called, I would answer.

Slainte Drew Hardy & the Nancy Boys!

2008-11-09T16:55:00.003-05:00

There's No One as Irish as Barack Obama

Letters to a Mistress

2008-11-09T13:00:00.006-05:00

Death and Obsession

She moved, silently, up the back steps of the building. Hands shaking from the cold, from the adrenaline that flowed though every vein. She knew the consequences of what she was about to do. But her mind stood still, empty, focused on the validity of the task. It was fine. It was OK to end this life. As it would never ever bother her again. She knew, that it had to be done. It all had to end her suffering, no matter if the end mean her own.

The stairs were steep, to many to count, although she tried just to keep her mind off of what was to occur. The darkness of the hallway kept her focused on every move. She did not know how long before she got there, light would discover her and kept her less focused. Over and over in her head she thought, “This is right!” I am right!” “I am just! Because she stole from me!” And all, all that was around her, was completely unfamiliar.

At the final step she came to a long hallway, riddled with boxes and brooms. Her body froze as she could see in the shadows what they were but could was not sure if she could continue. The hall looked so long and narrow, the fear of being discovered quickened her breath. Her hands started to shake again, as she stood silently at the edge of the stairs. She placed the right hand in her pocket to keep it steady, and the left at her chest, grasping at the buttons on her jacket. The end was closer, closer to the peace she needed. Closer to the exaggeration, despair and loathing. Closer to all that would make things equal and over. And so, trying to steady herself, she clutched what was in her pocket, tighter and tighter, like a piece of her life she did not want to lose.

All that was around her meant nothing. She did not want to lose him. Not to another. “It all must be mine”, she thought. “Obsession is relentless, but not me. No, not me.” “It’s her! It’s her!” she repeated over and over. And as her mind began to wander, she saw the images of his face. How happy he looked when he came home. How much at ease he was when after a long night of “working”. She knew what pleased him, she knew who pleased him. Her body filled with rage as she remembered the night she picked up the phone and listened to the conversation. “I will be there soon”, he said. “All of this will be over soon and I will be back”. She saw it so vividly, as she stood there. She looked in the darkness and found the door. “He will be there, sleeping”, she thought, and envisioned how they would look in the dark silence of the bedroom. “He will be there, and I cannot have this!” She clutched again what was in her pocket, now filled with sweat from her nervousness. She walked slowly down the hall, every step shaky, unsure, and reluctant. But still she moved on.

The door was unlocked. “A stupid mistake” she thought. And still she continued in. The apartment was dark, all except for the bathroom light, dim and flickering. The cats were running around the living room, play fighting, chasing their toys. She thought of Mandela, her only friend that would wake her in the morning licking her face, begging to be fed. “I have not even him to keep me company”, she thought. And tears rolled down her cheeks as she stood watching the cats happy and playing in the dark.

The pain of reservation overwhelmed her while she stood in front of the bedroom door. Her steps closer became uneasy and sluggish, her feet heavy. She stopped her toes from touching the base of the 2 pocket doors, realizing that any noise would wake them. She wanted to see them sleeping. She wanted to see if it were true. And she would only know if she saw him lying there.

She knew how he slept when he was happy. She spent so many nights awake watching him, looking at his closed eyes, knowing when he was content. She knew if he were there sleeping, she could see it in his closed eyes if it were real. “I must not wake them” “I have to see it for myself”. She eased herself through the slightly opened doors and took her shoes off to keep the floors from creaking. As she walked closer to the bed, the glare through the windows of the streetlights blinded her for a few seconds, and she almost tripped. She saw her lying there, quiet and serene. Lying across him. Lips close to his. The anger and rage Niama had felt for months took over her. Violent shakes made their way down her arms and to her fingertips. She clutched her pocket with the full force of her rage and pulled the gun out of her pocket. She stood there, for what seemed to her for hours, just standing over them, both hands clutching the piece. The tears blocked her vision, the streetlights made her eyes glassy. The combination angered her even more, and as she took a deep breath, she squeezed the trigger, again and again. Until the gun was empty.

The effects of the shots were everywhere. So little blood, so much of the blankets and pillows destroyed. She heard the cats run for their lives from the noise. She stood there, afraid to touch the bodies. Afraid to see what she had done. She stood there, frozen, unable to move, unable to run from her mistake. In the ceiling, she heard footsteps, even that could not move her feet. She wanted to see, she wanted to see their faces, how they looked after it was all over. The light from the street grew stronger. She could see their faces now. Uninterrupted sleep. Still quiet, still in somber, even though dead. She pulled the sheets away from the bodies and began to choke, seeing clearly what she had done. He was not there. But she was. It was not him, it was another. All that she knew suddenly became a delusion. An obsession. All that she believed came forward, and all that she had done became realized. Unreal. The 2 bodies were no longer there, just empty images in her mind. Behind her stood them both. Side by side just looking at her. She dropped to her knees in front of the bed and said nothing. Everyone was silent, except for her sobbing. She wiped her face and pulled the knife out of her pocket. And as they both screamed “NO!” she stabbed herself in the neck and slit her throat. The blood, streamed toward their feet.

NAKED

2008-11-06T12:11:00.017-05:00

Naked. Bare. Stripped. Destitute.
Naked. Defenseless. Vulnerable. Unsure.
Naked. Unprotected. Exposed.
Naked. Plain. Simple. Unadorned.
Naked. No one to blame. Alone.
Naked. Despondent. Unsure.
Naked. Free. Open. Optionless.
Naked. Nothing. Empty. Left to begin.
Naked. Fresh. Limitless.
Naked. New. Reborn.

Naked. What is left is nothing. Something to be created. No obstructions. No detours. Nothing. Naked. There to touch.

Obama is President!

2008-11-05T23:41:00.005-05:00

Nigger

2008-10-31T02:03:00.005-04:00

The "N" Word
Imagine a world with no holocaust museums and no references to the slave trade or its brutal economic insurgence to the colonial world. Imagine a place where we were no longer allowed to speak freely of the history of the African American struggle for equality. Now imagine this same country with no equal opportunity, no NAACP, no NOW or any other organization who built it's pretense on the issue of civil rights. How would we have been educated on the ignorance of racism, if the language of racism was never to be spoken again? What could we say to our children if they ever asked us what it meant to be called that word? What does it say about our right to free speech, the right our forefathers did not have when they were trying to organize and promote the ideals we live for? What does it say about the new generation of organizers, when they go the route of the white colonial book burners who felt it necessary to remove all literature deemed unchristian? All this over one word?

We cringe, when we hear it said, in that haughty overly articulate way. We shiver from the shrill of the letters placed together, to make that statement with a southern twang. We ball our fists as the sweat beads down our foreheads from the anger we feel when we hear it. We hope that we have the strength to fight back once we raise our hand to defend ourselves from such an ignorant personal attack. That word, that taunting, most disgusting word, filled with negativity, anger, infringement, and memories of a past almost unrecognizable, sits in our soul deeply, waiting to return, holding on for another moment of glory and its ability to control. That hateful word, it is said, contributed to the unwarranted deaths of thousands. That word, kept a race of people uneducated, abused, underpaid and overworked for hundreds of years. That word was known to separate mothers from children and husbands from wives. It crossed oceans and increased international commerce. It created a nation using the backs of men and women whose closest watch were a whip and a gun. That word, built a railroad with no train, and later, a railroad with a train. Sultry and bigoted, it made class distinctions, transitioned class relevance, and built industry that would have never been established for if it did not exist. And yet this word is only a word. 6 letters of the alphabet, with a definition:

1. Slang: Extremely Disparaging and Offensive.
a. A black person.
b. A member of any dark-skinned people.

2. Slang: Extremely Disparaging and Offensive. A person of any race or origin regarded as contemptible, inferior, ignorant, etc.

3. A victim of prejudice similar to that suffered by blacks; a person who is economically, politically, or socially disenfranchised.

So much time and effort has been spent to build lives that relate to each other and all cultures, that it's as if we have almost forgotten the price many had to pay not to be considered ignorant, listless, lazy or shifty. Now we look in the dictionary and all that is left of its meaning is the negative connotations to a race of people. Today, the word, the "N" word has been embraced by many, used as a term of endearment and made popular to use in the new urban culture. It at times makes a reference to a specific type of person, with no racial overtone. Has the word has lost its meaning? Lost its history? Lost the depth in which it once had? Has our society changed so much that many have forgotten what it was once like to be judged before we opened our mouths? And who now becomes responsible for this transition? The music industry for allowing lyrics that utilize the terms of a generation entrenched in the struggle of the urban world? The artists that vocalize the means in which they have to survive? Who holds the key to this recent phenomenon, when the man we so lovingly called "Kramer" has to apologize to the world for using the "N" word in regards to African American hecklers in the crowd of his stand up show. And how do we feel about Chris Rock, when asked in a recent Time magazine article, says that he will never stop using the word? And who do we blame when Don Imus uses a derivation of its negativity when commenting on the Rutgers University Women's Basketball team? What do we do? How do we trace the back the issue of this problem? What true answer do we give, when a country is crying out for more information? We try to abolish the word from ever being used.

The New York City Council passed a resolution on February 28, 2007 that symbolically bans the use of the word. But no penalties were established for non-compliance. The illustrious Reverend Sharpton has had both “White perpetrators" on his radio show to talk about their frivolous use of the word and its derivations, trying to gather information to understand why these men would use this language. The country is in an uproar because the word is used so frequently, that it has become a meaningless gesture, relating to no one, and yet everyone. And yet, other than protest and boisterous guffaws, the simplest solution seems to be abolition.

We stand up and talk of immediate change and forced education when swastika’s are painted on synagogues, black men are dragged behind pickup trucks or shot to many times by police by reaching for their wallets. We organize and call for the perpetrators dismissal, jail sentence or banning from the public community, when the transition from language to a physical act occurs. We only hold those responsible for the act at the time of the occurrence, and not their miss-education. We raise our eyebrows to the "Blackest White Girl" as much as we raise them to the "Whitest Black Girl" and yet no one questions why either is happening. Both represent a crisis of identity and class distinction that is so obvious, in a world where to embrace a culture means to mimic its worst attributes and deny the success and achievements of your own culture.

And every race of people on this earth has a negative racial connotation related to their cultures. East Indians occasionally are called "Coolies", Jews (and I even have a problem with calling the children of Israel that name) are called "Kikes", the French are called "Frogs" and people of African decent are called "Niggers". None of them are the right words to choose to refer to any of those cultures. But to focus all of our energy to the abolishment of negative connotations defeats the purpose of rising above the negativity itself. It does not challenge those who will continue to use it, at home or among the comfortability of their own. It could breed the ignorance that is being perpetuated by those who continue to use the negative language. It could perpetuate the ignorance of those who would be affected by the use of the language. Abolishment denies the right of those the opportunity to educate others on the history of the negativity. The need to eliminate the use of these words is not in argument. But how we chose to eliminate its use is. Banning words creates the idea of infringement, on the rights of others to free speech. Regardless of the nature of the speech, the right should still exist for all. The future could find a world of individuals breeding their ignorance from within, with the rest of us living amongst cancers we don’t know exist and therefore cannot kill. To eliminate its use by abolishment is to slowly eliminate its understanding and history for everyone, creating generations of individuals who have no sense of the words violent history, or the feeling one has when the word is being used in their presence. No knowledge of the pain can be more painful than the knowledge of pains existence, and a forgotten history, is most definitely a history repeated.

While writing this piece, I searched on the internet to find information that might possibly sway me to write it differently. I searched for information that would legitimize the abolishment of the "N" word, hoping for something new to disprove my case. What I found was a website: www.abolishthenword.com whose opening page was a slide show of African Americans being lynched, attacked by dogs, women and men being fire-hosed and historical photos of slaves on the auction block. In between these photos were banners, one of which said “Every Black person who was murdered by lynching was probably called the “N” word first”, and another that said “Why use the “N” word now?” The site lost me. Was it promoting the abolishment of racism or the discontinued use of a word? And thousands of words throughout the history of the English language have been eliminated from daily use without having been abolished. For those that were, new words were created to replace them. I am happy to see that our freedom of speech is being used to create a dialogue where people can understand the imperative of changing the way in which we embrace words that create new myths of a cultures inability to succeed. But to take away our simple freedom, one that was not originally provided to us or women, is to take away the future for our children. James Baldwin once said “You can only be destroyed by believing that you really are what the white world calls a nigger", and I firmly believe that. Dick Gregory said that the use of "N-word" instead of nigger robs younger generations of the full history of black people in America. I believe that too. African American author Darius James felt the pain of abolishment, when focus on the word used in the title of his book “Negrophobia” was more important than its content. It was banned from sale in many African American bookstores. Its content, loosely reminded us about the institutionalized fear white culture has with black culture, by describing the events surrounding a young white woman surrounded by a black world. Today "Negrophobia: An Urban Parable" and its constant reference to every stereotype is hated by many and considered poor writing. But the point is if the words were not there for Darius to share, then we would have nothing to feel offended by. And that could breed a race of people who have no knowledge of its struggles, moving it forward to further destruction by the men who created the negative connotations to destroy our unity in the first place.

Schemitzun 2008

2008-10-26T10:55:00.011-04:00

Duty
One realizes that in our own quest for light, we surround ourselves with darkness, almost depriving us from what we deserve. This "void", has many forms, and in most cases attaches itself to the weak.

Soon it distracts us and confuses our ideals. Pride becomes truth, lies become reality, and destinies are forgotten. But once known, the duty is to remove it from your soul. Extract the toxin so that the body remembers how it once survived without it. There is no better mind than one that is free from all the responsibility desperation provides. Because that evil causes us to be what we are not, and to choose paths that are not ours to tread. To do what is "right" is not always to do what is righteous, often it is what is "wrong" or "disturbed".

But to remove ourselves from mistaken paths chosen, onto the intended, it is often necessary to inflict pain. Somewhat like the pain endured when cauterizing a wound. Things as they are become no longer acceptable, but to take what admittedly belongs to you is the path to enlightenment. As one only knows what the universe provides for them, and denial of that thing is to create a world unbalanced. What's done is done. The future is in the hands of all. It is what has been provided, so therefore it must be.

Yelena Khanga: Moscow's Oprah!

2008-10-25T11:03:00.005-04:00

I get so disturbed sometimes about how this country only focuses on it's own ideals and it's own issues, while pushing a "global" economy. I doubt there is anyone "African American" that I know who even knows who this woman is. But she was easy to find as far as I am concerned. It had been mentioned to me several times that there was a show in Moscow, just like "The Oprah Winfrey Show" with a black woman as host. I just googled "Moscow's Oprah Winfrey" and she came up with no problems. Yelena Khanga, who's a known Eastern European celebrity wrote ab book about her life and heritage Soul to Soul: The Story of a Black Russian American Family: 1865 - 1992, and resides between New York and Moscow. How much you want to bet she even has hung out in Sheepshead Bay? She is an AIDS activist and more than just Moscow's "Oprah". In fact, her journalisim career proves her to be more like Anderson Copper than anyone else. Maybe Christian Amanpour, but Yelena's light shines a little brighter than Christian's.

So the next time you are around a "Bunch of black folk talkin 'bout the world", and all they bring up is Paris and London, do us all a favor and mention Moscow. Not just Paul Robeson, but this woman, Yalena Khanga. I want to meet her and see if I can get on her show!

Puskin. The World's Real Black Russian

2008-10-25T10:20:00.003-04:00

РОЗА

Где наша роза?
Друзья мои!
Увяла роза,
Дитя зари!
Не говори:
Вот жизни младость,
Не повтори:
Так вянет радость,
В душе скажи:
Прости! жалею...
И на лилею
Нам укажи.

Reason No. 2,678 why the USA Will have a Black Presidet

2008-10-21T00:05:00.007-04:00

Russians reject McCain cash plea

Mr McCain has been an outspoken critic of Russia

The Russian mission to the UN in New York says it has turned down a request from John McCain to help fund his presidential campaign.

Ambassador to the UN Vitaly Churkin and others received standard mail-outs asking them to help "stop the Democrats from seizing control of Washington".

There are some things that are better left unsaid...............

Headline credits to BBC.co.uk

Just Say No! (2)

2008-10-20T17:58:00.005-04:00

Troubled French bank boss resigns

The trading incident caused a loss of 600m euros

The chairman of French savings bank Caisse d'Epargne has quit over the loss of 600m euros (£466m) in a "trading incident" amid global market chaos.

This is TOTALLY what happens when you try to follow the trends of a market that is failing. By the time they announce their bailout plan.......OMG they already did.........

France unveils bank rescue plan

The banks will collectively receive 10.5bn euros

The French government is to inject 10.5bn euros ($14bn; £8.2bn) into the country's six largest banks.

A few more Chairmen are bound to come forward and express their apologies to the French working class. Meanwhile, how long will I have to wait for my restaurant! Gotta love the RED, WHITE, and BLUE.

Credits for headlines to BBC.co.uk

Just Say No!

2008-10-13T11:06:00.001-04:00

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