The Blizzard of 2010!

I have two problems today:

1. Snow.
2. Dudes.

For the first one, the radio or television, or just looking out your front window, has probably already alerted you to the fourth-largest snowstorm in DC, ever. I haven't seen this much snow since I moved to the States. (It happened every year in Hungary though.)

It started Friday night, and it didn't stop until Saturday afternoon. Most people got like 26 inches. Also, it's frigid, so it's not gonna melt before Tuesday, when we're planned to have another storm.

I love the snow, but there are a few things that I missed out on doing because of it -- namely, my art gallery opening. I forgot to mention that I got my big break in the art world with the accpetance of three of my pieces to the Student Art Show here at the Number One HBCU. The opening reception was supposed to be Friday, but they had to postpone it. I'm not too bummed though, because secretly (y'all aren't supposed to know this yet) one of the trustees has already purchased one of my pieces. This is exciting because when I made the labels for them, I charged lots and lots of money so they would look legit. 'Cause whenever you go into an art gallery you always see tiny-ass paintings that cost like eight hundred dollars. So I figured I should follow that tradition. Once you get your foot in the door, you can do whatever you want. Little did I know that someone would actually buy them.

Anyway, the snow officially postponed that triumph. My lady friend's car was completely buried, worse than in the last storm. We got the jump on the other people in her parking lot by going out early Saturday morning and shoveling it out while the snow was still falling, which cut our work down to like an hour today. But the only problem with that was that we got FROSTBITE from shoveling without gloves. No lie. If you've never had frostbite before, make sure you don't get it, 'cause it'll probably be up there in the top fifteen creepiest things that could ever happen to you.

That's not my hand in the picture, but that's practically what my hands looked like. Maybe not quite that bad. But basically like that. I didn't even know I had it until we got inside (and we were all warm anyway from shovelling) and I decided to put some hot water on my hands. Once I was running it my hands started to feel weird and I looked and half of my fingers (two or three on each hand) were swollen up so bad they felt like they were about to bust right open. That's a creepy feeling, take it from me. Apparently it happens during second-degree frostbite 'cause your fingers fill with edema (which is a medical way of saying fluid) as they begin to thaw.

So after running around and screaming that I was never going to play the piano again, I finally immersed my hands in a bucket of warm water, where I sat there complaining for an hour or so. My lady friend had it on her hands too but she's from Maine so she didn't bat an eye. She was like, "Oh yeah, that happens to me all the time."

And you didn't think it was a major PROBLEM?

Anyway, my hands were back to normal by the afternoon. I was glad about that 'cause if it had gotten any worse I would have ended up looking like THIS!

I don't know how that dude held still for that picture. I would've been running around screaming for them to get it off me.

Anyway, we got the car shoveled out just fine. Which brings me to my second problem of the day: dudes. Not to sound like a man-hating dyke or anything. I like the gentlemen very much, especially those whose names begin with "J" and end with "ohhny Depp". But I still have a problem.

For one, why do dudes have to act like I am five? There were two dudes standing by the door as my lady friend and I went out to shovel, and they were like, "Be careful, baby! Shoveling will hurt your back!" (This as they sat on their asses.) Like, last time I checked I was fully grown.

And then they think that having lady parts excludes you from that category of people who can wield a shovel. After we dug out the Rabbit (my lady friend's car), we got started on this neighbor lady's car to do her a favor for lending us her ergonomic shovel. The two dudes came to sit on their asses outside, and they were like, "Careful now! Do you guys need a break?" They actually thought that that was all we had shoveled in the last hour.

My lady friend just looked at them and was like, "THAT'S my car."

That shut them up immediately, but not for long. Why do dudes assume women don't know anything about how to keep a car? Once they stopped exclaiming over how well we'd shoveled the car out, they started in on how my lady friend's car would deal with the snow and how much gas was in the tank and how she should really start it up so it wouldn't freeze and cause her to have car problems.

I mean, my lady friend's from Maine. I dare say she's encountered snow before.

It's weird 'cause I know this stuff is unconcsious for a lot of people. Many women and men would think it's just polite and neighborly for them to be watching out for us. It's only when you live outside the structure of women and men, or read extensively about that structure, that you start to notice the daily BS that people pull.

I have to go watch the Superbowl now.

I'm not alone in the world....

... I have Yahoo Answers.


Why do I have urges to hurt small animals? I don't know. But maybe you could be president one day.

How can I get my mind off MJ when I miss him so much and when he's constantly inspiring me by the second.? It's been five months.

Is it fair to call my dad (70yrsold) a pu**cake when he actually says things that only a giant pu**y says? No.

Isn't being a virgin a better achievement than getting laid? No.

Where can you rent/buy mexicans? White people always think racism's okay if they meant it as a joke. If I had a dime for all the times I've heard a white dude say, "It's okay, 'cause I insult everybody equally!" No. It's not okay. And it's not even original. Has this dude ever gotten laid?

Why do Finnish (Finland) people stare at foreignors? It annoys me as hell! Is this their natural behavior? Welcome to my life.

I found out that my 11 year old sister is a lesbian and she's dating a 13 year old...? Oh snap! What a little pimp. That is a little young to be dating, though. At least they can't get pregnant.

Is it weird to want to have sex with your father? Yes.

How to distinguish a gay from a transsexual? Read a book.


How did European culture influence the Vikings? Last I checked, the Vikings lived in Europe.

Parents took my Xbox, what are other good ways to entertain myself? Please be reasonable, I'm a junior in high school and a boy, I'm not going to read a book or volunteer or stuff like that. Okay then.


And today's winner:

What side of the civil war was abraham lincoln on. North or southern?

Since he signed the Emancipation Proclamation, I'm gonna hazard a guess and say it was the North.

Week Two Of The Last Semester

Chilling in illustration class again. I'm not sure what's going on yet because the professor's talking to some people who decided to add the class at the last minute. I think he's telling them to drop.

A dude just showed me how to use the scanner. I've never scanned anything, which is pretty sorry considering I've been posting on Deviantart for like three years. It's actually not hard. It basically acts like a USB device -- like, it pops up once you turn it on and the computer does everything for you. So maybe I'll scan some things at some point.

I had my piano lesson today, and my teacher told me that I was only gonna get to have one lesson a week this semester because he's teaching a graduate course at the U of Maryland. I was like, whatever. I wasn't too disappointed 'cause I don't think he gets paid to give me two lessons, and I've had two lessons every semester except the first one. Also, my recital's done, so basically I'm just chilling until May. I'm doing the Prokofiev D minor sonata, and then some stuff from Schubert's Faschingschwank Aus Wien, and then some Scriabin. All I have to do to graduate is pass a jury. 

I'm definitely starting to feel like someone who's worthy of a bachelor's degree.  Like, 

my psychology textbook stops to explain things that I now feel are elementary. I'm not getting as much as I used to from class discussions. In the past I might've walked out of a discussion or lecture completely psyched and with new things that I'd never thought about in my head, but now I just feel like we should be discussing more in-depth things. (That's probably because some of my classes are filled with underclassmen.) For instance, I didn't join in the discussion about "good hair" in my psychology class the other day, because I've already had that discussion. I've already thought about what "good hair" is and isn't (mostly isn't) and it's not a revelation to me that we're deluded about it. Next topic.

Not to sound like an intellectual elitist (which I am, but I wasn't trying to be in that particular paragraph). I'm just saying, I feel like I learned something in four years in school. Which is good.

I've decided that I want a scanner. I'm still checking this one out that the dude next to me is using and I can't get over it. Like, it copies your drawings into the computer. I'm trying not to act too amazed by it though, because everyone else in here is like a design major and uses scanners in their sleep. Also, I barely got in the class as it was, what with my lack of prerequisites. If I freak out when I see a scanner, that's just gonna tell the professor that he made a mistake.

What else is going on. I spent almost all my book voucher for the first time ever. My books have never been so expensive! My literature class has a giant 1900-page anthology, and a 25 dollar novel. But it's my psych book that I'm really pissed about. The book is 80 dollars, and it's unbound and three-hole punched. AND, it doesn't even come with a binder for you to put it in! And then, on top of THAT, it acts like they're doing you a FAVOR by giving you a ream of pages instead of a book! On the front of the pages it has a glossy page that has a photograph of what the cover would be if you'd been offered the book in BOOK form, and then under that it says: This unbound, three-hole punched version of the textbook is much easier to use!

Bee-yitch! If I thought an unbound, three-hole punched version of the textbook would be easier to use, I would tear out the binding and punch holes in it!

I've already ripped two pages by accident. I'm gonna be lucky if I can GIVE that thing away at the end of the semester. I can't imagined how pissed I would be if I had to actually pay for it.

Anyway. It's time for me to go 'cause the professor's about to come look at my sketches.

In Which I Enter The Home Stretch

I'm sitting in my illustration class. I know, right? That's an awesome class to be taking. For those of you who are just tuning in, this is my last -- I repeat, last -- semester at good old HU, the nation's number one university. I've already heard from a million people (mostly parents, grandparents, and other people who tend to look upon me with a sentimental tear in their eye) about how quickly my undergraduate career went by and how they can't believe I'm already twenty-TWO! (Wish me happy birthday.) Which is touching, but really. Try practicing a million hours a day and sitting up all night for finals eight semesters in a row, with other things like partying and new friends and relationships and jobs and living situations thrown in. I should HOPE I'm 22 by now.

So, I'm sitting in class. The professor is consulting individually with some of the other students on our first project, which is to illustrate "the days of the week". That's a pretty hard assignment when you think about it. I thought it was gonna be, Illustrate an Anansi story. Illustrate the Olympics. I dunno, something that has concrete imagery associated with it. When you think about it, the days of the week are pretty elusive. Most people are going with a labor/work setting -- blue Monday, T.G.I.F, and all that. I had an idea of a series of illustrations showing a woman slogging through the work week, but then I realized that in almost all of my sketches, she's drinking something. So I cut it down to the bare bones of the thing and made a series of sketches depicting drinks: coffee on the weekdays, going from black on Monday to mocha (with cookies) on Friday, beer on Saturday, and communion wine on Sunday. (My rationale for that last was that the week is a ritual, and nobody's more into rituals than the Pope and his shizillion followers.)

The professor seemed to like it. I felt like an idiot when I came to class on Monday, 'cause I didn't know that there were hella prerequisites for this class. The professor kind of paused when I came in, 'cause apparently he knew all the other six people in the class, and he was like, "Who are you? Why're you in this class?" and I didn't know about the prereq's, so I was like, "Hey, I'm a senior, I thought it'd be cool to take another art class!"

He was just like, "Okaaaay...we need to talk."

Then I realized there were probably prerequisites. Luckily, I had some of my art in a sketchbook. "Do you wanna see my art?" I asked. "'Cause I have some right here. You wanna see it?"

"I like that she comes with ammunition," said the professor.

So after class I went up and was like, "I didn't introduce myself very well. This is the type of art I do," and I showed him my latest little Sharpie drawing. The professor was like, "Oh." And then, "You're in."

So I have gained the privilege of doing nothing in illustration class. I really wanna see the other students' days-of-the-week sketches, but the professor said we have to have fresh eyes when we look at each others' finished projects.

I'm also taking Intro to Psychology (so I don't have to take a real science), African American Lit. since 1940 (basically Richard Wright onwards), Piano, Piano Pedagogy, Piano Trio, an independent study with Doc (THAT should be interesting), and of course Student Recital.

After this I gotta go meet up with my lady friend at the bar. She's gotten a mixologist certification and has become a bartender during the time before she goes off to the place that you don't ask about and I don't tell about. So most days I go and see her at the end of her shift. It's pretty cool to have a bartender girlfriend because:

-You drink for free.
-You learn all about what to order to maximize your money when you're NOT drinking for free. For instance, ordering a double of vodka will, predictably, cost you double. But if you order an extra-dry martini, you get a double shot of vodka for the price of one drink, 'cause an extra-dry is just straight-up vodka.
-You get to impress your friends with your vast knowledge of drinks and drinking that you obtained helping your girlfriend study for her certification.
-It's sexy.

In fact, I hate to say this, but as far as social status goes it's way cooler to have a bartender than a dentist for a girlfriend. 'Cause when I tell people that my lady's a dentist people are just like, "Oh, I HATE going to the dentist. This one time I was there and I almost passed out 'cause it hurt so much."

I'm like, So....what does that have to do with my lady friend?

But if you tell people that your lady tends bar they're like, "Really? That's awesome! Where does she work? Wow! I wish I dated a bartender! You're so lucky!"

and I'm like, "I know, right."

But I gotta not party too much 'cause this is my last semester. There's really no room to screw up 'cause my scholarship runs out after this. It's not graduation I'm worried about (studies show that fewer and fewer people are finishing undergrad in four years), it's paying for anything I might fail after I'm supposed to have graduated.

I mean, it's not like I'm gonna fail. I'm just paranoid, I guess. But still.

In paradisum deducant...

I haven't written yet about this 'cause I was gathering my thoughts and being a little sad. Perry Lorenzo, my opera mentor, died last weekend of lung cancer. For those of you who don't know, he was the Director of Education at Seattle Opera from 1992. He revolutionized the education department there with his witty lectures and youth programs. I worked under him all the summer of 2oo5 as an intern, and when I came out of it I was a Wagnerite for life. Even becoming an Afro-commie didn't change that.

I first met Perry in high school when I signed up for a Lohengrin program Perry was doing for students. Basically, you went to his education program, and he told you what you were gonna see, and then you got tickets to the dress rehearsal. Thus I became acquainted with his style.

Perry had sort of an eagle look, by which I mean his eyes were really piercing and his features were sharp. He had sandy hair that he wore artistically, just a little long. He was a hottie for his age. When he talked, you could tell his mind was working on about twenty other levels even though he was devoting his full attention to the subject at hand. Instead of posting a picture of him, I'm posting one he posted on his own blog one time -- it depicts him better. It's from Wagner's time. He liked to talk about Wagner as a tortured artist on a desperate quest for the meaning of life. I think he saw himself in that.

By the time I was in line to pick up my ticket on the night of the dress rehearsal, I was psyched. From what Perry had told me, I just knew this was gonna be the coolest thing I had ever seen. And it was. It was my first opera ever. I loved it. It was like Lord of the Rings with music and magic swans. I couldn't believe it.

So in 2005, I knew I had to get one of the coveted internships in Perry's department. This time, we would get to work all summer with him, developing and facilitating the week-long youth education program, and then we would get tickets to the dress rehearsal of the whole Ring Cycle. Ever since the Lohengrin experience, I'd been dying to see the Ring. Since Lohengrin I had seen Rigoletto, Manon Lescaut, and Tales of Hoffman. But nothing was as completely sick as Wagner.

Perry can't get me in trouble anymore, and if he's looking down on us then he already knows, so I'll say it: I lied to get that internship. I was only seventeen, and you had to be at least 18 to qualify. I totally lied on the paperwork.

I think Perry knew the whole time. One morning I went to coffee with him and he was asking me about school, my friends -- he was all about young people; he loved teaching but he also loved just chilling with us -- and out of the blue he was like, "How old did you say you were?"

"Eighteen."

"When's your birthday?"
"June sixth." (I had decided to move it six months back so I could remember it easily.)

"What year were you born in?"
"Nineteen-eighty-seven." I was sweating by now.

A feline smile spread over Perry's face. "Good," he said.

I knew I had to be Perry's best intern after that. Actually, I had the honor of making Perry a PowerPoint presentation that he used in several of his own lectures. I was so psyched when he looked through it and said, "This is good! Could you make me a copy of it?" I carried the libretto of the Ring around with me everywhere. Every day I talked with my then-best-friend and fellow intern Sean about what we were learning. We rented the Met production and watched all of it in his living room. I met opera-lovers that summer from all across the world, and I'm still friends with some of them.

Before the internship officially started, Perry called us together for several sessions of training. It was portentive of how awesome the summer was gonna be. We would meet in a tiny conference room at the Uptown Espresso near the opera offices, and once we were all coffeed up (often on Perry's largesse) he would tell us lots of things that I still use today. One day was dedicated to Wagner's life. Another was dedicated to the music of the Ring. On another day, he instructed us in the basic skills of public speaking.

Sometimes, as I roar into a bullhorn at a protest, I think of him.

Perry had an especial soft spot for my friend Sean. He mentored me in a musical and career way, but he gave Sean a lot of advice over the years about navigating life when you're young and gay. He and Sean would meet up at (the now-defunct) Manray and just chill. Perry always had a minute for him. And I think that's really important. When you're gay, it's hard to find mentors even if your parents are supportive, because they don't have your experiences. I like that Perry took the time to chill with young queer folks.

Perry was a good pianist. He used to sit down and play Leitmotifs, talking loudly about them. When I played in the mini-lectures the interns did during the youth program, he shook my hand afterwards and voiced his approval. I was glad he did, because I knew he wouldn't have said it if he didn't mean it.

He loved the word "Sehnsucht." You could sum up his whole Wagner lecture with that word.

I should mention that he was Catholic, because it was a big part of his life (even though it didn't come up much in my interactions with him). I feel like he was a real Christian. Leading by example and all that. The service is gonna be at Saint James, his church. It's next Wednesday.

I was in awe of Perry and thought he was a bad-ass not only because he knew everything there is to know about Wagner and opera, but because he was a verbal dude. He was witty and sarcastic and articulate. He had a way of making you feel intrigued 'cause he was saying stuff that resonated with you, but you were never sure what he would say next. Sometimes he was almost manic with excitement; other times he was more dark and moody. He could say exactly what he meant, so effectively that not only did I get what he meant, but I could then turn around and communicate to the students what he meant.

I was supposed to intern again briefly for him in 2007. We had several meetings, but the youth program ended up getting cancelled, so it was nothing like the Ring year. But that was probably the last time I really chilled with him -- eating Pagliacci's on a cool summer day before the Flying Dutchman rehearsal, with the smell of the sea coming in the open doors.

And one swell night at the theatre.



Perry

you were always tripping on Wagner
ever suave and sarcastic
your hands articulate on the keyboard

you singlehandedly made Siegfried breathe
in the minds of thousands

you talked about the Liebestod in the coffee shop
and the other customers stared in wonder
they didn't even know who Tristan was
but they saw your vision

of opera as a metaphor for humanity.

And you were a good friend.

That is my praise song for you.

Racist Christmas Song Of The Year

I'm gonna go ahead and post the full lyrics of this song. It's by Band-Aid from 1984, and it's supposed to bring attention to famine conditions in Ethiopia. Except it doesn't say anything about Ethiopia. I always heard it on the radio but I never really heard it, you know? But this is the most imperialist little-brown-brother white-man's-burden shit I have EVER heard IN my life. As usual, many things other than race play into it. Here:

It's Christmas time, there's no need to be afraid
At christmas time, we let in light and we banish shade

Boy George
And in our world of plenty, we can spread a smile of joy!
Throw your arms around the world at christmas time

(Phil Collins on the drums)

George Micheal
But say a prayer - pray for the other ones
At christmas time

Simon Le Bon
it's hard, but when you're having fun
There's a world outside your window

Sting and Simon Le Bon
And it's a world of dreaded fear
Where the only water flowing is a bitter sting of tears
And the christmas bells that ring there are the clanging chimes of doom

Bono
Well tonight thank God it's them instead of you

And there won't be snow in Africa this christmas time
The greatest gift they'll get this year is life

Where nothing ever grows
No rain or rivers flow

Do they know it's christmas time at all?

Here's to you
Raise your glass for everyone
Here's to them
Underneath that burning sun

Do they know it's christmas time at all?

Feed the world
Feed the world
Feed the world
Let them know it's christmas time and
Feed the world
Let them know it's christmas time and
Feed the world
Let them know it's christmas time and
Feed the world
Let them know it's christmas time and
Feed the world
Let them know it's christmas time and
Feed the world
Let them know it's christmas time

Now I'm gonna post it again with my comments.

It's Christmas time, there's no need to be afraid
At christmas time, we let in light and we banish shade. These words are okay, except in context of what's coming.

And in our world of plenty, we can spread a smile of joy!
Throw your arms around the world at christmas time Wait for it.

But say a prayer - pray for the other ones
At Christmas time What other ones do you mean, exactly? And what does that make you?

It's hard, but when you're having fun
There's a world outside your window So now he's just assuming that all white people just sit around and chill at Christmastime. Like it's impossible for an American to be poor.

And it's a world of dreaded fear I think he means fear for white people, not the people of that world.
Where the only water flowing is a bitter sting of tears
And the Christmas bells that ring there are the clanging chimes of doom Uh....can anyone say melodrama?

Well tonight thank God it's them instead of you Ho-LY shit. Seriously? This is the worst line in the song. I don't think there's anything in the Bible about thanking God for other people's suffering. That's so callous. And typical.

And there won't be snow in Africa this Christmas time So that's what it's about. Africa, the country. Not Ethiopia. The entire continent. It actually does snow in Africa, but I don't think the singers have ever heard of those regions.

The greatest gift they'll get this year is life. Dang. I guess I should tell my fellow Howard students Rotimi and Chioma that they shouldn't even bother writing to Santa.

Where nothing ever grows, Um...Africa has some of the most verdant landscapes ever. They have a freaking rainforest across half of it. Here's a picture:


No rain or rivers flow. Um....have you heard of the rainy season? Where it rains for months in most of Africa? And as far as rivers, I have two words for you: THE NILE. Wtf?

Do they know it's Christmas time at all? Um, I think the centuries of European missionaries made sure that everybody in Africa does, in fact, know it's Christmas.

Here's to you
Raise your glass for everyone
Here's to them
Underneath that burning sun Way to go guys. Taking the fall so the rest of us can chill.

Do they know it's Christmas time at all?

Feed the world As an afterthought, an admonishment to help those poor people before you go back to having fun.
Feed the world
Feed the world
Let them know it's christmas time and
Feed the world
Et. Cet. Er. A.

One question: Why is this still played on the radio?

A Snowstorm

Happy snow day on the east coast!




I'm rotting at Thurgood Marshall airport in Baltimore. I rotted here all day yesterday, too. I'm trying to get to the City Of Excessive Precipitation for the winter holidays, but there's too much winter fun going on here. By which I mean, the Mid-Atlantic Snowstorm Of 2009 (as the news has dubbed it).

Basically it started Friday night. My lady friend and I went home and we could smell it coming. It went on all the way through Saturday, finally stopping early Sunday morning. Both DC and Baltimore got record Decomber snowfalls of 16 and 21 inches, respectively. It was pretty sweet.

Except now there are all these passengers backed up at the airport 'cause pretty much all their flights were cancelled, and now the airline people act like they're mad at ME because I have the audacity to try and get myself rebooked. When I came back today after hours of waiting in line yesterday this loser told me, "Well you shouldn't have come. We told people not to come if they didn't have a reservation."

I mean, where else should I have gone? The dorms are already closed. If it weren't for my lady friend I wouldn't've had anywhere at all to stay.

Anyway, now I'm on standby for a flight to Charlotte. It leaves in about six hours. Through some corporate promotion thing they have free internets in the airport -- which means they don't want people to completely flip out and go into a rage, so they amped up the entertainment.

But it allows me to post pictures of the snowstorm:
When it stopped snowing Sunday morning, the parking lot where my lady friend lives was completely stuffed with snow. That red car in the middle there isn't driving. It's been sitting there since last night.





I trudged through the parking lot and dug out my lady friend's car for her, because it looked like this:




Then I went on an Expedition Of Adventure And Wonder to photograph the snow. First I got a cute fire hydrant:




Here's a giant tree stump:



and a little fence with an evergreen next to it.




And here is a winter wonderland near the creek behind the building:



Now let's just hope I get on this flight.

Merry Christmas, Mr President

Two things that make being a musician worth it:

1. Barack.

2. Michelle.

I mean, it's ridiculously hard to hang out with Obama. If you wanna go to any of his parties, you have to get an invite first, and then you have to be practically strip-searched at several different checkpoints in the The House Formerly Known As The White-People House. From now on, it will be called The Crib.

But if you're a musician in DC, there's an off chance you might get to go chill with him. 'Cause the dude likes music at his parties.

In fact, while I'm talking about this, let me just say that any time you need to know info about Obama's likes and dislikes, I can tell you about them. I'm pretty much an Obama expert now. Because yours truly and a few select members of the Howard choir just finished chilling with Barack and Michelle for three nights at The Crib's Christmas reception, where we were invited (read: summoned) to provide background music. (That's me and my pal Andrew.)




First off, let me say that the The Crib doesn't fool around when they do Christmas. That's their Christmas tree down there. Their decorations are so legit. Like, all the little garlands and holly berries are real. They have these miniature dried pomegranate things, and garlands everywhere. All their Christmas decorations this year are made from recycled materials, which is good because there were definitely a lot of decorations. This tree you're looking at it probably probably twelve feet high.




And then they had an entire nativity scene in an alcove:




If you look at the well-known picture of the back of the The Crib (with the rounded columned porch in the middle), we were on the first floor to the left of that picture. There's a ballroom there. This is what it looked like on the inside:




Here's a detail of that action:



We had to sing for a couple hours each time, but each time we got to go chill with the guests afterwards. And our choir clothes are pretty fancy, so a lot of the guests just thought we had been invited. One dude talked at my for a good while about how I was so pretty and didn't I look just like his granddaughter, who's half Black too. (It was just assumed that her other half was white.)

Obama feeds his guests well. This is what his tables looked like (yes, that's a real hunk of birch in the middle):

These are some of the things he had at his shindig:

-shrimp with cocktail sauce
-lox (which is basically raw salmon, for those of you who don't hang out in the Northwest much)
-oysters on the half-shell
-a whole wheel of San Andre cheese (my particular favorite)
-Gruyere, brie, and lots of other cheeses I don't remember
-lots of interesting crackers to go with the cheese
-assorted dead birds and mammals
-assorted sushi with Asian dudes nearby for authenticity
-miniature potatoes the size of cherry tomatoes
-asparagus and other veggies
-pumpkin pie (THE best)
-a berry cobbler (THE best)
-lots of sugar cookies with thin layers of glaze (including one shaped like a Black Lab)
-a cake that was cold with frosting that was warm
-little chocolate truffles

Also, Obama isn't stingy with his liquor. He had a full bar with Ketel One vodka. And when I tried the egg nog, I almost choked because it was straight-up rum. (On the last night, I thought I'd be slick and chug one while we had a short break, just to make the second set more enjoyable, but Doc saw me and got mad. I still drank it when he turned his back, though.) So no one can say the President doesn't like his guests to have a good time. And they did. One lady had such a good time that she came and stood by the choir, singing all the words to our spirituals and practically jumping up and down every time she applauded.

I mean, we're good, but we're not that good.

And then, Obama was so hospitable that he came down himself to talk to us all three nights. A voice would come over the loudspeaker and say in a queeny voice, "Laaaadies and gentlemen, the President and Mrs. Michelle Obama!" And then everyone would flock to the main gallery, where Barack and Michelle would come chill with the guests for a while.

Barack would say a few words about what a shitty state of affairs he'd inherited, and how he hoped he was gonna fix things up. Michelle would grin and bestow the gift of her presence on all the guests. She had on a different dress every night. Obama might have had on a different suit (at least, I hope he did), but you couldn't tell because dude clothes are so boring. Then they would go into the crowd and hang out and shake hands. It was hard to get a picture because everybody was mobbing them, but here's a picture I took just so you can tell I'm not lying.




Yeah.

I'm not gonna lie, I'm a sucker for Obama. His administration sucks only slightly less that that of the first Decider, but whenever I see pics of him and Michelle I'm like, Yay! A Black President! He and Michelle look so good...they're definitely the sexiest Decider and First Lady I've ever seen. Yay Obama!

Now get your ass out of Afghanistan.

But anyway. I had hoped to get near him so I could lecture him about Afghanistan and queers in the military, but whenever I got close he started talking to someone else like he was avoiding me or something. It was cool though. I didn't take it personally.

So basically we had a great time at The Crib. We set that place on fire, yo.

And I don't mean with our performance.

We literally set the place on fire.

Basically Doc, the conductor, and one of the singers were inspecting the arrangement of dried flowers on a table, and alluva sudden it got too close to the tealights and caught fire. Like, it was BLAZING. There was smoke everywhere. We were like "Oh shit! Oh shit!" Some people started blowing on it, which only made it bigger. Doc kept trying to grab this one chick's wine glass so he could douse it with that, unmindful of the fact that alcohol is flammable. It was horrible.

Finally a bartender ran over and put it out with a pitcher of water. You can see the blackened parts on the side of the flowers, and the parts that dropped off onto the tray. And those white things on the table are the holes where the tablecloth was completely burned through.




This picture doesn't even do it justice. The whole thing probably only lasted ten or fifteen seconds, but the same thing was running through all our heads: the smoke alarm was gonna go off and the whole Crib was gonna have to be evacuated.

Luckily, it didn't happen. But seriously, Barry needs to think about that next time he sets up his house for a party. Who puts dried flowers next to candles?

The Monster Is Back!!!

It's that time of year again, ladies.

By which I mean the return of the one they call DELILAH.

In case you missed or forgot my post about her last year, Delilah's this major loser who has a nationally syndicated Christmas radio program. Actually it's year-round -- it's just that it's only at Christmas that people listen to it. She has about a million Little African Babies in her house, and her staff screens her calls so that only the most boring-ass old white people can reach her.

Or maybe it's just that no one else wants to reach her.

Like, this loser's on there now saying how she got presents for all her friends and put white confetti in them so when they opened them it looked like it had snowed, hee hee!

Like, is that the most exciting thing that bitch DID this Christmas?


I'm rehashing the Delilah subject and posting about her again because I hate her so bad. Mean people annoy me, but people who are sugary sweet and nationally loved but are still DUMBASSES are right on the top of my hit list. Like, millions of people love Delilah and think it's great that she does this show and has Little African Babies.

GAG me with a ten-foot pole! Delilah is a xenophobic loser!

This year's choice bit of info about Delilah: she's written a BOOK. It's called, predictably, "Love Matters." I mean, just the name itself should make you throw up. It's basically a compendium of her favorite listener stories.




Guaranteed to put to sleep any Little African Babies who are fussy.

Movie Review of 2009

I've only written like two movie reviews since I started this blog. But if you haven’t seen Precious, you should go online and stream it illegally right now. It’s all the rage.

This movie is the next Color Purple. And I mean that in a good way and a bad way. Both films contain a hero who’s had everything done to her that you could possibly imagine – mainly, being impregnated by her father. Both heroes come out on top against all odds, making you wanna jump out of your seat and go, “Yes! Yes!” at the end of the film. Both movies portray living incarnations of every imaginable negative stereotype about Black men and women. And both movies have queer characters portrayed in a positive and bad-ass way.

Hella people have already written reviews of this movie – mostly white people who were brought to tears by how true it rang for them. They're all up on the Internets saying stuff like, “Precious is not a story of a black girl, but a story of a teenager/mother/learner/friend.”

Last time I checked, it was the story of a Black girl.

Time even said: “it is of enormous credit to Gabourey Sidibe — an unknown actress making her screen debut — that we feel an obligation to catch every confusing piece of dialect or distorted sentence out of Precious' mouth.”

I mean, dang. That must have been some powerful shit. That movie was so transcendent that it made white people take the trouble to understand other versions of the English language!

That was the response I expected.

The movie was great. But a few things are worth noticing. Some of these things haven’t been discussed in depth at ALL by mainstream critics, mainly that:

One. The teacher who helps Precious gain a new step up in life is gay! I mean, how awesome is that? She’s the person who teaches Precious what a loving family and a normal life is, AND she’s a homo. The message here is that gayness and a loving family life are not mutually exclusive. Not only is she gay, but I have to rack my brains for another film that shows a lesbian character not only as a non-victim, but in a long-term, loving relationship. Precious stays with her teacher and the teacher’s partner for a while, and the scene where all three of them are chilling in the living room is a victory for Black dykes everywhere. Precious is like, “I wonder what my mother would say about Ms Rain? I say homos not who rape me.”

Bam! Also, there is at least one other obviously gay minor character in the film. Just wait till you see her; you’ll know who I’m talking about. Also, the director’s gay.

So the film gets five stars for portrayal of queers. But

Two. Color politics. A recurring theme in Precious’ fantasy life is that she wants a “light-skinned boyfriend”. One scene shows her looking in the mirror, with a reflection of a white girl looking back at her. Obviously the audience is supposed to feel sorry for her because she’s internalized this self-hatred to the extent that she thinks lighter is better. I mean, we all know Black is beautiful, right? Color doesn’t matter? But the film gives an unspoken message that color DOES matter. What is Precious supposed to think, when all the good guys in the movie are light skinned as hell? Like, the gay teacher is as light as than I am, and I’m freaking biracial. What happening here is that the white savior is replaced by the somewhat less offensive light-skinned savior.

News flash: IN THE BOOK SHE IS DARK-SKINNED AND HAS DREDLOCKS!

Seriously? And you’ve all seen Mariah Carey. Seriously? Seriously?

As far as the main character herself: I hate to say Hattie McDaniel, but Hattie McDaniel. Which I mean in a good and bad way. By which I mean, something like this is rare, possibly nonexistent, in mainstream film. Since when has a dark-skinned, overweight actor been the star of a blockbuster? Since when has she been on the cover of New York Times Magazine? Gabourey Sidibe plays a character that embodies many stereotypes, but at the same time her stellar performance goes a long ways towards countering the propaganda of light-skinned, skinny actors.

On that note,

Three. I hate to bust people’s bubbles, but it’s painfully obvious to me that the only reason this film is getting the acclaim it richly deserves is because it’s about Black people who embody negative stereotypes. I mean, really. The mom’s a welfare queen who lets her husband rape her daughter. She can’t stomach her pig’s feet without collard greens. And seriously – why does Precious steal a bucket of fried chicken, of all things? Armond White, the Black dude who tore the film apart in his review, said that the movie’s so popular because Black pathology sells. He’s like: “Worse than Precious itself was the ordeal of watching it with an audience full of patronizing white folk at the New York Film Festival…too many white film habitués casually enjoy it for the sense of superiority—and relief—it allows them to feel."

And a film about Black stereotypes where the hero extricates herself by the bootstraps out of the situation through sheer power of will? – well, that’ll gross about 32 million dollars in its first month.

I’m not saying the movie doesn’t deserve the rave reviews it’s getting. It’s probably up there with my top eleven movies of all time. I thought the matter-of-fact way Precious’ reality is laid out is really chilling. The character has absolutely nothing going for her, but she’s one of the most likeable characters out there. You just wanna get in the screen and kick some ass for her. And the mother’s monologue at the end is devastatingly effective. All in all, it is bad ASS and you should stream it illegally today.

I’m just SAYING. Other movies about Black folks deserved this acclaim and didn’t get it. This story was told well, but there are other stories being told well too, and still other stories that aren’t being told at all.