The "Coolest Proposal Ever" Blog

 

The "Getting it Right, Probably Maybe" Blog

I am cursed!

Or maybe blessed. All depends on how you look at it.

I should have this relationship-thing figured out by now. Yet, I haven't even figured mySELF out enough to know how to properly engage in, and most importantly, maintain one.

If a guy is a total knucklehead, trust that he will find me! Love me, even.

If a guy is a decent man who takes a liking to me, it is a scientifically proven fact that I, singlehandedly, will drive the poor man to the very brink of insanity (or murder, or even worse -  windshield bashery, or a verbal string of pre-existing and self-invented cusswords).

And yet, as I have followed my female friends' relationships through their frequent facebook status updates (say that five times fast), I realize I am not alone. Not by a longshot! I'm beginning to worry that the stock of good men is dwindling, and fast! And yet, the thought of sharing this plight with a bounty of other ladies... doesn't make me feel any better.

Relationships are stewpit.

And I think I have Adult A.D.D.

Ooh, look! A marble!

The Beauty of the Nagging Woman

My good friend called me last night. I wondered why I hadn't heard from her in a month of Sundays. She was going through it. A few sentences in, and we were finishing each others thoughts! I'm gonna assume we aren't the only two women who feel this way.

____________________________________

So...

A woman begins to sound like a loud, shrieking monotonous bellow in a semi-busted club speaker...

Pick up your clothes!
Take out this garbage!

You don't compliment me anymore!

You forgot our anniversary!
Is it even IN yet?!

A man's (de)selective hearing automatically distinguishes between her everyday complaints and, for instance "Dinner's Ready!" ...provided the woman's a good enough cook. Otherwise, he most likely won't "hear" that either.

Most women are NOT nags!

Let me type it in pretty colors so that you may hear me better...

MOST  WOMAN  ARE  NOT  NAGS!

A common misconception about us is that we nag and complain because we are never ever (ever!) satisfied. This isn't true. We are fairly simple creatures. And speaking of being fairly simple...

Another misconception is that we are complicated. Far too complicated for the simple braincells of a man to decipher, for dern sure (said with a neck & eye roll).

Well... okay, even I can vouch for being complicated (beyond my own, immediate understandings, at times), but... 

The truth is, women rarely keep what they think or feel bottled inside. The fault with men is that they don't bother listening to what comes out of that bottle.

A woman who cares for you WILL "nag" or "complain"! 

If she cares about you enough, she will never let you be in doubt about how to keep her happy, or about your antics that drive her insane. A nagging woman is de-complicating herself  for you by telling it all. That whiny, persistent, baby-bawl-ish tone you hear, is the exhaustion... the fed-up-edness. Once you hear it, she's upset. Fix it before it snowballs, or she burns/breaks/craigslists something you hold dear.

If the lady doesn't care about you, she won't bother. She doesn't give a flying fart what you think, how you feel, or if you stay or go. Complaining takes effort... and breath... and patience... and time. You consider yourself lucky that she never nags you? Maybe... if you're perfect. Consider yourself lucky if she does.

And if you believe we can present our concerns clearly and calmly to you... you're probably wrong. Or... she has probably already tried. It isn't until we flip and start talking bad about your mother, or calling you things like 'fucker', or 'stupid shit-head' or 'pencil-penis' that you hear us... mostly because we're breaking things by then, or TYPING IN ALL CAPS, or hurling  Endokukens at your kidneys. 

So if you're arguing, feeling confused and impervious, and she's yelling, and it seems as though she's been repeating the same thing all day, every day, day after day...

STFU and listen, for once.

 

The City's Most Annoying Man

Beyond all obstacles, I'd made it! 

Having missed the past 19 annual picnics, I had finally made it to the Chosen Few Annual House Music Picnic! If I said House Music was my LIFE, it would be an understatement.

The event and the great emotions it brought about, would be another blog, for another day, entirely. Right now, I'm keeping with the theme of this (Knucklehead Magnet) blog. I have to share, or it will fester!

Well-groomed, good-looking & flirting with my friend, Bri. Eventually, I could sense that she was growing tired of his very aggressive advances (some young folks simply can't hold their alcohol), She said to him "You get no more alcohol!"... and as if his manhood had been shot down, he digressed, tail between his legs and feeling a bit defeated.

Next!

I don't even remember what he first said to gain my attention.

Oh YEAH! He had a beetle on his shirt! I attempted to brush it off. In a fit of 'dont-dare-insult-my-manhood' rage, he backed up and shouted:

"I am a MAN! I ain't afraid o'no BUGS! Leave 'my' bug alone!!!"

lol

I kept my distance. Not because he was offensively intoxicated, but because I was afraid of that damned bug.

My fear incited his ignorance, lol. He did a shimmy/harlem shake dance towards me,  with his chest protruding where the bug was located. I screeched and evacuated his personal space, immediately...

...but he followed me.

I don't remember the point where his personal space & mine, had become one. A 'close-talker', is what I think they'd call him. We: (Me, "Bri" and  "Guy #2"), decided to haul our coolers & belongings to the front gate of the picnic area, while 'Miss Red' fetched the car.

Knucklehead, responsible for carrying a cooler, had disappeared behind us. We stopped & searched for him, only to find he'd stopped to beg for food from another family in the park, as he carried the cooler by one handle. In the process, he broke the handle off, and dropped the cooler twice, resulting in the 'vat' of pasta salad inside to burst open. All the while, he never missed a beat of gnawing on the piece of pilfered chicken thigh.

Finally outside the front gate, we parked our belongings and waited for our ride. I introduced myself to a 'massage therapist' that had been working at the picnic that day. He went on to educate Bri and I about charlie horses & lower back pains caused by large asses, lol. He demonstrated, pointing to the areas of the body responsible for posture & discomfort. I think he said something about the 'laterius posterius' (the chances of that being right, is about -.00045%, plus my 'spellcheck' alarm just went off, lol) He then hands me his number, which strangely, looks very familiar.

Yet... another blog, for another day.

Knucklehead waits out the masseuse's  'educational moment' and steps in to provide me with his version of a 'professional massage', grabbing my shoulders with what felt like the claws of wolverine. I pull away, in pain, and he follows. I cringe... pull away... he follows me. I scream ouch... pull away... he follows me. I remove his hands from my shoulders... he puts them back. I yell stoppit... he doesn't.

I'm not exaggerating. 

The masseuse (still seeming vaguely familiar) looks on, observing, but not saying a word. 

Our ride is here. Hooray!

We begin to load stuff into the back of the van, and Knucklehead is again, nowhere to be found, or distracted... something like that. His broken cooler, abandoned. I go back to get it. Masseuse motions that 'he's got it' and not to worry. At that very moment, Knucklehead goes Baby-Ike-Turner on me. His teeth gritting tightly, lips pursed tighter, he begins:

(and you have to read this with your teeth gritting & lips pursed, or you miss the whole effect)

What da fck is wrong witt you womannn! I am a muthafckin MAN! How da fck is you gon' have some other man goin to get MY muthafckin cooler gattDAMMITTT!!!" ...stomping his right foot HARD on the emphasis beats, as he leaned against the van with one hand! FIRE in his eyes!!! lmao!

The cooler belongs to Red, by the way.

I motion to the Masseuse... Just LEAVE it! LEAVE the cooler THERE!!! And he nods in accordance.

Knucklehead fetches the broken cooler.

Okay, so let's take these negroids (Knucklehead & Guy #2) home ASAP!

Who decided Knucklehead would sit behind ME?!

He began to stroke my hair, saying he 'liked' it. All I could smell was the remnants of chicken on his hands. All I could imagine was him rubbing it off in my hair!!! Now I'm angry, and I say:

"Didn't you just eat a piece of chicken? Keep your hands off my hair!"

He continued (not surprised, are you?)

He then went on to massage my shoulders (again). I asked him to stop. He didn't. It felt like my tendons were being ripped apart. I pulled away. He leaned forward. I pull his hands off my shoulders. He puts them back. I snatch away. He waits a moment then starts again. I yell at him. I figure he'd just gone deaf.

Finally, in excruciating pain, and despite my urge to strangulate him, we arrive at the guys' home to drop them off! Yes! The worst is over? Bri goes inside with Guy #2 to take a potty break. Red and I are babysitting Knucklehead outside the house. I get out to stretch and bring the circulation back into my legs and feet. Knucklehead snatches my shoe off, and shouts "OOH!" in excitement... as if he had never seen a white sock before. Hopping on one foot across wet & muddy grass, I snatch my shoe back and hop back into the car. Before I am able to close the door, Knucklehead dives in face-first and snatches the shoe off before I get it on all the way. 

Then he grabs my sore-from-dancing-and-200-charlie-horses foot and presses his wolverine claws deep into the flesh. I scream in pain and push him away. I just tell him "Don't do that. I'm, uhhh... ticklish!"

Let's pretend to be surprised now....

He comes back and grabs the foot again. I snatch the foot away. He grabs it again and presses deep into my sore foot. I push him away. He comes back. I put the shoe on. He takes it off. I snatch my foot away. He comes back and presses deeper. I bellow in pain and it echoes the whole block down. He continues. I snatch the shoe. 

Now, I hold the shoe in my right hand, teeth clenched, Knucklehead with his claws into the flesh of my right foot.. There is an awkward, albeit very brief pause before Red (still a lady, but not half as tolerant) says sternly "Hit him with the muthafckin SHOE!" lmao!!!!

I prayed...

Yes... PRAYED that it wouldn't resort to that. Knucklehead, oblivious, continues on. 

And on. 

And on.

And on and on and onnnn and onnnnn (Journey-style)

I closed my eyes, in pain, and prayed again for enough strength to endure the pain he dealt, hoping that Bri had not been taking a number two in the bathroom... and that she would return and we'd all go home. I swear I nearly cried from the pain of his awful, intentions-were-good, but head-is-too-hard, foot massage.

Then I was sure this evening would not end. It felt like it had gone on for hours, and that it would last for an eternity more. Nothing was pointing towards this evening ending, and this arse going away. But it DID! Finally end, that is.

After (yet another) debilitating shoulder massage, fight for my right shoe, an Ike Turner moment, chicken grease in my hair, the smell of busted pasta in the back seat, and...

Topping the evening off, he plunged his head through the car window and attempted to kiss me, dead center of my face, without permission and against my firmly established dislike for him and everything he stood for. 

TWICE!

And if the night hadn't been horrible enough, he brought his voice down an octave and before departing, asked me...

"Can I have your number?"

Before he even got '...ber' out, Red was laughing.

As if.

Love Square

THIS wants THAT

THAT wants SOMETHING ELSE

But HE wants THIS, nonetheless.

If THAT wanted THIS

And HE didn't care

My world would be less of a mess.

For Sandy

I don't feel the need to smile
When my friend's in pain


I can't see the sunshine
Through the sheets of pouring rain

 


I don't feel the need to dance
To talk, or vibe, or sing


All I feel's the need to help
Through every hurtful thing

 



All I want to do is cry
And paint this bright world blue


But...


If you should ever smile again
I'll be there smiling too
 

 

To Sandy: The strongest woman I know...
I'm praying for strength for you and Derrick through this heartache. May your babygirl now soar with the most 'beautifullest' of angels (yes, I know that's not a word, but you know me!)


With Love.

The Hunter

The rules of tradition say that women aren't to pursue the man, that it's human nature for the man to do the hunting. Some even say it's unladylike to flirt or show aggression, or do nothing more than show a bit of approval or interest should he notice us and approach us first.

So by nature or tradition (which seems perpetually outdated), a man is more likely to have what he wants, based solely on him being the only one in pursuit.

I just so happen to like the thrill of the hunt, although it rarely ever works in my favor.

That's what I get for going against the grain.

Achievement Locked

Run

Every night from the comfort of  this bed & blanket  I run

With the ground pressed hard beneath rapid steps

That hit the earth at the pace of the heartbeat

Through gravel and concrete, grass and mud I run

Away from this, that, him and her

Telling myself to not look back, not ever

Spanning the area of this world

Headed in the opposite direction from  my troubles

Even if it rains,  I run even if it snows

Everything around me a blur,  not a burden

And every morning I wake up at the starting line

Risking It

Throughout my life I've learned that there are no new experiences without risk. Sure, some things happen by chance... some that turn out wonderful, and others that don't. 

I  recognize the importance of the lesson. I'm not a risky person... not on purpose anyway. So now that I'm at a crossroad, I'm not exactly sure which route to take.

Taking a risk means there is the chance of losing.

...I hate losing!

Taking a risk means there is the chance of succeeding.

...I love succeeding!

So I'm wondering which power is greater. The rewards of winning, or the heartache of losing. Something says I should know better by now, and move on. Something else tells me I'll miss out on something wonderful if I do.

The Longing

Sitting, my lower back pressed deep into the 

Corner of the wall and floor with...

The shakes, or something like it.

Grasping for a little. Grasping for a lot of

It.

At this point, I'd settle for anything. Something. Any portion, form, or likes of

It.

Clenching my teeth tight and inhaling deep, nostrils flared

Eye's corner ducts full and heavy with brine.

I crave.

And crave and crave and crave (and crave, too).

Steam escapes my nose like that Chicago Bull.

Not the suited mascot.

In my fisted hand I hold a curled, auburn tendril of hair.

Seconds from ripping it from it's very roots...

Remembering  how long it took me to grow that tendril in the first place, so

I digress, however.

There is the insistent taunting. I can't have It. 

Heaven only knows how much I want It. 

Bury my face, into the pillowcase (that rhymed).

And scream

And scream and scream and scream.

In a hissy-fitted tantrum I kick the sheets and blanket.

And ensnare my feet up in its weft rendering me still

So now I'm trapped and livid.

Ree-heeeally livid.

Confined in cotton I sigh.

And still yearn.

I NEED SOME FUCKIN' CHOCOLATE!!!!

What it Truly Is

 

DEPRESSION is not a sign of Weakness.

It is a sign that you have been trying to be Strong for too long.

 

 

Permission to Dream?

Dear God: Knock it Off

I truly believe God is quite the comedian. For those of you sensitive to comments about the Man and the Word and the Book and such... God's got jokes, and I've lived them.

There was the time he made me think my car had stalled in the middle of the night on a deserted road... when it turned out, I'd inadvertently kicked the hunk o'junk  into [N]eutral. He waited until I'd tried desperately, crying, to steer to a safe area alongside the road... before my sight was led in the direction of the dimly lit display on my dashboard. It said:

[N]

As in:

Duh! I felt like a

And so there's the God we recognize with a constant solemn, sincere expression all the time, but mine occasionally delivers His messages to me with a smirk and a *point-and-laugh* gesture. He once divinely hurled a tiny metal pin into the tire of my grocery cart. It halted my walk so hard, my neck snapped back... in the middle of the Rice Krispies aisle. The pin read:

Our Gods are surely one in the same, but MINE seems to prevail more often than not. I promise, He does.

He knows I've always been a sucker for a nice guy. He has been kind enough to shield me from many (possibly) potential heartaches.
Thank you and Hallelujah.


Then along came a sweet and beautiful beast of  temptation!



First, I was like






Got to know him a bit and was like

Then he said something sweet and I was like

Then I started feeling all enamored and stupid like

And while basking in the glow of this enchantment....


God nudged me lightly and said::

"You like him, right? If you do, I suggest you approach him"

Assuming my God was already aware of my feelings, I thought:
I like him a LOT! And I WILL! (...and I DID!)


And I am glad I did. I became accustomed to my days being filled with pleasant emotions and the frequent episodes of toasty, warm fuzzies associated with him.

"Did you know? 

He's *that age* and you are *this age*?"

Smitten and partially blinded by red heart bubbles popping near my eyes, I thought:

Alright... I noticed. And?

"Did you know?

He lives *over there* and you are *over here*?"

I had immediately begun to budget my future savings plan dedicated to the long distance trips.

Whew. That IS far, but... Okay... I noticed. And?

"And, did you know?

A guy that great would... already have a girlfriend!"

Of COURSE he would already have a girlfriend. Of COURSE he'd be someone else's Mr. Wonderful!

  

Wait... there's more...

Dear Love: Thanks, but NO THANKS! I've just about had it with you! Peace and Out!

And..

Dear God: I love you, but this had better not be YOU, right now:

The Lovely Love

Falling in Love is Easy. 
Staying in Love is too Tricky.
~RS

It's the falling in Love, that's making me high,

It's the being in Love, that makes me cry, cry cry.

~MJ

I'm not in love, so don't forget it,
It's just a silly phase I'm going through.
~10cc

Is it just infatuation?
Or is it real love?

~JF

Cause if it isn't Love, why do I feel this way?

Why does he... stay on... my mind?

[Insert fist-on-fist New Edition Dance Here]
~NE

You say how can I love you (how can I love you...)
When your body keeps on movin'?
I say wait till I squeeze you...
Maybe then you'll start to groovin'.

Give it to me, baby
~RJ

~ I get paid to do something ~

This Chick, That Chick, Twisted Chick, Fat Chick.

Nearly three full months of bloglessness. The only catching up has to do with some pent up opinions. I'll name this a 'vent' if you will. Ain't that typical?

In all honesty, I need (not want) for Mo'Nique to be required to wear sleeves in public. If not, I will need there to be a law enforced that prohibits her from waving or flailing. Especially near children and the elderly.

If someone mistreats me, or someone I care about, I secretly hope that someone mistreats them, or someone they care about... or that they get a painful ingrown toenail.  It's not nice. I know it.

I feel like Erykah Badu came up with the idea to get publicly naked long before she attached the song to the idea. Janet showed a titty to regain attention. Someone had to one-up that.

How long is it supposed to take to not miss MJ so much. SO much.

Mediocre men are so... mediocre. I need to wed a star. I know how. Well... I knew how. I need to touch up on my game. There aren't enough stars to go around, and too much competition.

I truly believe more women are attracted to Jill Scott than men. Something about her speaks volumes to the Estrogenians. (that should be a word)

If I could only get paid to mafia, farm and café. Whew. I'd be a thousandaire.

I know a total revamp would do me good. That's what I tell myself. The truth is, a total revamp scares every ounce of life and the bajeezers out of me. Both.

Lisa Raye irks me. Her mouth twists like a stroke patient. Her acting... that irks me too.

Speaking of which, I was sure Tameka "Tiny" Cottle had a stroke at some point. She's a sweet girl (she emailed me once). Not to mention, after you watch ATL, all you are is jealous of her. I might be, a little bit. Not of her twisty-face though. :^/

Did I ever mention how much I hated twitter? I use my phone for phonecalls, and typing from the laptop is the Anti-Fun.

When I'm bored, I look up the series finale of Nip/Tuck and cry my eyes out. Heavy whimpering and bankhead-bounce crying and all.

....Bored.

Out.

I get paid to surf the web and blah blah blah.

Delirium & Starvation of The Chunky One

I am delirious. I really am. I am full and my stomach is growling all at the same time... ALL the time. I think there are starfish in the pot where the broccoli once boiled, and I'm wearing a moccasin on one foot... just one.

Something's itching, but I ain't sure what. I've got... wow and dammmmn that guy is cute. What was I saying? Oh yeah...

I've watched *these many * (holding up an undisclosed number of fingers) episodes of Everybody Hates Chris, and a few less of House of Payne. I wish I had $50,000 just right here, sitting on the keyboard.

That guy is reeeally cute!

 Wonder if he's a knucklehead too. Most likely is.


I drew and colored a picture of paisleys and... my thumb-knuckle hurts... and the more I look at it, the more it bothers me. It's making me nawzy-ate-it. Who invented paisley? Was it someone named 'Paisley'? Psychedelic like a shack.

Crazy... like a glue.

Wait... What?


That stupid cat sleeps all damn day and is up all night howling and speaking fluent english. She says things like "I'm rather loud! I'm rather loud!" I plastic'ed my windows after the first snowfall, and she thinks it's funny to burrow under it or rip streaks into it. Defeats the purpose of winterizing.

Then, overnight, she crawls over my head like it's some typa cat ramp, digging her hind-legs into my forehead as she pummels herself through the air at random times of the evening, time after time after time. I wake up with scratch-marks on my grill. Right now, I'm gonna go return the favor. Gonna climb on her face and howl like a wolverine while she's tryna sleep.

I had a video card in my computer that walked away. I seent it. I can't play The Sims 2 anymore because of it. How far could it have gone?

I don't wanna be a homebody, but I can't help myself. Or maybe I can and don't wanna. When I'm out kickin' it, I miss my house. Maybe I oughtta transform my place into a club. Make some cardboard cut-outs of people & pierce glow-sticks through their faces, dub a techno tape, string some strobe-ish lights and never leave the house again.

I am hown'GREE! Dieting is worse than gettin' drunk. Tomorrow, I'm effin some homemade chocolate chip cookies UP!

*I get paid to surf the web. Gonna be rich and invent fat-free-fried-chicken*

3-Day High-Metabolism Diet

This is January's "T'Do". Each time I've tried it, it actually worked. It's not terribly tough to adhere to unless you've got insanely terrible eating habits to begin with... which I realize most of us do. So...

According to the magazine article, this plan helps decrease hunger and increase calorie burn. And while I can 'feel' the calories melting off (via some random sweating episodes), that, in turn, can make you feel a bit hungry throughout the day. However, I'm usually always hungry. But that's just me... and me, all the damn time.

With this menu, drink at least 8 cups of water or green tea per day (I hear that speeds up calorie-burn), and it's always best to consult your quack before starting. I sweeten my green tea with Stevia, because it was suggested in another fad diet I'd read about. Also, it states that if using this diet for more than 3 days, to include 200 calories of 'healthy' food and a daily multivitamin after the 3rd day.

I found the coconut oil ($9 per jar, but it lasts for months!) and steel-cut oats by-the-ounce at the local health food store. That crud looks and tastes like lil tiny chopped, wooden branche and take a lonnng time to cook, so I prepare mine in advance and refrigerate 3 days worth. As awful and slimy as they are, they are pretty filling. Buy the hottest salsa you can tolerate, or make your own (I use diced grape tomatoes, onions, garlic and jalepenos with lime juice & cilantro) The 'capsaicin' in hot salsa really kicks your metabolism up, and I spike mine with tobasco sometimes. I also feel bad about wasting 3 eggs just to get the whites. The 'Only Whites' stuff at the store is probably more expensive. I'll have to nvestigate.

Oh yeah... waking up to apple cider vinegar water is some BULL! ! It tastes awful and boins ya stomach if not properly diluted. Go for the lemon juice instead if it's unbearable. Still awful, but definitely more tolerable in the a.m.

LOVE the salad with the homemade oil-and-vinegar 'dressing'. A dash of salt & pepper, or  Mrs. Dash Table Blend, and some green veggies (3 cups maximum? Pshtt!). The tuna/chicken is the  highlight of my day. *yawn*

Since I find low-sodium V-8 boring, I sometimes go a little overboard on the tabasco! Mmmm, niggadry! And I am QUITE the celery-lover too, so that's a bonus (for me).

Why isn't salmon cheaper? You can get a can of tuna for pennies! Why can't someone breed a bazillion salmon so they're not so expensive. Geeeez! I'm gonna start a salmon farm

And six almonds? Pshtt! What a tease! I don't even eat 'em whole. I nibble one at a time and bask in it's flavor. I imagine it's a small chicken wing.

A very very very small chicken wing.



In closing, I probably shouldn't complain! Lots of people would consider this a gourmet way to diet. But coming from someone who goes into extreme withdrawal from not having had a single crumb of fried chicken in the past 24 hours... this isht is killing me softly.

Oh YEAH! That's the GOOD sh*t right there! *licks the monitor*

Later, Gators!

*clicking on any Ads by Google on this blog will pay for a single almond sliver*

The Anti-Resolution

New Year's Resolutions are so pre-2010, so my goal is to write out a 'To Do' list of twelve personal goals and aspirations... one for every month of the year. Hopefully, the 30-ish days will give me more than enough time to complete the task, and surely the success rate will be greater than that of the typical resolution (which I usually forget about by mid-January). And obviously 30 days is a more reasonable goal than 365.

People change throughout the year. What's important in January, might not be as important in July. So I'll leave open the option to be flexible, and change my T'Dooz as I go along (I just made that up... "T'Dooz"). For instance: Naturally, if all my hair falls out, I'm gonna dedicate a month to growing that isht back.

If I'm lucky, maybe a single month-at-a-time of a healthy lifestyle change will be just enough to help me change my bad habits altogether... for good.

I'm already two weeks behind for January. I reckon I'd better get on it.


Outta here.

*clicking on any Ads by Google on this page will afford a post-it note for next month's T'Doo task*

Hello Music

I sat up until 4:30am yesterday watching American Masters honor Marvin Gaye on pbs. I'm sure I'd missed a great deal considering I just tuned in during the 60's era when Marvin was exiting the church choir and approaching the steps of Hittsville, USA.


It's tough to watch documentaries when you know the outcome. Everything seems to lead to the end:

Oh WOW! Marvin's daddy seemed so cruel.
Oh WOW! Marvin did so much cocaine he lost track of the millions he spent on it.
Oh WOW! Marvin had a lotta hoes.


I made the mistake of forgetting how much influence his music had on our lives. They don't make music like that no more (when's the last time you heard someone say that?). I'd made it through the entire documentary stifling my urge to cry and bucking my eyes wide open to fight the gravitational pull of my tears and allowing the air to dry any traces. And how many documentaries show the body lying in the casket as the finale? Yeah... gare-on-teed tear-jerkin' 'goings on'. I think there was snot too, but who remembers.

Yesterday I changed my twitter status update to the opening lyrics to "Wake Up Everybody" by Harold Melvin and Teddy Pendergrass and The Bluenotes (yep, all of em). Could've been some kinda weird psychic intuition. Who else was thinking about Teddy P at the same moment? Maybe hundreds. Maybe more.

There I was, December 2008, thinking that the worst was over.

Here I am, January 2010, convinced that '09 was as bad as it could possibly get.
As bad as it could possibly ever ever get.

And with the deaths of music's, movie's and comedy's most influential people, came the reality that we will never hear anything new, never see fresh creations... from them again. Only in their honor.

And as sad as it may sound, I imagined worse.
What if every artist that left us, took their contributions and our memories with them, and we were never able to reminisce and feel them in their absence? Yeah, that would definitely be worse. So I originally planned to entitle this blog "Goodbye Music", in honor of the last of the greats slowly dwindling from our grasps.

But not from our hearts.

Not ever.

*clicking on any ads by Google on this blog will afford me a tissue to dry a single tear*

Sporkette

After and between McDonald's and the return to big-people's school (college) came a memorable stint at Popeye's Chicken & Biscuits. Luckily, my high metabolism then, spared me from impending obesity...which came later on in my life.

Somehow, despite a regular 'lunch allowance' being deducted from our paychecks and the weird hours, I managed to make enough to buy a bus pass, and still have a little leftover to regularly attend Lil Louis and Frankie Knuckles parties on the weekend.

On our first day, they gave us a printout of the cash register buttons to study. McDonald's wasn't even that advanced/considerate. Two-piece, Wing-dinner, Single breast and a biscuit. Would you like rice, fries or mashed potatoes with that? Occasionally I'd slip up and ask if they'd also like a hot apple pie. The training manager quizzed us:

"What goes in a 2-piece White meal?"

"Two pieces of chicken" replied my fellow trainee.

"A breast, a wing, a biscuit, a side..." I specified.

"And...?" replied the manager.

"Oh yeah", I responded... "And a sporkette!"

To this day, it is true... I will never ever get tired of Popeye's Chicken. Proof lied in the fact that not only did I eat it EVERY day, but I volunteered to work weekends when the boss would force us to take the leftovers home (although it was against company policy). And it's true what they say... and I had begun to cluck and grow feathers on my upper arms.

Sexier people ate at Popeye's, for some unknown reason. Less sexy people worked there, so it was worth it just to show up every day to greet them, and fill their arteries with our special, intestine-lingering cooking oil.

By lunchtime, Popeye's was a chicken-lovers heaven. But in the morning, when opening the store, the mice scattered to their holes to avoid the bright lighting.

It gets worse...

Around noon, a customer, slightly disgruntled, brought her biscuit to the counter and peeled it open. Embedded in the biscuit was a large, dark, oddly shaped piece of cork. You'da thunk the other customers would've been a little thrown  by the incident, but they just paused, looked, and continued to place their orders:

"Yeah, uhhh... lemme get two wangs and a biscuit... without the f*in' cork, please."

I volunteered to work on a boring Saturday morning. The shifts are short and the traffic is slow. Unfortunately, we didn't get the nice manager, Vanessa. We got that short, round, balding chick whose name I purposely forgot. That day, we had no hot water, and the cooks resorted to boiling water in large vats, then hauling those vats over to the sinks to wash the dishes. But that didn't leave much hot water to mop the floors with.

I'd told the manger that there was NO way I was scrubbing chicken grease and buttermilk biscuit batter off the cookware in cold water, and the next 'vat' of hot water wouldn't be ready for another half-hour. Her reply was:

"Either you wash those dishes NOW, or clock OUT"... as in ALL the way out. And I knew that's what she meant.

Pshtt!!! I rolled my eyes and unknotted the apron. Folded it, then placed it gently on the counter as I walked out and never came back. Not even for lunch.

That same afternoon, the cook there, a 40+-year old woman, slipped on the oily biscuit batter residue on the floor... while carrying the vat of boiling water from the stove-top to the sink. Third degree burns I heard.

Shit... sorry for her. Glad it wasn't me.

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