Recently in I Am Woman, Hear Me Meow! Category

My new fave commercial. I think the bemused British chuckle does it for me...and dude being like "I'd be happy with just one." I think I realized as I watched it that I had never heard Becks speak before. And damn, he sure is blond.

I'm about 95% free from this mega-project I've been devoted to for most of the past couple of weeks. It looks pretty dope if I must say so myself. (Ask me off-site if you're remotely curious about the link.) While I've been mucking through it, me being me, it's not like I totally stayed at home...at least not on the weekends. I might still be a little burned out from the out and about every night of the week thing from a month or so ago. I'm old and tired, I can't roll that (much) anymore.

The other weekend kicked off early Friday evening when I rolled from work (Summer Fridays never seem to work out as planned lately...) to the monthly happy hour of this downtown agency my old job collaborated with. TrendVickster came along and we chatted and drank and oohed and ahhed the company head's brand spanking new iPhone. He tried to front like he was nonchalant while fumbling through the controls and the whole spectacle got a meh. TV and I split a slice of cake (what a nutritious dinner!) and I was off to the wilds of Bushwick to party and get a fangirl thrill.

It might be the Brooklyn girl in me but I don't get why Bushwick is hip. I hear the name and I think nowhere worth going. Williamsburg is vaguely understandable being that it's super convenient from Manhattan, but Bushwick is just out there and it really hasn't changed much over the years. I got off the train at Morgan to find this place and turned a corner to feel like I was in a horror movie. One where the zombies come out from the empty lots and seemingly abandoned warehouse buildings to drag a poor unsuspecting girl in the wrong place at the wrong time away to feast on her brains. And then I walk down the street to see something or another filming and this converted factory building with a gourmet supermarket and cafe and little hipsters hanging out on the bench in front. And I walk another block and it's back to zombieland, with the faint sound of techno coming from a roof. I hobble my way up the stairs and the joint is packed with hipsters from god knows where, most looking fresh off the road from Bumblefuck, USA and some real neighborhood kids amusing themselves. I was feeling antisocial and wandered across the street to this random bar that I'm a little in love with now. I chilled with the bartender and randoms watching Saturday Night Fever (one of those movies that you realize is super fucked up when you actually really pay attention to it) on DVD. I went back to the roof to satisfy my thrill (oh so dirty sexy pretty!) and left just as I heard the sirens coming to shut the party down. Back at the bar, I ended up in this overlong conversation about work and the crazy admark industry and I kinda felt like a very fulfilled nerd. And then called a cab to drag my drunk ass home to my doorstep. Good times.

Saturday's vague highlights was marvelling at party locations nowadays. I'm just waiting for someone else to do a laundry party at this point. This one was in some random ass loft next to a gas station and I saw Abe and other folks I know. I had a spazzy moment with my current fave DJ from the party that I'm becoming diehard about where I told her how much I loved her podcasts mixes on the bathroom line. Ah well.

Last Friday got me back to 419. My knee hurt, so I perched myself on the back bar stool and was content to sip on something and people watch. But, noooo...whenever a woman is sitting alone somewhere, it obviously means that she's dying to get picked up, right? Wrong! First dude slid across within 5 minutes and he had sub-game and I was beyond monosyllabic and after some uncomfortable minutes, he finally went away. This other dude rolled in all fake thug in a hipster party and sideglanced me for a while. He was easy on the eyes and I may have noncommittally looked back once or twice. His big move was telling me to let him know when I wanted a drink because he could hook me up and then saying he'd be right back and SMACKING ME ON THE ASS as he walked past. I totally gasped and him booking it was the only thing that didn't have me getting up and hurting him, lame knee be damned. Who the fuck seriously does that? Jesus Christ. It's bad enough that being by yourself in the midst of people and stuff means you have to get damned every bullshit pass in the place, but the ass slap is beyond disrespectful. I was fuming. I even broadcasted it to my dodgeball list in fact. I was bitching about it later on to this random who amusingly looked on when guy #1 and the slapper tried one after another to kick it to me again upstairs on the patio. The slapper was really close to getting a drink thrown in his face (he doesn't know about me...I'll do it) when he was mewing that I'd gotten my own drink instead of letting him get it. Fucking lamer. He was pretty beat later on when I was chatting up the random too. So strange that ass slapping isn't much of deal sealer.

In the best of circumstances, I'm admittedly difficult to meet at a party. I loathe being hit on. If you try, you're deaded. In fact, you probably just wasted your time bothering with the walk over because I'm not trying to hear it. Where the random vaguely succeeded where the other two failed (though the slapper torpedoed his own chances) was that I'd given him "can you believe this crap?" exasperated glances during the loser parade and when they left me alone, we had something to chat and joke about. In a nutshell, I might minorly be a control freak and I hate feeling like a piece of meat. Not that I like doing all the work, but I don't respond well to the "you're my prey and I'm pouncing" methodology. YMMV I suppose.

I've always had a bit of an uneasy, occasionally amused relationship with babies. I guess they're okay in the abstract sense. I was one, my brother more recently was a cute one. Sometimes I run into them and they make funny faces or whatever, but I usually try not to think of them at all. They're in that same zone of things I'd rather not have my downright laissez-faire existance intruded on and the whole "where is my life going?" crisis set off that, like marriage and responsibility. Bad, bad words.

I was getting slighty afraid to notice lately that I'd softened considerably towards the kidlets I see around. They were making me smile and make those cooing sounds I save for the cat usually. "What the hell is wrong with me?" I asked myself. "We're just being weird. Don't let them suck us into the vacuum! Turn back that biological clock!" So, fate stepped in.

My Secret Santa person around the office was this pregnant lady about to go off on maternity leave. Yoiu want to know how connected am I to my office/co-workers? I didn't even know she was pregnant until like 2 weeks ago when I overheard someone asking how far along she was. I just thought the waddle walk was caused by average issue weight gain. The floor holiday lunch turned into a secret baby shower and I decided to just kill two birds with one stone and get something from Buy Buy Baby since it's about a block from where I work.

That place is...weird. Baby crap everywhere with the faint sickening smell of formula. It kinda made me sick just to be in there. I paid for my gift and got the hell out of there. I could almost feel my ovaries shriveling and began to feel like everything was right with the world. Now the little devils invoke a feeling of terror. I try to avoid eye contact and the cute net. I see their evil schemes: first, they want to pop our your vagina and then, they'll take all your money. No thanks. Stay in your world, babies, and I'll stay in mine.

Still here. Sorta. But if I play "Apache," "Pow," or "Stand Up Tall" one more time, my cat might scratch me to death. Did I mention I'm going to the Dizzee Rascal show Saturday? I'm so fucking cool I can't even stand it.

Yesterday, I was keeping myself occupied by throwing myself into the mix in this thread. This was seriously just about the only panel (the music blogs one too) that had me checking airfare like "I could totally go to Seattle...oh wait, I don't even have $10 to spare. Nevermind." It was running pretty well for a while there, but petered out some time this morning. Such is the nature of ILM mostly and also where would the discussion actually end up going? "They give me funny looks at shows." Check. "I never have problems, you're just being sensitive." Check. "Damn, y'all are just some complaining black bitches women. I don't want to deal with that." Check. "I can like metal/rock/country and Mary J too. Get over it!" Check. "But really what does this mean in regards to white people?" Check.

It's an uneasy position feeling like I should be able to go into a show situation neutral/neutered as a music fan and yet usually end up being the most conspicuous person there. The one thing doesn't look the other screech moment. I hate having to end up feeling self-conscious. If as an a confident and secure person end up feeling like an annoyed bug under a microscope, I can't imagine how someone else might. But isn't that the role of the black feminist in life, the strange visible invisibility? What better to illustrate that but a thread filled with over a hundred posts where a call for extra commentary besides us (really the only time such a call would be made) is a "eh...we'll sit back and watch." I'm considering a revive but I don't know what to say really. Obviously it's a highly personal topic for me -- black, feminist, critical (not a "critic") -- and reminds me of why I liked Afropunk, the movie and now the message boards. In there for once the field is level because with so many different representations of black people no one has to be the HNIC figurehead and finally black can not be the capitalized primary descriptor. The stance is I want to put across is that participation and opinions are needed because otherwise becomes the black people sideshow which unfortunately it seemed like the panel turned into. I don't know how to counteract that though. It's bigger than me. I can admit that.

Anyhoo, the Man Man show last night was fucking excellent. They were amazing -- the songs were filled with this unstoppable energy and they just really rocked. (See...this is why I'm not a critic.) I was most happy because they played a spanking new (to me) multi-instrumental (well more than usual) version of my favorite song. I got new converts in Alex and The Director. Lina was all "this is so weird...but the drummer is a monster." I rocked my old chopped t-shirt and let's just say, it was a little snug. I looked like I was late for my shift at Hooters. They might be real and fabulous, but too much for me yesterday, that's for sure. The funny part for me was running into the bouncer who was trying to kick it to me at one of the shows way back when. He's actually alright...NYU student and seems pretty interesting, but he just strikes me as sorta bland. I'm just a picky bastard unless I'm just gaming for fun. There really is no rhyme or reason.

I've got the disease known as GOSPLAC dementia. It's what happens when you send broke kids from broke families to play with rich kids for most of their school lives and then set them out in the real world where they have to make ends meet.

I've been thinking a lot lately about being dramatic and walking away from my job because I don't feel challenged enough. Though I can (and do) go there wearing whatever t-shirt/sweater and jeans that didn't look too dirty in the morning rush, I can sit and listen to my Zen all day and be as anti-social I want to be, and the pay while not i-banker awesome is considerably better than any shitty publishing job I probably want. At least weekly I tell Jay-V and PrincessNella that I just want to walk out and never look back. And then I come to my senses and urge myself to stop smoking that shit and to just suck it up and deal because there's a lot of people out there who can't even consider something so ridiculous and bourgeois because if they don't work, they don't eat.

And then I kick myself because I'm one of those people too and I've always had the bad habit of forgetting that. What the hell is wrong with me? I've been working since I was 15 and have no savings. I rarely if ever pay more than $70 for sneakers and I haven't bought a new pair since last summer. All my clothes come from Old Navy or H&M. The reason I wear my hair natural is because I really can't afford the money pit of being someone who literally does not know how to do all those super girly things (you know like keeping it from looking like you've been electrocuted and stuff) to their hair. I've got over $40,000 in student loans. I'm still paying off the three credit cards I maxed out and "forgot" about in my early days of school. My share of the rent plus utilities and food is more than half of what I make a month. Rooting out parties I can go to free or damned near isn't just me being a social butterfly or whatever but because I can't afford to go out otherwise. If I quit my job with no net, I'll be ruined within the month. And who's going to bail me out? My parents? Yeah right. They've got money problems of their own. If I don't work, I can't survive.

In a financial sense, it was stupid to even strike out and get the place, but there's a serious part of me that would rather be poor with a place (mostly) of my own than how I was in Queens, relatively flush for a crappy money handler but having to be bound to someone else's location choice and rules. I worry about money a lot -- no nightmares of bankrupcy...yet -- but like Jay-V said to me earlier, it's better than feeling like a kid pretending to be an adult like I did at home. Obviously, I didn't need to go to LA or Miami because I just spent money that could go to bills, but sometimes it's just good for the soul to say "fuck it, it'll be tight for a min afterwards but I work hard, I deserve this!" Sometimes I just get so sick of having to be so on the grind that I have to splurge on a carrot to make life worth living, i.e. the Zen. And that may still be ultra bourgeois of me, but it is what it is.

It's tough being raised knowing that you can't fuck around with your money because there's always someone to pay and at the same time being around people who are so carefree about it. I simultaneously envy and don't understand people like Alex and Farmer (who just took a trip to Cuba on a whim!). They're both flitting around foreign countries all relaxed, hardly even working, ultra blase about coming in and out of the States and I can't even wrap my brain around being free enough here to go abroad. Sometimes I get really bitter and mutter under my breath that if I was a white man I could not give a fuck and do what I want too, but it's more than that. I just feel like my hands are tied and I know it's because the system is set up that way.

Ironically enough, one of the last classes I took at Wes was about this. It's sad and more than a little ironic that they don't teach it anymore.

Over on ILM, I spied a thread about the new Ying Yang song and I had to download it for myself. Whoa...cognitive dissonance alert!

After a certain point, you get used to powering off the brain at the door for club bangerish rap songs. On my playlist right now: "You Owe Me," ""Some Cut," "Say I Yi Yi." "Backpack rap" isn't free of that either: ever listen to the last minute or so of "Train Buffer?" I have been for the past couple of weeks now. Fuck, one of my fave albums of 2002 was Hood Rich. You can say I'm a little used to this stuff.

But, this song takes the cake. I was feeling the beat at first and then they came on with that damned whispering. I can't even put into words yet how I feel about it, but have you ever been dancing and then just got distracted by thinking "what the fuck? no really, what the fuck?" I can't even stay on beat with this one and just start to scowl. "Hey bitch. Wait til you see my dick." It's like the dirty man on the street anthem. But hear it for yourself.

Story first: I'm headed home earlier in the week and I stop into the Chinese takeout place around the corner. I'm stressed out, tired, starving, and just trying to get some food and then camp out in my room. As I'm walking in, a guy is with his friend in front of the bodega next door. He calls out to me and I ignore him to keep going in. I'm standing around waiting to place my order when he comes in. He chatters at me all "what's up girl? did you hear me calling you out there?" and I ghost him and order. He says "don't you want something with that?" and adds rice to my fucking order. I look at him and push back the thought of dredging up that kickboxing training and kicking his stupid ass in the face. The counter guy looks back and forth between us and I clarify that I meant what I said. The pest is actually still talking to me and I tell him get out of my face in two words that sound like fuck off. And he says to me, "I don't know why you have to be so nasty" before he flounces off. No words.

Sometimes I like to be dramatic and say that puberty ruined my whole life. After the initial toddler catepillar period, I was a lean and mean sort of kid. I escaped chocolate when I became allergic at eight and spent the time away from TV and books with a basketball or a bike.

Puberty and its accompanying annoyances threw the body for a loop and it made me into a reactionary. I hated the attention that a budding body brought me. I resisted the bra push from my mother and stuck to undershirts as long as I could. When men noticed the curves and started commenting, I sought refuge in baggy clothes and dark colors. That was also when I started wearing hats. I wanted to blend into the woodwork. I enjoyed the confusion/curiosity on people's faces when I came along with my hat pulled down low to my eyes, giant army jacket, jeans two sizes too big and layers of shirts. Was I a boy or a girl? I wasn't sure myself. I would wear a skirt once or twice a year and spend most of it hiding. But as junior and senior years rolled around, we had our class formal dances and I broke out forcefully at both with such overwhelmingly girly dresses that I shocked everyone. "You're so pretty. Why do you wear all those clothes?" Because I could, more or less. The irony of a hardcore tomboy wearing a floor length pastel pink ballerina prom dress with pink heels was delicious. A fitting end to six years at a place where no matter how much you changed, you were that ___ kid from 7-X.

I'm never going to be stereotypically thin. I'm just not built for it. I've accepted that fact. The least I've weighed since I started curving out was 133lbs in the summer before freshman year, when I wore a size 8 and had bones sharp enough to cut glass -- not to mention skeletor face -- with muscles and a booty. Just before senior year, I was flouncing around wearing a 8/10 and hovering around 164. I was complaining about my chicken legs and flat chest, but I enjoyed having finally shaken the remnants of my tomboy reactionism and embraced color. For my annual visit, the doctor clucked at my weight number and suggested I lose a few pounds to get on track with my BMI. I looked at her like she was insane. I was still bones with muscles and a booty. It wasn't possible to be any thinner without starving myself to death. I turned my back on scales and have been trying to ignore the numbers thrown out at during the physicals ever since.

Ms. Mommy (always good for words of encouragement) enjoyed warning me through the years to enjoy my metabolism while I could because after teens, it was all downhill. She's thrown out there that 25 is when your body gives up and goes to shit. I have no idea what I weigh now, but I spend a lot of time thinking about it. I guess I've gained about 20lbs or so in the past two years. Besides my mom lecturing gleefully that I have bad genes and it's not a good sign that our weights changes are inverses of each other, shopping is becoming increasingly frustrating. I am the average sized woman -- height and clothing wise -- but I might as well be a freak in the average store. Some days I look in the mirror with a mental red pen marking up the problem spots. The upcoming trip to the WMC is scaring me shitless because I've never felt less prepared to throw on a bathing suit.

Mostly, I just feel angry. I'm not fat in any sense of the word. In my office, I'm one of the tallest women at 5'5" and the fattest because unlike most of them, I'd be hardpressed to shop in the kids' section. The first couple of months, I looked at them and me and immediately thought I needed to go to the gym so I wouldn't stand out as much. That worked for a while but I just got tired of restricting myself to follow the status quo of the people I most hate anyways. What I has been bothering most is the attention. I've never been so openly ogled in my whole life as I've been in the past two months. The street peanut gallery has been in rare form. I've been whistled at, catcalled, yelled at, followed, pawed, and menaced because somehow they feel that I'm not a real person and just a walking Black Tail pinup. The disrespect pisses me off and I'd be too happy to Mace someone if I got the chance. Not so long ago, I was with this guy chatting about first impressions and he felt the need to add that he liked that I was stacked. What's next -- someone saying I'm built like a brick shit house? I'll admit I'm overly sensitive about things like that, but it's a dance I've been through too many times. It's always the guys you least expect that will unconsciously reveal that you're playing the role of Black Fantasy and they just want to get you naked to see if you're really different from all the other girls. (What came first: the visual images or the physical episodes of black female sexual exploitation? Are so-called "video vixens" the Venus Hottentots of the 00s? Then again, I'm just a negative cynic, so YMMV.)

But really, fuck it. I'm happy with my body despite the complaints. I'd rather look like a woman with distinguishable curves than androgynous like I did when I was 11. Especially since I'm just not built anymore to ever look like that again. And old saying is that a time comes in a woman's life when she has to choose between her ass and her face. I choose both with a slice of cheesecake...and a burger.

He uses the word "hater" often, and sometimes in a positive context. Star seems to view hate as a kind of natural energy (perhaps like the Freudian id) that can be channeled for constructive purposes. In his view, an "Objective hater" is potentially a person of great purpose and passion.

Who would think that an odious radio personality and I would see so eye to eye?I have full-time hater in that about section for a reason. There are no sacred cows here. If I don't like it, I'll say so. The time I got into "trouble" I'm always alluding to had to do with my version of Man Man Show # 875, I got a friendly phone call from Ryan MM saying, "you're so off blah blah no groupies blah blah." My response was basically: "eh...I don't really care. Last time I checked, I wasn't writing for you." And he was on my shit list for months, but naturally it blew over and throughout I still loved the band.

This is a personal blog on whatever the hell I feel like, bought and maintained by yours truly. Some days I'll talk about music, some days nightlife, some days why I'm mad, others why gender relations can be such a pill. It's been fun making blog friends and getting links and shit, but at end of the day, I'm happier telling you what parties I went to, why that venue/DJ/music was shit, and what some idiot had to say on the street...or not for that matter. Along with what I read on the web that was totally insipid. (Though hey, I'm a teddy bear. I'm definitely a happy-go-lucky sort in real life -- if by happy go lucky we mean not scowling...that much and even known to laugh.) Despite that, I believe it's important for there to be a certain degree of armchair criticism because the danger of mindless fawning and lip service is everpresent.

The way I look at it, I've got nothing to lose. I'm not an actual music critic -- aspiring or otherwise -- so I don't have to worry about stepping on toes and blocking my career trajectory. So, it's easy for me to say for example: my thought on M.I.A. is that Nelly Furtado owes her an ass-kicking for stealing her shtick and therefore, ruining her career -- and I don't even like Nelly Furtado; I'm so bored with the "ohmigod, it's Black Sabbath and Jay-Z on the same song/I totally put America and Mobb Deep back to back, I'm such a great DJ!" bullshit because you obviously aren't. Did you see that? You know, the crowd stopping the movement thing? That means you just failed your DJ test; and I think that blogs consisting of childish potshots at those who express even the mildest nonplus and insecure proclamations of greatness are shit and no matter how much cold fire they send my way, it's not going to change that fact anytime soon (aww...I was on a roll, I couldn't help myself). But naturally, all things are subjective.

There's shit stirring for the purpose of being a blowhard and there's having an honest to goodness dissenting opinion. I don't need to throw my weight around like 300 lb gorilla because my blog (and the blogosphere in general) only has my attention when frankly, I'm sitting around with nothing else better to do. Still, I am a little bit disgusted how the arena of whatever this loose collection of blogs around the music critic print folks is has developed into sycophancy. And THAT's what I was getting at in the original post that set it all off. Too bad some folks got selective vision and want to turn it all about them once it starts to process in the ego. I was being mildly provocative while venting my frustrations. There's not enough honest dialogue around. Everyone's worrying about stepping on toes and/or getting in good with the "powers that be" (says who?). I miss the days when I followed a link and started reading a blog because it was funny and fresh with a clear voice. Nowadays, everyone's an ultra sensitive junior editor in chief.

Perhaps there's nothing to be done about it. Perhaps it's growing pains as O-Dub says. I think it's fair to say that blog beefing or whatever is one of the most colossal wastes of time since...erm, message board beefing, I suppose. Part of taking responsibility for your words is knowing that everyone doesn't have to care about them. We've all got our little slivers in this pie and at the end of the day I'm not trying to be anything but me and my disjointed, flightly self, you know? But I pay my $x.xx a month to do as I please.

While bouncing in the back of a U-Haul van, I was telling PrincessNella about the recent blogging adventures. We were both amused at some of the reply comments. I liked you better before you started commenting on my site? What the fuck does that mean? Before I opened my mouth and muscled in where I've got no business or some shit? I shouldn't even have bothered commenting on that. It stands so much better alone. It's totally possible to like someone's stuff but think they're just wrong on a certain front you know. It doesn't invalidate anything. Egos are so fragile.

Oh, guess what I read today? Not only am I misguided by offering up opinions on matters of subjective taste and cultural consumption -- just like everyone else with a blog -- but I'm also apparently on some campaign for validation and attention? Interesting...I swear, it sucks being a new jack on this web business. I mean, I've only been protoblogging since like 2000 and shit (coming up on 2 years with this little thing), but god knows, you're nobody until some pseudo-"intelligent thug" throws some shine your way! Especially since I'm just jealous that he can babble nonsensically and people read it. More like puzzled that the jester is wearing no clothes and no one else seems to notice. Good thing I'm just a girl and can't get threatened with a punch in the face like some other people! But, we're totally shaking in our boots because we've got the Voice From Beyond on our ass now.

Blog beef is so boring. Especially when mouths are writing checks their ass can't cash. I'll be off painting my nails and getting my hair done when the reckoning comes I guess.

In the meantime, I've made another resolution: I should comment. And then comment and comment some more.

Like I think, this:

I wonder- when is the last time Tate went to the club and saw a thicky-thick girl drop down and get her eagle on right in front of him? I think an experience like that would change his opinion about hip-hop for the better.

Now hip-hop is responsible for the mysogyny in the black community. GTF out of here. Please stop attacking the problem w/out looking at the symptoms my people. Art is a reflection of life. And get this, in case anybody missed it in 8th grade ed, sex is a part of life.

If you want instant popularity, you either align or attack rap music. Who was talking about Rev. Butts or C. Dolores Tucker until they attacked rap music? MTV was not the channel to watch until they started to show rap videos. Bill O’Reily wasn’t that popular until he went at Ludacris. And now there’s ESSENCE Magazine. How many people were talking about ESSENCE before their ‘taking back our music’ campaign? One yearly article on Mary J. Blige does not make you a hip-hop publication. But their campaign got them featured in a few magazines. Mission accomplished and I’m sure we won’t be hearing from about that campaign. Next!

So, what's the trajectory of the argument as being put forth over at Hashim's (not to imply it's bash him day over here at Kitty Power)? To understand hip-hop and where it's coming from, you gotta go out into the thick of it with a girl with a fat ass and watch her shake it for you. 'Cause real niggas don't dance or some shit. Misogynistic? Shit...that's ridiculous. Sex is a part of life. It's only natural for men to be voyeurs and rap about what good shit they're seeing. And what they want from you and stuff. Fucking loud mouthed Essence magazine. That's one of those old bitch magazines, you know. Who the hell has ever heard of Essence anyways? Like there's something that's really wrong with the culture nowadays. Them bitches are tripping. They need a mandingo dildo or something. Yo, pass me my King and step. Right, boys?

The "strolling back into irrelevancy" edition.

But first, a query: "there are so women hip-hop bloggers, like blah, blah, and blah" = "i so have black friends, like blah, blah, and blah"? And clarification of previous post: I was venting and invoking the right to be facetious. And all the peacock strutting about was giving me a headache.

I was most amused by Hashim's comment: "I didn't know you follow *us* so closely. You know the names, memes, and everything!" If a bear shit in the woods but no one sees, did it actually happen? Just because I haven't jumped in the convos with gusto (before now) doesn't mean I can't read. I'm bored at work like everyone else. I either a) don't feel the same point should be beaten into the ground: you agree! you agree! where's the pats on the head?! b) don't feel like it since i'll probably be ignored anyways c) don't care because I'm put to sleep by the smug know it alls.

Another query: does hip hop music talk almost incubate the pissing match atmosphere? Query #3 -- the tongue in cheek edition: If I had a booty pic would I get more linkage? Uncredentialed women in hip-hop better be bringing something to the table, right right? Heh.

I guess most of the time I just feel like I don't really need random guys on the internet to validate my opinions. I love my blog, etc but there aren't enough hours of the day/energy or attention in my brain to break down my thoughts on every meme popping up. (Oh look at me, I'm getting peevish again!) Whatevs. This isn't my market. I'll go back to talking about staying out too late, fine times with cheap alcohol, and Man Man. Meanwhile, you can go read Lynne's post and get an inkling of where my head is at.

More to come. I suppose.