Recently in On The Street Category

Bleary-eyed, I made my way down the block towards the corner. Running late as usual. There's some random standing on the stoop at 341. I note him, but I'm walking and don't particularly care.

"Hey, girl," he says.
"Hey," I respond tightly, not even slowing down.
"Let me talk with you a second..."
Please. I'm past and not even pretending that I'd entertain the thought.
"That's alright. I'll catch you later," he says in a sing-songy way that annoys me to my back.
Fuck off.

Hours later, walking back up the block. I'm having one of the many shitty days of that work week. My immediate thoughts are: home and food. I see the group on the steps of 341 immediately. I'm not even thinking about them and I've forgotten about the dick from earlier.

"Hey there," says the guy from the morning. I recognize his voice. It's kinda taunting. "Can I walk you to your building?"
I roll my eyes, maybe partially shake my head and just keep walking. Bullshit I don't have time for.
"Once you go black, you never go back, you know."
That gets a look. A quick narrowed eyes sharp one. I can't even figure out which one he is. There's like 6 of them and it's dark. They laugh at my reaction.
"Uh huh...we know all about you. We've been watching you."
Fucking nerve. I seethe and just walk. They laugh again, mocking me. Every fucking step is excruciating cause I want to turn on my heel and curse them out so bad that they're grandkids' ears ring. Sons of bitches acting like they know me.

I'm raging about it all night. Everyone's as pissed as me... but Farmer. "Oh that's funny. Just some dude trying to mack. Hehe." I want to curse him out too. "You just don't understand," I write. I want to start by saying "you'll never know what it's like on multiple levels" but it's a waste of energy. If only I had blinkers too.

Through sheer force of will, dammit. Through sheer force of will.

After almost 25 years of snow, we've decided that we like it as long as we don't have to go out and function in it. Pristine, just fallen snow: great. Dog-pissed, slushy, wet icy snow: shit. I'm amazed we didn't either drown or fall in today's journey to work and believe me, it was hard not to. Nothing says awesome like flooded boots in the morning!

So, you know I was pissed when the lady came onto the train doing her "praise Jesus!" shtick. And especially so when she plopped down next to me and started a-chattering with the lady beside her about how Jesus is everywhere. A little old man got on the train somewhere around Wall Street and he looked pretty dismayed that there was nowhere to sit as he shook and could barely hold onto the pole -- incidentally, right in front of that chick, now reading her prayer book and averting her eyes like the rest of us. I looked around as he did, hoping that someone would leave and he could take their spot, feeling kinda blah and lazy and tired, guilt tripping myself because I really hate seeing older people have to suffer around town. So, I got up at Park Place and he took my seat. He smiled at me and I went "eh...whatever" and took his place in front of preaching lady. Still awfully engrossed in the Lord's word. And I got a new seat at Chambers. That's my good deed for the holiday season. We now return to the "bah humbug" already in progress.

This week was a bit amusing overall. I've accepted the truth after so long: yes, I am a self-loathing hipster. I'm not proud obviously (being self-loathing and all), but I can deal with it. After all, what else would I be if C telling me this (new to me) piece of gossip that a certain supernova scenester-type (who may or may not be pictured here) does their wig and glasses shtick to hide the fact that they are a middle-aged sort perving after young idiotic sniffers. I think it's awesome personally. Reason #1 why I don't hang out half as much as I used to: you never know who'll crawl out from under a rock to talk to you. But when you're doing all the bad things, it's a part of the adventure. Natch.

Alafairnadia and I made a pilgrimage to the toy shoppe. I was especially up for it because after not thinking of the boy at all for a while (because of my short-attention span and all), it seemed like everyone was asking about him/us and then I started to wonder about him...and we're not going down that road. He literally is someone that can be better replaced with plastics. Flipping through this lame ass hipster "smut" mag, who did I see in a spread only half-naked (thank my lucky stars) but The DJ! You could've knocked me over with a feather. Especially since for once and for all, he's just not that hot and has the body of a 14-year old. Ugh. Oh, the dark days of former crushes! And then just to amuse myself, I picked up this glass/hard plastic toy and used it for emphasis as I chatted with Alafairnadia. There was this couple skulking around that got redder and redder as I did. "Oh noes! Someone is holding a sex toy in a sex toy shop! Horrors! We'll just have to get that Bend Over Boyfriend online! It's just embarrassing in here!" And they fled. Tsk, tsk.

Yeah...whatever I said about newly having my free time back was a fucking lie. I've gotten the crap slammed out of me at work this week. I'm so glad that the weekend is finally here. I couldn't take another day of crazy working. The plan (unless I oversleep like I have twice this week) is to be to work at 8:30ish and hopefully be out by 6:30/7. Yes, this week is kinda sucks to be me.

Not to imply it hasn't been fun. I made time to apparently take up take up a mid-week residency at Soda. Tuesday night, I went to meet up with Mr. Now (for lack of a better pseudonym) I guess and while I was waiting, one of the neighbors strolled up to me. I was neutral and we chatted for a min and he offered that I should knock if I needed anything in a way that made my skin crawl. Yeah...hold your breath for that, son. He slinked off and soon after the boy came along and I smiled and everything was good. Back to the same bat station the next night for the weekly happy hour episode #1. I've got some pretty cool neighbors and we had a great time. With the bonus of spawning a hilarious thread on the board. You know I must've been worn out to say:

Hipsters are like chihuahuas, I'm Lucky the Ghetto Poodle. Both are little bitches, but I'm more entertaining.

In the meantime, read up at Four Four (categories on Tyra Banks, ANTM, and other crackhead-filled shows plus music!) and Angry Black Bitch. I should even finally getting around to posting the Prefuse boat show wrapup...like Sundayish. Hopefully.

I'll return to the shallow side of life soon. I can't help but note though that this summer has been like high season for the (not-so) closet racist/classists assholes who populate too many corners of where many of us have to live and interact everyday. But then again, it's only racists when white robes and hoods and crosses are involved and we're all middle class in America, so class biased against who? They make me fucking ill. And in general, I'm feeling a little aggro.

I've been having a war of wills with some dudes on the block. If you know me, you know that I don't take any shit. You want to argue? Let's go. If you're going to fuck with me, I'm not going to roll over and play dead. I am very well aware of my status as gentrifyier. I pay too much to live on a 4th floor walkup in terns of my neighbors, but comparitively to what they're trying to get around here almost a year later, we're not getting shafted that badly in terms of the NYC housing market. But, I also know that I blend in pretty well being brown (Ant, about halfway. There's a shortage of non-commercial enterprise affiliated Asian men in our neighborhood). The fact I'm young, black, and (assumed to be) "rich" yet moved in here is like a novelty to some of the neighbors. I get on pretty well with the old guy next door and the family below a.k.a. the ones I see the most but, the dudes outside (and some of the ones inside) are a different story.

I'll always be a sociologist at heart, so I can easily break down the problem. I'm young, black, (appearingly) single, "new" to the block, passing through quickly and quietly for the most part, not especially engaged what's happening on the block. They're young, black also, probably grew up here, spending all their time hanging on the block --the gate between my building and the one next door in particular -- in groups. They know everyone around but me and I'm not especially open because I spend upwards of 10 hours at work/in transit and when I'm around, I've got tunnel vision trained on dinner/quality time at home/bed.

It may be a neighborhood thing. On my block in East New York, I knew everyone and my family had two houses next door to each other. I didn't really think of hanging out on the stoop when I could just go inside. No one was really big on hanging out in the front there. Maybe to play rope or run around or whatever, but not just to sit. To say my apartment has been an oven this summer is the understatement of the year. I can't blame anyone for wanting to escape and stand outside. When you're standing around with people you know, it's a social thing. Everyone's been hanging out for hours when I stumble along, sweaty and tired at 7 or whenever, so they're all relaxed and shit while I'm focused and on edge. And it doesn't make it easier when I'm trying to do a Point A to Point B and they're staring me down. And I'm not especially open to anyone looking me up and down like a steak on a plate either. We're at an impasse.

The other week, I was headed from laundry and one of the dudes who is always hanging out was standing there alone. He said hello and I replied neutrally.

"Oh, I thought you didn't speak," he said, kinda snidely.
Defense mechanism popped up. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, you never say anything when we're hanging the block."
"I'm not going to say anything when I'm all distracted and tired."

I went inside and that was that. A few days later, I'm late as shit for work and popping out to run to the train and hope I can still make it in decent time. Some guys are standing in the typical spot at 9am and I'm not paying attention and just hauling. I hear a voice behind me say, "I see how you are."

And I was thinking about it the rest of the day. It bothers me that there's some sort of antagonistic relationship. Part of me is like "We're more alike than we're different. Why's there got to be some resentful bullshit when you don't even know me?" And then I think "fuck 'em. They're not keepers of the fucking block. They can hang out and chill all day because they don't have jobs and they're living with their mothers. Fuck that giving me shit because I'm not peppy enough. My apartment doesn't pay for itself and I've gotta do what I gotta do and fuck what they think." There's nothing that I can especially do about it. Am I supposed to bake them cookies? Fuck that. This one will probably be a stalemate unless some random day the bridge is crossed. We'll see.

The one problem I have with the summer is that there's nothing to hide under. Perhaps it's the latent tomboy who hates attention in me, but when the heat forces away my sweaters and jeans, I feel doubly exposed. There's the obvious level where I have to confront the feelings in my own head having my flesh out there and resist the urge to wear a jacket no matter how hot it is. Then there's the cause and effect of stripping away layers and skin exposed drawing the stairs. I got whistled at by a truck driver crossing the street yesterday at lunch. It bugged me to hear him still talking as I tried to suppress the urge to rip his throat out and thinking to myself: "well, I guess I should be used to it by now." I don't want to be used to it.

The other day at home, I calculated that I've gained approximately 50lbs in the 6 years I've been out of high school. It's been the evolution from athletically skeletal to the chubby side of average. The numerical aspect is kinda frightening but I don't mind really. I'm prone to fluctuations and I've been in a losing period lately. Which no doubt will probably be hastened by the summer. On the street, I'm sick of watching them watch me being barely restrained by things that used to be looser. I feel like a steak on a plate. And I just quit my gym. Time to buy a bike to ride around the park on!

Ugh...if I hear about another girl my age or younger getting/being engaged, I'm going to scream...isn't that "everyone around but me is getting married!" angst something you're supposed to be able to wait until at least late twenties for?! I'm not even dating anyone -- and that doesn't bother me (most of the time) -- so the pressure is just annoying. It's strange to say, but thank god most of my friends are like me in that respect because if one of them went all Bridezilla, I'd freak out. 'Cause it's all about me, me, me ! No non-singles in my vicinity...except for Lina, but that's complicated. Of course, I kid...sorta.

Anyways, the other week, the whole company was corralled into going to see a teenie movie since the book was written and then the movie produced in house. All of the other divisions of my company are so much more fun that mine! I'd basically gone kicking and screaming since it was required, but it was a damned good movie. Don't tell anyone this, but it actually made me cry a bit. Sob...don't die, little girl! Sob...you've remarried and made a new family, but what about me?! Sob...I thought sex would fill a hole in my soul but it didn't! Sob...this movie is hurting my cold heart! Sob! I'm a closet sap. I totally admit it. And I want to see The Perfect Man...on cable one day, just so I can be happily sappy in the comfort of my own home.

To tide you over until I get some time to spill on Monday's swaggerrific fun, a celeb sighting:

I work in Chelsea/Garment District, so every once in a while I see folks. Did I see Rufus Wainwright with his flip flops in the winter time heading towards the Chelsea Hotel? Indeed. Was that Rob Zombie I spied crossing towards Whole Foods one day? You know, I'm still not sure...his hair wasn't caked with gook and he looked like a regular white guy with not bad dreads.

Anyhoo, on Thursday evening, I was leaving my job and running late for a meeting. I exit out the freight door and almost run smack into a little guy (like my size) and his walking companion. They're chatting on and on about some project or another and he's ultratheatrical. I let them go past and I end up walking behind them. The guy keeps looking at his friend while he's talking and I realize I recognize the profile. Internal process: "Ohmigod...it's Freddie's date rapist from a Different World! Man, I loved that episode! Oh wait...okay, he's been in more stuff. Holy fuck...it's Bruce Leroy! I've got to call Fizzie!" I was stuck behind them for a good block and as soon as they disappeared, called up Fizzie with the news. He squealed when I told him and I revealed the ultraembarassing Richard Grieco story (which is unblogged I believe). Good times, good times. (Check out this thread on IMDB. Brings the funny for real.)

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.

Happy 2005, everybody! 2004 was a bit meh, here's to hoping it can only get better instead of worse!

I started my New Year's Eve traipsing across Queens and Brooklyn to meet up with Ant and the management company man. We read and signed and read and signed and read and nitpicked and signed. Exchanged checks for keys and papers. And with some finals handshakes, Ant and I became official residents of Brooklyn. We made our way from Boro Park to Prospect Heights, strolling up Flatbush and deciding that the birthday dinner (just over 3 months and counting) shall be held at Chuck-E-Cheese this year because...well, just because. (We were amused by the imaginary exchange: "So, how old are you this year, erm...little girl?" "Oh, 24.") We had a good old southern food lunch on Vanderbilt, murdering our food upon sniffing. We're very excited about all the stores in the area. We went to the place to guestimeasure rooms and confer on where furniture would go. This week, I measure for real. Next weekend is move in. Yay for us! And I spent everything I had in the bank minus $30 to get to this point. Not so yay!

New Year's Eve proper was rather anti-climactic. I dragged my feet and ended up where I wanted to be later than I planned. I had my first of 3 train rides with stupid kids running off at the mouth trying to start fights. WTF was up really with all the 16 year olds on the loose last night? In my teenage days, I knew I'd either be in watching Dick Clark on the TV, at a party with the folks, or someplace random like church. I sure as fuck wouldn't have been roaming the streets in a pack of knuckleheads. Later on that night on the G, two groups actually did get into a fight that other adults, being more benevolent than me (who just raised an eyebrow and then laughed at first with the folks sitting across from me), broke up. But when the group of little white kids (plus one boy of interminate ethnicity who had been getting angry that he was getting "played as a punk"), cowering in fear not mins before until the black girls who had been getting ready to open a supersized can of whoop were subdued, started talking smack now that it was safe again, I screamed on them to shut the fuck up since they were underaged little shits causing drama and we all should just let the girls beat the smirks off their stupid faces. And they did.

I rang in the New Year with my comp glass of Andre in Subtonic of the screwed up toilets, darkness, and DJ who was too busy playing Black Box (or something equally as random) to realize it had been 2005 for about 3 mins before he started the countdown. I had to quickest ride from Delancey to Bedford-Nostrand (like less than 15 mins) and strolled into the party at Jenny's invite. There were mini-cupackes, people! Cupcakes + alcohol = triple plus good in the Candice book. Listening to music, talking...I had fun. I made a half-hearted attempt to check out a party on 14th and then realized that I was definitely okay with going home at 4am. And the best part was not spending a fucking dime all night long! Return to the frugal crafty ways of back in summer/fall '03 era? Perhaps. Viva '05!