Yule Get Drop Kicked

There are a significant number of reasons as to why this situation that is happening on my desk at work is just wrong. Look, I love Jesus more than just as much as you do, but that's no reason to put a fake candy cane in a red vase on my desk. See, this is the [main] problem I have with Christmas decorations. Rarely are they ever well done, understated, or elegant. At best, they're kitschy, and at worst... They're awful, ugly, eye sores. Jesus wept.

Listen, I'm just tryin' to work here. However, at times it's a struggle with this distracting ass twig with random ball configuration directly in my line of sight. There has to be an ordinance or code under some obscure labor law that will allow me to sue my employer for subjecting me to this foolishness.

My Totally Biased Review of New Amerykah Part Two

I was at Target at 8:30 in the morn gettin my copy of Erykah Badu's new release. I'm sure I looked every bit of Badu's demographic with my lack of hair, lack of perm, lack of weave, tye-dyed leggings, and ability to read above a 6th grade level. The hoodrats and scallywags were there too, using their EBT cards to buy that Raymond vs. Raymond. Hey, different strokes for different folks, I suppose.

Anywho, I just want to start out by saying that I love Erykah. She is easily one of my most favorite people, of people that I don't know. Musically, she can really do no wrong in my eyes. Even if I don't love what she did in a song or on an album, I can always appreciate it and rarely (if ever at all) do I ever think anything she does is wack. She could release an entire album of only dolphin sounds, and I would still be like, "That was sorta fresh, yo." Yes, I would end the sentence with, "yo". Shut up.

I approached my initial listening with great expectation and excitement. I have listened to the entire album (including the demonic chanting) about five times today. And contrary to what I thought would happen when I first peeled off the wrapper and put the disk in the player, in real life, in this moment, I am generally underwhelmed. [INSERT SIGH HERE]I don't hate it... But I can't say that it improved the quality of my life.

It reminds me a lot of Worldwide Underground, which I like and respect, but didn't obsess over. With the exception of Bump It and Danger, I found myself not caring much. It's the same feeling I get with this album. It's cool. It's something to listen to. It makes great background music and you could probably have a really enlightening conversation while it's playing, but nothing ever really happens sonically or lyrically that will make you stop what you're doing and lose your mind. I wouldn't at all compare it to New Amerykah Part One (which I went into convulsions over and still twitch noticeably at the mere thought and/or mention of). However, though I wouldn't compare it in terms of depth and complexity, it does have leanings, style wise toward Part One, which sort of makes it all seem cohesive. It sort of gives me the impression that some of these songs may have been conceptualized or recorded for or around the time Erykah was making Part One, but they didn't make it onto that album. Therefore, the overall effect is a watered down, less interesting version of the first installment.

On a positive note, the artwork is funky fresh and there are some catchy melodies that you might find yourself humming around the house. One of the most infectious choruses is on the song Gone Baby, Don't Belong, which was produced by Taraach, who I want to say congrats to. You go, boy! Another highlight is Fall in Love (Your Funeral), which I wasn't surprised to see was produced by Karriem Riggins, who you may remember produced Soldier (which was the certified biz) off the last album and who's drumming I'm infatuated with in real life. Yay, Karriem!

Mama's Gun lovers [INSERT RAISED HAND HERE] will be either really happy or seriously irked with what seems to be the second installment of Green Eyes, entitled Out of My Mind, Just in Time. Similar to Green Eyes, Out of My Mind, Just in Time is at the end of the album, pushes the counter past 10 minutes, and plays out in three movements. It gives me happy feelings that Erykah went there once more, but honestly, it pales in comparison to Green Eyes, which pretty much anyone with working ears has classified as brilliant, beautiful, necessary, and dare I say, classic. It's worth listening to, though, and in my opinion takes the entire album from "alright" to "good".

Surprisingly, my favorite song is Window Seat, which is a complete shocker, cause I usually don't give a hot damn about singles. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that every time I hear it, I see Erykah's booty moving through my mind in slow motion. Or maybe it's 'cause it's actually a good song. Whatever the reason, the fact that my favorite song off of the album is a single is probably saying something bad... Real bad... Michael Jackson [INSERT DISAPPOINTED FACE HERE]. And while I'm making faces, I just want to say that I'm tired of Erykah trying to infest my house with evil spirits with all that demonic chanting that she's been putting on her albums lately. I rebuke it in the mighty name of Jesus.

This is getting long, so thus concludes my totally biased review of New Amerykah Part Two. Overall it is a solid album and definitely worth having, especially for Badu fans. Support, Support, SUPPORT good, interesting music from good, interesting artists. Pay money! Pay attention!

...Pay my phone bill. [INSERT GIGGLE HERE]

Lucky

I wrote this tha other day. Because it's tha first poem that I've written in a long time that I've actually finished and liked, I thought I'd share it with ya'll. It looks long, but its really not, so don't be scurred.

LUCKY

Lucky

It was once said
That tha only reason
I had never met tha back
Of a boyfriends hand
Was simply because he had chosen
Not to introduce me
I was lucky
Unlike so many women
Landed face first
Into tha ridges of a lover's knuckles
Accidental
And shouldn't I be grateful
Not proud
To wear tha word "unbattered" like a badge
Across my intact face
For me,
There was never any decision to be made
No option to contemplate
Just tha merciful restraint
Of men who would string a necklace
Of bruises
Around my clavicle
At tha first opportunity
If I hadn't just been so fuckin' lucky

There is no place to stash a choice
Between skin and boning
Under tha corset of femininity
I'm supposed to cinch myself into
All tha better to keep my ribs
Unfractured and in their proper places
Hold my guts inside my body
Keep me propped upright
Doll-like
Incapable,
Only able to bind my daughters'
Masterfully crafted feet
For tha beauty of tradition
So that she, like me,
And every woman before her
Will never able to leave


I must understand
That it had nothing to do
With tha fact that
I demanded little more
For myself
From myself
And everyone else
Than respect
Not necessarily to be liked
Or even loved right
But to simply keep my face
In one piece
It had nothing to do
With me escaping into tha street
Long after midnight one morning
In tha midst of an argument
To avoid his anger
Nothing to do with being 18
And breaking up with my boyfriend
Because I recognized tha danger
In being called a bitch
Nothing to do with
Unanswered phone calls
And forever ignored voicemails
In tha days following
An incident in which a a male friend
Leaned in through my open driver's side window
So that he could properly wring my neck
I guess
I'm lucky
If only my clitoris
Were, instead a penis
I would have a say
As to how I should be treated
Only tha abuser has a choice
And it is enough
For tha rest of us
To simply wish
That he would decide
not to beat us
Lucky,
To dodge tha runaway wrecking ball
Of his fist
Not by ducking
But just by leaving
Before he has tha chance
To swing

Tha Great Tree Masacre of '09

If ever there was a time to quote Joni Mitchell, I'm pretty sure this is it.

They took all the trees
Put em in a tree museum
And they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to see em

However, let me say, I kno whut I've got before it's gone and don't you try to come take it away or I might hav to get rowdy.

This morning, I was abruptly snatched up outta my sleep by a sound that can only be described as a violent, motorized grinding. No, actually it sounded like my apartment was being eaten by a big ass blender. Better yet, it sounded like tha whole World was being consumed by a tornado of chainsaws -- concrete, buildings, trees and all. Well, I was right about tha trees and sort or right about tha chainsaws. When I went to my living room window and looked out, I could see tha Inglewood City worker men cutting away at this huge tree in front of my building. Okay. Trimming. It happens. Good city. Trim your trees. At 7:30 in tha morning, tho? Is that really necessary? Whutever. I went to get ready for work.

After finishing part of my morning ritual, I wandered back over to my living room window to see whut looked like some sort of giant grotesque stone hand, protruding from tha ground, clawing at tha sky. Clearly, a lot more than "trimming" had occurred. Every bit of this poor tree's foliage was gone and all that was left was trunk and branches. Ugly. I didn't want them to leave that monstrosity in front of my window, but it didn't entirely occur to me that they were going to completely cut a perfectly good tree down. Why would anybody do that? Duh.

Well, folks, I returned home from work to see that that's exactly whut they did. But they didn't stop at tha tree directly in front of my apartment. They kept going all tha way down tha block. Three big beautiful trees had been reduced to stumps and roots.



In tha middle of summer Inglewood? Really? And exactly whut purpose did this tree masacre serve? Does my neighborhood look better now? Can tha people that reside on my block now do something that we couldn't do before? Who's gonna breathe a sigh of relief or sleep more soundly tonight because finally, all those bothersome trees are gone?

Dumb. Asses.

Meanwhile, I've called several times to request that a stop sign be placed at tha deadly ass intersection at tha end of my block. Do I hav my stop sign, yet? Take a guess.



Great verbiage such as "livid", "angry", and even "pissed tha fuck off", don't do a good job of describing how mad I am. I can't quite articulate how vigorously I would like to slap tha individual(s) who came up with tha brilliant idea to chop down these trees and leave my street naked and scarred. And how much money in labor and machinery did they spend in tha destruction and disposal of these trees? But they can't come and put up a couple of stop signs to prevent me or someone else from dying at tha corner a few yards away?

Tha war path is whut I'm on... and you kno I'm familiar with and hav no problems goin down that road. I'm about to giv tha City of Inglewood THEE BUSINESS. Watch.

Granted, city personnel is often good for very little. However, if they can answer their phones (which they are successful at, most times), and if they can check their voicemail, then I'm pretty sure I'm about to get some results, cause they're about to get tired of hearing my voice. I'm calling everyday (sometimes several times a day, depending on how I crazy I feel) until I gets my muthafuckin stop sign. And I won't stop till I get it.

If, God forbid, I were to die tomorrow, I would call tha Inglewood City Public Works Hotline from my grave. I'm like tha Terminator. I'm like Bad Boy in tha 90's. And furthermore, "This mind, this body, and this voice cannot be stifled", word to Fiona Apple.

For now, I've titled this situation that I'm about to temporarily obsess over "Operation Avenge tha Trees". It might very well turn into an adventure. Needless to say, I'll keep ya'll updated as my sanity wears away and the fuckery escalates. It will.

When Black Women Cut All Their Hair Off...

About a week after I first cut all my hair off (for tha billionth time in my life) I had an interesting little exchange with tha mail man at my job. He's a really cool, older black man named Jimmy who has a bit of a southern accent, regularly talks about his wife, and chats with us about sports. He's a father type, who probably goes to church on Sundays and knos a little somethin about cars. No nonsense, real decent kinda guy. He came into my office as part of his daily routine, placed our mail on a table, sat our packages beside tha mail, and as he was collecting our out going parcels looked at me and asked, "Are you sick?"

Of course, I was confused.

Then he went on to say something to tha effect of, "Well, I saw all your hair was gone and didn't kno if you were sick..."

Which led me to a thought...

In tha Black Woman's quest to find beauty in herself, she's been led down a path that dictates that she must grow and keep as much hair on her head as she possibly can at all times. I kno this, partially because I am a Black woman and also, because at one point I was a hairstylist. Not only would a good number of black women fall out and die at tha mere thought of cutting off their hair, but most won't consider tha possibility that they might be able to function in life should their hair decide to wave, curl, or (GASP!) nap up. For tha average Black woman in America, there is simply no fate worse than bald or nappy headed-ness.

Which leads me to a fundamental truth about Black Women...

If she has cut all her hair off, she is probably (A) DYING OF CANCER, or (B) HAS COMPLETELY LOST HER MIND.

Well, I ain't dying of Cancer, praise White Jesus. So, tha latter must be true. I mean, why else would anyone do this...



And intentionally go from this...




To this...




Observe tha slightly crazy look that was already present in my eyes before I went off tha deep end and took some clippers to my scalp. Notice tha crazed grin in tha "after" photo. Clearly, something is wrong. And whut's worse is that apparently, tha insanity is contagious. My best sista-friend from high school went from this...



To this...



Menacing! And whut exactly is it that she's got hiding behind that door back there? Answer: You wouldn't wanna kno!

And this po sista...



Well, she been a stark raving mad lunatic, but doesn't tha lack of hair make it more apparent?



I certainly think so.

You may be asking, "So, Nikki... whut exactly is your point?" and to that, my answer is, "I really don't kno... lemmme think..."

[insert elevator music here]

Okay, yes. My point is whut reactions to Solange's recent chop confirmed. As a Black Woman, you can't do any of tha following things:

*Love yourself
*Think you're beautiful
*Refuse to hav said beauty defined by society
*Not want to be boxed in
*Feel tha wind and/or sun on your scalp
*Go swimming and put your head UNDER tha water
*Be satisfied with tha way God made you
*Not be terrified by naps
*Not think that your hair is your beauty
*Not want to put harmful chemicals in your hair
*Want to look Afrikan
*Not be concerned with whut a man might think
*Look in tha mirror and not think you're ugly
*Not compare yourself to others
*Want to look and feel like yourself
*Not sit in a salon for 6 hours every two weeks
*Not strive to be perceived as "beautiful" by Eurocentric standards
*Be satisfied
*Feel like you're enough, as you are

And you most certainly, must not, under any circumstances allow your hair to be nappy. God forbid you cut it off.

If you do, you're sick. You're crazy. Most of all, you're ugly.



Remember it. Own it. Embody it. Live it. Teach it to your daughters and preach it to your sons. It's tha only way to quell tha hideous scourge of crazy bald headed black women that hav come to invade your consciousness. They may not hav Cancer, but they are a type of insidious, parasitic disease, feasting upon all that is good, acceptable, and decent. Shifting your paradigm, fuckin' with your perception of beauty, broadening your horizons, trapping you in their webs of nappiness, blinding you with tha glare of tha sun reflecting off their shiney scalps. They'll make you crazy, too, if you're not careful... So be careful.

Mothers, don't let your daughters grow up to own clippers. All that great hair that you so lovingly permed and pressed will be gone in an instant. And then, whut will become of her? She might end up somewhere... thinkin. She might hav tha nerve to hav a little bit of pride (ugh!). PRIDE DON'T PAY THA BILLS!

[laughter. Lots of it]

Forreal, tho... all jokes aside... this is not a judgement on Black women who chose to grow their hair long or straighten it (tho, I do feel some kinda major way about that, but I won't talk about it, cause I don't want to hurt nobody's feelings... today). I just want to encourage all women to be brave, and bold, make tha best decisions that you can for yourself and love you, no matter whut people like, don't like, or may hav to say. God made you, and that is enough to make you beautiful.

And tha church says, "BOOM."

I Told You So...

A few weeks back when I posted a blog expressing that I was confused and shocked that a woman had had a child with Mike Tyson, a few folks took it upon themselves to be bothered and offended. In light of tha fact that his 4-year-old daughter had just died tragically, I guess I can understand how they might feel some kind of way, but really, I don't kno if there's any "appropriate amount of time" that must pass before one tells tha truth. Tha situation was brought to my attention, I called it like I saw it, and that was that. Tha point I was making had little if anything at all to do with tha child and everything to do with women consistently making bad choices, selecting terrible mates/boyfriends/husbands, and fathers for their children.

I don't kno about you, but I'm tired of hearing tales of domestic violence, about women being brutally slain my their abusive men, or even worse, reading articles about how a crazy boyfriend with a history of questionable and/or violent behavior has abused or murdered an innocent child. Women are knowingly chosing these men over and over again and bringing them into their homes and around their children! Some woman, who was fully aware of Mike Tyson's instability opted to hav a relationship and pro-create with him. Fuck outrage about my blog... where's tha outrage about all of this violence and these stupid decisions?



Well, unfortunately, there isn't much. According to someone, my blog was "a low blow..." which makes me wonder, whut do you call it when a Heavy Weight Champ is habitually whoopin a woman's ass and raping her? Apparently it's fine, and I shouldn't hav anything to say about it. Supposedly, according to one person, I could've "waited like 6 weeks," before writing about it. Well, outraged commenter... it's funny you should say that, because apparently, Mike Tyson himself couldn't even wait that long before he decided to up and get married.

2 short weeks after his baby girl dies, he's jumpin' tha broom in Vegas? Once again, I'm confused. However, I should probably really stop trying to understand anything pertaining to this man.

It is a shame and should be a crime to protect abusers and not hold people accountable for their actions. If he needs help, then he should go get it. I encourage him and any and everyone on a path to destruction to take a detour and try to make themselves and their lives better. I sincerely hope (though I seriously doubt) that he finds some type of happiness and peace in this new marriage and that they are able to maintain a healthy relationship that is free of abuse. However, old habits don't just lay down and die, and for that reason, I feel a Nigga Please Award comin on.

In tha same spirit of last week's Nigga Please Award, this one is not gonna go out to tha man in tha midst of these shinanigans (though, he too should be hog-tied), but to tha woman. Lakiha Spicer, this is for you! Girl, you are truly cuttin' up, not only because you're fuckin' with Killer Mike, but because you thought it was appropriate to exchange vows so soon after tha death of his child. You are 32-years-old, and therefore way too advanced in age not to hav better judgement.

I pray that tha Lord be with this woman, help her to mature and grow wise, protect her from Tyson, and her own foolish self as well. I don't want them to hav any kids, I want her to leave (or take an aluminum bat to his head) tha first time (if ever) he hits her, and really, that's all I hav left to say for now. However, on tha subject of domestic abuse and violence against women and children, I can't, won't, and don't even kno how to stop talking (or writing) about it. When I don't hav to hear about it or see it anymore, that's when I'll shut up.

WASH YO HANDS, HOE!

Monday, my boss and I were talking about this episode of Oprah that she had seen that had totally freaked her out -- something about some flesh eating bacteria. Basically, there's this rapidly spreading strain of bactera called MRSA (which stands for Methicillin-resistant staphylococcus aureus). Its resistant to commonly prescribed antibiotics and kills more people every year than AIDS. If you get a cut and it gets infected with this bacteria and it goes untreated it can destroy your muscles and spread to your organs. Scary shit.



As we were talking about it, I brought up tha Swine Flu and all these other diseases and whut not that honestly can probably be prevented and in most cases avoided or contained by simply washing your hands. This led to a recent observation that I've been making in tha Ladies Restroom of tha building that I work in. There are alot of hoes that ain't washin their damn hands! I've been in tha stall more than once very recently and heard women come and go and either not go to tha sink at all, or do that "I'mma run tha water for literally 3 seconds" bullshit and exit tha restroom. Forreal? You WASHED your hands in that 3 seconds? Did you even touch tha water? NASTY.

Ladies, wash your hands!... especially if you've just handled any business that involved your vagina and/or ass! Anything less than hot water and soap for a minimum of 30 seconds before leaving tha restroom is UNACCEPTABLE! If I catch you leavin' a public restroom without gettin familiar with some basic hygiene and common courtesy, I might hav to bring Wayne Brady into this... and nobody wants that. Real talk, I don't want your urine residue or coochie juice on tha door knob I'm about to touch!

Granted, I may be a person that washes my hands more often than tha average individual and I think it has to do with my cosmetology background. In school, they stressed tha importance of disinfecting combs and other utensils, keeping your work area clean, and always washing your hands between clients or after handling equipment. As a matter of fact, we were instructed to just wash our hands during our State Board Exam if we were ever nervous or at a loss as to whut to do next. And I find myself doing this in real life. If I need to think, I just stand at a sink and wash my hands. Its actually a good way to clear your head... but aside from that, it's just a good habit. Folks that kno me kno I KEEP some antibacterial soap at my sinks! I DO NOT PLAY!

But back to tha nasty hoes that ain't washin their hands. There's this one girl that works in my building that I see pretty much every day. I don't kno her name or whut she does and up until this point, I've only ever noticed that she's kinda thick for a white girl and always has on either Seven or True Religion Jeans. That's it. That's all I kno about this chick. Well, a couple of weeks ago, I was in tha restroom in one of tha stalls and she flushed tha toilet in tha stall next to mine and walked over to tha sink. I could see it was her through tha space between tha door to my stall and tha wall. No sooner than she turned on tha water, she turned it off and then she proceeded out of tha restroom. DIDN'T WASH HER HANDS! A couple of days later, tha same thing happened with tha same girl. TRIFLIN'!

Folks, I can't make this up... tha other day, I was coming from tha restroom, walking down tha hall back to my office suite and she came walking into tha building from tha parking lot with two of her co-workers. I gather they were talking about some cupcakes she made or somethin, cause one of tha guys was like, "You made those from scratch?" and she was all proud and said somethin' like, "Yeah! Nothin out of tha box. I sifted tha sugar and everything!"

I was DYING!!!

"Cupcakes from scratch"?... as in scratching yo dirty ass???

I wanted to scream, "NOOOOO! DON'T EVER EAT ANYTHING THIS TROLLOP MAKES! SHE DON'T WASH HER HANDS! UGGGGH!"

But, I just threw up in my mouth a little, hid my disgust with a smirk, and went on to my office.

*laughter*

Nasty!

Gutter butt!

So now, every time I see her, all I can think is, "That's tha girl that don't wash her hands." That's even how I refer to her when my co-workers and I are talking about whut all is going on in tha building. Sad.

*sigh* This was long. Tha point (that I'm sure you've already extracted) is: WASH YOUR HANDS! Also, don't shake hands with tha thick white girl in Seven Jeans... and don't eat her cupcakes, either. You've been warned.

Maybe Nas Was Right

Until a couple of nights ago, I had never actually seen Late Night with Jimmy Fallon with my own two baby browns. I had only heard that my band aka The Roots were providing tha music, and I thought it could be a tragic disaster... or possibly tha coolest thing to ever happen to white insomniacs all over tha country. I wasn't all tha way with it, but admittedly I wasn't 100% opposed, acknowledging that them bruthas are gettin old, touring ain't necessarily tha life, and yet, bills are constant and demand payment.

Fast forward to Monday night. I watched in horror as The Roots did a bit called "Slow Jam the News", where Black Thought (who, I say is one of tha illest, most underrated emcees EVER! Step up and debate me on this! I will Batman your ass!) sang about California's budget crisis (ugh!) while Jimmy Fallon interjected in a supposedly sultry tone with innuendo laden "humor"... none of which was funny. And all night, he kept referring to Questlove and Black Thought as "Amir" and "Tariq". I know those are their actual names, and maybe I'm just being sensitive because of my deep and abiding love for The Roots, but it felt a little disrespectful. When Jimmy Fallon or any of tha guests would refer to The Roots, it always felt slightly patronizing. Of course, I can't really give a lot of details about tha episode I watched nor am I really qualified to critique it, since at about 10 minutes into tha show I started booing loudly, throwing anything within arm's reach at tha TV, and frantically tweeting and texting about how much I hated whut I was seeing.

I know, I know. You don't have to tell me. As long as those of us who love Hip Hop are still alive, Hip Hop lives...yeah. I got that. However, you must understand... tha past few years have been a little too much for my fragile (though enduring) spirit to take. First, Lil Wayne proclaims himself to be "The Greatest Rapper Alive" (when plenty of other rappers that are clearly better than him ain't laid down in their graves yet) and, to my shock and great dismay, people who are not hearing impaired agree. Then, whut I personally consider to be the greatest collective sonic force in tha Hip Hop genre, The Roots, end up as a corny house band on a bland ass late night talk show. Maybe it's a bit of a stretch to say that Hip Hop is dead, but if it isn't yet, surely it's on it's way.

Well On My Way to HELL

One of my favorite things to do is start a statement with, "Not to be fucked up..." and then say, "BUT..." and follow it with somethin' really fucked up. I'm gonna do that right now, but before I start, I will say that I kno that tha statement I'm about to make is just one of tha things in a long list of reasons why I'll probably be placed in a cell next to tha furnace in Hell. But, in tha words of Eric Cartman, "WHUTEVA! WHUTEVA! I DO WHUT I WANT!"

...Okay, so my prayers go up to God for little Exodus Tyson and her entire family. However, when I first heard that Mike Tyson's 4 year old daughter had gotten her neck tangled in the cord to a treadmill in her mother's home and that she was on life support, honestly, my first thought was, "SOMEBODY HAD A BABY WITH MIKE TYSON??? WHUT THA HELL? WHY WOULD ANYBODY DO THAT?"



Come to find out, this maniac got like 6 kids. HUNH? Mike Tyson? Tha man that religiously beat tha shit outta Robin Givens? Tha man that was found guilty of rape and went to prison? Tha nigga that bit off a part of somebody's ear??? Whut woman in her right mind would even say good morning to this man, much less allow him to touch you...MUCH LESS allow him to (GASP!) put his penis in your body and impregnate you!?! Oh hell naw. These women need to make better life choices.

Tha death of a child is always horrific and deeply sadening. I can't imagine tha family's pain and once again, my prayers and thoughts are with this young mother. It is truly a tragedy. However, whut is equally as tragic, if not moreso is the cycle of abuse in so many of our lives, tha way in which Mike Tyson has lived and practiced violence and to see how destructive it has been to himself and those around him. I hope he's taking this time to reflect, is on his way to making some changes, and becoming a better man as a result.