coloredboy

my life is complete.

2010-03-04T13:25:00.000-08:00

My old hard drive, Brenda, is dead and gone. She now sits on the shelf, about as useless as a dick under seven inches. Geraldine...

a lovely new Western Digital 1TB My Book External Hard Drive JUST arrived and I can begin rebuilding my music (and...adult movie, shhh) collection. *insert just-woke-up-beside-Flavor-Flav-sad-face*

That's hardly the good news. I attended J*Davey's show at The Roxy in West GAYwood last night. Went alone, pregamed in the car with a bottle of Moscato.

(Note to self: NEVER forsake Uncle Riesling and Aunt Zinfandel for some hipster wine. Not even a shoutout by Drake's droopy face could make me opt for Moscato again.) Anywho, it's cheaper than chasing intoxication inside any club.

Sufficiently buzzed, I entered during Shane Alexander's set. Great voice, he has. Next up: Pollyn, led by Genevieve Artada. They were a surprisingly funky group with some songs that demanded dancing. I obliged.
My favorite from them:

"Shake It Off"

J*Davey took the stage next. We freaks crowded the front. Pleasantries were exchanged; it was only right since we'd be jumpin on eachother's shoes and elbowing one another shortly. Met a group of dope fellow obsessee's from LA (actual LA natives) that I exchanged info with and will be hanging with at next week's show.

The curtain rises. The Sex Goddess, Jack Davey, stood center stage demanding noise. They warmed us up with "Come As You Are" by Nirvana before sliding into their tunes. "No More," "Slow," "Crawl All Over" and "This One" (one of my favorite songs ever recorded) had me over the top. Dancing, sweating, and screaming with crazies was the end of a great day.

They even blessed us with their next single, "Get Together" off their new mixtape, Boudoir Synema.

Here's another performance of "Get Together."

My personal highlight was when they invited the audience on stage to sweat it out for "End Of Your World (Mama's Back)". I took my rightful place to Jack's right and proceeded to lose my mind. Got elbowed in the side a few times by some chick with a wig that looked....better in a dark club, but it was well damn worth it. After the on-stage dance party, the show ended. It was like a sexual experience, i was that worn out. Got to chop it up with Brook briefly onstage while they handed out autographs, then made my way home.

I spent the morning hunting for pics of that moment, as I am certain I'll appear in any photos of the last song. I was practically INSIDE Jack Davey's jewel-covered vagina.

Jack with Zoe Kravitz, who stepped on my newly-purchased boot TWICE and lived to talk about it

Fellow Genius, Brook D'Leau, jamming in the background getting his Barney Rubble on.

Though I didn't get to hear "Fight The Daylight", I was more than satisfied. The night had all the things you'd expect from a great J*Davey show: amazing music, public lust, welcomed invasions of personal space, and networking. I left a sweaty, voiceless mess. That means the night was a success.

They're performing next Thursday at the Gibson Showroom....with an open bar. This could be trouble. Shortly thereafter, Janelle Monae performs here on the 23rd and 24th. I'll be at all three shows. Please and thanks.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to workout to "Fight The Daylight" on repeat.

*dramatic exit*

~colored boy.

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Living Right In The Age Of Obama, Lesson Two

2010-03-03T20:11:00.000-08:00

Dear Black People,

I know we're ashy knee-deep of the Age of Obama, so we may be feeling more aspirational than in years prior. You may have even scaled back your Olde English intake. Good for you. It's great that you want to file your taxes on time, wear clean underwear, and sign up for your own wifi at home, rather than whoring from your paying neighbor. Even though (emphatically points) YOU insist on supporting BET and holding onto kinky twists as if this is some never-ending 1997-themed costume party, overall, I see you trying. Trust me, I do.

All of that is commendable. You may even attempt to pay your bills off (which may or may not be in your child's name), and transition your family into the beautiful world of home ownership. Here in the Age Of Obama, there are some nifty tax breaks and other incentives for first-time home owners. So, again, bravo. On this road to home ownership, however, it becomes necessary for you and prospective mortgage lenders to evaluate your history of debt repayment. They'll look at it all: student loans, bankruptcies, credit card charge offs...everything. They'll even see the note for that ashy 1987 Toyota Tercel you cosigned on for Geraldine, that floozie whose bendy legs and talented tongue had you thinking he/she was THE ONE. You win some, you lose some...but let's not get off topic.

Here's the point to all of this:

If you want to be taken seriously and be approved for a favorable interest rate, much less allowed to live in a house ~~outside of the Bronx~~, I'm gonna need you to understand something.

There is not now, nor has there ever been such as thing as...

good CREDICK and bad CREDICK.

Never.

I overheard an enterprising gentleman at work today, discussing the closing of a home he intended to purchase.

"Yeah...I got the money, but my CREDICK aint no good!"

*insert the just-saw-Tyler-Perry-kiss-a-woman blank stare*

This black person, based on this statement alone, will only be qualified for a one-bedroom shanty in Compton ~~or the most hellacious, isolated, corner of the Bronx~~. You don't want that type of life for little DaShaQuandelle III, do you?

~~He may deserve that life, but~~ No. You don't.

One of my mother's friends who used to babysit a teething Colored Boy regularly nags about her CREDICK PROLLUMS. She also dines on strimps and fishES and is lactose intolerant, unable to handle mirk. I love her, therefore I judge her.

The word is....CREDIT. CRE-DIT. with a T, coon.

In the name of simplification, learn it this way: BAD CREDIT. You'll probably only ever hear it that way when people mention you, anyway.

Read a book. Hell, read Jet Magazine (but not really). Read anything!

GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER before you ~~initiate a conversation with me~~ bring a child into this world.

Otherwise, you WILL be talked about and frowned upon.

Luckily for you, it's no longer Black History Month. Feb-yoo-ary....is coon-free. You've got one year to getcha mind right.

Have a nice day.

~colored boy

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P is for Progress

2010-03-02T23:59:00.000-08:00

I spent $175 today. It wasn't on a pricey cell phone bill or some outstanding credit card balance from my short-lived college days. I spent $175 on ME, and this is worth celebrating, in my opinion.

Over the years, in the never-ending quest for "stability" (whatever that actually is), I've grown accustomed to focusing almost exclusively on needs, rather than wants. Rent, gas, food, and phone expenses tend to crowd my mind, leaving little room for leisurely purchases. The occasional thrift store "splurge" hardly counts.

Since pulling my head out of my ass in 2008, and dropping over 40 pounds, one of the few brand new items over $20 I've purchased for myself has been Levi's jeans. Levi's are most flattering. They are stitched with love by precious white Baby Jesus himself, I'm convinced. Few (nonsexual) things top the feeling of crisp, yet-to-be-broken-in jeans. I've allowed myself THAT luxury. But I hadn't purchased new jeans since moving to Los Angeles...in July of last year.

Last month when I filed my taxes, my mother demanded that use part of my return to treat myself to something, not food, that costs more than $20. I happily obliged. Even she has noticed my inability to splurge on ME. I buy books weekly, so that's not really a treat. I gave up hookers for Lent, so that cuts out paying for booty. It only took a look in my closet to realize exactly what I owed myself.

Up until today, I hadn't purchased a pair of shoes (not including work shoes) for myself since this time last year. Yes. I have been making it rain (or not) with the same shoes since early 2009. Even now, it is still not a big deal to me. Overall, between clothes and...let's say...books, BOOKS are clearly the more attractive investment, yes? Exactly. My thinking is that a book will last forever. A shoe? Not so much. I dare you to attempt to convince me that some new sneaker trumps a stack of fresh ass Richard Wright books.

It just won't happen.

Today, I purchased three pairs of shoes, a dozen shirts, and a dope bookbag...in addition to the two jeans copped yesterday. Call me crazy, but I just dig the second-hand concept. Perhaps my initial fascination stemmed from necessity or circumstance. Now, though? You just can't beat the variety of random pieces on one rack. I'm always in awe of the assortment of vintage, throwback, outdated, or generally unappreciated garms available in a quality second-hand store. In the case of the two Buffalo Exchange locations I ran through today and yesterday, items are all like new. No pit stains, janky zippers, wonky crotches, or bodily fluids....like at Goodwill (yuck!). Because all my items are fresh and functional, I have no qualms about not paying full retail price.

My views on "retail" is a DIFFERENT post altogether. In short, I'll say that an article of clothing must be FANTASTICALLY BRILLIANT to make me spend over $20 on a single item, let alone pay RETAIL for anything. *shudders* Aside from Levi's, I always head to the sale rack, hunt out discounts, and usually shop around before purchasing. Clothes just...aren't THAT important to me. *shrug*

Too proud to waltz into the Salvation Army? Get over yourself. You probably don't even have health insurance. How great can you really be?

Am I cheap? Hardly. I was just raised to take care of responsibility first. Now that I am finally in a position that doesn't require me to stress endlessly over next month's rent or food, I am slowly forcing myself to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I suppose you could say I'm used to struggling--or more accurately, just getting by--financially. Surplus is a foreign word to me. The idea of having enough to spread around AND still put something away truly helps me sleep easier. Once here and a handful of times in New York, I've actually had stress-related panic attacks that landed me in the ER. THAT is the kind of drama and trauma I'm used to: sitting in the ER, short of breath and feeling five kinds of crazy, beating myself up for being in the ER. Foolish, I know. As public and filterless as I have become, I tend to internalize and let things build, thus weighing me down emotionally, mentally, and physically.

Hopefully this is a change for the better. My mother's words combined with the rediscovered feeling of wearing something NEW has helped me realize the importance of taking care of needs AND wants. Yes, it's paramount to handle necessities, bills, and all that other adult foolishness. I hardly beleive I'll have an issue on that end now. The challenge will now be to pay MYSELF occasionally, taking the same leisurely attitude that I have with food splurges. Hell, I have NO issues snatching up a bag of chips occasionally. A new, aspirational wardrobe piece monthly doesn't sound like such a wretched idea...

I suppose the moral of this rant is that regimen is respectable, but treats are required. In the pursuit of whatever it is that we are pursuing, it's important to be good to yourself. Hustling is cool, but why work endlessly if you can't enjoy it? I'm all for delayed gratification and temporary sacrifice, but self-deprivation is NOT the ticket...apparently.

Here's to self-love (masturbatory AND materialistic) in 2010. *throws confetti*

~colored boy
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SPOTTED: a donkey. in Hollywood.

2010-02-28T21:08:00.000-08:00

seen today outside the Pantages Theater in Hollywood, where Daquan, Roman and I intended to see final show of The Color Purple:

How badly does he deserve a throatchop?

Let us count the ways:

1. wide-legged jeans.
2. microbraids.
3. sides shaved off.
4. a "tail", luscious volume provided by the manifested self-hate of 1000 LaToya Jackson fans.

Sadly, this gent was not much worse than the dozens of other Negroes donning their most daring, 2nd-Pew-Disapproved Sunday ~~Best~~ Worst in hopes of seeing Fantasia. Sadly, Celie does no weekend matinees. Secondly, everyone who gave a thumbs up to these people before leaving the house is not to be trusted.

I spied animal prints, neon green dashikis, top hats, stretched lace, FLATS outside of church and.....CORK WEDGES .

*weeps*

Imagine strutting your wide hips and unconvincing newly-purchased wig to see Celie sang, when you suddenly feel a breeze. Yes. Deaconess Perkin's bright red skirt ran away from her massive rump and hit the ground...IN THE PARKING LOT.

SHAWAMM.

Her good girlfriend didn't stop and help immediately. She damn near fell on the ground laughing. We silently gasped and pretended not to notice. After she recovered with no help from her now-crying friend, we were asked:

"DID YALL SEE THAT?!?!?"

Some friend she turned out to be. If you can't trust your sistergirl to shield your stretch marks and period panties from the world, who CAN you trust??

We partook in overpriced brunch then ventured off to see Shutter Island.

Yeah....NO.

As always, Leonardo DiCaprio played his role well, but as my father suggested, the plot was too ambitious.

"They tried to do way too much," were his exact words.

We all know cliffhangers are great methods of setting up for a sequel. This film needs a sequel like Tyler Perry needs cunnilingus lessons. Didn't love it. Didn't hate it. Just wouldn't sell a friend on seeing it. I am also thankful we saw it for $6.50.

In other news, still awaiting the final verdict on my beloved dead hard drive, Brenda. A few final tricks will be done tomorrow. If it turns out for the worst, I am catching a first class flight to the Little Debbie Factory in the sky. Believe that.

Aside from that, the weekend was enjoyable. Learned to bartend at work last night and came across some free books to trade in at the bookstore tomorrow. Hip Hop Hooray.

What did YOU do with your life today?

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Prayers for Haiti, Chile, and my External Hard Drive, Brenda.

2010-02-27T12:28:00.000-08:00

Sunday: DSL is installed and activated.

Monday: I "find" Set It Off, Dead Presidents, The Wire: Season One, Law Abiding Citizens, the Fifth Element, Manchurian Candidate, and The Kingdom all for $.99 on zml.com.

Wednesday: Cory mentions spending hundreds of dollars on Final Cut Studio and Adobe CS4. I offer to "find" these for him as well.

Thursday: I empty my laptop on to my HD to make space for these programs. Over 60 GB of music. Choreography footage. Articles. Essays. Documents. All things Janet (discography, videos, ipod videos, specials, performances, EVERY download). I begin downloading. These are HUGE files that will take DAYS to download via BitTorrent.

Friday: Shifting in bed, I drop Brenda on the floor. Heart falls out of butt. Reconnect Brenda to laptop, am prompted to format the drive prior to use. This means, "Your drive is empty, playa." I gulp a bottle of painkillers.

Saturday: Brenda is in surgery with George, the $1 Store manager/computer technician who previously breathed new life into Brenda when she had health issues last year. Awaiting the call. All may easily be lost.

I honestly don't know what I'll do if I lose all my files. While much of my music is on my iPod, movies, writing, photos, choreography, and much of the things I've collected over the past seven or eight years is on that hard drive. The thought has periodically crossed my mind to have a backup drive strictly for archiving EVERYTHING, and be stored safely, not to be used daily. I suppose it's too late for that now, isn't it?

Facing the death of a loved one is never hard. Times like these caused me to balloon to #0# lbs back in 2008.

If I am forced to replace Brenda, you can bet that my empty hard drive and USB cable will be coming to a computer near you.

You'll definitely know the outcome. If I disappear, things didn't work out in my favor. I will most likely have Brenda cremated and spread across the peaceful waters of Lake Minnetonka.

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Punk Jumps Up. Gets Beat Down.

2010-02-22T09:55:00.000-08:00

By now, most of you have seen or heard about this "epic beard man" fight on a bus recently. In the video, a Black man in cornrows (in 2010) picks a fight with a 67-year old white man. And [he] loses. Horribly. Pundits and pro-Black voices nationwide pulled their pants down and cried racism at the video's wild popularity. The chance to see a Black man beat down by a white man is just too exciting to miss out on, they claim.

Sure, some ignorant remarks were spotted on youtube comment sections. Racists and jerks alike seek these polarizing clips out and spew their stupidspeak daily. It's nothing new. The same "insensitivity" can be found in the comment sections of any video featuring people with disabilities or handicaps. What's so special about THIS case?

For me, I just find humor in the fact that the brother gets amped up by the (Black) person with the camera and those near him on the bus ("Beat that nigga's ass!") and takes action. Like a champ, the white man matches his intensity, verbally, and refuses to back down ("I'm 67 years old! You don't scare me!").

I don't know why we (coloreds) tend to be convinced that a person not of color can't and won't beat the collard greed juice out of us. This is a phenomenon I just can't grasp. While I find fights ridiculous and pointless, the fool got what he deserved. Here is the effect of not knowing when to shut up...on your face: blood and shame.

Even after being punched into submission, homeboy maintained, "Immo fuck you up!"

Yes, of course you will.

Sir with the cornrows and swollen face, was the free dental work worth it?

I see nothing racist here. Music journalist/part-time jackass Toure mentioned "nine unanswered punches" while building a case against the older white man. NOPE. The brother charged the front of the bus and struck first. The rest is self defense. Those teeth on the ground? You asked for it, Grown Man with Cornrows in 2010.

Here's another example of US popping off at the mouth and getting the collard green juice beat out of us.

*drops head*

YES, we excel in sports and set musical trends, but we CANNOT win against a flying kick from an angry Asian woman. It just won't happen, Celie.

In conclusion: unless you are prepared for ANY outcome, up to and including getting bopped on top of the head, taking a flying kick to the torso, and being ridiculed by millions on Youtube, keep your mouth shut.

What say YOU?

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my fountain of happy.

2010-02-21T11:10:00.000-08:00

periodically, a person enters my life whose presence is more significant than i could ever realize in the moment. last year, while living in Brooklyn, i met a man who has, i now realize, immeasurably changed my life. our paths crossed at a very interesting point in my life. i was four months into what became 13 months of celibacy. i was milling over some very big life decisions. i was taking deliberate steps to focus more on ME, as well as my goals, desires, and overall joy as opposed to any type of WE/US scenario. i'd felt stronger, mentally, than i had in recent memory...especially after way 2008 gang raped my spirits.

Rodney offered refuge. he was a breath of fresh air compared to what i had allowed myself to be surrounded by at the time. his life story alone helped me realize the power i held within. we did "date" briefly, but above that, i appreciated his wisdom, sense of humor, humility, and determination. he was relentless in his personal pursuit of happiness, and that was more endearing that any other quality he possessed. i loved what HE represented. he'd devoted two years to losing half his body weight and had a very strong spiritual base. in the end, the sum of his life's experiences made him a selfless, generous soul, sharing his knowledge and joy with all he encountered.

for weeks, we'd spend our days connecting and learning from one another. he discouraged me from limiting myself. his entire existence was a testament to the mind's power and i couldn't help but be affected by this. his positivity was infectious. in fact, i got the balls to purchase my one-way ticket to Los Angeles while sitting in Starbucks with Rodney.

he once told me that his life's purpose was to "help people and connect them with those can help more than [he could]." in addition to his daily work in ministry and nonprofits, he's started a video blog. "More Life" seeks to help us live a fuller life through faith, generosity, and an unshakable connection to your spirit.

peep THIS video, which he shares part of his personal story. he has a CRAZY tale; check it out:

note for heathens: don't let his use of GOD scare you. there is a bigger message at hand.

some of the idea's he's shared with me have helped me attain this feeling of calm. i'm more mentally and emotionally stable than i've been in quite some time. i'd say i owe some of this to him. naturally, he'd say i owe it to myself.

who has helped YOU "get through"?

~colored boy
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don't ever say i never gave you anything.

2010-02-14T12:17:00.000-08:00

new, free music from a severely underrated singer, Teedra Moses. she released this to the public today after months of anticipation and "delays." if this is what she's offering up for FREE, to hold me over until an actual CD drops, i'm sure it'll be worth the wait.

enjoy.

download HERE

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talent

2010-02-10T01:28:00.000-08:00

Back in November, I had the pleasure of seeing the homie Chas (@iamchas), Nikki Blak (@nikkiblak) and a host of other brilliant people compete in InkSlam 2009, a slam poetry competition. This was my first time experiencing slam poetry, and from the moment I walked in the venue, I felt a change. At the time, I was starting to feel the effects of a perceived cultural deprivation while adjusting from New York to Califerny. Something as simple as being asked what books I read, who I enjoy, or even a lively literary discussion is basically nonexistent among the dancers with whom I've spent much of my time.

Naturally, I was completely open and prepared to be overwhelmed, mentally and emotionally. Nikki Blak represented ELEVATED! San Diego. I'd heard many good things about this woman previously. Of course, she blew me away with her piece.

She was so insanely passionate with her delivery, I felt as if looking away while she spoke would throw off the Earth's rotation. She is POWERFUL. I can't wait to see her chocolate ass on a stage again. Check her site out HERE.

I've known Chas since...probably 2006 via my myspace blog. He's been supportive of my insanity and my work for years. I knew he did poetry, and in 2007, he sent me a collection of his writing, which I still have. Amazing, he is. I've never seen him do slam poetry, however, and I was in for quite a suprise.

My mouth was agape throughout his performance. It's a weird sensation to see someone you've known for years do something incredibly beautiful and, to me, unexpected. Completely unlike seeing a high school classmate in a porno. THAT is another blog entry. To say that I was impressed is an understatment. He came across extremely confident, and rightfully so. I welcome any opportunty to support him in the future.

There was one piece in particular that moved me to tears, honestly. Rudy Francisco ripped my heart open with his performance. It's the story of life-ruining heartbreak, to say the least. Perhaps it affected me this way because I've known this type of love.

WOW. By the time he got to EIGHT, I was gone. gone. gone. I had a moment! I took a second to recover afterwards. Watching it a month later and again now, the same feeling is there. No tears this time, but I can vividly recall the feeling in the room.Very powerful shit.

I respect what these poets do because this is something I have absolutely NO inclination towards. My elementary-level poetry efforts are laughable in comparison. I need this type of passion and talent in my life soon. This form of expression, whether truly vulnerable or secretly forced, was motivating as hell. I must make it to some of the poetry spots Chas suggested for me. Thanks everyone for sharing your talents with the world.

an inspired fan of your passion,

~colored boy.
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happiness. in red velvet form.

2010-02-08T12:03:00.000-08:00

i've recently come to terms with my red velvet addiction. cakes. cupcakes. cookies. whatever. i'll take six, please and thanks.

since relocating to Los Angeles, i've had a few varying red velvet experiences, some good, some bad.

here's what i've had thus far:

yes. the Kroger-like grocery store does have enjoyable baked goods. when sharing my Ralph's red velvet experience with a fellow red velvet lover (hey, Candy!), she gave me the stank face as if i was professing my love for Placenta Pot Pie. i actually found it very moist, fluffy, and not overly chocolatey. the cream cheese icing was just enough, not too thick. i enjoyed it.

she clearly disagreed. "YOU LIKE THAT?!?"

i stood firm. it fulfilled a craving and made me smile. mission accomplished.

after finishing a filling dinner with the fellow red velvet enthusiast (i gorged on wings and mac/cheese, she sipped a smoothie), the waitress of course offered us their red velvet as dessert. of course, i was obligated to indulge.

for some reason, i thought i heard CUPCAKE, but that didn't deter me. upon initial inspection, it was clearly more dense than i was used to. great presentation, a good amount of icing. we dug in. it was VERY cold, VERY dense, and VERY chocolatey. it actually had the texture of a brownie; it was WAY too heavy. it also wasn't sweet enough.

so...although Kitchen24 makes brilliant pineapple citrus waaaangs, their red velvet cake was a grand, LATOYA JACKSON FAILURE.

the homie, Shanita (owner of Long Life Lessons, LLC), had a birthday dinner party a few weeks back where she put her entire left leg in the wondrous spread of chicken, fish, mac&cheese, red beans & rice, etc. she was blessed with a gorgeous red velvet bundt cake crom Kiss My Bundt, an apparently popular bakery out here.

it LOOKED beautiful. the general consensus was that it clearly wasn't fresh. perhaps it had been on display awhile. it was quite dense but tasted stale overall. the icing, however, was thebomb.com. all agreed that this was not the norm for Kiss My Bundt, so i'll give them another try at a later date.

with all of THAT out of the way, i finally had to chance to fully indulge in the highly-anticipated RED VELVET WAFFLE from my current gig, The Waffle, here in Hollywood.

we have about 12 different waffle variations, from chocolate chip or blueberry, to multigrain or bacon (with bacon baked in). when i got word of a red velvet WAFFLE for Valentine's Day, i counted the days til it's debut. fat kid planning in action, kids. yesterday i had the honor of DEVOURING my very own plate of sugary deliciousness.

yes. red velvet waffle. red sugar. a dollop of cream cheese icing. and candy hearts. no syrup necessary.

witness can confirm that i actually did a celebratory dance in my seat. the poor thing didn't stand a chance. the balance of waffle and cream cheese was perfect. there was just enough icing to spread all over and still have some to paint your face with when finished. i skipped the candy hearts, but did shamelessly finger the plate at the end. *shrug*

it is absolutely worth the 29,000 calories and three miles you'd need to run to make it disappear. absolutely. i have at least two more trips to make for this waffle this week alone...for others to enjoy this treat, of course. group gluttony is in this year.

what's YOUR favorite sugary indulgence?

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Living right in the age of Obama, Lesson One

2010-02-08T09:56:00.000-08:00

The year is 2010. A man named after a yeast infection cream, Plaxico Burress, recently went from Superbowl champion to D-Block Superbitch.

The much-feared mythical beast, The Ashantisaurus, still roams landfills and shopping mall parking lots, melting brains and devouring unsuspecting Virgins.

Unborn Negro Baby Swallower Number One, Kim Kardashian, is, despite the popular saying, on the verge of becoming a housewife.

And we are one year into a presidency that most thought would never happen. Congratulations America.

Not only do we have a non-Caucasian Commander-In-Cheif, but he is light-skinned with no Negro dialect at that!

Shazzam!

With this epic change, we self-respecting earthlings should feel a sense of responsibility to better ourselves and, overall, pull it together. Although BET is still in existence, that doesn't mean you and I need to continue to glorify Satan and shame our mothers on a daily basis. Those goons will have to answer to Saint Damita Jo on Judgment Day. That's nothing I need to be concerned with.
With coloredboy.net's on-going campaign to STAMP OUT STUPIDITY, and, in general, help you live a more better (yes, more better), Jesus-approved life, it is our duty to bring you into the light the best way we know how:

HUMILIATION.

Yes. An old-fashioned face kick to your ego is the most efficient way to bring about change, yes? Thought so. You can now rely on coloredboy.net to jumpstart your spirit and show how just how fucking wretched you really are...in the name of progress, of course.

Now, there are several things that, in the "Age Of Obama", should be punishable by death. We shall better your quality of life one ego face kick at a time. Lessons shall be presented not in order of importance, but in a way to make this transition out of Wretchitude as quick as possible.

Ready?

Alright.

*deep sigh*

(awkward silence. papers are being shuffed at the podium.)

*clears throat*

We would all love to achieve that "I-Just-Rolled-Out-Of-Bed-After-Sniffing-A-Pound-Of-Coke-and-Getting-The-Life-Banged-Out-Of-Me-and-Still-Look-Like-a-2.1 Million-Dollar-Bill" look, right?

Nippy

I'll agree the disheveled appearance does work for some people, sometimes.

No time to beat that mug? FINE.

Think your wig looks better askew? FINE.

Don't feel like buttoning your acid washed, boot cut jeans? You have no business wearing them, but FINE.

Inclined to let those titties hang like God intended? ..............okay, FINE.

It's your prerogative. Do whatcha wanna do. All of that is acceptable.

However.

*dramatic pause*

The same freedom does NOT extend to oral hygiene.

In the "Age of Obama", there is no reason for adults to leave the house with baby shit breath. Innocent bystanders should not know with absolute certainty that you had butthole and garlic pizza for dinner last night.
Allow me to explain. Today, I did workstudy at the illustrious Debbie Reynolds Dance Studio. We are a multicultural facility, so I have become immune to the...more interesting personal scents of foreign visitors. No biggie. While one of my American ass coworkers was talking TO (as opposed to with) me, I was suddenly overcome with a strange sensation. I felt my skin cooking. A tingling sensation shot throughout my body and I, somehow, was able to immediately identify it: this is how it feels to be embalmed.

Oh no.

This person who shall remain nameless and sexless had apparently dragged HIS black ass out of bed and dared to communicate with me the morning after HE had consumed a rotting corpse, and a toothbrush had not crossed HIS path.

No. No. No.

Say it with me:

TOTALLY UNACCEPTABLE IN THE AGE OF OBAMA.

I couldn't even make eye contact as he talked AT me for fear that my eyes would fall out of my head.

A few quick, easy steps could prevent you from being that coworker nobody wants to get close to.

1. Lay off the twice-baked dirty diaper nuggets.
Perhaps your Garlic and Goatsex chewing gum isn't the most appealing flavor for social interaction. If you're prone to "heavy period breath", keep mints, gum, and travel-size mouthwash close by. Nasty ass.

2. Realize that people aren't shedding tears of joy when speaking to you.
If people always look away, look down, or look as if they're mid-stroke while you speak, there could be an issue. Face it: your breath stinks. To be clear, your breath HURTS like finding out your fiancé left you at the altar...for your father. You've got that whole onion effect going on. You bring motherfuckers to tears. In a bad way. Grasp it. Process it. Deal with it.

3. Brush your damn teeth. Regularly. Several times a day even.
While it used to be cool to share your unwashed finger with a friend after fingering a girl, this was never cool as far as mouths were concerned. Not only will brushing prevent your teeth from matching those brown gums, you'll keep those around you happy. Don't forget to ACTUALLY use toothpaste, jerk. And before you ask: no, Jack Daniels is not an acceptable substitute.

And there you have it. Three easy steps to help deal that swamp breath. Remember, it is never okay to be the guy or girl who makes an amputee wish they still had legs...so they could roundhouse your nasty ass in the face. Not cool.

Hopefully you haven't been overwhelmed. With all of this in mind, you are now one step closer to LIVING RIGHT IN THE AGE OF OBAMA.

Pass this on to anyone you consider a friend. Don't be the reason they make hearts stop with a parting of the lips. Also not cool.

Enjoy the rest of your day. Go brush your teeth just because.

*chris.alexander

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sometimes...

2010-02-07T16:57:00.001-08:00

...I still sleep with eyes half-open, apparently. After some splendid baked ziti (which I prepared) and some Svedka vodka, in celebration of the homie Steven's last night in LA, I sat down and dozed off within minutes.

Being the good friend he is, Steven put this pic up on Twitter.

Such a pal, he is. At least I've gotten better at this. Years ago, aside from being perpetually sleep-deprived, I used to carry extensive, one-sided conversations in my sleep. I also used to regularly answer my phone while asleep.

We all have our faults. Sadly, I'm not perfect. Hell, you probably enjoy cottage cheese. *insert judgment*

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oh yeah?

2010-01-31T13:07:00.001-08:00

I don't even have it in me to come up with a witty introduction. All I'm going to say is that verbally ambitious (colored) people make life, literature, and social networking impossible to enjoy at times.

Are we all in agreement that CONVERSATE, despite widespread popularity and usage, is not a word??

Okay.

Well, here's a text I received this morning:

Kevin: so you know, we just spent the evening relaxing. Made dinner and CONVERSOUGHT about relationships...

STOP THE WORLD.

Yes. CONVERSOUGHT. Past tense, according to the grammar laws in some parallel universe where Lil Mama, Queen of Invented Words, holds the throne, of CONVERSATE.

Needless to say, I will be sending that person a bill for wasting my unlimited texts. Dickface.

To counteract this infection, I shall fuck a dictionary tonight.

Pray for me.

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what i'm reading.

2010-01-27T21:13:00.000-08:00

after last week's discovery of $1 Book Heaven in Burbank on San Fernando & Palm and "Buy 1, Get 1" at the Salvation Army, i've added 15 books to my collection for $13. rather than look for authors i know and am fond of, i made the effort to look for titles that appealed to me and flip open random books and read a few pages. the result was a wide variety of new titles i would have other wise never been exposed to.

first up is Middle Passage by Charles Johnson.

this is a well-written tale of a newly-freed slave who avoids debts and a forced marriage by stowing away on a slave ship en route to pick up some African "cargo." a great read that drew me in from the first page. Johnson masterfully weaves together the intense internal moral struggle of the main character, a life-long thief, liar, and opportunist, and the unpleasant, but important subject of slave trade. it is strongly recommended to anyone with an appreciation for period fiction.

i'm about halfway through this book.

while browsing the books at the Salvation Army in North Hollywood, where ALL hardbacks are $2 and paperbacks are $1, i found Roots by Alex Haley, Beloved and Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison, The Color Purple by Alice Walker, and Native Son by Richard Wright (one of my favorite books ever).

as i already own all of those except Roots, i couldn't pass up the chance to share my love of books with the world. so, i took to Twitter, and offered them to my followers. Song of Solomon and The Color Purple went one way Native Son and Beloved went another way.

i'd prefer they went to people who'd enjoy these great titles, rather than collecting dust, unappreciated, on some shelf in a thrift store.

aside from that, i've picked up The Colossus of New York by Colson Whitehead, Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe, and Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison from the library. these are all books i've "intended" to read for quite some time. i've dug into Whitehead's book first, enamored with his ridiculous mastery of including seemingly unimportant, minutiae to paint vividly real images in the reader's mind. his attention to detail, as i told a friend, makes me feel as if i've the writing abilities of a toddler.

After Middle Passage, I'm beginning Invisible Man and Things Fall Apart and shall relay any other great book finds.

What are YOU reading??

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Tuesday PSA

2010-01-26T13:35:00.000-08:00

hello children. gather 'round. come real close. grab a pillow and lets form a circle on the floor.

comfy?

it's time for Tuesday's Public Service Announcement. this is something that you may not encounter regularly, but I've seen it enough to feel compelled to reach out and snatch off a few top lips. as part of my upcoming campaign to STAMP OUT STUPIDITY, i will share a piece of info that may change your life.

ready?

alright.

there is not now, nor has there ever been a phrase, even considering poorly translated Mexcican idioms, that translates to

WHOA IS ME.

now, with the help of my good friend Google, I see that a band of busted condoms known as "Dredg" has a song out called "Whoa is Me" as does a band called "Down with Webster" but that does NOT give commoners the right to be running round, complaining about their failtastic lives, soliciting pity with such brazen grammatical recklessness.

Twitter Infractions:

mariamartian OH WHOA IS ME! Anyone got tips on A. how to fake Shakespeare & B. HOW TO GET YOUR MOM TO CALM DOWN. Suggestions are appreciated.

yelokay whoa is me in pooped

polowHORSEses whoa is me

StuartElliott96 Maybe Conan will stop all the whoa is me whining now.

STOP! Do not pass GO. Do not wake up tomorrow. Do not make eye contact with me!

can anyone guess what the CORRECT, Jesus-approved saying is??

Say it with me:

WOE IS ME.

YES. that's it. in their attempts to garner sympathy, they're actually spreading and perpetuating STUPIDSPEAK, which is more toxic than H4N4 and unclean vagina (or so i hear), combined. the irony if their misstep is that yes, you ARE to be pitied: you aren't living right and clearly don't deserve to procreate/live.

*cue Heal The World*

this must be stopped. kids and Bronx residents are being raised on Soulja Boy "music" and Failure flavored Cola. next month the staff of Coloredboy.net (me/myself/i) will be launching a campaign to expose, humiliate, gang rape, and STAMP OUT STUPIDITY. i hope you will find this cause worthy of your time and attention.

i want to empower YOU to do your part in this crusade. if you observe stupidity in motion, snap a pic and email it to me: chrisalexander@coloredboy.net. if that's not an option, firmly put your hand to their chest and say (with compassion), "HEY BUDDY, YOU'RE NOT LIVING RIGHT." and walk away. problem solved.

i am confident that together, you *points to you* and I *hand to heart* can rid the world of LessThans (and Ashanti Fans). it's not too late.

drop a donation in the pickle jar on your way out.

~chris.alexander

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realization

2010-01-25T11:08:00.001-08:00

For so long, having an active lifestyle has been bad news for my locs. Since I've long ago decided against going the Marley route with my loc growth, love, care, and attention (and obsession) are required for my hair to maintain its glorious splendor. Six years in, and I am at a very comfortable, accepting place with sweat and maintenance issues.

As a dancer, I see very few working dancers and choreographers with long, "natural" hair. Hell, I now see fewer and fewer as of late with long braids. Perhaps the sleek look now prevails. And that is totally fine. I've concluded that I do not want my locs to grow beyond my lower back. For one, they DO get heavy and cumbersome at times. I just discovered that I could, contrary to what I'd told myself for years, that I could wear fitted hats. Now, finding my size (which shall remain between me and Saint Damita Jo) is another story. Add to this the fact that cutting my locs OFF is reserved for a major life event, and I've had quite the interesting experience with my hair.

In general, those of us with natural hair, specifically locs, do honestly feel and acknowledge a connection to one another. I'm sure obese people and women with abnormally deep vaginas share this same connection, but don't get me going off topic here. We tend to notice, admire and compliment one another more frequently than you probably get praised for that bold, luscious weave you have glued to your scalp. The decision to "go natural" in a world of blonde weaves, perm-addicted sisters, and late acceptance of "unique" or "ethnic" styles, plus a gumbo of other racial identity issues is commendable as far as I'm concerned. We're often drawn to one another in a crowd and can fall into conversation easier than with others. There's a level of respect and camaraderie in the exchanges that I appreciate.

As it relates to my active lifestyle, I have shed my obsession with the "clean" look. For years, my hair always had to appear freshly twisted and "acceptable." Now, new growth means that I'm still alive and kicking. Living with Lupus, completing chemotherapy and still having ANY hair (in addition to being aliveto write this) is cause for constant celebration. In six months of chemo, I lost about eight locs total when my roots thinned from Cytoxan treatments. Knowing all of this, again, it would take a MAJOR life event to make me start over.

Working out several days a week and dancing intensely is not great for those in search of the freshly twisted appeal. I totally understand this, as I've been there. Luckily, I need not pay $50 or $100 to a salon since I've done my own locs since 2005. To avoid the task of obsessing over appearances, I've come to accept my hair as is. Though it often looks unraveled just days after washing and twisting, I'm okay with it. Hell, this gives it character. And its still glorious and magnificent.

Contrary to popular (misinformed) opinion, locs are not dirty. Barring how other races not necessarily intended to wear the style (I'm looking at YOU, MaryBeth.) locs can be washed and as beautiful as your relaxed, straight hair. Personally, the health benefits of an active lifestyle and the low maintenance far outweigh any concerns stemming from vanity. I'm busting my ass in the gym and am accomplishing goals dance-wise, and "fresh" hair just doesn't seem to matter as much as overall progression. Let me see YOU get up, shake and go with that fried and straightened situation on your head. Thought so.

I say all of that to say that although I've long felt this way, I was just able to verbalize how I feel about my hair. I fully accept that my hair currently looks the fool just a week after an intense beautification session. That it no longer thins and breaks at will, snaps off during washing and is full, present and healthy is more than enough reason to love it. Even though my Grandmother refuses to believe it is all mine. Even though white people call them braids. Even when women ask to touch it.

Those times make me even more thankful for life. And glorious, magical hair.

*chris.alexander

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ChrisAlexander's Guide to Eating Out, Part One (repost)

2010-01-25T04:31:00.001-08:00

Last year, the staff here at coloredboy.net (me, myself, and the amazing I) took the liberty of gathering a series of rules designed to help those misguided, less polished diners out there. ChrisAlexander's Guide To Eating Out sought to debunk myths and help the reader live right in the eyes of the Creator (...or maybe just your waiter). It's somewhat lengthy, but fear not: undoing years of ingrained rudeness and dysfunction takes time. Get your mind right and continue reading. Future generations will thank you.

Originally posted on my previous workspace, coloredboy.wordpress.net.

Note: I need you to do me a favor and share this with anybody you consider a friend or loved one. You will be doing them a big, amazing, free favor. Thank you.

Hello children. It’s me: your good friend, Professor ChrisAlexander.

(Applause)

Happy New Year! How’s everything? Good, right? Great. Some recession we’re in, huh? Boy oh boy. Times are hard. But, children, we’re not here to discuss how the Fuckhead in Chief has run this country into the shitter. Although….Haiti may actually have us beat economically!

(Crickets….sparse awkward laughter)

…..I’m here to share something important with you. Let me first say that I love you. And because I love you, I have taken it upon myself to educate you (the uninformed or misinformed consumer) about things that will make the world a better place for you and for me and the entire human race.

Today’s lesson will cover a topic that I am a little more familiar with than most. It is something that each of us can relate to and knows something about: restaurants. More specifically, how your monkey ass should (and should NOT) behave the next time you moonwalk that ass into anybody’s dining establishment.

Rather than bombard you with my expansive knowledge, I shall bring you into the light gradually. In 2009, the goal is to live right, give to the needy, and avoid pissing off those who handle your food by any means necessary.

(applause)

(house lights go down. spotlight focuses in my podium.)

(Clears throat)

Chapter One: “Please Wait To Be Seated”

I should note that this chapter does not pertain to so called “fast food” environments, but focuses more on restaurants that feature waiters, non paper glasses and cups, employees without visors, and don’t contain dedicated children play areas.

With that said, I shall start at the beginning. I’ll take it slow so that no child gets left behind. Remember. If you have questions, please, don’t hesitate to ask them. We’re all friends here, right??

(applause)

Okay. Now, whether you make a reservation or not, the entrance into the restaurant usually sets the tone for the dining experience. Being attitudinal when requesting a seat is discouraged. That pretty little table beside the dumpster just might have your name on it.

Hopefully, you’re hungry and eager to drink a little (or a lot). So, let’s grab a seat!

Oh, wait:

NO, YOU CANNOT SEAT YOURSELF.

Hosts and hostesses (the attractive people who greet, size you up, label and prejudge you upon entering the dining establishment) exist for a reason. Their job is to accommodate all reasonable requests and ensure everyone (not just you) is comfortable, happy, and in the mood to spends lots of money.

You will notice tables with varying numbers of table settings. Some for 2 guests, 4 guests, 6 guests, or larger. The seating of these tables is usually systematic. Many factors go into deciding where you are placed. We will go into this more in a later chapter. The point is, don’t rock the boat.

Now, although such requests aren’t questioned in “fast food” environments, before you even ask:

NO, YOUR PARTY OF TWO CANNOT HAVE A DAMN TABLE DESIGNATED FOR SIX PEOPLE.

Don’t inconvenience the rest of the world because you a) have a Big Mac addiction and need seating for two or b) want space to put your feet up, spread your legs, or rest your head after you eat yourself into a food coma. Get a grip. Besides, that’s not what Jesus would do.

Whether you realize it or not, you are NOT the only people in this particular establishment. So, be mindful of the fact that other groups and individuals would also like to enjoy their meal comfortably.

Also, when being walked to your seat, please remember the aforementioned seating system that exists in most restaurants. If entering a restaurant without a reservation at a particularly busy time of day, please don’t huff and puff when your question, “Can I have a booth?” is answered with “No. Fuck off. Sit down.”

Any questions??

Last minute key points:
-Moving tables around, together, or apart all willy nilly at your own damn discretion is not allowed or appreciated. You are not the decorator. Take a seat, spend lots of money, and get the fuck out.

-Contain your goddamn kids. If you don’t want to be bothered with your kids, chances are that your waitress doesn’t either. The restaurant is not the place to let little Charlesina and little Anfernee spread their wings the way they do at home. Throwing food and silverware, jumping on chairs, and doing sprints in the aisles are not cute or picture-worthy. The surrounding tables aren’t sending you death stares because they’re envious of little Bessie’s melodic voice, they want you to grab that little hussie by the throat and put an end to her fucking shrills. Besides, your magical brand of parenting (read: none) is a gift that should be shared privately among loved ones. Keep some secrets for yourself, right?

Okay, so hopefully you haven’t pissed anyone off and been refused service or banned and managed to get a seat. Let’s move on to Chapter 2.

Chapter 2: “Waiting, Waiters, etc.”

Alright. You’ve made it past screening, convinced the host that you DO have (enough) money and you have received your very own table.

You’re doing good so far. Let’s continue.

Depending on the season, you may have coats, jackets, umbrellas, shopping bags, etc. Before you get too comfortable,

NO, YOU MAY NOT USE THE SURROUNDING TABLES AND AISLES AS YOUR PERSONAL STORAGE SPACE AND COATRACK.

Hang your goddamn belongings on YOUR goddamn chair or tuck them under YOUR goddamn table. Don’t place your raggedy Canal Street-bought “Burberry” scarf on the ground and raise hell when it gets stepped on. Placing items on the floor usually signals a lack of concern, so if you don’t care, then I don’t care: I’m going out of my way to step on it.

CHECK YOUR DAMN COATS AND SHIT AND SKIP THE HASSLE.

Don’t be a jerk, jerk. This is not your goddamn house, so

USE YOUR DAMN BRAIN AND PICK YOUR SHIT UP OFF THE GROUND.

You could also get “pick-pocketed.” Pick-pockets just love fancy-looking (fake) bags left unattended on the back of a chair or a purse placed conveniently beside the feet of a tipsy patron. Use some damn sense.

If you do place your things in that open table beside you,

DON’T GET SNIPPY WITH THE SERVER WHO ASKS YOU TO REMOVE YOUR RAGGEDY SHIT FOR ANOTHER GUEST TO SIT DOWN.

Remember, 2009 is not about being an inconsiderate shitbag.

Now, once all your belongings are situated and you’re settled, it’s okay to relax, chit-chat, and take in your surroundings. This restaurant may be new to you, so if you’re excited, great! You may be dining with friends or family you haven’t seen in ages, so its natural to want to catch up, right? But, keep in mind:

THE TABLE DOES NOT BELONG TO YOU FOR THE REST OF THE DAY

so…

LOOK AT THE DAMN MENU.

“Do you need more time?” actually means “Please hurry the fuck up. You aren’t the only table in this joint, so I don’t have time to stand here and smile while you motherfuckers figure how many ways you can split a sandwich.”

The restaurant has taken the time to print you your own personal list off the day’s offerings and want you to review all that is available and have the best meal possible. Each dish has been prepared with love and may even have its own cute little description on the menu, answering a question you may feel inclined to ask your lovely waiter/waitress.

While waiting for your server, be patient. Perfection isn’t easily attained so please be aware than he or she is preparing to wow you with stellar service so,

FLAGGING SERVERS DOWN WITH MENUS, NAPKINS, PHONES AND EMPTY GLASSES IS NOT THE WAY TO MAKE YOUR SERVER EAGER TO PLEASE YOU.

Relax!

Note: “YOO-HOOOO….!” and “HEY YOU!” are also not okay. Jerk.

Such behavior may even lead to delayed wait times, incorrect drinks, and misunderstood or unheard food orders.

Example 2.1: “Oh, you wanted a rare burger?? I completely missed that! I thought you said VERY VERY well done. Guess we’ll have to get you another one.”

Or

“OH! You’re a vegan!?! I thought you said EXTRA MEAT and TRIPLE CHEESE!”

And nobody wins in situations like that. You may try to stick it to the server at the end of the meal by skipping the tip, but (being three steps ahead) he’s already sprinkled finely crushed glass into your rice and you’ll be dead in a day.

See? Nobody wins.

Sit tight, keep your pants on and your voice down. Patience, jerk. Your server is happy to meet you and answer any questions you may have. If he or she attempts to introduce himself or herself, let them. You might wish you remembered their name when you start to notice that crushed glass tearing up your stomach lining.

A general note: If you’re not of age, don’t order alcohol. You getting a sudden soda craving when asked for identification (“Oh, you know what? I think I’ll have a Fanta.”) only makes you look foolish. You knew when you sat down with a group of 30-year olds that your 19-year old ass has never successfully ordered beer. That $20 fake ID you got in a seedy “copy shop” won’t work everytime. However, if you like public humiliation, then by all means, feel free to try it!

Second note: If you know upon being seated that you have $13 and a condom in your pocket,

DON’T REQUEST “MORE TIME” WHEN BEVERAGES ARE OFFERED IF YOU KNOW YOUR POOR ASS IS HAVING WATER ONLY.

Don’t be ashamed. Embrace and stand firmly in your poverty! As an extra credit assignment, next time you dine out, I want you to confidently state, “Water only, please,” when questioned. You’ll save a few minutes and prevent the server from having to roll their eyes at you. Practice now. Notice the rush of adrenaline and confidence that surges through you from shedding asshole tendencies! Yes!!! Some have even called this sensation “orgasmic.” You be the judge.

In general, when communicating with server/waiters, remain calm. I know his or her awesomeness is probably a little overwhelming. Their brilliance could be blinding, but fear not. They exist to serve you. So, as long as you don’t make any fucking ridiculous requests or demands (covered in the next chapter), you should have no problems.

Well, friends. Look at all the ground we’ve covered today. You have made it all the way to the table without exposing your inner asshole and have your very own server! Impressive.

In no time at all, you’ll be a more respectful, well-mannered, adequately-tipping consumer that knows…

(Audience joins in)

HOW TO BEHAVE THE NEXT TIME YOU MOONWALK THAT ASS INTO ANYBODY’S DINING ESTABLISHMENT!!!!

(CHEERS)

Isn’t that exciting??

(applause)

Alright kids, that’s enough for today. As I said before, I don’t want to overwhelm you. I shall bring you gradually into the light.

Please submit all questions and I’ll respond below promptly.

Remember, Professor ChrisAlexander loves you. Tip the coatcheck, and have a great night.

Thank you.
(Curtain falls

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Adventures In Restaurantland #5

2010-01-25T03:57:00.000-08:00

Hello there.

Happy New Year, and stuff. As I have recently returned to the restaurant world, I am once-again blessed with an endless cast of characters who shall enrich my life and (indirectly) yours. My current gig finds me in a very casual joint at Sunset/Vine in Hollywood. The thought of serving LA residents and visitors is quite exciting, even if only for the daily blog fodder I'll be exposed to.

My first day on the floor, the ONLYEST sketchy Negro to walk through the door magically ended up in my section. Fine. Think: the guy who stands to the right of the entrance to your favorite corner store, bumming change and loosies (single cigarettes for the ignorant). Picture the ashy knuckles, noisy (in color and in sound) yellow and brown track suit, and the almost-charming unintentional grunge look. Notice the deliciously putrid scent of LaToya Jackson's Eau de Failure For Men dropkicking you in the face. Yep. That guy.

To make a LONG story short, in between lengthy bathroom trips he ordered and devoured enough breakfast to feed the cast of "Fat Girl's Club" and guzzled Fanta the way Omarion sucks down Irrelevancy Cola. It was a sight, to say the least.

After one final bathroom trip, he creeps up on me and stammers:

"Yo, ummmm. I just accidentally flushed my money down the toilet. Ummm. My bad. I can wash some dishes if you want."

Me: .....................um. Lemme get a manager.

Yes. Flushed his money down the toilet, he sure did. That, Penises and Vaginas, is a new one. I've heard some pretty amazing things as a waiter, but that is truly a first. To their credit, Junkies are quite the creative bunch, you know. How does one flush their money down the toilet?

Was it in a balloon inside his booty along with the coke that also coated his knuckles?

Did he wipe his butt with his cash and send it down the shitter?

I don't get it. HEPP ME HEPP YOU PREVENT A REPEAT, sir.

After he unconvincingly begged to wash a few dishes, my manager counted it as a loss, and he was asked to leave...and lie down in traffic.

And that was just the first day. In anticipation of the magical times to come, have a gander at some of my past experiences as a waiter in New York. HERE. Adventures in Restaurantland is back, kids!

Look out for part two of Chris Alexander's Guide to Eating Out. Good times ahead.

Dear Saint Selena

2010-01-24T13:15:00.000-08:00

Please advise the Mexicoons above me that they do not live in a shack in Mexico City with a dirt floor. They do, however, live on the second floor of an apartment complex in LITTLE Mexico in Califerny. They fail to realize that their endless cucaracha-stomping contests are not considerate of their downstairs neighbor, me. I imagine their Lil Mexico Soccer League practices must get pretty spirited up there, but such events would be safer outdoors...where there's no risk of damaging their shrine to La Mexicana Divina (the Divine Mexicunt), Eva Longoria.

I have yet to see what they look like, but I assume that the kids are the equivalent of 1,397 tacos de pollo (1,397 chicken tacos- 400-lbs) apiece, wear cinder block zapatos and must be Hat Dance champions, with all the practice they get on that pretty wood floor. Oh Gracious Saint Selena, perhaps they've missed the memo that you don't have to flatten tortillas by foot anymore. I'm searching here, can you give me a sign?

Maybe they slide their furniture to and fro in an attempt to maximize sleeping space on the floor for when their cousins come to (legally, of course) "visit".

To make matters worse, they seem to ignore the old-fashioned New York "broomstick to the ceiling with fervor and a stank face" maneuver. In New York, that means "You have clearly lost your mind(s) up there. Lay off the coke-fueled wrestling matches. You are drowning out my porn. Cease and desist immediately." Apparently there's no Mexican translation for this.

Wondrous Queen of Black Lip Liner, I kneel at your feet. Saint Selena, I shall humbly await direction from you. I hope we can handle this matter painlessly and without a call to Immigration.

Yours respectfully,

chris.alexander

reason 41.2 why i need to leave Meximart.

2010-01-08T00:42:00.000-08:00

rampant, mindless apostrophe misuse. on a corporate level. this sign is in hundreds of stores, advertising Valentine's Day gift BASKET'S. fail #1. additionally, at work tonight, my manager (the one who regularly calls me "LeRoy") announced over the intercom the arrival of some "early VALENTIME'S Day gifts." fail #2.

HOW THE HELL ARE YOU IN CHARGE OF ANYTHING OTHER THAN TOILET FLUSHING?!?

i don't get it.

le sigh. must escape by February. i feel "mas estupider" after each shift.

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january third.

2010-01-03T20:48:00.000-08:00

happy new year. (insert noisemaker)

it's time for all of these grand "in 2010...." statements to come to fruition. are you ready? i'm in a humble, reflective mood once again. re-reading a charming piece by good friend and brilliant writer vaughn richardson (check him out here) that has awakened these frozen creative juices in me. reading his words always produce this chain of thought:

1. envy
2. reflection
3. brainstorming

always.

while praising a piece he shared with me, then re-reading an OLD short story he let me read years back, i fell in love with writing all over again. we discussed my plans to SERIOUSLY hone, tweak, and improve my skills and he pushed me to revisit my (limited...hesitant...) attempts at fiction.

i searched and dug up an old short story i began and abandoned in '08. i hit a creative brick wall and ran for the hills after this piece. i humbly shared it with a select few. good feedback, but i assumed they were just being polite. fiction is a whole new world to me--one i'd love to venture into and fully explore...some day.

well, in an effort to hold true to this years goal to work on my literary career, i'll share what will later be known as my first attempt at fiction. don't rip it to shreds, lol. i was a newbie at the time.

so...yea. here goes.

*runs and hides*

---------------------------------------------------

Alone.

That is the first word that came to mind as he reflected on his current state.

"Another Friday night spent trapped in this dungeon," he sighed to himself, taking another cautious sip of steaming black tea.

Jill Scott's passion-filled voice provided the evening's soundtrack as he sat Indian-style on the polished hardwood floor, his broad shoulders hunched over his laptop. He no longer questioned why clouded thoughts became clearer and words flowed more freely from this particular spot on the floor than the severely overpriced honey-colored plush leather couch across the room.

From his spot on the floor he divulged the most intimate details of the past thirteen months of his life to the blank Word document before him. This laptop probably holds more of his secrets than some of his closest friends, he thought as he reached for the oversized mug. To his left, a barely eaten box of chicken fried rice sat at room temperature. All electric light was banished from the apartment. Lit candles of various scents and degrees of extinction were sprinkled about the living room floor. Each candle had witnessed its share of passion and pain, proud highs and pathetic lows. Sigh. His favorite, Cinnamon Desire, was closest to him as usual. It always triggered memories of summertime a dozen years ago at his grandmother's perfect Virginia home. Calypso blaring from the record player on the mantle. Home-made empanadas baking in the oven. Cinnamon incense burning on the kitchen counter. Happy times. His growing smile dissolved as his mind sharply returned to the present.

Tonight, like countless others, he passed up a night of roaming the streets of Manhattan in favor of solitude. Aside from the delivery boy at the Chinese restaurant three blocks south, he hadn't spoken a word to another human being in over 11 hours. And that was just fine. "Melodramatic," is how his brother would describe this scene. And he would quickly disagree. This was his idea of peace. Only a night like tonight could help him realize what he had refused to admit for months. Despite being one of eight million residents in the city that never slept, Jordan Cropper was painfully lonely...

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and scene.

wasn't sure where to go from here. i considered expanding on his reasons for loneliness and perhaps introduce other characters, but chickened out. at the time, i recall it being VERY loosely based on my feelings at the time. *shrug*

well, there it is.

off to see what else i can create.

love.peace.white rice.

*chris.alexander
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the future.

2009-12-30T01:13:00.000-08:00

With 2010 lurking closeby, waiting to kick us in the face, I've done much pondering on how I can improve this here webspace for the future. 2009 has been quite an interesting time for the staff of coloredboy.net (me, myself, and our glorious leader, I) and it's only fair that we attempt to betterize and magificate your humble existence on an even largerly, grandly-er scale going forward.

As much as I like to take sole credit for being the polished, uppity magical negro you have grown to ~~obsess over~~ love, much of my inspiration has come from external entities. Yes, folks, there are other people partly responsible for alllll this colored goodness right here. I've taken gems from several sources, finding my own use for their words and experiences, and plan to continue betterizing myself in years to come.

As far as this site is concerned, one of the projects I've begun is one that lets individuals I respect tell their personal tales of survival. I initially sought to share the coming out stories of other homogeighs, but decided to broaded my search to the topic of STRUGGLE.

Struggle is something we're all familiar with. We've all endured challenges, large and small, that have helped shape the people we are today. I've extensively documented my struggle on the path to becoming your favorite colored person, and wanted to provide a platform for others to do the same.

As I explained in my appeal to all featured storytellers, my goal is that some piece of each story speaks to you somehow, triggers something within, clicks on a lightbulb...anything! I personally can't wait to share the story of how I once successfully battled an army of Ashanti fans, sent from Hades with their sights set on stealing my soul, BET-style! Gitcho popcorn! It's gonna be a good one, kids! Whew!

Anywho, judging by the rate these submissions have been sliding in, this little public pity party will be kicking off in January. I will lead the pack with an as-yet-unwritten passage (that will later be turned into a biopic starring Whoopi Goldberg as Me). Each week will feature a new story by one of the dozen or so phenomenal individuals I've approached thus far. The submissions received thus far justify my initial excitement. I hope this turns out as brilliantly as it sounded in my head.

If you are interested in telling your story, inquire via email: chris.alexander3@gmail.com. I have a brief overview and some guiding questions to assist in crafting your tale.

love.peace.cheese grits.

*chris.alexander

reunited.

2009-12-27T15:48:00.000-08:00

i'm home in virginia with the family. aside from seeing people I love (and eating like a damn fool), i've been reunited with some of my favorite books that i stored in the attic.

james baldwin

e. lynn harris

eldridge cleaver

james frey

sister souljah

ralph ellison

harriet beecher stowe

i am carrying back as many as i can without having to check a bag at the airport.

i've been missing out on some much needed literary stimulation out in los angeles. being outside of new york, i've lost the hour of daily train commuting that allowed me to read several books a month. i've had to create time for reading, which has proven difficult. i have commented recently to various people that i have NEVER been asked "What's your favorite book?" or anything relating to literature while on the West coast. while it may seem insignificant to most, i grew used to being able to discuss books, writing, authors, etc. regularly. now, i'm usually met with a shrug and "I don't read books."

shame.

that so many people haven't been exposed to the genius of Baldwin, Ellison, Newton (Huey), or anyone equally great is disappointing. ignorance is bliss, yes?

i'm making an effort to read more to strengthen my love of writing. i am quite sure i'll be back in school for something writing-related by the end of 2010.

wish me luck.

it's official.

2009-12-19T19:07:00.001-08:00

i now have a Califerny driver's license.

excuse me while i vomit.

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brilliance speaks

2009-12-17T15:49:00.000-08:00

this man, brook d'leau, is music. he is the production side of sonic facekick J*Davey.

madame jack davey absoluetly shaved her head before all these new hoes. thanks.

their music is, by far, some of the most unique, distinct, music i've heard in ages. it's pop. it's grunge. it's electrosoul. it's hip hop. it's electronic. it's house. their music=love. on christmas day they are dropping another collection of (free) dopealiciousness, Boudoir Synema: The Great Mistape.

i've heard two offerings from this project thus far:

Outta the Window (found here) and Crawl All Over (found here- right click/save as.).

brook recently sat down for an interview where he discusses his personal/musical background, the origins of J*Davey, and music in general. he gives a lot of insight into his creative process and who he appreciates musically.

check it out:

their first major-label release, New Designer Drug is scheduled for release sometime in the near future. meanwhile, check their latest release, Beauty In Distortion/The Land of the Lost on Amazon or download HERE.

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