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Gentrification Blues part deux

In the bit about gentrification I kinda glossed over the fight part.

This shit is scary. I’m a little girl (well not little in the Sarah Jessica Parker sense- see other postings) but I’m a girl. These little monkeys are crazy.

It was so easy. I’m rappin’ with my homey about the season finale of the most excellent show on television and how mind twisting it was; having a few cocktails and now it’s time for a delicious smoky treat.

We’re headed out to smoke and walking talking. There’s this couple hemmed up in the doorway and my homey (I guess I’ll call him BC cause I’m gonna confuse the hell out of myself like that) tries to open the door and tells this little brother he can’t do that here. I’m stepping right behind him and the next thing I know is that this little MF is screaming and pushing BC and yelling.

When I told my sister she asked what he was yelling. I said it was unintelligible. “I don’t know. Something like ‘I’m a man’; ’ I got two eyes’; ‘I didn’t get enough love as a child’; ‘peanuts make my feet stink’; ‘public education has served me poorly’…” (You get the point. it actually tickled the both of us so we went on for about 5 minutes.)

That’s when BC punched the fuck out of him. I’m running out all Tyler Durden waving my arms yelling “whoa, whoa, whoa” (when he was in front of the van- favorite scene) and screaming for someone to call the police. The supreme queen bartender was on it already as were most of the patrons (the newbies. I do distinctly remember seeing a pair of eyes only peeking over the back of the bar. Like Cleavon Little was gonna come in shouting “where all the white women at?”). I moved through the crowd of ruffians that have BC jammed up against the door to the apt building and that’s my turf, so I kinda snapped a little. And remember it was like the Smiths in the Matrix so like a hundred dudes dropped out of nowhere (I think it was like 10 in the end).

So I get in front of BC and put my arms out tiger style and stood in front of him yelling, “STOP!” (Think Gandalf and the dragon thing). Then it was suddenly just the skinny troublemaker woozy looking and rising up in front of me. Then I was suddenly like shit, this kid’s gonna hit me. WTF? So before he could fully stand up, I kicked him in the chest. Kinda a bitch move- but I am a girl. I even had on a skirt and my Keds. Then he just staggered away. Remember when the LA cops said that Rodney King was on PCP and acting all hulk-like. Well that’s what this kid was like. Just not there.

Then BC calls my attention to the white body being dragged in the street and it’s another homey and that’s when I started shaking. For some reason that’s when it got real. And real scary. He was limp and this kid is a firecracker. These little animals were dragging him in the street. Do they even know the implications of that? I want to drop them in 1950’s Mississippi and then we’ll see when they drag someone in the street.

This is my home. This neighborhood is where I’ve spent my formative adult years. I’ve become an adult here. Now that’s not to say that I haven’t been called an ugly bitch from my door to the end of my block. And I was shocked because I’d never been called an ugly anything in my whole life. And ironically enough one of the ruffians was the grownup boy who called me out back then. He’s going to jail. And he has a baby now. Pity. But why come after people who look like you? And despite my animus for the newer residents, I also don’t want them to suffer at the hands of “angry black youth” but damn man.

Money Can Suck It!

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Okay, I know I’m supposed to bless money or whatever but right now, I honestly believe that money is something assholes created to piss people off. Okay, maybe not honestly. And when I have money I look down my snobbish nose at poor people. I’m an ass. That’s clear. But this week money made me cry. To be more precise, lack of money made me cry. And my pop once again offered me a chance to come live with him, help him with his business and money up so I can go live in Paris. But the idea of being a 34-year-old woman with an advanced degree leaving my apt of 12 years to have to move in with my dad sent me bawling. It didn’t help that I was cutting up my cucumber dinner. And I’m still fat. At least let me be thinner lord. But I don’t really want that either. I just want something different. I want a change and me sitting up here playing poker on Facebook isn’t going to get me anywhere. So I guess money isn’t the one who can suck it. It appears to be me.

So I’ve not left the house since Tuesday. I went to have a drink at my local watering hole, had a seltzer and cran with some homies and had to leave because I was about to burst into tears. I was so hungry. And the place smelled like meat and cheese and deliciousness and my mouth actively began watering. And it was someone’s anniversary and I thought about how I’m not just temporarily low on cash, but alone. Then that made me think about my choices. Left turns, right turns, returning phone calls, not blowing someone off, seizing an opportunity here or there. All these things got me here. Fear got me here. But that’s not true either. (Oh and I’ve begun lying a bit too.)

After I cried it out and my aunt (who’s also manic) talked me down, I drank the wine I had in the house and it came to me. I don’t regret a single choice I’ve made. Could I have done things differently? You betcha. But who couldn’t have? Really? I should ask John McCain. He really knows what it feels like to be a loser. I just feel like a loser, he really is one.

So in the Zen way, I know money’s coming to me and I’m open and willing to all the money I desire, but it can still suck it right now.

did i ever tell you about the time i went to vermont

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A few weeks ago I went to Vermont with a friend of mine and her husband. They’d invited a bunch of other people because the husband who I’ll call, um “hubby” rents a house every year and goes skiing. My friend who I’ll call “friendo” doesn’t ski, so she wanted someone to hang with while everyone else skied.

So we drive up the 5h and it’s snowing and what I’ve heard people call “beautiful” and I call cold and snowy. I’m from Chicago. I’ve skied the French Swiss Alps. Vermont was cold and snowy. So I’m the chocolate in the vanilla once again and I’ve got to say I’m sick of it. I know, I know, we live in a post-racial world. My ass. So I’m up there surrounded by white- in a fur coat and sorrel boots. Everyone has on snow pants and I feel like the poor kid who’s mom sent them out without the right gear.

When I went to France I was 12 and it was a bunch of rich black kids from the Southside of Chicago. I obviously slid in under the radar, but my mom was always good about making sure I had tons of exposure to everything. (Probably to too many things, but that’s for a different day.) My mom was absent while I was getting ready for my trip, working on the railroad or smoking coke in LA, who knows. My dad had taken me to get my ski jacket. My granny got me my ski pants and luggage. And boots.

The boots.

It was January 1986 and everybody who was anybody had moonboots. And remember, they were rich so they had extras. My granny (great grandmother) was born in 1917 on a Gullah island and raised in Mississippi until she married my granddad in 1932 2 months pregnant. Right, do the math. She didn’t know or care about a moon boot. The baby was going skiing and needed to be warm so she got my boots. They were a Christmas present (like everything else I got for the trip- except my Mr. Microphone) and so I had to pretend like I liked them while secretly plotting to leave them there and make my mom send me money to buy some in France.

To me they were the epitome of my particular social status. They were grey, quilted WEDGES!!! Wedges. In the 80’s. She might as well had sent me out in bell-bottoms. I wore bangles up my arm and wore hot pink lace headbands like Madonna in the holiday video. I tied bandanas around my knees like ozone and turbo in breakin’ (the original because the only good thing I can say about 2 is din da da). I was hip and cool and these would be the only boots I would have to represent my hipness and coolness to the French. So I wouldn’t wear them. Up to my knees in snow and I just wouldn’t. It worked most of the time, because we mostly wore our ski boots, but one day it went terribly wrong.

We had to go to town at the crack of dawn to watch a local baker make the bread we ate everyday. I put on my penny loafers (remember I’m cool- Michael Jackson wore them and nothing was cooler than that) fully expecting to jump in a van and go down the mountain. No, no grasshopper. We walked. By the time we’d gotten a few feet from the chalet I realized I was in trouble. There was already snow in my socks and we had another mile or so to go. And did I mention it was early? Dawn was just breaking when we left and in the Alps, it’s cold at dawn in January. But my penny loafers weren’t cutting it. And I felt stupid and inadequate and ill prepared. It also didn’t help that my best friend said, “I don’t know why you didn’t just wear your boots”. Because they make me stand out and look weirder than I already do. Because I haven’t been taught that being different is okay. Because I want to just fit in and not think about the fact that no one in my family has bothered to write, let alone send gift baskets while I’ve been away for a month. I don’t want to think about the fact that I hate these boots my granny who’s at home dying bought me. I want to be a normal girl with normal problems. Which brings me to Vermont.

I always feel a little off, especially when I’m in a new situation with strangers. Especially when I’m the only not skinny not white single girl in the room. Especially when the guy my friendo told me I’d be interested in is a fat pasty thing- who’s not interested in me. And when it appears all of these people know each other but I don’t know any of them. I think their conversation is inane and there’s one girl in particular who’s doing that white girl attention getting thing that drives me crazy. She’s too loud, too silly, too showoffy. Maybe I’m just sensitive, but I decided I don’t care for her. I’m the wild card in so many ways. And I’m not wearing the right gear. There’s a button missing off of my fur coat. I’m the only girl who smokes. I’d rather sit in the cabin than go hiking. (I don’t get hiking. where are we going?) I’m not going hiking and it’s not because I’m afraid I’m going to get winded like I did on our walk after smoking like 5 cigs in a row and I thought we were just going out for a minute not an hour and my boots weigh 20lbs each. So enjoy your hike. I’m making myself a cocktail.

Then the dog ran out. This pampered mutt had hurt its ass and was left home. Flappy. Flapjack. Flappy the dog. So I go out for a smoke, it’s whining, I let it out to pee or whatever cause I don’t really fuck with dogs like that to know what his problem is. And this little mutha fucka won’t go back in- FOR AN HOUR. Not only that, he’s growling at me and keeps trying to run up the driveway to the road. Hubby had already stated that if anything happens to the dog he’s going to kill himself and I believe him. He makes his food from scratch. He cooks chicken and makes the dogs food and my friendo hand feeds the fucking dog. Can you believe that? So here I am rationalizing with a dog that lives better than I do and it all comes rushing at me.

I’m 12 years old and just want to fit in. I just want to not be broke and unemployed, praying to get the writing fellowship in England, hoping to get some writing done between drinking wine and taking a sauna. I don’t want my belly to hang over my jeans and I want to smell good. I don’t want to be as hungry as I am or as lonely. Everyone else seems to be having a grand time. I just want to read. I’m not outdoorsy. Maybe that’s why I’m fat. I don’t want to engage these people I’m never going to see again. I have too many people in my life I want to engage but can’t because of various social anxiety disorders. This dog can’t get hit by a car or freeze to death on my watch. I’m not socially or emotionally equipped to deal with that. So after I’d decided to throw my hat over the dog’s head and Drop Squad him back into the house, I just started laughing. Fuck this shit.

Later when I was recounting the story and telling the group how I’d gotten the fucking dog (mindful to be respectful of this bratty pooch) into the house by crouching down and admitting defeat, I realized I didn’t give a fuck about these people or what they thought of me. Sure they have not only jobs, but careers. And I’m a writer. What have you written? Nothing you would have seen. Really? Yeah, it’s about blacks. That shuts them up. And I was free.

We went watch the Superbowl at a bar/ restaurant and I ordered the steak and had several cocktails. The one girl I didn’t care for was freaking out about eating veggies and hubby snapped at her and then she got all solemn and weird. Another couple’s car kept breaking down and that was the most henpecked husband I’d ever seen in my life. He looked miserable all the time. I had no money. I didn’t care. They were all rich. I paid what I could and fuck it. I felt great. I talked to everyone I met outside while I was having cigs and between being drunk was also high as a kite in a town where I was the only black I’d seen. By the time we left, the snow was already black with grime, everything was melting because it was like 50 degrees that day and on the way out… everything was beautiful.

Sorry I missed your Oscar Party, but I was having a bit of a nervous breakdown

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I was supposed to go to a friends Oscar Party Sunday. I missed it. He’s pissed. Oops. But then today, I IM’d him just to see if we were cool and he sends me this snide little note about spending a lot of time and money and disappointed that I didn’t make it or call. I apologized again with my pithy “sorry, couldn’t make it” and got no response. Then when I vomited up “and my phone was turned off Sunday because my bill was over $600 and so was the cable and my dad wants me to move to dc or else he won’t help me anymore and I’m 5 months behind in rent which all came crashing down on me Sunday morning. I would have been a bit of a party pooper since my best friend had to come over and do a little care for me”. Only then did I get a response. WTF? I was totally wrong for not calling. But I didn’t want to. I don’t want to keep telling that story and it’s the main reason I’m not going out anywhere.

I understand that this is one of my more self important friends, and he did put a lot of work into it and was very excited about his party.

But I’m tired of explaining to people who make shitloads more money than me that although I don’t have to bring something to your house it’s tacky not to. And since I’m always the one black girl (and I know race isn’t a major factor) I’m always the poor black girl. And I’m not even a girl any more. I’m the poor black woman. And I wouldn’t even mind that if his crowd wasn’t the crowd always trying to outdo each other and making snarky side shots under their breath. And if I’d said this to my friend, would he have understood? Maybe, but I didn’t really want to talk to him about it because he could be as snide and snarky as the best of them. When I’m in high times, it’s cute. When I’m not, I want to punch faces.

So Sunday I was in no mood to sit around being fabulous, meeting boyfriends and not betting in the Oscar pool cause I didn’t have but $20 to last me the rest of the week. I’m so tired of the ridiculous amounts of money I have from day to day and didn’t trust that there wouldn’t be ridicule because my conversations tend to surround that fact right now. I’m also not in the mood to justify my life and my choices to a bunch of people I don’t know. I’m sure I’m reading too much into the situation, but I’ve been in the situation too many times to not have my trepidations. I’m not so much fun to be around with new people. I’m lucky to have a place close to me where I know the people and I can relax and enjoy the company of people I know and like and who reciprocate without judgements.

My People: or Reasons to Refer to One’s Self as a Dark Skinned Eskimo

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I haven’t been on here for a while ’cause I’ve been working like a Hebrew slave’, as my grandma would say. She also referred to herself as a dark skinned Eskimo when the children of my Southside neighborhood would dart in to the street at night in front of cars.

I love being black. I’m African- American- balls to bone. But what I’m feeling really genocidal about right now is… NIGGAS! I know, I know, I’m not supposed to use that word, but I’m using it because respectability politics be damned.

So I’m working on a commercial for a shack that bestows Italian pie treats to the American public. It was complicated logistically, it was emotionally harrowing and in the end… I got fucked- BY A NIGGA.

I hire production assistants. I generally hire people I know and can trust because I have to depend on them to be my eyes and ears when I’m on my cell phone at the office looking at 3 lines blinking awaiting my attention. They do pick ups and drop offs for me, they make sure the union workers have what they need, and usually they are my favorite people on set. They’re mine. I brought them here. They’re my support system.

I had one of my most trusted P.A.’s help me out with the procuring of such talent as I’m a little out of the P.A. loop being that I’m over 30 and all of the people I usually use have moved up in the ranks as I have. I used to be a P.A. and I was a damned good one… until it was time for me to move on. When that time came, you’d never met a surlier young woman in your life. I just didn’t give a fuck. So I quit and became the coordinator. More money, more power, more headaches… bring it on.

So there was a P.A. I’d hired… let’s call him Mr. Crazy. I’d met Mr. Crazy socially with my P.A. and he gave him a chance. Mr. Crazy is also a close friend, or so I thought, with one of my neighborhood friends… Mr. Rational, so I figured if Mr. Rational thought he was okay, that was good enough for me.

We do the job, I rarely saw him though. On my wrap day the production designer told me he couldn’t stand Mr. Crazy and to keep him away from him. “Why?” I asked.

“If I ask him for a lamp he’ll ask ‘do you want the bookcase too?’ he’s trying really hard, but it’s annoying and frustrating.”

Copy that. Point taken, but I feel I can still work with him. Have him over for a drink. Give him some pointers. Although on this job it wasn’t the case, but I’m usually 100% of the brown people on set with any power. It’s nice to have other blacks on set with me, especially commercial sets which are traditionally an old boys team. I knew he was interested in film, he’s over 40 looking for some other outlet than the post office where he’s worked for 20+ years (I think), and thought he’d done some projects before, so I didn’t think anything of it.

My wrap was a beast. It was the most complicated wrap I’d ever done in my life. Mr. Crazy said he was gonna come in on Monday to bring me a receipt and I was gonna have him fill out an add’l timecard as I was giving him a double day for one of the really long one’s he’d worked. The other P.A. that he’s worked with who he refers to as “The White Boy” had already filled out a timecard so he was straight. Alas, I didn’t hear from Mr. Crazy until a week after the job was wrapped. In LA, DONE.

So I go to the movies with a friend (Appaloosa was really good. I even liked Renee Zelweiger.) And come out to this text message:

“This check is insane. I busted my ass for the whole week and all you put down was 40 hours. I heard you tell the white boy I worked with on the last day that you were gonna get him more money like I did bust my ass I had a total of 60 plus hrs. This is not right!!! Holla back! ASAP!”

To which I phoned him to get a barrage of ‘what the fucks’ and such. As I was standing on 17th and Broadway I did what I do… I threw money at a problem. Only it was my money. I told him I’d give him $200.

That was a hasty decision. As I’m on the train I’m getting furious. “How dare he?” was all I kept saying. My friend was trying to take my mind off of it, but I was getting angrier and angrier.

I discussed it with Mr. Rational who surmised that his friend was “buggin’ out” and who chided me for offering my own money. “What the fuck, grown folks gotta take care of their own shit.” He is as wise as the town for which he’s named.

So the next day while lounging with a friend, I call him and inform him that I’m going to give him $100 since I shouldn’t have to pay for his not doing what he’s supposed to do. As I’m trying to explain the situation to him and inform him that he needs to speak to me as someone who hired him not as a ‘homegirl’ he continues yelling into the phone various abuses and in the end “FUCK YOU! KEEP YOUR MONEY!” and hangs up on me.

Well, you could imagine my disappointment to his behavior. “Who the fuck does this nigga think he’s talking to? I’m not his child. I’m his BOSS. FUCK THIS NIGGA.” is a little closer to the sentiment.

So then the games were afoot.

Mr. Crazy Text: You think you can tell me that your (sic) giving me two hundred, then tell me that your only givin’ me 1oo dollars. Not once did anyone of you explain to me what I was getting paid for my work…I just knew, what you don’t think I got friends in the bizz. Your (sic) not supposed to be givin’ me any money. The company that paid is supposed to. But you didn’t want to put the extra hours in I worked. It’s ironic how you can say in my face to that white boy how you was gonna get him more money… I must be a fool. But that’s alright…..Kharma (sic) is a bitch, remember that. We love to take advantage of our people. The worst thing about it is evrybody (sic) told me about you….I knew this was coming from the first day…I just wanted to see if you really was gonna play me. I’ll pray for you. See you @ the top.“

My response was:

“He filled out a timecard for the next week which I was homa (sic… gonna) have u do the monday you were coming 2 c me. Only 40 hours can go on non-union timecards. He did what he was supposed 2. I waited 3 days. I’m trying to fix it but I won’t entertain this further through texts.”

That was yesterday. Today as I’m finishing my Sedaris and moving to Notaro and laughing I get:

Mr. Crazy:

When can I come and see you?

Me:

4 what?

Mr. Crazy:

The money you said you were giving me!

Now I’m thinking, maybe he’s on drugs. Didn’t he tell me to go fuck myself and keep my fucking money not 24h ago?

So I didn’t respond. I read, I laugh, I smoke cigs and drink coffee. I talked to my aunt and told her what was happening to which she volunteered to call him and take care of it for me. She’s not the OG for nothing. Then as I’m cracking up to my book there’s the ominous ring. Miles Davis’ “So What?” never seemed so apropos.

Mr. Crazy Text:

“Since you dont’ want to answer me. Let me tell you this. The conversation we had about you giving me this money was recorded. My aunt works for ( eeoc ). She has your info to your main office in la. I’ve recorded my conversations with two of your employees telling me how much hours I’ve worked. ‘Wait this gets interesting’

I am also in touch wit the law office, who is responsible for over worked and under paid. This is gonna be great for you. Exposure. You asked for it now you got it. Just because you think your slick. Your company needs to know how you fuck wit there money.”

While not responding I get this one:

Mr. Crazy Text: “I was suppose to been informed that I needed to fill out another time card. You let them take money I bust my ass for. I did everything in my power to work as hard as I did for , and you tell me your takin a hundred dollars from what I earned. Why fuck ya own people. Why me, I really don’t understand you. I just lost my wife two yrz ago, so this is hard for me. I took off from work for a week for this. Why would you tell me you were giving me 2oo, when all you had to say ‘come up and fill out a time card’. So I’m supposed to deny you what’s mine. Sorry I’m not built like that.. What are we gonna do sis…..

it’s that easy!!”

NOW I’M JUST PISSED!!

How dare he? And the really fucking bizarre part is that he has no idea how this works. I feel so sad for him but I also want to stick it to him in some way. But I’m gonna be the bigga nigga, cause he has a circular logic run by emotion and not intelligence and I can’t argue with fools.

Me:

“The job is over. I don’t work 4 them anymore. I’m freelance. I had 3 days 2 wrap. That’s it. My offering MY money was a courtesy I’ve never offered anyone who didn’t do what they said they would do! I was trying 2 explain that 2 u b4 u hung up on of (sic… me) & started all this. I’m sorry u feel abused & don’t understand how commercials work but I’m trying 2 do the right thing and keep getting abused. B4 u hung up on me you told me 2 keep my money.”

I was continuing it to say, “Which is it?” when the phone rang. It was Mr. Crazy himself.

I got a chance to explain it to him. I spoke calmly and rationally, expressed my great disappointment in his assailing my racial allegiances…“and for you to do all this talking about doing right by your people and this is how you treat me. It makes me sad and angry and hurts my feelings… but that’s personal. Let’s deal with the business at hand. How much will it take for you to be satisfied? What needs to be done to fix this?”

Of course, it was just $200. That’s it. All of this over $200. I have an art director who owes me $5000- for 8 MONTHS. And I’ve given him a judgment letter. I’ve documented my correspondence and I do call from time to time to see if I can learn anything new… but to no avail. That’s ending a 10-year friendship. I could give a fuck about Mr. Crazy and $200 is a small price to pay for his satisfaction and my not having to think about him ever again.

He’s coming over later today to get the money. I should call Mr. Rational to be there just in case he really is crazy.

Two points I feel need reiteration:

1) This person is over 40 years old.

2) The money he’s arguing about is not what he earned, per se. I got him a double day because there was one excessively long day worked and no other P.A.’s but him and ‘the white boy’ got it. It was a courtesy on my part as well. The other P.A.’s worked just as hard if not harder for me, but I was doing them a solid. But ya know what they say about acts of kindness.

I’m so sad for a lot of my people. We’ve been sorely under/ un- educated and it’s now glaringly apparent when it comes to matters of business and professionalism. Our insistence in using street talk at work and a general failure to understand the systems we work in.

What really makes me sad is that I’m too tired and angry to really do anything about it. I can try to pronounce words correctly to give some one a map, but I can’t make them walk down the road to grammatically correct town. Hell, I barely understand how commas work and semi colons are a mystery shrouded in subject-verb agreements. But I believe I can get a point across when I’m sober.

As Mr. Crazy’s yelling into the phone how fucking professional he is, I understood that I just needed to get my point across and find a way to make this go away. I could even hear his aunt trying to chime in. she got it. Once he figured out what I was saying I could hear the acquiescence in his voice. I hope through the day he figures out not just that he was wrong, but how he was wrong. How very wrong headed and ill tempered he is to work in this industry. How stupid he really is about this whole thing.

But let’s be clear. The dead wife angle is some bullshit. Only an immature asshole would pull a dead wife out for $200. What a tiny little world he lives in. but I get out of that world for $200 cash. No taxes. No withholding. Free and clear.

And isn’t that what Obama would want me to do?

This girl sounds like a pompous ass…wait…

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I guess I wrote this in my useless Media Crit class in grad school while applying for some fellowship. That teacher was terrible and we approached our Dean about it. Then, for a whole uncomfortable HOUR AND A HALF the teacher wanted to ‘talk’ to us about what’s wrong and then started to cry. That cost me $2500 and I didn’t get the fellowship, obviously.

Enjoy:

Charity A. Thomas was born in Washington D.C. and raised on the southside of Chicago. She attended The University of Chicago Laboratory High School where she was an award winning television columnist on the U-High Midway and she discovered her passion for the media and writing. After graduating from Howard University with a BA in Radio/TV/Film (film major/ theater minor), with a semester at Columbia University in New York, she moved back to New York and began working in film production. She worked the grueling hours on idiotic music videos as a production assistant, production coordinator, production manager, wardrobe assistant, 2nd 2nd AD, and make-up “girl”, before settling on being The Art Department Coordinator (caps intentional) on commercials (and the occasional music video because her money tree has yet to come into full bloom).

In 2001, after her roommate and best friend joined a cult leaving her with a multitude of bills during a slow production period, Charity decided to begin graduate school. She expects to graduate in May 2003 with a Masters in Media Studies. With that degree she will become a media critic and the voice of the pseudo disenfranchised group- thinkers. In between all of this excitement, she writes. She’s an eccentric poet (published in AIM Magazine and various small friend run endeavors), an apocalyptic playwright, a brilliant essayist, and… a screenwriter. She’s sure there are going to be very professional, even scholarly, biographies submitted to this fellowship program and in being true to a promise she made herself… is going to write this “biography” as she feels it. She’s completely aware that this might cost her the fellowship… but that’s life. This is how she writes. She’s honest and true. She believes her purpose is to illuminate truth. Writing is the way she does that. It is her catharsis and she still believes that when you do what you love… the truth of it comes out. She wants to participate in this fellowship to attempt to find an outlet to let her voice be heard. She’s very appreciative of the opportunity and doesn’t want to appear flippant, but as arrogant and vain as she is… she’s not too big on shameless self promotion. She believes the work will find it’s way to the right people at the right time and it says more about her than any “biography” could. She’s a Leo who loves yoga (both physically and spiritually), reading, listening to jazz, shamelessly promoting her friends artistic endeavors and she hates referring to herself as “she”.

Jesus, what a tool! No wonder I’m sitting here with no fucking money. Blurg.

Link

cheeskisrantsandraves:

i’m standing in times square, in front of 1515 broadway, watching kanye west’s video for “gold digger” on a crystal clear movie theater sized screen in gorgeous HD. the video show beautiful, sexy, shiny, thin half dressed black women done up like pin-up girls. jamie foxx and kanye are just…

Really?!

Charity, how is it that you’re so witty and cute?

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Thanks for that question, I get it all the time. It has a lot to do with genes. I often joke that I’m just in charge of the maintenance. LOL. I also have a joie de vivre that comes through I think.