Friday, September 23, 2011

Autumnal Musings

The Christmas-and-New-Year's-Conceived are celebrating their birthdays now, and apparently I know a lot of them (and their saucy celebratory parents)!
So much is going on right now, especially in lieu of my upcoming transition from aunt's couch to mother's not-so-spare room. I take it in stride, however, because a recent burst of creative inspiration a la Fashion Week has afforded me a slew of great pictures, business card contacts and blog connections.
I have to admit there have also been some horrible news revelations, inducing what I feel might be a turning point in our country's death penalty policy due to the case of Troy Davis (more on this later).
A chance visit to the local library afforded me a free addition to my burgeoning book reading/owning list, a collection of essays and argument by David Foster Wallace, A Supposedly Fun Thing I Will Never Do Again. What a writer! I know I am late in reading his works, especially when I only learned about him when I read about his short-sighted suicide. I now take it upon myself to read his works and come to grips with why he decided to leave the coven of intellectual writers so early.
I still find myself struggling with the pace I want to take with this blog: seriously human rights and law and order; intellectual debates; personal observations in style and fashion, or just an exercise in scoring and publicizing great writing regardless of the topic. I think I like highlighting and tackling whatever sparks my fancy or catches my radar, but there should still be some kind of coherent theme. And how honest and genuine must (can) one be when attempting to gain validity in the public? There is so much pressure to conform to blogger's continuity!
Well I think I have found my first lead that I am too excited to not drool rabidly about- American Apparel and Nancy Upton. She's brave, refreshing and innovative on so many fronts. We all need a shake-up from this size 12 lady! I will track her down, and interview her, so help me, Goddess!

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Putting Myself Out There

In the spirit of Putting Myself Out There, henceforth known as #PMOT, I inadvertently-yet-subconsciously took my vacation from work around Fashion Week. Well, the juiciest, most profitable end of it, anyway. I am here in the Teen Vogue Hautespot Lounge. I can't wait to review all the great photos I got this year and publicize my assessment. I feel like this year was a lot more open to the public, especially young fashionista, bloggers, wannabes and everyone in between. I spent a ridiculous amount of time in the Maybelline Allure lounge near the Empire Hotel getting to January and Leslie and the whole makeup gang. I will never be one to walk away from free makeup and exciting networking opportunities! It really reminded me why I am passionate about writing, recording, being a part of history in the making in my own eclectic way. If I can combine sartorial aspirations with meeting great and influential people (and possibly becoming a great influential person myself), then there I will be. I now have a PR firm's business card, a future event to be a part of and a few great shots, some of them with me in front, but mostly as an amateur photographer. The one thing that I have really learned from this week's experience is how many aspects of Fashion Week one can consider. There are the line-waiters, most of the time my primary perspective, where I join others on the outside waiting for a chance, a glimpse, a moment were I can belong and take part in whatever garners particular interest. Another angle is that of The Media; as a magazine journalist, doors can open for you during Fashion Week, even if you don't have a press pass, thanks to the online validation. And now I know about Blogger Breakfasts and Social Media Week, so its a matter of time before I find myself along the very same track that The Black Snob's Danielle Belton took. She is truly a hero of mine! Walking around with a couple cameras or a single stunning ensemble doesn't hurt either! The best things I have learned about this flurry of activity is drink lots of water, do you research ahead of time to plan your attack, whether its the Fashion's Night Out map or the schedule of designer shows at Lincoln Center, or just where the hottest fashion party will be...
Next thing to do is research Edith Head, Anna Wintour and Coco Chanel's auspicious beginnings.... and maybe sign up to take a mediation course towards a managerial track!

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Summer of 1990

August 9,1990 started out as any other summer day for me, all of my eight years drawn up to embrace the full bounty that is Summer Vacation for children of elementary age. It is truly a magical time for the youth, as the days are inexplicably long; longer, even, than the scientifically accepted almanac of the Earth's rotation, thus possessing a quality akin to alternate reality; surely anyone remembering childhood can look back and not believe how fast our summers seem now, what with no school vacations from work and the many indoor employments that force us to pretend that flourescent lighting is an acceptable substitute for sunlight. I can't tell you how many times my boss came to my desk and turned on the light in the morning, when I was just basking in the early streaks of natural light before the day pressed down on my internal stressors. I find myself increasingly in an internal debate, listing the pros and cons of the outside jobs versus the desk jobs. Being in natural light is definitely on the pro list for the summertime. I think my ideal job would allow me to be on a farm or in an orchard for most of the summer....

Anyway, I wasn't thinking about all of that back when I got my first diary (with a lock and key!).

That summer I pledged to myself that this pink diary from the stationery store down the block would be my first serious and everlasting foray into the profession of writing. At its core, professing one's thoughts and experiences is rightly intertwined with philosophy, education and recording and journaling, so my younger self should be high-fiving me right now, as I have always strived to maintain these early roots. I wonder if my parents held a pen and paper in front of me as a baby to see if that was my path. I have taken many twists and turns since then, but in all its permutations, the equations still add up to what I am doing right now...

Now if only I can make some living wage off of all this!

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

I Knew I couldn't get away from a post like this in the summertime!

Just going through a lot of stuff in my brain these last few months. Summer doesn't make it any easier, what with the higher skin quotient, heat index and aggravation that goes along with it. Summer in NYC is no joke... you either better have the funds/job to stay air conditioned or the ability leave for cooler vacations, because this concrete will bake you above ground and broil you in the subways!

Literally, boiling brains leads to ignorant, dangerous and ill-advised behavior from both sexes. And the rest of us have to run for cover, lest our vocal protests incite a riot, or worse. Just try and diffuse an underground tirade from people being squashed together in weak air-conditioning! If you can, the best thing is to walk away, except when simply walking down the street invites visual and vocal assailants, which I describe below... 

Shall I mention the hyperactivity of certain groups? There is a vibe that hits me like the transition from freezing city bus/train to the humid wall of misery that is "outside", and it's getting harder to pass off. Namely, cat-callers and their obnoxious (and quite infuriating) counterparts, summer skanks. I recently read a post on BB&W that pretty much summed it up for me....

'I’ve found black men, in general, aggressive. I cannot begin to tell you how many times I’ve been accosted by a brotha who went all Morris Day on me – “Baby, what’s your phone number?” – before even asking my name, or telling me his.  (And, no, calling a woman a “bitch” after she turns you down is not endearing.)'

THANK YOU for making this public knowledge, in writing because I might have overheard someone talking about this phenomenon, but it was either me or someone I didn't know and couldn't go full sistah-rant with.  No one seems to bring this subject up enough, as if in fear of some serious anti-whatever backlash.  If anything, this should be part of the conversation when BW and BM are trying to get and stay together as well.  I am NOT against BM, I am against many instances of anti-social behavior that they are the foremost (if not the sole offenders) to exhibit in certain situations. I want to wear my shorts (not, for the record, shiny hotpants or any stupid bottoms that insist on advertising said bottom as "Juicy"), my summer dress, dammit, even my heels without being required to respond to every "Hey Beautiful, that's a nice dress", or "Can I help you with your bags?" Does this ever work? Maybe for the summer skanks, who advertise by way of dress and disposition.  Well, either these brothas are totally myopic in their assessment of  who is fishing for such attention, or they just cast every line every which way to see who will bite. Maybe all men do that, in their various fashions (kind of reminds me of that hilarious scene in Night At the Roxbury when Cheri Oteri finds herself between the two club dimwits asking her to dance!), all oblivious to proper social cues.

If there is anything that makes me long for the more genteel eras of yesteryear (minus the overt colorism, classism, racism and smarmy sexism of those times), it would be the dating and courting processes, where a man would never dare to be so forward and expect the whole neighborhood not to shun him as a CAD for it! And that certainly goes for the summer skanks as well. It puts us all in a bad light, invites ridicule and disrespect and makes it that much harder to defend human rights to dignity and against sexual abuse. No... nobody is asking to be gang-banged, but on one hand, such behavior from men hints to me that they are capable of that beastliness, and such dress by women lends reason that they are all for the ride. Don't believe me? Come out to ANY ONE of those brightly colored party ads all over Crown Heights (pick them up at the Caribbean food shop, or the sidewalk). Better yet, it will be a "White Party" in some re-appropriated storefront, and no one but you and I and probably the photographer will be over 25. Sexing on the dance floor... And they don't even have the thought to have some of those free NYC condoms by the entrance, because "they're not supporting underage sex" BULLSHIT!

Disgusted....

I am soo glad my mother established the dating rule of 16, which she pushed back to 18 on a whim... Mind you, I still had a phone boyfriend at 15, but I was too damn scared of doing anything else (at least until college)!

Rant Over...

Update 12/19/12... Miss Chesca is succinct in her analysis on the subject! You go gurl!




Sunday, July 24, 2011

A Day in Crematoria

There are a few valuable things I've learned in the past four days of this seemingly interminable heatwave. One, the local library (or in my case, Brooklyn Central) is a brilliant oasis (with very favorable 7-day hours of operation), further strengthening my resolve to have and maintain my own library in the future. Two, a well-timed run through a hydrant is a fine afternoon activity, with many hours of pleasant cooling off. Similarly, the skill the human body has in detecting the subtle changes in temperature affords the discerning sufferer a multitude of relief when comparing Friday afternoon's humid breeze to Saturday's less humid breeze. Three, always start the days' adventures early! Especially when it means one might have to take three buses from Brooklyn to Long Island City to some far flung warehouse to a highly popular yet possibly unknown reward, but must face the threat of Crematoria itself while awaiting for the fun inside said warehouse to begin.

Oh, and always carry the aluminum water bottle!

Sunday, June 19, 2011

On Finding and Defining Oneself

So these first few entries will document my wrangling with the medium at my disposal, and the conclusions and actions taken therein. It is not as easy as one may think to decide on what angle to deliver in something as potentially revealing as a blog. There are so many things I find myself being passionate about, yet find myself self-censoring for one reason or another. This is my attempt to get out from under my own blanket, so to speak. Something I read this morning allowed me to validate my own conceptualization regarding the art and the job of writing, whether one is a novelist or a journalist or a blogger, or, as the case may be, a jotter, as I sometimes am.

I was reading an entry from a new page I stumbled upon, Reluctant Habits http://www.edrants.com/about/ (which, in many ways I can identify with), where the editor Edward Champion (love amazing people with that surname, as if they were truly born into their role) had the opportunity to follow up with a favorite author of mine, Colson Whitehead regarding his most recent novel, Sag Harbor. I found this novel last summer, while trying to fill up a somewhat incomplete summer's day, the last day of my Census 2010 assignment. The title jumped out at me because I attended undergrad in The Hamptons, and adopted it for about five years, becoming a bit more than a summer visitor, but not quite a full-blown Southie. I lived there during the school year, but also worked there during two summers and one winter session, which, if anyone knows, is when the real mettle is tested, along the deserted crunchy beaches and soggy gray atmosphere of the off-season.

Colson Whitehead's novel weaved a captivating tale of that region of Long Island in the 80's, before I really could call any part of New York my own, the generation of my older cousins, yet far removed physically as well as culturally. His world was one of middle class African Americans, professionals, upwardly mobile and yet grounded in their traditions still insulated to a degree from stereotypical portrayals based on unexplored assumptions. I loved Sag Harbor when I was in the Hamptons, but I never really got to see much of what Whitehead framed in his novel. It would almost have me wondering, doubting the true existence of such a place, such a perspective, if I didn't already know the legacy of the reservations in the area, of Riverhead even now. Not everything is white-washed out there, if you are paying attention.

The best part of this interview however, was how Whitehead handled the response to his reponse at The New School interview session. He touched on the need for labels and categorization that oftentimes is the nail in the coffin for brilliant writers, marginalized by their subject matter. It's as if some all-powerful marketing curator deemed them unworthy of a broad audience, or only necessary to plug into a niche market. It is condescending at best, and I wonder where I would be if I capitulated to such playground versions as a child. I distincly remember being accused of "talking white" because I told a classmate that she was acting haughty. I used words beyond my sixth-grade stature, apparently. I even had to defend the radio station I listened to, which was Z100 at the time, not HOT97 like all the other cool ghetto kids. I didn't admit to turning the dial to CD101.9 or the classical stations, though; that would have been too much even for me to bear as an eleven-year-old. In eighth grade, I was voted "Most Likely to be a Snob" by my ever-popular, loud, big-breasted classmate Cheryl and her gang. My reluctant habit for a while became dumbing down my own abilities or range.

Friday, June 17, 2011

The rain falls down upon us all the same.... whether you have an umbrella or not is another story

It is going to take a bit of time before I get the hang of this meta-connected system. There's texting, Twitter, LinkedIn, Facebook, blogs, RSS feeds, Google Voice, for chrissakes! Well, I want this blog to have components of all my mandates, maybe inclusive at times, may not be. I will probably have themed chapters. I will try not to be nerdy about it, yet as prolific as professionally and personally possible. Of course, there are other considerations, such as monetizing, making public, linking and commenting with others, becoming this public person. I never really aspired to be a public figure. It is strange how FB brings certain things out of you, however, in this modern age.

On another note, I woke up around four a.m. to a torrent of rain, haranguing the freight truck outside of my window. It was humid all of a sudden, so the combination of noises and rising temperature of my skin roused me in a most unpleasant way. I wandered over to the window to witness the assault upon my senses and was reminded of a more tranquil event I was privy to almost five years ago in South America. I was visiting Guyana for my grandmother's funeral after a ten-year gap. I was sleeping underneath ineffective mosquito nets, well, half-asleep really since I was determined to keep watch for those same midnight ninjas trying to transmit itchiness and tropical ails in one deft swoop.

So I was losing the fight and nodding off when all of a sudden I hear this tap-dance on the zinc roof where I was staying. It always starts out slow, but builds momentum to the point you can't believe it can still be so loud with the increased physical volume of water. It's the inverse of filling a bucket with water: after the initial pour, the water never vibrates so much while being filled, thus less noisy. No, this was an audio-equivalent to summertime cicadas. It was magical, especially since the block didn't have streetlights but for the full moon casting an eerie glow on the sheet of rain hitting at a subequatorial angle. Nothing like it in NYC.

One of the things I now realize, having finished this memory here, is another purpose I have- to capture the experience of a profound rainstorm in as many corners of the earth as life will allow me.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Launching the first fireball

Okay... so as I become ever more wired or connected to the virtual world, I become increasingly fearful of the actual existence of The Matrix. In fact, I am sure that I accidentally took the Red Pill this morning.