Oh, How I Missed You So...

View from the old crib, courtesy of Nina Parks


Forgive me for the lack of update, as I just got back into town during one of my last trips back "home" to the Bay. I use this term loosely, as my new home is in Los Angeles, with my man, and my squirmy son inside this traveling womb of mine. Dreading the tail end of my gestation, I flew home on a whim knowing that, soon, I would be lugging around more than just carry-on, and welcoming a new phase in my life that is motherhood. With the holidays, the baby showers, and my twenty-fifth born date on the horizon, I needed this solo excursion to mentally prepare myself for the unselfishness that is being a mommy.


Being away from my family has been the hardest, so when I came home to my mom's bed and set of PJs she always sets aside, it felt comforting. I awoke one morning from my increasingly awkward prego slumber and heard her get up and use the bathroom. She fell asleep on the couch and I walked over to the living room to tell her about my latest trimester-related ailments: a sore back and the lack of a full night's sleep. She walked over and massaged my back with an industrial-strength Brookstone massager. Then she got up, 7am and all, and made me hot chocolate, a panini, and cut up some persimmons for me to munch on. I fell back asleep in no time. Before I nodded off, I hoped to myself that one day, I would be to Kahlil, what my mother was to me, that morning and every other day in my young life. Things don't always seem that hard or scary when your mom is around, and as long as she is, I know that I am safe and in good hands.


I hung out with my sis and my girls almost every day for the four days I was home. We talked about broken relationships, our jobs, and the different places we're all in. Some of us are single and dating casually, drinking cocktails in the pulse of the night and the company of good friends. They tell me who they've seen around: the new generation of trashy scenesters eager to expend their newly-acquired drinking license, the skeevy promoters that holler at them, and the malt-liquor-loving post graduates, with their swelling bellies that seem to ignore the fact that every club weekend, their beer-breath charm is wearing thin and they're aging rather ungracefully. I think to myself, "God, I'm glad I'm out of that scene."

And my other folks, who are focused on their careers and saving those bartender tips for trips around the world, designer winter boots, and in my homeboy's case, an entirely new grown-man wardrobe devoid of schlumpy college garb. Goodbye, faded Che Guevarra silkscreens, wrinkled cargos, and plaid Wallabees. Hello, leather-lined wool fitted peacoat, crispy button-downs, and a pair of shiny black shoes you can apply your lipstick with. Yes, we are still the same political-minded, progressive individuals we once were, but its good to see we are dressing less for the opposite sex in a nightclub, and more for our ambition's sake.

All the girls went out and watched Tyler Perry's Why Did I Get Married, one single, one pregnant, one hitched, and one newly-attached. We made Hurricane popcorn, hid the massive Tupperware in my purse, and snacked on M&Ms and chicken fingers, never missing a "Ummhmm!", "No he didn't!", or "Go 'head girrrrl!" The movie was corny, but even in its corniest moments, I looked around and was in the company of my sisters, and the small ghetto crowd around us that shared in the exchange of on-screen verbal affirmation.

On the drive home to mom's, I rolled down the car window and breathed in the chilly Bay Area air that smelled faintly of wood-burning fireplaces and saltwater, a welcome break from the charred remains of Southern California that saturated the sky with acrid smoke. No crickets here, just the twinkling lights in the hills and familiar electricity in the air that meant the holidays were just around the corner. As I navigated around the streets I knew so well, I remembered how much I loved driving home solo after dropping everyone off, usually high and buzzed, bumping an R&B song hella loud, one hand on a cig and dragging deeply. This time, I drove home sober and in full silence, one hand on my belly, excited to sink into bed and missing the father of my son.


It was around this time that we officially got together last year, and I haven't felt this nostalgic since then. I remembered how he used to fly in for a show and stay with me for the weekend, how nervous and excited I felt when he pressed the buzzer after waiting weeks to see him. I'd touch up my hair, take one last look at the mirror, and open the door, casually, as if I wasn't really waiting at all. He'd stand there, black beanie cocked to the side, backpack slung over his shoulder, and exhausted, but happy to have a place he could call home away from home, in my presence. We drove around the city together, bundled up and ready to spend our first holidays in the throes of new love. Early breakfast at Lucky Chances, a walk down Mission to buy coffee and cigarettes, buying a Christmas tree from rehabilitated ex-cons at the Alemany Flea Market lot, getting twisted with the roomies and bumping my iPod via tape attachment in the dining room of Brazil and Madrid. This time, it is just me and Kahlil in the Bay, and he reminds me of how different things are and how the "home" that used to be mine, really just consists of my mother's guest bed that is occupying me for a weekend.

This is my first holiday away, with my own family, and my own house to celebrate. And while I may miss those cold fall nights in the city I love, I know that my life consists of so much more, and that I am always welcome back. 'Til next time, San Fran...I've got another life and someone who misses me in L.A. too.

Sara Bartman: The Original Video Vixen



I hope this puts to rest the whole "sexual empowerment" cop out women tend to make when trying to justify the "hoeification" of their bodies for male entertainment.


That goes for all my Pinay sistas out there too, especially on punk ass sites like Babes Blvd and Pinays.com.

Just remember, it ain't empowerment if your motherland is making a majority of its domestic and international profit from sex trafficking .

You're better off trying to emulate Gabriela Silang, not that dodohead, Jeri Lee.

Wu Tang Uncensored Part 2:



Wu Tang on the Don Imus Controversy, and Black Media Depiction:

U-God: Don Imus look like walking death. I don’t know what the fuck he talkin’ about.

RZA: You watch the Flava Flav show, who’s family, and the New York show and all the spin-offs. That shit is savage.

U-God: Buffoonery.

RZA: That’s coon shit. But it’s celebrated. So therefore, if its celebrated and it’s a big show, we all watchin’ it, somebody like Imus, who may watch the show, he see how niggas treatin’ niggas. So he watchin’ these girl play ball, so “Oh, they nappy-headed hos”.

Wu Tang on the N*Word:

GZA: A nigga can be any living thing. If it’s a fly in the room, you be like “That nigga flew in here.”

U-God: Think of the word fly. Where did the word fly come from? That shit is super-fly! Who thought of that shit?

RZA: In my opinion, words are used to trap ideas. But the word “nigga” doesn’t impose the idea that it once had…(As a kid, watching tv) The word “nigga”, when you hear it, it makes the adrenaline come. Now, the word nigga don’t make the adrenaline come out my stomach anymore. We changed the polarity of the word. Just like, “That’s the shit, my nigga!” Shit is the most foulest thing that comes in the world, and a nigga is the most degraded person…People on tv, they say we buryin’ the word nigga. In my opinion, we bury the context, the means, and the effect of it. Is the word gonna disappear? Nah, it’s never gonna disappear. And white boys need to find a new word to fuck with us, because that don’t work no more.

Steve Rifkind, CEO of Loud Records, on Media Censorship:

I think they’re overreacting.

If someone says bitch, hoe, or mentions the “n” word, I understand that, but as a record company, we make three different versions that costs us money to try and protect the kids.

We gotta look at ourselves in the eye and say hey, “If my son is saying ‘Fuck You’ thirty-million fuckin’ times in the middle of school to try act cool, that’s my responsibility and he must be getting that from some person. So that person must be me. Or his mother.

RZA on the upcoming election:

I’m not political. But on a spiritual level, if we get Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton to run together, it’s a wrap! That’s the country changing. People gon’ come to America like, “I want to come to America. America is the place of dreams.”

If I had to say who would win between Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton, there’s no way in the world a white man would choose a black man over a white woman

guerilla bus token:

Fake Eyelashes = The "New" Fake Tits?



I've always loved how false eyelashes added that extra "oomph" to photo shoots, special events, holiday parties, and even Halloween, but after seeing my girl rock them on the daily like a pair of favorite worn-in jeans, I wondered, "Am I high-maintenance enough to sport these on a regular day?"

So I decided to rock a new pair of falsies that I "splurged" five bucks on during a random impulse buy at Ulta to a party at the Avalon this past Friday. I got the most natural-looking kind and spent nearly an hour painstakingly applying and reapplying those tricky little sons-of-bitches to my orbs with the beauty-equivalent of Elmer's Glue, and the most dangerous pair of sharp, pointed tweezers.

After sweatin' on the sink and nearly impaling myself, I got the impact that I wanted: a sexy fringe and a little lift that begged the question, "Are those real?"

When we showed up to the event, everyone was drunk, belligerent and donned in their best fuck-me getups. Being the responsible upcoming parents that me and my man are, we went off to the side, cup of ginger ale in hand to survey the shenanigans of the weekend crowd. I zero in on a bunch of cheaply-dressed broads grinding each other for the blog photog and see them rockin' falsies too, but the fattest, fakest, tranniest fan of horsehair to be attached to a face; ones you can spot a mile away. Accompanying them were other obvious accoutrements: fake tits perched near the collarbone, polyester halters, camel-toe shorts, and stripey highlights. The falsies were only the cherry on top.

The more I noticed the more I saw - and realized that all the girls got the memo: fake it 'till you make it. While this can apply to certain situations in subtlety, some of these nasty tricks were adding it to repertoire of other fake ass shit they were modifying their body with. I felt gross, and partly guilty of participating in this trend, although I knew it was harmless.

So when I went home, I washed my face and peeled them off with gusto. My man was none the wiser. And then I thought of the other girls and how long it took them to get back to their normal selves. Clip-on extensions? Check. Bra inserts? Check. Colored contacts? Check. Silicone tits and acrylic tips? Sooner or later, my dears. But what are these girls left with when everything that isn't truly theirs is left on the bathroom vanity? A plainer, boring version of their true selves? Something that will never be good enough...



(Bus Token: Forget the fake tits. Use the Wonderbra. If you're gonna use something to "enhance" your looks, or even your self-esteem, make sure you're using it in addition to your flyness, not in substitute of.)

Wu Tang: Uncensored, Part 1




RZA on Street Cred:

I could get on a train, on a New York City subway – which I did this summer – riding the train back and forth. Nigga just came home from jail, see me on the train and shit, sittin’ there like this. He lookin’ at me like, “You RZA, god?” I said, “Yeah true indeed.” “Oh shit, word is bond! Respect. Damn god.What’s crackin’? If you was, 50, god, I would rob you!” (Everybody laughs) He really said it right to me. I’m lookin’ right at this nigga like, “This nigga is crazy.” But that’s, Wu though.

RZA on Industry Racism:

I never got a check of an advance from BMI or ASCAP. Now, I done put out 400 songs in my career and made money with them. I never got a check from them, except the regular ones you get in the mail. They gave Scott Storch a $6 million dollar advance. That gotta be ‘cause he a white Jew. There’s no other reason. I say it like it is.

U-God on Artist Creativity:

People have sterile imaginations. I can say that my brothers definitely are from the generation of no Atari, no Playstations. You gotta go outside in the back and make stickballs. We do have more of an advanced imagination. I had to play with myself, literally, in my house.

Wu Tang on Hip Hop Misogyny:

U-God:

It’s a crazy situation ‘cause, the other day, I was talkin’ to my moms. We was talking about how these little girls don’t know how to be queens. They don’t have morals or how to move like a real woman with class. They just trashy. Like, in my mother’s day, a woman wouldn’t dare walk down the street in flip flops. She’ll get beat. Parents make sure she go out the house with shoes or proper clothing on. Nowadays, women walking with flip flops on, and t-shirts, titties damn near coming out the shits.

RZA:

Women are a natural representation of sex. We know that. And that’s y’all natural thing. But the whole jewel about it though is that, anything valuable is covered. You want oil? You gotta dig. You want diamonds? You gotta dig. You want gold? You gotta dig. The earth is covered ¾ of its surface, with water. So a woman is supposed to cover herself, preserve her jewelry for a proper man. But we in a generation right now that, niggas is buildin’ houses, and you buildin’ a stripper pole in your house. That’s part of your furniture, now.

GZA:

My dentist, he would come over and say, “You see BET Uncut last night?” 50-year old white man watchin that shit daily. Masturbatin’ to that shit. That’s another thing.

Back to RZA:

Naked women, they do it in front of me, I’m lookin’. But, at the same time though, something inside of me is like, “This bitch is stupid.” To me, these women that swear they strippin’ to make money, that’s mad waste of their money. You can sell socks and get money. You gotta degrade yourself, and degrade your spirit and your soul day by day? That’s like eatin’ pork every day. The more you eat it, the bigger effect its gonna have. It don’t have that effect on the first ham sandwich. They keep decreasing their souls, by the time they get 35-40 forty years old, we’ll have a soulless generation walking around. And I don’t doubt that we’re now heading towards that.

Next post: Part 2: Wu on reality television, a woman president, and the N-Word

WHITE BOY INTERVENTION




Message to Ya Boy:

What are you doing?!!! Look, we go way back, and I support your career and all, but WTF. Okay, the whole, hanging-with-Kevin-Federline was questionable, but Spencer Pratt?! Do these fucking white boy douchebags think they're gaining street cred by hangin' with you, or are you tryna holla at them coked-out snowbunnies on Sunset?

The last time I seent you at APL's birthday party, I gave you a hug and said "You Hollywood now!" in jest, but this one takes the cake. I wish you the best of luck always, and know that you always got fam in Fillmoe, but come on now. Of all the white boys you could be kickin' it with in Hollywood, you gotta pick those asswipes. Frisco is taking this hard, just to let you know. And tell Spencer that I'm for Lauren all the way! (Put down that silly ass Westside, rich boy)

My Wu Tang Article is finally OUT!



(Pick up the new Source, October 2007, with David Banner on the cover. I know the reservations some of you Hip-Hop fans have about its past, but that ain't got shit to do with me! Read my article!)






NEXT POST...Wu Tung Clan: Uncensored

I'll be including stuff not in the interview, like how they feel about the WAR, the upcoming ELECTION, and whether Method Man likes Cali better than Amsterdam.

Stay tuned!

SCARY BRAGSHAW! HA!






Here's an post I found hilariously funny, courtesy of Jezebel, my new fav website.

Oh great: it's another story by an ambitious, successful, fabulous woman who can't find a husband! Not for lack of time, or interest: because she's so fucking ambitious, successful and fabulous! In this installment, the author goes on a date with a doctor at an Italian restaurant:

As we were finishing the main course, I struck up conversation with the owner (Marco) in Italian - I speak five languages. My date nearly choked on his linguini and spent the rest of the date mute. I had committed the worst dating faux pas: I had outshone my suitor.

Ugh, no; you bitch, you're a fucking show-off which explains the whole reason you would write a story about how fabulous you are. Guess what else? I bet your self-professed ambition can get in the way of you forming genuine human connections to others. It happens! And guess what else, else? Anyone worth dating can spot that shit a MILE AWAY.

A tip for next date: after you and Marco have your chat -- don't go over three minutes unless you're date's in the bathroom cause it's sorta rude -- don't let "five languages" be the first English phrase out of your mouth. Ha ha, better yet, do Marco! You're probably not as staggeringly articulate in Italian and he won't feel so terribly outshone. And he'll do all the cooking which is sorta beta right?

I went on a date with a guy once, a dude from Marin who happened to be the first (and last) white boy I ever went out on a date with. And although I usually don't date white boys for a couple of reasons (a. they were not around in my upbringing, so I never developed an attraction b. I despise the whole mail order bride look c. they just remind me of privilege that I will never have), I gave him a chance because I met him at a reggae club and he grew the best weed I ever smoked in my life.

He took me to a Thai restaurant and ordered everything in Thai. Then he told me he lived there for 3 months and was "always fascinated by Asian culture." I couldn't help but think about all the Asian women he wooed with that Thai-speaking bullshit and how I wished I could live in another country for 3 months to beef up my pickup lines. Ugh. Check, please.


Granted, the only differences with my story and Kate Mulvey's were race and gender, the whole speaking-in-another-language-on-a-first-date IS quite pretentious, regardless of ascribed gender roles.


It is true: once a woman, or anyone for that matter, deems themself more successful than their partner, sometimes it's their arrogance that drives a them away, not their success. The only solution to the ambitious woman who can't get a date, is to find an equally ambitious dude who appreciates the fact that she's not a simpy broad waiting to drop the propose-or-its-over ultimatum.


I do consider myself a successful, highly-educated, ambitious, no-nonsense woman who would have accepted never being married because of my IQ, but here I am, knocked-up and in a relationship with someone who covets my intelligence and still finds me sexy...it is possible! So the smartest thing I ever did, was ditch the losers and make a baby with someone I consider an equal (and vice versa). When the baby comes and the career takes a hiatus for either one of us, we are both equally content to step up/step back and rest assured that our gene pool wasn't compromised.

So easy, my monkey can do it!



Hung Wins, Of Course
(courtesy of Entertainment Weekly)


Hands down, Top Chef, is my favorite television series this season. Bravo is the shit, with Shear Genius, and Project Runway coming at a close 2nd and 3rd. But something about Top Chef resonates with me, especially this season. Of course, I hated Hung from the very beginning, but with my unique experience in reality television myself, I had to admit that it was him mostly that brought me back to the show every Wednesday evening. And remember, I was considered the "cocky" one on my show too, and ended up winning!

It's funny because there was a NY Times piece that mirrored Top Chef to the 2008 presidential election, with candidates representing a "minority" demographic (women, non-white, openly gay) dynamic enough not to be a representation of what we consider a "Top Chef" (or a President, for that matter). It was enough of a nail-biter for my man and I to root for our respective representatives (I for Casey as a woman, and him for Hung as an API male). As much as I hate it when people appreciate guys for their asshole tendencies, I resented the fact that women are given the "total bitch" double-standard in their disfavor. But when Casey was taken out early in the finale, I knew that Hung would be my only option.

My man explained it to me like this: Dale and Casey, although good chefs, will do fine after they lose, and their personalities don't make it exciting to be executive chefs at a new restaurant. Hung, however, along with his cocky-but-charismatic personality, in addition to his undeniable culinary skills, will make for a more interesting choice in a restaurant opened by a new chef. Meaning, we'd go to a Hung-owned restaurant even if he didn't win Top Chef, just to see what lil' dude would say. And something, underneath his irritating lack of humility, there was a resiliency that I can relate to: his immigrant background and meager beginnings, his passion to prove people wrong, and his little Vietnamese mother in the front row made the end result just as sweet. In the end, I knew as a (white) woman and homosexual, Casey and Dale would do just fine in their profession post-Top Chef. Hell, if they gave up cooking altogether and decided to start writing about Hip Hop, they'd do better than me. So of course, in the end, I felt vindicated by the little Vietnamese guy-that-could. I will miss, however, his grammatically-incorrect attempts at arrogant American catch phrases.

It's about FRICKIN' TIME!




I'm From Rolling Stone Photo Gallery

RE-HE-HE-HEEALLLY...(twidding fingers)



50 Things Men Wish You Knew

(Thank God this is in Men's Health and not Maxim. Ugh)

I knew I'd have a reason to hate those STUPID BITCHES of Desperate Housewives



Hello friends,

If you feel comfortable doing so, please take a minute to sign the following petition ( http://www.petitiononline.com/FilABC/) demanding an apology from ABC for allowing an ignorant remark regarding the Pilipino and Pilipino-American community to be recently made on Desperate Housewives (see attached email below). Also, if you feel comfortable doing so, feel free to email ABC your opinions directly at abc7@abc.com. Thank you!

GUS!
**********************************************************************************
Dear Kababayan and Allies:

I heard through the grapevine about a remark made on an episode of
"Desperate Housewives" last night. The scene entailed Teri Hatcher's
character (Susan) at a hospital, being told by her gynecologist
that she might be hitting menopause. Susan replied, "Can I just
check those diplomas because I just want to make sure that they are
not from some med school in the Philippines." If you go to abc.com,
you watch the full episode and witness the scene at about 18:50
minutes into the
episode.

This type of derogatory remark is not only unnecessary and hurtful,
but is also unfounded, considering the presence of Filipinos and
Filipino Americans in the health care industry. Filipinos are the
second largest immigrant population in the United States, with many
entering the U.S. and passing their U.S. licensing boards as
doctors, nurses, and medical technicians. In fact, the Philippines
produces more U.S. nurses than any other country in the world. So,
to belittle the education, experience, or value of Filipino
Americans in health care is disrespectful and plain and simply
ignorant.

As Filipino Americans, we need to band together to ensure that this
type of hateful message is not allowed to continue on our television
and radio airwaves. Given the recent amounts of media attention that
has been given to Michael Richards (against African Americans),
Isaiah Washington (against gays), and Rosie O'Donnell (against
Asian/ Chinese Americans), it is ridiculous that this type of
hateful speech made it through various screenwriters, the show's
producers, the show's actors, and ABC itself. Yet, this isn't the
first time that negative remarks have been made about the
Philippines or Filipinos in the past. In recent years, we've heard
one too many "dogeater" comments by "comedian" Joan Rivers on the
red carpet or in her standup act, and I believe that it is about
time that we stand up for ourselves, so that this type of hateful
speech never happens again.

Please join me in expressing your concern, disappointment, and/or
disgust to the producers of ABC.com. You can sign the petition at
http://www.petition online.com/FilABC/ or you can reach them directly
at abc7@abc.com.

And please feel free to forward this widely to other Filipinos/
Filipino Americans/ Asian Americans/ and other allies.

Sincerely,

Kevin Nadal,
Filipino Performance Artist/ Activist
knadal@gmail.com

Filipino Americans demand apology from ABC and Desperate Housewives