You may use Suave, but are you Suavv?

Hey, I'd like to show you a new online black men's magazine I am working on with a few talented folks. It's called Suavv Magazine, and I'm the Creative Director/Executive Editor. I know he hasn't said much about it either, but my homie with the Stereo is a writer also. Check it out, and let me know what you think!!

Visit SUAVV MAGAZINE. The hottest online men's magazine.

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Much ado 'bout nothing

The Associated Press reported about a mom disciplining her daughter, whose grades were slipping, had excessive latenesses and whose attitude needed reconstruction. Mom dukes' way of showing sista girl where she was headed with this behavior was to put her on the corner with a sign that read:

"I don't do my homework and I act up in school, so my parents are preparing me for my future. Will work for food."

Someone thought it was necessary to notify the department of human services of "psychological abuse." The police told them to leave the corner after an hour. As if DHS workers' caseloads weren't cumbersome enough with actual cases of abuse, someone thought adding this to the load would prove something.

Was it humiliating? Probably. But likely no more humiliating than mom coming up to the school to discipline her daughter in front of her friends. Actually, that's more humiliating, for a girl who as a teen, lives for acceptance. As far as I'm concerned, this is along the lines of my mom and dad telling me when my lateness was abhorrent (despite my honor roll performance), that I should practice saying "Do you want fries with that?"

Or a kid who keeps getting in fights and trouble with police being taken to a morgue. Sometimes that is enough to snap them in check. And if the mom shows she loves her daughter, which she obviously does, her self-esteem and her psyche won't be damaged.

But psychological abuse? Give me a break.

Sometimes people need to mind they damn bidness.

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In a sharing mood

I don't read my poetry very often (read: I've done it twice). I don't want to sound like anyone but me, and from being underground on the scene in the past, I found that many many many people here in Illadelph are trying to sound like Sister Sonia. I love Sonia. Wanted to be in her class. But I don't want to sound like her. I want my own sound, should I decide to read aloud. I think I have my own sound, but I don't have my own voice yet. I'm less interested in having a voice out loud right now than I am in having a voice in between the lines. I suppose I should hone that voice to prepare for the day that I have my own book, to stand before language lovers and share. But that, like my poetry, is a work in progress.

I'm in a sharing mood today, so here's an untitled piece I wrote a few weeks ago. It's so nice to step off this writer's block. I never thought I was afraid of heights until I found myself stuck on one of them.

Untitled
found myself in that
silly
infatuated
section of my heart
again with you

you know
when a cursory wink
makes me giggle
and you mouth
'I love you'
into
the air's ear

and like a leaf
in Autumn
I float aimlessly
through your breeze

until you catch me
in the hammock of
your smile

but just as your breeze
can change direction
you turn my spirit
grey
when you say
it's all out of fun

and there again
I've fallen
for someone else
who is
emotionally or
otherwise
unavailable.

(C) JGH

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Where's American pride now?

My return from sabatical comes with many apologies. But I can't not write about things going on in this country right now, as we reveal our dirty underskirts. Given my occupation I will tread lightly in the area of punditry, but it goes without saying that I say something.

Much like my good blogpal Avery, I too have been fortunate enough (read: sheltered) to have never seen a corpse that wasn't decked with flowers and pallbearers. I have never gone involuntarily without food and drinking water, and have never felt as helpless as thousands of people are feeling now.

So it was with great emotional upheaval that I watched and read about Hurricane Katrina over the past week. Gladly, my colleagues who were down in the affected areas are safe and doing okay. But it is unfathomable for me, even as I see the treachery of it all, that human beings were left to fend for themselves surrounded by water four times my height with no means of communication, no answers, no help, no nothing, for more than a week.

People are still being evacuated...why has it taken this long?

My city is welcoming many of the evacuees (they are NOT refugees! They are citizens of THIS country!) this week. I am glad, because I will be able to help more readily than if they were farther away. But I am also leery, because a lack of foresight is what leads to catastrophic consequences such as we have seen, and I hope cities are really considering the needs of people, both short and long term, as they welcome them.

Aside from the political (que: rash) quibbles over who is to blame (from Bush to NO Mayor Nagin to FEMA) , and semantic/ethical issues of phrasing in media, one thing's certain: this is all about class. The people who were able to leave were black, they were white, they were blue, whatever--they had the means and the money to get out. The people who were left behind, while overwhelmingly black, were also white, young and old---and overwhelmingly poor. People for whom a mandatory evacuation should have meant a mandatory means of evactuation.

People who, in conditions left to fend for themselves lived by natural law, and who were surrounded by other law-abiding people as well as lawbreakers,and whose needs were overshadowed by the few engaged in senseless acts of crime. But we were given images of New Orleans as a land of anarchy violence and chaos, a place too dangerous for rescuers to enter. An effective way to dehumanize people and rationalize not aiding them immediately.

But I'm not here to point fingers.

I'm here to ask, in spite of the numerous contributions individuals, corporations, organizations, you name-its have given, where the publicly stated prayers are? Remember 9/11? It was within 48 hours that our televisions were taken hostage by advertisements sending condolences to the familes of victims. Commercials blazing the stars and stripes in her triumphant glory, declaring us all proud to be Americans.

Yet, I can't help but notice that not a single commercial claiming American pride or well-wishes and prayers for familes hit by Katrina has aired.

Again, it goes back to class. The 9/11 tragedy largely hit people working in well-to-do occupations. Katrina hit a below-working-class, "buried under the federal poverty line" city with few people having a high school education. Suddenly big commercial companies aren't so quick to identify with that kind of America, and have shelved their glossy images of heroes and banners waving 'til the rocket's red glare.

I end on that note, already having said far too much.

Disclaimer: These opinions are solely the author's and do not in any way reflect those of the author's employer.

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Music to your head

Neuromusicology, or the study of how music affects the brain, is this neo-therapy practice that assesses your brain for signs of anxiety, depression, insomnia, etc. and then converts your brain waves to music. The music is then played back on a personalized cd to promote either relazation or activity.

So I noticed this on Good Morning America on my way out the door, when I saw Diane Sawyer all hooked up like a surge protector. It's some fancy method of an EEG which scans your brain waves.

Okay.

I don't remember the wires being clipped to my face when I got an EEG once upon a time, but who's keeping score. Apparently, this therapy is gaining popularity or something, or at least catching interest.

My question is, can brain waves convert to hip hop?

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Sum-m Sum-m Fo` Tha Ridez

So says the Textilizer over at Gizoogle, a nifty little Snoopified version of Google search engine. Get the same results, just clockin' it real. Found this gem on at Dan Rubin's blog at Philly.com.

Try it; it's so ridiculous you have to chuckle. Type in your mayor's name, for example. Do it!

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An Open Letter

Dear Jill:

I'm so sorry, please forgive me.

I heard you and understood you yesterday when you said how the thing you dislike about celebrity is the way people are no longer real with you. How suddenly they're so mesmerized by you that they can't hold normal conversation with you. I stood there and heard you say that, but Jill, I did not listen. And I'm so sorry.

Maybe it was that I'd been standing since 12:30 by the time I'd seen you at 4. Maybe it was that I'd tried and failed to get you to sign my copy of your book the last time I came to see you. Or that every time you come back home I miss you, no matter how many days you're in town. Maybe it was that I'd wanted to know just who you were since the first time I read the answer to "Who is Jill Scott?" in the Inkie.

But whatever the reason was for my behavior, it was no excuse. I was so out of line yesterday Jill, and I'm sorry.

I stood in front of you as you signed your book, grinning like I stole something, and you tried to have a conversation with me. I talked through my smile as if I'd had dental work that stretched my face, saying how I'd missed you the last time you were here and I had to come back. And then, I got beside myself. I asked of you a special request.

You looked at me like I was crazy, and I'm sure I deserved the look. But for whatever reason, you said yes, and you wrote my favorite line of yours in the book.

I was so busy being a (fill in the blank) that I didn't ask you the "real" question I had. I really wanted to ask you why you did not include that fabulous poem from Experience: Jill Scott, "The Thickness." It was the first poem I'd heard by you, and the first poem I looked for in The Moments, the Minutes, the Hours.

I felt more shame than elation as I walked away from your desk. Jill, you are the kind of "celebrity" everyone should be. You are beautifully human, and on that spring Saturday I did not treat you as such. I treated you in the way that turns those other celebrities into the pigs they are. I did not deserve the request you granted. I'm grateful you did it, but I certainly was out of line for asking in the first place.

Sincerely,

Janae

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Pieces of me

I haven't shared a poem in a month of posts. So here's one, unlike how I usually do by reaching in my vessel of works, that I just wrote today:

Iodine Love

i opened my veins
and bled my love for you
you tasted me
and it scared you
that you could bleed
for me too.
seven times seven
my wounds washed
in your ocean's contemptous waves
and i bled
and bled
from every word you'd say.
i bled
a sea of errors
from my eyes
but you'd turn your head
the other way.
you knew
as long as you held my gaze
you'd be nursing
an open wound too.

By Janae

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Regatta My Way!

I'd like to find the individual who thunk up the Dad Vail Regatta and give him a big ole hug. Thank you! You have not only succeeded in making my ulcer-inducing commute heartburn's haven, you have inspired yet another cursed event within a week of your "traffic-diverting, hmm you know a good idea would be to close off a thoroughfare people rely on during rush hour for THREE WHOLE DAYS so our crew wearing our speedo-tight suits can frolick across the street with abandon while the real folks who have JOBS to get to sit wasting gas and space in bumper to bumper traffic all over the effin city" event.

Thank you!

So I've been late for work and late getting the Buttercup from school--I should be reimbursed for every extra $10 late fee I pay, thankyouverymuch--all thanks to the Dad Vail and now the Stotesbury Cup Regattas.

Do those things on someone else's time, really! Why not make it a weekend event? Really? Must you be in my way when there's already enough traffic doing that just fine?

Yes, and an extra warm hug to all the media outlets (cough, cough, KYW1060) for your inability to report on the traffic conditions IN THE CITY. Thank you for telling me there's an overturned truck on 202 and a mile-long backup on I-95 near the Villanova exit. Thank you for not saying ONE word about the various routes that are strewn with angry motorists all thanks to the very necessary event known as a regatta.

Rush hour, though. That was a brilliant idea. You can tell rich people came up with that one. Rich people don't have rush hour; their money is too busy making them money so they don't have to work for it. The rest of us, meanwhile, spend our first and last hours of work trying to get there.

Thank you.

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Black Like Me

I don’t watch a whole lot of television. I’m a sporadic viewer, mostly because I don’t have the time, but also because I don’t have the attention span. When I tally up my hours in front of a screen at the end of the week and they approach double digits, I feel as if that is time wasted. I watch at most, four hours a week.If I'm tuned in, it’s usually regulars like Law & Order, Cold Case, Girlfriends and maybe half of Half & Half, and America’s Next Top Model.

Last night’s episode if ANTM struck a chord with me that’s been a-singing for years. It’s what I think I’ll call Black America’s Box. There were four remaining candidates in the race for ANTM, two of whom are Black: Keenyah and Naima. Keenyah is the color of maple syrup, with an obtrusive jaw and a selfish disposition. Naima is a fair skinned, racially ambiguous ballerina with probably the only cool mohawk I’ve ever seen.

The model-wannabes have been in South Africa for the past few weeks, and on last night’s show they drove through the township of Soweto and to Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela was held prisoner from 1962 to 1984. Well Keenyah was being extra obnoxious for the entire trip, overspeaking about how profoundly affected she is by being in South Africa “because I’m Black.”

After the sixth time hearing this, I was sick of Keenyah. It seemed more to me like she was trying to convince herself that being in Africa should affect her because she is Black, but not necessarily that she believed it. It also seemed like she felt some exclusive entitlement to her pain at seeing people who live in tin roofed huts shoulder to shoulder on a stretch of dusty land—as if that poverty is not a human issue and is simply a Black people's problem.

As if her annoying drivel weren’t grating enough on my nerves, I was fuming when she allowed the words “I don’t really see Naima as Black” fall out of her mouth. Who elected you as Race Judge? Why do a few shades of brown make a difference in Naima’s race, such that her ethnic makeup is completely discarded in your eyes?

This was evident in Keenyah’s absolute disgust when Naima got to use the key that opened Nelson Mandela’s cell. Then (cue spoon to tonsils) she made an overt display of emotion in the cell, as if she “as a Black person” was so impacted by this experience. Give me a break chick. She doesn’t even know whether Nelson Mandela is still alive, and probably doesn’t care. I’m confident that Brittany, Kahlen and Naima knew more about him than Keenyah did.

I still hear Keenyah telling Naima she isn’t Black to her. I still hear her saying “I don’t really see Naima as Black” in the confessional. And the sad thing is, I know there are a few thousand people across America who concur with this drivel.

Because Black America is so obsessed with “Blackness,” we are blinded to its impedimentary effect on the race’s solidarity. We don’t see how silly it is, and how stooopid we sound when we say things like, “so-and-so didn’t sound Black” on the phone. When we assume that a person with fair skin and not so nappy hair must be white, when we expect certain behaviors or political beliefs from people as a measure of their Blackness, we are wasting time. We are wasting energy. We have too much work to do to waste time on inconsequential pseudo-ideologies.

For example, look at the way we associate the Black race with unproductive characteristics. Suddenly being “ghetto” or “hood” means being Black. A Black kid with a skateboard is not meant to happen. Everybody else can date interracially, except Black people—for shame of being a “waste of Black.” Oh, and my favorite, when I used to tell people I danced, and they automatically assumed I meant I danced hip-hop, jazz or tap. Never ballet.

And to think, for so many years we had to hear these things from our oppressors, that we have hammered the nails around our own box by believing them. Will we ever dock and unboard this slave ship?

UPDATE 5/18: And we have a winner... Naima takes the tiara as America's Next Top Model!

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Up jumps tha boogie

I'm in the mood to dance. I wish I could get paid to take dance class all day; I'd work a 60-hr week. Growing up I took dance, starting with the standard formula--ballet/tap/jazz--forming a love-hate relationship with both ballet and jazz, but loving tap. The times I hated the other classes were usually because I didn't like my teacher or my classmates. Sometimes both. Drama queen that I am, my favorite thing was the recital.

I eventually quit altogether, only to return to (go figure) ballet six years later, all for the love of performance. It was certainly a test of will, taking class with kids the same age I was when I quit. But I did well, moving up two levels in one year, and every year until I graduated. (Had I gone back one year earlier, I probably would have been in the advanced class.) My only regret is that I didn't have the confidence to go back to jazz, or even try hip-hop.

Today, due to unplanned but not unfortunate events, I'm no longer dancing. But seeing dance, whether live or on tv, awakens that suppressed urging to be on that springboard floor.

That said, here's a list of some of my favorite dance videos, in no particular order:

"Oh"--Ciara feat. Ludacris
"Rhythm Nation"
"If"
"I Get Lonely"--Janet Jackson
"Get Ur Freak On"
"I'm Really Hot"
"Hot Boyz"--Missy Elliot

"Hot Like Fire"
"Are You That Somebody"
"Try Again"--Aaliyah
"Maria, Maria"--Santana feat. Product G&B
"Smooth"--Santana feat. Rob Thomas
"Yeah!"
"You Make Me Wanna"--Usher
"My Love is Like (Whoa)"--Mya
"Baby Boy"
"Naughty Girl"
"Work it Out:"--Beyonce
"Like Glue"
"Gimme tha Light"--Sean Paul
"Bad"
"Thriller"
"Smooth Criminal"--MJ

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Words Cannot Describe...

BEEB WANTED TO QUIZ DEAD STAR
From Daily Record - 01/04/2005 (129 words) By Eva Simpson

A BUNGLING BBC researcher tried to get an interview with reggae legend Bob Marley - 24 years after his death.
She wrote to the Bob Marley Foundation asking if they could arrange for the Jamaican to appear on a BBC2 documentary, No Woman No Cry.


Current affairs researcher Paysley Ross said it would 'only involve Bob Marley spending one or two days with us', adding: 'The story would only work with some participation from Bob Marley himself.'


Marley died in 1981, aged just 36.
Last night, a Marley family source said: 'We didn't think there was anyone on the planet who didn't realise that Bob passed away years ago.'


A BBC spokesman said: 'This is not an April Fool. We are very embarrassed.'
http://www.bbc.co.uk

According to a co-worker of Ms. Ross, seems she is headed to LA for a reporting job by week's end. Must be nice.

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Regurtigating Rhymes

"Now what I look like? Givin a chick half my trap
like she wrote half my raps, yeah, I'm havin that." *

A certain radio station last week played a montage of song clips titled "I'm not a writer I'm a biter." Most music listeners familiar with hip-hop know who is famous for that line. Now, I knew when Nas asked "How many of Biggie's rhymes gonna come out your fat lips?" that Jay-z had more than a handful of songs with the late rapper's lyrics. But my head hit the wheel (I only listen to the radio in the car) when I heard how many other rappers' lines the so-called greatest rapper lifted.

Pac.
Slick Rick.
Snoop.
Nas.

And those are just names I can remember.

Now I'm by no means a rap or hip-hop critic, or even a hip-hop head. But I think there is a definitive separation from using another artist's line as a sign of respect for his game, and being too damn lazy to write your own stuff. That's plagarism set to music, if you ask me.

Thoughts?

*This line, from the song "Who Ya Wit" is just humorus, because during his career, I don't think Jay-z even wrote half of his raps.

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You are looking at an official college graduate! Go OWLS!!!! Whoot whoot!!!!
Posted by Hello

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Cutting corners on the road to hell

The concept of a "degree" or "certificate" in nine, 18, or even 24 months has always sounded suspicious to me. Particularly from so-called schools that are guaranteeing a bright future for a bunch of slackers who don't want to bother with real college, but want to reap the benefits of a degree. I say that because these schools, these "techinical" or "trade" schools, promise students not only jobs, but jobs paying $30,000 upon completion of a certificate or associate's program. Guaranteed job placement, they boast. Well here's news for those folks: you may not get that much in your first job with a four year degree. And that's taking a big leap of faith that you'll land a job at all.

As I watched the segment on 60 Minutes last night about a federal investigation prompted by lawsuits former students and employees filed because they'd been ripped off by subsidiaries of the for-profit Career Education Corp., I heard nothing but violins. They'd been fed the dream of big bucks the easy way, and were angry at their gullibility. Students at the Brooks College (California) fashion design program were upset that they'd graduated the school with jobs folding shirts and upwards of $80,000 in loans. Similar stories were relayed from students at ITT and Katherine Gibbs School and several others.

Associate producer Jennifer MacDonald went undercover posing as a student interested in different programs at different CEC schools. She was told at one that choosing fashion design she "can make anywhere from hundreds of thousands to if you go up to be a designer." And when she showed interest in the medical assistant program at another school, the admissions specialist practically handed MacDonald a roster despite attempts to disqualify herself.

There's no selectivity in these schools, unlike colleges and universities, which require transcripts, recommendations, personal essays and sometimes interviews before accepting a student. As one former CEC employee said, "You need three things. You need $50, a pulse, and you’ve got to be able to sign your name. That’s about it.” I'm willing to bet anyone could walk in to ITT and say "I never finished 11th grade," and the admissions rep would reply "There's no better time to start over than now! Sign here on the dotted line!"

Be wary, is all I'm saying. If you're not willing to put in the four, six, twelve years it may take to earn a six-figure salary, you're only fooling yourself by thinking an associate's or certification program with "career placement" alone is going to open those doors. It takes hundreds of hours' worth of strained eyes, thousands of words written, boxloads of books highlighted and then experience in the field to get the big bucks. Most importantly, and this alone can sometimes push a person sans degree very far--you need ambition.

It's unfortunate that the education industry is mimicking the predatory ways of lending, entertainment and fashion by hawking dreams to dreamers. But the cliche became a cliche for a reason; if it sounds too good to be true, it usually is.

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Updates and thangs

Hey there, long time no blog.

I've really got to keep this place up better. Put it higher up on my to-do list. Things are just a little maddening right now. The Buttercup is just a handful. Hi-larious, but extremely busy. So days are full of adventure, humor, and cleaning up. A lot. All the time.

Also on my list of things-to-do recently, I just submitted my entry for a local fiction writing contest. I've spent the last six weeks working on my story. Wish me well!

Plans are also in the works to enter another poetry contest. I've just been in a competive mood of late, lol.

And last, but absolutely not least, I'm getting ready for my big day. Soon I will officially be a Class of 2005 graduate. Updates are certain to come.

FYI: I am also an official gmail account-holder now. *cheese* (Of course, peeps who use my other email are always welcome to continue.)

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I only ask of you one thing.....

Dear folks:

First and foremost, Happy New Year!

I come to you today for a much-needed conference. Yeah, you could call me a bit squeamish regarding my loss of anonymity since entering the blogsphere. I haven't decided whether I'm comfortable enough to continue this so-called-blog. Granted I don't even write often enough as is. Not only am I accessible via this blog, that little invention called the business card also sends out my information when I hand it over to another party. I'm a pretty private, to myself person. I take in small groups of people at a time; however I couldn't count the number of people whom I know and who know my name. It's what happens when your byline is printed every week.

But I digress.... This conference is in response to the nature of emails from people who think they know me. As said before, I'm reticent about this whole all-access thing. So if someone should see my name or business card, or read this blog and think, "hey, I know her!"--that is okay with me. However, if that someone would like to contact me and find out if I am who he/she thinks I am, I only ask ONE THING:

Please do not email me with cryptic questions. Do not ask me who I am or where I've been or ask me to disclose anything about myself without first introducing yourself. It's a rule in the game I play 9-5: when calling to ask a person a whole bunch of questions, I must first identify myself and my business affiliation. Otherwise it makes people (like myself) feel invaded, defensive, and I'll even admit, paranoid.

Granted, as a good blogbuddy of mine knows, I have ventured into the whole idea of "reconnecting" with an old friend. It takes guts, and a lot of energy, to do. But as I said before, I always say who I am and why I'm calling before I go any further. Because, a person is going to be a little thrown off by a random message or phone call as is; no need to be all spooky and leave cryptic and suspicous information. Being honest upfront totally increases receptiveness, and lessens the chance that the person will think of you as a psycho.

That being said, I would on many levels like to continue this blog in 2005. Hey maybe even post more than twice a month, you know? This world we live in is strange enough on its own, with identity theft and the countless other wacky things people are capable of. Thus, should I continue getting messages from people who do not identify who they are but want to know a whole lot of stuff about me, the shop will close.

Until then, toodles!

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