Well, excuse me!

Knock knock. *Slowly opening door, peeking in* Ahem. Remember me? Good.

I've stood up all day on less than 3 hours of sleep, and I really feel I need to express my thoughts on a few observations I've had lately. Bear with me, please.

Where's your hall pass?
It turns out I really dig my new gig. Like, who knew I would love pedagogy? Who knew I'd be so happy being in front of a room of hormonal, moody, impulsive, irrational, contrary, outspoken, cuss-you-out-till-your-momma-cries, self-absorbed, comedic young people? It turns out I really do. Even when they're obstinate and ignore me, I still like em a whole lot. But...

What I don't like is, after I've spent the better half of the semester telling a student to put her smutty book away, stop talking, do her classwork, turn in her homework, turn in something, and she obviously doesn't care enough to listen, she suddenly wants to turn me inside out when she gets her grade. How do you put in F-effort and expect an A????? And why are you mad at me for the choice you made, which was to fail? I told my students, "I don't give As; you have to earn them."

Doctor's (Sorta) In

"Our next available appointment is six months from now." Now seriously, I've had it to my eyebrows with the medical profession. WHY do I have to tell the office staff my arm's about to fall off, my child's going to get kicked out of school at the end of the month and my eyes are bleeding in order to be seen in a reasonable time? It seems the doctor can only see you at his or her convenience anymore! No, if my skin is falling off, I cannot wait until June to see you; I need an appointment this month! This week even! Then they try to act like they're doing you a favor and the doctor can "squeeze you in" during regular office hours. Like the customer service call center message that drones on that "We appreciate your business, and your call is important to us," while you sit on hold for 15 minutes. Right.

Friends don't let friends go

I understand that friendships are like relationships, and sometimes people just grow apart. In fact, the recent breakup of a longtime friendship of mine can be summed up in those words: we grew apart. We weren't on the same page anymore. It had to happen, our separation, or we were going to kill each other. Not that we saw oneanother that much to begin, but that's another rant for another blog.

Look, I know I am flaky. One generalization is that writers are flaky people, which I see no need to dispute. It's not something I'm always proud of, and I do think I could be a better friend, but I accept my fickle ways. All of my friends are flaky, and I embrace them for it. However there is a limit; there is a threshold where flaky becomes negligent.

I have a friend, in the loosest sense of the word, who has crossed that threshold. There comes a point where, after phone calls and text messages, emails and MySpace messages asking what the dickens is going on with no response, you just say eff it. I don't know what I did to this friend, even though she missed both my birthday and my daughter's (so yeah, I'm not too keen on that), and she's not talking to me to tell me. So, at some point you just stop caring. Right now I'm still circling around the block, trying to decide if this friendship and if she is even worth all this rigamarole. I can see the future, but I can't read minds.

Jalopy for Rent

No, really. There are times I wish I carried my camera with me, and this weekend was one of them. I actually passed a car on my way to the store that had a "For Rent" sign in its window. It was as if the owner were mocking himself, trying to rent his 1991 (I'm being really generous) hoopty...for cash. That owner (they can't be leasing a car worth $350) must have a great sense of humor.

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Misty Blue

I'm not in the happiest of moods lately. You know, "dreaming with a broken heart" and all. It is said that pain passes like the storm, no matter the length of the rain. I guess it's the pieces we have to pick up afterward that are the real work, the real pain, to get over. The cleanup only happens with work. So I guess I've got a part-time job.

Regardless, I won't let life keep me from feeding the fire I've just rekindled. Here's a WIP (work in progress, as always) I just finished. Like two minutes ago.

The Last Kiss

How he could look
and see through
me like we
never touched
hands

how he could
so easily
let me be forgotten,
dismiss my essence
when it enthralled
him just
yesterday

how he, a master
of verbs,
could not know
the pain
of words unspoken--
a mystery--

how he could
say she's an
invisible dot
when i can connect
her to every
half-truth he's
kept secret

is that the way
it is?
or, just how
it should have been
from the beginning
before the first
kiss goodnight
became
the last kiss
goodbye--

how could he?

JGH 2007

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Another One

Hot Damn! I'm on a roll like a pig on a platter... Lately the creative bug has bitten me, and I'm not complaining about the rash. In fact, I've been hoping this block would finally disintegrate, and it's certainly on its way. Maybe it's the New Year (a belated Happy 2007, btw), the new gig, the new shoes, but whatever it is, I'm baaaack...

I wrote this one on Saturday morning. Funny, it's called:

Saturday Circus

hard candy and bubble gum
hours in the toy aisle
French fries in ketchup soup
and staying up all night

the princess has free reign
at the weekend circus
she has tamed the center ring
whip in hand
feather in her ponytail
her wish
his command

whatever the queen forbids
the monkey slips in her pocket
shhh…she’ll never know
(but she always does)

each Monday is a reminder
that her life is finer
for 72 hours each week
where she has all the pleasures
of chocolate and sticky sweets
at the Saturday carnival
the longest-running circus
where she makes and breaks
the rules
and all wishes
come true

JGH 2007

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A bird with one wing...

...will only fly in circles.

I never understood the value of mentorship before, probably because the idea of befriending an individual with an ulterior motive sounded contrived. After all, the relationship is nurtured based on what that person can do to help you; what good is a mentor whose advice and network are of no benefit? I saw mentorship as a trite networking tool, rather than a sincere exchange, and had no desire for it.

But as I've gained experience in the twighlight zone we call a career, I see now that the value of a mentor is similar to the value of a smile from a stranger. It is said that a smile from a stranger could save a person's life, because you never know what a person's story is at face value. I now believe that mentors shape a person's career.

I never had one, not a career mentor at least. I was assigned a college mentor, a professor from the department I studied in at the time. It was not a process of self-selection, but rather an arbitrary match at the administrative level. We developed a rapport with one another, so much that when I switched majors, she remained my de facto mentor, despite not being "bound" by her duties to guide me. But while I am grateful to have had that relationship, I don't think it's the same as meeting someone who sees your potential and adopts you, or meeting someone whose work and ethics you admire and seeking his or her advice. We have not spoken since I graduated, as if our relationship were proxied only by my matriculation status.

Unfortunately, since I began in my field, no one has taken me under her wing. Equally unfortunate is the observation (and I am *extremely* observant, so I believe this to be true) that women in my field, and black women in particular, are reticent about reaching back. I find this unfortunate, because as an acquaintance of mine once noted, "black people are underrepresented in every profession except cosmetology and rap, "and more young people need to see examples of what they can become. I also find this unfortunate because the ones who have decided what we (think we) want to be need validation, in a sense. It is a tough world in the workforce, and having someone who's been there, who can offer counsel and encouragement, and who can show you beyond the forest. When you feel like someone is in your corner, you're less likely to back down. You're less likely to listen to the inner demons that say you don't deserve to be where you are. You're less likely to run away if you have someone to push you.

Last Thursday Ed Bradley passed away after a secret battle with leukemia. I was saddened by his death, because I admired his work on 60 Minutes. I was more saddened when I listened to his colleagues' and friends' lamentations that he'd died, because I heard over and over the same thing: Ed Bradley loved young people, and he loved reaching back.

Syndicated columnist Clarence Page wrote in the Houston Chronicle:

To me, Bradley was important because role models are important. You don't really appreciate the importance of role models until you're old enough to look back and re-examine the pivotal moments in your life and who had the biggest influence on you at the time. Role models matter.

"As a young black man watching him," a reader named "Greg" posted on the Chicago Tribune Web site: "I came to believe it was possible to be a successful black man without denying one's self." So did I. That's a powerful legacy Bradley leaves behind. Growing up in a working class neighborhood in Philadelphia, his folks used to tell him that he could be anything he wanted to be. He took them up on it.

In the Chigago Defender, Demetrius Patterson wrote:

NBC 5 News co-anchor Art Norman said Bradley paved the way for him.

''Ed Bradley was a friend to Chicago,'' Norman said. ''He helped us many, many times with different issues. He was a great friend of two of the founders of NABJ; I'm talking about Max Robinson and Vernon Jarrett. Whenever Max Robinson and Vernon Jarrett would come to a conference, Ed Bradley would be with them.

''He would be making sure that we had kids on the agenda. He was making sure that those of us who were veterans were mentoring young people. That's what he was about. And that's what he talked about and that's what he did behind the scenes.''

As I listened to news specials and read articles like these, I couldn't help thinking that perhaps if an Ed Bradley had reached out to me, or acknowledged my interest in a relationship, perhaps I would have survived my disillusionment. But as I said, because more black women in this field view me as a threat rather than an ally, I have been in this fight without a trainer. I felt alone because essentially, I am. For example, I attempted to befriend a colleague in my field by contacting her. I would give her praise for her work when warranted, and I tried to spark a dialogue with her. Our exchanges were not frequent, but knowing how busy she is as the only black and the only black female in her company, I didn't sweat it. But then I noticed that while she never took our email and phone exchanges anywhere beyond that, and she never offered any feedback--good or bad--to my work, she had embraced my male co-workers. When I emailed her before a male co-worker, I noticed she not only emailed him first but also called him...and set up lunch with him. She replied to me a week later. I have not spoken to her since. I don't have time for that pettiness.

Just yesterday I came across someone who is apparently more "seasoned" than I, and again, because brown faces are scarce in this business, I know she noticed a young, black professional woman right in front of her. I made eye contact with her twice, and twice she looked past me. Twice she pretended I was not there. Her work isn't even that great, and I wasn't necessarily seeking her guidance, but that she made it a point to ignore my very existence said more than she ever could.

I've never felt like I belonged in this business, and this has been an internal struggle of mine for a few years now. With each frustration and setback, and without anyone who has stuck it out to tell me the fight is worth it, the little fire I tried to keep burning has burned out. Perhaps if I'd had the opportunity to meet Mr. Bradley or at least someone like him, I would have been convinced to stick around.

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A small chip off the ole Block

Writer's Block is one hell of a sickness. When writing is your antidote to pain, your first meal of the day, your friend who knows you best, being unable to write is devastating. Deblilitating, even. Needless to say, the ole Block has been with me like a bad relationship, off and on, for a few years now.

I've been writing in fits and starts lately (even started a few posts that never went anywhere), but today I wrote and completed my first poem in two months. Funny, I was inspired to write this as I was studying for a test.

At any rate, this one is about one of my favorite pasttimes. I hope you enjoy the read as much as I enjoyed the write.

Cover to Cover

i was
wrapped in rainbows
for one hundred years of solitude
listening to krapp's last tape
and waiting
for a streetcar named desire
to take me to
the blackboard jungle
where things fall apart

and i learned that
a tree grows in brooklyn
where
the souls of black folk
are walking with the wind

i was
wounded in the house of a friend
tumbling
in a catch-22
with an invisible man
who had the bluest eye
and white teeth
he took me to
the learning tree
where we sat
and spoke of mice and men

he told me he knew
a black boy who
stole the heart of a woman
and then let her
drop
in the small rain
but she was only the prisoner's wife
and nothing more
than breath, eyes, memory
to us both.
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Warning!

It's been a long time, but you should know the deal by now. I am in a mood lately, and I just got something off my chest I thought I'd share. But I have to issue a disclaimer, that if you have sensitive eyes, ears, imagination, or whatever, you might want to skip this one. But knowing the morbid sense of curiosity we're given by human nature, you'll probably read on anyway. Don't say I didn't warn you (the title says enough).


Rebound (Kcuf You)
Tried to kcuf you away
hoping I could wipe
your residue
clean
afterward
Thought I would forget
about the burn
if I let him
take me
from your spot
Tried to let him
carve his name
in your place
so I could go home
and think of him
instead
of you
Tried to ride him as
far
away from you
as my hips could
grind me
thinking
'why you?'
'why me?'
all the time
Thought maybe this time
or next time
I open up
to someone else
I'll close the door
on you.
*9/6/2006*

(c) JGH

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The Birthplace of AlieNation

Dear City of Philadelphia,

I'd like to thank you for almost ruining my day yesterday. Thanks to you, I let down my daughter, who expected to spend her Saturday at the Welcome America Ice Cream Festival.

We got dressed and groomed for a day in the sun enjoying all the ice cream and water ice we could eat by the Delaware River. Instead, we drove down street after street from Old City to Society Hill with 'No Parking' signs at every meter. I was hip to your scheme, City of Philadelphia, by the time I turned off Market onto Front Street and saw those red-lettered signs all over the place. See you, City of Philadelphia, were trying to capitalize on the tourist haven that your beloved land is during America's birthday by giving revelers no other option but lot parking--at 20 effin dollars--to enjoy the festivities. And thanks to your shrewd planning, every lot along Delaware Avenue--I'm sorry, Columbus Boulevard--was full. So, after spending an hour driving on cobblestones and unpaved streets, I just went home.

So since my baby doesn't know or care who you are, she was upset with me. Because you let me, a tax-paying resident of your city, down to get more tourism dollars, I let my daughter down.

I know that tourists are heare to spend money, and if they're traveling on holidays like Independence Day or New Year's, they have the discretionary dollars to spend. But Philadelphia is mostly working class, paycheck-to-paycheck and out to find some cheap fun. I had it all planned out: $5 in change to spend at a two- or three-hour meter nearby, and $5 each for myself and my baby to attend the festival before enjoying a free concert featuring Cece Peniston and the Ohio Players. I intended to stay until I was depleted of change, sun-kissed and stuffed with sweets, my daughter's face stickier than fly paper, before going home to bathe her exhausted body and put her to bed.

But because you opted to alienate your own denizens, save those Old City and Society Hill dwellers, in favor of tourists, I did none of that. Don't worry though, I refused to let you melt our sundae. We got our ice cream, and got our sunshine on somewhere else. And trust, should this continue to be your modus operandi on future Independence Days, you can count this native out.

Yours truly,
A frustrated taxpayer

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Love and Happiness

A broken heart makes it easy to wallow in self-pity, easy to settle for victimhood. The struggle, the triumph, is getting back up again. To think of loving again immediately after your love-box is impaled is like craving a four-course meal immediately after a bout of vomiting. The very thought induces misery and pain associated with the purge itself, so much that at the time, you don't want to ever visualize, smell, or see food again. Eating is later re-learned, step by step, with first crackers, then a slice of bread, until you convince yourself you can eat again and hold it down.

Love hurts. The very thought of loving again during heartbreak or even at the beginning stages of recovery is torturous. You've already given so much, made yourself so vulnerable, so open to this union in which you've invested yourself, to be let down when it falls apart. What masochist would want more? But eventually, as you heal, you learn that you are more irrational in pain than in love, and you realize it's almost nonsensical to think, I'll never love again! In time, you find yourself longing --and ready--to love again. It could take months; it could take years. The point is not to want love in a co-dependent way, as if the thought of solitude is a prison sentence. The point of loving and losing love is to grow from it, to learn from it, so that when you're ready to love again, you can love even more. The heart is like a muscle; every time it tears, it regenerates and becomes stronger, as long as you continue to use the muscle.

I've had my share of heartbreak. I won't lie, one particular incident still hurts sometimes. But I am happy as a single woman. That's not to say--because I feel I must explain this--that I am content being single for the rest of my life; I am simply comfortable in my own company. But I am proud to know that I have conquered that self-pity, and I look forward to that day I will love again. I have not become the cynical, bitter and scorned woman who's lost faith in love. I have faith, which is of itself an accomplishment, that I will love again.

But why must people constantly make me doubt that faith?

It amazes me when I do things in the spirit of romance. I can be damn bold at times, doing a complete somersault out of my comfort zone. It makes me proud because the most recent time I got hurt, it was a situation where I'd made a bold move, and it backfired. But, I jumped again, this time convinced it was worth it. Here was someone I'd admired from afar for a while, someone with whom I felt compatible, whose conversation and company (physical and virtual) I enjoyed. We seemed kindred spirits, and it felt right to let him know how I felt. So, I confessed my feelings hoping for some resolution, big or small, between my love interest and me. And for a moment, that seemed the case.

Yet somewhere between "I dig you too," and "What now?," this nail-to-chalkboard inertia has set in, and not only has our alleged romance sat at a red light, our friendship has also since sat in purgatory. It's ironic because I remember in one of our debates about life and love, I said that I love being friends with men, it's when the line is crossed that guys start acting funky. He said it wasn't always the case, leaving me to believe he meant it wasn't the case with him.

But alas, it is. He has since been M-I-A, his presence along with his allegedly mutual feelings, leaving me no option but to take it personally. I put my heart on the line when I admitted my feelings, and I took that risk thinking the benefit would outweigh the cost. I took the risk because I thought he--we--had promise. This isn't so much heartbreak as it is plain disappointment. I'm forgiving enough that with the right explanation I'd still give him a chance, but I really hope his so-called feelings weren't just an obligatory concession. He seems an otherwise upstanding guy so I will give him benefit of a doubt.

Maybe he's scared. I understand; emotions are scary, because they're uncontrollable. Given our circumstances, being scared is expected, but it's no excuse for abandoning it all. Firstly, I thought we were friends. I can't take back what I said, nor will I, because it was honest. I just hope he realizes that avoiding his feelings won't will them away. In the meantime, I'll just keep the faith.

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Random Ramblings

I need to do some serious housecleaning upstairs. My mind is a cluttered mess. It's partly why I haven't written in a while. I've got to do better with recording my thoughts. If they'd only stop coming to me in the shower, I'd be good to go. A few things I must express:

• Driving with your children flipping around the backseat, hanging out the window, and climbing over seats, especially when they're small, is a form of child abuse/neglect. It disturbs me that people don't buckle their kids in before pulling off. The earlier you introduce the habit, the easier it is to remember. And for small kids, it should go without saying that they need carseats until they're at least 7 years old. Not doing so is knowingly endangering your child(ren)'s life. (Oh yeah, and if they're under 10, they shouldn't be in the front seat either.)

• So is smoking around them. Fine, you can't break your habit, and you're addicted to the cancer sticks. But do your kids have to inhale carbon monoxide?

• It really sucks that you can't tell your heart what to do. Or not to do. Like get attached to people.

• Do all black people have to be Christian? Is it really necessary to impose one's religion on other people? I don't go to church for want of a tabernacle- you can't go three blocks without finding one- it's obviously a choice. I respect yours; respect mine.

• Like white t-shirts worn six sizes too big were a bad idea, so is wearing a sleep bonnet in public. In no way is it cute, not even if you let a few strands of curled hair drape across your forehead. That, my friend, is a fashion-hell-no.
  

I guess the rest I should just keep to myself. It's one thing to have an image as a crazy bat and yet another to affirm the perception.

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Cyber Magnetic Poetry

I was playing around on this site for kids called Time Warp Trio and decided to create a poem. My theme was "The Future," and I came up with this diddy (I'm taking suggestions if you have an idea of a title):

Between today and
beyond time
you travel
my mind

Strange that
we are where we are
but if our day is here
I can love you
this time around.

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How can they sleep at night...

...knowing they put not just one person or one family, but thousands of people, out on the streets?

AP reported today that FEMA evicted 4,500 people from government-paid hotel rooms in New Orleans, citing that those people, representing less than a quarter of the total people who were given extensions up until as late as March 1, were given "every possible opportunity to request an extension."

The spokesman said people either ran or did not answer their doors when approached by FEMA representatives. Were forms and other information left under the doors of people who did not answer? Were they available in the hotel lobbies, under a clearly marked sign that read "FEMA Housing Extension Applications"? Did FEMA air commericals and radio advertisements?

And the bigger issue is, what is a March 1 extension when you've got nothing but the clothes on your back? While people should make every effort they can to help themselves, it's all for naught if demand exceeds supply.

I just don't see how putting people out, with no other option or resource, is going to help in the short- or long-term. It's also quite arrogant of a bunch of people living comfortably to decide that six months is enough time for people with nothing to reconstruct their lives.

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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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