Oct 08 2012
3 Comments
Family Tales

My 64-year-old Mother Is a Hipster

Happy Indigenous People’s Day! I’ve spent the day  celebrating my very own indigenuity by conquering the cush of my couch, and I’m thrilled to report that I’m the conquistadora the explorer of the mounds of magazines and books I’ve neglected to read for at least 1492 months. I’ve also (eureka!) discovered that I have a blog.

I love days off from work for a lot of reasons, but one of the best things about them is the time I get to spend with my mom, a.k.a. Mama a.k.a. Mags. For those of you who know me, this might sound silly because she lives with me and I’m always talking about her so you might think there’d be an “enough already” factor here, but no. She’s incredible–not just because she’s battled 2 cancers, a stroke and the subsequent upheavals those things caused in her life; not because she birthed me and my sister on the same day exactly nine years apart; not because she packs my breakfast and lunch daily and waves to me from the window as I zoom away to work; not because she also makes my dinner and irons my clothes; but because she is a hipster.

Exhibit A. The hip pose.

Mags puttin’ the hip in hipster.

I’ve had my suspicions, but everything was confirmed today as I watched her blitzkrieg through Comcast’s arsenal of channels.

  • She nodded along thoughtfully to Tavis Smiley’s interview with T.I., and as the episode concluded she remarked how impressed she was by his demeanor and some of the things she said; however, she still doesn’t understand why he’s a “grown man wearin’ his pants hangin’ down off his behind.” She also said he does a pretty good job in his role on “Boss” to which I replied, “Wait, he’s on TV, too?” “He’s a brand, Danita.”

O_o

  • That was followed by equal doses of political coverage on Fox News and MSNBC because “you gotta know what both sides are thinkin’, ’cause everybody’s up to something.”

There’s a LOT of channel flipping. So much that the up/down button on the remote recused itself from her thumb war, so now she just rain mans the number pad. This means that one second (not minute, but second) you’re watching P. Allen Smith in his garden and the next you’re watching “Later … with Jools Holland” when you’ll then hear things like this:

“Oh I’ve already seen this. Somebody’s lost jacket was on here hollerin’ about something.”

“A jacket was what?”

“Somethin’ about some jacket, and this big hairy boy was singin’ something. Don’t ask me what it was.”

“Ohhhh, you mean ‘My Morning Jacket’!”

“Yeah, that’s it. That’s what I said.”

At some point my sister called and Mags unleashed her latest pleasure, putting folks on speaker phone. This somehow makes her hollering into the phone in her “phone voice” less jarring to me. Please know that her “phone voice” is only one decibel lower than the voice she used to call me home at dusk when I played outside as a kid … from a quarter of a mile away.

My sister asks us whether we watched Steel Magnolias on Lifetime last night. Mags reacts like someone has just accused her of choosing to drink PBR to look cool. She also sucks her teeth louder than a sea of dismayed Jamaicans. Sis goes on to ask us if we’ve seen the Tyler Perry movie, The Family That Preys. Even though we have seen it (because, remember, we like to see things from all sides), Mags drops the phone like she was Sexual Chocolate with a fresh Jheri curl.

In.

Dig.

Nants.

I’m cracking up because we watched both, and I’m incredibly tickled at the fact that our Mama is pretending like she. would. never.

Just like she would never leave the house in a housecoat with her hair in rollers while wearing bedroom shoes. Which, as she’ll point out, she still has never done … at least not all at the same time.

The aphasia that frustrates her–the tricky, word fumbling hiccup that blocks and muddles the words between her mind and tongue–isn’t as terrible as she would have you believe. I think it’s added the most wonderful nuance to her comedic timing, and it is the one factor that will make me and my sister act right quicker than one of her old-school backhands across our behinds. She will, and has, put both of us on Front Street without warning and with utmost candor. Like a stealth bomber she is, once those words break through.

“Danita went on a date,” she blasted as I sat down with family members on an otherwise normal day. “And woo wee was he uggggg-laaaaaaaaaaay! I swear!”

And it’s not so much the timing she chooses to blast us, but it’s the raucous, almost fiendish laughter that erupts as soon as she launches the torpedo of tell-all. Hyenas are docile; Vincent Price’s cackle simmers down to a tame chortle. It’s extremely unnerving … and hilarious because, being someone who will opt for the joke 95% of the time, I  have to respect the woman’s verve. She also still hits harder than I do.

She also apparently listens to better music than I do, too. After we finished checkin’ in with Sis, we got back to the business at hand–me blinking seventeen thousand times per minute as she flip-booked all of our channel options. Who needs drugs when you can have televised hallucinations at 2:30 in the afternoon? I have NO idea how she evaluates programs so quickly and so decisively, but it’s ridiculously annoying trying to keep my contacts in place with all that blinking. I was just getting used to the idea of a Perry Mason viewing (I know, right? It’s like I’m 64 and she’s 32) when the Palladia icon blinked into view.

Now I enjoy me some Palladia and admit to being rather tickled when Mags mentioned Jools in passing, but it turns out they’re practically BFFs … because she mentions his name in passing. Like they meet up and hang out at the same time every week, because wait. That is exactly what they’re doing, and that’s exactly why she dropped the remote and walked out of the room leaving me trying to figure out if it was safe for me to reach for the Precious and stalk Mr. Mason’s clues to solve the murder.

It’s extraordinary how long I sat there staring at the remote trying to figure out if claiming it was worth the temporary victory in an endlessly futile war, but then I went for it. I had barely paged down twice, via the guide since I have no idea what any of those jacked up comcasty numbers mean, when she waltzed back into the room with one more bag of chips I’d never taste (the woman is a chip MONGER) and said, “Nuh unh. Turn it back.”

“But … I don’t even know who’s on there singing. I’ve never seen them before.”

She pads the numbers into the Precious as she sits down crunching her chips satisfactorily.

“Oh this Young the Giant. They’re good. Listen.”

“Young Giants?”

I’ll admit that in the early months and years after her stroke, I did a lot of guessing and speaking up on her behalf. The words would jumble and I’d use all of my post-Soul Train scramble board logic to de-jumble them. So now I’ve gotten into the terrible habit of beating her to words that I suspect will be hers, but increasingly they are not and I just sound obstinate and hard-headed and very much like someone who’s no match for a person who has 31 more years of life experience on their side.

“No. I said Young THE Giant. And just listen. The lead singer’s got himself a nice voice and the music is good, too.”

Let me just tell you that the feeling of teenage angst–that cringing grrr of oh-my-godness, why-is-she-such-a-know-it-allness–that feeling of her being right never goes away. It just gets worse.

“Humph. They do sound good actually.”

“Actually? Whatchu mean, actually? Like I don’t know what sounds good.”

“I didn’t even say any of that.”

“You think I don’t understand your tone? I’m your mother. I know all about you.”

“I have to pee.”

I settle back in moments later and she is watching Young the Giant intently, like with the same gaze I imagine she watched Ed Sullivan’s show.

“Ma. How’d you find out about Young the Giant though?”

“Research.”

“Research? For what?”

“For you, duh. At the rate we’re headed, we’ve gotta broaden our search if you’re gonna ever find somebody. Look at the lead singer. He’s kinda cute.”

“Did you put something in my tea?”

“Look at him. Your babies could have some good hair. He’s got that Indian hair, too. Lord help you if your kids get all that hair you got. Your Daddy’s naps.”

“This is hilarious.”

“Don’t ignore me. He’s better than half these Osama-bearded flim-flam Negroes runnin’ around this town. I pray to God you don’t wind up with one of those. You better not even try it. I’ll slather you in all the bacon grease I can find, I swear I will.”

“How did we get to any of this? I’m just enjoying my day off. Is he singing about cough syrup?”

“That’s the name of the song. Look at him again. I think he’s cute. And he’s got big feet, too.”

I mean, the scariest and yet the best thing about life and the people who join you in it is that you never really do know someone, do you? I’m learning to enjoy my mother’s endless stream of surprising character traits–her reserve and resilience, how she makes old things (brooches, recipes, swing coats and bouffant-y hairdos) new again, how nonchalant she is about being in the know about everything from CNN to GMA to BBC to TMZ.

She’ll be mortified to discover I’ve cataloged so much of her online. She will definitely hate that I’ve posted that picture, because as every hipster will knowingly side-eye you, the being of hip is denying one’s hipness all while looking totally bothered and thus, hip.

Tagged ,
Jul 10 2012
4 Comments
I'm Just Sayin'

My Somewhere Beyond the Sea

Barbados.

I’m not even sure where or how I should begin other than to tell you that if you haven’t already been, stop playing and go. I went with my friend, CO. Here are some starter reasons why you should:

B is for beaches.

They’re plentiful, public and clean. You can catch some waves if you wanna, or you can wade, relax and set adrift on memory bliss. It’s an island; they’re everywhere and they’re not ridiculously crowded. From Bridgetown to Bathsheba, you’re guaranteed to find a beach that’s just waiting for your bum.

Also, do I need to tell you that the water is beyond beautiful to behold?!

Me on the shores of Bathsheba.

A is for the al-al-al-al, uh alcohol.

There are no blames to be placed. Y’all knew I was not even fidna go to the alleged birthplace of rum and not relieve myself of every thirst I’ve ever had. Mount Gay. You can sip it or  you can shoot it, but you best drank it. Preferably in the ubiquitous, but oh-so-worth-upholding-the-cliché rum punch.

NOTE: If’n you find yourself buying rum punch that’s sold in a regular looking 2-liter bottle, please buy some kind of fruit juice to accompany it as it is certifiable, a-roe-ho-ho jet fuel. I ain’t even gonna play you. I don’t recall what its name is (stop laughing), but it looks non-descript and slightly sketch. It’s safe to imbibe and all, but you will need both Octavia Spencer and Viola Davis to help you if’n you drank that stuff by itself. At the very least, getcho self some ice. Otherwise, feel free to repeat after me: You is druuuuunk. You feel hiiiiiiiigh. Shit is potent.

As always when it comes to beverages, double fists are optional. I’d advise against it here though, mainly because you need to leave a limb available to get down with the grub (see the subheading that starts with the letter D below).

Resort life rocks.

There are no shortages of places to stay, but if you want to feel like you’re at home, and all of your neighbors are super helpful, chill, fun-loving, non-judgmental and cool, then you should stay at the Ocean Two. It’s at the very end of St. Lawrence Gap, which is where everybody and their grandaddy will tell you you need to go if you’re looking to party. You can hit the crowds if you want to, but you’re more inclined to find me up in any one of these places:

Skraight chillin’.

Where do you go when this ol’ world starts getting you down?

The staff. I know they’re in the hospitality business, and I know Bajans have the (rightful) reputation of being some of the friendliest folks on Earth, but Khadijah, Candice, Jeffrey, Curtis, oh-my-god-I-feel-like-I’m-giving-an-awards-acceptance-speech-and-forgot-everyone’s-names-I’m-so-sorry! and the whole glorious crew throw you the kitchen sink of welcomes. Charming, helpful, polite, patient and professional, they anticipated all of our whims, and booked us super fun excursions, delicious, low-key meals and access to fun and sincere and sincerely fun locals.

Don’t worry, Ocean Two is not close enough to engage any of the Gap’s ruckus directly; it’s a leisurely stroll to the party scene. But the location cannot be beat–you’re a short walk from a market where you can stock up on necessities and snacks … snacks that you can then enjoy or whip up into something substantial in the fully-equipped, lovely kitchen that lives in your suite for instance. I’m sure plenty of other places equip their kitchens;  it’s just that the blender and convection oven were really fine touches. Especially when I think about us being budget friendly travelers.

Fully stocked, y’all.

You’re also a short stroll from any public transportation options, although the front desk folks will happily call the ever-ready and courteous Dee’s Taxi Service for you, or trusty Winston in the white Toyota wagon. CO and I did a good mix of walking, public transporting and taxi-riding. The currency rate was $2 BBD to $1 USD, but we still opted for public transportation whenever possible–not just to cut costs, but also to get a better sense of the everyday Bajans going about their business. (I will warn you now that if you get on a bus going towards Sam Lord’s Castle, and your driver looks like Aaron Hall with a P. Diddy toothpick in his mouth, you are in for a ride. Like Harry Potter & The Prisoner of Azkaban’s night bus kind of ride–bompy and puh-lenty of brakes.)

I miss you, lounger, and a bittersweet sorrowful sigh to that view.

Bajans are benevolent people.

During the crazy, way crowded, very bompy bus ride, we witnessed an event that, for me, really sealed my affection for the island. A blind man–bless his heart I don’t know how he could tell where we were traveling at those stop-and-blitz speeds–called out to Sir Leadfoot that his stop was coming up. He told him the color of the house, and the bus driver missed it, so everybody on the bus called out to tell him to stop. Then everyone made way by either moving to the back of the bus, or getting off entirely, so the blind man could exit. One man took his arm and led him down the steps and then, in a sight you will be hard-pressed to see in Philly, this stranger walked that man to his front door … and the bus driver waited, seemingly taking a break from his semi-flummoxed attitude. We all waited. No one looked around with WTF eyeballs, or sighed out loud, or fussed in the slightest. In fact we all watched the old man feel his porch posts with assurance as he strode to the door, took out his key and waved goodbye, undoubtedly happy to be home (or at least on non-screeching ground).

Sure it looks like paradise almost every day, so it’d be relatively easy to say that’s why everyone’s so friendly, but the pace of life there and their commitment to maintain that pace made me feel so comfortable almost instantly. They converse, gaze and live in a Golden Rule kind of way; putting good things out into the world and relishing the abundance of returns.

I tried to bring that back home. Honest I did, but it only took less that 12 hours for some stank, triflin’, loud-talkin’ woman to verbally assail me through my car window, and I really had to wonder what the hell I needed to do to get some Bajan citizenship. I could sell coconuts. I know I could.

Also, everywhere you go, ladies, someone will tell you that you’re beautiful. I’mma tell you that it does something mighty to your ego to be called beautiful errywhere you go … all the time. And it wasn’t the irksome, nasty, seedy sounding “Hey beautiful shawty” either. It was downright cheery and courtly. Even if he looked like a ragamuffin and you side-eyed him into oblivion, the men kept it respectful and nice. I spent the first week back here looking at dudes like they’d lost their minds and lines of sight, like, how you just gonna walk past me and not recognize all this beauty? It’s a free offering, yo. Sheesh. Free yo’ mindz!

Align yourself with the people.

So I already told you about the beauty of taking buses and cabs and welcoming recommendations from the friendly, knowledgeable staff. I’m also going to advise you about taking an Island Safari tour. You definitely should try to do that so you gain a sense of the lay of the land. It’s a small enough island to make a grand sweep so I hope you wind up in the jeep with Aaron as your guide. I hope I spelled his name correctly, but if I didn’t, you’ll know him because he’s the most popular guide. All the other guides gather around Aaron at each of the stops, and while you’re on the road, he proves to be the funniest and the most insightful. He also gives you flowers … and rum punch.

So now I’m going to tell you that you’ll be on vacation, so you can do whatever you want, but many, if not all, people are going to tell you that you have to go to Oistins if it’s Friday night. All the websites say so. The locals will say it so often, you’ll never doubt it’s a good time; they’ll say it so often, you’ll probably start to wonder if they’re lying to you. I have no idea if they are or not, because I didn’t go.

Unclasp the gasps from your mouths, because I know. Bad tourist.

CO and I didn’t make it to Oistins for a couple of reasons. One, everyone who’d told us to go to the Gap on Thursday night became instant suspects after we dolled ourselves up and then found ourselves surrounded by teens and techno beats. These same people told us about Oistins, and my too-old-to-go-out-wearing-K-Swiss-and-Daisy-Dukes self could not be bothered. The other reason was the swim-up pool … and Jeffrey … and the rum punch.

And if you’re thinking this was a let-down, you’re wrong. I’m sure Oistins was bangin’. When I go back to Barbados, I’ll be sure to check it out because I love a block party and street food. Plus, the locals really do go there and the tourists follow and everything is easy breezy. But while I recognize myself as a tourist, I don’t always aspire to be the textbook tourist. I like a little unscripted adventure. I’m also nosy and wanted to know where people who were not going to Oistins were headed, so I found out.

I also drank two glasses of the jet fuel prior to finding out, so I’mma go Congressional on you–instead of confessional–and let you know that I don’t readily or rightly recall what all had happened was, but you understand me when I tell you I’m trying to go back, right?

Okay then.

Dig into the delicious food!

As in Mr. Delicious, that is.

Mr. Delicious is an aptly named establishment on Miami Beach.

Yo. The flying fish is the fish of choice when you’re in Barbados. It comes any way you want it, but the most popular version is the fried fish sammich, or the cutter. I sampled me some cutter everywhere I could, and Mr. Delicious wins. Do I also need to tell you that he sells rum punch?

See why I told you not to double fist the punch? Grub ‘n chug friends, grub ‘n chug.

Mr. Delicious is located on Miami Beach, the vice-free location. This beach is also a short stroll from the other place I recommend you stay, Little Arches. CO, being a travel agent and all, secured us a delightful tour. Quaint and intimate, I tried to move in immediately. Like, I love Ocean Two; I felt like I could stay there forever, but I honestly thought I could live at Little Arches. Only 10 rooms, you feel like you’re in a super secluded, quiet nook that was built just to relax and nourish you. They also have a roof-top restaurant. If you don’t know me by now you needs to know I love me some rooftop/roofdeck atmosphere. Period.

Oh my gyah, do these people love them some karaoke!

They love it so much that I wanna see them in a sing off with Japan. Apparently Simon Cowell has a lovely property on the island. I am sensing that it is far, far away from the karaoke establishments I visited and/or walked past. Actually, I’m genuinely stunned he could live on an island where this kind of unbridled, possibly rum-infected enthusiasm can course its way through an amplifier. Hilarious to hear, sober or otherwise, it’s amazing to witness someone give Englebert Humperdink their very all. Add it to your bucket list.

Stop playing, contact my girl CO at Travel Fanatics Vacations and just go!

You can thank me in rum punch.

Tagged ,
Jun 21 2012
1 Comment
I'm Just Sayin', Indentured Servitude

On the Job Hilarity

My new job is pretty darn great. For many reasons. I’m not here today to list them all. I am, however, here to tell you what just had happened was …

So, two things. One, we have an open office. By that I mean, it’s a giant warehouse and there aren’t any walls or cubicles or offices. If you are the type to pick your nose, then you better be okay with us knowing you’re the type to pick your nose because everybody can see you. Everyone is not looking at you per se–unless you’re wearing for real live hot pants in the daytime like it ain’t no thang–but we can all see you if we feel inclined to do some people watching.

Two, we have an intercom system. For the most part I ignore it–it’s a little more than slightly annoying to have your thoughts interrupted by, “Will the person who ordered the Chinese food please come to the front desk. Your food is here.” However, in the 2+ months I’ve been here that have been some golden moments. And by golden I mean I have stopped whatever I was doing to toss my head back and guffaw. Wildly. With the reckless abandon that only an intercom system can inspire.

Oh, It’s Your Birthday? Well Let’s Putcha On Blast!

The first time it happened was still really early into my tenure. It was mid-morning when the record-scratch sound jarred my concentration.

Good morning [workplace]. Today is ________’s birthday and it’s time to celebrate.

An extra few seconds of awkward silence followed and then a throat cleared and then, with no musical accompaniment what.so.ever a voice began to sing the opening lines of Stevie Wonder’s “Happy Birthday” song. Like, to the beat of the song. In the rhythm with which Stevie sang it. With not nan backing beat or vocals. Same key and errything. The “You know it doesn’t make much sense” lyric was just recycled as “You know it’s time to celebrate … [so and so's] having a great birthday.”

We heard the whole remixed first verse before the vocalist encouraged us all to sing along for the chorus. She did it Stevie-style, too. It was really fast, “Cmoneverybodyandsingitwithme, HAPPY BIRTH-DAY TO YA! Happy Birth-day to ya! Happy Biiiiiiiiiiiiirth-day! HAPPY BIRTH-DAY TO YA! Happy Birth-day to ya!”

The second verse started and then the record scratch sounded again. I’d already snorted three times by that point, and so I figured someone had kindly told her that the well wishes had been received and such. But no. Somebody just told her that nobody could hear the music, that she was singing a capella and this performance hadn’t yet reached its full potential of awesomeness and so a crescendo of the moving of the speakers to the microphone occurred.

I just laughed harder. With the full musical accompaniment in effect, the Happy Birthday tidings continued for at least another minute until we were informed there was cake in the cafe. The storming of the nom nom Bastille thus occurred … but sadly there wasn’t any musical accompaniment for that.

Ooooh, You Fidna Get It!

Now today’s all-employee intercom blast yielded my loudest howl yet. It’s 100 degrees here in Philly today. Northern swelter is different from Southern swelter; city hot is not exactly country hot, but seeing as how all kinds of hot cause parts of my brain to go haywire, I don’t make it a habit of trying to note the specifics. But let’s just say it’s hot. Like if Al Gore could suddenly become the Jimmy McMillan of it’s “too damn-dom” he’d be like, “Four degrees and seven deodorants ago, the glaciers all melted just enough to form stalactites of hanging chads and y’all kept driving all of these gas-powered cars and that’s why it’s now too. damn. hot.”

Anyway, did I tell you it’s hot outside?

Well it is.

Hot enough to incite the wrath and “c’mon man” groans of an entire office because somebody thought it’d be okay to park their car in a public place with all their windows rolled up with a DOG inside in the middle of the second hottest day of the year.

The first announcement sounded irate from the jump. Depending upon who’s making the “take action” call, you normally get a series of announcements; the first one’s always nice and pleading, cheerfully encouraging us to do whatever. The second one assumes the business tone–firm, but polite. If and when there’s a third one, you hear tones of your mother or father and it feels like you’re 14 all over again. Today’s announcement went right to “If I have to tell you one more time …” and sounded a bit like this:

Good Afternoon. If you are the owner of a blue _____ with license plate _____, please go to your car now. You have left your dog in the car.Repeat. If you are the owner of a blue _____ with license plate _____, the police are going to be called to your car if you don’t go now. There is a DOG in the CAR.

When the intercom message is good or truly disruptive, we all become contestants in the Whack-A-Mole game, heads darting up and swiveling around rapidly daring each other to make eye contact so we can confirm that yes, yes you did hear what I just heard and OMG, WTH is going on.

So that immediately occurred (faster than I can write it … clearly) and it was promptly followed by a series of “Who the hell leaves their dog in the car on a day this hot?” “Do you have any idea how hot it is outside?” “It’s 100 degrees! What kind of person leaves their dog in the car?!” “You know what? Whoever it is, we should lock THEM in the car and see how they like that!” Mmmhmmms and Amens and head-nods-in-agreement from everyone.

The next message was something else altogether. Two minutes had barely passed before someone decided that this was too outrageous, too intolerable. We moles had just burrowed back into our work when:

Michael Vick. Please go to your car, the blue _____ with license plate _______. The police are going to be called. You left your dog in the car. [CLICK]

*Dead.*

The End.

Because really. I ain’t even sure what I can add to that–just too damn funny.

Tagged ,
Jun 06 2012
4 Comments
I'm Just Sayin', Musicality

Melodic Nostalgia and Such

Do You Remember the Time?

Well, technically it was before “Remember the Time” but you know …

This is both a few months late and several months early. Either way, I’m certain that what I’m about to ask applies to either broadcast, but does anybody else remember when the Grammy Awards were great?

I’m talking just plain great. Not great shock value or great exposés in public meltdowns or self-promotions, but great. Transformative.

Is it just because I was born in the ’80s? Am I really already that old?

Earlier tonight I revamped my “Nita Go Night Night” playlist. It’d gotten kind of stale. For inspiration I turned to the iTunes genius because I know I have a lot of songs (who doesn’t?), but lately it didn’t sound like it. The first song that played was Anita Baker’s “Giving You the Best That I’ve Got.”

Now I don’t know if she sang this at the Grammys, but I know she won a few for that album. Thirty years from now when I make like Gloria Steinem and marry for the first time in my 60s–because let’s face it … at the rate I’m going–this will most likely be the one song to which I’mma wanna dance. It’s either that or, age considering, “Lord, Help Me to Hold Out.” Any way. I love this song, and I can remember seeing petite Anita onstage singing all sultry with her feathery short ‘do, wearing something white and ethereal with deluxe shoulder pads–which she accentuated with smooth, jazzy gestures. Gestures not to be confused with Stevie Nicks’s mystical, wind-strewn gestures … which I also love.

I remember seeing great Grammy telecasts the years of ’87 through ’89/’90. I’m talkin’ Whitney singing to us about the “Greatest Love of All,” MJ making the change and Gloria Estefan walking, literally coming out of the dark after that terrible bus incident. In one year, I remember Robert Palmer being “Addicted to Love;” Whitney; Prince’s “Kiss” being the only Prince song Mags permitted me to hear; Peter Gabriel had my favorite video because of “Sledgehammer” and the Godfather of Soul was singin’ ’bout “Living In America.”

Listen, right now … I’m not even fidna lie to you. You can pick up my iPod and those songs are all on there. Playing today like they just came out yesterday. Throw in some Steve Winwood and “Higher Love” with Chaka wailing in the background while you’re at it.

The Grammys used to be the biggest deal after “The Cosby Show” and “The Smurfs” in my house–at least as far as I was concerned. I remember those broadcasts fondly mostly because they were times Mags ignored my bedtime and my sister and I could be found in the same room with no ruckus, the lone argument coming when I wedged my rather large head between her viewing spot and the television screen.
I mean, I sat so close to the TV examining Michael Jackson’s loafers that I’m certain–as I sit here today with ever diminishing eyesight–that my mother was right: TV does ruin one’s eyes, and it starts earlier than you think. I also suspect that the static from the TV electrified me in a way that makes these broadcasts so memorable–at least that’s what I’ll channel when I tell all the young whipper-snappers off each and every time they try to tell me that watching Chris Brown debase Qbert on live television was awesome. (Don’t even get me started on Nikki Minaj-a-twat. She brings out the Andy Rooney in me, that one. I’m still equal parts irked and embarrassed that I even watched all of it.)

The last great Grammy Awards I remember featured Mary J. Blige when she exorcised all the drama out her life right before my eyes. That’s too long.

Do you remember your favorite performances from the Grammy Awards? Will we ever see the likes of them again?

I know. It’s sad ain’t it …

I’m Old Soul to Solid As a Rock But Not the Heavy Rock.

I grew up on lite rock.

I am unabashedly unashamed of this now; however, there was a time when I could be seen on the edge of parties nodding my head like I knew whichever rapper was tombout whatever. But see now? Geek is cool now, so I can tell you a li’l bit more about myself–although I don’t think that it’s at all surprising if you know me at all really.

Anyway, Mags and Pete didn’t do “boom-bap.” Or “bippity boppity mess.” That’s what they called rap and hip-hop. That’s what they still call it, although my dad sometimes throws in a “flim-flam” for effect. What effect I’m not sure, but I am certain he is old enough not to care.

From my father I inherited a love of the blues, a respect for jazz and an ear for country and bluegrass. He will not cop to bluegrass outright, but he will note it has “blue” in it and it therefore speaks to people’s core and that is good. I probably spent more time listening to Johnnie Taylor and Bobby “Blue” Bland than a young, bookish girl should’ve, but I turned out a’ight. I mean, I am blogging an homage of sorts about it all. He was also my gateway to James Brown and the Stax and Chess Records sounds. I am certain we played Otis’s “Fa-fa-fa-fa” so many times the cassette melted to a drawl, and years later when I discovered the Rolling Stones he was very keen about connecting the dots to various bluesmen just so I knew.

He and my mom met in the middle just long enough, musically speaking, to ensure I received a healthy dose of Motown and Sam Cooke. Sam Cooke stands alone–he doesn’t really get a genre … or need one. There isn’t one Motown or Sam Cooke tune that doesn’t conjure some amazingly vivid image of my childhood: Me propped on a pillow with the driver’s seat rammed all the way up singing along to “Ain’t Too Proud To Beg” while speeding up the gravely roads to the Handee Mart; me singing along, twisting the cap off my Nehi peach soda at the same moment that Cupid drew back his bow–I can still hear both swishing sounds.

Mags possessed (and still does even though she acts like she doesn’t) the most beautiful soprano–a voice strong and pure and loud enough to call me home from a half-mile away at dusk. With it, every Motown hit sounded like it was made just for me to hear, and I loved our times with me in the backseat with the windows down, hanging curves and notes.

But it wasn’t all soul thanks to 98.9 and My102.5. Whoa no. There was a healthy revolving mix of Michael McDonald, Fleetwood Mac, Bonnie Raitt, Carole King, Simply Red, Rod Stewart, Elton John, Peabo Bryson, Celine Dion, Hall & Oates and on and on.

Any “name that tune” or karaoke with these types of songs–adult contemporary, lite rock? I will kill it. It’s practically a guarantee. I sing “When the Lights Go Down in the City” like I wrote it. Every lilt and ad lib of Simply Red’s hits are hardwired in my lungs, but if you ask me what Biggie was really tombout, or Kurtis Blow or any and everything beyond “Parents Just Don’t Understand” and “U.N.I.T.Y.”? You’re just gonna get an Little Rascals/Our Gang shrug from me … complete with blank stare. I may try to poker face my way out of it, but I will fail and you will notice. Just so we’re clear.

I’m mainly writing this post because for the past 5 days I have been replaying 3 songs with a ferocity that amuses and baffles me:

I mean, that part at the end where he’s “‘eeyyy I’m talkin’ Nancy …” I love that part. I remember hearing this when I was a kid wondering who the hell Nancy was. And how crazy is it that it’s still applicable? I mean, are you sure you will still be able to rep “Niggas in Paris” twenty-seven years from now? I’m just askin’.

I. Love. Michael. McDonald. I also believe all regulators should mount up when they hear this song–especially when they hear the beat and then get all confused when Nate Dogg doesn’t come in. This song came on in a store one time, and I kid you not, this dude was straight up, “Aw naw man. They playin’ my jawn up in ‘err?!” He up and pimped the hell out of “It was a clear dark night …” and then looked to the ceiling bewildered by what he was hearing. Meanwhile, I was just thinking things will never be the same again.

Michael McDonald inspired this post actually, because I heard Robin Thicke’s “All Tied Up” for the first time the other day and I’ll be damned if I didn’t literally pump my brakes while driving to say aloud (to no one), “Aw shit! Jokah done got smart and tapped into the Michael McDonaldness!”

Those keyboards and the velvety, kinda muffled backing vocals? Especially the falsetto harmonies? Textbook.  I’m not sure where he got it from, but I heard it from him, by him first–his style and delivery, so that’s the truth to which I’m stickin’.

Lastly, I don’t want to say it, but I’m gonna have to because I’m once again up past my bedtime BUT this song literally almost made me buy an entire shelf’s worth of cereal in the store the other day. Incredibly catchy. A bit hokey in parts with the Spanish guitar and such, yes. Definitely sounds a bit dated, but the bass?! Can you hear that? You should listen for that. You should also cry out for that one time in music class in second or third grade when you got stuck with the woodblock when you wanted the glockenspiel and you thought to yourself, “What the crap am I going to do with this, Mrs. Lawton? Nobody plays the frickin’ woodblock.”

Turns out you can make a damn fine song with some woodblock. Goodnight … tonight.

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Jun 05 2012
4 Comments
I'm Just Sayin'

I Love the Way You Walk

I was watching Kathy Bates in “Harry’s Law” the other night, and I found myself equal parts tickled and intrigued by her walk. Now, I love me some Kathy Bates, so don’t even think about going Tawanda on me, but I couldn’t help but notice how her rather staccato totter conjured up strong images of her bashing the mess outta James Caan’s ankles in Misery. She was ambling along in the way that was highly reminiscent of the way “South Park” characters do. It had a very distinctive rhythm, not as fast as an Indian nodding yes-no-you-figure-it-out, but more tick-tock … like that clock, Cogsworth, in Beauty and the Beast.

Whatever was going on in the scene, it was a rather perfunctory walk to somewhere or another. I was admittedly (obviously) distracted from the scene mainly because I wondered why it was necessary to show her walking and talking in the first place. (Mini-sidebar: I watched “Harry’s Law” because, I’mma say it again, I love me some Kathy Bates, but there are certainly things about the show that maybe should’ve been strengthened or avoided … the supporting cast had some rather high, odd turnover I must say. Anywho …) It’s not like she was doing a newscast or something. My immediate thought–the one after she turned Caan’s ankles into schniztel–was, “What kinda shoes they got my Kathy wearing? Dem mugs must hurt. Dern!”

I was just annoyed because I thought it was unnecessary; the walking scene wasn’t a good transition to the next thing that was fidna happen. It seemed more like, “See Kathy Walk.” I didn’t tune in for that. I tuned in because I loved how she told people where to stick it; that she carried a nice piece in her purse; and that she did her best to help Hilary out by showing the versatility and practicality that wearing a pantsuit every damn where allows. I’m not saying they needed to FDR her to a chair or her desk, but to have her jostling along with the jaunty pep of that character, Tommy Jefferson (played by the huh-lar-us Christopher McDonald) was a misstep.

At any rate, it sure did get me to thinking about other walks I’ve noticed and like to observe.

(I know you’re probably wondering why in de Lawd’s name I’m attributing an entire post to walks, but these are my observations. They wake or keep me up some nights and I’ve finally resolved to jot them down. Support me. I’m trying for the 4,719th time to recommit myself to this thing. For my amusement and yourn. Y’awn’t like it? Click away … but thanks for the hit!)

The catalog of smooth walkers is well documented, I feel. Everybody knows Denzel’s walk is just plain badass; Samuel L. executes the righteous saunter; and Barack’s gait is effortlessly fluid in its commanding cool. I think Idris Elba’s stride is closing the “Mph, mph, mph that man can walk past me anytime” gap. And I wouldn’t be myself if I didn’t throw in Mr. Firth–he who possesses a rather crisp and confident carriage that I greatly enjoy watching.

And then there’s a man like Phil Jackson. All the Zen in the world can’t smoove out that stride. My hips hurt sometimes when I think about him walking ass-out like somebody’s old grammy in her housecoat. Speaking of old grammies, my hips hurt the same way when I think about Irma P. Hall’s bowlegged self in The (Tom Hanks KNOW he owe me $10) Ladykillers. I love watching bow-legged people walk though. Babies are hilariously suspenseful, but bow-legged people in general have their own interesting marches, and I like observing ‘em.

Lady walkers all fall behind Naomi Campbell as far as I’m concerned. Or Maggie Smith as the Dowager Countess–there’s just something about the way she moves with that cane. I’m partial to it because it reminds me of my Gran. The cane stroll is deceptively agile and certain, nevermind the sometimes wobbling wrist–it’s a walk that says, “Move. Get out the way!” in a very Luda-like fashion. I’d charge you to abide by this, lest you get poked in the back or worse, whacked Misery-style ‘cross your ankles.

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