Cyd Charisse, 1922-2008

I love musicals. West Side Story, Hello Dolly, Jesus Christ Superstar, White Christmas, Gigi, My Fair Lady, Meet Me in St. Louis, School Daze, the musical episode of Buffy, "Once More With Feeling" ... give me a movie with synchronized singing and dancing and I will watch it. My all-time favorite, one of the last big-budget musicals, is Singin' in the Rain. Part of my appreciation of the film had to do with my indomitable crush on the great Gene Kelly. But most of it was this scene. Cyd Charisse. Kelly is doing his thing, dancing joyfully, and then he slides across the floor and encounters a single, perfect, silk-stockinged, green-high-heeled leg. I used to practice this scene in my room. She's perfect in it. Slinky, unrelentingly sexy, and incredibly proficient. (Note: she spends a lot of this scene with her legs slightly bent, because she's actually taller than Kelly.) Setting aside the fact that her small role in the film is as a fictional character who is motivated by what men can give her, I love it. Charisse died yesterday at the age of 86. Her dancing was a joy to watch. RIP.

May 10 & 11

I have the misfortune of being the child of a woman who was born on May 10. That means that my mother's birthday often falls just before or after, if not on, Mother's Day. This wasn't so much of an issue when she lived in Jamaica, but since we're in America, and she's been spoiled by our land of freedom, it's expected that I get her both a birthday and a Mother's Day gift. That was kind of bratty. But you try dealing with a woman who calls to ask whether you're coming home for Mother's Day ("uh, no... you live 3,000 miles away, and I'm a struggling young person"), and then wants to know what you're getting her for the dual-holiday. I messaged my sister on GTalk to ask her what she was getting our lovely matriarch. "I'm taking her to brunch." Blast! It was so much easier when my sister lived in Jamaica, because she never got my mom anything, which made me look pretty rosy with two $5 cards. But now that she has returned to California, I clearly have to step my game up. Here's what I'm thinking. Flowers for her birthday and a gift card to Macy's for Mother's Day. I know, it's really bad and impersonal, but the woman is impossible to shop for. Stop judging me. Fine. What do you suggest, huh?

And more birthday weekend!

About a month ago, I told my best friend she needed to clear her schedule on March 15 so she could spend the day celebrating my birth. And she had to plan it. Pulling the BFF card only works two or three times a year, so you gotta make it count, right? So. Saturday. We drove into the City (I guess that makes us B&Ts? Shudder). The original plan was to hit up the Met, then brunch, then American Museum of Natural History. But... we got a late start, and ended up eating first. We ate at this place called Cafe Lalo, this really cute and quite small restaurant on the UWS. It was very, very French, and unlike most brunch places, it didn't really have your typical breakfast meats (bacon, sausage, etc). But my meal was delicious... steamed eggs with herbs, cranberry scone, Devon cream, and marmalade. (And a really yummy champagne cocktail called a 'Rose Petal' - champagne and Chambord.) BFF had a plain belgian waffle. Look! Pretty brunch! We headed over to the natural history museum. BFF works for Time, Inc., so she gets in free to the top museums in the city. We spent 20 bucks to go to the Butterfly Conservatory, and I got some really pretty shots. We took a brief stroll through the museum. I liked the African Peoples exhibit, which was good, although all the forms had medium skin tones, which I thought was pretty lame. Plus, they looked sorta... ashy. Onward to the Asian Peoples hall, which was also good. I must admit, I did feel like I was in elementary school. But, in a good way. After spending about and hour and half in the museum, we crossed Central Park (it was our first time actually walking through it) to get to the UES, and the Met. I had a very brief Blair Waldorf moment when we got to the steps. They were covered with people sitting, eating hotdogs and pretzels, talking on cell phones, reading. I wished I was wearing a pleated skirt and knee socks. (Oh Gossip Girl, how I've missed thee!) (Note: my profile pic is actually a self-portrait taken while we were chilling on the steps.) The Met was gorgeous. We were on a tight schedule, but I could have used hours to explore it. There was a really interesting exhibit on a French realist named Gustave Courbet. His work was incredible... and talk about real. In his paintings, he even included the depressions left on women's waistlines from wearing corsets. We weren't allowed to take photos in there (bah!) but it was really, really good. Take my word for it. The only thing about having such a busy day was that we were TIRED. But we remained calm and carried on. Dinner was at Dallas BBQ, home of the most wonderful and ginormous margaritas, followed by a quick change in the car, and off to Sugar, a cool lounge-y type place off of Canal. We don't look that tired, do we?? I had the BEST time.

Un-Review: 'New Amerykah'

In 1997, I remember my sister — she's 13 years older than I — listening to Baduizm a lot. 1997 was a big year for me, musically, because that was the year I started listening to new music seriously, and personally. Up until '95, I was pretty much subject to whatever my dad played at home (good music, of course: The Impressions, Minnie Riperton, The Dramatics, Roberta Flack, The Last Poets, Peter Tosh, The Skatalites, random ragga, soca, etc, but not my choice), and whatever my sister played in the car. (My sister is/was kind of a rebel, and I was/am a goodie-two-shoes, so I generally disliked most things she liked, just on principle.) In 1996, I started listening to the oldies station on the radio. Probably for a full year, all I listened to were oldies. The Beatles, the Shirelles, lots of one-hit wonders. To this day, I promise you, if you play some random golden oldie that I haven't heard in ten years, I know all the words, and will sing along. But in '97 – which, now that I think about it, was my first year of true self-awareness – I was facing sort of an identity crisis. Southern California, the 'Inland Empire,' wasn't a bastion of blackness. I wanted to identify with my classmates, and the cool (white) kids were 'skaters,' although, most of them didn't own a skateboard. It was a way of life. So, I hopped on the alternative bandwagon, which wasn't so much alt, as it was the mainstream. I turned the dial from the oldies station to the "X," a station that played songs I thought spoke to me... "#1 Crush" by Garbage, "Flagpole Sitta" by Harvey Danger, "Don't Speak" by No Doubt, "Fly" by Sugar Ray, "Super Rad" by the Aquabats, "Roll To Me" by Del Amitri, and so on. But one day, I was at home, with my sister — I think she was living in L.A. at the time, but she came to Rancho on the weekends — and she put in a CD, and I heard those first bass notes of "Rimshot." I came to hear the band today I ain't thinkin' bout ya I came to hear my drummer play Boom clack, boom clack I'm in love with you 'Cuz of the things you do Do to me when you Boom clack, boom clack I didn't even know what she was talking about half the time, but I loved it. "Apple Tree" was my favorite song. (Years later, in college, I rediscovered "On & On" and it kept me going through some difficult times. And when I was sick the other day, dizzy and weak and coughing, I put on Mama's Gun and let it wash over me. I felt better immediately.) It's like a twist on that line from Brown Sugar: "I felt Erykah, and Erykah felt me." Although I continued to listen to the alt-rock of the day — some of which I still like, incl. No Doubt and Sublime, though they had ska and reggae influences, respectively — I delved a little deeper into music that really spoke to me (Wyclef's The Carnival was another favorite of '97). When I got a copy of New Amerykah, I knew it would be special. Or maybe, special. I dunno, sometimes I wonder if she's permanently high, and sometimes I wonder how she manages to tell my entire life in just a phrase or two ("two fish, one swimming upstream / one swimming down, living in a dream / but when she loves she tends to cling"). First listen, I was kind of "hmm." Second listen, I started to get the rhythm. Third listen, I fell in love.

Just kick away the chair, already

When I was in college, working as a sales associate at the BR in Georgetown, I had to look at the most banal attempts at "visual design." One year, the look of Spring One (there are two of every season in the Banana Republic) was something my manager laughingly called "beach prairie/cowboy." And that was an apt description: full cotton skirts, washed leather jackets, boots, flowery patterns, etc. And the viz that went along with it included sea shells, netting, and glass bowls filled with -- wait for it -- lengths of rope. Think you can guess where I'm going with this? One day, after being subjected to this stuff for weeks, my coworker and I were experiencing what I call "BR Fatigue." (Symptoms include a penchant for mischief tempered by giddiness born out of sheer boredom.) The problem is, when you're bored at BR, the only thing to do is size the Z-racks or refold the khaki wall, and neither of these options are sexy or fun. So anyway, N and I were playing with the sweater table, and on it was one of those oh-so-random bowls filled with rope. Me: this is so effin' random! N: I know! Let's make something! Me: Ooh... let's make a noose! Why a noose, you ask? Because this was 2005. (Though I can freely admit that I look back on this incident with no small amount of chagrin.) Had this been 2007, the year of the noose, I would never have even joked about that. But to my mind then (and even a bit still) when I thought of a noose/hangman's rope, I thought of Bonanza. You know, that awesome show about Ben Cartwright and his boys Adam, Hoss, and Little Joe. A noose represented the Wild West and shootouts and saloons; all of which dovetailed quite comically into the beach prairie cowboy theme. I'm African American, but I'm also a Southern Californian, and the deep south concepts of lynching and the like were more like pages in a textbook than anything relating to reality. So N and I made a very crude noose (I must have missed hangman's knot day in Girl Scouts) and draped it over the bowl. And oh, how we laughed. I'm not sure what he was thinking, but I truly doubt it was malicious. But it's 2008 now, and the year of the noose has already bled over into it. (By the way, you know its a Real Issue when CNN does a whole special on the noose. That, and when TMZ staffers "jokingly" suggest they put one in Britney's car to start trouble.). They're everywhere. Including the cover of Golfweek. But let's be real for a minute. Al Sharpton is probably off getting his relaxer retouched, so we can talk without fear of recrimination. Is it just me, or has the noose lost it's shock value? I feel like it's gone from threatening to plain old tasteless in less than six months. In fact, I'd go so far as to say it's quite cowardly (although, the fact that many perpetrators of lynchings and cross burnings wore white sheets over their heads makes this rather unsurprising.) I mean, ok, you put up a noose somewhere, and...what? C'mon dude, are you really going to lynch someone? Suuuuuure. Get outta here with that. Stop being extra, go home, and rethink that one, potential noose-hangers. It's been done by everyone, including yours truly. ____

Listening to: Prince, "Cream."

unfortunate conclusions

I love children's books. I've spent time wandering through Oz, riding in the ear of the BFG, coloring with a purple crayon, and laughing at the residents of Avonlea. There are dozens of other kid lit books that have made an indelible impression on me. But one of my all-time favorite children's books is The Phantom Tollbooth.

It's completely random, yet crafted perfectly, and so deliciously punny you can taste the words on your tongue. Maybe I love it because I love puns, and maybe I love it because it's brilliant.

Right now I'm reading the chapter about the dangers of jumping to Conclusions; Conclusions being an island full of people who decided something without having a good reason for their decision.

It's a pity it's not a real place (although I'd probably be a permanent resident). _____

Listening to: iTunes on shuffle Erykah Badu, "Kiss Me On My Neck"