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Friday, March 17, 2006
Check out this article
This op/ed highlights something I have noticed for a while too, but I thought was kind of self-evident. Prep clonesAssholes aren't born, we're bred. But they start early, grooming us into our world-gripping power. And they
groom you too. That's why you love us.
laziness
I'm just going to direct you to www.urbansocialite.com. See what she's talking about. She rocks.
3:21 pm est
Monday, March 13, 2006
Trying to find a mexican
I checked out the Chappelle Block Party this weekend. What a fantastic time. That's about all you need to know.
One reviewer griped that as soon as you get into the performances, you are cut backstage with Chappelle, et al. to
follow up on their hijinks. True, but the music is only a part of it. This film is designed for folks who are already pretty
familiar with all the acts and their music. It's more like a love-letter than anything else.  I like Dave more than I like his taste in music (which I also like)And having been stuck in ATL
(sorry atl) during the block party and unable to attend even though I knew about it, the film was like the memento from a
day I didn't really have, but should have. By the same token, the soundtrack is a set of good live performances, the
studio versions of which you probably already have in your collection. Do you NEED the soundtrack? Well, if you don't have
the tracks anywhere else, then go for it. Otherwise, probably not.
Friday, March 10, 2006
I wish I came up with this one.
 EMO sucks
Wednesday, March 8, 2006
Would anyone listen to M.I.A. if she weren't hot?
This is a serious question. I'm not saying her music is terrible, not by a long shot. what I am saying is that we
may not stick around long enough to figure that out if she looked like me. Let me know what you think on it.
Click here to launch music video
It's hard out here...
I thought about mentioning something about the Oscars or Three 6 Mafia. But they both suck and you don't need me to tell
you that. Instead, I will let you know about the Awesome Brothers. The Awesome Brothers rock hard. They are
now calling Provi home and you should check them out. They will soon be added on the music page, but for now, scroll down
to the google bar and type them in. Okay.
 Mr.Pibb + RedVines= Crazy Delicious
Tuesday, March 7, 2006
The other shoe...
so, a few days after this initial incident, I am back at work (big surprise, it's where I live). And as I'm running through
end of the day tasks with the team in an effort to get home before 10pm, I am introduced to a new student who is coming on
to the team. Nice Indian guy. I am polite, but as I'm in a hurry, I barely look at him and continue on.
Having completed
the end-of-day meeting, I leave to go to the bathroom and upon my return, look at the new student, who looks familiar now
that I look at him again, and ask, "are you a student here, or are you visiting?"
To which the Indian guy
in front of me replies, "I've been working here for three years."
My student had left and this was a totally
different Indian.
Yup. Me. I'm a bigot. That guy.
12:26 pm est
Sunday, March 5, 2006
Desi Are I?
So, the story.
I'm out with folks from work. It just so happens, all of them are of the Indian persuasion--liability of the job.
So we're drinking and talking, which is about all there is to look forward to in these sorts of gatherings.
Then I am introduced to a friend of a colleague, and a boyfriend of another. Nice enough guy. A little bombastic,
a little clueless, but well within normal limits for people I meet through work.
One of my work friends, who really is a pretty good guy despite what I am about to tell you, is fond of calling me "the
whitest black man in the world." He is a little disoriented by the constellation of qualities that go into making me
an ivy leagro, and this is how he chooses to come to terms with it. I'm okay with it. It's part of his charm.
Anyway, he's making some statement about black people needing to wear clothes with the brands written on them (referring
to my super-puffy Polo bubblegoose). Then he says that I can't really wear this coat because it is too black for
me.
Playing along, I say, "Well, you need to see the whole thing to get the total effect," and I pull the heavy down hood
over my face in true thuggish style. I'm drunk, okay. Just go with it.
It is at this point that the friend/boyfriend of my colleagues starts shouting, "That's my nigger! This is my nigger
right here!"
Okay. I'm a bit flabbergasted. The expected initial urge of violence/profanity flickers briefly in my dim
subconsciousness. Rather than potentially make a bad situation worse, I take off abruptly for a friend a few feet away,
leaving the throng of Indians to their own devices.
After a few minutes, my other friend is leaving and I find myself back in the fold of my initial group. Steeling
myself for anything, I return to the saucer-big eyes and awkward smile of my new acquaintance.
"I thought you were Indian!" he shouts. "I thought that was a funny name for an Indian, but I thought you were
south Indian!"
Then the guy, who is clearly mortified that he has called a black man a nigger to his face, spends the next half hour
kissing my ass and telling everyone how awesome I am and how we all need to hang out in the future.
The more I think about what had just happened, the more uncertain I become whether I feel better or worse that he didn't
know I was black. Is this really what happens when I'm not around? Whatever. It's a good story.
And lest you think that this is a one-way street, wait until the next installment.
Thursday, March 2, 2006
Dear Atlanta,
You may have noticed that I'm not there. I'm sorry. But work hates me (like everyone else). We may try again this month.
But no promises, because you know how I do with those.
However, tonight, Ivy Leagro hits the streets of the Chi,
with a New Yorker in tow, trying to make a convert.
I will keep you posted. And soon, a story so unsettling and comical,
it will leave you talking.
7:34 pm est
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Because Poetry is cool...
Reading in Place
Imagine a poem that starts with a couple
Looking into a valley, seeing their house, the lawn
Out back with its wooden chairs, its shady patches of green,
Its wooden fence, and beyond the fence the rippled silver sheen
Of the local pond, its far side a tangle of sumac, crimson
In the fading light. Now imagine somebody reading the poem
And thinking, "I never guessed it would be like this,"
Then slipping it into the back of a book while the oblivious
Couple, feeling nothing is lost, not even the white
Streak of a flicker's tail that catches their eye, nor the slight
Toss of leaves in the wind, shift their gaze to the wooded dome
Of a nearby hill where the violet spread of dusk begins,
But the reader, out for a stroll in the autumn night, with all
The imprisoned sounds of nature dying around him, forgets
Not only the poem, but where he is, and thinks instead
Of a bleak Venetian mirror that hangs in a hall
By a curving stair, and how the stars in the sky's black glass
Sink down and the sea heaves them ashore like foam.
So much adrift in the ever-opening rooms of elsewhere,
He cannot remember whose house it was, or when he was there.
Now imagine he sits years later under a lamp
And pulls a book from the shelf; the poem drops
To his lap. The couple are crossing a field
On their way home, still feeling that nothing is lost,
That they will continue to live harm-free, sealed
In the twilight's amber weather. But how will the reader know,
Especially now that he puts the poem, without looking,
Back in the book, the book where a poet stares at the sky
And says to a blank page, "Where, where in Heaven am I?"
Mark Strand
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