I observed a Faded Glory denim set situation yesterday. And it wasn't in a vintage Walmart commercial. Here I am, thinking all Faded Glory products were recalled and burned in some seized crackhouse in the Bronx, but alas, there she was, with guesstimated pencil-thin eyebrows, a fuschia sheer top that likely hasn't actually "fit" since about the time "Thriller" dropped, matching eyeshadow (and eyebrows), chancletas, and a stonewashed denim set with FADED GLORY emblazoned across the back.
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| Actual, functioning, fully stocked Nautica store on Vía España, Panama City, Panama, 2012. |
In 2012.
Panama is magical in that way.
Just when you think, say, Nautica, is dead and gone, only to exist in a well-hidden photo album of your tragic, virginal adolescence, BAM: a whole fucking store with employees and sales and new weekly shipments from a warehouse in Downtown 1995 and customers and so on.
Anywho...
I made it. I've officially crossed the SIX MONTH mark here in Panama.
(cue applause, in Spanish)
To call my time here 'colorful' would be a great understatement. I am transforming constantly. I learn 100 things about myself and the world around me daily. My plans to document every step of this adventure crashed and burned pretty quickly. I've been caught up in...living. Eating. Expanding. Shrinking. Dancing. Teaching. Stealing wi-fi. Sweating. Worrying. Procrastinating. Lusting. Cross-cultural Sexual Behavior Exchanges. Important shit. You understand.
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| workshop flyer. |
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| summer classes at BEAT Dance Studio. |
Had my first actual dance workshop here. Done small things here and there with different groups, but this past weekend, I got to teach alongside a very good friend and fellow choreographer, Ahmed Burgos. We taught a smallish group of kids out in Chorrera, roughly 30 minutes outside of Panama City. I was nervous for about three minutes. I teach Zumba in Spanish, but with hip hop dance, I have to be able to give very details instructions and suggestions while teaching. The Zumba moves are less specific. The choreography, I wasn't stressing over, but the language. In the end, all worked out great. The routine was a tad difficult, but most did well. There was even a juicy little young thing who, in a different time and place....well...yeah. Good times. Now that the summer vacation's in full swing down here, I'm teaching a hip hop class and a Cardiodance class at Ahmed's school, BEAT Dance Studio. Yesterday was the first hip hop class. Today: Cardiodance. Similar to Zumba, but less structured, and I can follow whatever format I chose. Read: same fucking class minus Zumba music. BEAT's become something of an extended family for me here, welcoming me into the fold, allowing me to dance and teach there, and so on. I even spent the weekend with Ahmed and his girlfriend/biz partner, Maria Victoria at her family's home in Las Tablas for El Desfile de Mil Polleras (Parade of 1000 Polleras) back in November. Dope.
Aside from all of that, I'm still elated to be here doing what I set out to do. It's not perfect, but I comment often that I'm happier here hustling (Mom says I moved to Panama and became Jamaican) than I have been since first moving to New York in 2006.
Currently getting back into the swing of things after a MUCH needed break back in the States, where the itinerary was: eat, eat, and eat. And plant a few seeds if possible. But more importantly: eat. And be lazy on Mama's couch. And sleep. And stare at my nieces. And after that? Eat.
Mission accomplished.
Oh, I had a birthday and things.
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| although the giver clearly doesn't know my red velvet-coated heart, twas a fine gesture. |
I exclaimed, "NO, I CAN'T EAT THIS CAKE. I'LL BLOW UP," and within a week inhaled 90% of it. I can say, "I couldn't even finish it," and not be lying. Win.
Still teaching English. Still unattached (formally). Still colored.
Still teaching English. Still unattached (formally). Still colored.
And no: there's still no exit date in sight. I can, however, say that the next stop on the Get Happy Express will likely be Brazil. And you will deal.
~chris.alexander
Will You Marry Me, Rob Kardashian?
So maybe it’s time for me to reevaluate my life goals and the methodology in which I plan to attain them.
It’s becoming increasingly harder not to be at least a teensy bit jaded about celebrity culture’s choke hold on the media. Yesterday, I read that New York Times best-selling author, Snooki, admitted that she has no idea who J.K. Rowling and Maya Angelou are. I still have yet to see a single episode of Jersey Shore (on purpose), but based on what I’ve seen of Snooki in the press that revelation doesn’t surprise me at all. She’s just one of many intellectually challenged personalities turned pretend writers who can claim to be best-selling authors despite needing a ghostwriter to help them finish writing their ABCs.
....continue reading.
You may also stalk him via his new Tumblr with the best title ever, Fried Fish & Feelings.
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I can't say this is an unwelcome feeling.
Above all of those areas, least important of all are the happenings in the world of Hip Hop NigNogs. Through Twitter and Facebook, I gather that Lil Wayne skeeted whatever lyrical magic he once possessed down some young man's throat while locked up in the slammer, Drake is still as emotional as an eighth grade girl with braces, and someone named Boosie may or may not be in jail (again). All I know of J Cole is that he could get the entire business. Dr. Dre still hasn't dropped an album. Eminem is still rich, angry, and is now aging in reverse. That's all I got.
Don't. Give. a Fuck.
However, since moonwalking into teaching dance down here in Panama, I've had to search these internets to see what's hot, what has a dope beat, what the kids are rocking to these days, and so on. Yes, mainstream hip hop is still as dumb as I thought it'd be. Even more grating is the endless string of
In searching for the song to see if it moved me at all or inspired some choreography, I saw this headline:
In short, the author, Melinda Newman, is "...disappointed in Nicki Minaj’s participation in the
video for Big Sean’s “Dance (A$$)" remix released this week."
As the sole female rapper who actually garners widespread public attention, Nicki is, apparently, expected to represent ladies in a positive light.
Girl, what?
I don't know anything about the site HitFix or who the writer Melinda Newman is, but her writing leads me to believe she's a generally competent person. I take it she has a high opinion of herself, and expects honorable things from women in the limelight. That's cute and all, but we're talking about Nicki Minaj here. So, I shall respond to her posed question with a question of my own.
What the fuck did you expect?
This is a woman who worships the ultrafertile, cough syrup-loving king of mindless cokehead rap, Lil Wayne.
This is a woman who's running the streets dressed as Judy Jetson's overly ambitious Black Friend with an ass of questionable authenticity that's big enough to contain the ashes of the careers of every forgotten rapper with ovaries of the past decade.
This is a woman who kinda shook her tentative shimmy beside this guy, Tar Baby 5000, the Shame-fighting, Negrotastic Coonbot.
This is a woman who, even with "an ass so big like the sun" and boundless budget, has the stage presence of a melting slug. The very woman who makes 2009 Rihanna look like 1995 Janet Jackson on stage.
This is a new rapper whose best work came before her debut album, and whose best verses can be found on other people's albums and mixtapes. (This is also called the Darien Brockington Effect.)
This is is a woman who successfully convinced thousands of Black and brown girls that they, too, can mount aerodynamic multicolored weaves atop their heads and call themselves fucking Barbies. (If not Nicki, who else will brainwash the kids?! Think of the kids!)
This is is a woman who successfully convinced thousands of Black and brown girls that they, too, can mount aerodynamic multicolored weaves atop their heads and call themselves fucking Barbies. (If not Nicki, who else will brainwash the kids?! Think of the kids!)
Nicki Minaj, like every selectively responsible rapper, takes breaks from reminding us of how clean and tasty her 'gina is to remind kiddies to stay in school. That, Melinda Newman, is the extent of her social responsibility. Repping ladies in a positive light? That's Drakeisha's job. Sure she probably has a charity to balance out the goonery. But, laying the weight of carrying the torch of breasted emcees worldwide upon her ample ass is not fair. Besides, it's evident she doesn't care who takes her seriously or sees her as some upstanding, classy broad. Her lacefronts make that abundantly clear.
Sure she's crude. Sure she uses sex and outlandish gear to sell her brand of pop-hop. And of course, her mere existence and wild popularity speaks to the changing face of music. It's hard out here for the rapper with ovaries. Being prolific and/or cute is hardly enough to storm the scene in 2011: it's yet to be seen what old faves like Missy can/will do in a post-Minaj world. Nicole-Ann will likely reach a point where she'll reel in her spread-eagle approach to music. If you're looking for a role model or someone to hold it down with uplifting lyrics that you can pop that coochie to, check out Mary Mary. Let homegirl awkwardly drop it like it's hot and collect her check.
Again, in my life, Minaj is absolutely inconsequential, but it's the high moral hopes for such a nonsensical person that point to signs of stupidity.
If you couldn't look to little Kim or Foxy Brown for some level of class, don't put hat load on Nicole-Ann. Kimberly famously bragged of her ability to conceal Sprite cans in her well-traveled mouth. She, like Nicole-Ann, got as much press for her wardrobe (or lack thereof) as for her lyrics. It's a game. Ms. Minaj is the latest surgically enhanced nonsensical plaything of the moment. She, like Kim was, is a frolicking mascot, a caricature. She's admitted she's channeling her theater days as inspiration for voices and characters. She is a jester, not a woman to whom you look for positive examples. This is not someone whose hypersexuality you occasionally enjoy, but expect to have some limit or boundary of crassness, over which she would not cross. Give it a break. Wrong tree. Lost cause. All of that.
Remy's gone. Foxy's crazy and more concerned with buying up all the big, silky weave in Brooklyn. Until Kimberly Jones quits huffing bleaching cream and/or builds a functioning time machine to bring her formerly colored former self here from 1997, looks like this is all you have to work with, person who expects class from crotch-pumping rap chicks. Well, you also have Kreayshawn, but if rapping albino rats aren't your cup of tea, suspend your search for a bewigged savior and deal with Cirq du Minaj.
Sorry.
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Sunday made four months here in Panamá. I can officially report that the honeymoon phase has ended. I can no longer coast off of the magnitude of what I've done in relocating here. Now, I must fully commit to building a new life here, to moving forward and actually doing something with my time in Panamá. The month break I took from the blog was absolutely necessary. While I'd love to be able to write here daily, I can't. Life got really real in the last few weeks. Gained some new English students. Lost a few students. Made some great friends. Met someone I find "interesting." Or something. Eating as if I'm pregnant. Still managed to lose a few pounds. Had a phone involuntarily removed from my person. Replaced it. Had the replacement removed from my possession. Shit happens, eh? In the end, I have my health, and am alive to experience the subsequent anger.
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| hospital bracelets and lost hair. |
Then, the responses to the prompts I posted slowed. I struggled to nail down a functional format for the collective. Some used it as a rant space. Some would respond to an outpouring with, "I like it." And that was that. And: life happened. It slowly faded to black, still searchable online, never to be used again.
Last week, my awesome parents sent me a care package of books I requested. In this box was also a journal I didn't request. The entries in the composition notebook range from Christmas Eve 2009 until Fourth of July 2010. I am inclined to believe they at least skimmed it. I didn't ask for this book, but I'm glad they sent it. Sure they are probably caught up on my love life and hoe shit escapades in Los Angeles, but the book contains a draft of a writing prompt I posted in the defunct writing group: write a letter to yourself five years ago.
It's dated 6/8/10, which was five years after I was diagnosed to lupus. More specifically, it was exactly five years from the day I emerged from a coma, after being hit with double renal failure, heart failure, and having my brain and lungs attacked by the mysterious autoimmune disease. Peep it.
06.08.10. five years later.
Well, you survived. You made it through to the other side. Congrats. This is the beginning of a long, uphill battle. You must be strong and keep your head up during the next few months. Your appearance will change dramatically. Fear not, it is temporary. All will be okay.
Part three of Rick Mereki's travel series. This installment: "move." Enjoy.
MOVE from Rick Mereki on Vimeo.
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Part two of Rick Mereki's series documenting a life-changing crisscrossing of the globe that's inspired many is titled "learn." Traveling between 11 countries over the course of 44 days, here, he shows the different/new things he's tried along his journey. This clip, like the previous, only fueled my desire to venture out beyond Panamá. Watch below...
LEARN from Rick Mereki on Vimeo.
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I've seen this clip floating around for a few weeks now, and am equally wowed and inspired every time I watch it. Demonstrating the possibilities of travel and exploration, the first of Rick Mereki's videos focuses on the dozens of dishes he consumed during his ambitious trek around the globe. This speaks directly to me, a shameless foodie/fatty, as trying new food is one of the highlights of my time in Panamá thus far.
The series' description is as follows:
3 guys, 44 days, 11 countries, 18 flights, 38 thousand miles, an
exploding volcano, 2 cameras and almost a terabyte of footage... all to
turn 3 ambitious linear concepts based on movement, learning and food
....into 3 beautiful and hopefully compelling short films.....
= a trip of a lifetime.
EAT from Rick Mereki on Vimeo.
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For years, I'd had "seeing a Michael Jackson show" on my Shows To See If I Were Able To Skip Rent For Two to Three Month list. That, and Madonna, whose live productions are equally legendary. With Michael's passing, well-intentioned investors and former collaborators have been working overtime, thinking of new ways to profit from MJ's name "keep Michael alive in the hearts of fans." I can admit to being less than enthused about any of his new music. I've only heard "Hollywood Tonight," because I don't really have an interest in his musical scraps. It seems apparent that the music was left unreleased for a reason. Janet mentioned once that he wouldn't want any of it released this way. Since he appears to be worth more dead than alive, and has parents who mask exploitative business ventures as being meant to "support his children," the man's name is sure to live on for decades to come via music, videos, and a host of branding opportunities.
Now that the dust has settled and the checks have cleared from his This Is It, which detailed the preparation for his long-awaited comeback tour, the next MJ-themed project is Michael Jackson The IMMORTAL World Tour by Cirque du Soleil. If nothing else, it should win an award for longest title. Having first heard about the project from dancer Gianinni Semedo Moreira, it's exciting to see the show gearing up for a world tour.
Looks stunning, to say the least.
Needless to say, because I'm down here in Panamá, I likely won't get to see the show live. There are two preview shows, and the tour officially begins next spring. Tickets range from $64 to $191. Much cheaper than an actual MJ affair.
Will you be seeing the show?
and yes, that is a one-legged b-boy at the 0:40 mark.
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I was recently asked, "Why'd you go to Los Angeles? You don't strike me as the 'LA type.' If you loved New York City so much, why'd you leave?"
Fair question.
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| Oh, Brooklyn. How I miss thee. |
I adore New York. I've loved New York as long as I can remember, and always knew I'd end up there, no matter what it took. My three years there were immensely transformative. I grew up while in New York. I danced. I fell in love. I fell out of love (but not really). I broke a heart. I had my heart broken (dumped via text. karma!). I gained weight. Lost weight. I made lifelong friends and encountered a ton of dirtbags along the way. I've lived with crazy roommates and worked with nutcases. It was a blast.
I was surrounded by my closes friends, working a job I didn't hate, taking between nine and twelve dance classes per week at Broadway Dance Center. I was practically married for two of three years in New York, and was a kept househusband for one of those years. Life was grand. Naturally, I became complacent. My social life depended largely on my friends. We were a big, loving, family...all driven and mutually supportive of everything we dove into.
Eventually, I needed a change. Enter: Los Angeles.
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