i've recently come to terms with my red velvet addiction. cakes. cupcakes. cookies. whatever. i'll take six, please and thanks.
since relocating to Los Angeles, i've had a few varying red velvet experiences, some good, some bad.
here's what i've had thus far:
The year is 2010. A man named after a yeast infection cream, Plaxico Burress, recently went from Superbowl champion to D-Block Superbitch.
The much-feared mythical beast, The Ashantisaurus, still roams landfills and shopping mall parking lots, melting brains and devouring unsuspecting Virgins.
Unborn Negro Baby Swallower Number One, Kim Kardashian, is, despite the popular saying, on the verge of becoming a housewife.
And we are one year into a presidency that most thought would never happen. Congratulations America.
Not only do we have a non-Caucasian Commander-In-Cheif, but he is light-skinned with no Negro dialect at that!
Shazzam!
...I still sleep with eyes half-open, apparently. After some splendid baked ziti (which I prepared) and some Svedka vodka, in celebration of the homie Steven's last night in LA, I sat down and dozed off within minutes.
Being the good friend he is, Steven put this pic up on Twitter.
Such a pal, he is. At least I've gotten better at this. Years ago, aside from being perpetually sleep-deprived, I used to carry extensive, one-sided conversations in my sleep. I also used to regularly answer my phone while asleep.
We all have our faults. Sadly, I'm not perfect. Hell, you probably enjoy cottage cheese. *insert judgment*
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I don't even have it in me to come up with a witty introduction. All I'm going to say is that verbally ambitious (colored) people make life, literature, and social networking impossible to enjoy at times.
Are we all in agreement that CONVERSATE, despite widespread popularity and usage, is not a word??
Okay.
Well, here's a text I received this morning:
Kevin: so you know, we just spent the evening relaxing. Made dinner and CONVERSOUGHT about relationships...
STOP THE WORLD.
Yes. CONVERSOUGHT. Past tense, according to the grammar laws in some parallel universe where Lil Mama, Queen of Invented Words, holds the throne, of CONVERSATE.
Needless to say, I will be sending that person a bill for wasting my unlimited texts. Dickface.
To counteract this infection, I shall fuck a dictionary tonight.
Pray for me.
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after last week's discovery of $1 Book Heaven in Burbank on San Fernando & Palm and "Buy 1, Get 1" at the Salvation Army, i've added 15 books to my collection for $13. rather than look for authors i know and am fond of, i made the effort to look for titles that appealed to me and flip open random books and read a few pages. the result was a wide variety of new titles i would have other wise never been exposed to.
first up is Middle Passage by Charles Johnson.
this is a well-written tale of a newly-freed slave who avoids debts and a forced marriage by stowing away on a slave ship en route to pick up some African "cargo." a great read that drew me in from the first page. Johnson masterfully weaves together the intense internal moral struggle of the main character, a life-long thief, liar, and opportunist, and the unpleasant, but important subject of slave trade. it is strongly recommended to anyone with an appreciation for period fiction.
i'm about halfway through this book.
while browsing the books at the Salvation Army in North Hollywood, where ALL hardbacks are $2 and paperbacks are $1, i found Roots by Alex Haley, Beloved and Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison, The Color Purple by Alice Walker, and Native Son by Richard Wright (one of my favorite books ever).
as i already own all of those except Roots, i couldn't pass up the chance to share my love of books with the world. so, i took to Twitter, and offered them to my followers. Song of Solomon and The Color Purple went one way Native Son and Beloved went another way.
i'd prefer they went to people who'd enjoy these great titles, rather than collecting dust, unappreciated, on some shelf in a thrift store.
aside from that, i've picked up The Colossus of New York by Colson Whitehead, Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe, and Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison from the library. these are all books i've "intended" to read for quite some time. i've dug into Whitehead's book first, enamored with his ridiculous mastery of including seemingly unimportant, minutiae to paint vividly real images in the reader's mind. his attention to detail, as i told a friend, makes me feel as if i've the writing abilities of a toddler.
After Middle Passage, I'm beginning Invisible Man and Things Fall Apart and shall relay any other great book finds.
What are YOU reading??
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hello children. gather 'round. come real close. grab a pillow and lets form a circle on the floor.
comfy?
it's time for Tuesday's Public Service Announcement. this is something that you may not encounter regularly, but I've seen it enough to feel compelled to reach out and snatch off a few top lips. as part of my upcoming campaign to STAMP OUT STUPIDITY, i will share a piece of info that may change your life.
ready?
alright.
there is not now, nor has there ever been a phrase, even considering poorly translated Mexcican idioms, that translates to
can anyone guess what the CORRECT, Jesus-approved saying is??
Say it with me:
drop a donation in the pickle jar on your way out.
~chris.alexander
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For so long, having an active lifestyle has been bad news for my locs. Since I've long ago decided against going the Marley route with my loc growth, love, care, and attention (and obsession) are required for my hair to maintain its glorious splendor. Six years in, and I am at a very comfortable, accepting place with sweat and maintenance issues.
As a dancer, I see very few working dancers and choreographers with long, "natural" hair. Hell, I now see fewer and fewer as of late with long braids. Perhaps the sleek look now prevails. And that is totally fine. I've concluded that I do not want my locs to grow beyond my lower back. For one, they DO get heavy and cumbersome at times. I just discovered that I could, contrary to what I'd told myself for years, that I could wear fitted hats. Now, finding my size (which shall remain between me and Saint Damita Jo) is another story. Add to this the fact that cutting my locs OFF is reserved for a major life event, and I've had quite the interesting experience with my hair.
Last year, the staff here at coloredboy.net (me, myself, and the amazing I) took the liberty of gathering a series of rules designed to help those misguided, less polished diners out there. ChrisAlexander's Guide To Eating Out sought to debunk myths and help the reader live right in the eyes of the Creator (...or maybe just your waiter). It's somewhat lengthy, but fear not: undoing years of ingrained rudeness and dysfunction takes time. Get your mind right and continue reading. Future generations will thank you.
Originally posted on my previous workspace, coloredboy.wordpress.net.
Note: I need you to do me a favor and share this with anybody you consider a friend or loved one. You will be doing them a big, amazing, free favor. Thank you.
Hello children. It’s me: your good friend, Professor ChrisAlexander.
(Applause)
Happy New Year! How’s everything? Good, right? Great. Some recession we’re in, huh? Boy oh boy. Times are hard. But, children, we’re not here to discuss how the Fuckhead in Chief has run this country into the shitter. Although….Haiti may actually have us beat economically!
(Crickets….sparse awkward laughter)
…..I’m here to share something important with you. Let me first say that I love you. And because I love you, I have taken it upon myself to educate you (the uninformed or misinformed consumer) about things that will make the world a better place for you and for me and the entire human race.
Hello there.
Happy New Year, and stuff. As I have recently returned to the restaurant world, I am once-again blessed with an endless cast of characters who shall enrich my life and (indirectly) yours. My current gig finds me in a very casual joint at Sunset/Vine in Hollywood. The thought of serving LA residents and visitors is quite exciting, even if only for the daily blog fodder I'll be exposed to.
My first day on the floor, the ONLYEST sketchy Negro to walk through the door magically ended up in my section. Fine. Think: the guy who stands to the right of the entrance to your favorite corner store, bumming change and loosies (single cigarettes for the ignorant). Picture the ashy knuckles, noisy (in color and in sound) yellow and brown track suit, and the almost-charming unintentional grunge look. Notice the deliciously putrid scent of LaToya Jackson's Eau de Failure For Men dropkicking you in the face. Yep. That guy.
To make a LONG story short, in between lengthy bathroom trips he ordered and devoured enough breakfast to feed the cast of "Fat Girl's Club" and guzzled Fanta the way Omarion sucks down Irrelevancy Cola. It was a sight, to say the least.
After one final bathroom trip, he creeps up on me and stammers:
"Yo, ummmm. I just accidentally flushed my money down the toilet. Ummm. My bad. I can wash some dishes if you want."
Me: .....................um. Lemme get a manager.
Yes. Flushed his money down the toilet, he sure did. That, Penises and Vaginas, is a new one. I've heard some pretty amazing things as a waiter, but that is truly a first. To their credit, Junkies are quite the creative bunch, you know. How does one flush their money down the toilet?
Was it in a balloon inside his booty along with the coke that also coated his knuckles?
Did he wipe his butt with his cash and send it down the shitter?
I don't get it. HEPP ME HEPP YOU PREVENT A REPEAT, sir.
After he unconvincingly begged to wash a few dishes, my manager counted it as a loss, and he was asked to leave...and lie down in traffic.
And that was just the first day. In anticipation of the magical times to come, have a gander at some of my past experiences as a waiter in New York. HERE. Adventures in Restaurantland is back, kids!
Look out for part two of Chris Alexander's Guide to Eating Out. Good times ahead.
Please advise the Mexicoons above me that they do not live in a shack in Mexico City with a dirt floor. They do, however, live on the second floor of an apartment complex in LITTLE Mexico in Califerny. They fail to realize that their endless cucaracha-stomping contests are not considerate of their downstairs neighbor, me. I imagine their Lil Mexico Soccer League practices must get pretty spirited up there, but such events would be safer outdoors...where there's no risk of damaging their shrine to La Mexicana Divina (the Divine Mexicunt), Eva Longoria.
I have yet to see what they look like, but I assume that the kids are the equivalent of 1,397 tacos de pollo (1,397 chicken tacos- 400-lbs) apiece, wear cinder block zapatos and must be Hat Dance champions, with all the practice they get on that pretty wood floor. Oh Gracious Saint Selena, perhaps they've missed the memo that you don't have to flatten tortillas by foot anymore. I'm searching here, can you give me a sign?
Maybe they slide their furniture to and fro in an attempt to maximize sleeping space on the floor for when their cousins come to (legally, of course) "visit".
To make matters worse, they seem to ignore the old-fashioned New York "broomstick to the ceiling with fervor and a stank face" maneuver. In New York, that means "You have clearly lost your mind(s) up there. Lay off the coke-fueled wrestling matches. You are drowning out my porn. Cease and desist immediately." Apparently there's no Mexican translation for this.
Wondrous Queen of Black Lip Liner, I kneel at your feet. Saint Selena, I shall humbly await direction from you. I hope we can handle this matter painlessly and without a call to Immigration.
Yours respectfully,
chris.alexander
