The Legend (1958-2009)

Brooklyn. Go Hard.

When you've been sick, flying your flag at half-staff, the right theme music can be crucial to getting your stars and stripes in alignment again. On repeat now is Jay and Santigold trading verses on "Brooklyn, We Go Hard." (Please tell me, wtf's harder than this?)

Could be because BK's Woody Allen is celebrating the 20th anniversary of his landmark "Do the Right Thing" this month. (Spike gets feted with a series of events, including an art exhibit devoted to his first feature-length film, "She's Gotta Have It," beginning on June 25.)

Or that Madewell is partnering with Brooklyn Flea this week, unearthing vintage finds and good eats, but I've been in a Brooklyn state of mind.

Now I don't condone chain-snatching, but that reckless mood once translated to bars puts fuel back in my tank and helps prep me for all that I need to accomplish. Go Hard.



Speaking of Jay, what was your take on his D.O.A.? Sour grapes that he didn't hop on the Auto-Tune early or a rap purist's jeremiad? A certain blogging little ant I know thinks the aging rapper is showing his grey;)

On Your Toes: Ballet's Subway Series

If you follow baseball and live in New York, you know that most fans can be divided into two camps: Bombers fans and Mets believers. It's like that with the ballet, too!

With two of the world's most renowned companies functioning mere steps from each other for most of the season at Lincoln Center, one usually pledges allegiance to either New York City Ballet or American Ballet Theatre.

Although I support both, I'm an NYCB girl at heart: Veteran prinicials like Wendy Whelan, Darci Kistler, Maria Kowroski (pictured), and company newcomers like Ashley Bouder are dance's A-Rod and Derek Jeter.

Yesterday, ostenibly the first day of summer although it rained nonstop, caught the final performance of New York City Ballet's spring season. They staged Balanchine's dreamy, comedic, Shakespearean piece, "A Midsummer Night's Dream." At intermission, I gazed at video feed of the costume studio where they stitch up all of those costumes (swoon).

See, it's not just that classical dance so seamlessly combines athleticism and technique, but that it does so with such beauty. Once, I went with my opera singer friend M to collect her paycheck and ended up in the bowels of NYCB's practice space.

Oh, I was a mess. I secretly fingered racks of elaborate tutus belonging to ballets ranging from "Swan Lake" to "Giselle." Soon, these tall, real-life swans began pouring out of rehearsal rooms dressed in equally graceful practice garb, buns plopped atop their heads.

If you want to see for yourself, the impressive ABT's summer season continues into July. Or discover and support your local company, whether you're in West Virginia or the West Indies. Come fall, my plan is to check the Miami City Ballet.

The Prototype

Remember when the prevailing argument was that the hershey-toned fellas got all the love, after years of playing second to their caramel counterparts? That line of thinking ushered in the Tyson (still the champ!)-Mekhi Phifer era.

Black folk have a long-running struggle with our complexions. In 2008, you could still catch an episode of "Tyra" during which panelists debated light-skin vs. dark-skin. There's a lot of (American) history and pain running through that discourse.

Remember Kanye famously announcing he only dates "mutts," his term of endearment for girls of mixed blood? The Yung Berg brouhaha, where he practically resurrected the brown paper bag test? So we haven't all transcended the colonial thinking but the culture is moving forward.



Look, my dating past is checkered with melanin-rich guys, well before it was in vogue. That might be more about some Freudian thing (my dad is a handsome man with skin the color of fudge).

But Black men are beautiful for real, in all their varied glory. I feel like these days there's a consensus on that and it's a good thing. Two of my most crush-worthy, Drake and Andre 3000, pictured here.

Emily Post Would Be Proud, Desiree Rogers

This past winter, I tore out a VOGUE article on Michelle Obama's social secretary, Desiree Rogers. With all of the firsts we were celebrating, this one filled me up more than it probably did the average person.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood when the NOLA-born Mrs. Rogers is the one presiding over the White House social calendar.

She's generally fabulous and I think, at the risk of sounding traitorous, more naturally stylish in my opinion, than her boss. She's a Wellesly grad and Harvard MBA, but it's not even all about the schooling. I like that elegance and culture (she wants to expand the Obama W.H. modern art collection) can look like her.

Earlier this week, I found this image of her when I was catching up on some reading online. (I promised myself I'd post it today.)

That looks like crisp Mrs. John L. Strong stationary on her desk;)

PSA (Obama Just Signed a Massive Anti-Smoking Bill)

I had to interrupt my regularly scheduled blogging for a quick note: You call it a rant, I'll call it a PSA. I live in a neighborhood where the population has become increasingly dominated by smokers, but it's nearly unbearable when you're under-the-weather and your affliction sits in your throat.

Yes, I'm one of those annoying people who crosses the street, swatting, when I see a smoker approaching. Imagine my surprise when a good friend, who'll remain initial-less, recently ramped up her social smoking into a full-fledged habit.

Would you get up in the morning, fry two eggs and chase it with a glass of ammonia, formaldehyde, and at least 50 other cancer-causing chemicals? Then I don't get why anyone would willingly ingest that toxic combo, exposing everyone else to it in the process.

To say nothing of what it does to the orthodontia over time. It's just a bad, addictive habit, even if you're French rock royalty like Lou Doillon (above, right) or talented rapper Kid Cudi, who left me tossing and turning when I realized he sucks, too.

"The Hills" Are Alive With the Sound of Screeching Girls in TriBeCa

Trekked from my sick bed yesterday to B&N in TriBeCa, stifling a nagging cough and aches, to catch a glimpse of reality queen bee Lauren Conrad. It just seemed worth it after so many seasons of critiquing her.

Got there about 15 minutes before 7pm only to learn from a B&N clerk that 600 wristbands had been distributed. So I bought a copy of "L.A. Candy" and hoped L.C. would be willing to Jane Hancock it.

Got in line with everyone from hair-tossing college freshman and itty bitty tweens to Uptown-sounding Dominican girls and gum-smacking black girls. The queue snaked its way around rows and rows of shelves, from International Travel and Medicine to Diet, Relationships, and Study Aids.

Finally, after more than two hours (during which I nearly gave up several times only to be prodded back into place by a band of fans), we could see her. Seeing Conrad in person made it clear that all the fawning is probably about a veneer of perfection she projects. Not a hair out of place, two hours of scribbling her signature and she was just as seemingly sweet and cheery when I got up to her, #620 in line.

Where her co-stars and Hollywood peers often seem to be fucking up face-forward, she has a certain dignity and decorum. Her onscreen insistence that her friends follow suit can make her seem prissy and uptight, even cold, but in fact I think she's clear about where her personal boundaries are.

I know a guy who when we first met told me I looked like the kind of girl who walked around with a list in my pocket outlining the things I would and wouldn't do. Hated that assessment, but maybe it's accurate. L.C., with her flawless manicure and polished exterior, worked as the moral center of that show; and she probably has a list, too, lol.

So I told her she looked great, and she gave me a raspy "Uh! Thank You!" and quick chatter. I was going to rant about how she CLEARLY didn't write this book, how she has a BOOK DEAL, but ol' girl just seems charmed.

Adult Swim

I'm in love with the swimwear from designer Yodit Eklund's Bantu line. The collection of women's and men's pool apparel, created entirely in Ethiopia (to help sustain textile industry jobs), features bold patterns and prints that are fashioned in lycra but echoing Bamako wax cloth fabric designs. I'm several crunches away from rocking the bikinis, but the one-piece seen here (bantuwax.com) is fancy with an aura of a Capetown getaway.

The Ex-Factor

When I started this blog in 2005 (followed by a long-ass hiatus, lol), I had it subtitled as Black Girl Found. My first post was about Lauryn Hill, who I believed to be the ultimate Black Girl Lost. At the time, I speculated that Lauryn's problems went beyond heartbreak, but hearing this week that she'd canceled a slew of overseas shows scheduled for this summer, I paused to reconsider. I'm just not ready to give up on this icon.

If you're an artist and you and your bandmate prove to be the visionaries behind a disc that goes on to sell 18 million+ copies, no one should be surprised when you fall for him, no, surrender to him, and vice versa. Because the energy required to create things can be a heady force. Add that to love and romantic attraction, and well...

So does Lauryn's continued inability to handle the glare of the spotlight ultimately come down to the ex-factor? I was decimated when the relationship with the guy I'll call my Super ex-Boyfriend was terminated. When I met him, it was like Jay's "Moment of Clarity," I thought to myself, "Damn, that man's face [is] just like my face." Not literally, but in all the ways that seemed to matter.

There are always the rumors that L.Boogie's broken, clandestine affair with producer-bandmate Wyclef is not only the inspiration for her five-Grammy Award-winning "The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill" (2008) but also at the root of her undoing.

The end of that reportedly tumultuous relationship opened her up to meet Rohan Marley and, in effect, to gain entry into one of the most illustrious musical dynasties in the Marley clan. But still, more turmoil and no signs of a sophomore album.
Last year, on the 10-year anniversary of her seminal LP, Rohan gave an interview explaining that all was well with L, she was just feeding her maternal appetites.

But I think that what L allowed 'Clef to dismantle in her, might have been finished off by the way in which she gave herself over to Rohan. When creative people come together, it can either ignite a flame or it can unleash a beast that exposes mutual insecurities and demons. I learned in the years since that you have to take what you learn from men like that and let it bear fruit elsewhere. You build yourself back up and make room for someone who wants you whole and lets you come as you are. Until L learns that lesson in love, I doubt we'll hear from her.

Desperately Seeking a Roll of Rubber Bracelets

I was too little to see "Desperately Seeking Susan" (1985) when it came out and I never got around to seeing it on a Netflix/newtwork television type of occasion until last week. Never even knew what the plot was, only that Madonna was in it. But I could hardly pay attention to the action (bored housewife gets amnesia and wrongly thinks she's the free-spirited Downtown girl played by Madge), what with all the black rubber bracelets, oversize hair-bows, and lace bustiers. I don't know why 80s fashion, which is having a major resurgence, gets such a bad rap. It wasn't all shoulder pads and neon, people! Pre-Giuliani New York gets top billing here too for nostalgic New Yorkers.

The Bachelor

I figured I should round out this batch of wedding-themed posts and call it a trilogy of sorts. "The Hangover," from the director who brought you "Old School" is ridiculous. It's wrong for a movie about a bachelor party gone horribly wrong (or right?) to be that funny, down to the raunchy-ass closing credits.

And if you live in New York City, you've already come to terms with the sticker shock at your local cineplex: They're really charging $12.50 for a movie?

By this time, you've already seen the trailer, so I'll give a quick synop: Two days before his wedding day, "Doug"'s best friends and brother-in-law cook up a plan for him to have one anything-goes night in Vegas. So the four drive from L.A. to Vegas in Doug's father-in-law's Benz. Once there, they end up in a splashy villa, where they sneak onto the hotel roof for a (HILARIOUS!) toast over shots of Jager - and the plot works its way backward from there.

Bradley Cooper is sooo bad, yet so sexy (he plays the cad to perfection nearly every role), and chubby, bearded actor Zach Galifianakis needs his own movie.

In Other 'Wedding' News...The-Dream Proves He Doesn't Always Use the 'Right Side of His Brain'

In the old days, back when movies were so new, they were still tagged with the somewhat awestruck moniker "motion picture," Hollywood's Studio system ruled over its brightest superstars like a fiefdom. From about the 1920's to the 1950s, during what's commonly referred to as the Golden Age in filmmaking, studio heads at places like MGM were known to dabble in matchmaking for the benefit of bigger box office.

So, say, Marilyn Monroe and Tony Curtis are about to open Some Like It Hot (1959), the geniuses in the marketing department wouldn't be shy about pushing those two together, at least on the red carpet, and letting the public come to its own conclusions. What's more enticing than the possibility that the chemistry happening onscreen between a couple - is also happening offscreen?

When I heard the rumor that The-Dream and his so-called muse, Christina Milian (can she inspire anything but weak record sales?) were engaged, it made me think of the cynical Hollywood studio system practice of pairing for publicity. I don't care how many staged paparazzi pics (see them above, trying their best Jay-Z and Beyonce, awful blonde 'do and all) I see of these two, I just don't buy it. It's impossible to listen to The-Dream's five-star Love vs. Money and not read into it that this is a male songwriter in love with the idea of love.

My guess is that he can project a whole lot onto whoever he finds himself with and then work it back into hits for himself and others (Hear "Umbrella," "Single Ladies," "Right Side of My Brain"). In an interview he gave to VIBE this year, he talked about how he tried to massage a hunger for greatness from his first wife, singer Nivea. Maybe he thinks he'll win with Milian where he failed with Nivea in several respects, but this has a stench about it...

To Have and To Hold Onto

I know it'll sound like a cliche, the way celebrity stunners always cluck about their ugly duckling teen years, but I've never been one of those girls who spends a lot of time fantasizing about my wedding day. I haven't logged a zillion page views on The Knot, secretly cast my bridal party, and I can't tick off the various cuts of diamond engagement rings, in fact I had to be convinced by a friend that it isn't abusive to expect my future one-and-only to stash three months' of his hard-earned salary to buy me an icy ring.

Why not put that toward a reception for our families, particularly my vast extended? Or the down payment on our Brooklyn apartment? Why not even toward the furnishings, eliminating the need for a guest-funded registry. I basically thumbed my nose at bridal magazines, in favor of the $385 silk faille numbers from J.Crew.

My theory has been that practicality and self-sacrifice in wedding makes for endurance in marriage, like carbo-loading before a marathon instead of gorging on junk. Look at my maternal and paternal grandparents who were so exemplary, I thought - married, smart, and playful into their golden years and seemingly perfectly meshed and matched - and none had Four Seasons affairs. Just Supermen who'd found Superwomen.

But this doesn't mean that I haven't spent time dwelling on my future marriage. And with my friend G's wedding to her great hubby-to-be set to unfold in just a few hours on the Lower East Side, the subject is at the front today.

Like most people I've had the benefit of watching several, varied unions play themselves out over the course of my growing up. Some of them unfortunately flawed to the point of dysfunction, but nearly all I suppose, entered into through the same swarm of butterflies and uncooked rice that mark newly taken vows.

So along the way, I've tried to figure out what dooms some couplings. If only they'd focused on what was important, on connecting. My unconventional thinking had it that Bloomberg's spruced-up City Hall marriage bureau could be just as memorable, and maybe even imbue the proceedings with the necessary seriousness.

But in truth, there's no vaccine against a faltering marriage, no shots to take, no potions to imbibe. You watch your parents and build toward or against their blueprint. And the details matter less to me now: A 21-gun salute or 21 of your nearest and dearest, as long as there's love in the air. ... The secret to something enduring lies elsewhere. In the meantime, I'm very happily tossing rice.