180 Posts ... And That's All She Wrote

So 180 seemed like a good place to bring our conversation to a close. A million 'Thank you's to all my friends & readers for sharing in this experience with me. (Gratitude to folks like the sweet-as-pie Korean gals at my local coffee shop who decided I shouldn't pay for pastries when they discovered I was a writer.)

Your kind words of support and encouragement were deeply appreciated, whether in the comments, giving me digital love, or on the streets.

If you found something here that was interesting enough to spark a feeling, a thought, a plan ... I'm delighted. But if it was just soulful enough to entertain you on occasion, then know that I'm smiling as I walk out the door.


Lights.

Can't Knock The Hustle: This is 'How To Make It In America'

You know they're on to something when a scripted drama unfurls a scene set in the L.E.S. to the sounds of Digable Planets' "Pacifics (N.Y. Is Red Hot)". (If you know about baggy Guess and Timbs, then you know about DP.)

HBO's "How To Make It In America" is a grand, poetic celebration of the hustlin' spirit that brings people to New Yawk City, year after year.

Some sink, finding they're simply not cut out for the pace, the energy, the beat to which we natives in particular, walk. Others find their groove--and thrive, becoming essential ingredients in our melting pot.

"HTMIA" features pitch-perfect, comic writing and a stellar cast that includes Bryan Greenberg (a crush since I spotted him years ago on HBO's little-watched "Unscripted"), the up-and-coming Victor Rasuk, Shannyn Sossamon, and all-around Renaissance man Scott "Kid Cudi" Mescudi.

Add to that a shooting style that feels like scrolling through some of my fave street style blogs and gallery shows.

Ben (Greenberg) and Cam (Rasuk) are best friends determined to launch a premium denim business. "F**k a downtown loft, it's about Uptown luxury," says Cam, when they take a meeting with Ben's childhood classmate, a geek-turned-Hedge Fund big.

These cats remind me of my ultimate fictional hustler, Horsemouth, the Kingston drummer who battles the grimy music biz in Rockers (1978). I've been playing my Rockers DVD practically on a loop since '02, when I found myself transfixed by it at a loft party.

All grist for the inspiration mill. Here's to "Jettin'" (wink).

Secret Garden

What about a floral harem jumpsuit for Spring? Fashion is in Full Bloom.

The End of Shame

When your claim to fame is participating in a Hollywood "bling ring," which gets you arrested, but also lands you a reality television show of your very own, then the social boundaries for what's acceptable have really loosened. That's pretty wild.

Strike a Pose

I don't remember now where I came across this photograph, but it reminds me of TriBeCa, where I toiled for some time and an area I really dig.

I'm just aching for real Spring weather in New York, ballet flats and sandals, and sunshine to greet the morning.

'Body Marked Up Like a Subway in Harlem'

At the hair salon I went to regularly until it closed shop (market forces), the stylists were largely of Dominican descent and the clients were, like me, very old school about hair, e.g. no weaves, extensions.

We generally wore our hair long/longer and subscribed to the benefits of the bi-monthly roller set. Anyway, one summer day I made a bank run mid-wash with my rollers and net.

On my way back, noticed a handsome, heavily-tattooed guy in jeans and a white tee. He had that Irish coloring and his head was shaved close.

Leaning on a hydrant outside the salon door, I looked around and wondered whether he was just people-watching. The midtown salon full of well-coiffed girls often drew stares.

Soon, a very pregnant black girl with light brown hair stuffed her Apple laptop into a tote and strode right into tattooed guy's arms.

They made such a beautiful pairing but I admit I was initially surprised. And yet, I shouldn't have been. I appreciate the artfully tattooed body and am often drawn to guys with that look. Of course, not all ink is made alike (hip-hop has appropriated the parlor look and some rappers and athletes give it a bad name).

But Pittsburgh rapper Wiz Khalifa's needle-work is aite, as is Cali's own Tyga.

(Top, "Glamour Break, Harlem," Ruben Natal-San Miguel, 2009)

Bad Romance

My name is Becky and I'm a Romantic.

I cried during the scene in Love Story (pictured, top) when Ali MacGraw's Jenny brings a jar of peanut butter and sliced bread for lunch with Ryan O'Neal's Oliver because they're newlyweds on a budget. I buy $0.99 writing notebooks covered in hearts.

But I also reject fantasy, end relationships when they're toxic, and don't believe there's such a thing as happily ever after. So, no 12-steps here.

Over the years, men I loved--and sometimes men I barely knew--tagged me like blog posts with easy labels: You're a romantic, you're on some poetry sh**, you think too much, you ask a lot of questions ...

Never meant to be complimentary, the words were tossed at me like hand grenades. But once you begin to truly settle into your skin, become your own fan, so to speak, the intended limitations of those labels just ring false. You're defining yourself.

Recently, I read a feature about Ali MacGraw in Vanity Fair, in which she detailed how she abandoned her scorching Hollywood career just as it was taking off, because her on- and offscreen love, the volatile leading man Steve McQueen, insisted.

McQueen was a serial cheat, abusive, and controlling. Yet, still, MacGraw said she struggled with feeling like she was good enough for someone as iconic as McQueen. Hollywood deals in well-crafted fiction.

Real love is about integrity and connection (and, yes, a dollop of romance).

Made You Look: Rachel Roy for Spring

While covering fashion for a daily New York newspaper, I had the chance to attend and cover a Rachel Roy Fashion Week presentation, which are more intimate than runway showings, if less theatrical.

But I was often harried and sent instead one of my colleagues, who was a pro in her beat covering New York's social circuit. Still, I always regretted missing that appointment because I love all things Rachel Roy.

The theme of her Spring 2010 Lookbook is "What To Love" For Spring, and the designer of Dutch-Indian descent asked a handful of gifted gals to share what love meant to them.

What's amazing is that Rachel tapped a few of the chicks I'm inspired by, including Trinidadian renaissance girl Vashtie Kola, an artist, director, and designer, who proves you can do it all-and do it well. And the duo that comprises Nuyorican Queens band Nina Sky, Natalie and Nicole Albino.

With my locks shorn, people often teasingly call me Rihanna, but I was inspired last summer by Nicole's edgy 'do.

"Everything I do involves love and I don't commit to things that don't involve love," says Kola.

We should all live that way.

Go Ask Alice

Just the other day, my cousin G and I were discussing literary heroines, namely Jane Eyre. G is 15&3/4 and currently immersed in what she considers a torturous, too-close reading of Charlotte Bronte's work.

But that got us talking about another English girl confronted with an undesirable marriage proposal, who holds out for real love.

Lewis Carroll's Alice, in Wonderland or Underland, as re-imagined on film by director Tim Burton, is another kind altogether.

Alice sorts dilemmas in her head; sprinkles "two teaspoons of wishful thinking" into concoctions like a distance runner shaking electrolytes into bottled water.

While I wasn't particularly bowled over by Burton's cinematic creation--I expected more of the "one pill makes you larger, the other makes you small" madness--I do appreciate that his Alice (talented Aussie Mia Wasikowska) is a headstrong 18-year-old, determined to do things her way.

Spoiler Alert: Alice refuses her red-headed suitor (he's rather boorish and beset by gastrointestinal issues, lol) during what turns out to be a lavish, surprise engagement party.

Instead, she takes up her late father's business, making expansion plans that will allow her intercontinental travel. I like to think she meets her prince along the way.

Lover's Rock

Helen Folasade Adu. The queen.

Sade is not only famously reclusive, but she's also, yes, a soldier of love. In the late 90s, the Nigerian-British songstress fell in love with a Jamaica-born Rasta and musician with whom she later had a daughter.

She moved to Montego Bay and lived in what the press there teasingly called a commune, but was according to her, just a very open environment for her man and his entourage of musician friends and local Dreads.

Regardless of where she lays her bags and effects, her sound is always spices and flavorful. And when I hear the pounding, aggressive, "Soldier of Love," it sounds like the music of right now.

Stealing Beauty, Lagos Style

I've been listening to a lot of Seun Kuti & the Egypt 80 lately. Fela's youngest son assembled most of the members of his father's band, taking up the mantle. Seun lives still in the rather run-down compound in crime-ridden Lagos where the Nigerian icon and his many wives resided and made music.

During performances, Seun's backup singers are decked out and made-up much the same as were their musical forebears. I'm dying to replicate this make-up look for a night...

(Pictured, a Fela woman, c. 1970s)

She 'Paints' Pictures, You Just Trace Her

When we were in college my friend Justine Reyes would paint these achingly lovely, pastoral scenes of forlorn figures with drooping eyes, on snatches of unstretched canvas.

Hard to describe, but imagine Henri Matisse commissioned to illustrate the "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" series.

I've met many 'artists' over the years, but she is a true artist in the anachronistic sense. If you've ever been to Paris and visited the Montmartre district, with those winding roads, where struggling Van Gogh, Monet and others kept cramped studios, you'll understand.

There's nothing of the dilettante, rather she conquers whatever medium she's selected through a mix of innate creativity and rigorous training. Her photography, which is the focus of her personal and professional output, has a painterly quality.

Perhaps never more so than in her recent series, Vanitas, which references the 16th and 17th C. Dutch Masters. But the objects are gathered from personal effects.

You can catch a glimpse at Affirmation Arts, where her work is on view as part of the fresh group show 31 Women in Art Photography, co-presented by Humble Arts. (Through April 10.)

Still life paintings representative of Vanitas--Latin for "emptiness"--often incorporated skulls or rotting fruit and other objects meant to serve as commentary on the fleeting quality of life and life's pleasures.

(Pictured, "Still Life With Suitcase," and "Still Life With Banana, Purse and Change," Vanitas, 2009, courtesy of the artist. Nice work to amani olu.)

Scary Spice Lives Up to Her Name

I'm always perplexed when celebs swagger-jack each other.

There's always some element of dipping into the same styling pool (stylists invariably pull from the same designer racks), but you expect oft-photographed entertainers to align first and foremost with the cult of individuality.

Not only is scary spice girl Mel B sporting Cassie's look, but the style just feels so dated now. Any edge or shock value it was supposed to evoke is nil. Moreover, I think the utter lack of fuzz on the shaved side gives Mel B a bald eagle quality.

Tired.

Unbreakable

"You, as well as anybody I've ever seen, has been able to hold onto the space inside yourself," host Oprah Winfrey said to Alicia Keys on the March 5 episode of her talk show.

Keys appeared on that edition, as did ABC's Diane Sawyer, who allowed cameras to follow her into the newsroom as she prepped for the evening news, to my ridiculous delight. Two women who exude not just a luminescence but a certain unshakable quality that I believe you get when all of your aspects are in alignment.

Work, love, intention, all flowing from the same place.

Tipping Her Hat to Hattie

Mo'Nique, who at last night's Oscars took the Best Supporting Actress statuette for her gritty turn in "Precious," is reportedly at work on a biopic of Hattie McDaniel.

Fans of Turner Classic Movies will know McDaniel as the attentive maid in "Gone With the Wind" (1939). The role - and in the 1930s there weren't many for black actors that didn't require pulling on housekeeping uniforms - won the Kansas-born McDaniel the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress on February 29, 1940.

I'm a longtime, die-hard Dorothy Dandridge devotee, and at one point it seemed every black entertainer from Janet Jackson to Whitney Houston was racing to play her, before Halle Berry pulled it out.

I think it's time Hattie got her due. This is Mo'Nique's part to perfect.

8.8 and Heartbreak

More tragedy. In Chile, this weekend, an earthquake 500 times the strength of the one that shook Haiti in January. The U.S. Geological Survey says it's not a matter of if, but when a quake hits some region in the U.S. (Above, a devastated apartment building in Concepcion.)

GTL: An Ode to the "Jersey Shore"

It was late November '09 when I first started spotting trailers for "Jersey Shore." A fan of MTV's "True Life" docu series, I'd been mesmerized by the hour they'd devoted a couple years back to the Garden State's summer resort. A group of 20-somethings descended on it each balmy weekend looking for love (and trouble).

The reality series premiered on Dec. 3, with a cast of eight self-proclaimed "guidos and guidettes" and a quiet storm of controversy from offended Italian-American advocacy groups. Holy Outrageousness! The show was riveting for all the right and wrong reasons.

But when I asked around, it seemed only a select band of my pop-culturally attuned friends were watching. The rest, as you know, is television history.

"Jersey Shore" and its cast are a bona fide phenomenon, excoriated in The New Yorker, spoofed and lampooned on late night shows, and the generator of nicknames so inventive, the tags are rivaled only by Mob nomenclature.

G.T.L. Gym, tanning, laundry. I laughed, I cried, I "beat the beat," I related to all of that passion and familial loyalty, the (neighbor) hood slang...

And now lensman Terry Richardson will immortalize them in Interview (l. to r. "The Situation," Vinny, Richardson, Ronnie, and DJ Pauly D) Salute!

You Want Love, John Mayer?

I ventured into enemy territory on Thursday when, in the wake of a blustery snowstorm, I scored tickets to John Mayer's two-night stand at the world's greatest arena.

The singer/guitarist of the bluesy, pop catalog, made headlines again when his apparent lack of a filter in the face of recording devices led him to give Playboy mag one of the more glib celebrity interviews I've read in a while.

He went in on exes Jennifer Aniston and Jessica Simpson, deconstructed his porn addiction, and had this to say about black girl fans. Turns out John-John, 32, doesn't think a black woman's body is a wonderland:

PLAYBOY: Do black women throw themselves at you?

MAYER: I don’t think I open myself to it. My di*k is sort of like a white supremacist. I’ve got a Benetton heart and a f***in’ David Duke co*k. I’m going to start dating separately from my di*k.

PLAYBOY: Let’s put some names out there. Let’s get specific.

MAYER: I always thought Holly Robinson Peete was gorgeous. Every white dude loved Hilary from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. And Kerry Washington. She’s superhot, and she’s also white-girl crazy. Kerry Washington would break your heart like a white girl...

So with the Karyns (Parsons of 'FPoB') and Kerrys in mind, went to the concert sure I'd be sour. I won't even get into the racial politics in this space. But (good) music transcends.

Mayer's latest, "Battle Studies," is evolved and hearing his live rendition of its gems like "Assassin" and "Who Says" (the latter, aptly in New York City) was uplifting, literally; I was out of my seat.

He apologized yet again for being "an a**hole." Hard not to forgive - at least for the night.

Skater Girl

Have to admit, I've been largely taking in Olympics coverage in a peripheral manner, reading the sports section and catching highlights (skier Lindsey Vonn, snowboarder Scotty Lago and his legion of female medal-lickers, the four-man U.S. bobsled teams, et al).

But for all the success the U.S. Olympians have enjoyed in Vancouver this Winter, I'm really moved by the performance of South Korean gold-medal figure skater Kim Yu-Na.

Her programs have been as elegant as they are technically proficient.

Everyone from Dorothy Hamill to Michelle Kwan has taken notice. And it's not just the double axels: Yu-Na's costumes, including a beaded ombre number, are to die. Worth checking out.

Rogers and Heart

I can't say for sure, but somehow I think First Lady Michelle Obama may have had something to do with this.

Desiree Rogers announced last week she'll step down from her post as White House Social Secretary. The designer dud-donning Ms. Rogers (pictured here in Comme des Garçons at the Nov. 24, 2009, State Dinner) made Mrs. Obama, in her J.Crew and Jason Wu, look like a fashion lightweight when it came to dressing.

I mean sure, Rogers suspended all etiquette and protocol to seat herself as a guest at the aforementioned state dinner, when she should have been manning the door against fame-seeking gatecrashers. And yes, she loved her Vogue spreads, but she was fabulous! [Laughs.]

Here's hoping her return to the private sector includes all the step-and-repeats she can accommodate.

Mr. Carter Goes to the Dentist

Whenever my friend M meets a new guy, I know we'll be discussing his mouth first, and not how he kisses, nor an assessment of how good he is with his...but rather an evaluation of his orthodontia. Teeth, their general cleanliness and professional maintenance, are key, lol.

Hearing Weezy had to undergo eight root canals (Dirty Mouth?) to repair damage wrought by his grills (and probably other neglect), including major surgery to implant new choppers, made me think of her.

She'd approve of the improvements but I don't think she'd ever have, say, shared a Lollipop with him, his sexy "On Fire" video notwithstanding.

All of those hours slumped back in the dentist's chair are of course in preparation for the Young Money capo's 12-month bid, which begins March 2, in New York.

"Opening" Night? Let Denim Rule

Attending a good number of museum and gallery exhibition openings means getting to see not just great art, but also great fashion.

I think if ever there's an atmosphere where sartorial rules don't apply, it's in the company of art - whether fine or flaky. I love to see girls and boys make an effort.

At my last outing, I wore the cutoffs, tights, and military boots I'd had on all day and just added a chunky metallic knit wrap. And with spring in the offing, I totally co-sign another denim chic look: the ever-fresh Zoe Kravitz, pictured here (in fedora).


For downtowners, Damon Dash (here with daughter Ava, and ex-wife designer Rachel Roy) recently entered the gallery fray with a three-storey space in TriBeCa. It'll be fun to see what hipster-b-boy fashion turns up there.

Paparazzi

Hopped on the 7 train and was drawn to my fellow commuter's "ears." On a subway line not particularly known for its stylish straphangers, I loved that she seemed to have fallen out of the pages of some gothy, "bad romance" novel. Asked to take her picture, she was bashful but acquiesced.

P.S.: I Love You

Definitely one my favorite moments at the 2010 edition of the Grammy Awards was Bey accepting her golden gramophone with an "I love you" to her "husband" Jay - in front of millions.

I found it refreshingly unscripted; seemed spontaneous, especially for a couple that takes care to manage and guard its public image.

That's what Valentine's Day should be about, right, being able to proclaim your love purely and at high volume;)

Reflecting on Haiti: Tragedy to Triumph

I've always been fascinated by the enclaves in which immigrant communities will attempt recreate "home" (has a bit to do with how I ended up in my current neighborhood).

For first generation Haitian-Americans who were born and reared across what we call the diaspora, I find our experience is marked by certain shared memories.

These days, I cherish that culture, history more than ever. Wrote a little post about it over at the super blog of the gentlemen of Coup d'etat Brooklyn. Check it out here.

Unlocking Pandora

I'm still basking in the 3D glow of James Cameron's billion-dollar baby, Avatar. Critics have assailed it for an oversimplified plot, but I'm not bothered so much by the facile natives-good-corporations-bad storyline.

It was a marvel to watch, and I felt as close to what I imagine it must have been like to see talking pictures projected onto a large screen for the first time. Did you feel the same way, once the Hallelujah Mountains, for instance, came into view? Or the lush, pinkish green forest, where Neytiri and Jake Sully first encounter each other?

Reading that Cameron had initially come up with the idea for Avatar in 1996 - stalled waiting for the technology to catch up to his vision - was even more interesting to me. How often do we sit on a great idea or a plan without ever bringing it to fruition?

It takes some kind of singular focus to stay with it as Cameron did. But too many times we don't even get close to tapping into that spirit.

Four Women: The Marrying Kind

Someone once said that women should become the men they want to marry.

By now, if you're a black girl like becky, you’ve probably viewed the ABC “Nightline” segment on the sorry dating lives of black women.

Featured were four Atlanta women who had, in effect, become the men they wanted to marry—Benz-driving, high-powered, attractive, home-owning, advanced-degree-holding, upwardly-mobile 20- and early 30-somethings.

These were definitely not the embattled “Four Women” of Nina Simone’s 1966 lament, but rather reflections eternal of her late-career “A Single Woman.” Not only were they all single; some hadn’t seen the inside of a committed relationship in a decade.

These sorts of (self-imposed) dry spells are most problematic because intimate relationships move you forward emotionally, spiritually, physically in ways unmatched by even the strongest platonic bond.


According to the doomsday clip, while these Georgia peaches were off becoming prosecutors and publicists, more than a sprinkling of available black men had hauled off to jail, joined the ranks of the unemployed, or failed to secure a high school diploma. The statistics were dire.

But it wasn’t hard to decipher why these friends, like too many, might not have found better halves.

One woman, a 32-year-old, said she’d long kept a list of 50 requirements for potential suitors tucked into her Bible, which she recently pared down to 10.

Good for her I guess, but a sheet of 50 bullet points represents 50 barriers to entry.

How many dynamic black men had she overlooked in that span? Another, a 34-year-old who stands 5’9,” decided to come down from her sky-scraping height requirement of 6’5” to a supposedly more reasonable 6 feet.

Either she’s had special access to the Atlanta Hawks locker room or she’s asleep.

Water seeks its own level. Become your best self…the rice and rings will follow.

Raise High the Roof Beam, Salinger

A corner of my bedroom bookcase is devoted to J.D. Salinger's slim volumes, but winter had me thinking about the classic (and my all-time favorite) "Franny and Zooey."

In it, Lane is a Burberry-coat wearing, insufferable know-it-all who's actually very much in love with his girl, Franny.

He keeps a letter she's written in his inside coat pocket; on one occasion he runs out of places to kiss her and kisses her coat lapel. (Swoon at both of those.)

Anyway, Franny's in the middle of a full-blown spiritual breakdown, but it's the details that get me: They dine on frog's legs and Martinis, rock cashmere like sweats, and get in heated debates over Tolstoy.

The reclusive 91-year-old American author died Wednesday at his home in New Hampshire, to which he'd retired 50 years ago, shirking the literary fame he'd once craved. Rest peacefully.

Gimme Shelter

What's most frustrating about the situation in Haiti is the apparent lack of organization.

President Rene Preval and his cabinet are holed up in a police station not far from Port-au-Prince Airport last I heard, but I don't get a clear sense that they're spearheading anything.

Now comes word that some of the nearly 1 million Haitian residents left homeless and sleeping under the open sky might finally be the beneficiaries of temporary tents that will be set up in outlying areas. Accommodations are estimated to target about 400,000 survivors ahead of the forthcoming rainy season. The operative word here though must be "temporary."

An article in the Times outlines a proposal by the Haitian government and international officials for temporary housing to eventually turn into a second phase that would include a sort of Habitat for Humanity model for permanent housing.

All week I've been thinking the upside of such destruction is the potential to eventually create jobs in a country where unemployment typically hovers around 65%. Just trying to think forward.

Rescue Me

So many horrifying images, everyday I'm processing, you've probably noticed I've had a hard time putting the enormity of the event itself into words.

But in the devastation, at least there have been moments of light. I cried tears of joy when I saw video of this perfect little boy, Kiki, beaming as he was rescued by New York Task Force 1, a US search-and-rescue team, along with his 10-year-old sister in Port-au-Prince.

The siblings spent eight days buried under the rubble of their home.

(Photograph by Matthew McDermott)

The Natural High That the Fugees Bring

Shout to the brother Wyclef, who was holding down his brethren well before it was in vogue. I still remember the frantic running among all my friends to set the VCR the first time 'Clef showed up on a nationally televised awards show draped in the Haitian flag.

This, at a time, when the dirty little secret was that we were still having to forcibly out Haitiens attempting to pass for Jamaican or some such, giving rise to the term "Ja-fakin."

The subsequent success of The Fugees (18 million albums sold) did more symbolically for Haitian self-regard, particularly in the diaspora, than I think can be quantified.

With all of the concerts for Haiti relief that are in the works, I have to say my fantasy is a Fugees reunion.

If comedian Dave Chappelle could get them to set aside their differences for one afternoon in Bed-Stuy, I don't see why the trio couldn't transcend any bitterness for Port-au-Prince.

Shirt Off My Back

On a lighter note, I've been shaking the pom-poms for CNN's coverage, which is nonpareil in my opinion as far as broadcast outlets are concerned. (The journalist in me can't help but dissect how stories are being told.)

Critics have accused the marquee reporters of showboating for the cameras, but the cable network has kept the camera trained on the scene with solid reporting and seamless transitions to other news stories like the Massachusetts special election.

The style reporter in me also quite automatically has been examining the sartorial choices of those assigned to cover the earthquake aftermath. Seems I'm not the only one, as this piece reflects.

I know it's probably not foremost on his mind, but I can't help but think that Anderson Cooper puts at least passing thought into those T-shirts.

And Dr. Sanjay Gupta, so incredibly well-coiffed, also in the now requisite black or grey tee, always gives me the impression that he's fresh from a shower. Rather incongruous given Haiti's sweltering temperatures and the dust and debris.

We Forward in This Generation...Triumphantly

On Wednesday, Oprah dedicated the hour to Haiti and earthquake relief; I caught the insomniac edition at 1 a.m. [Smile.]

Wyclef joined her to illuminate the situation on the ground in Port-au-Prince and surrounding areas also affected by this (un)natural disaster.

He also defended accusations of shoddy accounting practices on the part of his five-year-old foundation Yele Haiti. And the beautiful Maxwell, (finally) repping his Haitian heritage, sang "Fistful of Tears."

By now, particularly if you're of Haitian descent like me, but even if you're not, you've likely been inundated with fundraising-related invites and messages.

Everything from fashion shows to weekly parties to restaurant dining at places like Fatty Crab and Babbo has been re-purposed for Haiti Relief. A telethon, "Hope For Haiti Now," airs tonight.

I couldn't be happier, but I imagine it can be overwhelming to know where to give.

Rihanna's rendition of Bob's "Redemption Song," which she performed on the Wednesday Oprah episode was stirring. I'd recommend downloading it on Itunes.

Another simple, small way to give.

Sunday After the Quake

With a population that is 80% Catholic, Haitians are a prayerful people. The cathedral is demolished but services were held outside.

Jewel of the Caribbean

As my friend A noted: Everyone who even looks at this post should donate or should have already donated text Yele to 501501 for a $5 donation or Haiti to 90999 for a $10 donation to the Red Cross. (Yele Haiti is the foundation, as many of you have learned, headed by entertainer/activist/philanthropist Wyclef Jean.)

A Million Ways to Get It...You Get It?

My family is a "house" divided over the admittedly disturbing, if stunning, "On to the Next One" video. The clip is either an art critic's dream or a satanic ritual in black-and-white.

The diamond encrusted skulls in Jay-Z and Swizz Beatz's collabo clip took me, of course, to Damien Hirst's decadent (macabre?) platinum cast of a human skull encrusted with flawless diamonds.

A writer for The L, adroitly made the added reference to drip painters like Pollock.

But where abstract art lovers see iconography, others see allusions to masonic blood/wine oaths, the evidence of which was first supported by a handful of YouTube video postings gone quickly viral.

It's clearly possible Jay either subscribes or has had serious exposure to teachings/literature/connections related to such, I just am scratching my head at why he would out his "secret society" leanings in a series of music videos to be seen and deconstructed by millions. Hiding in plain sight as a strategy? Build an empire and then set it aflame with populist backlash?

But if he's indeed made vids like "Run This Town" a public declaration, do we have a religious litmus test for rappers?

Regardless of Hov's (anti)theistic proclivities, the Follow the Follower mentality is what irked me initially. Certainly, one should question the ideas that offend. But reading these bastardized 4th-hand interpretations of what Pookie at the corner store said about Jay is just excruciating.

Suddenly, everyone is an expert in semiotics. The information age indeed.

(My as-yet-unconfirmed directing credit goes to artist Sam Brown.)

My Name Is Earl

Earl Nightingale that is.







The "dean of personal development". I largely tend to think the mainstream, latter-day self-help, tell-me-a-Secret, eat, pray, love your way out of it movement is a racket, lacking in purity. (With five fingers' worth of exceptions.) But ol' Earl, like Florence Scovel Shinn, precedes all of that. As with many life-enhancing lessons, I got put on by a friend.

A Little Bit Country (Apple)

For years, I had to stay away from Bath & Body Works. Not just because I was on some "Change Clothes" ish, graduating to fragrances and scents (Marc! Dior! Ralph!) befitting a young woman and not a co-ed, but because the smell of those spritzes had become so inextricably linked to my undergrad years. But recently, I stopped into a store for the first time and it was totally sweet.

Looking back, my friends' B&BW selections were like windows into their personalities. The romantics stuck to the floral notes in Juniper Breeze or Plumeria; the classic, Gwyneth types were all Country Apple, and the more adventurous among us tended to pick up tangy flavors like Pink Grapefruit. Which were you?