one.hundred.twenty.one

holy burger, batman!

some people are up in arms about this vid [this is cooning! why are they singing about mickey d's when obesity is such an issue in our community?! how dare they sing about a multi-billion dollar corporation in a gospel stylee!].

really, people, it's not that deep. it looks like a bunch of sanging-ass friends were messing around and someone starting filming on their phone. i doubt the singer is seriously testifying about a cheeseburger and sweet tea; but his voice?

#bah dah bap bah baaaah: i'm loving it!#

one.hundred.twenty

if a way to a man's heart is through his stomach then a way to a femi's heart is through her nose. my nose.

i think i was a sniffer-dog in a previous life. there is not much that i hold in my hands [and definitely nothing that goes into my mouth] that i do not feel compelled to smell. it looks nice, but does it taste nice? well first let's see if it smells nice. not just in the privacy of my own home, no no no, i will inhale aromas at your house, at the restaurant, and even at the supermarket. yes, i willingly engage in social faux-pas-dom because my need for nasal confirmation of delightfulness is just that strong. i have been known to try to pick up the scent of products in tightly-sealed jars and vacuum packed plastic. and i also rub my nostril hairs on carrots.

but it's not just food that my snout is obsessed with; it's smell itself. if someone farts then i am that person that will take a sneaky short, sharp sniff to see if i can pick it up. if it is stinky then i will frown, but i will smell again. i am that person that will smell something foul [perhaps rotten food or a b.o. infested item of clothing], exclaim at how horrible it is and then ask that you smell it too. a friend of mine met such a request with the words "for the record: i never want to smell anything that stinks." i thought him quite strange.

however more than food, it is people that i love to smell the most. i don't run up on folks unannounced, but if we have an embrace then you can be sure that i am inhaling your fragrance. i have dated men that i knew i had no future with based on their scent. men who smelled like they were covered in a cologne named four months pour homme. something in me believes i can smell a friend, and i can smell a foe. that by the whiff emanating from the pores of another, i can locate our future journey. it's almost spiritual.

i wish i could inhale you all.

one.hundred.nineteen

sometimes men are like buses. you wait and wait for one and then...



too bad you already made the decision to...



even worse if they make the decision to...


:-/

one.hundred.eighteen

nina simone

song lyrics : i shall be released

they say everything can be replaced
they say every distance is not near
so i remember every face
of every man who put me here

i see my light come shining
from the west down to the east
any day now, any day now
i shall be released

they say every man needs protection
they say every man must fall
so i swear i see my reflection
somewhere inside these walls

i see my light come shining
from the west unto the east
any day now, any day now
i shall be released

yonder stands a man in this lonely crowd
man who swears he's not to blame
all day long i hear him hollering so loud
just crying out that he's not to blame

i see my light come shining
from the west down to the east
any day now, any day now
i shall be released


sometimes other people's words can speak for you as well as your own.

soon.

one.hundred.seventeen

are you like me? do you also think that something about kanye west and amber rose just doesn't ring true?

well it might have escaped your attention, but kanye has in fact spoken out about his budding relationship. not in an interview, no, he doesn't do those anymore. kanye put the details in a song, people. yes he did. allow me to direct your attention to the chart-topping single stronger.

"'cause it's louis vuitton don night/
so we gon' do everything that kan' like/
heard they do anything for a klondike/
well, i'd do anything for a blonde dyke/


and she'll do anything for the limelight/

and we'll do anything when the time's right/


uh, baby, you're makin' it/
harder, better, faster, stronger/

...don't act like i never told ya!"

of course! the best place to hide something is in plain sight. we've been trying to figure out the west-rose union when the answer was already in the ether. the answer was on our itunes. the answer was playing on mtv. we already knew. mmmhmmm...fakery!

one.hundred.sixteen

so i've been on twitter for a couple of weeks now. my jury is still out on the site as a whole, but i have noticed something that worries me. i know the twitter update box asks 'what are you doing?', but some people use the site to the extent that their page resembles a stream of consciousness.

i think this ties into something that is much bigger than twitter. we children of generation I [for internet] seem to have crossed the line from demonstration into proof. we used to upload pictures to show people what we did, and now it seems we need a picture to show people that we really did do it.

the sad motto for generation I is: if it's not online, it didn't happen.

and for some people on twitter, that seems to go for their thoughts too.

we gon' need rehab, y'all.

one.hundred.fifteen

being a child of the diaspora, the debate about my identity can rage on indefinitely. how african am i if i've never even been to africa? can i claim to be caribbean just because my parents are from there? do i want to be seen as british when i face racism here?

in 2005 i came up with the nifty idea that i am from the atlantic ocean. the trade triangle sums me up quite well, so why not just drop me in the middle of it? the idea for an oceanic identity came to me while i was in NY and going to a lot of slam-esque poetry readings [you. know. the. kiiiiiiiiiiiind ofpoetryi'mtalkingboooooooooooout]. many of the poets i saw told stories about their experience as black americans. it hit me then, and perhaps as a recent anthropology graduate it hit me harder than it might've otherwise done, that the black american and black british experiences are similar in some ways, and oh so different in others. just like when i'm in the caribbean, i felt quite british. still, i didn't choose to proclaim my britishness, it didn't say enough, and so the atlantic ocean thing just kinda stuck.

to this day i get annoyed when people ask me if i'm english. the answer to that question is no. surprisingly, the answer to that question is out of my little black hands. according to the powers that be, english is an ethnicity, not a nationality. so you can only be english if you are white, and if you are black then you can only be british [check the census forms, me no lie]. again, i'm in no hurry to claim a country that does not want me to and so i invariably check the 'black caribbean' box. although the signs hung in english windows in the 50s read "no blacks, no irish, no dogs", the descendants of those irish immigrants can now tick the 'english' box on the census form with no questions asked. and so they should: hardly anyone from england is english through and through. this country is a nation full of 4th, 5th and 6th generation scottish, irish and welsh immigrants.

during a heated debate in one of my anthropology lectures, our teacher explained to the class that we have the power to self-identify, and it is our definition that counts. it reminded me of a moment during one of my geography classes in high school where two girls, that i would have identified as south asian, spoke about themselves. one girl's family was from guyana, and she identified as black caribbean. one girl's family was from kenya, and she identified as indian. who was right? they both were. the truth is that identity is, and always has been, more patchwork quilt than blanket. it is inherently messy, and it is only getting messier. this suits me just fine.

so i will continue to claim my britishness when i'm not on british soil; cheer england on during the rugby and football, but not the cricket; balk at the very idea of englishness; eat fish and chips; drink vitamalt and listen to a smattering of hip-hop. being british is no longer something i feel the need to reject, and it would be silly to. besides, whatever i might say, my sense of humour [which is connected to the truth] always betrays the part of my quilt that is unmistakably shepherd's pie. i never feel more british than when i'm laughing.

on that note, i leave you with the wonderful we are klang, and a song about racial identity. hilarious.

one.hundred.fourteen

so paula abdul has decided to leave american idol. damn. who's gonna tell the contestants that they look nice?

one.hundred.thirteen

the blue bird finally got me.

me: the book is done. now i have to publicise it. i'm terrible at such things, this isn't the funnest part.
friend: have you at least told your regular blog readers about it?
me: yeah. it was done in a half-arsed fashion though. i actually have a few things to tweak before i can push it properly. but i'm not 100% sure how to make it twork after i've tweaked.
friend: well where are you gonna post about it?
me: i would say that i'll start with myspace, but posting anything on there is like talking in a cave these days. nuff echo. where the hell is everyone?
friend: twitter.
me: :-(
friend: you really should get on twitter. stop being stubborn and just move with the times.
me: sigh. i know.

www.twitter.com/femiwrites

*hangs head in shame*

*cries*

*snot bubbles*

one.hundred.twelve

i am very much a fan of google. be it blogspot, e-mail, calendar, maps or their sexy analytics, i rep google to the def. and while others are happy to use yahoo or ask, i will only use the google search engine.

no others, no way.

hoooooooooowever: can i talk about the lovely search engine found at www.addictomatic.com?

type in your choice of words and this internet hoover will return links from youtube, twitter, digg, delicious, and much more; including the google, yahoo and ask.com search engines. and it doesn't just throw them in some kind of css heap on your internet floor. oh no. addictomatic places them in orderly sections and lays them at your happy, toe-tapping feet.

so now i use two search engines.

one other, yes way.

one.hundred.eleven

the evolution of a great song:

1



2



3

parts 1 through 3 are good with me.

one.hundred.ten

the yellow wallpaper

by
charlotte perkins gilman

"the yellow wallpaper tells the story of a nameless woman driven mad by enforced confinement after the birth of her child. forced to live in an attic where the walls are covered in a sickly yellow wallpaper, she does what she has to do, she writes. slowly but surely the tortuous pattern of the paper weaves itself into her mind."
- amazon

i read this book when i was 17 years old. it's a short story for real, no more than 20 pages, and i can remember the visual feast when i consumed it all in one greedy go. the woman in this story is mentally unstable, but now i'm thinking that she's just a regular old writer. how many writers go a little crazy?

plus i don't think computers help. creativity is to be expressed, and the feeling of putting pen to paper brings forth a feeling that fingertips tapping away on a keyboard can't touch. the more i write on a computer, the more mental my process becomes, and the more mental i'm sure i become.

anywhens: i've found the book online here and so, in only 12 pages of well spaced html, you too can experience the pleasure and the pain of the unnamed female protagonist in the yellow wallpaper. i affectionately refer to her as eve.

one.hundred.nine

"black dudes with dirty sneakers scare the f*cking shit outta me"

*tears*