Yes I would — if I could afford it…

OK so here’s the thing… A friend sent me this Obama newspaper clutch by Armando Javier for the dumb Obama-phernalia section of the blog. And while half my brain sees why she sent it to me and understands why I should be as dismissive of it as I’ve been with all the other Obama-phernalia, there’s a part of me that wants to cop this bag.


Obama Purse

I mean, I AM the girl who bought a purse made from a Bible:


It goes against everything I thought I stood for… and I’m poor so I couldn’t buy it anyway… But I enjoy an interesting conversation piece when it comes to a bag, so shoot me… I’d probably never carry it though — if that helps to redeem myself at all in your eyes.

I’m just being honest.

PHI 3, WAS 10

So… I was able to score tickets to tonite’s Eagles/Redskins game at FedEx. I just happen to know a disillusioned Skins season ticket holder who’d had enough after the Cincinatti loss. Thanks so much Alvin!!! Even though their playoff chances are slim, I bet he wishes he’d come tonite.


I went to the game with my “Sports & Home Repairs Boyfriend” Kenny. Since I don’t have a boyfriend of my own to fix things in my condo and go to sporting events with, I sometimes borrow my friends’ husbands… Kenny is a Giants fan. It would never have worked between us anyway ;)

I tell you one thing I’ve learned recently after having such great seats at the Eagles/Falcons and Lakers/Bucs games: I’m waaaay too out of shape not to be rich. We were running late this afternoon. In fact Kenny had to drop me off and then park so I wouldn’t miss kickoff. So I was kinda run/walking up the ramp… Do you have any idea how long and steep the walk up to the 400 section is? I’d much rather get into an arena and walk DOWN to my floor seats. I’m just saying. I can’t wait to make it big ;)

The photo below was taken early in the game while I was still optimistic about the outcome.  You can tell because the sun is still out… And the finger I have up is my thumb. Continue reading →

Crack Withdrawal Pt. I — I need a hit

It’s 6:09 a.m.

9 minutes since I realized I lost my Blackberry.

This is a photo of my Blackberry during the good times. It’s actually from a blog I never posted called “Never leave home without them — my Crackberry and my set list.” So much for that…

I’m sitting at the gate ready to fly back home and I’m looking through my bookbag for my ‘medicine.’ Crackberry… where are you? I looked in the small pouch in front where my camera and my keys are. Looked in the miedum size zip compartment and in the large one.

No Blackberry.

I stood up and checked my pockets. Felt myself up pretty good. Looked in my sweatshirt and my puffy coat. No luck. I exhaled and I saw my life flash before my eyes. Every club/booker contact, tons of old friends… I’m not even sure I know my mom’s cell number. Never needed to know it as long as I know how to spell Mom. M-O-M. I asked the lady sitting across from me if she’d be so kind as to call my phone in case I was just overlooking it in the bag. I knew it was on full volume because I just used it to wake myself up. She called me.

But my bag didn’t ring.

It’s 6:21 a.m.

She allowed me to use her cell so that I could call the hotel and see if I left it in the room or at the front desk when I checked out. It wasn’t at the desk. And the operator told me she’d have housekeeping check the room when they got in. “What time is that?” I asked. “Soon,” she said.

I can’t wait ’til soon.

It’s 6:37 a.m.

And now I understand why they tell recovering addicts to cut off their friends who are still using. It’s too hard to watch someone do the drug you love and not indulge. The man sitting in the chair next to me is on his Blackberry right now. I’m trying to be discrete but I can’t stop looking at it. Maybe I should get up and move. Distance myself from the poison. Or maybe… I could ask him to let me touch it.

It’s 6:40 a.m.

I asked the nice woman across from me if I could borrow her phone once more so that I could try and call it again. This time someone answers. It’s Jenna. The manager from the club that dropped me off at the airport. Duh. I didn’t even think I took the phone out in the car. She said she would overnite it to me. All is well with the world…

But wait…

Overnite it? That means I won’t have it until sometime tomorrow. How am I gonna make it ’til tomorrow? Oh God.

It’s 6:43 a.m.

I have to get on the plane now. I don’t anticipate this being a good day. Stay tuned for updates.

To Be Continued…

Airplane Venom, Pt. II

To the turd that was seated in 15-D on American Airlines Flt. 1624 to Chicago O’Hare on Wednesday evening, I have one word for you — Valium.

Best I can tell, you’re taking a nap now, and I swear I’m so tempted to get up and take a photo of you once the fasten seatbelt sign goes off. I might just. But what I’m definitely gonna do, if I can catch you on the way off the plane, is give you one of my postcards so that you can read this blog once I post it. I used to be scared to do asshole-ish stuff like that… Like right now in this moment, the conservative Erin hologram on my left shoulder is whispering in my ear and saying, “Leave it alone, E. Yeah, that guy was a douche, but don’t stoop to his level.” But the bitchy Erin on my right shoulder is screaming in my ear and saying, “Get him, E! This is great for the act. Plus it’ll serve as equilibrium for punking out on that flight from O’Hare to Baltimore a couple weeks ago.

Now I know none of you know what the heck I’m talking about so here’s the background…

I was having a fine day. Found a laundry room at the hotel and did laundry so I didn’t have to travel to Indy with dirty clothes. Got to LAX and returned the rental car with plenty of time to spare. My bag which I was positive was gonna be overweight came in at 49.5 pounds. And my large tube of Extra Dry Skin Curel made it thru airport security — What? I get a little ashy when I fly. :)

I boarded the plane and put my bookbag under the seat in front of me. I also had a small plastic bag with a sweatshirt I bought in the airport and my coat. I put the coat and the plastic bag in the bin above my head. About 5-10 minutes after I’m all settled, an older gentleman a few rows ahead of me asks if he can move my sweatshirt and coat to a bin a little forward of his seat so that he could fit his bag in the one over my head. OK, dude. Sure. Thought nothing of it, put my iPod on. About 2 or 3 minutes after that the aforementioned douche a few rows up starts having a tantrum about how a coat and a bag mysteriously “jumped into” his compartment. He said something to the effect of “I was trying to make room for a real bag.” — which of course meant ‘his’ carry-on suitcase. I told him it was mine, but explained that I didn’t move it. Then he started huffing and puffing about not wanting to “be in charge of everyone’s stuff.” WTF, right? So I said, “What do u mean be in charge of it? Just close the… bin!” Now the ellipses are important because they show you where and how I edited myself. I didn’t see any kids, but my reflexive profanity would have still been inappropriate I’m sure. Continue reading →

Dude… I’m so not lovin’ it

I tried to stay quiet about this ”McNugget Lovin” ish. Really I did. But I can no longer hold my tongue… I don’t know which commercial I hate more, this new McNugget commercial or the “You better don’t” McDonald’s chicken strip commercials from a few years back. But I’m seeing a pattern that when Mickey D’s is trying to sell chicken, they get extremely stereotypical with it. I don’t want to call their marketing campaigns racist, but their marketing campaigns are pretty freaking racist. Before I continue with this blog, I need each of you to watch this clip below of my good friend Vince Morris on Def Jam a couple seasons ago… And then we’ll talk on the other side.

Vince Morris Def Comedy Jam

Vince is so right about the way ad agencies market things to and within the Black community. It really is laughable that they think they have the formula figured out — that all it takes is some random brown person shuckin’ and jivin’ to get us out to the stores. Because for so many of us, these stereotypical-ass commercials have the complete opposite effect. In light of what went on during the past year in this country — the way all kinds of minorities came together and disproved the belief that we are monolithic. One dimensional. In light of the fact that the next president of the United States is a Black man… I am offended by commercials like these, and I question how the actors involved can righteously accept these roles. Sure I understand the need to make a living as a performer. But damn…

I’m not a fan of the Hilshire Farms “GO MEAT” commercials either.

But at least the ones in video form are… diverse (this is my best attempt at the ‘say something nice’ challenge). But the ads that come on Black radio… Puhleeze. No really, I’m going back to my Sarah Palin “Bitch Please” face. I mean, “Go mama. (YEAH!) Hilshire Farms, mama… (YEAH!)” Really? If I were a radio station program director with an ounce of social responsibility, I’d have a really hard time running those ads.

Exhale. I could go on about this forever. How do y’all feel? Do you think these commercials are offensive? Or just silly? Am I overreacting? Gimme a holler and let me know.

Comcast, NFLN & cable fascism


Yes, Mussolini… because I’m trying to illustrate a point here.

I was talking with a friend this past weekend about how stinky he thought it was that the NFL Network is holding Thursday Night Football hostage. Can’t really get mad about ESPN carrying the Monday games (except for the fact that I can’t watch in my cable-less bedroom) because it’s basic cable, and you pretty much have to have basic cable to watch anything on TV these days. But the NFL Network? Most cable carriers don’t even offer it. And if they do, it’s at the premium level. I would have to seriously upgrade ($$$) my basic package or get a satellite to get NFLN — and even if I wanted to pay for that, I couldn’t because I live in a condo that doesn’t permit it.

I remember when everyone was switching over to digital cable a few years back… I tried to hold on to my analog cable and in turn Comcast held my HBO’s for ransom. I had like 4 of them and then one day they cut me back to 1 and sent me a letter that said, “If you ever wanna see your HBO Comedy again… you’ll give us $45 more dollars a month… and a learjet.” Now, typically I don’t negotiate with terrorists, but how was I gonna live without HBO Comedy and HBO Latino? (What? I like to get buzzed and giggle at the dubbing ;)

Comcast is so gangsta. I mean they basically demanded that the NFL give them a financial interest in NFLN before they would carry the network in all its markets. In the hood, I believe that’s called ‘points on the package’ (I learned that on ‘The Wire’).

I’m especially bothered this week because on Thursday I’m going to be at the crib with family for Thanksgiving and the Eagles have Arizona at home. I won’t be able to go out to watch the game, and I really need to see how the team recovers from Sunday’s mess…

But I won’t see it, will I?

I think both companies are wrong and the real losers are the fans. Damn u cable fascists.

Airplane Venom: I hate your family

This blog is dedicated to the occupants of seats 18-A, 18-B and 18-C on United Airlines Flt. # 340 from Chicago O’Hare to BWI. I know you will never see this blog, but I’m certain the therapist I’ll be hiring in the very near future would have recommended that I find a benign way to vent my frustrations in the interest of good mental health.

So here goes: I hate your family. For myriad reasons which I will attempt to enumerate, but undoubtedly fall short of conveying completely.

To the little boy seated direcly behind me in 18-B:

I’m glad you shat in your pants.

Perhaps if you hadn’t been so consumed with kicking my seat and punching the back of my headrest, you would have realized you had to shit before they turned on the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign. It filled my heart with a Christmas-y sort of glee when I heard your fruitless cries of “I have a boo-boo in my pants” ring out thru the cabin. The awful stench of retribution was suprisingly gratifying. Ha. Serves you right. Sit in it.

To the little girl seated on her father’s lap in 18-A:

While you’re no longer an infant and should know how to behave better, I recognize you’re probably too small to take full responsibility for your incessant shrieking. It’s not your fault you were born to two people so acutely unfamiliar with the concepts of discipline and propriety. So I’m gonna let you slide. Kinda.

To the two turds masquerading as parents in 18-A & 18-C:

As you are responsible for the creation of this family unit, the blame for what I and the other passengers had to endure this evening rests solely upon your shoulders. Perhaps you couldn’t do much about your youngest child’s screaming — maybe her ears were popping, who knows… But your older son’s unacceptable and unchecked behavior warranted a beat down. And you know it.

I travel a lot. And I’ve had to listen to tons of crying babies and restless children. But your absolute refusal to acknowledge your son’s behavior — even after he kicked my seat so hard he woke me up and propelled me forward into my lowered tray table — OUCH; even after two flight attendants came over to ask me if I was OK… Completely unacceptable.

No discipline. No ‘be quiets’. No embarrassed apologies… You should no longer be permitted to fly.

Or reproduce.