After declining Jess' invite to witness how folks from the Bay area get down on Halloween, I sat on the four train next to a 3-year-old cowboy and five-year-old angel. Needless to say, they were too cute.
By the time we reached 125th street, both the angel and cowboy collected quite a few dollars from our fellow passengers.
I didn't get a dime.
I guess no one was feeling my make-pretend-grown-up/journalist-on-the-grind costume.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Saturday, October 14, 2006
This just in...
Over a week ago, I ordered a book from Borders. I was told that if it didn't come within seven days I qualified for their " 7 days or It's free" giveaway offer.
As I still wait, I'm letting you know now....
*pulling out bullhorn*
BORDERS IS GIVING AWAY FREE BOOKS!
Thank you.
As I still wait, I'm letting you know now....
*pulling out bullhorn*
BORDERS IS GIVING AWAY FREE BOOKS!
Thank you.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Welcome back fam
My father, an old school West-Indian man, respected anything that required talent, hardwork and discipline. So from birth my siblings and I have been sport fans. We've spent countless school nights in our pjs , ignoring bedtime and the scolding of our mother, watching the rhythmic intensity of tennis , transfixed by the delicate elegance of figure skating, and getting riled up by WWF's Royal Rumble - dad's personal favorite.
Over the years, we've adopted several professional athletes into the family, referring to them by their first name and memorizing their stats. To these select few we've remained faithful. We groan, yell, and curse at unfair calls made by bias game officials, give standing ovations for glorious plays that require heart, and cheer till our voices are hoarse when our favorites win.
In our household basketball will always reign supreme. My lil' brother has said numerous times that it is absolutely unacceptable for me to date anyone who doesn't play basketball. He doesn't have to be nice or hold NBA dreams, says June, just a great appreciation for the sport is enough.
Every fall since 2003 , without fail, I've asked June about Jay Williams. We've followed his journey as a star Blue Devil, assistant to Coack K's third NCAA basketball championship, college graduate within 3 years, and second overall pick of the NBA's 2002 draft by the Bulls. We were devastated when in June of 2003, Jay lost control of his motorcycle and crashed into a utlity pole. With three of the four ligaments in one knee torn, a fractured pelvis, and a severed nerve in his left leg, there was little hope he'd ever return to the court.
Earlier this week, out of habit and genuine curiousity about his condition, I asked June if he heard any recent news. He shared that he thought Jay was a sports commentator now, giving up any basketball aspirations since his near fatal crash. A few days later, my little brother called me to see an article on NBA.com about Jay playing the preseason with the Nets.
Tonight, we watched in disbelief as the New York Knicks played a game against the Nets, who sure enough had our man Jay Williams in their lineup.
They didn't win tonight, and that's okay. None of us are wishing for a championship ring. I'm simply happy that he is able to come back to a sport that he loves and the family loves watching him play. There have been many who have died from far less, Jay is blessed to have a second chance.
**UPDATE**
Last I heard, Jay wasn't picked up by the Nets for the season.
Over the years, we've adopted several professional athletes into the family, referring to them by their first name and memorizing their stats. To these select few we've remained faithful. We groan, yell, and curse at unfair calls made by bias game officials, give standing ovations for glorious plays that require heart, and cheer till our voices are hoarse when our favorites win.
In our household basketball will always reign supreme. My lil' brother has said numerous times that it is absolutely unacceptable for me to date anyone who doesn't play basketball. He doesn't have to be nice or hold NBA dreams, says June, just a great appreciation for the sport is enough.
Every fall since 2003 , without fail, I've asked June about Jay Williams. We've followed his journey as a star Blue Devil, assistant to Coack K's third NCAA basketball championship, college graduate within 3 years, and second overall pick of the NBA's 2002 draft by the Bulls. We were devastated when in June of 2003, Jay lost control of his motorcycle and crashed into a utlity pole. With three of the four ligaments in one knee torn, a fractured pelvis, and a severed nerve in his left leg, there was little hope he'd ever return to the court.
Earlier this week, out of habit and genuine curiousity about his condition, I asked June if he heard any recent news. He shared that he thought Jay was a sports commentator now, giving up any basketball aspirations since his near fatal crash. A few days later, my little brother called me to see an article on NBA.com about Jay playing the preseason with the Nets.
Tonight, we watched in disbelief as the New York Knicks played a game against the Nets, who sure enough had our man Jay Williams in their lineup.
They didn't win tonight, and that's okay. None of us are wishing for a championship ring. I'm simply happy that he is able to come back to a sport that he loves and the family loves watching him play. There have been many who have died from far less, Jay is blessed to have a second chance.
**UPDATE**
Last I heard, Jay wasn't picked up by the Nets for the season.
We stay fly, no lie
Yesterday, with my nervous hands, I pinned the visitor's tag onto my blouse and pressed the button for the sixth floor. As the elevator traveled to its destination, I said a prayer for my first interview after weeks of job hunting.
I tried to calm down and remember what my boy Reg said about everyone being people, who started out at the exact place I am now. When the doors opened at my stop, I quickly passed my hands through my hair and over my slacks, attempting to smooth out any wrinkles and self-doubt.
My nerves chilled, a bit, as I walked into the office of the publication's human resource director. Her easy-going banter and infectious smile were able to put me at ease, as if I was chatting with an old girlfriend who was glad I came by to visit. I taught her the meaning of diaspora and she shared with me pictures from her first walk against breast cancer, an illness that her close college buddy has battled for five years. But though I was comfortable, I remembered where I was and the position of the woman sitting across from me. I guess I passed the prelimiary round because within fifteen minutes of our meeting, she called a few editors to see if they wanted to meet me.
Our friendly conversation continued in the elevator, through the newsroom, and until we arrived at the office of the executive editor. With a quick introduction she was gone and so was my confidence. As the door closed, I had half the mind to call her back to save me.
There I sat, in his small office with several pictures of dogs and famous faces, as he grilled me on everything from my past experiences, last non-fiction book purchased, and feelings on 'skut work'. Under his critical journalist's eyes I felt like that little girl, who is more accustomed to wearing kicks and jeans, getting caught playing make pretend in her mother's business clothes. I tried my best to keep up with his quick, dry wit and prayed that my demeanor didn't betray the the flip flops that my stomach was doing.
At the end of our interview he offered to see me out. On our trip through the newsroom, I quickly scanned the workers that I hadn't noticed twenty minutes earlier. My eyes were met by faces, belonging to mostly white males, offering quickly disappearing thin-lipped smiles that followed my exit.
And that's when it happened.
At that moment, I ached for the false protection offered by conformity and the days countless Dominican hair salons helped my hair live the lye. Instead, my in transition strands seemed to sense their surroundings and defiantly stood on my head, reveling in all their naptified glory. With each step towards the elevator, the slacks, which were flattering when I left the house, tightened under the strain of my behind that was growing to monstrous proportions. My nose took over my face and my lips began to look like the after picture shown to hopeful patients before their collagen injections.
The executive editor offered a detached indifferent handshake, pressed the elevator's bottom button, promised to call within a week, and sent me on my way. It wasn't until I reached the city's sidewalk, that my body returned to normal and I was proud of the many months spent sticking to my natural headed aspirations. This morning, I immediately sent out my thank you notes and half-heartingly prayed that the position was mine.
A few minutes ago, at the top of my inbox sat an email from the publication's human resource director. Convinced that they were so incredibly unimpressed that they decided not to even wait more than twenty-four hours before giving me the bad news, I read her two sentenced email asking if I got her message and if I could start later this month.
I've been doing a non-stop victory dance that can rival any of Chad Johnson's post-touchdown celebrations.
My two youngest siblings, Shirlgurl and June, have been known to entertain the family and my close friends with hilarious catchy songs, that they write themselves. After hearing the good news, I can't seem to get the Dipset inspired, unabashedly braggadocious chorus penned by my little brother out of my head: Been through the fight (Can you feel me)/ Been through the hype/ Been up on top (Now I'm stuck)/ I can't get down from up.
Ballin'! HAHAHAHA!
I tried to calm down and remember what my boy Reg said about everyone being people, who started out at the exact place I am now. When the doors opened at my stop, I quickly passed my hands through my hair and over my slacks, attempting to smooth out any wrinkles and self-doubt.
My nerves chilled, a bit, as I walked into the office of the publication's human resource director. Her easy-going banter and infectious smile were able to put me at ease, as if I was chatting with an old girlfriend who was glad I came by to visit. I taught her the meaning of diaspora and she shared with me pictures from her first walk against breast cancer, an illness that her close college buddy has battled for five years. But though I was comfortable, I remembered where I was and the position of the woman sitting across from me. I guess I passed the prelimiary round because within fifteen minutes of our meeting, she called a few editors to see if they wanted to meet me.
Our friendly conversation continued in the elevator, through the newsroom, and until we arrived at the office of the executive editor. With a quick introduction she was gone and so was my confidence. As the door closed, I had half the mind to call her back to save me.
There I sat, in his small office with several pictures of dogs and famous faces, as he grilled me on everything from my past experiences, last non-fiction book purchased, and feelings on 'skut work'. Under his critical journalist's eyes I felt like that little girl, who is more accustomed to wearing kicks and jeans, getting caught playing make pretend in her mother's business clothes. I tried my best to keep up with his quick, dry wit and prayed that my demeanor didn't betray the the flip flops that my stomach was doing.
At the end of our interview he offered to see me out. On our trip through the newsroom, I quickly scanned the workers that I hadn't noticed twenty minutes earlier. My eyes were met by faces, belonging to mostly white males, offering quickly disappearing thin-lipped smiles that followed my exit.
And that's when it happened.
At that moment, I ached for the false protection offered by conformity and the days countless Dominican hair salons helped my hair live the lye. Instead, my in transition strands seemed to sense their surroundings and defiantly stood on my head, reveling in all their naptified glory. With each step towards the elevator, the slacks, which were flattering when I left the house, tightened under the strain of my behind that was growing to monstrous proportions. My nose took over my face and my lips began to look like the after picture shown to hopeful patients before their collagen injections.
The executive editor offered a detached indifferent handshake, pressed the elevator's bottom button, promised to call within a week, and sent me on my way. It wasn't until I reached the city's sidewalk, that my body returned to normal and I was proud of the many months spent sticking to my natural headed aspirations. This morning, I immediately sent out my thank you notes and half-heartingly prayed that the position was mine.
A few minutes ago, at the top of my inbox sat an email from the publication's human resource director. Convinced that they were so incredibly unimpressed that they decided not to even wait more than twenty-four hours before giving me the bad news, I read her two sentenced email asking if I got her message and if I could start later this month.
I've been doing a non-stop victory dance that can rival any of Chad Johnson's post-touchdown celebrations.
My two youngest siblings, Shirlgurl and June, have been known to entertain the family and my close friends with hilarious catchy songs, that they write themselves. After hearing the good news, I can't seem to get the Dipset inspired, unabashedly braggadocious chorus penned by my little brother out of my head: Been through the fight (Can you feel me)/ Been through the hype/ Been up on top (Now I'm stuck)/ I can't get down from up.
Ballin'! HAHAHAHA!
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