Tuesday, August 31, 2010

My Draft Picks

I have never been into fantasizing over unattainable men, ie celebrities. I like to keep my happy moments to real life; those I have had or know I can get. I do, however, I do believe in the list of famous people I'd leave my significant other for...and I know you have one, too. So without further adieu:

Idris Elba. I think every single man cringed collectively when Idris Elba came on the scene. Like, "what the hell we gone do now?" Perhaps the browner skinned men were a little geeked as they realized the light skin crackdown would be held off that much longer. I don't really care either way. Idris Elba is thee definition of FINE. You hear me? Greek god status up in here. I'd marry him on national television. Twice.

Chris Brown. Sorry, I can't help it. I do not care that he's a child. I do not care that his fashions used to (and sometimes still are) questionable. I do not care about his personal life. I just think he's so cute. I know, I know, but I think Rihanna is over the whole incident, so perhaps it's time everyone else got over it, too. And he looks like he'd tear it up. He's so young, too, imagine what he'll be like when he knows what he's doing. A friend pointed out that he isn't very articulate...right, he doesn't really need to talk much in this fantasy.

Simon Baker. I have been in love with this guy forever. I don't even know where I first saw him (maybe that tv show the Guardian), but when he starred in Something New with Sanaa Latham, my heart skipped a beat. And that Aussie accent, just proves there's goodies down under.

Jon Hamm. I already stressed how I feel about the Mad Men star in yesterday's post. He's the classic handsome, leading man. And he's for real leading man, as in not faking the height factor by inserting lifts in his shoes or standing on boxes cause he's vertivally challenged, which wouldn't matter much since he'd be on his knees anyway. Behave, B.

Darren Sharper. When the New Oreleans Saints ran onto the field after winning the Super Bowl last year, my twitter feed went ablaze when safety, Darren Sharper flew into the camera. Back off girls, he's been in my daydreams since his William & Mary days. I hate kids, but he could make me have babies. Like 8 of 'em.

Taylor Kitsch.
Tim Riggins. Friday Night Lights. Google him.
Then enjoy. Those are my top seeded pocks. Who you lovin, who you wanna be huggin?

That bitch stole my line,


Blackie Collins

Monday, August 30, 2010

Jon Hamm is the hottest man alive. Oh, and the Emmys were okay, too.

And so the step sister award season begins. Not quite the season between February and April when the Golden Globes, Spirit Awards, SAG Awards, and Oscars take place. Nope, the end of summer is not only signified by commercials about Trapper Keepers and backpacks, but the Emmys and other "award" shows like the MTV Video Music Awards alike. I find the MTV VMA's to be a bit of a stretch for a station that hasn't played a music video since 1996, but I barely watch MTV anyway, so who cares. On the other hand, I did tune into the Emmys and while I spent much of the broadcast cracking up with my best gay (who works in fashion and alway gives the most amazing criticizing descriptions ever-can someone give him a reality show please? And then nominate it in the best reality category, so we can sit and crack jokes live?), I also realized quite a few things from my very-third-party brush with Tinseltown:

1. Stephen Moyer is the most petite man and I no longer believe him as Snooki's, or whatever her name is on True Blood, vampire boyfriend, Bill. I am praying Anna Paquin had on a pair of 6 inch platform stilettos because they were literally neck and neck. I hate Hollywood for that. They have all these tricks like camera angles and blocks for the actors to stand on. Tom Cruise has special shoes with lifts in them. Lifts! Cheater. The leading man is supposed be the perfect, dashing man. That means he has to be over 6 feet. That's just the way. Too many sidekicks pretending to be leading men, I tell ya.

2. Jon Hamm is the hottest man alive right now. That Jennifer Westfeldt is laughing all the way to bed.

3. The quickest way to kill your sex life is to host a big award show. The opening numbers on those things are so incredibly bad. You ever notice how the writers of award shows never get nominated? Right. Because the jokes suck and ruin people's sex lives.

4. Only white people live in Hollywood-that includes Kim Kardashian.

5. I want E! to stop going out of it's way to make the American public think Ryan Seacrest is straight. He's dating Julianne Hough by the way. Major side eye.

6. Rita Wilson is the ultimate Hollywood wife and she and Tom Hanks are the ultimate power couple. Forget the Will and Jada's, the Brad and Angelina's. Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson are mega producers who make mega bucks and have have been around since the ice ages. Tom also still does a bit of acting, which is a hefty paycheck on it's own. They're the kind of marriage that would cost a whole lot more to break up, so they might as well stay together and be the conglomerate they are.

7. Lea Michele (from Glee) is never going to get laid if she doesn't grow those bangs out STAT.

8. This is a two parter about the hateration in Hollywood for black people. 8a. Blair Underwood has a new show out. He's the President of the United States. His character's last name is Ramirez or Rodriguez. I'm sorry? Did I miss the memo regarding Blair's "clear" hispanic descent? Oh that's right. I forgot every black person thinks they're Dominican and since Hollywood doesn't like black people, they went along with it. 8b. There's another new show coming out by producer J.J. Abrams, Undercovers. A Mr. and Mrs. Smith-esque show starring two black actors as the husband and wife! Yay!! Thisi s huge for us! Like Amistad getting his freedom ("Give us free!"). But then the two stars presented at the Emmys and I was blasted with the girl's British accent. I IMDB'd her and I can't even pronounce her name. She. Isn't. Black. She's the new Thandie Newton, if she's lucky, the resident Halle Berry. She is not Angela Basset or Viola Davis. Well, guess what, Hollywood? We aren't stupid, we elected a whole President into office, and he smokes and has the lips to prove it, so there! We can tell Gugu Mbatha-Raw isn't all the way black. Damnit, when is everyone going to just let black people be great?

9. I want to marry Ricky Gervais. He's hysterical. We'd laugh all day. Did you hear his little bit about Mel Gibson? I won't have a go at him. He's been through a lot...Although, not quite as much as the Jews right? I mean, if we're honest. Crack up.

10. The cast of Mad Men is insanely, unfairly, gorgeous. Except I was really annoyed with Christina Hendricks' dress. That va-va-voom figure of hers looked downright chunky in her dress and you could see her girdle undergarment underneath! I don't care about the fact that she was wearing one, long live spanxx and such, but I don't want to see your underclothes. There's a reason they're under your clothes. But we can always stare unabashedly at Jon Hamm. Sigh.

Honorable mention: Seat fillers are the happiest, hardiest clappers in all of mankind.

That bitch stole my line,


Blackie Collins

Friday, August 27, 2010

Go On And Be a Man, Man

I went out last night, had a blast, did some work events and then wound up at one of the big shot spots where I ran into some well off friends who had table service. And while I drunkenly relaxed as my cab zipped uptown, I realized I hadn't spent a dime the entire night. Even my cab fare had been handled.

I think we can all agree that everything is better when it's free. And my whole night had been a blast, but even better was the fact I wouldn't check my credit card statement the next day and fall out my chair (or as luvie says: make me jump out a first floor window). So, I thought about how this happened. I mean, NYC is potentially the most expensive city in the universe. No, seriously. From the moment you walk out the door, there are little money magnets in the sidewalk sucking the dollars and cents out your pockets. I think it's Bloomberg's doing.

So, where was I? Oh, yes, New York is super expensive. In fact, I'm on the subway now and there's an ad for the Brooklyner, a "luxury" apartment high rise that has studios starting at $1790. A f*cking studio, which should actually be called a shoebox, a shoebox for a children's size 4 shoe. $1800 for a studio in BROOKLYN, so you can imagine what Manhattan is like. To have a night sans bankruptcy is heaven sent, so I ticked through the ways I wound up drunk and all over Manhattan without going broke. There was one reason: every guy I was with last night, bought my drinks.

Now, I'm not saying dudes have to, not totally, but they should want to. I don't expect my guy readers to get this, because, well, you're the ones who fork out the dollar bills, but I've decided you should want to cover the ladies you're out with (assuming you got plenty money-I'm not advocating overdrafts in the name of liquor. Even I have my limits). It's just common courtesy, manners, NICE for crying out loud. Niceness is such a dying character trait.

I thought about the first venue, where a drink was bought for me by a friend; the second spot where my friend's male friends purchased round after round for us as we jammed in their little section; finally our last destination found us sitting in VIP with bottles all around as I mentioned earlier. Not once during the night, did anyone expect me to fork over my part. At one point, I even offered. As far as these gentlemen were concerned, you took care of your female guests. You know what? It was really, really nice. And no, I didn't go home with any of them nor did they seem to expect it.

Again, I'm not advocating spending cheese you don't have, but if you can and your out with some girls, go ahead and remind everyone what chivalry is. One of the few agreeable things Steve Harvey has said is: men feel like men based on their ability to provide. So go right ahead. Don't let me get in the way of your being all manly and whatnot. In fact, let's go ahead and celebrate your manliness. I'll totally drink to that.

That bitch stole my line,

Blackie Collins
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Elin Woods Thinks She's Big Meech...and that's totally okay cause she's a BOSS!

Men are pissed, astounded, arguably calling women all kinds of gold-digging gardening tools as the settlement for Tiger and Elin Woods' divorce was finalized this week. Be a hater if you want, but she is hands down having the absolute best week ever, which I think is well deserved after the last year she's had. You can call her whatever you'd like, but I would have zero problem laughing all the way to the bank on a Sunday (yea, they open banks on Sundays for people who have Elin pockets), and I'm sure you'd have no objections either, so stop pretending. Just make the check out to "Chumpfest 3000." Thanks, do you need the spelling? E-a-t-t-h-e-s-e-n-u-t-s. In all seriousness, it really doesn't matter one way or the other because after being betrayed by her husband, who happens to be one of the highest paid athletes/people in life, Elin is in a complete win/win situation. In fact, she's the smartest girl EV-ER. Here's why:

1. A net payout of between $100-300 million. Elin went from model nanny to zillionaire in just a few quick steps. In fact, I think she could make a killing if she offered seminars on how you, too, can go from rags to riches without batting a nail. She's like Fran Drescher in The Nanny, but better! He was just something English dude. Tiger Woods is...well, Tiger Woods! While I'm sure she'd trade all the money in the world for a happy marriage, I think $300 million buckaroos helps soften the blow quite a bit.

2. She screwed Tiger Woods...literally and figuratively.

3. Like Jen Aniston, she's come out the other side as the victim. She's taken this whole debacle with such dignity and as a result, she gets to be America's Sweetheart for a bit, or Sweden's, probably both. So, now she's the victim and she's beautiful. Somehow I doubt she'll have a hard time leaving the starter hubby behind. The only downside here is trading up will be incredibly hard, but who cares! Bring on the pool boys!

4. Bi-Racial children are so cute! And Tiger is less than attractive, so doesn't that mean by default her kids will wind up hot? Also, one of them is bound to be great at golf like daddy and since pops isn't doing so well on the green these days, they'll need the new endorsements. TagHeuer for Kids.

5. Wasn't Sweden voted the #1 place to live?

6. She has a great pair of black, solid, aviator sunglasses...can someone let me know from whence they came? I want a pair, although I didn't just get a $750 million dollar payout, nor was I married to a man worth over a billion, so I probably can't afford them anyway. But if I took an Elin Woods seminar, hmmm...

7. The no-girlfriends-around-the-kids clause is brutal. The potential for Tiger to find another wife to cheat on grow old with is drastically decreased when he can't even have a girlfriend. But that's probably best for the time being. He realllly needs to focus on his other stroke.

8. There is a small roadblock for Elin in the settlement and it's the major gag order in place. She can't speak out about his affairs. Ever. Big deal! I bet Elin laughed at that one. Out loud. One, I highly doubt she is chomping at the bit to relive the whole saga and two, she's Moneybags McGee! She doesn't need to write a tell all book. Instead she can write one on what it's like to lay by the beach all day and do nothing but count your Euros. I'm sure it'll be a bestseller.

9. Another term of the settlement is Elin still gets to approve all staff! He can't even stick it to the nanny because Elin will probably make sure she is a spitting image of Nanny McPhee, which is probably good considering it's what got him into this mess in the first place.

Ugh, drives me crazy that I have nine. Let's even things out, add your own...

That bitch stole my line,


Blackie Collins

Gimme a Kiss! (Well, let's talk first...)

Way back in my grade school Blackie days, besides being the flyest fish on the playground, well let's be honest, the stables ($word$), I used to search for signs of blossoming love amongst my friends. It's what we did; hell, even if there were no googly eyes, they could just sneeze in each other's directions and the singing would begin. Blackie and Michael sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g! First comes love- insert needle scratching on record, car breaks screeching, or Diana Ross shouting Stop! (in the name of love), whatever you gotta do to cut that scene. Let's hit up the little land of reality. Kissing is NOT always the gateway to love.

I was watching the Bachelor Pad, which I adore- the possibilities of finding love and $250,000 in one pop is pure genius-when the contestants set up for the day's competition. A kissing competition. Basically, ABC thought of the easiest and least creative way to get all the contestants to make out with each other on national tv and did they ever! Everyone was blind folded and whoever got the most votes for best kiss (based on a number that identified them), won the rose and was safe for another week. Obviously, everyone went (Jon) ham and made out like bandits who needed each other's tonsils to survive some sort of bandit genocide. It was excellent television for Monday night.

But, as they voted and discussed, I started thinking about best and worst kisses...so, yes, there's a list for today's post. I consider myself a pretty great kisser, tried and true, which might make me sound like the kissing bandit-what is with me and bandits today-, which I have no problem with at this moment. So, wondering what category you fall in? Not sure if that lip smacker made her turn into little Niagara or The Sahara? As usual, let B help you out.

The Good:

The Gentle Cycle. You gotta love it when a kiss involves a slow start, gentle, but full of allure. You also gotta love the follow through and when those gentle kisses become intense without overkill, you look like you hit the lotto twice. The perfect amount of eager gentility is stronger than any lick down. More on that later.

Love Bites. Nothing is more sexy than a little nibbling of the lips during a smooch. Lightly grazing is key, so please don't treat their lips like a pastrami on rye from Luncheonette.

3 H's: Hands, Hair, Hips. I made this up the little 'H' bit, but it basically means using the whole body in the kiss. Of course you wouldn't have your hands all up in her hair on the first date, nor would rub your hips up against him or let your hands roam free with someone you barely know; unless, you're trying to do it all in one shot. I recommend these kinds of kisses with a familiar partner. I don't see nothing wrong, with a little bump and grind-the PG kind, please. This post is about kissing, not the whole enchilada.

The Bad:

All spit everything. Too much saliva just sucks. No need for elaboration, really, but akin to supporting evidence in term papers, here's an example. In no way, do the involved parties want a bath. In fact, at that moment the last thing they were thinking about was how fresh and clean they felt...and then you spit all over them and suddenly all they wanted was some Dove and a towel. Way to kill the mood and your chances.

Tongue and Groove. One of my high school crushes was into this weird flicky thing with his tongue. It felt a lot like tag. I'd be chasing after his tongue and he'd just keep wiggling it all over the place, just out of my mouth's reach. He usually ended up confusing me, like dude, is there an ice cream cone on either side of my mouth or what? I felt like I needed a lasso to get that thing under control. I stopped liking him soon after. It was exhausting trying to catch his tongue all day.

The Ugly-I hate to talk about these as they're very traumatic, but I'll take one for the team if y'all can learn something. No smooch left behind. Here we go:

Open Sesame. Nothing is scarier than going in to kiss someone and peeking just for a second, only to see them staring back at you like the undead! It's scary and just stop it! It makes me feel like I'm starring in The Last Exorcism. No! Stop! Please stop looking like you just had a round of botox!

Mouthing Off. Having a big mouth is only cool in the 7th grade when you and your friends used to dare each other to try and fit your whole fist in your yapper. Not much has change, sorry. Let's say, you're about to kiss, you're both eyeing each other, connecting without freaking each other out with open eyes and you notice his mouth is as open as Kat Stacks at a Rock the Bells concert. Two wide lips ready for fly catching are just coming at you and before you know it, they engulf your entire mouth; your ear, nose, throat. All of it. If you haven't experienced this, than good for you, but for those who have...well, you know exactly what I'm talking about. I'll give you a minute to erase the sensory recall (and let you throw up).
Solid As a Rock. Lastly, I'd like to give a shout out to a new one. I often like to think there's nothing new under the sun, then I met Jason. Jason and I went out and , later, when we were conversing on my couch, after a great date, I actually felt a bit excited. He was-shocker-nice! He put his glass down, leaned over and gave me a light kiss. It was quite lovely. Then he put my glass down and moved closer. Woohoo, nothing makes Blackie happier than a little necking, but alas Blackie then got very sad for Josh just stuck his tongue out. Like in a 4 year old way. Just out. And it was stiff and hard! I couldn't even gently push it back in with my own lips or tongue. It was unwavering, undaunted by the fight. Never have I been so baffled. I nibbled a bit on it, then sucked it a little...lastly I stuck my own out, maybe a sword fight would fix all of this. I almost laughed at the absurdity. This wasn't working. So much for the nice guy. But hey, at least he didn't finish last as they say. He is my absolute winner for worst kisser! Congrats!

Use those lips for something else...tell me your best and worst...

That bitch stole my line,

Blackie Collins

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Hoes and Housewives

It's said time and time again that a woman gets treated like a ho when she acts like a ho and subsequently, treated like a housewife when she acts accordingly. It makes sense, even though it isn't the easiest pill to swallow. It's like those burglars who come to your front door in a police uniform, show a badge at the front door, and then stab you, stealing all your jewels from the safe hidden in the bedroom closet. I watch a lot of Law & Order. But the analogy I'm getting at is the policeman acted like a policeman, so you assumed he's a policeman, when in fact, he wasn't. He was a the Hamburglar.

People will only treat you as you demand them to and if you go around being the wifey type, you wind up being someone's wife. If you go around acting like a gardening too, you'll be taken to the yard and put to such use. Here's a few ways to know the difference. Perhaps the hardest part will be realizing whether this is a problem for you, but they say that's the first step towards recovery, so godspeed.

Phone calls. Do you wake up on a Saturday morning to find three missed calls and a text from that special someone? Did the messages look like this:

Hey babe. What are you doing? In your hood. Want me to come by? I know it's late, but I miss you.

If so, you have a problem. I know it seems nice, aww, he misses you, but it's all code game-running. He's trying to bone. That's it. He's not hitting you at one in the afternoon talking bout, I miss you, let's have lunch. Nope. More importantly, at some point down the line, you answered or responded to a late night text from said gentlemen leading them to believe that you were down, that they could text or call you on the late night. By allowing that boundary to be minimized, the guy went on ahead and hopped over it.**

Inappropriate Talk. I once talked to a guy who flat out used to make sexual comments on the phone. Literally every other sentence would be laced with innuendo. One day, I told him to cut it out and he laughed saying he was just trying to see how far he could take it, how he had to find out exactly how beyond the envelope he could push. He found out. He stopped.

Diss. When you get dissed in public, well, you know what that means. It isn't rocket science, but just in case you are Helen Keller over there, let me paint the picture for you (in brail): Everyone's heading to the big house party of the weekend. You walk in, feeling cute in your skinny white jeans and mid drift baring tank. All is well in the world. You spot the guy you've been chumming it up with, you've hung out a few times, slept together, etc. You strike a pose, laugh with friends, wait for him to notice you and say hey. He doesn't. In fact, he looked dead at you. Hmm. That's weird. So you go and say hey to him (which you absolutely shouldn't have to do) and what does he do? Mumbles something resembling hello and then goes back to his conversation. Honey, he could care less. And if the sexes are reversed, it means she doesn't want anyone to know you like each other outside the confines of her apartment. I bet you one thing though, you will be getting a text later that night asking if you're still up...

Investments. As my best boy put it: "you spend money on a ho, but you invest in a wifey." And investing doesn't just equal money. It's time, effort, space, sharing your life. If he ain't even REMOTELY doing that, well he's just not that into you...but he is in to that ass;)

The Obvious. I once had a friend who was in a sexual relationship with a guy. She liked him though and wanted more. He didn't seem to interested in it, but she somehow confused his coming over at 3am with him totally being into her. Maybe she thought he just didn't realize it yet. Whatever she deluded herself into believing, it was pretty obvious that he was only interested in sleeping with her. He wouldn't return her calls, barely responded timely to texts, and yet she still thought because of the little nuggets of game he tossed her way, he was this close to professing his love.

At the end of the day, it's about boundaries. Put 'em up (or not, if you don't care). If s/he adheres to them, grrreat. If not. Keep it funky and peace out. Sure being a ho is fun, but housewives win on most days of the week. Especially Sunday.

**It's scary to think you can sleep through that many beeps and rings, what will you do in an emergency! What if the hamburglar is climbing in your window, snatching your people up and only Antoine Dodson saw it and he's calling you to runantellthat?

That bitch stole my line,


Blackie Collins

Friday, August 20, 2010

Pure Imagination: Kat and the Kit Kat Factory

Most people live in the land of make believe. We walk around, assuming our world is the only one that exists, the one to which everyone else orbits. It's your world, kid, we're all just squirrels tryna get a nut. So in this make believe world, it comes as no surprise that people make up sh*t. I swear the stories people create in their own heads is quite entertaining, not to mention extremely confusing. Paging Jackie Collins...

It seems the stories get more insane and out of pocket as we venture into our favorite topic boys and girls: relationships. Or lack there of, too.

You meet a guy, you go out, have a good time, maybe you go out again, or maybe in the interim period you find yourself daydreaming about him, creating full on scenarious, reliving old ones with just a BIT more exaggeration. Before you know it, you've got a whole ten year relationship in your head. Let me repeat that last part:in your head. You aren't actually together in real life! I know it's an amazing news flash, bigger than the second coming, but trust me, you can count on Jesus way more than your funny imagination.

Enter my co-worker, Kat. This girl right here? She drives me slightly insane, which sucks because I actually like her! She's cool in that hipster/Brooklyn way, which is perfect because she lives in Williamsburg and wears skinny jeans with Toms and slouchy hats hanging off the back of her head. Yeah, she wears Ray-bans too. Anyway, Kat has been regaling me with stories of Josh for quite some time. Josh, who is wonderful in every way. Josh, who connects with her on a completely Narls Barkley narley way. Josh, who quit hanging out with her a few months ago (after they slept together) and got into a severely toxic relationship with some other girl. The bad relationship has since ended and he and Kat had decided that "their connection was too strong" so they just had to stay in each other's lives...as friends. So now, I sit and listen to Kat talk about Josh in a way that, unless I knew the whole saga-licious story, would have me believing he was her boyfriend. Sadly, she's fallen for her own tale despite knowing the true (hollywood) story.

The other day, while swamped with work (it's been insane this week hence lack of blogs), Kat plopped down next to me and said: "I think Josh and I will have to have a discussion soon about us."

"Why?" I asked wondering if something had changed that would require an us in the first place.

"I just think as we go along, we're gonna need to make sure we're on the same page. Make sure the boundaries of our relationship are clear."

Funny, she should talk about boundaries as she clearly has none with him.

It should be said that from the time Kat informed me of her and Josh's new friendship, I have warned her of the impossibility of a friendship with him. See, it's quite easy. You can't be in a real life, normal, grade A friendship when you are in love with said "friend" and secretly creating a future in your head that involves babies and a white picket fenced house in a cul-de-sac. She doesn't seem to agree. In fact, she swears they are just friends, that she's being careful. She's being about as careful as a blind 6 year old running around Time Square with a pair of those scissors that cut through pipes. Right.

"Kat, honey. Why are you doing this to yourself?" I asked.

"Doing what?"

"Let me put it this way: do you over-analyze your friendship with me like this? Are we going to need a discussion about our boundaries in while?"

"Well no, but-" she started. I held my hand up in true bbm emoticon style.

"No, stop. I don't want to sound harsh, but you talk about Josh like he's your boyfriend and he isn't. I don't know what world you live, but you have clearly deluded yourself into thinking it's a world that involves you and Josh beyond friends. I promise you Josh doesn't think you guys are anything more than friends and if he wanted more, he'd ask for more."

Kat sat silent as if I'd just popped her imaginary world's balloon. She said something about having work to do and went back to her desk. I felt bad, which I never do, because I get it, I really do. This world sucks on a good day, so creating your own seems like a blast. Hell, mental people do it on a regular basis, but they are wrapped in nice white jackets in a padded dime-sized room with no windows. Nothing good comes from that line of thinking. So, back to reality, oh, there goes gravity yanking you back down to earth, the real world, which isn't just a horribly-in-need-of-cancelling reality show, but also happens to be a cool place to hang out and find a real relationship worth over analyzing.

That bitch stole my line,

Blackie Collins

Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Cardinal Rules: No Around the Way Boys

It was one of those nights when I was up to no good. I was headed to someones house I had no business heading to when I passed a guy on the street. Now, said person who's house I had no business visiting after 11pm on a Wednesday lived nearby, so I was in my own hood. I passed a random man on the street, we exchanged a glance, nothing major. The regular quick check out, and while our eyes met for a moment too long (usually the window opener), neither of us stopped. I kept going towards my destination when the voices in my head-we'll call them a conscience so y'all don't think I'm schizo over here-started ticking off the reasons I had no business going where I was going.

This is a bad idea, Blackie. Remember that sabbatical you're supposed to be on? Remember that promise you made after your last jaunt? This will not do anything but satiate you physically. What about your emotions, don't you miss feelings?

Did I mention how much I hate being a girl?

Fine, Blackie. Let's be real. He's messy. He's saved in your phone as Don't Do It! You're inviting drama to your doorstep.

By this point, I was standing outside his building, hand hovering over the buzzer. As if on cue, my phone vibrated: "Hey, where you@? Still coming?"

Moment of truth. Conscience shouting it's disapproval. I typed out the letters quickly: "Emergency @ work. Will be an early one. Just gonna go home." I turned on my heel and headed back the way I came, a bittersweet feeling that combined approval (for leaving/abstaining) and pissed off-ness (for leaving/abstaining).

I was crossing the street, reminding myself of why this so called sabbatical was apart of my so called life, when I crossed paths with the same man on virtually the same part of the street as before.

"Now we have to speak," he said. He had a drop it low (low) voice and a pair of hazel eyes. He was older with sprinklings of Idris Elba gray hair. Salt and pepper. Distinguished. A far cry from the youngins' game of dress up.

"I guess we do," I replied. We walked to the opposing corner, my corner, and talked for five or ten minutes. He was an actor turned producer, had a brownstone here and a loft in Studio City. He was in town for a film festival, might stay for a bit, he loved Manhattan this time of year.

He was a nice guy, attractive and when he asked for my information, I obliged, breaking my dudes-on-the-street rule. We went our separate ways. I felt like he was my reward for not going where I had no business going earlier. I was proud of myself.

Then life happened and after his initial phone call, to which he left a message, I completely forgot about him. Not in an I'm-not-interested way but in a life-is-crazy-I-don't-have-time way. He called again several days later. I realized I sucked and promised I'd call him that evening. I got caught up. I didn't.

Two days ago, I was waiting on the subway platform of my closest train station. I saw him out the corner of my eye, first, dared myself to actually direct a full gaze his way. I tried not to, but I felt him staring. I prayed he wouldn't recognize me. But when I peaked over, his hazel eyes were still on me. I gave a faint smile. One I hoped conveyed how busy I'd been and that it wasn't him, it was me! His lips set in a firm line, his eyes a bit steelier, he gave me a look of his own. Actually, it was more of a sneer. Sheesh. It's rough in these streets. I thought about saying something, but it just seemed so pointless by this point. Too bad, would've been nice to have a little house in Studio City. Besides, this is why I've voted a new rule into immediate effect: no dudes within a 20 block radius. Not that it really matters.

Sabbatical, B, sabbatical.

That bitch stole my line,


Blackie Collins

Friday, August 13, 2010

I'm a Woman Get Me Outta Here

I am done with being a girl. I want out. Who do I need to talk to? Who votes and subsequently, who do I have make an alliance with to get voted off the island, out the Big Sister(Brother) house. Seriously.

It has come to my attention on several occasions this week that boys have it easier. Well attractive boys, well now apparently even 3's have it easier! I already halfway think the way guys do anyway, even when I don't try. I got slammed on a blog comments section this week because my words seem to portray dude rather than dudette (I miss that word) status. Damn internet. I think there's something wrong with me and here's what it is: I shouldn't be a girl. Here's why:

Heels. I love heels. I adore how they make my long legs look. I am obsessed with a pair of red, suede Louboutins that shout my name from department store windows. I love them so much that I can't help but wear them all the time. I refuse to wear flats and change into my shoes when I get to my destination. That looks gross, like an early 90s working woman ad. No. Not doing it. So I suffer through the agony. I buy inserts and Clouds designed to make it feel like I'm walking on air. Instead by nights end, I feel like I've been walking on a bed of rabies- infected piranha teeth. I have closets stuffed to the gills, rent unpaid, and I spend my winter nights crouched in front of my oven because I have no heat. All for heels!

Feelings. Emotions are a f*cked up short end of a splintered stick. It's like God said: Men, you shall be eternal pricks, feeling nothing until you feel so much you drive women insane. But ladies, oh, you get to feel insane all the time. Every single thing that happens to you will elicit such raw, utter emotion you won't know how to cope. Some of you will repeatedly run over your cheating husbands and later claim emotional insanity. And once a month, you will go completely out of your mind and you won't understand it, but stay the course, around 50, I'll make it all go away. But then you'll be old and you won't even enjoy it. Sorry. But men, what whaaaat? Where my men at?!!

Men. I figured, while we're at it, might as well get this one out the way. Men are perhaps a women's biggest blessing and biggest curse. And since the curse usually outweighs the blessing, we'll say on a whole they ruin everything. They make us smile only to turn around and make us cry (which we can't friggin control because of the aforementioned raw, utter emotions). They come into our worlds and give us the best sex ever and then take it away. Well, okay, maybe they're for more than just sex, fine, but whatever it is, they get us addicted and take it away. And we have no say. Women eternally have to let it go, suck it up. Can't say anything otherwise everyone thinks you're a crazy bitch who's two seconds away from standing outside his door in the pouring rain with a ginsu knife (never have I ever done that). Say he's an awesome chef. Say you date a guy who literally went to the Culinary Institute of (insert city here). Each night you come home to amazing, yummy, fattening meals that rival any of those ritards on Top Chef Masters. You are addicted. And he does the dishes! And he d*cks you down. Twice! Then you break up. Now, you're alone, completely horny, and twenty pounds over weight, while he's probably already moved on because he doesn't have any of those raw, utter emotions. I guess the upside is that since your culinary skills produce items that taste more like tree bark with a manure glaze, you'll lose the weight fast from starvation. Collins party of one...

Children. It is no secret how I feel about kids. They're cool, but I'm not ready to give up my entire life and selfish behavior to house one in my body so I can get fat and then have some ungrateful heathen come out, screaming and throwing up all over my red, suede Louboutins, which I probably haven't worn since 'Nam because I have no social life because I've been pregnant for 9 months and my cankles won't allow it. And don't come at me with, a women's work is to procreate, look at how beautiful the gift of life is. No! No! No! Give that gift to a man, let him hold it for 9 months. I bet he'll be looking for the receipt after a week to return that mug. Furthermore, after having a conversation with my best boy friend, we came to the conclusion that black women don't get married. They get knocked up. White women get married and have kids. Even if they all end up divorced, they don't just get pregnant like it's grabbing some eggs from the market. I'm gonna get killed for that statement, and I know it's a HUGE generalization. But make a list. Go ahead, pull out some paper, open a new document and make two lists. List A: the number of white friends you know that are mothers out of wedlock. List B: the same but with black women. Here we go again! Short end of the pregnancy test stick that you pee on. But make no mistake, it's everyone's fault. Chicks for lying down sans condom, claiming you're on the pill even though you forgot to take it Wednesday, not running to the nearest Duane Reade to get yourself Plan B the next day, and then having the baby with the hope that ol' Man-Man from the block, who has seven kids by 3 girls but is STILL the man, will step up to the plate. Wrong. Wow, I just went on a complete and utter tangent. My bad. I should've written a separate blog about that whole saga. Twilight.

Boobs. If you're still reading after my last outburst, appreciate it. Sometimes I have them. Anyway, boobs. Breasts seem like bags of fun, but between bra shopping, exercising, the swollness that comes once a month, and the inevitable sag, breasts are about as fun as it was for a female to watch Drake's Best I Ever Had video.

Double Standards. On the opposing end of our splintered, short ended stick are double standards. We can't do anything guys can do and when we do, we are immediately slapped on both sides of our faces then slammed into a vice where some guy cranks it until you scream out:I am a docile woman! Hear me roar...quietly, as not to disturb anyone. Hate it. It sucks donkey balls. I don't care about the meaning of life or where the fountain of youth is. I want to know this ONE thing before I check out of here: Why is it okay for a man to have sex every single day of the week, with a different girl every night (and never call a single one again), but let a chick do the same, and she's standing on the corner of Ho Street and Slutbag Avenue?

That dude stole my life,

Blackie Collins

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Never Trust a Diet Coke and a Smile

There is something I love a lot. Diet Coke. It's certifiably bad for you, but certifiably one of the best drinks. It works when you're just watching a little television, sipping on a straw in the movies, or on a hot day. It's crisp and refreshing bite cool you off with a slow burn on the way down. I love diet coke. But diet coke means something different to me now. And many of my friends who are reading this post know exactly where I'm going. Now, you can too. I sincerely suggest you diet coke as much as needed. It's what's best.

Several months ago, I was out with friends, I was intoxicated and I was trying to get into trouble. I was heading home, texting back and forth with a guy I was friends with, but had many relations with off and on. We decided I'd come over his place and after a quick rerouting in the cab, I arrived. It was late, he was already in bed, I slipped in next to him and we immediately started...cuddling. Now, anyone who knows me or reads this blog knows how I feel about cuddling, but this particular guy is this guy, so there's a friendship involved and I feel sort of bad using him sleeping over and not being nice. So we were cuddling, which led to him going down on me, which led to my happiness. Let's press pause for uno momento por favor.

Earlier that day I'd had a major craving for a yummy sandwich from my favorite neighborhood deli. I ate half before seeing the time and realizing I had to scoot, so I put the rest in the fridge with my unopened diet coke. I sort of couldn't wait to get back to it later that night.

Ok, you can press play.

So, there I am, stuck at my boy's house. He had just given me some pretty nice dome, so I didn't want to be mean. However, at that particular moment, I couldn't do anything but think about that diet coke sitting in my refrigerator at home. The back of my throat was itching for it. I had never felt this kind of thirst. Of course, I was drunk, so my senses were slightly heightened and being that the first hurdle was jumped (getting some), the second need was in clear and present view. I had to get that damn diet coke.

He made a comment about how worn out he was, which I knew meant he wanted me to just do some work on him, but I couldn't, didn't want anything in my mouth other than that cool, refreshing, slow burn of diet coke, so I laid there and eventually his breathing slowed and I could tell he'd fallen asleep. Perfect. I was ready to sneak out when I suddenly felt really stupid and incredibly bad. Was I really allowed to just get mine and leave at 4am? For a diet coke nonetheless? People have done far more for far less, but I wasn't sure. Every once in a while, I pay attention to that screaming voice in my head. So, I picked up my Blackberry and BBMed one of my boys, who I knew would be up. He always is. And sure enough he answered.

Me: Hey, what are you doing?

Andy: Chillin, Killer Clowns from Outer Space is on Showtime.

Me: Yuck, that movie freaks me out.

Andy: Yea, but in a childhood nostalgic way. What are you doing up?

Me: Went out, ended up at this guy's house. I want to leave though.

Andy: So go. It's kinda late tho.

Me: I know, I feel like I can't just roll tho. He's a good friend who I happen to get with sometimes.

Andy: .....

Me: Do you think he'll be mad if I leave?

Andy: Why do you have to leave? It won't kill you to sleep over. It's almost morning anyway.

Me: But there's a diet coke in my fridge and I REALLY REALLY want it.

Andy: Are you serious?

Me: Have you tasted diet coke? I think scientist have discovered it actually has cocaine in it.

Andy: You're crazy. Go to sleep. Have morning sex. It's way better than that damn diet coke.

Me: That's blasphemous. Diet coke is way better at this moment. You have no idea how badly I want it.

Andy: I mean, did y'all already have sex? If so, I guess you could roll. I don't know, this is silly.

Me: No sex. He went down on me tho, so I'm good.

Andy: You're just gonna leave that dude hanging after he ate you out?


Andy: That's really f*cked up.

Me: I really want that diet coke. What should I do?

Andy: I can't believe you're gonna leave him hanging like that?

Me: Don't even start, Mr. Pump & Dump. How many times have you busted and been like, "Thanks! G' Night!"

We battled it out for a few more exchanges before I just passed out. The next morning though, I woke up still thinking of my beverage and I snuck out super early to get home to it. Breakfast of champions right there. But since then, anytime I've gotten "taken care of" without doing so much as blowing in the guy's ear, the title bestowed has become: diet coked. Would you like me to use it in a sentence? My pleasure:

A: Hey, saw you with hottie from Soho. Did you guys sleep together?

B: Nope, but I diet coked him.

High-fives exchanged.

How do you just get a guy to eat it with no turn around? Well, I'm that good. No, diet coke is that good.

What's the one thing you would maybe cancel the do for? Food? The game? A good book?

That bitch stole my line,


Blackie Collins