CheapThrills

The big haircut!

My grandmother used to always say to me, “All that hair. Don’t EVER cut it.” I always assumed she knew some secret – like maybe once you cut little-Black-girl-hair it doesn’t ever grow back (a thought that absolutely terrified me). But then I grew up and grew out my relaxer and realized that my hair grows pretty darn fast. So I began asking myself this: why is it such a travesty for a Black woman with long hair to cut it short?

I’ve worn my hair long my whole life, most recently like this:

Not surprisingly, this ‘do attracted much attention from strangers – like the middle-aged woman with the crazy eyes who attempted to stroke my hair while waiting in line for the bathroom – but also from Black/interracial women like me that I've known for years. In fact, I’ve had more wonderful conversations with Black girlfriends about the pros of natural hair than I can count. So I guess I was a bit taken off-guard by the cringes and outbursts from these friends when I announced I was cutting my hair short.  Almost as if my haircut was a personal affront to Black women everywhere.

I always thought that wearing my hair natural provided me with freedom from hot irons and burning chemicals. But actually, it bound me in a different way by appointing me with a social responsibility that I neither anticipated nor asked for: the local face of big, bold natural hair. Funny how that works. But I think women – especially Black women – should afford each other with the luxury of choice.

So now my hair’s short! Like, super duper short. And someday it’ll be long again. But here’s what’s true: how I wear it will always be my choice. And cutting it was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life thus far… as is being able to wash and dry it in 5 minutes flat.

Some shots from the cut, with stylist extraordinaire Jessy Lockward from G2O Salon in Boston.

Before! All big hair,  smiles, and excitement.

 

Ahh! The first snip!
 

Halfway through. I don't know if you can tell, but I'm kinda freaking out here. Maybe because at this point in the haircut I look pretty ridiculous.
 

The last little bit!
 

I decided to donate all my hair to Locks Of Love. I hope it makes someone happy.
 

Jessy putting on the finishing touches.
 

Startin' to dig it.

Fake (read: awesome) teabagger signs in Boston

Here are some choice selections, along with a special message from Brick Tamland.

If you have any good shots from yesterday's little tea party in the Boston Common, please send them my way!

 

 

 

 

 

My New Year’s resolution…

...is to stop being a social media hermit.

So I deactivated my Facebook about 10 months ago because it worsened all the already painful problems in my life. Kinda like putting a magnifying glass to an ant on a sunny day.

Then I stopped blogging. I don’t know why. A friend of mine once warned me to NEVER blog about how you don’t blog enough, but I’m doing it anyway. Because it’s actually hilarious, when you don’t keep up your blog it becomes the spawning ground for spam comments (who knew?!). Comments used to give me a thrill. But then I wrote this one really upsetting post awhile ago in which I basically just sobbed all over the internets, and the first comment I got was from Viagra Online. That really messed me up. Now I get comments DAILY from oh, I dunno, maybe “Free Cambodian Dating”? Or, better yet, just plain 'ol “Boobs”? It just feels so violating, like someone spray-painting your baby’s face.

Then I tried to replace blogging and Facebooking with Twittering. It didn’t work. I’m going to say something now, something that may shock and offend. Twitter sucks. It’s boring and stupid. I have an account, I guess I’m pretty active on it or whatever, but it’s useless. If I’m going to blog, I’ll blog. If I’m going to write status updates with links for my friends, I’ll do that on Facebook (or even AIM for that matter). Twitter just adds nothing. I got jazzed about Twitter exactly once, and that was when Robert DeNiro responded to one of my tweets. But then it turned out it wasn’t the real Bobby. Of course it wasn’t. Freakin’ Twitter.

So here’s the part where I admit some hard truths. Here we go:

I get lonely without social media. And not just any social media. MY social media. Twitter never felt like mine, but rather a hodgepodge of many people’s one-liners. Flickr was never mine either—I don’t want my photos searchable on Google Images. LinkedIn has always been fine, but that’s my WORK place, ya know?

I miss blogging. But when you stop, it’s really hard to start again. It’s like, if you haven’t written in awhile you feel like your next post has to be THE BEST. And then you get freaked, because you have no ideas that can live up to that. And then you feel like you just have no ideas AT ALL. I guess that’s called writer’s block, or blogger’s block, or something.

And, yes, I miss Facebook (picture me cringing as I write this next bit, ok?). The truth is, I’m severely saddened that no one knows my favorite movies anymore. Or my favorite quotes. They’ve changed in the last 10 months, and no one knows because I don’t have a stupid Facebook account. Also, I so much miss exclaiming “new profile pic!” after a fun night out. And speaking of photos, my new ones have no home without Facebook. They sit in iPhotos, all lonely and lifeless with no comments or thumbs up. Poor photos. Maybe it's juvenile, but it’s almost like deactivating one’s Facebook profile disappears a huge chunk of one’s social life.

So I’m going to start blogging more. About whatever. Even if I have no ideas, I’ll just write about Tiger Woods or something.

I’m also going to reactivate my Facebook account sometime soon. It’s so scary, because I deactivated during one of the hardest times of my life. So my profile is like a time capsule of crap-land. But I gotta get over it. Not to say I’ll never deactivate again (I most certainly will if I feel the need), but I think now it’s about time I reentered the social media world. Because these late-night convos with my plant (it’s a her and she has a name and she’s brilliant) are getting pathological.

Chicago ad events are... different.

Last night I attended my first Chicago industry event, the Chicago No Show. A bunch of DTASers took the train uptown to the location, a gritty music venue called The Riviera Theater. Felt like a field trip, and I was stoked to get to know my new co-workers.

As we entered, we learned that they weren’t serving any food. At all. At 7pm. Then the doorman got all pissy with me when I tried to retrieve my just-handed-over ticket so I could grab some grub across the street (Him: “Uhhh, I mean, I don’t even know which ticket is yours.” Me: “Dude, it’s the one on top that I just handed you.”).

A few of us left to eat and chat (probably the highlight of the night). When we got back, I started noticing all the differences between the Chicago scene and the Boston scene. Simply put, as I saw it last night: Boston = Daphne. Chicago = Velma. Which I actually dig. A lot. I’m not a Daphne at all. 

But there are some pros to Daphne-ness. Like hors d'oeuvres.

Back in the land of Velma, the bar closed for an hour during the awards ceremony. And then there was a… comedian? I think? (though he could have been someone really important) shouting about something on the stage. But the sound was all off and no one paid attention to him, so I couldn’t hear anything. The few words I caught:

“Easily offended…. IS NOT…. you.”
“Winning in Chicago…. HARD”
“Shot… bar… award…”

They only gave out 6 awards. So 6 people got to drink during the show. And everyone else stood in front of the bar, waiting/fuming.

 

Then the bar reopened for 5 minutes. Then it shut down again. Then it reopened again, as a cash bar.

By the time the band came on (which was a pretty cool add to the night), I was tired and ready to leave. So I did. And a weird man in a Technicolor sports jacket followed me out, asking me over and over if I worked at an “Advertising Agency.”

Velma. She’s a cool, down chick. She keeps it real. But sometimes she needs to get her ‘ish together.

Bye bye Boston

It’s the weirdest thing ever. I’m moving. To Illinois.

Well actually, Chicago, which I didn’t think really counted as the Midwest until I saw road signs for Indiana and Milwaukee. Tripped me out.

But I digress.

I moved to Boston in 2001 as a freshman at Boston University. My first day of classes was an exciting and wonderful one.

And my second day was Tuesday, September 11th 2001.

I suddenly felt so far away from everyone important to me, and so isolated.

Anyone who has been reading this blog knows that I’ve had qualms with the racial landscape of this city. I’ve always felt a deep divide between the races, one that’s hard for a mixed girl like me to reconcile. I’ve tried to quell my frustration, but it’s always been there – from the day a white Jewish friend from Philly visited me at BU and asked “Where are all the freakin' Black people in this city??” to just a couple months ago, after I returned from my first trip to Chicago (where I spotted numerous people of color downtown sipping martinis and cokes at fine restaurants... gasp!) and found Boston just as segregated as I left it.

But now that I’m leaving, I’m going to forgive Boston for all that. Because there are so many wonderful things about this city that have shaped my life here:

The seafood.

The proximity to Philly, and Philly’s seafood (a dozen Maryland blue crabs? Yes please!),

cheesesteaks (that's a bride at Pat's Steaks. At 3 a.m.),

and people.

The foliage.

The sports. Or rather, the beer at the games… because, as you can see by my total lack of attention to what's actually happening in the game, I don’t give a crap about the Red Sox. Which I can say out loud without getting clocked now that I’m moving.

Saint Patrick’s Day. I’m not Irish at all, but I REALLY dig bag pipes. There’s something so urban about them.

The shenanigans.
      

But most importantly:

This face. These eyelashes. This man. He's meant and means more to me than I can even say.

_______________

The month of August will be my last month here in Boston. And I really want to celebrate the city, along with the people who have had a positive influence on my past 8 years.

Plus! There’s still so much I haven’t done here. I’ve never been to Martha’s Vinyard. I’ve never seen the art at the ICA. I’ve never taken a duck tour or been on a whale watch. I’ve never taken one of those Freedom Trail tours with a colonial person. And probably a whole bunch of other crap that I should have done by now.

So I’ll try and fit in as much as I can. And if you’re from the Boston area, suggestions welcome!

As far as this blog goes… obvs it has been in a transitional period for awhile now. So with the move, I’m thinking of taking a different angle. Something about adventures in a new city (inspired by my Jesse Jackson run-in, naturally). Maybe I’ll think up some alter ego like Beyonce/Sasha Fierce, see what happens, and document my findings here on CheapThrills... who knows?!

The future’s an exciting place to be.

 
(As you can see, I'm still pretty tickled by Chicago's beachfront)

Mayor Menino announces his candidacy at my company

I caught a glimpse of Mr. Menino practicing yesterday (he actually asked me and a co-worker to stay and watch him go through his speak - pretty freakin' cool - but we were most likely running to some mind-boggling meeting or something). We had no idea what he was doing here until we heard he'd be at Digitas today announcing his candidacy. Apparently he chose us because we're one of the largest employers in Boston. Plus, the office is pretty hip.

Here are some pics from the press conference (the crappy ones were taken with my wack LG Chocolate, please excuse the low quality. The good photos courtesy of P. Johnson's iPhone).

That's our president on the steps with the reddish hair.

Related -
Boston.com: Menino not ready to leave quite yet
Boston Herald: The race is on, Menino announces candidacy

SWEEP:BOS will keep your forgetful Bostonian butt off the tow lot

I don’t own a car. Actually, I’ve never owned one. I just don’t want one. I live in the city, I work in the city, and I hate driving. But also, I hate how people act when they’re behind the wheel. They just get so pissed—especially here in Boston.

A few months ago, I got a glimpse into one reason why they’re all so angry. And then a few days ago, I found a solution (to this one source of driver anger, at least).

My boyfriend went away on business and left his car parked outside our South End apartment. He was only gone for a few days, and mentioned I might have to move the car for street cleaning. I checked the street-cleaning dates on the streets we park on – 1st Tuesday and 2nd Thursday – and figured since it was only the 5th of the month I’d only have to move the car once. So that was fine. I moved the car from the 1st Tuesday street-cleaning street to the 2nd Thursday one – totally forgetting that the first of the month fell on a Thursday. Which meant that in 2 days the 2nd Thursday would be upon me.

Needless to say, the car got towed.  It cost $120 to get the stupid thing off the tow lot. Plus they gave me a $40 ticket for who even knows what. Basically, it sucked.

Coming out of this, I can safely assume the whole street cleaning/car towing madness must be a reason why city drivers are so frustrated all the time. So when a co-worker came to me with the iPhone app he had just launched, its value proposition really hit home.

The app is called SWEEP:BOS and it's already a hit among Bostonians.
You select your Boston neighborhood and the application tells you every street-cleaning date you could ever need. It also supplies you with alerts to your iPhone, making it virtually impossible for you to forget to move your car.

Here are some more SWEEP:BOS features:

• Saving your vehicle’s parking spot location
• Adding/editing streets, blocks and cleaning day/times
• Adding/removing neighborhoods
• Snow Emergency information
• Street cleaning color notification (Green = 7 days out, Yellow = 3 days out, Red = 24 hours out)
• Neighborhood information updated regularly and available for download

SWEEP:BOS is $2.99 on the iTunes app store, and works for both iPhone and iPod Touch.

I’m down with this app… because I’ll be damned if I’m ever caught on a tow lot again. They remind me of 70’s horror movies.

THE Celtics' championship trophy comes to Digitas Boston

Between the Thursday afternoon Scattergories showdowns and the monthly "mystery" tours, there's always a ton of fun stuff to say about work... but I try to keep all office-talk off of this blog. However, I'm making an exception for yesterday's special guest visit...

From the Celtics' Championship Trophy. The real one!!!

I have a photo of me standing next to it as well (below). They told us to wear green... so I wore a Philadelphia Eagles t-shirt. Is that sacrilegious?

The South End needs to dance!

The Most Depressing Image: 10-12 young ladies, decked out in shiny little dresses, 5” heels and entirely too much makeup, bouncing with excitement and glee towards Stella. Or Banq (come on BanQ, get over yourself with that damn Q!). Or, worst of all, The Beehive – a South End jazz bar with an inappropriately large ego, demonstrated by their holding up the line every empty weekday night.

What makes me want to cry is that these beauties have no idea that the place they’re so keen on going, the place they’ve heard so much about, is 90% restaurant, 8% bar, and 2% bar seating area. They’ll spend an entire night shifting from foot to foot as their shoes become more and more uncomfortable, sipping $15 drinks and wondering when the party will actually begin.

But alas. This is the party. Swank and sexy at times, sure, but in desperate need of a little revving...

Can you believe that there’s no spot in the South End where patrons can shake it a little on the dance floor? This baffles me, what with all the crazy money-spenders, pseudo-celebrities, young couples and uber-handsome gay men that the South End attracts. I thought the owners of Mantra would bring some dancing to the South End with Banq, but the only thing they carried were their leather-clad fans (seriously, I’ve seen red dominatrix outfits in Banq) and general not-quite-right-ness.

I’m thinking Stella will make the move first. They’ve actually got a hidden gem of a back room (who knew?) equipped with a relaxed bar, plenty of floor space and room for a DJ booth. Weekend dance parties at Stella would be huge – a fulfilling blend of Stella’s millennium-chic and, er, movement.

Because there are too many bars in the neighborhood for sitting standing around and acting cooler than you actually are. I want to go to a South End bar and end up making ridiculous dance-y faces like this:

Or this:

... or maybe even this (if it’s been an incredibly good night):

Diversity in Boston’s South End: Melting Pot? Maybe not.

When I first moved to Boston's South End two years ago, I was absolutely delighted by the prospect of a multicultural neighborhood in Boston. I grew up in Philadelphia, which, after living in Boston for 8 years, seemed like the bastion of diversity. I know that’s not entirely true, but nevertheless one can enter a nice downtown restaurant without being “the only one”.

Here in Boston, the landscape is a bit different. At BU, I was one of about 780 African-American undergrads (out of, say, 15,000?). Spotting a Black person the B line is a feat unto itself. And the neighborhoods… man oh man, the neighborhoods… they’re just so, segregated. North End = Italian. Southie = Irish. Beacon Hill = Rich and White. Now don’t get me wrong, I know that most large cities boast proud pockets of different cultural groups. That’s just a product of American history. But the Little Italy’s and Chinatowns are balanced out by thriving diverse middle-class neighborhoods. And an integrated downtown area, where all can come to enjoy the city.

Not here. You might see a bunch of Black kids laughing it up on the streets of Downtown Crossing, but try spotting a well-to-do Black family dining at Ivy. You might ride the Silver Line with African-Americans and Asians and Latinos, but you’d never see the same mix at the Starbucks just outside the bus’ doors. I know that there are tons of Black people in Boston, but somehow they're all living in one of three neighborhoods, located at the end of the subway lines. The “scary” neighborhoods.

This diversity problem is so bad that my (mostly white) group of friends remark every time they visit: “Okay, are we in the Twilight Zone? Where are all the Black people in this city?” People might think it’s entirely within reason for a large American city to be so segregated, but I’m here to tell you, IT’S NOT NORMAL!

So this is why I was so psyched to find the South End. At first glance, the neighborhood does appear to be incredibly diverse.

But when I look closer, I can see that the races aren’t mixing. They’re just overlapping. Subsidized housing bumps into the Villa Victoria, which bumps into 6 million dollar condos, which bump into Chinatown. Instead of an orchestral melody that one might find in Philly’s Mount Airy, the South End often grates at my ears like a clashing cacophony of sounds.

I often wonder whether the South End set-up is an optimal first step towards a more diverse Boston. Perhaps the answer is yes. After all, how can we learn more about each other without co-existing? But I also fear that smashing groups of people together who share no common lifestyle threads might create and/or deepen racial stereotypes, prejudices and anger. Like the “I wish those Project kids would quit it with the freaking firecrackers!” or “Why do these Chinese people always cut the bus line!” anger, which has sneaked up on me from time to time.

In truth, the fact that these kinds of thoughts even deign to creep into my mind (because I fancy myself quite culturally-aware and open) absolutely terrifies me, and also makes me wonder if others aren’t plagued with the same kinds of bitter thoughts. And if they are, well that can’t be a tasty ingredient for the melting pot.

Boston Celtics parade: Confetti and a shirtless Big Baby

Ran down to the Celtics parade with some co-workers (ah, the joys of working downtown!). I forgot my actual camera, so I snapped a few photos with my phone. And then I jacked a few from a friend, who was smart enough to bring his camera.

Here comes Lucky, kicking things off with massive amounts of confetti.

Paul Pierce and cigar

Garnett and trophy. Umm, hello awesome.

Ray Allen - what what?!??!

On the silly tip, freakin' Rondo... he was leaning off the back of his boat over a teeny American Flag wearing a cap that was way too big for his head. He looked like a twelve year old. A Juicy Juice and a little shamrock face-paint would have topped the look completely.

And then there was Big Baby Davis...

...there are no words... :)

Congratulations Celtics!

A little R & R makes for some diversity in Boston

Cloudy though it may be, I feel as colorful as a rainbow on this fine Monday morning.  Why, you wonder? Because I spent a weekend filled with diversity... right here in Boston, a city where it's sometimes hard to come by. Three events of particular interest included:

1. Chris Rock, whose No Apologies Tour made a stop here in Boston on Saturday for two shows at the Wang Theatre. Of course, I’m sworn to secrecy on the actual routine (hopefully I won’t get in trouble for posting this one photo we took at the show), but I’ll just say that the performance was freaking hilarious – timely, clever, and downright silly. There were a lot more non-Black folks in the audience than I expected, including many interracial couples, which made me happy. Watching the couples laugh/cringe/grasp each other’s hand for dear life during interracial dating jokes could have been a separate show altogether.
2. Pete Rock, who was at The Good Life on Saturday after the show. The Good Life is actually one of the only downtown Boston bars where you can find a Crayola box of people on virtually any night that you go. It’s pure bliss.
3. Pride weekend in the South End, which occurred last weekend. My BF and I missed the parade (much to our dismay) but ventured into the BBQ Block Party for the Bud Lights, the sights, and of course, the Techno. …Oh, and I also saw the best butt ever – attached to a drag queen wearing a bleach-blond bob a silver-and-black sequined bathing suit. Man and woman alike would agree, this booty was absolutely sublime. Sadly, I didn’t get a picture, but hopefully this bunny-rabbit will make up for it.

Old-timer racism: What would you have done in this situation?

Cross-posted on Racialicious

Last night I got together with 5 friends to watch the Celtics game. We decided to head out to the only “bar bar” in Boston’s South End (which also happens to be an Irish one, go figure) because we wanted to yell at the T.V. and scarf down semi-disgusting seven dollar finger food.  Watching sports requires such things, after all.

We found a great table in the corner - right in front of a smaller T.V - and settled in for a night of Kobe shutdown. A few other people from the bar were also gathered around our T.V., talking to each other about the game.

Two men in particular were quit vocal. They made interestingly oblivious and strangely inappropriate comments like, “I sweeah (that’s Boston for swear) that has to be Whitey Bulgah sitting next to Randy Moss” and “Magic Jaahnson – shouldn’t he be dead by now?”

We chose to ignore the guys… until we heard this: “C’mon, make the shot you f*cking spook.”

Our table began bouncing questions off of each other – “Did he really just say that?” “I think he just called Paul Pierce a spook!” “WTF?!?!”

The guy overheard our table talk and started rambling to himself about how we didn’t understand his life and how everyone called Black basketball players “spooks” in Roxbury in the 60’s.

So then we engaged him. And it was strange; each person at our table handled the situation differently. One person berated and belittled the guy, one tried a rational approach, one furrowed her eyebrows and just stared straight into his eyes – a look that demanded the man acknowledge her presence (that would have been me – the only Black person sitting at our table), and three ignored the whole situation. When the conversation escalated and the guy got in one of our faces, decisions became tricky. Do you actually throw down with a 65 year-old dude? Or do you just tell the bartender what’s going on?

I really don’t know the right way to handle this kind of situation. I don’t know whether it’s worth it to get angry.  I also don’t know whether it’s worth it to try to rationalize with someone whose racism is so ingrained in his way of speaking, thinking, living. But then I think it must be worth it, because 1) this guy is openly validating racism, embedding it in the outlook of his children… who are then bringing said racism to theirs, and 2) perhaps people who only know racism as a way of life don't see their ignorance.

Because here’s the funny thing: after all was said and done, the guy tried to apologize and buy us a round of drinks (and then, of course, went on to repeat that we didn’t understand his history).

Our response? Thanks but no thanks.

Bibby Wears a Bib, Jungle Time, and other tales from the Boston Garden

Last night I went to Round 1 Game 5 of the Celtics vs. Hawks playoffs with a girlfriend of mine.  Basketball games are always a blast, especially when the team you’re rooting for wins by a million points (the final score was 110-85). For the record, the home team always wins when I’m in attendance.

So it’s a strange thing to be “two gals at the game.” It’s just that the dynamic between men and women is totally warped when it comes to sports. Like, when the beer people denied me my Bud (LAME FACTOR of Boston sports games: if you’re 25-30 years old and you have an out of state ID, you have to show two forms of identification for alcohol, and if you’re under 25 you can’t buy any at all), and I told my friend that I couldn’t buy beer, this dude behind us practically jumped over his seat in eagerness to buy us booze. I can only assume that he thought we were underage and impressionable or something. Also, my friend and I were trying to get on the Jumbotron until we realized that every remotely attractive woman who appeared on the screen was greeted by hoots and hollers from the male fans. Wish I had gotten video of it – pretty disturbing, actually.

But we still had a blast. I tried to start a cheer, “BIBBY WEARS A BIB!!” but I don’t think people were feelin’ it. I still tried like 5 times. I think I was trying to cancel out the rally sign that Lucky kept holding up, which read “Jungle Time.” What does that even mean?

Hmm, what else? Garnett still dunks a lot, and Cassell still looks like a handsome Martian. Oh, and there was the most bizarre halftime performance ever, which drove me to madness. I guess you can see for yourself in the clip below.

Why I decided to boost Boston's Status Quo with a text

Last night was a first for me: I texted in a vote to a reality TV show.

I absolutely love watching people dance, and America’s Best Dance Crew has become my new reality show of choice. The group I’m pulling for, without a doubt, it Boston’s own Status Quo. Reasons why? Well…

1. They all remind me of my little cousin – who somehow managed to keep hope in his eyes at all times
2. They’re from Boston – close to where I live in fact
3. They aren’t your typical music video dance group. Many of the other groups on the show, or on any T.V. show for that matter, are so “college dance team” corny it’s crazy.  The truth is that the mainstream does not embrace urban street performing styles – you only ever see its brilliance outside of well-trafficked city monuments and subway stops. I think the mainstream just doesn’t understand the style at all… kinda like jazz at its beginnings. Which might be a reason why America keeps voting Status Quo into the bottom half of the teams—and every time this happens, when every member of the team’s faces fall, I cry a little inside.

So that’s why I had to cast my vote. And I encourage all you Bostonians—you who have cheered on the B-boys outside of Faneuil Hall or the bucket drummer outside of the Banknorth Garden—to do the same!

The show is on MTV at 10 p.m. on Thursdays. I’ll be texting in my vote for Status Quo again next week. Unabashedly.

The Globe’s article on the group.

Last week's craziness, to Soulja Boy