everyone has their own form of protest..
Jan 23rd
SMH….
“Drunken Negro Face” Cookies On Sale at Greenwich Village Bakery
At at a time when any decent baker should have been selling racially harmonious black and white cookies by the truckload, one Greenwich Village bakery popular with celebrities and shows like Sex and the City has outraged neighbors by selling a “Drunken Negro Face” cookie in, um, “honor” of President Obama. [Video below.] A shocked customer tells My Fox NY that Ted Kefalinos, proprietor of Lafayette French Pastry, asked her, “Would you like some drunken negro heads to go with your coffee? They’re in honor of our new president. He’s following in the same path of Abraham Lincoln; he will get his.”
Later, her friend stopped by the bakery and said Kefalinos corrected her about the name of the cookies—they’re actually drunken “N-word” cookies. She says the backwards baker then repeated the dark suggestion that, like Lincoln, President Obama “will get what’s coming to him.” Go Secret Service, go!
And it gets worse when Fox’s Arnold Diaz goes into the store with a camera and microphone to confront Kefalinos, who suddenly makes Joe the Plumber look like a Rhodes scholar. “I called them Drunken Negro Heads. What’s the problem with that?” Kefalinos asks the newscaster with a smirk. “On Inauguration Day I thought it would be cool to change the name to Obama Heads. I just changed it for the day.” We suppose Burning Cross Bananas Foster was too complicated to mass-produce.
Kefalinos denies intimating that Obama would be assassinated, and insists that the cookie is “not unflattering. I think it’s a fun face… And anyone who says anything else should be ashamed of themselves.” Besides, nobody got upset about the “Dead Geese Bread” he sold after the recent Hudson River plane crash. (We’re NOT making that up.) Also, Kefalinos insists he can’t be racist because, for one thing, “my brother-in-law, he’s Cuban.” Below, behold the breathtaking train wreck of racist ignorance.
W.W.Y.D.?
Jan 22nd
While there is blatant cause for celebration with the recent presidential changing of guards, there is an even greater need to know when it’s time to send the band packing.
Is it historical that someone other than a pasty old White man is the head of state? Unarguably. Is it phenomenal that America’s level of positivity and collective swell of patriotism is, dare I say, at an unprecedented high? Absolutely. Is it dope that the role the hip-hop generation played in this time of change was pivotal? No doubt. Is the sudden interest and political awareness across the country, hell, across the world, astounding? Emphatically. So on and so forth, change is good, Yes We Can, boo Bush, Michelle looks stunning, confetti, celebrities, a resounding At Laaaast. However, and without minimizing the importance of this event in any way, I say, it ain’t over ‘til the fat lady sings, and Beyoncé may be thick but…
Time for the real. With past occurrences considered, our country’s ability to separate the perpetual dream from the necessary steps to that very one, realized, is questionable.
Dr. King dreamed a dream and was backed back then by dreamers alike. Droves marched and died for that dream. And when he was alive the urgency to spread that dream was strong. But when he diiiiiied, Alllll he left us was… A dream? Or was that all we kept of him? The sadness was justifiably overwhelming. Hearts broke. Heads hung low. Tears broadened into rivers of muffled cries. Yes, some continued on, but a huge part of the country that had dared to shout that dream from the mountaintops fell silent in valleys of defeat. So silent they were, that some just recently found their voices, this past Tuesday, when each recognized their own coming out of one man.
But this man, Obama, was awake.
So, what in the case of sleep, God-forbid the everlasting kind, overtaking him, this wide-awake dreamer? What when this man who awakened so many, rests? Does America the sleepy giant return to her slumber? As it were in the wake of King’s absence, shall it be?
The question becomes: how do we stop history from hiccuping without collectively holding our breaths and wishing it away or coating it with a teaspoon of sugar because someone, somewhere once told us that worked.
Ideally, enough of us will truly embody being the change we want to see over settling for seeing the change we want to be. Realistically, however, I fear that America is at-risk of traveling down the wrong path and crowning our president, Barack Obama, the long-awaited Savior. The Black Jesus, who will undoubtedly heal all lepers and give vision to the blind through blanket health care; The Mystery God who in old-faith tradition we can lay our burdens on and watch die for all our sins and unwillingness to bear our own crosses if they are anything other than fashionably blinged-out and pendant-size. Ain’t the truth cold? Achoo! Obama bless you. Thank you.
Obama knows this. He stresses the importance of individual accountability and the sense of communal efforts within each public address because he knows this. He’s dodging thorny crowns left and right, trying to resist the role of mulatto ottoman upon which all weary soles are placed. He knows every one of us is needed if we are to ever pull America back up by her blood-soaked bootstraps. And the danger in his cry falling upon deaf ears is looming.
Coming down from an inaugural high, America is faced with a sobering reality. We’re teetering on the line between shouting Yes We Did momentarily, as a celebratory exclamation of a once-unimaginable accomplishment, and using it evermore to prop up a false sense of arrival–one that paints mirages of security and births lackadaisical work ethic.
Yes We Did! Yes, We Did. But now that we have, What Will We Do Now?
Or, perhaps, W.hat W.ould O.bama D.o?
Or better still, rather than placing all of the healing on the shoulders of one outstanding soul, perhaps it is time we each stand, and Be the Savior We Want to See.
history, literally
Jan 21st
There’s no denying how Jay-Z’s words glide off his seasoned flow. But it’s his content that I’ve considered the real treat. Simple lines that peel back revealing new meanings with each listen. As I walked along his latest track, “History”, my appreciation for him as an artist reached another level. [Watching him perform it live for the president in his tuxedo was the overwhelming icing on the multi-layered cake; it symbolized so much to me; I was moved unapologetically.] Food for the thought~full. This meal’s courtesy of J.
Now that all the smoke is gone And the battle’s finally won Victory is finally ours History, so long, so long So long, so long In search of victory, she keeps eluding me If only we could be together momentarily We can make love and make history Why won’t you visit me? until she visit me I’ll be stuck with her sister, her name is defeat She gives me agony, so much agony She brings me so much pain, so much misery Like missing your last shot and falling to your knees As the crowd screams for the other team I practice so hard for this moment, victory don’t leave I know what this means, I’m stuck in this routine Whole new different day, same old thing All I got is dreams, nobody else can see Nobody else believes, nobody else but me Where are you victory? I need you desperately Not just for the moment, to make history Now that all the smoke is gone And the battle’s finally won Victory is finally ours History, so long, so long So long, so long So now I’m flirting with death, hustling like a G While victory wasn’t watching took chances repeatedly As a teenage boy before acne, before I got proactive I couldn’t face she I just threw on my hoodie and headed to the street That’s where I met success, we’d live together shortly Now success is like lust, she’s good to the touch She’s good for the moment but she’s never enough Everybody’s had her, she’s nothing like V But success is all I got unfortunately But I’m burning down the block hoppin’ in and out of V But something tells me that there’s much more to see Before I get killed because I can’t get robbed So before me, success and death ménage I gotta get lost, I gotta find V We gotta be together to make history Now that all the smoke is gone ( Lighters. Up.) And the battle’s finally won (Lighter. Up.) Victory is finally ours ( Lighters. Up.) History, so long, so long So long, so long Now victory is mine, it tastes so sweet She’s my trophy wife, you’re coming with me We’ll have a baby who stutters repeatedly We’ll name him history, he’ll repeat after me He’s my legacy, son of my hard work Future of my past, he’ll explain who I be Rank me amongst the greats, either 1, 2, or 3 If I ain’t number one then I failed you victory Ain’t in it for the fame that dies within weeks Ain’t in it for the money, can’t take it when you leave I wanna be remembered long after you grieve Long after I’m gone, long after I breathe I leave all I am in the hands of history That’s my last will and testimony This is much more than a song, it’s a baby shower I’ve been waiting for this hour, history you ours Now that all the smoke is gone And the battle’s finally won Victory is finally ours History, so long, so long So long, so longin life, you get what you pay for
Jan 21st
one day a man walked into a shop
and asked the price of confidence
the sales clerk smiled, and said “not much,
but it’s not bought by those with sense”
confused yet intrigued the man pushed on
“well what would it cost to acquire it”
the sales clerk chuckled and tilted her head
“well, your insecurity to start with”
the man was relieved, he had that to spare
he asked to see their stock
the clerk asked the level of confidence he’d like
as they cost from very little to a lot
the man sifted through the confidence rack
finding everything from assured to presumptuous
his nerves grew frayed seeing each price to pay
and remembered he had not the guts for this
just then he spotted a box marked “sale…”
blahblahblah somethin-or-nuther
he decided to buy the first one he’d pull out
and not to look at another
that day the man walked out the store
his cheap confidence brimming and bright
but the very next day it began to fall
the man knew something wasn’t right
he brought his purchase back to the store
told the clerk “this did not work, it must be broken”
with a sigh she replied “there’s no return on fake esteem
you should have inquired what faux meant.”
-q.saafir
fair feathered friends – part deux
Jan 16th
As I approached the beige brownstone there in the middle of the block, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The landlady’s instructions were to enter through the lower side door, a level below the brownstone steps. But there, on the ground, in front of this very side entrance, were bright droplets of freshly spilled blood.
My eyes left the blood on the cement and followed the lines of it that trickled down the front of the building then further, up to the second floor window. There, on it’s ledge, stood a tawny white and brown hawk. As odd as a hawk in the middle of Harlem is, the hawk in and of itself wasn’t what amazed me most. The source of the spilled blood is what did it. The hawk stood upon what was left of a pigeon, massacred as its prey.
With it’s back to the street, the hawk continued to feast, crunching bones, pulling feathers, and tearing meat.
I remained motionless as a woman walking down the street paused to see what I was staring at.
“Oh my woooord. Is that a hawk??”
I didn’t reply. I just stood there. The landlady was sure to think I had flaked and even though I was right outside her home I couldn’t bring myself to take my phone out of my pocket to call and make her aware of this.
The hawk started on the pigeon’s chest. More blood ran. If this was not an omen, I don’t know what one is.
The longer I stood there, the bigger the crowd grew.
Three dudes with nothing better to do with their time:
“Das a eagle, son. You see dat shit??”
“Yo, dat ain’t no f%$kin’ eagle, d%ck. Das a vulture. You idiot.”
“Both yall mufukas is wrong. Damn yall dumb. I need new friends.”
A busybody woman in a suit who appeared to be very corporate:
“Oh gawd. That’s horrific. I suppose everyone is just going to stare at it? Is someone going to phone the Humane Society? Someone to get that thing? Don’t they nest?? Ugh, nevermind I see I’ll have to do it.”
“Yo, ma, it keeps lookin’ atchu yo. Laughs”
One of the three stooges was talking to me. And as dumb as he was, he was right.
The hawk paused his meal three times, only to look directly at me for odd lengths of time. I knew I had to let this lady know I was outside. But the hawk was telling me something to the contrary. It was saying turn around and walk the f&$k away.
I finally took out my phone but dialed my brother instead. I needed to let someone who knew my connection with birds know what was taking place.
“Qimmah, why the hell are you still there???, he says. “Run!”
I hung up the phone and quickly snapped a picture to send my brother. Then, turned slowly to make my way away from this beige brownstone in the middle of the block that was clearly NOT supposed to be my next residence.
Just as I began to walk, the front door opened and there stood the landlady, puzzled by the crowd and wondering where her potential tenant could be. I spoke up.
“He..Hello, Mrs. Whitaker… I’m um, I’m…”
“Oh goodness dear, I thought you weren’t coming. Who are all these people?”
“I was going to come in through the um… But you see uhhh…”
I pointed to the bird of prey.
From where she stood, Mrs. Whitaker was much closer to the hawk than I. Atop her steps she cranked her neck up, adjusted her spectacles and took in a much closer view of the massive bird on her ledge.
“Oh my god! What the…?? Well, here just umm, just come through the top, dear. We can walk downstairs from inside.”
“Ummmm, noooot quite sure that’d be the wisest thing to…”
“Yo, lady, you might wanna chill B, dat thing is like all in hah grill. I mean she fine and all but like I ain’t think birds go fah girls too!” Stupid #1 daps up Stupid #2.
I blocked out the stupidity taking place around me and tried to clear my head to explain to the landlady why I was going to have to pass on this apartment without sounding completely weird. She continued to motion for me to come up the stairs but the hawk’s determined stare was much more convincing. I decided to show Mrs. Whitaker how serious my “warner” was about me not entering her home instead of trying to piece together words to say the same.
I took two steps toward the staircase and the hawk immediately made a full turn and cranked it’s neck down to stare at me more intensely. His gaze said “Really?? The blood in front of the door?? That wasn’t enough of a sign for you?? Seriously? LEAVE.”
I mumbled something about being terribly sorry that I had wasted Mrs. Whitaker’s time and took off speed-walking like I was heading for a finish line. In the distance, I heard, “Yo ma! He still got a gaze on you! I can make sure you get home safely!”
I was already halfway home. I made it back in three minutes, breaking my own record.
I stood with my head against my door thinking out loud, “They’re back. And bigger than ever.”
~ fin
fair feathered friends
Jan 15th
A friend of mine always feels more comfortable in homes that have lots of plants. My parents always feel better around the water. Me? Well, I’ve always had a special connection with birds.
Once, as an infant, my mother placed me in a playpen to finish setting out the food during a family BBQ at our most frequented park. I have no recollection of the day, but the story as she tells it is:
“You couldn’ta been any more than one year old. I sat you down in the pen and turned around to the table. The next time I turned around your playpen was full of birds. Just sitting there. And you just found it so funny; you were giggling up a storm. I panicked that first time. But after the second or third time birds came around, I realized this might be something I’d just have to get used to it.”
At the earliest age my matured mind can allow me to remember, there were birds. I had a pet pigeon named Harriet that would visit me at my window every day. I could always tell it was her from the purple on her chest. Later on, robins began to come around. They would never outstay their welcome, however. They would come one at a time, as if on duty. They’d land near me, puff out their bright red chest, turn from side to side and fly away. The same routine. Every time.
One winter, a blizzard hit New York. There was at least six feet of snow outside. I remember being upstairs in my bedroom and being startled by my mother yelling over our house intercom that I had a visitor at the door. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Least of all in this weather. I jumped up and ran down the stairs shouting to my mother “Who is it?”. I pulled open the door and saw no one within the shoveled section in front of it. For a while, I stood, lost in the freshly fallen snow’s gleam, until I heard a small chirp. I looked down and there she was, at my feet. A plump robin stood there with its red chest puffed and proud. Turn. Turn. And off she went.
I usually got a visit from a robin right before each turn of events in my life. Births, deaths, new schools, my first period, my first boyfriend, so on and so forth. One day, after a series of events had taken place without warning from my little friends, I realized the visits had stopped.
I knew it was my fault. I was embarrassed, at times ashamed. What was so cool to me when I was young, when only my opinion mattered, now became weird to others and in turn, to me. I had visions of growing old and becoming known as “The Bird Lady”. Childish fears ironically plagued me more with age.
Eight years of self-absorption, ended with my college graduation and spit me out on the other side, a young woman earnest to dive into the spiritual path life had buried specifically with her in mind to find.
I became reacquainted with the part of me I had neglected, my inexplicable connectivity to the “mysteries” of this world… the type of stuff most grown-ups are not at all used to and therefore, in efforts to protect their grown egos, cast-off as weird.
With my reawakening, came the return of my aerial friends. But this time around, there were no cute little robins. No. Life had thickened my skull and skin and simultaneously dulled my intuitions. My ladies and gents, this more serious age required a more serious group of birds.
This holds true still. Which brings me to present day. Just the other day, as a matter of fact. If you’ve been following Qomplesso, you know all about CeeCee, my sanity-challenged neighbor. Well, as you will soon see as the saga continues with upcoming parts of her story, things have gotten a bit, shall we say, out of hand. So much so, that I recently decided to apartment hunt. You know. Just to see what’s out there.
I’d gotten a lead on a brownstone studio not far from where I currently reside. I had no other obligations that day so I decided to mosey on over and meet with the kind woman who was renting out the studio.
“It’s the beige building in the middle of the block, you won’t be able to miss it.”
Easy enough. Pictures online looked decent. And she seems like a really nice old lady. This may be it.
I gathered my things and hurried out the door as the renter had a prior engagement to keep and was showing me the space quickly as a favor. I speed walk, so I had no problem getting there within five minutes flat. I followed the numbers down the block.
1119. 1119. Okay. Odd number… should be on that side of the street.
I crossed the street. Hurriedly at first. But each step grew slower, and slower.
1119. Beige brownstone.
She was right I couldn’tve missed it. Not if I wanted to. What I saw, left me immobile. Staring in awe.
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
To Be Continued…