From the monthly archives:
To the person who arrived at the Funky Brown Chick Dot (Blogspot Dot) Com yesterday by Googling “how to find drugs” … I know who you are. Sorry that I couldn’t be of any help. And, by the way, did you ever find what you were looking for?
And now … for a bit of of sad-ish news … It’s final. Although I will journey through the magical land of Nylon next year, the trip will be a matter of weeks, not months. I have mixed feelings about that …
The folks at Netflix tell me that there are quite a few movies that I rate much higher than the average Netflicker. This disturbs me. But, I’ve looked at the film ratings that the other Netflickers have given and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not me, it’s them.
Netflickers. They don’t like Australian comedies. Love Serenade, Better Than Sex, Muriel’s Wedding and Priscilla, Queen of the Desert are EXCELLENT. How could 154,395 Netflickers give Muriel an average of 3.5 stars? And, Priscilla. What? They didn’t like seeing Guy Pierce in drag?!?! Or maybe they just don’t like Guy Pierce, because I’ve noticed … The ladies and gentlemen using Netflix, don’t prefer blondes. Jude Law (Alfie), Ryan Gosling (Murder By Numbers) and, of course, Paul Walker (2 Fast 2 Furious) are very attractive men. And, Netflickers should like their movies. But, they don’t really.
Not only does the average Netflicker not share my sense of humor (Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure), they also don’t recognize the genius that is Spike Lee. They don’t like unconventional takes on relationships; films like Closer, Last Tango in Paris, The Adventures of Felix, Unfaithful and Before Sunset take risks that Netflickers, apparently, wish they didn’t. And, finally, some really great foreign (28 Days Later, L’Auberge Espagnole, Brassed Off, Before Night Falls, Strawberry & Chocolate) and independently spirited films (Adaptation, Igby Goes Down, Children of a Lesser God) are either not on their list of favorites or are off of their radar completely.
Sheesh … what’s going on with my fellow Netflickers?
It’s 1955. And, it’s a great year for arts & entertainment. Rebel Without a Cause, East of Eden, Les Diaboliques and The Seven Year Itch reel across silver screens. In a fit of confusion, the Oscars (still bestowing two awards for Best Cinematography — one for color and one for black and white) award the top actor’s prize to Ernest Borgnine, thus snubbing James Dean, Frank Sinatra and others. And, although no one knows these tiny little newborns yet—Eddie Van Halen, John Grisham, Yo-Yo Ma, Billy Bob Thornton, Whoopi Goldberg, Chow Yun-Fat, and Arsenio Hall—they’ve just been born into what will eventually become lives of F.A.M.E.
The ink is still drying on Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings: Return of the King, Nabokov’s Lolita, and the first edition of the Guinness Book of Records.
Alan Freed produces the world’s first rock and roll concert in New York City. While Louis Armstrong and Frank Sinatra’s songs top the charts, John Coltrane, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, Little Richard, and Simon & Garfunkel are just starting their careers.
In a strange land far far away (Anaheim, California), Disneyland opens it doors to its first customers. Doors also open in an even stranger land (Alabama) as Rosa Parks changes the course of American history when she defies American Jim Crow Laws. Bringing to mind a singular paragraph of the Declaration of Independence (“[w]e hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain [inalienable] Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness … ”), Parks practices and teaches one the greatest of arts of them all: The Art of Compassion.
Where do I start? Okay, first, thanks for sending me all of the good vibes. Not only did I meet an incredibly delicious young thing from Spain last weekend, I also smooched a friend of a friend who is absolutely one of the nicest guys that I’ve ever met. Although I wouldn’t date either of them (1. Man Diet and 2. They both live out of town), the eye candy and smooches were nice Boy Snacks.
Now, for the news … It’s about nylon. Aside from being the title of a magazine and a BBC America show, the word is also used to refer to the scores of people who live in New York for part of the year and London for the other part. (New York / London). Why does this matter? Well … Something came up at work and I’ve been offered an opportunity to work out of our London office for several months in 2006. I am extremely excited about the news! And, after giving the matter a lot of thought (and saying a few prayers), I’ve decided that I am going to say “yes” as long as it’s feasible. I’m conflicted because I have geniune concerns about the Cost of Living Adjustment for the London post, health insurance, housing and a million other things that I probably need to consider.
I truly believe that everything happens for a reason. If I’m meant to go, it will all work out. If not, it just wasn’t meant to be. In any case, discussions are continuing and I should probably know one way or the other by the end of this week …
“You going to Brooklyn?” asks the man standing next to the illegal cab parked outside of JFK International Airport last night.
“No thanks,” I say as I (and my 2 carry-on bags … I never check luggage; I like to keep my flying options open) join the people standing in line waiting for legal, yellow cabs. “I’m all right.”
“You’re not all right,” he says. “You’re at an airport. And, you need to get home. I caa …”
Although the dark-haired woman standing next to me is at least a foot (0.30 meters) shorter than Mr. Illegal Cab Driver, she interrupts him and says, “Just give it a rest, okay partner?! Can’t you see that we’ve all made up our minds already? Tsk Tsk Tsk. Greedy, greedy, greedy …”
Ah, New York; it’s nothing if not painfully honest and real. As I leave the airport in my little yellow cab, I watch the nighttime Manhattan skyline go by. It so good to be home.
And, again, heart-felt thanks to everyone for your comments on yesterday’s post.
That song It’s Raining Men? It’s a lie. It is definitely not raining men. In fact, the phrase “Man Drought” more accurately describes my New York dating. The vast majority of the time, I’m incredibly happy with the single & fabulous life. And, sometimes, I’m not happy with it. Take last night, for example. The night comes and I feel a little down … no, check that … I feel really pissed off, sad and lonely.
I’m still in LA at the moment so I’m at the hotel. I lay my head on the stack of white pillows on the bed that overlooks the city. And, I think to myself, “why the hell am I here alone?” Yeah, I can already hear you: “Stolie, you’re the one who put yourself on the man diet!” But, really, you know what the man diet is all about? It’s about me letting go of the one thing you’re always supposed to hold on to: Hope.
If I truly had hope, I’d know that some really great guy is somewhere in New York just waiting to meet somebody exactly like me. But, experience tells me otherwise. So far, the choice has been about dating: a Stolie-hating idiot; an alpha-male, arrogant asshole; a whacked-out, panty-sniffing, drunk-dialing Irish Boy; a booty-calling-nowa-ima-gonna-disappear-lika-Houdini Italian guy; *OR* not dating at all. And, honestly, I’d rather not date. Take some time for me. Hence, the Man Diet. But, sometimes I get really pissed off about it; and, sometimes I feel lonely …
Driving down the 405, I hear Brown Eyed Girl twice on two different radio stations. Here’s the history behind the song if you don’t already know it… It’s 1967. The Supreme Court rules in favor of Mildred Jeter and Richard Loving (pictured). The historic decision strikes down all previous U.S. laws that made it illegal for different ethnic groups to marry each other. That same year, Van Morrison releases a song originally titled Brown Skinned Girl about a clandestine love that includes Morrison “hiding behind a rainbow’s wall” with a brown-skinned woman. The love affair in the song remains secret. The two part ways. Van sings that he sees the girl years later and thinks about their past: “Sometimes I’m overcome just thinking about it. Making love in the green grass, behind the stadium with you. My brown-skinned girl. You’re my … brown-skinned girl.” A wee bit too racy for the 1967 radio-listening crowd, the record label puts the heat on Morrison. He eventually re-records the song and it’s released with the title Brown *Eyed* Girl. In 1975, Morrison admitted that the original title was indeed Brown Skinned Girl, but for whatever reason (read: his probable reluctance to bite the hand that was feeding him — at the time, the song was arguably his biggest hit), he claimed that he “spaced out” and accidentally changed the title without noticing it. A mere oversight on his part. Um, yeeeah. Right.
The other night at the bar, when I ask Matthew what his favorite part of a woman is, he tells me that it’s the space where the back of the thigh connects with the bottom of the butt cheek.
“Right here,” he says as he touches me and pulls me closer to him. He smiles. “It’s a slice of heaven,” he sighs.
Slice of heaven. I haven’t heard the phrase often, but I like it. And, today, that’s exactly the phrase that comes to mind as I’m driving down the Pacific Coast Highway. Do you know the road? Pacific Coast Highway, PCH, Highway 1 is an amazing road that winds through the mountains of California while kissing the shores of the Pacific. It’s absolutely beautiful!!! As I drive along, I smell the beaches and I hear Tom Petty croon the lyrics to Mary Jane’s Last Dance on my radio. It’s 90 degrees (32.2 celsius). A cloudless, crystal blue sky is above me and the light hum of the car’s engine is beneath me. Mountains are to my left. And, the ocean is to my right. This is California … and it’s truly a slice of heaven …
Copyright © Twanna Hines and Funky Brown Chick, Corp. 2005–2012
