Twanna A. Hines @ FUNKYBROWNCHICK.com | sex. dating. relationships.

Twins Are Scary

Twins* — only conjoined and identical, not fraternal — literally scare the shit out of me sometimes. (Stick with me here folks, I swear I’m not being an asshole.) Phobias, true phobias, are almost always the result of some random trigger at a young age. I believe this to be true because I vividly remember two triggers that contributed to the onset of my twinphobia: (1) the discovery of a photo in my mother’s wooden memory chest and (2) Hollywood.

First, the photo. I don’t remember how old I was at the time, but I was very young when I stumbled across a photo of two women joined at the head. My body trembled and my face contorted at the abomination. My first thought was who-are-these-people-and-why-does-my-mom-have-a-picture-of-them? I was confused because, at that age, the only two-headed ladies that I ever saw were probably cartoon aliens. So, my next thought was whatever the childhood equivalent of “oh-fuck!-we’ve-got-aliens-in-our-family!!!” is.

Now, Hollwood. When I was a little girl, I would watch really scary Hollywood horror flicks with my much older sister because I wanted to prove that I was a “big girl.” The Shining. Remember those two little twin girls? The hand-holding duo? Fucking scary. And, did you see Invasion of the Body Snatchers? Peapod people that look: Just. Like. You. That creeps me. So, after all those movies, when I first sighted real live identical twins roaming the earth (in the corridor of my elementary school to be exact) , I honestly thought that they were sinister and otherworldly. I know, the thought is completely irrational; all phobias are irrational.

While we are on the topic of twins, I just noticed a trend here: I thought that the first conjoined twins that I ever saw were extraterrestrials and I thought the same of the first identical twins as well. Maybe it’s the thought of aliens among us, not twins, per se, that scares me? I’ll have to give that one some thought. In the meantime, what about you; what are you afraid of? Heights? Closed spaces? Mice? Clowns?

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*DISCLAIMER: If you or someone that you know is a twin, please don’t take offense to my twinphobia. Phobias are very personal, and they are a reflection on the person with the phobia not the target. Chances are, if I met you one-on-one, I’d probably like you. But, if I met you and your twin at the same time and the two of you were holding hands and wearing the exact same outfit, I’d probably let out a blood-curdling scream and run in the other direction …

November 29th, 2005 | Print This Post | link | Email This Post | [17] folks got down with the Funky Brown

Wouldn’t You Like to Be a Coppola, Too?

I have disturbing news. It has been brought to my attention that Jason Swartzman, the guy who plays opposite Steve Martin as Claire Danes’ love interest in the movie Shopgirl, is … a Coppola. Yes, folks, it’s true. Don’t let the name (Schwartzman) fool you. He’s part of the clan; he is the son of “Yo Adrian!” Talia Shire so that makes him the nephew of her brother, Francis Ford Coppola. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love the Coppolas as much as the next guy, but it kind of freaks me out that there are just so many of them. How is it even possible that one family can be that large? Can you imagine their family reunions? I mean, really, who isn’t a Coppola these days?

It’s like that game Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Do you know it? It’s based on the premise that Kevin Bacon is connected to every single Hollywood actor by no more than six degrees of separation. Think of an actor. Got one? Okay, the probability that the actor has either been in a movie with Kevin Bacon, or has been in a movie with someone who’s been in a movie with (… yada yada … ) Kevin Bacon is, supposedly, 100%. Denzel Washington was in a A Soldier’s Story with David Alan Grier who was in The Woodsman with Kevin Bacon. Jennifer Aniston was in Picture Perfect with Kevin Bacon; her ex-husband, Brad Pitt, was in Sleepers with him. You get the point. So, now, back to the Coppolas. For them, I swear the degrees of separation are reduced to almost, well, nothing.

Everyone is a Coppola! (Either that, or they can be directly linked to a Coppola.) Kirsten Dunst? She starred in Virgin Suicides with a Coppola, Jason Schwartzman’s brother, Robert Schwartzman. Nicolas Cage? That’s easy. He is a Coppola. He’s Francis Ford Coppola’s nephew because he’s the son of his brother, August Coppola. Ben Stiller? Barbara Streisand? Ben Affleck? Billy Bob Thornton? They all worked directly with cinematographer John Schwartzman who did movies like Meet the Fockers, Seabiscuit, Pearl Harbor and Armageddon. John is a Coppola because he’s Jason Schwartzman’s half-brother. Halle Berry? She presented at this year’s Gloden Globes with Patricia Arquette. Patricia used to be a Coppola; she’s Nic Cage’s (1st) ex-wife … which reminds me … For crying out loud, even Elvis Presley belonged to the Coppola Clan! Technically, at one point, the King would have been Nic Cage’s father-in-law because Nic was married to his daughter, Lisa Marie Presley.

Coppolas. They are everywhere. Don’t believe me? Let’s test it. Throw any actor at me and we’ll see if I can link that person to a Coppola using only one or two people. Come on, try me. Give me a name … any name …

November 28th, 2005 | Print This Post | link | Email This Post | [30] folks got down with the Funky Brown

Life vs. Sex in the City

Now that I live in New York City, I’m constantly amazed by how accurate that show Sex in the City really is. Someone on the show once quipped that nobody in New York buys furniture until they have their first guests. This was certainly the case me for me. And the four ladies’ conviction that fabulously single, female New Yorkers never seem to have all three at the same time: the great apartment, the great job and the great boy? True. I love my apartment and I have a good job, but there’s no boy in the mix. Once I find the boy, I’m totally convinced that I’ll probably lose either my job or the apartment.

Then, there are the obvious Sex in the City connections: the landmarks. I’d heard of Yankee Stadium, Staten Island, the Bronx, the Upper East Side, Central Park and other New York locales but it’s nice to have my own association with these places now. I remember the first time that I went to the restaurant / night club / meat market called Bed, I thought, “Hey, isn’t this that place from Sex in the City?! … tee hee hee … I’m in bed.”

As much as life imitates art, there are certainly a few places where the two part. Take Samantha, for example. A 40 year old woman with a cool pad in the Meat Packing District that dates a hot, young male model. Un. Real. Istic. There’s a a Metro article in which their columnist agrees with me on this one: “hot, young male models don’t date older women; hot, young male models date other hot, young male models.”

There are people who may disagree with me about the whole New York life vs. Sex in the City thing. Sure, somewhere in the city, there are women who actually do have all three: apartment, job, boy. And, yes, there’s probably some 40 year old woman fucking a hot, young male model silly in her Meat Packing District apartment at this very second. But, still, it’s interesting to compare my life now to the show that I loved then (… and, I still love that show).

November 27th, 2005 | Print This Post | link | Email This Post | [11] folks got down with the Funky Brown

Breakin’ … There’s No Stopping Us

Do you remember the slew of dance-related movies that were released in the mid-80s? Girls Just Want To Have Fun. Sarah Jessica Parker, Helen Hunt, and Shannen Doherty with those thick, caterpillar eyebrows that were so à la mode circa 1985. The plot? Janey (Sarah Jessica Parker) is Miss Goody Two Shoes until she meets the Oh-So-Bad Catholic girl, Lynne (Helen Hunt). Janey and Lynne love to dance their little hearts out and all they ever want to do is win the big D-TV dance competition. Plot spoiler: Janey does an impressive backflip to win the competition, her father’s love and the guy of her dreams.

As great as Girls Just Want To Have Fun is, I have to give a big nod to the trio of fabulousishisness that sits at the throne of the breakdancing movie genre: Beat Street [trailer], Breakin’ [trailer] and Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo [trailer]. (Watch the trailers — sans sound if you’re at work — and you’ll get an idea of what American cities looked like back when it was “cool” to live in the suburbs.) Let’s start with Beat Street. Graffiti, horrible haircuts, even more horrible couture, DJs from the South Bronx, and, of course, breakdancing. It’s GREAT!! I only remember two things about Beat Street. Number 1: Rae Dawn Chong, because who knew Chong, of the infamous Cheech & Chong, could spawn such a beautiful creature. Number 2: The saying “Beat Street. Don’t let the street beat you!”

Next, the Breakin’ movies. Breakin’ features ICE-T’s film debut and follows the story of 1 jazz dancer and 2 breakdancers’ rise to fame on the streets. Breakin’ 2 chronicles the breakdancers’ attempt to defeat The Man. Plot spoilers: In each movie, the breakdancers win. But, in life, I guess The Man wins. Have you seen the Lower East Side lately? Or, how about Union Square? And, do you know how many Starbucks there are in this city now? (SIDENOTE: Don’t get me wrong. I like a little gentrification — safe streets, clean neighborhoods, well-kept green spaces, neighborhood coffee shops, great brunch venues, etc. The shallow waters of gentrification? Great! Gentrification tsunami? Not great. But, back to the issue at hand …)

If you can, rent all four of these movies. If you’ve seen them before, it will bring back a lot of really funny memories from the 80s. (LYNNE: Velcro. Next to the Walkman and Tab, it is the coolest invention of the 20th century!) If you’ve never seen the movies, they’ll provide really good laughs and you’ll get a glimpse of what a couple of Hollywood A- and B-listers looked like before plastic surgery.

November 22nd, 2005 | Print This Post | link | Email This Post | [13] folks got down with the Funky Brown

For The Love of … Passion

Okay. I know you, all of you, my readers don’t like it when I post things that aren’t funny. I can literally hear the yawns the second that I hit the orange “Publish Post” button and you arrive only to discover that what I’ve written isn’t what you expected. Remember that post about that song? Or, my sister’s dog? Yeah, I didn’t think so. You don’t like it when I don’t make you laugh. So, I am giving you fair warning this time: This is post isn’t funny; it’s just a post about POETRY. ( … Cue the clicking sound of people leaving the site en masse.)

Scanning blogs the other day, I come across Fastlad’s site. He has one of Constantine P. Cavafy’s poems, Body Remember …, posted. I love the poem and this surprises me because I don’t usually like what’s “traditionally” (for whatever that means) considered poetry. Too flowery and saccharine. Before Fastlad’s site, I’d never heard of Cavafy. But, after a quick scan of his complete works, I am a little bit hooked.

In addition to Cavafy, Langston Hughes is another poet whose work I admire. His poem, Let America Be America Again, is one of my favorites. By the way, I only recently discovered that Hughes wrote poems for Nina Simone, but that completely explains why a lot of her songs sound like his poetry and vice versa; for example, Simone’s Mississippi Goddamn resembles Hughes’ Go Slow.

Passion. Hughes, like I am, is passionate about the other America, the real America. It’s like Emma Lazarus’ sonnet to the Statue of Liberty … None of us thought the point of the country was to bomb the defenseless abroad and to allow the rich to rape the wage-enslaved middleclass at home. But, I digress. For the love of poetry and further to the point about passion, I leave you with the original Greek and the English translation of Cavafy’s poem, Body Remember …

Θυμήσου, σώμα…

Σώμα, θυμήσου όχι μόνο τό πόσο αγπήθηκες,
όχι μονάχα τά κρεββάτια όπου πλάγιασες,
αλλά κ’εκείνες τις επιθυμίες πού γιά σένα
γυάλιζαν μές στά μάτια φανερά,
κ’ετρέμανε μές στήν φωνή— καί κάποιο
τυχαίον εμπόδιο τις ματαίωσε.
Τώρα πού είναι όλα πιά μέσα στό παρελθόν,
μοιάζει σχεδόν καί στίς επιθυμίες
εκείνες σάν νά δόθηκες— πώς γυάλιζαν,
θυμήσου, μές στά μάτια πού σέ κύτταζαν,
πώς έτρεμαν μές στήν φωνή, γιά σέ, θυμήσου, σώμα.

Translation:

Body, Remember …

Body, remember not only how much you were loved,
not only the beds on which you lay,
but also those desires which for you
plainly glowed in the eyes,
and trembled in the voice — and some
chance obstacle made them futile.
Now that all belongs to the past,
it is almost as if you had yielded
to those desires too —remember,
how they glowed, in the eyes looking at you;
how they trembled in the voice, for you, remember, body.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1918)

November 20th, 2005 | Print This Post | link | Email This Post | [17] folks got down with the Funky Brown

Protected: I Am Not a Dominatrix But …

November 19th, 2005 | Print This Post | link | Email This Post | Enter your password to view comments

I Need to Get Some

Chocolate, that is. I swear I’m addicted. Sure, everyone says they are, but *I* really mean it. When I consume chocolate, I honestly feel relaxed, soothed, and genuinely in a state of euphoria. It’s the smell. That wonderful, sweet, rich smell. Ooooooooh, and, the taste. Few things in life are better than the taste of a thick, dark hunk of chocolate melting in your mouth.

Soon. The weather isn’t cold enough yet, but it will be soon. Grey clouds will roll in. Snowflakes will fall. I will hibernate. And … here’s the good part … I’ll drink my first big, tall mug of Mexican Hot Chocolate out of my I *HEART* NY mug.

Ingredients:

- 4 oz. semisweet chocolate, chopped
- 2/3 cup milk
- 1 cup heavy whipping cream
- 1/8 of a vanilla bean (or vanilla extract)
- 2 cinnamon sticks (preferably Mexican canela)
- 1/3 tsp. almond extract
- 1 I *HEART* NY mug
- Pinch salt

Directions: Place chocolate in a mixing bowl. In a saucepan, combine all other ingredients (milk, cream, vanilla, salt, cinnamon, and almond extract). Bring to a very slow boil (approx. 10 minutes). Allow to cool for approximately 5 minutes. Pour heated mixture into bowl of chocolate. Stir until chocolate is completely melted and mixture has a smooth consistency. Pour mixture through strainer and into your I *HEART* NY mug. Drink immediately.

November 16th, 2005 | Print This Post | link | Email This Post | [17] folks got down with the Funky Brown

So, Come Here Often?

lurker. n. One of the ‘silent majority’ […] who posts occasionally or not at all but is known to read […] postings regularly. This term is not pejorative and indeed is casually used reflexively: “Oh, I’m just lurking.” When a lurker speaks up for the first time, this is called ‘delurking’.
[source: dictionary.com]

Whoa!! First of all, big fat thank yous and drippy wet kisses to everyone who posted for my 100th blogbirthday. I had more visits to my site than usual, especially on Friday (103 visitors, 207 page views). If I would have known how many of you were going to stop by, I would have worn something a little nicer — maybe a nice hot pink or red bikini instead of the usual peach one. It’s interesting. There were a few brand new visitors here and there but, by and large, the increase was due to regular comment-leavers and lurkers checking back to see who else had delurked themselves. You guys are pretty funny. And, now, since y’all, you all, youse guys have told me why you come here, it seems only fair that I tell you why I come here, why I blog.

Rewind to approximately five months ago. I move to New York. I’d like to say it’s been a smooth ride, but that would be a lie. In the beginning, it was hard. (Sometimes, it still is.) One day, I’m walking down an underground subway corridor and I’m pretty upset. Nothing in New York is working out as I thought that it would. I’m tired of forking over fuckloads of cash to live here. Tired of looking for an apartment and a job. Tired of being the new girl in town with only one person that I can call a friend. The world feels so heavy and I start to cry. And, this makes me even more upset because I absolutely do not like to cry in front of other people and I especially hate to cry in public. At any rate, I try to wipe my tears with my sleeve, but I only succeed in smearing mascara directly into my eyes. Now, I’m pissed and partially blind.

I’m still walking in the underground corridor when I look up and see a series of panels posted near the ceiling. The first panel that I see reads: “Just go home.” I stop dead in my tracks. It’s a sign. Maybe Allah / God / Her Highness is punishing for making some kind of huge mistake? I had a really safe, stable, adult life back home but I gave it up to leap into the great big unknown called New York City. Was I wrong to do that? Then, I think: Wait a minute … Go home? This is my home now. I made this decision. I’m gonna live with it, and I’m going to stop feeling sorry for myself. I made it happen in other cities; I’m going to do it again. And, I shit you not, the next panel that I see in the corridor says just that: “Do It Again.” The very next day, I start this blog. I decide that, for better or worse, I’m going to stick it out in New York. Maybe the blog will chronicle my 1 Year in NYC or maybe it will chronicle the first of many years here. Who knows … All that matters is that I’m here now. Back to the present. Approximately five months and exactly 101 posts since the divine intervention: the panels are still in that corridor, I’m still blogging, and I’m still in New York City. So, thanks for reading.

November 14th, 2005 | Print This Post | link | Email This Post | [15] folks got down with the Funky Brown