Hey guys. Okay, here’s what’s going on … Writing, editing, consulting, catching up on email, seeing my friends, etc. Quite frankly, I’m overextended and overworked. I need a vacation. So, over the extended holiday weekend, I’m heading to Atlantic City beaches.

I’ll return to Manhattan on Monday, and the next FUNKY BROWN CHICK post will likely be Tuesday. So, here are a couple things to do right now … If you haven’t done so already, please subscribe to my RSS feed. You’ll get pinged whenever I post. Or, if you prefer, you can subscribe to this site via email [ ...points right, to the box under my photo ...] over there. And, of course, if you want to know what I’m up to between today and Tuesday’s post, follow me on Twitter. Okay, that’s it. I really need this break. Have a FABULOUS weekend, and I’ll see you again on Tuesday. By the way, I’ve not forgotten I owe you all posts about virginity & abstinence as well as a book update. Next week, my sweeties. Next week.

I’m alive! Apologies for the post-free days. As I mentioned in my previous update, I got sick. Really sick. I was quarantined to my apartment for a week. Given I’ve never had chickenpox, strep throat, measles or any other major illness, that was the worst I’ve ever felt. Typically, I only catch a small cold or mild flu once a year when the seasons change. So, when I got chills, achy body, night sweats, a headache that made me wish for a guillotine, a 7-day fever and couldn’t keep food in my body, I worried I was dying. Sure, it was a passing thought (probably a silly one at that), but it gives you an idea how sick I was.

I think it was my body’s way of saying: Slow The Fuck Down. For the past few months (maybe longer), I’ve gone out nearly every night, Sunday through Saturday. Trivia. Happy hour at lounges. Media events. Erotic readings. Cocktails with friends. Rooftop parties. Birthday bashes. The night before my fever struck? I was standing on Roger Smith Hotel’s rooftop in 50-degree weather wearing a mini-dress and heels as I sipped white wine. Admittedly, not the smartest decision.

So, I’ve made a few changes.

Last weekend, I stayed home Friday AND Saturday night. Sunday afternoon, I gobbled brunch in the warm outdoors with a friend, and I drank cherry margaritas with this sexy boy (who has a website here). Still, I was home by 7:30 p.m. By no means am I canceling my social life and ditching friends. That said, I think I need to factor more self care and Twannatime into my schedule.

I’m on my feet and back on the website now … and, I’m only going out, like, 2 – 4 times a week, instead of 5 – 7.  To health! I never realized how much I took it for granted until i didn’t have it :(

I feel like I’m being tortured. Since Saturday, I’ve had a slightly high temperature of 101 – 104 and, because the doctor says the fever is now contagious, I’ve been quarantined to my apartment. Usually very healthy, I hate feeling ill. Chills. Fever. Fatigue. It sucks. And, what’s more? I’m frustrated that I can’t hang out with my friends. Or drink wine. Or, by the way, eat anything because my appetite has gone to shit. Turns out I have a weird, oddball contagious flu strain. Shouldn’t last long, but it’s annoying that it crept up on me.

I should have figured something was wrong when I lost my desire to eat or masturbate. Rewind to last weekend. Friday night, I went to a party at Roger Smith Hotel with Lauren and an old high school pal. Bumped into Matt, Adam and a few other people. Later, at dinner with a smaller group, it felt good to relax among friends and enjoy random conversations about whether Welshmen have larger penises than men from elsewhere in the UK. (Don’t ask.) I didn’t finish my dinner. Red flag #1. I love food, and I almost always clean my plate. Instead of post-dinner partying, I told the group, “I think I’m gonna go home.” Later, alone in my apartment, I stripped naked, tip-toed to my bed, slid my nude brown flesh between the soft oatmeal-colored sheets and … wait for it, wait for it … went to sleep. Red flag #2. I often like to finish the evening by finishing myself off.

I rarely write about masturbation because, due to our society’s unhealthy level of repression, mere mention of the word is often considered vulgar or overly titillating. Sidenote: Did you hear about nude models getting groped at MoMA? Really, read the article — especially pay attention to the “elderly man” who rubbed a performer’s ribs and butt then said “You feel good, man.” What. The. Fuck? Has sexual expression become that pent-up and inhibited that people resort to groping nude artists’ asses at an art museum to get their jollies? Eww! Anyway. Backing away from that tangent and bringing the topic back to today’s post …

Whether enjoying it alone or with others, sex — like food — brings me pleasure. So, the worst part about being sick is that I don’t have the desire to partake in either. Here’s to hoping the fever subsides sooner rather than later! :) This is day four. And, the doc says I should be back to normal by Wednesday. Can’t get here soon enough.

Sometimes, when I’m blowing a white guy, you know, for the entire time his dick is in my mouth, I totally forget he’s white!!!! ;) Kidding of course — about forgetting, not about going down on white guys. I actually do that. It’s fun. Anyway. An oldie but goodie from fellow New Yorker Elon James White’s This Week in Blackness. He’s funny! :) And, ooh, ooh, ooh, two thumbs up for the Big Bird jacket.

Big thank you to the ever-lovely Nick McGlynn and his co-organizers for
renting Times Square Art Center‘s loft space for last night’s New Year’s Eve bash. Partied with 400+ people overlooking tourists awaiting the ball drop. See photos at Random Night Out.

As a kid running outside playing chase, double dutch or other games with my friends, whenever I needed to stop for a bit — to pee, tie my shoe or whatever — I’d hold up my hands in a “T” and say “TIME OUT!” As an adult, I still do this. I don’t do the T-sign anymore, but I take breaks. No need to get into the specifics about all of the stuff that’s been eating my time lately; everyone’s busy and I’m sure many of you can relate to periods in your life where you’ve had to juggle a shitload of stuff simultaneously.

In any case, I’m coming off of a “time out.” Last week, I didn’t update the blog as much as I usually do and I scaled back on a bunch of other stuff. Instead, I caught up on the phone with Abiola, Rachel and other friends I hadn’t spoken to in a while; met up with Wilma & her son Denware (two FBC readers visiting NY from The Netherlands); went to see Paranormal Activity with Bro and Elsie; checked out other fun stuff in the city; and tended to personal matters. Also, today, I scheduled down time to take care of random business & enjoy an extended weekend.

I’m grateful anyone reads this site at all, and I feel bad when I don’t stick to my typical schedule of posting new content. That said, this time, I really needed a break. So, no apologies — just heartfelt thanks for your patience and understanding. Now, on with the show. I’ll post a new Manly Monday in a second but, this week, I can’t promise I’ll update every day. So, if you’d like a more regular Funky Brown Chick fix, there’s always Twitter.

I like my new apartment so much I’ve actually started cooking in it. :) I used these ingredients and more to make Spicy Vegetarian Chili w/ Ground Turkey. Here are the results. I think I’ll finish the final leftovers this afternoon.

[phone conversation. 8:58pm, Monday, August 24, 2009]

BRO: I have three points to make about your last post.

ME: Uh-oh.

BRO: I’m very disturbed. Do you REALLY think white European dudes aren’t WHITE?!

ME: They’re different. Seriously, ask an Irish person: ‘Are you WHITE?’ And they’ll think you’re kind of racist or whatever. Seriously, in Europe, the idea of “race” smacks of 1930s and 1940s eugenics / Hitler shit. Ethnic groups? Yes. Cultures? Yes. But, they wouldn’t understand and believe in the social construct of “race” in the same way Americans do.

BRO: That’s some mumble-jumbo bullshit. They’re white. Your exes were white.

ME: Whatever. I’ve dated white American guys. It’s not the same.

BRO: Ok. Fine. Whatever. Second point. Did you REALLY expect to see brown people on deviantART?

ME: Yes. I think black people should do whatever kind of art we want too.

BRO: That’s not the point. It’s just not what we do. It’s not that we shouldn’t or we can’t. It’s just, you know, most of us just don’t.

ME: Whatever. I’m on deviantART.

BRO: I’m just saying … MOST black people aren’t. Look at their site. They don’t have pictures of black people.

ME: That’s because there’s a bunch of stupid shit people believe about what’s “appropriate” for different people. It’s clannish and everybody deals with that in some way or other. People say “Asians don’t do blah blah blah” or “South Side Irish in Chicago shouldn’t do blah blah blah.”

BRO: Whatever. I’m just saying.

ME: Anyway. Whatever. You said you had a third point?

BRO: Okay, so, I read your post. So, do you mean to tell me — the next time I come to your house — there’s gonna be “The Peen” looking at me while I’m peeing? That’s gross. I mean, imagine: You’re in the bathroom and there are penises everywhere just looking at you!?!? There’s like a third eye thing just staring at you?!?! That’s weird!!! My pee might get scared of that and go back in my body.

ME: Whatever.

This is one of my favorite dresses.

I updated my iPod again recently. Music always reminds me of random things and people. Many many years ago, I was in love with a French guy. You probably know the story because, maybe, you’ve had a similar situation … I thought he was ridiculously handsome, smart and genuinely a really funny guy. We’d been going on dates for several months, but we weren’t exclusive. I didn’t want to see anyone else, but I knew he did. So, I pretended it was okay. Of course that didn’t work. Sitting across dinner tables with different dudes only reminded me how much I’d rather be with the French guy. So, Le Frenchie (because he was a smart little thing) started to figure it out: I liked him much more than he liked me. Eventually, he granted me the greatest kindest he could ever give anyone in that predicament: he ended things. It hurt like hell, but I’d rather be sad that we weren’t dating than pissed because he’d strung me along. Months passed. I got over him … in so much as anyone’s ever truly “over” unrequited love.

Two summers ago, I attended the New York premiere of Dans Paris at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. (Or, “BAM” as us locals call it.) There’s a song in it that reminds me of him and every other guy who hasn’t liked me as much as I liked them or vice versa. If you’re not into snotty French New Wave cinema and/or really slow-moving independent films, you’ll hate Dans Paris. If you like that stuff, it’s worth renting it on Netflix. The song starts during this sappy scene where two lovers realize their relationship is over. The guy is depressed, suicidal and bearded. He hasn’t shaved in weeks. Having just finished crying, the woman (his ex) is getting ready for bed. Alone. He calls her from his apartment and they sing this really beautiful tune back and forward to each other. The song, “Avant la haine” (“Before the Hatred”), is in French but the gist of it is: I’ve got a really good idea … let’s “avoid the unbearable” and get out of this while the gettin’ is still good. Before we hate each other. Before we’re screaming and shouting about how much we can’t stand each other. “Before the sorrow and the disgust. Let’s break up now, please.” It’s really beautiful. It reminds me of the Frenchman and other relationships when I’ve stumbled into that sad, lonely moment where my partner and I were both fully aware that we liked each other; yet, for whatever reason, we also knew it wasn’t going to work. Breakups are rarely easy. The decision to get out is rarely black and white. And, NOT hating someone doesn’t make it any easier to break up with them or have them break up with you. Video below. Lyrics in English and French follow.