Skinny Women Blues

I had always had issues with my weight. Since childhood, I struggled with my body image, and often compared myself to my thinner friends. I developed early - thus attracting unwanted attention from the boys who, only days before, had requested my presence in the neighborhood bike race. Unfortunately, it also attracted the unwanted attention of several men who today, are probably registered sex offenders. Aaaaaanyway... Since the early onset of boobage, I struggled with weight. I was, in fact, chubby until I got to high school when my bones stretched and height jumped three inches in four years. And yes, the boobs stayed. In short, I was STACKED. 'Cept I didn't know it! (in Shug Avery voice) I spent the next twenty years covering myself in baggy jeans and sweatshirts (think: TLC in the early years), because even then, in my mind, I had weight issues. It also didn't help matters that I was being told by close relatives that if I would only drop a few pounds, I "would be prettier". Yeah. They ACTUALLY told me that. Side eye at one woman in particular, who told me that shit EVERY time she saw me. I wonder whatever happened to her? Hopefully, it involved a pack of rabid wolves in heat, and a phone both that locks from the outside. I know now that that was a fucked up thing to say to a geeky girl in high school, who was still trying to figure out who she was in the world, and why boys kept pushing her into the "friend zone". You would never know this about me now, since I'm such a smokin' hot chick. *looks directly into camera with a straight face* Back then, however, I immediately believed that bitch and got to doing sit-ups. It was horrible. I was miserable. I was convinced I was un-pretty, and that groups of boys stood around and discussed my numerous flaws. I trudged through years of self-hate, fluctuating between eating and workout binges. I flitted from one diet failure to another, even becoming a vegetarian for two years and becoming dangerously anemic as a result. I would cut out entire meals. Work out until I threw up. Deny myself everything that tasted good, in pursuit of a swimsuit model's physique. For about a week. Then I would give up, order a pizza, devour that shit in record time, then berate myself for eating it. A few weeks later, I would see some cute, skinny chick getting all the attention, and would spiral down that same, nightmarish stairway into Hell. I did this again, and again. For YEARS. I didn't get over this foolishness (partially, at least) until my thirties. The crazy part about it - it appeared to have shut off like a light. It was THAT sudden. I woke up on the day after my thirtieth birthday, and had absolutely NO fucks to give about what others thought about me. I wore clothes that actually fit me, put on a little lipstick, and discovered that I am, in no uncertain terms, DROP DEAD GORGEOUS. Fast forward ten years... I overheard a friend of mine complaining about her weight. It is important for you to know that this woman is RUNWAY gorgeous. No, seriously. She's HOT. I'd TOTALLY ask her out, if I was gay. Anyway... She was going on about how she was getting ready for the summer months, and had to 'trim down' and get rid of those 'extra pounds'. She lamented the non-existent thickness around her mid-section, and the size of her ass. I was dumbfounded. This is a girl who, had I not recently come into my own fabulousness, I would have avoided - for fear of being plain in comparison. She is one of those women who almost NEVER had real weight issues - she has been slim her entire life. She could inhale an entire Krispy Kreme store and wash it down with a garden hose of chicken grease, and not gain an ounce. And she had the UNMITIGATED GALL... I have to admit, I was a tad miffed, to say the least. Did she have ANY idea who she was talking to? The woman who hasn't seen the inside of a size 10 jeans since high school? The same woman who once ate an entire rotisserie chicken, then cried herself to sleep in a fit of self-hatred? She couldn't have possibly thought that I would feel sympathy for her, as she sat with her matchstick legs crossed at the knees, her angular arms gesturing wildly. I just shook my head, and silently wished that those legs would ignite, the fire quickly consuming her, curling her blackening form into a lump of coal. Later, I analyzed my feelings about her comments.I wondered about the nature and intensity of my reaction, for deep inside, I struggled to retain myself from pushing her into oncoming traffic. Why was it that deep? Why was I that angry? Well, it's the whole 'grass is greener' theory. She complains about the size of her ass, but I'm willing to bet that she has never had that horrible feeling that big girls have when they go shopping for clothes. That sense of anxiety, the tightening of the bowels when we can't get that adorable dress up over our thighs in the dressing room. Or that resignation associated with the knowledge that we will NEVER be able to shop in certain stores - the same stores, ironically, that always seem to have the cutest clothes. That utter disgust when we go into stores that cater to us, only to see enormous caftans and flowered mu-mus. I'm absolutely certain that she's never been to that dark, cold place where we go when we see old pictures of ourselves and realize that we were gorgeous back then, and we think about all those years we wasted, trying to fit into others' ideals of beauty. I know, without a doubt, that she has never been inundated with that neverending, sub-conscious, subliminal message that hums underneath every commercial, magazine ad, and billboard that tells us we're not beautiful. Or, maybe she has. Perhaps her comments are an indication that she is just as traumatized by the societal standards of beauty as her thicker counterparts. My point is that she doesn't LOOK like she is. She looks, well, like all those other skinny women. Pretty, yes. But one of a thousand women who, on paper, have the same characteristics: thin, long hair, prominent cheekbones, and can wear anything. Women who, whether they know it or not, often steal attention from the rest of us. I wish she could, for one day, experience what it's like to be heavier. To walk into a store and draw the "are you kidding me" expressions from those bitches at the counter. To avoid certain clothing stores entirely. To deduce, from the "fat girl" stores, that she doesn't deserve to wear adorable clothes, and should instead cloak herself in matronly, unflattering prints. To be told that she has a "cute face" and be left to fill in the horrible blanks. Perhaps then, she would be thankful for who she is. And who she isn't.

Yes, Yes, Y’all… My Thoughts About the Legends of Hip Hop Concert

It was a no-brainer. When a friend of mine told me about the upcoming concert at Chicago’s Arie Crown Theater, featuring some of Hip Hop’s most iconic figures, I was all in. I am one of a rarely seen, underground group of Hip Hop devotees. We rarely meet, save for the occasional grouping of comments around a Facebook post, or the discreet nod in a music store. Yet it is a thick, impenetrable bond between us diehard devotees. We collectively give the side eye to the Minaj’s and Souljah Boys poisoning the airwaves, and bore our children with stories fraught with shelltoes and gold ropes.

Admittedly, I am the biggest offender of this – I am often hurling names of underground Hip Hop artists at my students, in hopes of supplementing their daily diet with healthier doses of Yasiin Bey (formerly Mos Def) and J Live (who? EXACTLY). But it’s all in love – Tunde love the kids. My friends, who watch my often fruitless attempts at converting the youth, and care enough about me to keep me from extreme burnout, realize that every now and then I need a battery recharge. So, I was invited to tag along to the Legends concert.

There was no way I was going to turn it down. I have attended almost every Hip Hop show in my city since the first Fresh Fest back in 1984.

That original lineup was bananas: Whodini, The Fat Boys, UTFO, Run-DMC, Kurtis Blow and Turbo and Ozone, the two dancers from the movie “Breakin’”. While I had been spending all of my allowance on Hip Hop albums, and had accumulated my own little crate of vinyl by that time, it was the first time my mother ever allowed me to go to a concert. She was a bit skeptical about this “rap mess” (what she usually called it), but trusted me enough to go without her supervision.

Perhaps it was the fact that I had never experienced a live performance before, or the fact that I was already a hopeless Hip Hop cult member, but my mind was entirely, and eternally blown. To be able to see Whodini perform what was my favorite song at the time, “Five Minutes of Funk” (still one of my top ten faves), was, to me, the BEST. THING. EVER.

Ever… ever… ‘ver…

I kept that experience tucked away in my heart, to pull out and review during those times when I felt there was no hope. Or whenever I heard a Wacka Flocka song. Or both.

Skip ahead to 2012. As I headed to Chicago with a group of friends, I didn’t have the same expectations for this reunion concert. Black entertainment had just taken some pretty hard hits – Heavy D, Vesta Williams, Don Cornelius, and Etta James had recently passed. And we had all just watched Whitney Houston’s funeral earlier that day. Add to that the age of the performers, and about 90% of the audience, and we had what could turn out to be an underwhelming performance.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The Arie Crown Theater was PACKED. We walked in just before EPMD hit the stage. They walked in, cloaked in dark, loose-fitting sweatshirts, jeans and boots. The crowd, mostly made up of people who hadn’t seen the inside of a high school for 20 years, screamed like teenagers. We made so much noise, we couldn’t even hear the helicopter sounds from the beginning of “It’s My Thing”. We screamed and recited the lyrics along with Eric and Paris, through “You Gotsta Chill” and “So Whatcha Sayin’”. About halfway through “The Crossover”, I thought about my friend Jason Speights, a young man I met at Marquette University, who was an even bigger fan of EPMD than I was. He was killed the summer after our freshman year, and I haven’t been able to hear an EPMD song without seeing his face ever since.



It was so good to see the two of them together again, “Back In Business”, and hearing all of their music. But it soon got even better. Whodini was up next.

They were my favorite group in high school, and the reason why I was so excited about the concert. I felt as if I’d come full circle, since they headlined the first concert I’d ever seen. But even more than that, after losing Heavy D, I just wanted to see them alive, healthy, still doing what the loved to do.

They did not disappoint. For days leading up to the concert, “Five Minutes of Funk” was on constant loop in my head, and I couldn’t wait until I got a chance to scream “… this ain’t no junk/so pull your bottom/off the tree stump/ladies look pretty/from city to city/but now we’re getting down to the nitty gritty…” Sure, they were a little slower (Ecstasy performed all of his verses of “One Love” while sitting on the edge of the stage), and a little heavier, but they were one of the highlights of the evening. This was due, in large part, to the three background dancers they brought along with them. Their nimble, energetic displays, including a flawless dance routine that featured all of the popular dances from the ‘80s (one of the dancers did a FLAWLESS Prep) were everything. Whodini’s performance reminded us of how timeless Old School Hip Hop is, but Big Daddy Kane showed us that even now, after 20 years, he was still the man.



Kane was one of the clearest examples of the adage, “Hip Hop keeps one young.” He hadn’t aged one single day. He entered the stage with “Set It Off” (my personal fave), his verbal acrobatics unaffected by the passage of time. He was gorgeous, and authoritative, and quick-witted, and his performance was just as physical as it was twenty years ago. He even brought out one-half of his original backup duo, Scrap Lover, along with a new dancer, who brought back the athleticism that Kane’s performances were always known for. For me, it was the highlight of the night, for personal reasons. I needed, more than anything, to see one of my adolescent heroes still doing it. I had been disappointed before (side eye at Kool Moe Dee), and the last thing I wanted to see, after paying my money and traveling to another city, was a bunch of overweight, out-of-shape MCs who had clearly lost the passion for the game. Kane was none of these things. Sure, he was featured on TV One’s “Unsung”, but I think a bit prematurely. Kane clearly is not finished. I expect more from him very soon.



MC Lyte was next, skipping out on stage in jeans and sneakers, looking half her age, and still hurling that clear, commanding voice to the balcony seats. Ever the legend and pioneer, she reminded the audience members, young and, um, less young alike, how she managed to maintain her career for 20 years. The crowd was completely hers; they even took over the lyrics of “Georgie Porgie”, giving her an opportunity to rest. Her rendition of “Paper Thin” left us hoarse from screaming. She even gave a heartfelt testimony of Heavy D’s legacy, and shared a personal story of their friendship. Before leaving the stage, she introduced the next act – one of the benefits of Lyte’s legacy, yet a powerhouse of an MC on her own… Da Brat.



We hadn’t seen Brat in a while, due to some troubles with the law. Clearly, her two year stint in the pen did not go past without affecting her once tiny frame – she was a bit chunky. But she was still crazy. She charged out onto the stage, sporting a blond Mohawk, and thirty seconds into her set she dropped her pants, flashing a pair of glittered, oversized boxers. The Chicago crowd (she’s a native) went wild. She raced back and forth across the stage, her piercing voice blowing the dust off of memories of sloppy, drunken Marquette University parties. When the first few bars of “That’s What I’m Lookin’ For” blasted out of the speakers, my friend Rebecca and I exchanged a knowing glance – earlier that evening, our sleep-deprived minds were trying to recall the name of that song, spending an entire hour describing its contents to each other:

You know, the one where she’s talking about a guy…

You mean, ‘Ruffneck’? That’s MC Lyte…

No, no. I mean, where she talks about the kinda guy she wants…

Oh, yeah! The one where she makes that list of stuff he’d do for her…

RIIIIGHT…



We got nowhere. In fact, I’d venture to say that to some degree, we were both relieved to hear her perform that song – it proved that neither of us had dementia.

Meanwhile, the mostly 40-plus crowd, who had been there for almost three hours, was getting tired. We were all ‘Heads’ from way back, but I mean, we had jobs and kids and shit. Cell phone screens lit up around the theater as folks started to call babysitters, checked the time, tweeted…

But there was still one act left - The 18th Letter, The God MC, one half of the legendary duo, Eric B. and Rakim, and my secret lover for over 20 years (he’s probably the last to know this).

Rakim entered the stage, and for the next thirty minutes, I was sixteen again. My friend Lia and I, both smitten, held onto each other to keep either of us from passing out.

Yes. He is STILL THAT FINE.

It almost defies logic. I mean, I was gobsmacked – how the HELL does he do it? Maintain the sexy for so long? Seriously, if he had jumped off the stage, walked to my row, told me he needed a ride all the way back to New York, I would’ve been up all night. Driving. Like a MUHFUGGA.

He is STILL. THAT. FINE.

And let me tell you, I was exhausted by the time he took the stage, and my thoughts were constantly being interrupted by thoughts of curling up under a pile of blankets and finally closing my eyes. It had been a long day. But “Microphone Fiend” quickly brought me out of my fatigue, and the entire audience as well – we were right with him, chanting the lyrics, following his every lead. Right after that, the intricate percussion of “Mahogany” shattered my exhaustion, and I was back out of my seat, screaming my fucking head off. And secretly wishing he was talking about me.

(long sigh)



He was amazing. And FINE (I think I mentioned that before. Just wanted to make sure you were still paying attention). But soon, he was done.

And we were regular again. Parents. Professionals. Grown ups.

Left with the resurrected memories of our youth, as we filed out into the halls, parking lots and streets. Smiling, sleepy and sore, we trudged to the truck and headed back to my friend’s apartment for the night, comparing our thoughts about the concert like teenagers.

It was good to see those folks. Really. It gave me hope for a couple of things: Hip Hop is not dead (no matter how many times radio tries to kill it), and it is possible for artists to survive off of their craft.

Thank God for that. And thank you, Mike, for inviting me. It was awesome.

2011 NYE

Ahhh, yes, here we are, at the end of another year. I tried so hard to think of a unique, impressive metaphor for this time of year, but having come up with nothing, I decided to use one I’ve used before – the end of the record.

We are at the blank, empty space between the A and B side of the album, that scratchy limbo between 2011 and 2012.

In past years, I have been able to move smoothly between one year and another – gently removing the record, replacing it in its sleeve, putting it back on the shelf amidst the other years (lovingly), and standing back for a while to reminisce and reflect.

But all I want to do now is take of the record, break it in two, back over it with the car, set it on fire…

Think Stewie and Brian in the “Bird is the Word” episode of Family Guy.




2011 was, in short, a BASTARD of a year for me.

I lost some friends, my self-respect, and I turned 40.

Let’s just sit here for a second.

In my mind, my 40th year was supposed to be a significant, ground-breaking year. 40 was the new frontier, the uncharted territory that promised self-discovery, celebration, adventure…

I got NONE of that.

Instead, I got a year full of unfulfilled expectations, colossal disappointments, soul-crushing humiliation and repressed anger.

And I really can’t blame anyone but myself.

Because you see, in the final analysis, I realize that I merely lived in a castle that I built.

I also realize that I had this shittacular year because I broke some of my own cardinal rules, early in the game. I made decisions that, going in, I knew were wrong and would lead to situations that would end badly, but for some reason, I didn’t listen to that small voice inside that is always right. I accepted things I normally never would, agreed with situations I normally would find unsuitable.

In typical fashion, I spent almost the entire 2011 trapping myself in undesirable situations, then hoping for a change.

Worse than that, I completely abandoned my World Domination Plot.

This is unacceptable. Never abandon the Plot. Ever.

Here’s the good news: it only took eleven months to realize that only I had the power to change my circumstances. (blank stare)

Don’t laugh too hard. Some of you took years to realize this. Some of you have yet to realize it, and are still stumbling around in that shit storm you call a life.

Go ‘head and let that marinate in your spirits for a second… I’ll wait.

Anyway, the question now remains: what now? Now that I’ve learned this lesson, what is my plan? Because what’s the point of learning something if it’s never applied?

It’s simple, really – I need to go back to who I was at the beginning of 2011, before all the denial, and settling, and… fuckery.

Who was that person? She was intelligent, and funny, and humble, and sarcastic, and fierce, and about seven other types of awesome. Not this weak, quiet, “whatever music you like” lookin-ass chick that 2011 created.

Yeah. “Back to awesome” is the theme for 2012.

Corny? Probably. But I don’t really care what you think.

See? I’m moving back there already.

Ultimately, I’m not mad at 2011 and all it taught me about myself. Sure, I hate what I learned, and would rather not experience that shit again, but the lesson itself was invaluable.

And truthfully, I am better for it.


Happy New Year, Party People. Stick with me – it’s gonna be amazing.

Lupus Diary #2

About a year ago, I ran into an old, family friend – by “old” I don’t mean “long time”, but rather, he’s just this OLD dude I know. It had been several years since he’d last seen me, and he had heard that I had a “health scare” a while ago, so he asked how I was doing.

Doing well, I said. I gave him the short list of all the awesome shit I had been doing since we’d last talked. I placed special emphasis on the accomplishments (Master’s Degree, good job, recordings, performances) and deftly skipped over the unsavory parts (falling down an entire flight of stairs at work, car accidents, failed relationships, failed projects). While I talked, he looked me up and down.

This made me uncomfortable, because frankly, I’d always gotten a slimy vibe from him, and felt that if given the opportunity, he would brush his hand against my ass “by accident”. So, I began to look around nervously for a reason to end the conversation and get away from him (please, God, let a car full of midget circus clowns pull up). Soon, after my voice trailed off, he said:

Well, you LOOK great.

Over the years, I’ve heard several versions of this statement, from the harmless you look great, to the passive-aggressive, backhand slap: if that’s how you look when you’re sick, you should get sick more often (someone actually said that to me, about a week after being released from the hospital). But this statement, among others, merely indicate a deeper issue, which I shall discuss here. In short,

People will never understand what I’m going through.

The minute I realized that and accepted it, my condition became infinitely easier to handle. Before that miraculous moment, however, I was always angry – and it probably didn’t help that I was taking sledge hammer amounts of Prednisone at the time, and I was a raving lunatic. Anyway, for about five years after my diagnosis, I was consistently frustrated and depressed, wondering why everybody was being so callus towards me. To me, it seemed as though my family and friends were ignoring my potentially life-threatening illness, making the same demands they made before the diagnosis. It was years before I realized why.

I really didn’t look sick.

But God help me, I was. I was SO sick. So much so, I was unable to comb my own hair. But try explaining that to someone else. It will usually go like this:

Me: I don’t feel good today.
Them: Really? What’s wrong?
Me: I don’t know – I’m just really tired.
Them: Shit. I’m tired too. I just worked a ten-hour…
Me: No. No. I mean… I can’t lift my arms above my head.
Them: Well, why don’t you take a nap? You’ll feel better afterwards.

This pretty much sums up all of the conversations I had during the first few years. Hell, I still have them every now and then. Basically, no matter what words I use, what flowery, vivid metaphors, people just don’t get it. Not unless, God forbid, they have Lupus themselves. Or they live with someone who has it.

Lupus is really a tricky disease, because it manages to come without some of the telltale signs of other illnesses, while at the same time impersonating other illnesses. A cruel conundrum. A painful mathematical equation.

As for me, I had few indications that I was really sick. Sure, I was tired, my weight was dropping without me even trying, and my joints were on fire – but all of these things could be explained. Tired? I was working 40 hours a week, singing in a band on weekends, and keeping up an active social life. So, yeah. I was tired. My weight was dropping because I had recently changed my diet – drastically. And as for the flaming joints – my job consisted of about 75% data entry. So, just chalk it up to Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. How was I to know that my body was destroying itself from the inside out?

And that’s just it – it happened on the inside first. Lupus was a bad tenant – moving in, cutting up the furniture, pulling pictures off the walls, breaking the linoleum in the kitchen floor… all without attracting the landlord’s attention. So, there I was, The Landlord, going about my daily routine the way I’d always gone about it, except then I was taking extra naps, buying smaller clothes and wearing wrist guards to work.

And I was still looking (relatively) healthy. In fact, the weight loss had done wonders for my social life. I was getting attention that I couldn’t buy less than six months prior. I was loving it. Sure, I had to take an extra nap before going out on a date (and no, I didn’t think that was especially odd), and perhaps take a few more Advil beforehand so that my hands wouldn’t turn into claws halfway through the date (which I also didn’t think was abnormal), but hey.

Friends continued to compliment me on the weight loss, saying how ‘healthy’ I was looking. So you see, I wasn’t the only one ignoring the signs. They noticed the wrist guards, the rapid weight loss, my inability to stand or walk for long periods of time, just like I did. Yet they congratulated me, asked me for advice (how did you do it? You look GREAT!), and everything was beautiful, I thought.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. Immediately after my diagnosis, that awkward period of denial during which I tried to hold on to the lifestyle I used to have, while simultaneously expecting everyone else to treat me differently, I wallowed in self-pity. I’d never felt as alone as I did then – I was convinced that no one, in the entire world, knew what I was experiencing. What didn’t help my situation was that periodically, usually when I was at my most vulnerable, some asshole would say: Wow. If this is how you look when you’re sick, you should get sick more often.

Unbelievable, right? I thought so. Of course, now that I look back on that time, and on those people, I realize a couple of things. One, they’re assholes, like I said earlier. Two, they’ll always be assholes, and there’s nothing I can do about that. Finally, they don’t matter.

What matters, in the final analysis, is that I am living (and quite well, thank you very much) with this condition, and I am my most pressing concern and priority. It has taken me several years to come to grips with this, and finally make the necessary changes in my life to accommodate this new reality. Now, I am an expert in the use of “no”, and have learned to stop and rest when the telltale signs of a Lupus flare-up begin to appear (fatigue, headaches, aching joints, severe muscle spasms, loss of appetite).

I have also acquired the unfortunate ability to prune any individuals from my life, whether family or friends, who do not support my goal to maintain a peaceful and (relatively) stress-free life. Along with this, I am learning to forgive myself for making these adjustments.

And finally, I am able to concede that yes, I do actually look good. For someone with Lupus.

An Open Letter to Chris Brown

How you doin? I see you've been having some trouble lately. Folks on the street are talking about it. I didn't get to see the latest outburst, but I heard about it. Even saw the pictures of the aftermath on CNN, and all I could do was shake my head.

This is not a finger-pointing letter, Chris. In fact, quite the opposite. I just wanted you to know that in spite of everything, I understand your outburst yesterday.

Some of my people will be pissed that I said that, but I really couldn't give a damn. This is between me and you right now.

Now let's get something straight, right away. You never should've put your hands on that woman. Frankly, if that was me in that hospital photo the next day, you never would've made it to the precinct. I mean, I don't know who her people are, but my people would've made sure that if you ever did sing again, it would be through a brand new asshole.

Now that that's been established, I realize that it must be very difficult for someone like you, someone who is clearly dealing with some anger management issues, who has struggled for so long to hide his true nature in order to be liked by everyone.

That must be really tough for you. Because for people like me, the unwashed masses, who tumble through our lives, tangling and untangling in our messes every day, our mistakes are largely our own property. We have this one, clear advantage over luminous minority: we have the freedom to bury our shit.

You, on the other hand, do not have that luxury. Instead, you live under constant scrutiny. The unwashed masses aren't satisfied with just paying a ticket and seeing you on stage. They clutch at your history, your fears, your intimate moments. While clinging with manic intensity to their own privacy.

I realized all of this as I watched your now famous interview on Good Morning America. I watched you struggle with guilt, pain, regret, anger and the rising tide of violence that has probably always bubbled somewhere beneath the surface. I knew, by the way you clenched your teeth during the interview, and the wild, slightly awkward performance afterwards, that you hadn't put it behind you. Needless to say, I wasn't surprised when I heard about your rampage in the dressing room.

What did surprise me, however, was my own reaction. I was pissed. And for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why.

Until this morning, when something caught my attention as I was channel surfing. It was a snippet of a Charlie Sheen interview. I was about to dismiss it as just another replay of that manic, babble-fuck that's been getting a lot of air time lately.

(I mean, even that reporter from L.A. who had that stroke on camera had the good sense to cut it short after she started speaking jibberish).

Too soon?

Anyway, this clip was different. It was an advertisement for Charlie Sheen's new one man, traveling show. Now, everyone around the country can get an intimate look into Sheen's deteriorating, drug-addled mind.

For a small fee, of course. I mean come on, he has kids.

See, here's where I'm going with this. The world will hold this shit over your head for years to come, and give you very little opportunity to redeem or re-invent yourself. You can button up your collar, enunciate your words and take out your facial piercings, but that won't help. You have been branded a menace.

Your image will haunt the dreams of suburban fathers all over this land; they will wake in the middle of the night, their Cosby pajamas wrapped tightly around their sweaty legs, calling out their daughters' names. When they awake, they will remember little, but the sight of you on television will make them uneasy.

True, you've earned your new image honestly. But what if you don't want it? What if you want to shake it off, and maybe try to help fill that enormous hole left in the industry after MJ's death?

No dice, kid.

Meanwhile, in Bizarro World, Charlie Sheen will continue to invite reporters to his mansion, to give a glimpse into his peaceful life with his live-in prostitutes (plural) and his children.

And Mel Gibson will continue to make movies.

And so will Roman Polanski, while keeping a pair of little girl panties in his back pocket.

D'ahhh, well... I kinda understand your outburst after the interview. Personally, I don't do the whole violence-thing. I really can't afford to break anybody's shit right now. So, there are no broken windows in my immediate future.

At least, I don't think so.

As for you, I do think you can get past this, if you learn to accept the following:

You are Black - the Glitterati's rules don't apply to you.

And no amount of broken windows, or new hair styles, or body art will change this.

Once you accept this, you can learn to change your situation in small, yet meaningful ways. You will accept that you are, essentially, a violent man who can't experience frustration without causing pain or hurt to someone else.

And maybe then you will finally, truthfully, ask for help.

Living with Lupus

Lupus is a humbling disease. The medical field has all these highly technical terms for all of the physical symptoms, but at its stripped down funky center, Lupus is Murphy's Law personified. For all of us who actually live with the disease, it's a BASTARD, robbing us of everything fun and sexy and cool.

For me, Lupus was a cruel joke, played on me by the tiny little evil Board of Directors living in my head, whose sole purpose was to hold meetings and plot ways to completely humiliate me and ruin my life.

I was in my mid-twenties when I was diagnosed with Lupus. Before then I led a typical, mid-twenties life, complete with 40-hour work week and full social calendar. I had a nice apartment, a well-paying job and an active sex life (sorry Dad). The possibility that something was waiting around the corner for me, something that would change everything, had never occurred to me. Instead, I was comfortable in my own ignorance, and while nothing special was happening, nothing tragic was either. I was settling into my own mediocre state of bliss. All of my friends loved me, I was beautiful, healthy, and financially stable.

Then, the roof was blown off and I was exposed, squatting over the commode, with my skirt hiked up and my pantyhose around my ankles.

At least, that's how I felt.

To be honest, when I was first diagnosed, I didn't know what I was in for. At that time, Lupus was that hardly-known disease that killed your distant aunt (whose name no one could ever remember) back in the '70s - you know, the one that was married to Uncle Leon, who used to make that lemon cake? The one from Arkansas? With that gold tooth?

Yeah, her.

Needless to say, I was underwhelmed by the diagnosis, which frankly pissed off my rheumatologist. I knew next to nothing about the disease, even though a friend of the family had lived with it for years. I was just so relieved it wasn't AIDS (which was my initial fear), that I practically jumped in the doctor's arms and kissed him.

I had no fucking idea.

Let me just say that my naivete' about the situation was not entirely my fault. My doctor gave me the impression that after conducting a series of blood test to confirm the diagnosis, he would prescribe a few medications and my life would eventually return to normal. This was fine by me, as I was eager to return to my mundane life.

(The Board of Directors collectively shakes their heads. Poor, stupid girl. She hasn't even met Prednisone).

Well, it turns out my diagnosis was by far the most significant even in my life - something that changed everything from my relationships to my diet. That comfortable, albeit unremarkable existence I was settling into would soon become a distant memory.

Sounds dire, doesn't it? Well, it was - at first. Then, a few things happened in rapid succession. First, I was forced to pare away the people in my life who were no good for me. Second, I learned how to say 'no' to people. Lastly, I paid attention to my body. All of these things I either did not do, or didn't do enough before my diagnosis.

Lastly, my priorities came into sharp, clear focus and as a result, I finally accomplished some things I'd been putting off.

Like, finally getting around to building that zombie-proof shelter I've always wanted. And collecting Idris Elba hair clippings (don't ask).

The irony of it all, is that in the midst of gaining a laundry list of restrictions, I was able to free myself from some of my former hang-ups and fashion my life into something more comfortable for myself.

Most importantly, I realized that I am charged with the task of writing about my experience, in the hopes of reaching out to people like me who live with this mysterious, vindictive disease every day.

And hopefully, while reaching out to others, I can somehow help myself deal with the cards I've been dealt.

a love letter to 2010

As years go, you weren't all that bad. I mean, I've had worse (1996 - 1998, and 2007 come immediately to mind). You at least had the decency to miss me with some of the stinging curve balls you threw at some of my friends and family members (and what the hell was THAT about). And the ones that did connect were (in hindsight) valuable lessons. Anyway, what I have now, is a clearer understanding of who I am after our 365 - day affair. Because you've given me the greatest gift that any year could give a flaky, semi-intellectual person like me: the gift of clarity.

Anyhoo, I feel calm and stable enough to see you, 2010, for what you were, and love you for that. Since we met, my purpose has come into sharp focus, and while I may still not be clear about what it is that I want, you've taught me exactly what I don't want.

For example:

1) You remember that string of guys I dated, the ones that kinda leaked over from '09? That group of spineless, self-centered, passive-aggressive dudes who did and said anything to avoid being the bad guys? Yeah. Won't be bringing those guys with me into 2011.

2) That habit I have of spending money on shit I don't need before taking care of important things like, um, the car note? Nope. Not taking that...

3) And that beating-myself-up-over-shit-I-can't-control thing? That's gonna stay behind.

4) Oh, and the way I keep calling myself a "fat ass", and all that? Done.

I know, I know, this is coming dangerously close to a list of New Year's Resolutions, which as a rule, I don't do. However, I'd like to think of it as a list of ongoing projects. These are all things that will take some time to complete, but will be worth the effort going in.

During our brief courtship, I had several revelations about myself; some were uncomfortable, but all in all, I learned things about myself that I didn't know before, or just refused to acknowledge.

Number one, I am a hypocrite. I have caught myself, more times than I'm comfortable admitting, criticizing someone else for doing somethig I was also doing at that very moment.

I am socially awkward. This, I masterfully conceal with jokes and sarcasm. And by "masterfully", I mean not so much.

Lastly, you taught me that I tend to agree with others just to fit in, even when I'm viscerally conflicted. This was probably the hardest revelation that I've ever had about myself, and it took me weeks to get over it. But it was necessary.

So in the final analysis, you weren't that bad. We had our disagreements, but ultimately, I learned some valuable lessons while we were together.

As for the new year, I don't know much about him. Word on the street is that he's different from any other year I've met. Got some good shit for me too, I've heard.

We'll see.