Why I Hate the Bar. Why I Still Go.

When I was still the age of pacifiers and hall passes, I spent enormous amounts of time wondering why adults had faces that looked like prunes. During their transit to work, on the bus, I would watch their eyes play games of hide and seek, constantly running away from one another. I did not understand why these old people would never seize the opportunity to break out in spontaneous dance. After all, most looked like they were on their way to slave work, and what better way to begin your day with a quick slow wind on the bus with a stranger whom you may never see again?

Except for the next morning.

I am no longer a hall pass. I am now a couple of parking tickets and bottles of vodka years old. On occasion, I visit a local bar to pour myself out, along with others who are trying to avoid becoming prunes faster than necessary.

On a good night, my feet are like banana peels and I glide across the dance floor sweeping away wall flowers. I eventually forget how ripe I’ve become and feel less resistant to time.

On a not so good night, there is usually an extremely drunk person huddling over my arm, talking to me in car crash.

On a good night, the waiter does not kick me out for sneaking to make a meal out of the martini olives. I find a smile at the bottom of a shot glass.

On a not so groovy eve, I fight with mens’ gym-membershipped chests for the bartenders’ attention.

On a good night, there are no pee drippings on the toilet seat. I still squat. Moms didn’t raise a C average.

On a not so cordial night, there are women sinking into toilets, bursting through doors without knocking, and talking really loud about things that are less interesting than conversations I have with toddlers who drool complete sentences.

On a good night, the majority of my friends are people I’ve met less than five minutes ago. They are swaying and I see all of their teeth.

On a not so good night, my friends are prunes on buses who would rather not seize the opportunity to dance.

Fortunately, last night was a good one. We swept the floor and left it more unkempt than we found it. We smiled often, dripped obscenities and made plenty of eye contact with perfect strangers, most of which we may never see again.

Until tomorrow.

Black Girls With Short Hair

If you do not know who Amber Rose is, let me give you the most biased and unofficial introduction: her tongue got paparazzied while being engulfed by Kanye West’s mouth and the shape of her head is reminiscent of a pear. She has the body of a house many men and women would not mind sleeping in for one night. I liked her. For a few hours. Until I YouTubed an interview of her on the Wendy Williams’ show, in which she proclaimed to be the only girl who is more appealing with no hair.

Yes, Amber can rock a buzz cut better than most U.S. soldiers. But she is not the only one.

Perhaps if these women stick their tongue in Kanye’s ear, they too will become famous and make Wendy Williams flip her wig into a natural.

What to do When Employers Reject Your Resume…

The rules are simple:

1) Get rid of the fluff and write your truth, even if it risks offending someone.

2) Keep a few polysyllabic words, so they know you possess a smart of some hue.

3) Interrupt the intellectualized rhythm of the standard resume with your own strut.

4) Stand tall and tread hard.

For those of you who are a bit reluctant to begin, I have taken the liberty of posting my résumé online as an example for you to follow. Enjoy!

Talia Taylor |address: google me | phone: 510.2**.1439 (don’t call me after 9 p.m.)

Objective

To get a job so that I can continue to feed, clothe and house myself.

Qualifications

•  8 years experience interacting with people who infrequently smile
•  Computer literate; can troubleshoot Macs. Only because they are better than PCs
•  Went to college for longer than expected
•  Entrepreneurial experience (I sold candy and other paraphernalia in high school)

Work Experience

Sales Professional|2010 seasonal

• distract dissatisfied customers from their initial complaints and occasionally confuse elderly Germans by pretending to be a customer
• open and close registers
• meticulously dust glassware
• influence customers to become a valued card holder so that over time, they will owe an excessive amount of money to the corporation

Leadership Instructor|2009-2010

• show up to work every day
• talk for one and one half hours as animated as possible to keep up with adolescent attention spans
• make friends with co-workers and promise to go out for drinks, but never do
• organize and chaperone field trips with the intent to increase the social and cultural capital of youth
• execute classroom management practices that are non-threatening and diplomatic, on most occasions

 Receptionist/Hair Stylist|2007-200

• refrain from yelling at over-demanding customers/clients
• listen intently to conversations that have no relevance to personal growth
• boost immune system by becoming accustomed to inhaling toxic nail polish removers

Poet-Mentor|2002-2010

• display an overwhelming sense of emotion when students recite personal poems in front of a crowd of over 1,000
• drive long distances to cities with fictive names
• wear really cool clothing and accessories
• show resourcefulness in finding money for food and transportation when my paycheck was late arriving. every month

University of East Anglia| Exchange Student| 2005-2006

• attend courses in which european americans condemned Langston Hughes’ for writing about lynchings instead of tulips
• refrain from socking people
• host a radio show with as little talking as possible
• navigate my way through way Rome, Milan, Florence, Venice, and Barcelona with just one guidebook and little interest in reading it
• land a feature column in the Valentine’s Day edition of the school paper
• join the photography club and learn to develop photos of my ex

Education

B.A. I talk a lot to some people, San Francisco State University

B.A. I like all things Black people related, San Francisco State University

References

A few

 

Embarrassing Moments as an Adult: Part 1

As a “grown-up”, I am expected to have my stuff together. Although I wish “stuff” meant knowing how to organize my pencil cup holder, the implications are much broader and include doing things like paying bills on time and showing up to work sober. “Stuff” also implies knowing how to at least make a decent pot of spaghetti when Top Ramen and Kool-Aid cease to make a good first impression.

Peeing in the bed is not acceptable as a grown up. Neither is picking your nose in public. Unless you are an elderly Chinese Man.

Wait.

According to what’s expected of an adult, I’m not quite sure if I can say that I was one a few years ago. I treated my parking tickets like imaginary friends. I forgot I had a job, and showed up late once I remembered.

It was my twenty-sixth birthday. I had a few five drinks. For the most part, I held my senses together until I sipped something from someone’s flask.  At this point, time either sped up or slowed down. I can’t remember. I do recollect the lights coming on and me not taking that as a sign to go home. I had to get in just one more spin move. When I realized that the music was no longer playing, I decided to stop dancing and head on out with the rest of the partygoers.

When outside, I immediately indulged in a conversation about love. I was so enthused, that I decided it would be better for me to talk louder than usual, and even sing some of my sentences. Although I was inspired to compete with street cleaning for who could make the most noise, I was cold, tired and in no condition to drive. I rode shotgun in my home boy’s car; the seatbelt wrapped around me like a scarf. My palms were pressed against my forehead to keep it from sliding off my face.

Right after I introduced myself to equilibrium, it came. A unrelenteless urge to use the bathroom. We stopped at the nearest gas station and just my luck, the bathroom was occupied. I turned around in circles as a means to confuse my fluids. I needed to buy time. I thought about rocks. I made up a song about Trident Layers and tried tapping my foot to it. I intensely walked around the store looking at nothing in particular. No matter how I tried to distract myself, nature showed no mercy. Let’s just say my welcome into adulthood was very warm (and wet).

A Soggy Love Letter to the Club

Debauchery keeps me sane. Which may explain why I don’t mind visiting the local bar. A few hours ago it was a Friday night. I was in desperate need to unwind from a day full of what felt like gnomes gnawing a canal toward my heart. Which vice do I choose to ward them off.

I should have prayed, but instead I went to the club. The first hour was jubilant. I ate. I sipped. I twirled. And then here he comes. The guy who introduces himself by way of an ambitious pelvic thrust. Debauchery keeps me sane. I said.

So, I stand there and give his denim a few seconds to dry-holler at my fishnets. I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing, but whatever it is, I find it to be something worth blogging about. So, I indulge.

He visits me in five to seven minute intervals. Each time either “uuggghhhhing” in my ear, laughing at a joke I did not make or is finding it more interesting to dance with the back of my head, as opposed to the front. Where my face is.

The security guard approaches and asks if the guy was harassing me. My response was “a little bit…he’s okay, but doesn’t know when to turn it down”. The guard assures me that if the ambitious pelvis bothers me again, he will get air-lifted out of the club. I say okay, slightly feeling like a snitch.

Five and one half minutes later and here he comes again, swaying my way with drink in hand and eyelids low. I laugh at all of his jokes except for the ones he’s telling.

My fingers ghost across his palm to gently lift his hand away from my waist. Again. and Again.

Security motivates him away. Only to have a robust woman replace him and practically stuff one of her breasts into both my nostrils. However, I felt the need to sniff because after all, she did save me from another non-conversation I was having with someone who sounded like Darius off of Mis-Adventures of an Awkward Black Girl. Honestly, out of all of the characters on that show, Darius, was the one who I found to be the most unbelievable. And here I am. Leaning in, almost falling over, so that I can better comprehend what this low decibel speaking man was saying.

His name was Stacey.

Last night was full of thongs the color of highlighters, concerningly high platforms and Air Force Ones. I listened to about ten or more songs that made little mention of my brain and the thoughts inside of it. I tattled on someone. The music soaked up my alcohol faster than Pinky does most bodily fluids. (I dare not link her name to a visual reference). And after all of that, I left with something to write about. Thank you club.