Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Nip/Tuck is Fierce!

Supa Sister has gone straight bananas over this season's Nip/Tuck! Beside it being one of the most groundbreaking, edgy, and intriguing dramas on cable in a long ass time (aside from The Sopranos, Six Feet Under, and Rescue Me - to name a few) it also stars Julian McMahon - who is on my list of white boys who I would definitely do.

His characters name is Christian, and he's the kind of beautiful, sexy, arrogant, wounded asshole you hate to love. Pretty fucking cute as far as white boys go. But he's still a runner-up to Clive Owen.

Other white boys Supa Sister would definitely do:

1. Clive Owen
2. Julian McMahon
3. Jeff Goldblum (old school crush)
4. Clive. Owen.
5. pre-weight loss Nicolas Cage
6. Owen, Clive
7. Matt Damon
8. C.l.i.v.e. O.w.e.n.
9. Richard Gere
10. Muthafucking Clive Owen.

Call me, Clive...

P.S. - But they're all runner-ups to the original beautiful black man. Now let me get off my ass and stop talking and go get that sandwich.....

Romance, Reality, and the Importance of A Sandwich

So yesterday, a cool co-worker who’s also a writer (not Robert H!) mentioned that he’d just returned from a week’s vacation in Ensenada. So Supa Sister went about in her usual nosey way and asked him if the trip was a romantic type deal, or simply a chill-and-hang-out with-the-fellas thing…and please don’t ask me why, but that simple-ass inquiry spun off into an in-depth conversation/debate on romance and relationships and unrealistic expectations and played-out gender roles and the nature of men and women and the issues and scenarios that often keep us from connecting on an authentic, genuine, and human level.

And Jesus F. Christ, Supa Sista wasn’t really trying to get into all that, okay? I'm more interested in trying to figure out who The Carver is on Nip/Tuck. Besides, talking about relationships makes my head hurt, and that’s my girl Jude’s specialty, not mine…But it turned out to be an enjoyable, perspective-swapping, funny-ass conversation with a delightful and witty brotha, and truth be told, we fucked off the rest of the afternoon on company time by entertaining ourselves with our insightful email banter. Heh.

And now...Supa Sister remembers what kinda jump started the whole conversation. I was testing his rile factor by purporting that Supa Sister had indeed already figured out what men really want. And that is: They want a woman to give him some good head, play with his balls, and then go fix him a sandwich. That’s it.

Hey. That’s what Dave Chapelle said.

So my cool co-worker went on to say that statement wasn’t ‘necessarily’ true, and how we as women tend to make even the simplest thing complicated, how we complain and seem to thrive on unnecessary drama (at least that’s what Chris Rock said), and then I conceded that maybe yes women have unique ways of verbally expressing themselves and some of us can be downright nags, but ya’ll shouldn’t be so sensitive and make it seem like we're trying to slice your balls off simply because we ask you to please take out the trash. For the fiftieth time. Heh.

And then he busted out with a very interesting analogy, that went something like: imagine women being like the gifted children in the class and men being like the slow ones, and that you can’t expect the slow kids to speed up to the gifted kids’ levels, and the gifted kids need to take the time to help out their slower brethren, and when they do so, they need to talk using small words and speak very slowly. Or...something like that. And I think (?) he was kind of saying that we chicks have to have a little more patience and understanding, realize that men and women speak a different “language”, and that with good enough game, we can more or less bring a brotha up to speed with without beating him down with the stupid stick.

In other words…. Just give him some good head, play with his balls, and then go fix him a sandwich.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Supa Sister on Flics: Yesterday

Synopsis: HBO Films presents a watershed film for South Africa, and a film of many firsts. Yesterday is the first international feature film ever shot in the Zulu language, and is the first South African film to receive an Oscar® nomination (in the category of Best Foreign Language Film). Equally important, Yesterday was made with the support of Nelson Mandela and the Nelson Mandela Foundation, marking an important new commitment by Mandela (and South Africa) to attempt to erase the long-standing stigma of AIDS in a country that has been ravaged by it, primarily from lack of knowledge about the disease.

Supa Sister missed the premiere last night on HBO, but will surely check it out. Hit me with any feedback if you happened to catch it.

Monday, November 28, 2005

The Stalking of Supa Sister

Now bear with me. This wack-ass story requires somewhat of a preface.

A few weeks back, Supa Sister had a yard sale. On account of she’s been going through some kind of purging and cleansing phase. Just had the intense overwhelming need to be rid of all the useless, non-utilized items cluttering her space. Wanted to make room for more personal and creative energy…or make room to purchase more useless, non-utilized shit. Who knows. Whatever.

Back to the yard sale. Things were going well. The dusty-ass artificial plants and old dishes and clothes were selling. It was all good. Late in the game, some fool rolls up. Strolling around like he’s interested in this or that. Buys some miscellaneous bullshit. Loiters. Tries to engage Supa Sista with inane meaningless chit chat.

Now let me stop here, and expound on fool. Fools immediate presence, looks, aura, vibe, and conversation did absolutely nothing for Supa Sister. And yes, fellas. Yes. A sista can size you up in precisely 2.3 seconds and decide if you’re someone she might entertain the remotest possibility of fucking with. So. Trust and believe when I say that, by definition- this fool was a buster.

Everything about said fool's game was weak and tired. Primarily, because he was old. Not 'oldER' as in ‘fit and worldly and suave and distinguished’(think, maybe: Sidney Poitier) I mean, old, as in: pot belly, impending Medi-Cal recipient, wino and smokers-cough kinda old. (think: John Witherspoon)

Just. Awful. He was pushing a nice enough black E Class, which out here in Floss Angeles, is enough to get a garden variety chickenhead’s cluck-ometer in motion. But Supa Sister could give a fat flying fuck. He coulda rolled through busting some donuts in the fucking spaceship Enterprise for all I care. Supa Sister just…really doesn't give a damn about superficial shit like that.

So. Yard Sale. Supa Sister tries to act all rushed and distracted and UNINTERESTED because she intuits (correctly) that fool thinks just enough of himself to try and step. And Supa Sister is just being honest when she says that it really pisses her the fuck off when an aging pot belly buster-ish fool thinks he can mack to a fucking fabulous and spicy-ass entity such as herself. For real. Shit like that upsets the natural balance of the universe.

So fool tries to engage Supa Sister in more useless conversation. Blah blah, cough cough. And sure enough, he eventually asks the dreaded ‘so can we go out sometime….?’


So Supa Sister is forced to unfurl her usual list of lame brush offs: I got a man, I’m working on my novel, ‘aint got time, I’m about to go to jail, I’m about to go to Afghanistan. On and on. But fool just would not fall back or disengage. And the combination of negotiating yard sale prices while simultaneously trying to dissuade this bugaboo to back up off me, Supa Sista got throwed off her game and made the biggest fucking cardinal mistake by mindlessly rattling off the digits to her coveted cellie number. I know I know, please don’t say it. A chick can get her pimp card revoked for some amateurish shit like that. Getting broke down under minimal pressure. Believe me, I’m ashamed. Truly. Ashamed.

Saving grace is, Supa Sister is a chronic screener, and if your name and number aren’t programmed in my cellie, you ‘aint gonna catch my ass. Ever. Like, it just won’t happen. And, three days later, this fool had continuously blown my shit up to the point where he was leaving me shitty ass voicemails like:

“You shoulda given me your other number, ‘cause I can’t seem to catch you on this one.”
“I’m on the list down at The Post. Why don’t you get all pretty so I can pick you up for a nice evening….?
“I’ve called you five times! (cough*hack*cough) You supposed to answer the phone when I call…”

Muthafucka, what? First of all – I DON’T KNOW YOU. Second – uh, hello? Five times and no return phone call? Sounds like simple mathematics to me. It equals - cease callin’ me, you pitiful old-ass simple muthafucker. And third – what the fuck? Get in your car and ‘look pretty?’ You need to go kick that game down at the Slauson Swapmeet, to a bitch who needs a ride to go pick up her WIC coupons or something. Miss me with all that unevolved unoriginal shit right there...

Okay. So YESTERDAY, Supa Sister rolls up fresh from work all tired and grouchy and crampy and shit, steps outta her whip, and who do you think just so happens to be rolling the fuck down her street at the same exact moment….

You are correct. It’s the fool. And this shit is no coincidence.

The fool’s a stalker.

So Supa Sister just glared at his fool ass. Just gave him the complete gas face. It was evident that fool was now in a fucking quandary, because he was unsure as to what he wanted to do – stop or keep going, stop or keep going. So fool was doing this drive-coast-brake thing down the street. Stupid. Ass. So I yell like a lunatic, “Stop calling me!” while giving him the finger, and he vrooms on down the street looking like the buster fool he is.

And I know that old hack is probably callin’ me all kinda bitch this and bitch that, but you know what? Whatever the fuck ever.

Call Supa Sista whaaateeever you want. Just don’t call her.

Happy Fucking Monday!

Supa Sister has decided to keep it light today, since most of us are still trying to overcome our tryptophan issues...

So hey! I keep hearing that Michael Jackson is converting to Islam. If so, is he still allowed to rock his perm weave?

I'm just askin'....

And, in other absolutely meaningless hair related news, after sixteen years, my man Busta Rhymes cut off his locs!

Hmmm....upgrade/downgrade? Jury's still out.

Supa Sister does think he looks a lot likeTracy Morgan with the new 'do.

Update: Supa Sister says "DOWNGRADE" on Bussa Buss' new look. Supa Sister thinks the locs were a credible distraction from his...uh..face. Umm, yeah. He's lookin' kinda special in that AFTER photo. Special = slightly retarded. Supa Sister still loves ya though, Trevor. You had me at SCENARIO.

Friday, November 25, 2005

Who are the Ruff Ryders?

Question: So, many of you have asked - Supa Sister, who are these Ruff Ryders you speak of?

Answer: The Ruff Ryders are Supa Sister's lovely spawn. From very early on, it proved difficult for Supa Sister to remember their names, so they are simply identified as:

The Boy (Ruff Ryder #1) Quick Bio: aka THE SCHOLAR. Computer whiz. Loves to read, eat, live in a nasty unkempt room, and annoy Ruff Ryder #2. Doesn't do photos.

The Girl (Ruff Ryder #2). Quick Bio: aka THE ARTIST. Master storyteller. Suffers from chronic princess complex. Loves to incessantly: talk, shop, cook, raid Supa Sister's closet, and obsess about becoming America's Next Top (Junior) Model. Because she's fierce.

These are two very important factors in Supa Sister's sometimes severe Vodka consumption. Nevertheless, Supa Sister loves these little suckers to no end.

Hey, That Was Kinda Fun!

So Supa Sister is pleased to report that she actually enjoyed the dreaded Turkey Day. Gasp! Shock! Awe! In fact, it simply proved Supa Sister’s argument that every day – not just a freaking holiday - is cause for celebration, food, fun, laughs, family, friends, alcohol, good times, good music, good chronic, and minimal amounts of drama. Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!

And! As an extra bonus, Supa Sister became privy to a few never-before-revealed juicy family secrets, witnessed the police respond to a family brawl four houses down, and observed two of my Supa Friends flailing about in infuriating spousal and mother-in-law related drama…and Supa Sister was tickled the fuck pink because none of these unsavory events included, involved, or necessitated any real emotional energy by yours truly. Supa Sister has been there, done that tired shit….

So, for all those who endured another holiday fussing amongst their psychologically unstable and/or drunken relatives, endured being the brunt of someone else’s misplaced hostility, found themselves neck-high in ancient unresolved familial issues, and/or basically went out of their fucking mind trying to grin and bear it all– too bad, suckas! Supa Sister says, you can’t choose your family, but you sure as hell can choose how much peace vs. insanity you allow in your life.

At any rate, hope your day was cool. Now. A chick like me gots shopping to do.

Supa Sister. Out!

P.S. - Thanks for my wake-up call, One Cool Sista! Good lookin' out.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Bush is a Turkey

So Bush gave his annual pardon to this turkey, hunh? Watch out little girl...that turkey might have weapons of mass destruction...

P.S. - Little girl, get your finger outta that poor turkey's face. How rude. Do you need a spanking?

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Poll Results: Terry McMillan

Okay, it's official. Terry McMillan is GHETTO.

Here's the breakdown:

43% said She's ghetto
7% said She's said ignorant
21% said She's ghetto and ignorant
29% said She's hurt and embarrased

Check out the new holiday poll...

No, I'm Not Ready for the Holidays

According to one of my smart-ass co-workers, this is an accurate visual representation of Supa Sister around the holidays. Ha ha ha! Yeah, but my hair looks nothing like that. And, no way are my arms and legs that skinny. Nor does my mid-section resemble a ring one might find around the planet Saturn. So screw you, Robert H!

Though Supa Sista will admit - she couldn't give a fuck about the holidays. Big yawn. It's all so fake. Just too much pressure. Folks whipping themselves up into the holiday frenzy, foaming at the mouth, running around and clogging all the decent malls so Supa Sister can't impulse shop without being surrounded by all those foaming-at-the-mouth idiots. Sheesh.

Folks keep asking "so, ya ready for the holidays?" and Supa Sister is like, no, you idiot, but I'm real fucking ready for you to stop asking me that same bullshit question every year. Especially when you already know what I'm going to say.

All a chick like me wants to do is eat, chill, sip a Ketel One martini and watch the Twilight Zone marathon.


So please don't ask me again,

Supa Sister the Grouch

Monday, November 21, 2005

Someone please take him away

While you're at it, take him too

Clowns. Both of 'em.

Supa Sister Says: Snatch them Fools

Okay, so according to Yahoo news, spanking a child is not good.

Supa Sister says - Parents, keep their lil' asses in check. Fucking word. There's a reason why we have various colorful cultural sayings that go "I brought you into this world, and I'll take your ass out" and "beat you like you stole somethin." Get it?

I bet you those Columbine kids, and that crazy boy who killed his girlfriend's parents last week were of the "time-out" generation. Fuck all that. I 'aint saying The Ruff Ryders might not do something monumentally stupid at some point in time, but rest assured, after they do it, they're gettin' that ass whupped.

So, uh, yeah. American psychologists say we shouldn't spank kids. And then those lil' non-spanked muthafuckas grow up and do some stupid shit like this. Now Supa Sister doesn't know if ole' girl Lindy ever got spanked at home or not....But somebody seriously needs to whump that trick. And all this may be apples and oranges, but shut up. Supa Sister just felt like comparing the two.

Supa Sister on Beats: Welcome to Jamrock

Since Supa Sister loves all things associated with reggae and/or the beautiful island of Jamaica, it's only logical that she had to add Damian Marley's "Welcome to Jamrock" to her collection.

Confession: I almost didn't buy the CD, because, well, on my last trip to JA I was blessed with a gang of mixtapes (CD's) by a cute-ass dreamy-eyed Jamaican named George and they included "Jamrock" and many other hot dancehall tracks, so Supa Sista was straight. Another confession: The first time I heard the "Jamrock" single I became completely and illogically obsessed with it...The
Ruff Ryders would roll their collective eyes in disgust at Supa Sister/Ms. Mom as she did her best Patra impression while chanting along in her laughable Jamaican accent...

Also, because I'd heard that the Jamaican Tourist Board was pissed at Damian, because his song is basically a politically conscious rant about the poverty and crime prevalent in Jamaica, and the JTB thought it would give tourists a "negative view" of the island. Whatever. Not that they cared enough to address the truth of his statements- they just didn't want to fuck with that tourist money. So, Supa Sister became increasingly obsessed with deciphering the lyrics, which is more than a notion if Jamaican patois 'aint your second language. Or, dialect. Or whatever. And even though my Jamaican George (heeey George) tried to explain what Damian was spittin', it's kinda hard when the breakdown of the lyrics is comin' atcha though a gigantic weed cloud via a dreamy-eyed West Indian cutie-pie.

So. Supa Sista purchased the CD so she could get to the lyrics. Which Damian was nice enough to have his label print up. In patois. Yeah. But yo, I'm grateful. Big ups, Junior Gong.

The CD is hot. I'm especially feeling "Beautiful" featuring Bobby Brown (yes, crackhead Bobby Brown), and "Pimpa's Paradise" featuring Black Thought. There's more good stuff to be heard, but I've got the "Jamrock" cut on repeat, so I'll holla back with the rest of the review at a later date. Yeah mon.

P.S. - Damian really does sound just like his daddy. Matta fact, all them Marley boys do. All 67 of 'em.

P.P.S. - Supa Sista was granted her unofficial "Jamerican" status on this last shout out to all my Jamaican friends and peeps. Hey Butta! I fucking love that island. It's my place of serenity and refuge. I have truly come to appreciate Jamaican culture, and the Jamaican people are among some of the most beautiful, hard-working, embracing, gracious, realest folks I've ever met.

Saturday, November 19, 2005

Supa Sister on Books: Memoirs of a Geisha

Synopsis: A literary sensation and runaway bestseller, this brilliant debut novel presents with seamless authenticity and exquisite lyricism the true confessions of one of Japanese most celebrated geisha.

Okay, so Supa Sister is a lil' late. I'd heard a lot of good hype about this book, yet it sat on my shelf for over a year because Supa Sister is extremely skeptical about historically-based literature written by white folks about a culture outside of their own. Plus, I'd seen a preview for the upcoming movie somewhere, and I thought I'd better go on and read it just in case the movie turned out crappy.

And, whaddaya know? Supa Sister was pleasantly surprised. Memoirs of a Geisha is a beautifully written novel, filled with delicate, haunting, and ethereal prose. The author, Aurthur Golden, definitely did his homework - he explains in the beginning of the novel how he became enthralled with Japanese culture at the age of 14, earned a degree in Art history from Harvard, and an M.A. in Japanese history from Columbia. He also became the close friend of a famous geisha by the name of Nitta Sayuri, and developed his manuscript from conversations he had with her over the course of 18 months.

Sayuri's story is both tragic and redeeming, and gives the reader an understanding of the geisha world, and the choices women were forced to make in early 1900's Japan. From the very first chapter, I knew I would have that beautiful sadness one feels when reaching the end of a truly moving piece of literature. At times, it felt similar to Anita Diamant's 'The Red Tent', which is also a fictionalized story about a phenomenal woman's pain, sadness, joys, and triumphs. In 'Memoirs'...toward the end of the novel, Sayuri says "I lived in a contented state a long while before I was finally able to look back and admit how desolate my life had once been...I'm sure I could never have told my story otherwise; I don't think any of us can speak frankly about pain until we are no longer enduring it."

Every woman has a story, and hers is definitely worth exploring.

Supa Sister, out.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Sad Legacy

Okay ya'll. *sigh* My people, my people.

This past weekend, Crips-founder, convicted murderer, and Nobel Peace Prize recipient Stanley "Tookie" Williams' son( Lafayette Jones), was arrested for kidnapping and raping a 13-year old girl at gunpoint.

Tookie Williams is scheduled to be executed December 13th, 2005. Now I don't know the extent or depth of this father-son relationship, but what words do you think Tookie would have for his son? If any?


This Morning's Rant

Is it just me?

Is Supa Sister the only one who gets impossibly fucking frustrated with that dumb-ass "word verification" crap when you go to post on someone's blog? I mean, goddamn! I know it's designed to keep out those evil spammers, but it's just fucking ridiculous. That shit is so mangled and garbled and indecipherable, it takes me at least five tries minimum to get the dang sequence right. Don't they know Supa Sister can't see? I mean, I 'aint tryin' to crack open King Tut's tomb, okay - I just wanna fucking post something on the goddamn internet. Sheesh!

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

What the hell?

37 year old woman weds 15 year old boy! And she's pregnant, ya'll!

I know of the societal pressure for women to get married, but damn! Is she sick or desperate?

Crazy ass white girls......

Boondocks, Part Deux

So last night, Supa Sista got the chance to sit down and watch her Ti-Voed episode of The Boondocks, The R. Kelly Trial. And yeah, okay, it was funny. Supa Sister definitely chuckled. Out loud.

But toward the end of it all, Supa Sister got to wondering…what exactly…was so funny? Little black kids spouting out n*gga n*gga n*gga every other line? The brainwashed, backward-ass, self-loathing black man who had to stop and “thank white folks for the beautiful foliage?” The fact the cartoon depicted how black folk look and act like straight illiterate clowns on TV and in the media…how we’ve been so psychologically damaged by racism in this country that we could actually conjure up an argument for why R. Kelly shouldn’t be charged with pissing on an underage (black) young lady, simply because he’s….a black man?

*sigh * Yeah. A-Mac don’t pull no punches - every sad-ass, ghetto-fied, caricature was put on front street; held up for display and ridicule. It’s satire, I get it. It’s funny but sad social commentary on the state of black folks in 2005. It’s entertainment, not problem-solving. I get it. But Supa Sister had that sick somewhat ashamed feeling in her stomach… the kind you get when you’re out with your friends and making fun of your own brother, who’s slightly retarded, and then when you get home, you realize that you cracked some wack ass jokes for laughs at the expense of your own family.


Maybe Supa Sister turned into Sensitive Sister last night. I’d rather tune into Celebrity Deathmatch to get some clean, guiltless laughs.

That is all. Carry on.

Monday, November 14, 2005

It's Like Butta, Baby!

Hey, I'm really diggin' this blogging stuff. I'm kinda new on the scene, but some of my girls are already like, Blog Queens or somethin'. Who knew? Check out my girl Butta - her blog is off the chizzle.

Hey, Butta!!!

My Latest Netflix delivery: Basquait

Who is Supa Sister?

Okay. So I've been getting lots of emails and inquires wanting to know "Just who is this Supa Sister you speak of?" and all that. And first of all - Shut up. 'Cause whatever Supa Sista tells you, ya'll just 'aint ready. Second: Duh, like didn't you read my profile? Okay. So here's a lil' bit more background. Nosey.


I was brought into existence via a family full of artists, writers, educators, forward-thinkers, and mystics with engaging personalities and bad tempers. Basically, I live to read and write, and all things associated with reading and writing. That’s. About. It.

Oh yes, and I love quotes! Quotes by anyone, about anything. I’m a word fanatic, as well. I’m a big fan of made-up words, and words that make me laugh when I hear or see them, like gaggle, flummoxed, dork, eschew, tomfoolery, and antidisestablishmentarianism.

Aside from all that, I have a wacky way of observing life here on Planet Earth, which means I can conjure up an unabashed, off-the-wall, sarcastic comment about pretty much anything. I am a self-proclaimed Queen of Snark. In addition to being writer, (as if that isn’t difficult enough) I’m also a triple-Gemini - which to my friends mean I have some kind of exhausting, chronic mood disorder. Whatever. I am a part-time movie obsessive and borderline idiot savant, which means I can recall obscure lines and scenes from obscure movies made by obscure actors, yet can’t remember to pay my cellie or cable bill on time.

I am a child of the 80’s (Reaganomics, Latchkey Kid, Saturday morning cartoons, We’re All in the Same Gang, etc.), and am convinced that a major facet of my personality became stunted somewhere around 1985. Basically, I’m just a grown ass kid. That makes me a Gen X’er, and more importantly, a member of the Original Hip-Hop Nation/Generation. I also believe that bling-bling is responsible for all things foul and evil, and in addition to George W. Bush, will cause the ruin of the free world.

Supa Sister is my literary and superheroinne persona; a nontoxic effective way for me to be my most fabulous, overblown, caustic, quirky, and analytical self. Otherwise, I’ll start drinking too much vodka. When Supa Sister goes undercover, her alter-ego is “Ms. Mom.” (as my comical and frustratingly intelligent children like to call me) In turn, I affectionately refer to them as Ruff Ryder #1 (The Boy) and Ruff Ryder # 2 (The Girl). We all share residence with a zany pooch named Sassy.

Aside from writing, reading, watching movies, working, remembering to feed my kids, complaining about Los Angeles traffic and ignoring all 259 of my voicemail messages, I love to travel and am actively studying to enhance my knowledge of politics and my overall world view.
This is my world. Stay on the look out for new rants and blog entries on The World According to Supa Sister page.

Be warned – I’m opinionated to a fault. But that’s just ‘cause I happen to be passionate about some key shit. And if you’re offended by a potty mouth, go away. I curse an awful fucking lot.

That is all. Carry on

Kiss My Ass, Cingular!

So it was a beautiful weekend out here in La La land, and I'm out in the streets lookin' all glam, runnin' errands and semi-flossin' and whatnot...and then suspiciously note that my cellie 'aint blowin' up like it usually is, and it's already 12 noon. The fuck? I mean, not like I'm gonna answer the damn thing anyway 'cause I'm a big-time screener and generally wait until I have like 567 messages before a sista ever thinks about checkin' in. Honestly, I just wanted my phone to ring so I could hear the new "Welcome To Jamrock" ringtone I downloaded. Anyway. So, I fake like I'm checking my voicemail, and oh, there goes that automated bullshit recording of 'Your service has been temporarily interrupted due to a past due balance on your account....'

Jesus fucking-A Christ, what the hell do these people want from me? Didn't I pay the bill like, two months ago? And how're they going to interrupt my cell phone service on the weekend, when all the calls are fucking free anyway? 'Aint that a bitch. They just do that shit to piss me off. Cingular can 'rollover' on my ass. Puh!

Here is Supa Sister's rant on bills:

Supa Sista Rant #356: I’ve Got Mail. How *%$# Exciting Is That?

I check that insipid steel box …what? Two, maybe three times a month? Personally, I view the practice of daily mailbox checking as a general scam carried out by the post office in the effort to make me share their workload. I mean, what’s the big deal? The royalty checks from my publisher (when I get one) come around quarterly. (Is that every three months, or four? I still don’t know.) So, unless my grandma gives me the heads up on some random newspaper clipping she’s mailed on 50 New Ways to Please Your Lover With Grape Jelly, I don’t even bother.

So why even go on with this rant, you ask? Because I’m way past belligerent, on account of all the crap that representative from the postal community keeps shovin’ in my box. What’s up with that carrier guy? Can’t he take a hint?

The ritual is, as follows: Week after week, I help build the muscle mass in his arms, by daring him to continually stuff an unreasonable amount of mail inside the barely 10 inch cubic space with my name and apartment number on it. Not to worry, he enjoys the challenge. It took him a year to discover that I wasn’t a globally known, best selling novelist perpetually out of town on mega-money making book tours, but just some grouchy local writer chick who doesn’t appreciate distinct and prevalent forms of paper harassment.

Oh, it’s not the junk mail. I love that stuff. All the nifty slogans on vivid paper, with their psychological subtleties, designed to sucker and sap rampant consumers like myself. I dig browsing over the latest menu from the 99 cent Thai fast food joint that claims they’ll deliver on my side of the block, as long as it’s before dusk. The advertisements from the carpet folks who’ll charge me half a grand to steam clean one room and a short hallway (stain removal is extra), and the sale ads highlighting all the useless paraphernalia from Pic and Save or the 99 cent store that I’ll end up buying and never use.

Are you kidding? The highpoint of most evenings comes from luxuriating on the can for 45 minutes as I scientifically work my way through endless mounds of colorful circulars. It’s like meditation. Really. Sometimes I’ll gather and toss the entire bunch of it in the air, and bask in the splendor of my advertisement confetti as it floats down around me. Hey, it’s the little things in life, right? Junk mail is so liberating, so delightfully excessive. And visually, it’s so….pretty. In a goofy kind of way.

No - my numero uno beef lies not with the fuschia postcards inviting me down for a free teeth cleaning ever other day – but instead with the bland, unoriginal white envelopes that seem to elbow for space alongside my coveted junk mail. What do they call those things? Bills?

Yeah, that’s it. Bills. Those silly, routine annoyances. Ever-y time I freak-in’ turn around, seems somebody’s trying to get me to pay for something. I mean, c’mon! Shouldn’t electricity be free? And water, what about that? There’s plenty of that stuff floating around next to the beach, I hear.

It’s all the same, month in, month out with those things. Boring me with mundane information about my life, like how many therms I’ve used up or how much airtime I’ve blathered away during the last billing cycle. Like I care.

Look, I’m an artist, for Pete’s sake. We revel in the abstractness of the universe; unconvention and variety and such. Those little notices are so creatively stifling, invading my space with their bland, trite, and to be honest - uncreative packaging. I mean, put a little punch into it - add a smiley face or riddle next to the ‘amount due’ box or something. At least inspire me to pay the darn thing. I tell ya, the monotony, the predictability, the lack of flavor and simple font selection on those “bill” thingies just ruin it for me.

It’s also highly insulting. I’ve become increasingly concerned about certain organizations that have such narrowly defined and ineffective marketing practices, which do nothing more than alienate the aesthetically-needy sector of their client base. So, I sent AT& T and Southern California Edison a list of suggestions, along with a glitzy promotional card and order form to purchase my book. Haven’t made one sale yet. So you know what I say.

Screw ‘ em. Let ‘em wait.

Heck, waiting is what I do best. When I finally grudgingly take that walk to the box, quite often it takes me and my two offspring to collect and haul the mail inside. Sometimes a neighbor or curious stranger will offer to help when we’re noticeably struggling.

Once inside, I immediately weed out the lackluster looking pieces from the good stuff. In a voice of pure disgust, I’ll mumble “who keeps sending me this junk!” then fling the pile of white envelopes across the room and into a corner. The act usually interrupts some poor spider’s nap.

“The Gas Company, Mommy!” The small girl of mine will proclaim, after picking up and reading from a random envelope. I’ll produce an uninterested shrug, which is her cue to toss it even further across the room, where it’ll land behind a chair or get stuck in a large plant. Smart kid, she is.

If you ask me (and you don’t have to, this is my rant) – bills are nothing more than improper paper consumption. Plain frivolous. They could at least spare me and those poor trees the drama and send a bill, like, once every forty five days, which is my standard paying practice anyway. As it stands, I get a regular bill every 30 days, and then a notice 15 days later to “remind” me that I haven’t paid (like I didn’t know that) and then a few days later here comes a bright pink or yellow paper saying I better pay or I’m gonna be sorry.

Now those I dig. Trendy colors, very in. When they arrive, I get the feeling I’m in big trouble with somebody somewhere.

How do I know? Well, because they call. Doesn’t bother me, but my theory is - wait until I finish paying off one month before you go harassing me about another. Really, I’ve got more important things to do, like remembering to feed my kids, scraping up enough snaps to buy a better laptop, and pimping unsuspecting friends and strangers for story ideas.

I pity the chumps who work for whatever company I owe. I speak to them like every other ill-fated telemarketer who stumbles across my number. Conversations usually go something like this:

“Ms. SS, we’re calling to see when we might receive a payment
for your cable service..”

“Gee, no thank you, I’m not interested.”

Days when I’m feeling more adventurous, the conversation might unfold like this:

“Ms. SS, we’re calling to see when we might receive a payment
for your cable service…”

“Tell me a story.”


“Tell me a story, and I’ll pay. Maybe. But it has to be good.”

“Ms. SS, perhaps I should connect you with my supervisor,
so we can…”

“Uuh, no thank you, not interested.”

Oh, I always pay. Eventually. Otherwise they’ll just keep calling and calling, interrupting your phone service and playing with the lights, and really - who needs this kind of pressure?

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Terry McMillan Made Me Gay!

On a much lighter note today..Supa Sister just so happened to be home early on the much anticipated day that Terry McMillan and her gay! young-lover-now ex-husband were to make their appearance on Oprah. I mean, I had it set to be Ti-voed anyway, but there's something really exciting about watching shit like this go down live.

Now folks, let me just say this. Supa Sister admires Terry McMillan as an artist and writer. Supa Sister has read all of her books, and realizes that good bad or otherwise, Terry is the originator and master of the 'contemporary black woman as protagonist' literary genre. And for that I say - do ya thing, sis. But what I didn't know was Terry's appearance on Oprah would become some of the funniest, saddest, strangest, snark-worthy shit I've seen on TV since Mini-Me peed in the corner.

Ok. First of all, I didn't get the memo that Terry's ass was straight ghetto. Ghet-to! And not in the "never-had-the-opportunity-to-learn-better" kind of way, but the "I-may-be-a-talented-multi-millionaire-but-I'm-just-a-raw-ass-bitch-and-don't-give-a-fuck" kinda way. Sheesh! Sis was dishing out the bug eyes and the neck rolls and the harsh language (heh-look who's talking), I thought she was about to start crip-walkin' and claiming her set. Just. Gangsta. Kinda reminded me of so-and-so's old crazy-ass aunt who finally stopped hitting the pipe, but never quite rid herself of the tics and all the other stubborn miscellaneous crackish mannerisms. And Terry looked good, holding together and alla that, but damn, ole girl was just so mean and hard and ranting and giving Oprah the hand, I was so damned scared she almost turned me gay!

But for real, could you look at this fool and not know he was gay? Not to be stereotypical or anything, but...c'mon. At best, dude is suspect. At any rate, I think the whole thing is sad, because from what I could tell, the two of them had a geniune, loving relationship and marriage..I mean, aside from the whole gay thing. It was good to see the two of them talking, bringing closure to their relationship to a certain degree, and declaring that they still care for one another. That's a positive thing.

Back to Scary Terry! They played some of the voicemail messages she left for Johnathan during the whole divorce scandal, and chick was homicidal. Now, that I do understand. After all, she had been lied to and betrayed and hurt - and when you lie to and betray and hurt a sista - especially a raw-borderline-gangbanging sista - you've got hell on Earth, buddy.

At any rate, Terry will write a book about it and make a million more dollas. Do ya thing, T. And by the way, I still think Terry's best novel is A Day Late, A Dollar Short.

P.S. - I'm still kinda scared.............

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

The World Breaks Everyone

For those of you who don't know, my little sister Ardena Carter was murdered by her boyfriend 2 years ago while she was at Georgia Southern University working hard and getting a Master's degree. She was also six months pregnant when she was killed. She'd already found out the baby was a girl, and named her Destiny Nicole. We'd bought baby clothes and planned her shower. And then she left work on September 11th 2003, and that was it.

She was missing for 3 months before her body was found in the woods. Her murdering bastard boyfriend, and the baby's father, Michael Antonio Natson, picked her up from her apartment, pretending as if he was taking her to retrieve her car that'd been repaired, and then blasted her in the back of the head with a 9mm and dumped her body on Ft. Benning military base where he was stationed at the time. It took 2 long unbearable fucking years for them to build a case and arrest his ass. Now he's on lockdown and facing a capital murder charge with special circumstances. Those are just the highlights. I won't even begin to get into the fact that this was going on right around the time the Laci Peterson case was the only news you could get anynightoftheweek, and that Ardena, also missing and pregnant but black, got so little press you might as well say it was none. We couldn't get her fucking story on CNN. Not for nothing.

No I won't even begin to get into the many issues on the socio-political tip, like black on black violence, violence against women, violence against pregnant women, the cold hard truths of the American criminal jusctice system, the cover-up the fucking United States military is still actively trying to pull, the fact the media (America) doesn't give a shit about missing black girls, and believe me, the list can go on. I can't even begin to address any of that, because my fucking heart is broken in about five thousand places and it's still very hard to breathe.

I had a rough fucking night last night. Rough fucking night. I wish I could tell you that I'm one of those people who after suffering through a tragedy like this has "a whole new wonderful appreciation for life" and "wants to forgive," and has found "meaning" but I'm not. Really, I'm not. Oh, I've changed, but it 'aint in the warm, fuzzy way. I am that chick people will sadly admit "whose head got fucked up completely and hasn't been the same since." I'm angry, hostile, hurt, resentful, disillusioned, and just immensely fucking sad. I get so fucking severely angry and sad and depressed sometimes that it takes all my energy to keep myself from hurting someone.

All this has taught me that life is difficult and tragically unfair. Death is a cold muthafucker. When you have someone taken from you, murdered, with hate and malice and premeditation by another human being, it will shake you free from everything you thought you knew and wanted and believed in and counted on in this life. Trust me. The fact that stupid murderous muthafuckers get to keep on living, but a young, beautiful, determined, decent woman gets her brains blown out at the age of 24, that's a hard fucking bitter pill to swallow.

So last night was one of Those Nights, it's just the kinda shit I go through, I just kept drinking cause I needed the pain to be dull for awhile, and I danced and cried and threw things and fell asleep on the floor with my favorite picture of Dena and me, while listening to Pac, and at one point I even picked up my phone and sent her a text message saying "I miss you Dena D", and 'aint that a trip that's how fucked up this shit is, her name and number are still in my cell phone, I look at it everyday and I wonder why after 2 years I still can't delete it or if I ever will.

I will write again about Dena, because she was just truly a special human being. But I can't write anymore right now.

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.
-Ernest Hemingway

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Riot Etiquette

So it's like the 13th night of rioting in France. The impoverished African and Arab communities are tired of discrimination, unemployment, shitty housing, and police brutality. Hmmm....sound familiar, boys and girls?

Caught CNN this morning, and it was reported that a group of rioters asked a busload of passengers to exit the bus, waited for them to do so, and then torched it.

Those French rioters sure are polite! I wonder if they helped the little old ladies de-board, and kept a tight perimeter, so as bystanders wouldn't be bothered with all the soot and flames and smoke. I remember the '92 riots out yonder, and gee, what a big difference. Nobody even suggested I close my eyes before a group of angry disenfranchised rioting fools shot that poor dude in the head on Slauson and 7th Ave, right in front of me. That was over 10 years ago, and the memory of what I saw during those 5 deadly days, I'm pretty sure, will stay with me. Forever.

No justice. No peace.

Supa Sister, out.

Say What? The Boondocks

So the other night during my insomnia bout I also happened to catch the last fifteen minutes of the BOONDOCKS cartoon premiere on Adult Swim. I was actually finally getting a little sleepy and couldn't pay close attention, so I'll have to wait to give my official verdict. I did notice the "n" word was used quite liberally...the next day, my boy Cinq and I were like, "what's up with all that?" Negroes nowadays think flossin' that word somehow suggets they're progressive or intellectual or non-self-loathing...and that somehow makes it all right....we still lost in the '05....

Go on, do your thing, A-Mac. I 'aint hatin'.

Monday, November 07, 2005

It's Fucking Monday

So I'm fighting a headache because I'm taking these vitamins that give me lots of energy but don't allow me to calm the fuck down come bedtime. So, last night I was doing vodka shots and sharing tortilla chips with my doggie around 12:45 in the a.m, channel surfing and realizing how it's perfectly feasible that Eminem got hooked on Ambien. 'Cause man, did I want and need some right about then. Ambien is good. Ambien is nice. It's good, nice, clean way to go to sleep, quickly, and you won't wake up feeling dull and confused and labotomized, like some other bootleg over-the-counter sleep aids called TYLENOL PM.

Anyway. Back to last night. Dolores Claiborne was on, and it was at one of my favorite parts of the movie. The part where Vera goes:

"It's a depressingly masculine world we live in, Dolores.... sometimes, you have to be a high-riding bitch, just to survive….

That movie is awesome. That is all, carry on.


So one of my co-workers got invited to some fancy schmancy upper-crust dinner party in honor of Archbishop Desmond Tutu last weekend, and he brought in the pictures today from the whole shinding, and he was all rambling and excited and it all sounded very very cool. And true to fashion, Supa Sister was pumping him for all kinda pertinent and stupid inconsequential details (i.e. was Desmond a cool dude, did he roll with a posse, what’s up with that ugly ass painting on the wall behind you, how was the food, what’d you drink, who was serving ya’ll, black folks? Mexicans, PWT? Did they wear those black and white serving uniforms like back on the plantation, did any stupid muthafucker mention the word “Bush” at all during political conversations, did they validate parking, what tribe is TuTu from, etc.) Because Supa Sista is a straight detail fanatic. I need to get a visual with these things.

So, Supa Sista got a good glimpse behind one of those secret dinner club affairs where the “other half” meet and gather and drink and eat, because the whole event took place at some private, invitation-only type joint downtown next to the Bonaventure that I’d never even heard of, and I’ve been living in LA over half my life. So. There you have it. I really don’t know everything….

My co-worker is a wordly older dude, mid 50’s, a brotha of Latino background (Belizean), articulate, always on the go. His next trip is a 2-week stay in South Africa, and I’m envious because SA is high on my list of places I Have to Go Before I Die) And then we got into a conversation about how multi-faceted black folks are, as a natural talent and survival mechanism. How one can wax prophetic (in Standard Conversational English) about current events, politics, California's bogus-ass special election, yadda yadda amongst a room full of crackers and look and sound and act like you have a quantifiable amount of sense, and then come back and talk amongst your own in a fashion that surely would fucking alarm every one of those high-society counterparts you dined so elegantly with. Anyone who ever worked in corporate is probably saying, “word.” Hell, any black person who’s ever stepped outside their door and had to Get Out Into the World knows what I’m talkin’ about. Heh. Actually, I think it’s kinda funny. ‘Cause those muthafuckers (white folks) are clueless.

All in all, Supa Sister loves to get dressed up to chat and and cocktail and dine with the best of them, but there is a limit to that shit. Invariably, toward the end of the evening, Supa Sister always ends up getting impatient and antsy and ready to jet, ‘cause all that grin-talking with folks at extended intervals gives Supa Sister the hives. And by then all I really wanna do is get the hell outta my fabulous outfit and heels, plop down in front of my big screen and Tivo, down a Fatburger and seasoned fries, and just fucking chill.