Gigs and gripes

I got gripes my Grape Soda Digest readers. Unlike my friends at White Whine, my belly-aching is rooted in some real deep seeded and angry girl shit.

It starts with the Arizona State University's snub of our esteemed Pres.
So they ask him to speak but failed to confer an honorary degree upon his greatness (or what I like to think of his Grapeness--he's our king), citing that he had not accomplished enough for such a gesture. WTF??!! Some clown can go and make a speech who never set foot within anyone's 4 academic walls, has nothing more than a jailhouse/shade tree degree/made the cover of a movie magazine and Obama is not worthy of your fake-couldn't-get-a-job-let-alone-start-a-fire-with-it-number-17Th-ranked-on-the-party-school-list diploma??!! Can you say Columbia and Harvard law grad? Pardon me--too drunk to spell g-r-a-d-u-a-t-e. Or is the fact that he's the first Black president of the United States and will always have that distinction, not enough for you? Then again this is the state that refused to honor Martin Luther King's birthday as a national holiday. But enough about those losers. I'm sure the grads that managed to stumble in in flip flops and get out with a semblance of a higher education, were thrilled to hear him speak. That's if they remember. Hard to do when you have a 4-year hangover.

Nothing newsworthy on the industry front to gripe about, other than Jay Z making some school's student activities fund go into default when he demanded $750,000 to appear in concert, didn't sell out or come even close to filling a small venue. Wonder if the students who booked this show took math and business classes at Arizona State University? Humm?
Concert Promotions 101: old irrelevant overpriced rapper equals concert promoter disaster. Now the school will have no more activities, ever! Rappers--get your egos and spending habits in check. Who does this??

On the personal gripe front--went to what I will call the Geritol Geriatric Grape Soda Lovers B-day Gig, this past Friday.

So, we get there, and there's a line, but we've been told that since we are guest-listed VIP, we can go to the front. So of course, some of us have no regard for protocol and order, and simply bump our way past us (more like PIs-- persons of interest-- as we would soon find out), as if we weren't standing there, only to get their rude behinds sent to the end of the paying customer line. Oops, must have been that Jeri Curl juice in your eye that wouldn't allow you to see the sign that clearly said: "THIS LINE FOR GUEST LIST PATRONS ONLY". Maybe it was the word "patron" that threw them off. Maybe if it had read: "IF YOU DIDN'T GET FREE TICKETS ON THE RADIO, YOU CHEAPSKATE, TAKE YOUR BROKE, BORROWED MONEY FROM YOUR BABY MAMA,AIN'T GOT A POT TO PISS IN, SLEEPIN' ON YOUR MOM'S COUCH BEHIND TO THE BACK OF THE PAYING LINE"

Name on list. Check. This way to the full-on purse and body search. WTF?? Do I look like I want to start a fight, stab that bitch who's been calling my deadbeat baby-daddy, or can fit a .22 in my Chanel? I thought pat downs were for hard-leg young bucks and 21 and under clubs? Last I checked, most of these cats in line were younger than the Pope but not by much. What do they plan to do, hold a fool up for his Viagra supply and EBT card? (I'm going to hell)

We're in. What a dump. My friend has not arrived for his celebration or I'd be tempted to leave. We check out the VIP lounge and back to the dance floor. Old school jam mix. No worries. I can take a round of Whoppin', Smurfin' and two steppin'. It Takes Two and time to turn it up. Here come the leisure suit wearin, original Soul Glo, ain't been on beat since the 70's crew. Folks fresh out (and you know who I'm talking about), trying to get their grind on, spittin' no type of gentlemanly game-- (note: do not refer to any woman's seemingly tight appearing genitals by 6 letters used to call a cat a kitten to her face, in a public place, and think you won't get smacked or she won't think you're just out of prison with your trash mouth), and sweatin' like runaway slaves in all that polyester gold suit, fake gator shoe wearin', big gut manliness! Just a hot mess. Fool stepped to me, or I should say rolled to me, in a wheel chair. Normally I'd have empathy, but this cat was no doubt Lil' Willy Bobo who took one back in the 70's and ain't been right since. Sad then, and pitiful now. Cats trying to old-school grind and back you up on the dance floor. "Step off, fool". That was not going down in the basement of Ms. Jones' house, so you know I was not going for it in Midtown Manhattan.

Long in the tooth, tired looking crew. Dateless and desperate cougars with visible tracks. Confused young girls looking for sugar daddies, and old dudes looking for a good time. Simply atrosh. This was the party and the folks that time forgot. And here we were gathered to celebrate our friend and life, his life and the richness of his journey. Instead, I'm having flashbacks to old gripes, because sadly, the same folks who gave me trouble back in the day when I was clearly headed somewhere and trying to take them with me, were the same trifling grown folks trying to shimmy their way back in time on a Friday night at The Shadow. Happy birthday, my friend. Glad you made it out and made something grand of yourself.

Not griping about folks wanting to have a good time, but my gripe is with folks trying to hold some of us back, put us down and still mad because some of us chose to keep it moving despite the odds and the gripes. That kind of attitude got you where you are: nowhere; trying to get your mack on at some trifling bucket o' blood club. Get a grip and let it go. Like you need to let go of my ass; Homie don't play that!