Where do I start? The cousins are still angry and it's been one helluva summer. Been missing this blog and my rants. I'll just go in.

So, I couldn't write or voice my anger and outrage over the systematic removal of Black books written prior to 2007 from the shelves of a certain NYC neighborhood library, because it would compromise my position at a certain government agency for which I found myself working. But, I will say that I am still outraged by this move and folks, our folks, thinking all we want to read is Thong On Fire and Thugalicious (actual titles), and the senseless banter and repetitive nature of my, albeit temporary yet, cathartic job. As I sat on that bench doling out advice and answers to a myriad of unrelated-to-my-work questions, all I could see was a wall of images and none of them looked like me. Aside from the occasional Oprah or Beyonce cover, I stared in disbelief and grew sadder. Not sad for me as much as I am sad for young girls and women who are made to believe they aren't beautiful, or have some twisted, if not non-existent, self-image. So, I vowed to make a difference. Don't talk about it, be about it. Ain't that what Percy said? Starting my own imprint.

Nothing Uber stank happened on the cousin front this summer. Obama is still catchin' it, but any fool could have seen that coming. Michelle chilled in Europe. Tiny and T.I got busted for drug possession. Shame. Like Tip and the movie Takers was a good dude flick. Drake shut the NYC waterfront down. DMX called Plies out for being the "worst rapper EVER"! Harsh from a cat who grunted his way to the top of the charts. King James pulled a fast one on Cleveland and solidified his role as Shameless Self-Promoter. Ricky Ross and Freeway Ricky Ross had it out. Weezy's in jail and folks are gettin' fired over eyeballin' him and showing favoritism. Alicia was called a man-eater and launched a piece of software which another rapper could have launched had he not been afraid of his own success. Concerts are just OK. Went to a House jam in the park that made me feel like there was some hope for music--still.

Watched too much TV. Housewives are out of control. Hair Spectacular is extra. Bad Girls have real issues. Ochocinco and T.O are a bore. Omarosa needs to stick to her day job (what would that be exactly?), and the Black girl got booted week two on Big Brother.

Had some good FB discussions over the usage of the N-word and came to realize that we still have not gotten over our issues with hair and color.

Fall's around the corner and maybe there is some hope for the grape soda lovin' clan this season.

May(hem)

So, been busy doing civic duty and no time to whine about affairs of Black importance, but I will say this--folks we're in big trouble. Government workers are an interesting bunch and out of work folks just happy to have a job, may not always be the best choice of go-to help. I'm just sayin'...

So speaking of work and working together, lending a hand, looking in your own 'hood for quality work and vendors--what's with "us" and our innate inability to work together, for each other and help each other out? What's with folks wanting you to take a chance on them only to turn into the worst nightmare of a paid relationship EVER?! The cousins are just a mess. And they say women can't get along?! Bullshit! We as a group trying to do business can't get along to save our lives. But let other folks offer us work, then we're bending over backwards to help, skinnin' and grinnin' and in full coon mode to prove we're Super Negro on the case. Sad, just sad. Take a lesson from our other colored clans who stick together, will live 14 deep in a 350 square foot apartment just so they can share resources and build a village that all can prosper from. We get greedy, start hatin' on each other and why the person in the hiring position has more than we do, bring all our issues to the project, cryin' broke, have every excuse in the book and can't complete the job on time-if, at all! I'm done. Niggerance and Negronomics are killing us softly, if not swiftly. No doubt, I'll continue to help and hold out hope for a Afrocentric partnership of any kind, but until then--I'm done with the cousins. See you at the reunion and I'll be that uppity recluse of a cousin who found a new and more inviting extended family.

Ah, hot weather is almost here again and the heat ushers the return of winter bodies in tight clothes. Make that big booties in shiny stretch pants. Make that muffin top in jeans meant for Anorexic Annie. And we're talking wife beaters and more plaid boxers and butt cracks than I care to see. Walked the dog last night before the fight and under the glow of the street lamp was the biggest butt and widest hips and perched on cankles and poured into glistening, purple leggings and shiny, cheap white shoes than my eyes have ever seen. Shirt tucked in, lip gloss shining, wig in place and damn-if-I-don't-look-good attitude. Again, not mad at your self-confidence, but you have to know that there's voluptuous, there's ample, there's curvy and then there's just freakish. I will never complain about my shape, again. Ever. Washed my eyes and I was good to go.

And speaking of fights--last night's Sugar Shane vs. Money Mayweather farce was a waste of my PPV money. The under card bouts were more entertaining and, I suppose, made up for Mayweather's not wanting to fight anyone that could remotely challenge him; He's no great fighter, just methodical, fit, fast and strategic in the sense that he picks his battles--literally and figuratively. I loved the fight-corner banter and the commentators (Larry) are a hoot. What I found ironic-- Chris Brown chosen to sing the national anthem at a boxing match, by a fight team who's trainer is going away for allegedly assaulting a woman, a fighter with multiple baby-mamas who dates a woman who had a hit called "No Scrubs". Oh the irony. And then they were all just hanging around the ring pre-fight. Sing and get on with your business. Scrubs get on with your business. Money get on with your life. Poor Shane, maybe there's a hint of sugar in your tank, but you're done.

And then we get Basketball Wives...Oy.

The Tax Man Cometh

Whew, took care of my taxes weeks ago like a good little citizen and I ain't mad at the breaks and the little $63 check I'll get back on a day when I least expect it and no doubt, welcome it. Eating's a good thing. But speaking of the man and tax time, the big O- (not Winfrey--more on her later)- and his wife made $3.5 million dollars last year?! When? How? In between stressing over the Tea Party or pushing for Health Care Reform? Or was he Tiger's secret attorney on a fat ass retainer? And is Michelle working? Is she the Green Grocer or some paid celeb stylist? Must be the insider investment pool. I need to in be in on that deal.

Now back to Madame O. So, bio author Kitty Kelly writes some unauthorized Oprah biography that no media outlet or talk show wants to have her on talking about details of the book for fear O will pimp slap them all- (she learned the move when she was a teen prostitute--allegedly). And her daddy that's been saying he's her daddy is not the father?! Show pitch--maybe Kitty can have Oprah's dads on Maury and she can appear as the disgruntled wife and possible step mama to O and plug the book that way. Or maybe Wendy Williams will have hr on. I don't even think she wants to suffer the wrath of O. Either way, that book is going to sell like hotcakes. My thing is this: have we not had enough bashing of Black celebs in the past year? Tiger, Kanye, Whitney, Tavis and Obama? Let's not forget Tiki and Danger and Usher and Stacy Dash and...Let's just move on. Let's bash Michael Steele and that kinky old bastard, Larry King...you effing stud, you! Divorce numero ocho. Who saw that one coming?

And speaking of Whitney--WTF? Sounding like a dying cat in a thunderstorm. Whoa--little Japanese cat is giving her a run for her money. Just a hot desperate mess. Let it go and retire with some dignity. Must have torn her vocal chords hollering for Bobby (who lost a little post-crack-fried-chicken-eating-binges weight on Celeb Fit Club)--because crack is wack, right?

And what's with those trifling Basketball Wives on VH1? More wifey than wife, hyphee than classy. Just a frickin' train wreck. And then we have Chilli and the list and the requirements. Grow up, ditch the list, quit looking for something you aren't: educated, self-assured and doing big things. You attract what you are and reject what you know you can't handle (unless they're just some icky stalker with a big gut and butt and no teeth like that cat who...I digress). She needs to go on Tough Love and get schooled, then try her show again. Or just get a dog, it's easier.

Time for more mindless boob tube watching. Back to whining later.