Quality Children's Programming.

At a time when there is usually nothing on there is always, Rocko's Modern Life. An animated series discussing the adventures of a twenty-something year old wallaby. Rocko and his friends were the friends before FRIENDS as far as I'm concerned. Rocko of course being the level-headed responsible one, Filbert (a turtle) the nervous wreck, and Heffer being the whorish idiot.

Doesn't sound like kid-friendly daytime tele does it? Well it was. On Nickelodeon, circa 1993. This radical Nicktoon was is what you might call "the shit". It was legitimately funny with quality characters experiencing fairly realistic day to day issues. Look at Rocko's relationship with his neighbor, Mr. Bighead. Not so far off from real life. I think its fair to say that a young man living in such close proximity to a couple in their fifties would cause some conflict. And of course Heffer and Filbert don't help at all. One or the other is always getting him into something ridiculous, some scheme, whether its to get rich quick or get the girl. And lets not forget, Rocko owned his own home. In a fairly nice neighborhood. There's an entire episode the 3 friends scramble to renovate because the town's aesthetic committee has threatened to kick him out. Real deal plot lines here. I don't know what the fuck kids are watching these days. Disney has gone off the deep end with their programming and Nick... well lets just say there's much to be desired. The last good shows I can recall were Angry Beavers and Ahh Real Monsters! I'd like to take a moment to reminisce:

• DOUG(Go ahead. Hum away. Everyone remembers that theme song)
• Eureka's Castle
• Legends of the Hidden Temple
• Daria (la la la la la- la la la la la...)
• SNICK
• Are You Afraid of the Dark? Midnight Society Bitches
• All That
• Keenen & Kel
• Ren & fucking Stimpy
• Rugrats
• Kablam (which was a nice taste tester for Robot Chicken)
• Alex Mac
• Rugrats...

I could really go on, but I think I've given you enough to remember.

True satisfaction.

Despite all the frivolous fairy mess, I am quite pleased with True Blood progress. Kinda sad that Franklin is gone, but its cool. Recently finished the last book...

Its lookin' good ya'll. Yeah... looking real good.

Contentment.

I couldn't see him when I woke. The room was dark-pitch black-which made the music seem that much louder. I found him. Seated on the floor, back against the dresser. I smelled him first then stared until my eyes adjusted and found the shape of him. He inhaled his signature exasperated drag and I watched as the embers illuminated the sweet portion of his face around his mouth.

It was then that I remembered his lips, felt the heat that still burned from his mouth on my skin. I could still taste the Wine taste in the back of my throat, could imagine the sweet smokey smell that lingered on him always. He was watching me now. Not sure that he could see me, but he watched regardless. I examined him as the embers once again flared, loved the way his long fingers draped magnificently around that cigar.

Out of nowhere I couldn't wait to taste him again. Out of nowhere I wanted to crawl into those strong arms and straddle those long legs and taste him. Taste the Black, German, Italian and Puerto Rican that made him so fucking fine. But Mama taught me that sometimes you gotta let a man have his moment and this was most certainly his. He looked so divine during his moments, when he thought I couldn't see or just hadn't noticed.

I let him be for ten minutes. Patiently I waited until the song changed and the Black & Mild between his fingers shortened. I loved this CD- the music suited the chaos that was ours and made us the superstars we just knew we were. Hendrix does something to me-makes me feel beautiful and my body fluid. I had been having an affair Jimi for years-with my dates in the room with me-completely unawares. Some people are brilliant on drugs.

Its only then, 18 minutes after I wake up that I move to entice him out of his 'moment'. I lick my lips and he fidgets. Definitely watching me now. I'll go up to him. Because he's sexy as hell I'll slide out of bed and walk over. Because he's not finished smoking that cigar I won't call him back to bed. Because he's a good man- I'll go to him.

-dedicated to a D.I.A.M.O.N.D.

Bond Girls.

British Yum.

Second running in the Fabulous Line behind drag queens are...

BOND Girls.

Little back story: Thirteen years or so ago my father purchased a VHS box set of James Bond, 007 movies. Because we lived overseas (OFF BASE) with no cable to speak of, 007 was pretty much a monthly thing. Despite the chauvinistic approach Mr. Bond often brought to everything and how predictably submissive some of the women were, you really have to love what they brought to the screen.

MayDay
Fatima Blush
Pussy Galore
Octopussy...
Jinx...

As if the names didn't say enough. Each Bond girl was decked out from head to toe fabulous whether it was an itty bitty bikini or a flowing evening gown. Big hair, great make up for the 60's and 70's, and an affinity for Sean Connery... these are women i could really bond with. Ha ha. I made a funny. No seriously, besides all that "Oh, James..." crap I could really rock that shit. As long as I don't end up like Jill Materson (Shirley Eaton) in Goldfinger, 1964. Although even in death she looked pretty damn good.

Lollipop.

There are some songs you hear randomly and you smile despite yourself because you just recalled some of the best memories of your life.

Weezy F Baby

Boondocks.

After that 2009 lukewarm BS I'd really like to make note of this beautiful summer Chicago is having this year.

There are very few pleasures in living with my parents again, but breakfast out on the deck under a bright orange umbrella is always enjoyable. The deck juts out from the second story so its like sitting in a tree house really with all the trees and plants growing high around me.

Does it make me more civilized that i drink my coffee from a cup my mother purchased 20 years ago as opposed to the "going green" Starbucks paper cup? Am I better off because my neighbors actually speak when they see me? That's suburb living for your ass.

Yes, I live in the Burbs. The Boonies, the sticks... Far & Away. I'm reminded every day by all my friends who live in the city. Why do you live so far? They ask. You need to move, they tell me at the beginning of every conversation. Not, Hello, how are you? or Just calling you back, what's up? No, its "You need to move" every time.

Now, I'm well aware of this need. Especially because I do the majority of the traveling. As I'm sure you learned from Train Theory, the conductors and I are on a first name basis. Milwaukee District North (Purple Line) yeah, they know me there. This summer in particular, I've spent at least a full week of my life riding the train back and forth. For the most part, I don't mind. Love the city, love to travel and see friends I don't often see. Nevertheless, I would like just once to do the picking up and dropping off. I'd like to play hostess once and a while. See, I'm having the hardest time getting any of my friends to come out this way. Had the house to myself for seven days last month and I barely got one stay-over visit.

In conversation with Loren, I tried to put a new spin on the prospect of her coming to stay. She was going on and on about how her job and friends were wearing her down. Things were bad all the way around- even her couch was rubbing her the wrong way. Dude! I said, Come visit me.

But you live so far. Like really, where do you even live? She says. It takes her 45 minutes to get home (from within the city!) and she's asking me where I live. Go figure. Its only an hour ride, you can read, write- all those things you say you need to do, but never do. She's still whining, still skeptical, but not as much. I decided then to put it to her a different way:

Come out to the country, I say. Like back in the day when women would swoon or men would go bankrupt; a monotone doctor always advises a stay in the country. The country air will do you good. Country living as a cure-all! Seriously, in the 1800's a woman could get into a little trouble with love; a nine month spell in the country and suddenly all her problems were solved.

How Dickens of me to present things to her this way. It works. She makes some awkward sound of agreement. I'll take care of everything, you just get on the train. And when I pick you up we'll do all those things you city people think we do out here in the burbs. Ironically, I do horseback ride and I have witnessed cow tipping.

I left Loren pondering all the wonderful things about the boonies. Shimmering lakes, breezes through the trees, perpendicular parking, Cracker Barrel...

Child Theory.

I believe a disclaimer is in order:

For starters, I have no children, so if I'm a bit harsh, feel free to skip this entry. Also, little bit of generalizing in this rant, but really only going over the few key instances that I have witnessed. Fuck it- free speech!!

Tuesday Afternoon after I sprinted my life away down the damn platform in pumps a size too small, I make it onto my 4:58 train. I have to walk the entire length of the train to find a seat but I do, and I sit then crack open my summer read. Paul Mooney's Black is the New White" is not for Too Self-Aware. Anybody who can't laugh out loud, long and hard by themselves on a train full of people should not attempt this memoir.

So I'm all engrossed in some druggy details about Richard Pryor and I see -no hear- my greatest nightmare board the train. And ironically enough I'm experiencing the same fucking thing right now as I'm typing this up.

It never fails.
It never fucking fails, I'm always on public transportation with a breeder. Always. Breeder, you ask?

Breeder: definition of n.Bree·der
1. Usually a young woman, but not always, with at least two misbehaved children in tow
2. Hogs sidewalk and rams your ankles with the Cadillac stroller
3. Usually unattended by a male; sometimes travel in packs

It's 4:57 p.m. and Breeders #1 and 2 come scrambling on the train with 3 kids A PIECE!

First, they sit behind me and I'm like, you've got to be shitting me. Not that there was anywhere else for them to sit. It's 4:57:39. The train leaves at 4:58:00. Breeder #1 instructs her little boy to sit in the empty seat next to me. I scooch over obligingly even though I'm really sour about this. This shit isn't supposed to happen to me, the cover of P. Mooney's book is supposed to be deterring any train pals.

Fortunately enough for me, the little boy dilly-dallies and soon enough two clean cut corporate frat boys give up their seats for the breeders. Breeder #2 piles in with her spawn, followed by Breeder #1 who violently (accidentally) bumps my seat in her desperate move. After quite a significant struggle with strollers, the Breeders all settle in. Not two minutes after the train begins to move, the moment everyone has been dreading arrives.

The little girl (well, one of them) erupts into a fit of the most furious cries I've ever heard. She's screaming- I mean screaming her head off. And because she's taken center stage in mommy's attention, all the other kids start whining and babbling louder than they already were. The screams are so bad that at one point I close my eyes and plug my ears. We're in a big metal box, hon. Sound has nowhere the fuck to go.

Still screaming.

People are starting to turn around and look. Now, I hate this, I really do because #1 I don't want to be that woman, that young sexy bitch with not kids and a cellphone and shoe collection as serving as her only responsibilities. I've seen them. They look back exasperatedly over their shoulders, or through the tint of their designer shades and judge. I don't want to judge. For all I know both breeders just lost both of their husbands in Iraq and their taking the kids to see Gramps in Wisconsin. So I don't judge. I don't turn around. I just read over Mr. Mooney's riff one more time trying to ignore the "Motherfucking" screaming.

Still screaming.

Well dammit, now I have to look. It's earsplitting, like she's being tortured. And everyone is looking thinking the exact same thing:

"Bitch, this is the 4:58. The fucking Corporate Express. You and you're kids could have waited and taken the 5:31"

Because honestly, who after working 8-9 hours in a box with overkill AC and fluorescent retina-frying lights and burnt coffee wants to sit in ANOTHER box with some kid's scream reverberating around inside their skulls?

Fuck that.

At this point, no lie, fifteen people get up and walk to the next car. Shaking my head I read more about Redd Foxx and Richard Pryor. Still screaming. I look back again, the Breeders are mortified. Both of them are rattled and flustered.

This helps.

Breeders Remorse. At least they feel bad about having subjected almost 100 people to this mess. Way better than those women who ignore it, enjoy it, or worse- participate. I really can't stand the mom's who egg their kids on, tickling them and indulging their high-pitched proclamations. I can't abide that shit.

Like this chick right now with her two toddlers. The kids have been shrieking since before we pulled out of the station.

"Where's your belly button? There it is!" Mom coos. "Look at the pretty trains... Let go of Mommy's hair-Jimmy. Jimmy. Jimmy!"

She's enjoying this shit. And Jimmy's getting louder by the second. Its like two squealing piglets knowingly being led off to slaughter. He's throwing a tantrum now. I don't get this shit. And it not just because I don't have kids. Well, I don't have kids, but I know kids, I've seen kids sit and play quietly. I've seen kids follow obediently and silently behind mommy. People turn their heads because that kid is so effing cute. Not because he's giving my ear a massive coronary.

Now I really hate to make this about race, because realistically, ALL kids cry. However, a trend exists among Breeders and their babies. You know the moms that plead with their kids- literally plead with a two year-old for a little peace and quiet.

I'm sorry, but I've seen it for over 20 years. Its usually the white mom with 2-3 kids running her ragged

"Shh, shh, shh... calm down Micheal" or "Sally, can you please behave while Mommy is talking to Daddy?"

For most black women this conversation never happens. It never even gets to this point. Its a look. Just a look and you know its time to shut up. That's if you're even crying. People my age remember. You don't cry in public- not in public! You have to be crazy to even whine in a grocery store. You could get popped just for pouting. And even if mom didn't get you right then, you knew what was coming later, at home, when she could really tear your little behind up.

These White kids are reckless.

Now honestly I can't generalize this. I used to be able to say only white kids fall out in public. However, that's simply not true. Latino kids will get away with shit too. They'll tear up a toy store or clothing store then fall out in Spanish. And I'll tell you, a month ago, I was proved so very wrong. I saw my first public Black-Kid-Fall-Out.

In the train station, a little boy, fingers in his mouth, bubbly drool and frothing snot. Just hollering. No tears! This is what it sounded like:

"Ehhhhhhhhhhhh!" (Takes a breath) "...Ehhhhhhhhhh!" (Takes a deeper breath)
"EHHHHHHH-AHHH!"

I was flabbergasted.

Now back to Train Theory for a moment. I'm still on the train now. The passenger in front of me has changed 3 times. The guy in front of me now is lounging, I mean hella-lounging. He's laid out sideways in the seat with his shoes off. I only notice him because I see his big toe up against the window. Now you know that ain't no home training. Just has his nasty, sweaty, funky toes on the window!

I'm sorry, but what gives?

Train Theory.

So this afternoon I get off work, power-walk underground, and catch the 7-dollar (each way) rip off that is Metra. I manage to get a ticket and board within a reasonable amount of time, so I settle in next to one of the two emergency exits. There are at least two emergency exits for every car, you know. At least that's what the automated voice keeps telling me after she rattles of ever intermediate train stop.

I don't know what it is (and maybe this is just Chicago) but you notice its always a white person's voice overhead? It could just be me, but its interesting that on Metra, and on CTA, and MTA and the rest of the TA's there is a lways a very content, very pleasant white man telling you where the exits are, that the door is about to close, and that "ASHLAND.Is. Next"

How do I know its a White people voice? Baby, I just know. Black folks grow up with an innate awareness of one-another. No matter how articulate or how slight the tone may be, you know a fellow when you hear one.

Every once in a while, you may hear a woman. Her voice is supposed to be soothing and informative,no matter what the fuck she's saying.

"Ladies. And. Gentleman. The bridge. Up. Ahead. Is. Out. Remain calm and. Brace. Yourself. For. Death..."

The whole time the train's crashing she's "soothing" everyone and letting them know where the emergency exits are.

"Thank you. For your. Cooperation."

Everything they say is broken, staccato like they're drawing from some mega vocabulary hard drive. So why is it that there are no Black voices contributing to this vocabulary hard drive? What they couldn't find a Black woman to run her mouth? I don't believe it. OR is it that the sound of a Black man's voice isn't quite as soothing as the white guys recording? I mean, there are plenty of articulate Black men and women out there.

What gives?

Its bad enough I'm a visual minority. Now I'm an auditory minority?!

They don't want to see us OR hear us.

There's a conductor on this train that sounds like Michael Wincott. Dude I'm serious, every day its a raspy:

"Tickets!" and "That'll be eight-fifty."

Sometimes you really cant' understand him because on top of the lack there of voice, he has the nerve to rush his sentences, so its...

"Waukeganstopisnext..." (rasp rasp)

or

(rasp) "Chicagounionstation,ladiesandgentlemen,Chicagounionstation..." (rasp)

The conductors make for reasonable entertainment. There's another one who works the late shift. I always see him when I'm coming home from a long weekend in the city. We chat.

This guy looks like a Greek Edward Norton. He's extremely matter-of-fact and rocks the hell out of that metal coin changer on his belt. He likes my shoes. His wife just had another baby boy (three total) so he's picking up extra shifts. We chat.

Its guys like him that allow me to forgive the 2-dollar increase in train fare this year. Somewhere down the line, my extra two dollars will help send those three boys to college. Let him and his wife take a vacation. Gets the other conductor a cough drop.

One thing I'm definitely miffed about is how fucking cold the trains are. You could get pneumonia and arthritis just from riding the thirty minutes to Ohare. AC overkill, I say. Although it keeps the smells down. Once you get a certain number of passengers on these vinyl seats, the air can get a bit ripe.

All in all most of the rides home are good for people-watching. I don't have to drive in traffic and every now and then I witness something genuinely funny. Time to go, the soothing white man is telling me my stop is next.