Random Musings on Global Warming and Hood Life

I started this blog in February by randomly musing about life and chimps. It's already December. Wow! A lot as happened this year. Good and bad, but nothing we can't grow and learn from.

Overheard on the streets today... One Black woman to her friend: He wanna get married but I'm like we don't gotta be married to have kids together...

And that is one of the major problems in the Black community.

I almost stopped to say something to her. I kept walking but I did have to turn around and get a good look at who was spewing this. I was downtown Brooklyn, by the court houses. Those who know me, know I can come up with a life story for someone on sight. She was dressed for work, but obviously the two women were on lunch. She's probably a legal assistant or has a gov'ment job so you know she's set. Hair was relaxed, chin length, but not a fresh doobie. And a man wants to marry her before having children and she's not hearing it...? I have no clue if her man is Black or not, or if he has other baby mamas but he's willing to try a build a stable home/family and meeting that sort of resistance... There's so much to say about this. Give me a minute to formulate my thoughts~

How many times does an earlobe have to split before you give up trying to wear earrings? Door knockers, at that. When I get a craving for some dirty chicken, there's no stopping me. And luckily my dirty chicken spot aint "dirty like that" and they make some really good hot wings and wedges. Dip those suckas in some BBQ sauce or ranch dressing and it's on! So anyway, I'm in the chicken spot and this larger woman comes in and the first thing I noticed was her jacket was 3 sizes too small and her baby was a cutie patootie. Then I tried my best to hide my recoil when I saw what was left of her earlobes. It was really time to give up wearing earrings. We all know you probably got them ripped off during some fight, so why give your next opponent something to yank on? Is it because you want to show the world you're some ghetto fabulous street warrior with a feminine flair? Does the earring match the ear-to-mouth keloid on your cheek?

Why am I getting mosquito bites in December? If I were in a swamp half-naked somewhere, I would just accept it, but I'm in NY. I'm afraid the little blood suckers will be back too. I've been consuming a lot of eggnog and now my blood is tainted with the holiday nectar. And they've gotten a taste of it... That's that damn global warming for you. Stagnant pools of water are still warm enough to incubate mosquito larvae. I still wear sleeveless tops under my coat. I even wore a thigh-baring skirt sans hosiery and a denim jacket on my birthday 2 weeks ago. In November. In New York City. Something's not right here. I touched on this earlier this year when we had that blizzard in March and then FIVE days later had 70 degree temps--global warming is real folks. And it starts with mosquito bites in December.

Touch Me At Your Own Risk

I heard this morning on the radio about incidents of subway groping going way up, especially in Manhattan and how they expect with the Holiday rush, it's only going to get worse. I did notice the campaign about sexual harassment on the subways and had to shake my head at the fact that not only is the problem getting that bad, but that they have to tell the victims that it's not OK. This is ridiculous. What is wrong with these men? I have made reference to the jostling of bodies and lingering touches on the train in a consensual matter or in fiction. But this happens more often than women are willing to admit and that is the problem. I'm well-aware that during rush hour, there is very little personal space and having grown up in NY, I'm very tolerant of it, but that's no excuse for your hand being in my ass crack.

I caught a lot of heat on the NY Times City Room Blog last year when I said something to the effect that these crazy, sick men prey on women they think or know will be too scared to say anything or too lost in their own worlds to notice. You know how many times I've just stared at someone just to see what will happen and they never see me because they never look up? They have no clue what's going on around them. They make themselves targets. There's no eye contact. So even if someone did "attack" them (rob, grope etc.) they wouldn't be able to identify them! I remember a few years ago sitting across from a woman and man who didn't know one another. The man would slowly inch his hand under his newspaper and rest his fingers on the woman's thigh. I was shocked that she didn't even feel it.

Side note: There's this middle-aged Black Man who rides the 3 or 4 train in Brooklyn. He gets dressed up in his suit as if he's going to work, puts his briefcase on his lap and takes out his newspaper. Because I'm a crotch-watcher, I noticed there was a lot going on in his pants the first time I saw him. I figured it was just saggy-old-man balls. But then I realized the way he was looking at the women on the train and he would move his leg to create friction so he would get hard. I've seen him a few times. On one occasion, another woman noticed him as well. When he realized we both knew what he was up to, he got off at Franklin Avenue and we both started talking about how disgusting he was. I even saw him on a Saturday morning once wearing powder blue pants. There was no way I wasn't gonna notice him. I haven't seen him recently, but I'll be sure to take a picture next time I do. In the meantime, here's a pic I took from my kitchen window of this Peeping Tom I called the cops on in my neighborhood.

I've never been groped or sexually harassed on the subway. And rest assured if I ever am, there will be blood spilled. Not because I think its warranted, but because I know I'll be that annoyed and angry. I already see the incident playing out in my head--he grabs my butt or pulls out his dick, I elbow him in the nose, shattering it and causing him to choke on his blood and bone fragments. I have a violent streak that is unleashed when I'm angry, when I feel threatened or when someone gets physical with me. Recently on the way home from having lunch with a friend, I was at the Chambers Street Station. When the train came, I walked up to get in the "right" car and boarded the train through the same doors as this other young black woman and this little man. Little, like MY height little. I sat by the opposite door. She sat diagonal to me on the other side and he sat RIGHT next to her. I had to look around to see if anyone else noticed that. This was the middle of the afternoon and there was so much space on the train. She saw me looking and I think that made her uncomfortable, but I knew Little Man was up to something.

Then it started. He kept sneaking sidelong glances at her. She put on her iPod and tried to ignore him. I kept watching. Little Man took off his coat and put it over one of his shoulders and I saw his hand disappear. My blood pressure rose. At the next stop, she got up and moved to the corner of the same 4-seater bench I was sitting on. He got up, and sat right across from her in the 2-seater in the corner. Now I'm sure I was pushing 190/110. I looked over at her, about to ask her if she knew him (I knew she didn't but I wanted to call attention to the situation). She didn't make eye contact with me but I looked Little Man right in his eye until he looked away. I took out my phone which takes VERY good photos. He started fidgeting because I was making him uncomfortable and that was the point. Then he did the coat trick again and kept looking at her legs (she was wearing a skirt) and his hand disappeared again.

QUICK FLASH I get up and open the doors as if I'm about to go to the next car, grab him by his ear and throw him onto the tracks

Actually visualizing that brought my blood pressure down a bit. She slid over, closer to me, so she wouldn't be directly in front of him. That's when I tapped her and asked very loudly, "Is his pants open?" I don't speak like that, but I was so enraged that my proper English escaped me. "I think so...that's why I moved." The train got to Borough Hall; he grabbed his stuff and rushed off the train. At the last second, he doubled-back and went into the next car...I'm sure to find his next victim and jerk off next to her.

In a crowded subway car, if we say something when to a man pressing his crotch against us, it turns into situation of "us" against "him". Believe me, there are other women out there as angry as I am who will have your back and the men who will probably kick his ass too. Don't fall into a "why me?" mentality. "This train is full of other people. Why did he chose me?" If we don't say or do something, we're giving him even more power. They get off on victimizing us and getting away with it amongst all those other people. Empower yourself, Ladies!!

Finger Licking Good

I love to eat with my hands. It’s second nature to me. I am fully capable of using a knife and fork. I don’t eat rice or spaghetti and meatballs with my hands. But my fingers make great utensils as well. It’s not an uncivilized or barbaric way to eat. I don’t have food running down the front of my shirt or sauce staining my cheek. I love the feel of my food. And before it hits my lips, rolls around on my tongue and slides down my throat, I touch it with my hands. Not to mention sometimes it’s just easier to eat certain foods with your hands.

Eating with your hands is the norm in many cultures. I grew up eating with my hands. I can still see myself sitting at the dining table, chest pressed against it, my father sitting at the head of the table and me and the first seat next to him, eating ogbona soup with codfish, amala, or gari and egusi with a smoked turkey drumstick bigger than my forearm. While watching Anthony Bourdain No Reservations while he was visiting Saudi Arabia, everyone sat around a large platter of rice and a roasted lamb or camel and ate with their hands. Eating is communal. It’s a bonding experience. It encompasses the senses, touch included.

What comes before eating? Cooking. Most times, when I’m hungry, I cook to eat. Other times, I eat leftovers. The whole process is enjoyable, soothing, meditative, exhilarating, experimental. Even when it’s stressful, I shrug it off to chance and pull some more ingredients out of the cupboard. There’s something visceral and spiritual about cooking. Watching all the various ingredients come together. Ingredients mix, blend, dissolve, boil, thicken, liquefy, harden, coagulate, evaporate. There are so many different processes that occur to reach the end product. Cooking is a very hands-on process for me. And to enjoy the end result with my hands makes perfect sense.

Aint No Fun If Your Girls Can't Have None

When will I learn that no matter how hard I don’t look for attention or try to just blend in, it never happens? That someone is bound to say something to me to make me think?

I was at a fish fry last night. The first people I saw were two women and a man, the women sitting on either side of him. He had the boisterous energy I’ve come to know from Nigerians. I didn’t take a seat near them until I had been there for about 15 minutes. I was in people-watching mode while I sipped my drink, and not even trying to hide the fact that I was listening in on conversations.

I had sat quietly near the 3-person couple. Maybe I was too quiet. The woman closest to me said “hello”. Then the man cut right to the chase, “Are you from Africa?” he asked. I said my father was. I knew where he was from based on his accent. I could’ve gone through the speech I’ve given my entire life about where I’m “from”, where I was born, where my parents are from, what culture/country I identify with, but this time I waited to see where this was going.

He asked if my father was from Ghana. I said Nigeria. The woman on his far left teased him for now knowing his own people. He was very pleased to hear I was from Nigeria and said he assumed I was African or Jamaican.

“Both,” I said.

Now he was really impressed. I may have actually seen his dick get hard. The left-side woman called it a potent mix. He said I was the baddest of Africa and the baddest of the Caribbean. That meant I must be a bad girl. Yeah, he meant that sexually. I was promptly schooled that in Africa men can have more than one wife and then he referred to himself in the third person when he said he wanted to marry a Jamaican woman, that he was looking for a third wife. Someone fiery to stir things up since the other two wives (apparently the ones sitting with him, even though the one next to me denied it) got along well. He wanted a wife who would fight for him because she didn’t want to share him. I had all sorts of smart remarks to make but I think my raised eyebrow and lips pushed to the side said enough.

I have nothing against polygyny. On the surface, the three of them seemed happy and it’s a practice that’s been going on for centuries. But let me explain--if you’re a married man or in a relationship and your partner doesn’t know that you have other women that’s not polygyny. What I do have an issue with is the whole “man-sharing” or “man-stealing”, both of which involve blatant deceit.

I was in my living room a few mornings ago with a friend and his girl friend. It was carefree and easy. I had been with him and (I surmise) he had been with her in the past. During the wee hours of the morning when they came over, there was only one question I was bracing for. I was in no mood to party with two people especially if I had matching parts with one of them (but let me put his out there, I’ll have a threesome with the man who doesn’t ask me). She passed out on the couch. I turned off the computer because I didn’t want the Cosby Show playing all night. She woke up when I did that, so I gave her some cushions and a Snuggie masquerading as a blanket. But what really struck me was he wanted tension between the two of us. He accused me of waking her up or wanting her to wake up so she would know he had chosen to sleep in the bedroom with me. Then what, we’d fight until we’re both naked or I’d invite her into the bed with us?

I’m sure it’s a huge ego stroke to know that more than one person likes, loves or lusts after you and you have access to them (maybe even at the same time), but to the man at the fish fry, that seemed to be his main objective (not to mention his overt intentions of bringing this “bad girl” into the mix). The woman on his left grabbed playfully at his crotch, the woman sitting next to me danced seductively in her chair as if she were sitting on his lap and later got angry when he spoke proudly and loudly about how much he loves to eat pussy. I don’t remember if that was before or after he teased the left-side woman about always having something in her mouth.

So flashback to the carefree conversation that morning in my living room… I made a comment about him not remembering what happened or that moment. If I wasn’t looking at him I would’ve missed it; his eyes darted to her, to me, then back to the mac-and-cheese I had served him after they had shared a kiss, and with raised eyebrows he said, “Oh, I’ll remember this.” Now two things I want to address here—first, there it was, written all over his face for a nanosecond—what if I could, with the two of them, just for a little while? Second, I’ve always said I’m too selfish to share a man and that I have to be “Queen Bee” or in this plural relationship, “first wife”. When I served him his food, I really did feel like one of the wives at that moment. And I was fine with that. He would leave, and my other “husband” would come over. Like the Mosuo walking marriages.

What if I could, with him and another him, just for a little while? If I don’t have a problem with polygyny you know I don’t have a problem with polyandry. I’ve had friends joke with me about my “mens”. The men aren’t so amused. It’s unfortunate that a woman in a relationship with more than one man is frowned upon. Polyandry refers to sexual relationships but what if the relationship isn’t sexual? What’s more acceptable—sexual or emotional? Can the two be independent of each other? I’ve witnessed a very happy, functional couple that was in an open relationship for about 10 years (I say “was” because I haven’t spoken to them in a few months). My thought is it worked for them because they were honest with each other. The relationship was sexually open, not emotionally. They played with others as a couple but also apart. They didn’t deny their human physical needs that masturbation or willpower couldn’t quell.

The dynamic should and does change when children are involved. Right now, that’s not an issue for me. It’s about developing relationships and bonds with people as they come. Nothing forced, letting the universe provide and making wise decisions. I’m not against monogamy. It’s very soothing. You and another soul, together. If that comes my way, so be it.

My friend who visited with his girl friend and I share some of the same ideologies on open relationships and what’s ok for a single person to do. There is a lot to consider if you’re going to date more than one person; pregnancy, diseases, consideration of other people’s emotions. He put it to me like this—he doesn’t care what I do with other dudes as long as when we’re together we have fun and that we’ll always be able to get together. Before he left, he put two condoms in my drawer and said, “Be safe.” He could definitely earn the spot of “Head Husband” but seriously those two words mean so much. Be safe with my head and safe with my heart.

The People That Were

I was at the Michael Jackson birthday party in Prospect Park. I did think it was a bit morbid and sad that they had a birthday cake. It made it real. Who was going to blow out the candles?

We're only a little more than halfway through the year and I'm thinking about the last week in December when all the network news and entertainment magazine shows do the "Year in Review" and remember all the celebs that have passed that year. 2009 has had major loss and upheaval. The People that Were; all very influential, loved. I've noticed that many were pioneers in their field, visionaries, real people with real problems and somehow hold a part in the public's heart. I've also noticed that the people who have been most affected by these deaths are themselves on the brink of transformation. They're being primed to take those spots left open by those that have passed. It's like a sick, dying parent who holds on until they know their children are gonna be all right before they go.

I truly believe it is the changing of the guards. My contemporaries and I are on the verge of greatness.

Write Stuff

I haven't been writing much on this blog, but I have been writing. It's been a little slow on the freelance non-fiction front, but my erotic short story collection is moving right along. I'm at the point where I can decide which stories not to include. So that's a good thing. I've been asked a few times what's the theme of the collection. I made a list of the commonalities--food, music, minor Pop culture references, Black/African characters (at least 1 in each story) and of course, sex. I'd like to have a little more "love" in my stories, but I've realized that when someone else reads it, they pick up on the "love" or emotion, even if I don't think I included any. That's my energy coming through on the page. I'm an emotional person. I feel everything and I have the ability to feel what you feel and make you feel what I feel (I know that's empathy, but I felt like being long-winded).

In mid-July, I went to the Harlem Book Fair (HBF), primarily because there were certain talks and workshops I wanted to attend. It was my first time at the event and I did enjoy myself. But I was turned off by all the booths and the folks manning the booths shoving "Urban Fiction" at me. When I see people reading those books on the train, my initial thought is, "Oh, they reading one of those ghetto books." Then I quickly rationalize, "Well, at least they're reading." I can only recall TWO (book) booths that weren't selling that genre of fiction (There were tons of other vendors). Two? In the panel discussion on making a living off your art the topic came up and what it boiled down to is that's what sells. And at some point your art/show becomes a business. By no means were the attendees of the workshop encouraged to write Urban Fiction but it was just an example of the obvious--what sells is what makes money and there will always be someone who will relate to (and buy) your art, so continue to create what works for you (special thanks to Mo Beasley, Mahogany Browne, Brad "Blue" Bathgate and Ebony Washington).

About a week before I went to the HBF, I was doing a rewrite of one of my stories. It's written in the 1st person, male. All of a sudden his new voice became one I was more "familiar" with. The character became more "black" or "urban". Originally, he said things like, "I don't want to sound like a putz..." and "After I took a wiz...". I pride myself on being able to get into any character voice and that was the story told from the POV of a putz. In my rewrite, "breasts" became "tits", "restroom" became "bathroom", "erotic thoughts" became "freaky thoughts". The decision now is which version to include in my book. Which one will sell?

The business side of writing is one I have to become a student of--fast.

I will always be true to myself and write what I want to write, especially when it comes to fiction; write things that make the reader think, feel a connection to the characters, disgust them, make them consider new things, and in the case of erotic stories, arouse them with scenarios they never thought were sexy. Hmm, so I guess that's the primary theme of my collection, I have roughly 1000-2000 words to immerse you in someone else's thoughts, life, bedroom...

The Verdict On Courting

“Seeing you feels like flowers growing in my heart.”

Those were the first words this old(er) gentleman; we’ll call Mr. Ray, said to me as I walked down Spring Street in SoHo. The comment did make me slow down and smile. He asked my name and we shook hands. Then he said that seeing me made him feel like…this is where he started singing “Shining Star” to me. I really like that song. Have I ever had a stranger serenade me on the street before? No. Did I want the attention? Eh…it’s New York. The folks at the table in the restaurant right behind us looked for a few seconds then went back to their conversation. Mr. Ray wants to be my friend. He said he’d court me if I let him. He loves to go out. He invited me back to the restaurant where he’ll be performing Doo Wop (he totally dated himself) and also said he’d buy me dinner.

I bring this up because this past weekend I had friends over for a potluck dinner and it ended in a heated debate over the dating game and the fact that men spend money and women expect that. One (straight) guy who was over that night just wasn’t getting it. He wondered why we were putting a price on our time, why the man had to do “all of that” to get to know you, why we couldn’t sit in the park for 8 hours and talk. Listen, even a broke nucca will scrape together a few dollars to take a woman out that he likes. Even if it’s just to give the illusion that he got a little something so she’ll see him again. A high school girl will accept it if her guy takes her to get some pizza and ice cream and then they hang out past dark. However, the boy she went out with still spent something. He’s trying to “get” me, impress me, show me a good time, get to know me—you see the theme? When a guy meets a woman he’s interested in and wants to get to know her he takes her out, which implies spending money. You may even do things you don’t want to do. 8-hour Park Boy asked, “What about me? What about what I like?” It aint about what you like in the beginning (except the woman). It really isn’t. My preferences are always put first. After I mentioned to Mr. Ray that I liked the restaurant we were in front of and had been there before, he knew where he’d take me on the first date, should I choose to accept it. I’ve been lucky to date honest enough men who will admit having never tried something before or that they dislike a certain cuisine but they still go.

How did we get on this topic that night? Two of my friends had gone to a book party and the book of discussion was Steve Harvey’s “Act like a Lady…Think like a Man”. I haven’t read it but they explained that in the book Harvey states if a man is interested in you, he will spend money on you. In my personal experiences, that is absolutely true. Park Boy thought that was bullshit. After a very long time of several of the women potluckers stating their case and the facts and explained how it had nothing to do with gold-digging, he still wasn’t getting it. So I launched a general yet personal attack. I said if he couldn’t take care of his wife and children he would feel like less of a man. In the extreme, men commit suicide over losing their jobs and the not being able to take care of their families. It’s a sense of identity. If you asked me on a date, I wouldn’t even consider paying for anything. I can go out with platonic friends and they cover me. With my younger brother, same thing. I don’t pay. Call it society, traditions, whatever, but I know my role and I’m not going out with a man who doesn’t know his. At some point the other (straight) guy chimed in that he tests women to see if they’ll offer to pay when the check comes. That is a man that won’t get a second date. Don’t test me. If you’re interested in me, ask me out and don’t play games like leaving your wallet at home. Mr. Ray asked if I knew what courting was. I smiled at his use of the word and told him I knew. “I say courting, ya’ll call it dating.”

June 25, 2009

There's so much I could say about that day. I was working out, the 5 o'clock news was on and I was crunching away. They were talking about Farrah Fawcett. I said to myself, imagine what will happen when Michael Jackson dies. I've always thought about that. Even as a kid, when I would watch his concert footage and see fans fainting. It all seemed so big and otherworldly. So after the Farrah Fawcett story, I flip to another channel for a different spin of the news or maybe for better news and there's the announcement that Michael Jackson was rushed to the hospital in cardiac arrest.

What? I was just "talking" about that! And then it was time to prepare myself for the bad news. Cardiac Arrest. They were reporting they had to do CPR in the ambulance. I knew nothing good could come of it. I ate after my workout, sent a text to my friend about plans that evening at 5:23pm and when I went to the kitchen to wash the dishes, I wished "good luck" to the doctor who would have to call it--time of death.

5:26pm

This whole situation has brought up a lot of feelings. First it was shock, then sadness, disbelief and even joy. His music has been blasting around my neighborhood and my apartment. I haven't stopped dancing. That's the joy. There's also spiritual, metaphysical, philosophical insights that have popped into my psyche. Like I said, I always thought about the day this would happen, but I just thought Michael Jackson would...disappear or fade away. I can't explain it any better than that. I was a little freaked out about my premonition of this happening, as it happened. I let out the initial angst when I spoke to my mother and a friend on the telephone during the 6 o'clock hour. How did I know? Why did I know? They told me I shouldn't go out that night, that it might be a sign. But now, 5 days later, I'm straddling acceptance and denial. Not denial that he's gone, but its more a question of "really?" I had a hard time accepting that his heart just stopped. Just stopped. I think I would've been more accepting of an external force/accident causing his death. I have a hard time accepting that the body just fails. That's just my love of the body and knowledge of how it works.

I could go on and on about my theories or thoughts--he was 50 years old, his words during his last announcement of his tour ("This is it--my final curtain call..."), his common name, his physical appearance, he's a Virgo, the fact that his children are Black and White, the message of his music. I had my red leather jacket and my sparkling white glove back in the day. My mother called me on Friday because she was remembering how I would wear my Michael Jackson ensemble day after day, even fight with her to sleep in it some nights. I still love the song "Wanna Be Starting Something" and I remember being so excited cause I thought he was speaking "Nigerian" at the end. I've been revisiting his songs and discovering new music. As an adult, the music is more than just a good beat sung by a cute guy. His music, even the angry songs are about love, peace, equality and unity. We're all the same, we need to love one another. How lucky are we that his music touched the world? On NBC Nightly News they were showing a montage of Michael Jackson celebrations around the world last week--prisoners in the Philippines, people gathering in the streets of Moscow, Tokyo, Baghdad singing and dancing to his music. In a time of a lot of war and global turmoil, it all seemed to stop. I was amazed at footage of a Sikh dancing alongside Whites and Blacks. I love the song "Can You Feel It" by the Jackson 5. I could dance naked in the street to that song. Listening and dancing to it is as close as I've come to "catching the spirit" I think. For those six minutes, no one is with me and everyone is with me. The ultimate in loving your fellow man--All the colors of the world should be loving each other wholeheartedly...cause we're all the same the blood inside of me is inside of you. I don't think he ever mentions a god in his music (there's "Heaven Can Wait" and the crucifix stance he held, most notably in "Man in the Mirror") and I think that's the point. He gave himself to us.

No, I didn't want Michael Jackson to die, but I do believe he served his purpose. For that artistic ability to be bestowed upon him naturally, is a sign. His entire life was spent creating and entertaining. What he did in his private life remains unknown but his stage presence and music were everything.

Scalping Scalpers

NOTE: I no longer work for a ticket broker. However, I wrote this back in April 2008 when I did work for one, so that will explain the references to idiots willing to spend ridiculous prices for concert tickets and the last seasons at Yankee and Shea Stadiums. Ticket brokers have been in the news a lot recently over Bruce Springsteen concert tickets. They just can't seem to get it right. I say don't bother going to the concert if its going to cost you triple your rent, but what do I know. Fans are still going to want to be a part of history because Springsteen is the last act that will take place in Giants Stadium as we know it. Yes, they are building a new stadium in a recession. First, they were directing people to the secondary market where prices were hiked up and now three brokers who I am very familiar with are being sued by the NJ Attorney General for selling tickets a week before they actually went on sale. For those of you unfamiliar with how the secondary market works, ticket brokers will take your money for tickets they don't actually have. Just a heads up.

IN APRIL 2008...

"Scalping" has such a negative connotation. And I was once a ticket scalper. I used to buy tickets to major wrestling events hosted at the Garden and set up auctions on eBay. Highest bidder got the tickets. Sometimes I would mail the tickets (buyer paid the shipping costs) or we would meet in-person for the clandestine cash deals. Then eBay turned "righteous" and didn't allow auctions in which buyers paid a certain percentage over face value. I soon left the ticket reselling business.

 

Years later, I find myself working for a ticket broker in New York City during a time where buying and selling tickets off the secondary market is legal. Legal doesn't mean fair to some. There is still a backlash to reselling tickets; the term scalping is spit out with disdain. Ticket brokers are evil raping the "little guy" of his hard earned money. Recently, the extent of the perceived problem came to light during the Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus Best of Both Worlds tour. Tickets were going for $1000 to see the teenage pop star. Unfortunately, many of the true fans were shut out due to the price. Why blame the ticket brokers? True fans (or rich fans, depending on how you look at it) were willing to pay those prices to see the concert. And it's a prime example of supply and demand. Once a concert is sold out at the box office, a fan's only option is to buy tickets on the secondary market. Supply is low, but demand is high. That fuels prices.

 

This season, both the Yankees and Mets are playing their final seasons at their respective stadiums. Fans will most likely pay exorbitant prices regardless of the team's record, just to say they were a part of history. The final subway series in Shea Stadium and the House that Ruth built. Boston Red Sox and the Yanks will battle it out Fourth of July weekend and in August at Yankee Stadium. Prices for seats with a face value of $65 can easily reach $300, earning brokers a profit of nearly 500%. Now the question remains, if fans, including the "little guy", are willing to pay $300 for a $65 ticket then doesn't that mean that ticket is in fact worth $300? Ticket face values will undoubtedly rise for Yankees, Mets, and SuperBowl Champions, NY Giants.

 

How do tickets to concerts and shows sell out within minutes? How do the brokers obtain those tickets? The distribution of the supply is undoubtedly one-sided. Although some brokers do use underhanded tactics, I quickly learned once tickets go on sale, most the staff at the company I work for responsible for stocking our inventory are hard at work snapping up what they can off Ticketmaster just like every other buyer. The pace can be frenetic. When tickets go on sale, shouts of "Buy!", "Sell!" and "Lock those up!" are heard all around. It's akin to the floor of the stock exchange. Purchasing particular tickets is like buying stock, it's an investment. And similar to short-term investors who sell stock when the market is high, the same goes for tickets. In the end, the victors' pockets are lined mightily.

 

America's economy is based on capitalism. Astute and shrewd businessmen (or women) tend to be the most successful. However, when a show or event flops, hundreds or thousands of dollars can be lost. This mercifully over and pathetic NY Knicks season is a prime example. Numerous times throughout the season, hours before a home game, courtside tickets could still be bought at an eighth of the $300 plus face value. Broadway shows are also part of the mix. Young Frankenstein, despite the marquee power of Mel Brooks, didn't do well at the box office.  For die hard fans, or folks who want a taste of Broadway, the ticket isn't worth the full face value.

 

In the world of ticket resales, the potential for profit isn't only in the hands of brokers. Season ticket holders and even the average Jane (such as my former self) can resell tickets for major profits to other fans or to ticket brokers. At the time I was a 20 year old kid trying to make a buck. Majority of the time, I had no intention of attending the event. I bought the maximum number of tickets I could get off Ticketmaster and minutes later set up my auctions. Profits all depend on the market; supply and demand.

 

One has to wonder how closely regulated the secondary ticket market will be. We are slowly entering the age of the "super broker." Ebay bought Stubhub for $310 million and has reclaimed its place in ticket resales. Ticketmaster acquired TicketsNow for $265 million largely in response to the acceptance of ticket reselling. What some fans may not realize is that all the tickets on Stubhub or TicketsNow don't just belong to other fans. Ticket brokers also sell their tickets through those websites. Professional sports have long been against the unlawful reselling of tickets, but now they realize, if you can't beat them, join them. Stubhub is the official Major League Baseball fan-to-fan marketplace.  Ticketmaster is the official reseller for the National Football League.

 

Are "scalpers" still lurking around arenas trying to sell tickets out of their inside pockets? I'm sure there are adventurous entrepreneurs still at large. And I don't doubt the problems of counterfeiting and/or double selling still take place. But the ticket is in essence currency. What you're willing to pay for it is the exchange rate. The determining factor of what a ticket is worth will always be determined by the amount the buyer is willing to spend.

Angry Big Sister

I received a call from my brother this evening. He started by telling me something funny then said he was angry. He explained this situation he’s been having at work – feels like they’re pushing him out. Big corporation got no respect or regard for the little guy. My brother is vocal. He will voice complaints without yelling or cursing or flailing his arm or threatening violence but I’ve seen my brother angry. I let him vent then gave my big sister advice while we cut the tension with jokes. He did mention that he remembered I told him that last time he had an issue at work not to carry on like the “Angry Black Man” – he’s likely to intimidate everyone and surely not get his point across or better working conditions or work relationships. I tried to reinforce that today and told him he needs an outlet for his anger. He said worked out. While we spoke on the phone he was on his inversion machine because his back had tightened up. He used to write tons of screenplays. That’s an idea we tossed around. I told him when he visits NY again I’d take him to one of the poetry events I frequent. “There’s tons of angry black men there. Write something so you could read, or just come and listen, get that sense of camaraderie. You may even find solutions in the words.”

A few hours later I was at Bowery Poetry Club witnessing creative genius or genius creatives. Taalam Acey (Mr. Manual Gesticulation that spits a mile a minute. I swear I can actually see the words waft out his mouth), Kasim Allah (whom I like to refer to as “King” accompanied with a curtsy every now and then in honor of his greatness), Ainsley Burrows (Jamaican Brethren who can prepare you for the verbal SATs just by listening to his poems) and Lamar Anthony Hill and Faraji Salim – two poets I just had the honor of being blessed by. The poems were sermons. There was one poem that made my eyes sting. Lamar Anthony Hill recited one about growing up without his father and finally forgiving him. At one point in the poem he said a woman cannot raise a boy into a man. I’ve been well aware of that fact and I’ve heard other poets say it before, but it just struck me tonight. What can a Big Sister do?

Now that my little brother is a man and out in the world there’s stuff I can’t protect him from. I approach situations differently than he would. Estrogen softens my blow at times. I am capable of “doing what I gotta do” to protect family and friends. I don’t want to tell my brother to roll over and play dead so I encourage him to speak up but watch how he does it. Yeah, we’re both Black, but there are things as a Black Man that he will face that I never will. I won’t be able to completely understand or help. He kept using the words “angry” and “frustrated”. I can’t imagine living like that – like having your hands tied. Constantly swimming to the surface trying to tread water only to be pulled back down. I think that’s why the poets not only write the words they do but deliver them with passion I feel in my own chest. When you’re constantly seeing the world for what it truly is, yet the world doesn’t see you, it’s a constant battle to be seen or to augment the world’s view of you. I refuse to let my brother become a statistic. I’ve always found Black men to be very metaphorical. They have that ability for spoken word artistry. Even though he’s a man, I’m still watching my little brother grow up. I’ve noticed that the way he sees the world and his place in it has changed. The way he articulates that to me has changed as well. So for now we both make light that’s he’s an angry black man. All I can do is be Big Sister.