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I DO! Wait…Do I?

Mya / May 17, 2016

“It’s not a diss post; it’s a real post. Feel Me?” – Mya and Beyoncé’s Lemonade Co-conspirator I am forty years old. I am black. I am a woman. I am intelligent. I have no children. I have a job some would consider fun. I’ve been told I am easy on the eyes. I owe a bitch named Sallie a manageable amount of money, but no one else. I own a crib. I own a car. I am not married. If you have a penis and you are reading this, you are going thru all of the reasons that I am not married. You likely don’t remember anything from the first paragraph aside from the fact that I still have my daddy’s last name. Shocking! Yes, I not only know my dad, but I also enjoy a wonderful relationship with him. You are also likely unmarried, but that doesn’t stop you from wondering and deducing why I am single and coming to your own conclusions about my said condition. Judging me for it even. If it helps add any validity to what follows, I do have a man in my life. This fact is verifiable on Facebook, so it must be true. I was sitting at work watching Family Feud, as my fun job allows me to do, and some black family won the game (yay us! yall so racist when it comes to game shows and competitions, jeez!) and went on to fast money, lightening round, or whatever the shit is called at the end. They elected to send two of the male members out to try and win them a 1959 Ford Excursion or some other crap that can’t be split 5 ways. Question number two for both of these gentlemen: Name something most women want of their own. Both Australopithecus and Cro-Magnon excitedly yelled out “A HUSBAND” in each of their respective rounds. You could literally see them auto-fellating themselves over such a genius answer. Already thinking about who was gonna drive the Excursion on what day of the week. The sounds. The rims. Limo Tent on that bitch, fa sho. But poor second man had to answer something else, which I don’t remember, cuz I was thinking about writing this blog at that very minute. Doesn’t matter – Austro, got a measly 15 pts for his effort and Cro got 10 maybe. From Dr. Whateverfakemuslimname’s latest post about why the black woman is single to these Rhodes Scholars on Family Feud, so much time is dedicated to ASSuming what a woman wants out of life or should have in her life or should be doing in her life, and a black woman in particular. The women whose bosoms nurtured a nation – could never want to be anything more than, well, a nurturer. Fixing plates at the picnic. Serving her huzzzzzzzband before THEIR children. Cooking for her maaaaaaaaaaaaaaan, every night. Braiding lil mama’s hair after baby momma #4 drops her off, while you go hoop or play Madden at DoDirty’s house with P and Jody. Doing “things” to completion. Man please. Listen……Dig. I started thinking to myself, okay smartmouth, you had a reaction to their answers, what are somethings YOU want more than a husband. 1. My dream career: Professional Shittalker. My job is cool. Great. Fun. Networking opps up the wazoo. It’s still just a job. I gotta come. I gotta ask for vacation. And at any moment they can tell me to leave. Not enough for me. 2. A Passport Full of Stamps This world is humongous. Varying terrains. Sand and water in different hues. People that look like me clear across the world. Animals I’ve never seen. Food I’ve never tasted. And some of yall keep going back to Miami and the Dominican every chance yall get. Fine. 3. A child. I think I’m the shit and the opportunity to raise a lil hellraiser/rapscallion in my image is one I truly desire and hope comes to fruition. 4. An Abundant Number of Comfortable High Heels I love wearing heels and strutting into and out of a room….I’d just like to be able to do something other than sit while I’m in the room. This one may seem frivolous, but its real. 5. Resources for my Family. I want a legacy, socially and more importantly financially, for my family, while I’m living and after I’m gone. I’m lucky in that all my family elders are hella self-sufficient. No needs, no wants. But if mom wants a Jag or Dad wants a Rado, I wanna walk in the spot and drop it. I want my lil cuzzins and nieces and my nephews to be able to trade on my name or drop a Black Card in a muthafuckas face if they wanna pretend like they don’t know. I cut my list there, just cuz 5 is a good round list number, but trust me, health, beautiful skin and hair, and one cycle of being Rihanna’s tour manager were included. I did open the floor to some chicks I admire, respect and some I love. And they had said: A great career, a vacation home, 10 Academy Awards, great health, MONEY, To become a travel blogger, PEACE OF MIND, A cushy savings account, A child, family pride, A well-adjusted son, whose life won’t be taken at the hands of a madman who will go on to try to sell the weapon that took his life, FREEDOM, SANITY, an education and my most ignit and go-to girl said “$$$$$$, cars, banging weaves, purses, and great boobies.” And she’s nearly a six figga banker, so don’t…… Listen, I love men. I say I hate them daily, but it’s not true. I fucking love yall. I need yall. We need each other. I asked HIM to kill a spider on the ceiling last week, not cuz I was scared, but cuz he’s taller than me and I couldn’t reach it. He asked me to – well, I’m not gonna write that here, but I

MyPOPalogy, MySAYalogy, Uncategorized

Just Cuz You Got Miseducated…..

Mya / May 10, 2016

I don’t really care about Nas. Wu-Tang neither. HATE KRS-ONE. Hate him. I stopped being friends with a person that MADE me watch The Matrix more than one time. Game of Thrones mania escapes me. Does anything different actually happen on the Walking Dead – aside from Run, Kill, Survive, Get eaten? So Chipotle IS worth getting sick and possibly dying for? Mkkkkkay. A lot of shit people think is great; I just don’t really care about or find it horrible. But, one of my closest friends in the world is a SUPER NAS fan, SUPER. We spent many workdays in his office discussing the GOAT’s identity. There is an obvious answer, but I don’t feel like fucking any of you up right now, so, I’m gonna digress. Again, my boy was a Nas fan, and had been a really great friend to me, so when his birthday rolled around and Nas was gonna be in town, there was only one thing to do. Excitedly (I love buying gifts/surprising folks) I went to the Ticketmaster……and saw who was gonna be there with him: The Artist Formerly Known as “This Chick is Doper than Ladybug.” Lboogie what dey call her. I was not pleased. I’m not gonna act like Lauryn changed my life in any MAJOR way. I came of age a little before her time and Mary had already laid claim to my maturation. Blunted on Reality and The Score were really dope albums. “Some Seek Stardom” WAS MY SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT. Rewound, yes kids, the hell out that tape at the conclusion of that song. She was a beautiful chick, talented beyond measure, holding her own with the fellas. (HEY MIRROR!) Then she dropped that got danged album, that gorgeous lush masterpiece. I aint care she told yall to stop wearing weaves. But I did care that her and Mary tore some wack ass dude to shreds. And that she had a joy in her life called Zion. And that she wanted to tell him to let her be patient and to let her be kind and to make her unselfish without her being blind. I cared. Lawd, did I care. I even cared about the follow up – 20 tracks of the same song. Cried like a baby to that album. Why? I dunno. Probs cuz she was crying thru the entire thing. Sadly, it was pretty much all downhill from there. Missed performances, erratic appearances, jail, NO MUSIC, lawsuits, chick started being late for everydamnthing she could. Still I bought the tickets for the concert and hoped against hope – slightly excited at the prospect of seeing them perform “If I Ruled the World”. NAS came on – ripped it (I guess, my friend looked happy) – he did sing his songs with Amy Winehouse, which was enough for me. He performed first, which I’m guessing he was not planning to do, being the headliner and all, but….yall know why. Wrapped up his tight lil set and took his leave. 3 days later, she emerged, clearly not herself, singing songs foreign to our ears, and from the looks on the confused faces of her background singers, foreign to their ears as well. 10 minutes later, we left. As we walked down the street, he said to me “I wished she sang ‘Ex-Factor.’ It broke my heart to tell him that she did. It was just unrecognizable. Never again. NOT EVER will I pay to see her. A free concert would be a tough sell for me. So when Amissah, hit me so full of life and asked “Lauryn? Ravinia?” I couldn’t curse her ass out quick enough for asking me such a dumb ass question. And bout a month later, Lauryn proved me right. She kept fans waiting in Atlanta over two hours, to watch her “perform” after spending their hard earned money on Groupon tickets to see her NOW wack ass. (click the link. I aint lying. You can also find lil Kim tickets there. Okay, now I’m lying.). I heard the performance was dope, but short due to time restrictions at the outdoor venue. A video posted on social media saw a fan taking her to task about her lateness. She told him her driver got lost. He said “bitch, you were at the 4pm sound check. I heard you. I live across the street. Fuck you.” I made up part of that, but that’s what he really wanted to say. Or that’s what I would have wanted to say. The sound check and him living across the street is for true. Atlanta is as big as your thumbnail and if you live mentally or physically in 2016, which is questionable about her, and have GPS, it’s even smaller. You can’t get lost. People were admittedly outraged and took their voices to the world wide web, which prompted her to respond in kind. From Ms. Hill’s Facebook: “I don’t show up late to shows because I don’t care. (Seems that way.) And I have nothing but Love and respect for my fans. (This is a lie. ‘Memba the House of Blues in Chicago? You don’t owe us anything. ‘Memba, Lauryn. Guess we should be thankful and grateful you were only 1.5 hours late that time.) The challenge is aligning my energy with the time, taking something that isn’t easily classified or contained, and trying to make it available for others.” (WAIT, JUST A FUCKIN MINUTE) You telling me, I, who must work for my money, need to extend patience to you for you to align your energies in order for you to appear somewhere you charged me my aforementioned money to see you? How bout dis? Wait til your on/off switch is set to on. Get open, rested, do whatever you need to do to feel “sensitive and liberated” then do a free concert in the park and promote it on Facebook. Don’t sell tickets and waste my time and money, muthafucka. I’m over being miseducated by you.

MySAYalogy

DIE #summatimeCHI! DIE!

Mya / April 5, 2016

This past Sunday was the stuff dreams, at least my dreams, were made of – a peaceful awakening, a slight morning snack, eaten with the knowledge that a big lunch was to happen later, <redacted>, and a nice nap with the windows open. My homebase is dope. I aint bragging, it just is – in my living room I have 8-five foot windows that provide a window to the dopest skyline and lakefront in the entire world. Just looking out my windows will provide you with such emotion its a shame. On that particular Sunday, with that breeze coming thru, the sun reflecting (refracting?) off the gentle blue brown waters of The Lake Michigan, and a view of all the rooftops downtown Chicago has to offer, I was filled with nothing but dread. Dread. Yes. Dread. Dread because I was reminded of something I once loved, but now hate fervently – #summatimeChi. Man, just typing that phrase pissed me the hell off. I get why folks love it, because I used to. The late nights, the early mornings. The warm night breezes. The unearthing of our winter selves. The smell of the grills. The picnics and bbqs. The NBA Finals…well strike that, they dont really matter much anymore around these parts. I dont know if I aged outta that shit. If my circle of friends are too small or if my priorities shifted. But my Fuck Store ran out of stock of #summatimeChi and Im gonna tell you why: 1. Don’t I know you? Seriously Black Chicagoans? Are you still excited about seeing the same damn people at every event? House Picnic (more on that later). Taste Concerts. 27 backyards. The Gatlings All White Picnic. The Other Place All-Star Softball Game. Harolds vs. Remus Tug of War Battle in Washington Park. Let me help you out. Yesssssssssssssss, I went to WY. Yesssssssssssssssssssss I know <fake black southside celebrity, extra points if they are from Hyde Park>. NOOOOOOOOOOO, I didnt use to date <fake black southside celebrity, extra points if they are from Hyde Park>. Yesssssssssssss, I talk to Matt, he’s fine. Noooooooooooo, I havent talked to her, you know that while you standing here asking and I dont care if she isnt fine. Yesssssssssssss, I remember when we used to go up there. Nooooooooooooo, I dont wanna go back. My beloved Myalogists, remember when, is the lowest form of conversation — remember when you read this – Tuesday, April 4, 2016, when you inevitably see me at the Labor Day Grown and Sexy Black Midnight Odyssey Cruise. 2. Facebook posts. I love Sundress season! Gotta get in this gym! How bout while you in the gym or waiting to see her in her sundress – cuz ya thirsty ass aint ever seen an ass before – you shut the fuck up bout it. Stay on the treadmill/elliptical/stairmaster and pay attention fo’ you fall off or watch with great intensity that TNA jiggle by. Dedicate yourself to your pursuits instead of booking about them. You write that shit every year. Women, you still outta shape. Men, women built like that still don’t want you. 3. Violence My fair city is off to its deadliest start in nearly two decades and I have NO reason to think things will improve this summer. A police force that the mayor himself has called anemic. “Poor us! Who are they, the populace to start capturing our crimes on camera? We are gonna stop protecting them. Stop doing our jobs. That will show them!” A police chief who said he has never witnessed police misconduct in 27 years on the force. Relentless block wars. Such accessibility to guns. Facebook live turning niggas into ghetto stars who live or die by the camera and social media, requiring us to have even MORE memorial picnics where we will see everyone in life – including him/her who will predictably tell you how they haven’t stopped thinking about you since y’alls 8th grade ribbon pinning ceremony. Awesome. 4. Southside/Westside Major Thoroughfare (47th/71st, 79th, Madison, et al) Fashions I live off 47th street. I was once inspired on one particularly hot #summatimeChi day to write a rap called “Guts, Butts and Lacefronts” — I dont think I need to expound upon this topic. But I will. These, whatever variation of the word hoe is being used these days, leave me with no safe place upon where to rest my eyes. Euroafriruvian weaves in pastel colors. Lip/face piercings. Kitchen/Jail Tats. Ill-fitting bras that give the appearance of three breasts. Low cut jeans that push up your gut and smother your gooch. And cheeks. Rotten stretchmark covered cheeks. A total and complete BARF-O-RAMA. 5. The Muthafuckin Catalina Chosen Few House Picnic I hate house music. I make no secret about it. Hate it. Disco appropriated as house, yeah…..Ill drop it midway for those tunes. But that relentless beating of beats with no words makes me sick. My hatred may not qualify me to speak on the subject but lack of knowledge or affection aint never stopped me from pontificating before. What started as a small passionate affair has ballooned into a commerce driven shit show that has folks paying up to $50 to walk thru a dust filled park. (Thats speaks nothing to the hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars you may have to pay for exclusive packages.) A dust filled park that has a bottleneck section to which inexplicably traffic is directed. I legit thought I was gonna die in that bottleneck two years ago. It was hot as Hades, a mofo was walking thru there with a 10 speed schwin – it took what felt like 30 minutes to get thru AND this year, THIS YEAR, they expanded the shit to a whole fucking weekend. I CANT EVEN. Lemme say this. I had SO much fun 10 years ago, when late to the game, I finally arrived. My 100s fam set it up proper like and

MyPOPalogy

The Loss of A Legend

Mya / March 24, 2016

My writing bring all the boys to the yard and they’re like, it’s better than yours. Damn right, it’s better than yours I could teach you……but you cant teach genius, boo. Today’s guest column is brought to you by the homie, Brendan aka Big aka Big Man aka Socks aka Bree Daddy aka my bruh bruh. You can usually find him writing some lightweight porn, but he chose to rush the blood to his other head to pontificate on the loss of Phife Di-Dog, who needs no introduction…. Without any further adieu, ado, adew…Brendan? “I’m all that and then some, short dark and handsome/ bust a nut inside ya eye, to show you where I come from……. –Phife Dawg We lost another hip hop legend on 3/23/16 from arguably the greatest hip hop group of all time. Phife Dawg aka the five foot assassin (Malik Isaac Taylor) was the street in A Tribe Called Quest. This little dude brought an epic flow with his high pitched voice and unique metaphors. This one right here, is personal for me. See this group in my mind was THE greatest hip hop group of all time. Not because of record sales, not because of Grammy’s or street cred. This group was the epitome of Hip Hop to me in the Golden Era of hip hop. They kicked mad flows, had dope beats, wore the flyest gear and spoke about things I as a 16 year old kid could relate to. I remember listening to “The Low End Theory” and thinking these dudes are dope. No raps about drugs or cars or girls, but about life. Beats, Rhymes and life! (See what I did right there). Phife had the dope custom jersey’s (The Seton Hall joint was banana’s), and the illest skills in the group. “I like my beats hard like two day old shit……” WHAT!!?? Gritty videos on the streets of New York made me like these cats even more. It looked like my block. They wore what I wore. I wanted to do a video on the rooftop of the cleaners on 47th and Indiana because of these dudes. No hype man, no huge entourage, just skills. Back then hip hop didn’t make you see the artist as entertainers, but as cats you knew, or cats who your boys knew. They spoke about things we did. Damn right I made sure that “before I get the butt the Jim must be erect!” Now I’m sure my mom wasn’t feeling that last line but my boys loved it! Tribe called Quest wasn’t pretentious, made up, (Phife and Q Tip met at the age of 2) or planted by the major labels. They were just two cats and a DJ with skills. And my generation respected that more than anything. And speaking of skills………… Phife Dawgs so called coming out party was “Bugging Out” on their second album “The Low End Theory”. This album was special to me because I grew up in what is called the Low End of Chicago. But this was the first time we heard Phife really display his skills on the mic.” Yo, microphone check one, two, what is this? The five foot assassin with the roughneck business/ I float like gravity, never had a cavity/Got more rhymes than the Winans got family” You know how many rhymes this cat must have to have MORE rhymes that the Winans got family? That’s a big ass family! Take THAT Drake! Unfortunately, fame, money, ego and “The Industry” sent A Tribe Called Quest through a myriad of issues. The group broke up after its fifth major label album and it was never the same after that. Phife Dawg was well documented as a diabetic and struggled with the disease. Q Tip moved on to do solo projects but never reached the heights of his former group. Ali Shaheed, probably the least heralded member of the group, did what most DJ’s do, continued to spin records. Fast forward to 2008 and Phife underwent a kidney transplant due to complications from diabetes. His wife was the donor and it seemed like Phife was on his way to better health and maybe even bless us with A Tribe Called Quest reunion album. But you can’t catch lightening in a bottle. You can’t recreate the past. While the group did shows and toured, partially to help Phife with medical bills, it was never the same. This is indeed the end of an era, one of the greats has passed and not from gun violence, but from complications from medical issues we’ve known about since day 1. It’s a bit surreal and almost unheard of for hip hop entertainers in this day and age. Ohh and in case some young kid is reading this like “So what, he was just an old rapper”. Dude if it wasn’t for this cat and his group, you wouldn’t know who Busta Ryhmes is………..Respect is due! RIH Phife Dawg. A-yo Bo knows this (what?) and Bo knows that (what?) But Bo don’t know jack, cause Bo can’t rap Well what do you know, the Di-Dawg, is first up to bat No batteries included, and no strings attached No holds barred, no time for move faking Gots to get the loot so I can bring home the bacon Brothers front, they say the Tribe can’t flow But we’ve been known to do the impossible like Broadway Joe so Sleep if you want NyQuil will help you get your Z’s, troop But here’s the real scoop I’m all that and then some, short dark and handsome Bust a nut inside your eye, to show you where I come from I’m vexed, fuming, I’ve had it up to here My days of paying dues are over, acknowledge me as in there (yeah!) Head for the border, go get a taco Watch me wreck it from the jump street, meaning from the get-go Sit back relax and let yourself go Don’t sweat what