Privi privi privilege

In case you missed it, from the top floor of a Manhattan hi-rise cried this rich girl:

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2013/being-privileged-is-not-a-choice-so-stop-hating-me-for-it/

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In case you missed it, from the second floor of an apartment in Crown Heights Brooklyn cried this gender queer:

I keep trying to articulate and justly write my reaction to this. But…

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*Bitches Love Diet Coke

Now I am not one to make sweeping generalizations, unless of course they are universally known to be 100% true. And it is known to be a fact of humanity that ladies love them some Diet Coke. Actually I am not even sure love is the right word. Diet Coke is the crutch on which all office lips fall. It is the vessel that lipstick is transported to. It fills cubicles and rests on night stands. It over flows hallway trash cans.

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Find me a sorority house that doesn’t look like it is sponsored by the Coca Cola company.

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Growing up my mom had a seasonal Diet Coke ritual. I knew that Winters cold was seeping into her bones when the fridge was suddenly void of glistening *silver cans and instead an entire (ENTIRE) kitchen cabinet was filled instead. Bitches love Diet Coke so much that they’ll drink it warm. Warm I say! Like a winter time soda coffee.

*Gold cans exist, but like…

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#caffeinefree?

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And you know if you’re going to go all out at the drive thru window you do need to make one healthy decision…

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Because conscious decisions.

That is of course when Diet Coke is an option. Otherwise it’s all:

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IF I WANTED A PEPSI PRODUCT I WOULD HAVE, AS WELL TRAINED CONSUMER DRIVEN AND BRAINWASHED AMERICAN ASKED FOR ONE.

Some people talk about the holy land. You only bow at this alter:

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But then there always has to be a Debbie Downer whose all:

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To which you’re like:

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But then part of you (the tiny part that hasn’t been flooded with Diet Coke minions) is like wellll maybe…

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Because really, your love is real, unwavering, and has no chance of fading.

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*And by bitches. I actually mean everyone.

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Live This Life

I am a lover. And a dreamer. I am also a million different words that are not so demure. I can be stubborn, reclusive, and impatient. I need people as much as I absolutely don’t. Love is something I’ve always battled with. Haven’t we all? And I don’t just mean love between you and someone who was once a stranger. I mean all of it.

Loving your parents after a childhood filled with bullshit. Loving yourself.
Jesus. Loving yourself.

We get so wrapped up in how to love others, how to please others. How we are seen. We forget something:
You are the only one who will never abandoned you. You should love that person.

I often say my heart is closed. But that is a half truth. It is open to those who manage to seep in. It is fear that drives a wedge between my heart and my mouth and makes me bite my tongue. If you commit to things you know will end, your soul will never have to deal with random abandon. Death and love are similar like that. That random abandon.

Every single day holds the opportunity for you to meet someone who will sweep you off your feet. Someone who may make your blood boil. Make your heart weep. Someone who may only captivate you for a night. Someone who may captivate you for the rest of your life. Just do yourself a favor, and don’t put love in box.

You may say there are rules. But there are none. You would do best to understand that. What there is, are truths. What there is, are lies. I am no longer sure that there are just good and bad people. There are just people, some of whom are prone to being bigger assholes than others. Some of whom are prone to be sweeter than others. But I’ve known sweethearts to be assholes and assholes to do sweet things.

And then there is that word I hate more than anything: baggage. If you have lived and breathed on this Earth you have seen some shit. You have been a victim and have been fucked over. You have dated and may have hang ups. You have know heartbreak and you have caused it. You are human and therefore can not wipe your slate clean every time you meet someone new. When you erase words from a blackboard the letters may go away, but the chalk remains. Your past is never going anywhere. And neither is his or hers.

There are people who you may have met years ago, who you never realized could mean everything to you. None of us are patient. And no part of life really makes any sense. But there are signs. There are little inklings. Sometimes you need to connect the dots. But sometimes those dots will connect for you.

A few years ago, on Halloween I met a girl. My friends and I were at a bar in the west village. A bar that had become Our bar. A place we met once a week and got absolutely shit faced. Halloween in Manhattan is the perfect occasion to be nothing else but shit faced. So to our bar we went. We’re all guilty of forming crushes upon first sight. This girl hit me like lightning. It is absolutely cliche but also absolutely correct to say that gorgeous women renderer me stupid. Gorgeous intelligent women pretty much send my brain into a spastic state. She ended up being both. It’s unclear how we started talking that night, I’m pretty sure she made the first move. But once we started, we didn’t stop. When I meet someone new who entices me, I literally can’t stop; speaking and listening that is. I could feel the severity of her past. I could feel the love in her voice as she spoke about art and writing. She was cynical but not closed off, well at least not to me. I no doubt felt like I was in a maddening rush to know her, understand her, touch every part of her, and memorize it all. Memorize her curves, memorize her scent, the sound of her laugh…because she was leaving the next day. Back home, to the place I was born but couldn’t call home as I had never been back. She was a Texas belle. Sharp witted and fiery. Absolutely gorgeous. Jesus Christ was she, is she, gorgeous.

We stayed up all night and then she left. It’s been almost 3 years. And neither of us has disappeared yet.

Emails, and texts, phone calls, this girl knows my depths. I know her haunted past. I know how her fiery angst can be the biggest pain in the ass. I know how similar we are and how rarely we let anyone in. I know trust with her, that I don’t think has ever been.

But she is more unattainable now then she seemed that night at the bar. And I know she feels the same way about me. Through relationships we watch each other. Through break ups we console each other. She is constant.

But what do you do with constant? When you are consistently thousands of miles away? And is there something to be said for absence? Is there anything really to be said at all?

And you wonder if its because she’s not around…

“What if you were here everyday? What then? Would we be everything that we had always dreamed we could one day be with someone? Would we wake up every morning, to me making tea and you curling your toes on the side of the bathtub before you got into the shower waiting patiently for both me and the hot water to come.”

But when/if will that morning come?

Writers always speak of one true love. You have more than one friend; that fact right there destroys that notion. My ears are constantly open to new songs, new melodies. They are open to new voices and new life stories. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again this city is filled with monsters and men. It is filled with Sirens who will sing you the sweetest songs, but ultimately will render you a castaway. It is filled to the brim with beautiful strangers that will take both your breath and your heart away.

It is too bad that we don’t remember being kids. And all the struggles that went with it. We learned how to fall long before we could walk. And we weren’t scared. You bruise, you get cut, but then you get scars. You aren’t a fucking peach. You’re resilient. Love and life take resilience. And whether or not you wake up every morning thinking so, you are perfectly suited for this world.

And you are beautiful.

If You’re From Africa, Why Are You White?

Being a promoter and MC I know a little bit about the behind the scenes work of throwing a party or event. One of the biggest things you toy around with is your event’s name. It has to be catchy, has to attract a buzz, maybe even in a word tell potential guest EXACTY what to expect. For instance if a party is simply called Rave I’m not expecting a queer book club meeting. Naming parties can actually be a major pain in the ass, you want to stand out without sounding corny, you want to be witty or ironic without being offensive. Essentially you want to have people captivated and stay away from pissing them off.

But of course you’re always going to piss someone off. Throw a party, ANY party and I promise at some point along the line, someone is going to say something about literally anything. It’s the nature of the game.

I’m not one to be easily offended, especially in the party scene. Much like the art world I feel like parties are a space for some of the wall creation to go down. You’re going out to let loose after all. Whoever you are the next day at work, means nothing the night before on the dance floor. You are out to be the person you aren’t (unless you’re one lucky son of a bitch) allowed to be during the weekly grind.

Brooklyn is the epicenter of some absolutely crazy parties. From warehouses to basements to rooftops Brooklyn simply knows how to get down. And keep it FRESH. The queer community dominates when it comes to excess and extremes. But sometimes my fine queers we push the line a little too far.

White Diamond has changed the name of their next party to: Blood Diamond. Where the dress code is (no not your favorite warlord): red. Which like…I’m always down for a good theme party. But. Guys really?

White kids throwing a party called Blood Diamond seems a tad bit insensitive to me. Ok, more than a tad bit. Look I get it – it’s a party where everyone wears red. Got that. Ate it. Swallowed it. But still couldn’t stomach it. Especially seeing as in the event info it lists:

▵red▵fire▵heat▵metal▵blood▵blades▵bling▵booze▵
bubbles▵guns▵body▵wavvy▵paper▵grillz▵endo▵dirt▵
crystal▵glass▵teeth▵fireball▵yay▵diamonds▵roses▵scarletletter▵powder▵skimask▵whitehot▵inferno▵opulence▵alarm▵alert▵abort▵exit▵flow▵brand▵burn▵

A blood diamond is a diamond whose sale is used to fund rebel groups and warlords. They are mined in war zones mainly in Africa.

So like listing the words: fire, heat, blood, blades, guns, dirt, fireball, diamonds, whitehot, alarm, alert, and burn when your party is called BLOOD DIAMOND is a bad fucking idea. Also you know putting “yay” in between “fireball” and “diamond” may not be the wisest seeing as there have been over 3 million deaths contributed to these conflict diamonds. Oh and workers make about 7 cents. A DAY.Yay indeed.

With those said above facts – this event flier kind of makes you feel the uncomfortable feels huh?

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For some stats on blood diamonds, which are also called Conflict Diamonds click here:

Conflict Diamond Statistics