9 posts tagged “i'm too fly for this”

Ok y'all, without pretense February is always rough for me. Its the one part of the year that seems to get sucked up into a vortex controlled by anything but me. That said I seem to also reserve all my going out and acting my age for the week between 2/13 and 2/20. At least thats been the trend the last two years.

And what separated the two years is the fact that last years festivities began with an outing to a dance club populated primarily by Filipinos and their friends, dancing to hip-hop, soul and funk. This year it was, without our knowledge a "black valentine's day masquerade ball" where the djs would spin the best in "zombie music" aka drum and base.

Here are some observations:
2008: Average height in the club was 5'7''.
2009: Average height was 5' 10''. (This is even if you include the 3 Filipino guys who had no idea the theme night would eff up their game)

2008: I was not, nor would I ever be one of the fly girls in the club.
2009: With the exception of my crew, I think it was good the lights were off.

2008: We were all carved from the same "genre" of fashion. Variations were present but not too much.
2009: No holds bar fashion.
– Best Facial Piercing: PORCUPINE NEEDLE THROUGH NOSE
– Best Fit: one dude in full on army fatigues circa WWI.
– Best Ladies Accessory (Tie): Feathered masquerade mask in shape of butterfly & LARGE stuffed panda bear head as hat
– Others: Honorary mentions to the 4 people sporting top hats (must have been in honor of Lincoln's bday). 

Make no mistake, it was fun and BOY did I feel FLY. It was for my homegirl's bday whom I adore, but at 12:30 I was ready to go. Why?

Socially Appropriate Use of Club Floor

My cultural observation. White people dance almost exclusively with wild arm jestures. They swing, they punch they throw elbows. Its true of many of my extremely racially segregated dance experiences. While I love it when people feel music I must make a point to note that this is not and should never be accepted in exceptionally crowded spaces where moshing is not mandatory.

Most other cultures dance with their hips, their feet, they use their arms but do not look like they are batting away flies or airing out their arm pits.

 I like to get down– get funky. But there comes a point, in a sea of peachy toned skins when I've received one too many elbows to the head (Note: I was a founding memeber of the 5' 2'' and under club at my high school).  And while this may seem remarkably similar to my rant on busses I feel there are a few differences.

When some lady shoves her Marc by Marc Jacobs bag in my face, I can only hope it has a face smug, or I can just give her a smug look.

When some 6 foot tall guy wearing a tank top and small top hat with feathers elbows me in the temple, and then the eye because he's feeling the beat, I am left with few dignified otions, no maybe none.

Option 1: Get mad. Get in face. Get told I'm being a typical angry brown girl. (Maybe not by him, but someone). Note: This is why I don't drink tequila.

Option 2: Get mad. Start Taibo style kicking and karate chopping (a move originally coined to get away from creepy guys who don't understand that you don't want to dance with them). End up being joined by tall guy who thinks you've got great moves and looking straight up like Chun Li.

Option 3: Get mad. Move. Have different 6 something white guy, or girl do the same.

Option 4: Leave.

Please understand, I adore when people FEEL the music. I love catching a glance of someone in the car really dancing like no one is there. But WHEN did feeling the groove mean THROWING ELBOWS. I know in this individualist mess of America people have no respect for personal space, but once a brown person throws an elbow they're getting violent. When someone with less melanin does, they're just feeling the music. Eff that.

Get with it or go home.

Clearly playing catch up here... but just had to share that if all this learning I've been doing doesn't work out, I have a job in novelty wedding gift making. Namely, cakes made of toilet paper and kleenex. B/c really when do you ever NOT need those?

TP cake (TM magtonic 2008)

I should copy write this shit.

TP cake 2

Made especially for the wedding of J. & J. F. summer 2008.

Obama's press conference today. Part of the Transcript via CNN.com

Question: Mr. President-elect ...

Obama: What happened to your arm, Lynn?

Question: I cracked my shoulder running to your speech on election night.

Obama: Oh, no.

(LAUGHTER)

Question: (inaudible)

Obama: I think that was the only major incident during the -- the entire Grant Park celebration.

Question: Thank you for asking. Here's my question. I'm wondering what you're doing to get ready. Have you spoke to any living ex-presidents, what books you might be reading?

Everyone wants to know, what kind of dog are you going to buy for your girls? Have you decided on a private or public school for your daughters?

Obama: Let -- let me list those off.

In terms of speaking to former presidents, I've spoken to all of them that are living. Obviously, President Clinton -- I didn't want to get into a Nancy Reagan thing about, you know, doing any seances.

I have re-read some of Lincoln's writings, who's always an extraordinary inspiration.

And, by the way, President Carter, President Bush, Sr., as well as the current president have all been very gracious and offered to provide any help that they can in this transition process.

With respect to the dog, this is a major issue. I think it's generated more interest on our Web site than just about anything.

We have -- we have two criteria that have to be reconciled. One is that Malia is allergic, so it has to be hypoallergenic. There are a number of breeds that are hypoallergenic.

On the other hand, our preference would be to get a shelter dog, but, obviously, a lot of shelter dogs are mutts like me. So -- so whether we're going to be able to balance those two things I think is a pressing issue on the Obama household.

He called himself a mutt. :D

Magtonic: YOOOO Obama called himself a mutt in his press conference. I told you I'm a genius.

Magtonic's Best Friend: He's so gangsta.

In all seriousness, here's a far better argument as to why Obama is "so gangsta."

This is just too fantastic.

So I've reached a new stage in life. I'm officially a grad student, working in urban education reform and have tried chocolate covered bacon. But one thing hasn't changed, there are just some things I need to hate on.

    Though I mean well, I’m a pretty judgmental bastardess. I can’t help it. I’m a hater by nature. Without meaning to I defy laws about first impressions. I judge books by their covers — I’m a sucker for good packaging— and I make snap decisions about people based on first impressions. Don’t worry, its not that deep. A few short moments after meeting someone I start filing people into my mental Rolodex.

    In all sincerity, it’s really just a two category sorting system: “research further” or “return to sender, not interested in your offer, please don’t call again.” A perfectly reasonable system if you ask me. Though many people agree these two categories, and this thought process are real talk, my criteria used to divide and conquer the personalities I come into contact with, raises eyebrows.

    Lots of people have rules used to do this type of cataloging— never trust a person with thin lips, never trust someone whose eyes are too close together, never trust someone who is a close talker, won’t look you in the eye and so on.

    But my judging doesn’t stop with people I am actively chopping it up with or when meeting my homey’s homies. Sadly, whenever people ask stupid questions like “what do you notice first in a guy?” I’m ashamed to answer, because on one hand its what I notice first in people in general, and on the other, to many it’s as shallow as you can get.

    No, its not eyes, smile, bods or booty. My judgment isn’t based on shit people can’t control, at least with out a plastic surgeon or behavior modifications. To me, it tells full stories about people, and rest assured, if we were face to face, I’d be judging you by it too. In fact I do it all day, everyday, at the nail shop, on the bus, in the grocery store, even at home. Trust me when I say that it’s all I need to know about people at first glance. I learn more about someone in my small little tidbit-sized deduction than I can learn from being given your name, business title and hometown. (I’m not gonna lie I can also deduce a lot from where you fall in your family’s birth order, but that requires investigating and hella work.)

Sam_flores

    So when I say its someone’s shoes that I notice first, know its not because I’m some stiletto obsessed, fashionista clamoring for Jimmy Choos, knock off Ma-No-No Blahniks  or Louboutins— don’t get it twisted, once in a blue moon I dream about my own pair of classically designed red soled French heels. That’s the wrong girl, and those are the wrong shoes. Hear me out when I say my shoe of preference is, and has always been, the sneaker. Somewhere deep in my heart the teenage hip-hop-head just can’t let go of gloriously fashioned retro kicks in new and exciting colors.  

    Perhaps after years of conditioning- straining to get a peek at others to see if they out did my own kicks, my eyes instinctively go to shoes first. No, I’m not some submissive bitch looking down because culture tells me I can’t look you in the eye, I’m peeping the shoes you decided to wear today, and getting your story.

    The ground rules to my game are few, and only a handful of people have ever proven me wrong. The shoes I tend to hate, often belong to ladies and fellas I wouldn’t want to break bread with in the first place, and as such my check plus check minus system saves me the pain of weighing through hours of conversation and annoying personality traits.

First no-no’s include: dirty, painted on or marked up kicks of any kind, but in particular, Chuck Taylor’s and shell toe adidas fall under most commonly mistreated shoes. In my opinion a Chuck’s rubber toe should be white— not yellow, not brownish, not covered with angsty words or doodles.
    To some degree I get that certain populations want interactive shoes, so once every trillion or so pairs I’ll except an “enhanced” all star, but never should someone draw on a leather shoe like a shell toe. It’s just not cute  and, if you’re too busy to clean the wear and tear off the rubber parts of your shoes I’m sharing a not so secret-secret from the sneaker head handbook… Fantastic and an old toothbrush, nuf said. And folks, there is such thing as beyond repair, something to be noted for any piece of apparel. If your possessions have holes bigger than a pencil eraser and cannot be repaired even with the most simplistic pocket sized sewing kit, its time for that item to be buried. It lived a good life, served you well, but duct tape and gorilla glue or fabric patches can only work in a few instances.

Scratch that. Duct tape should never be used to fix apparel.
Return that shit to sender. It tells me you don’t know how to take care of your shit and while I get money’s     tight (recession and all) when you walk up to someone with grimey shoes that look like they far predate this     little economic crisis, I really have no sympathy.

Now Chuck’s and shell toes can be cool, when kept clean and treated like shoes with their historical importance in American culture should be, but what I really can stand and is almost never excusable, is combat boots worn, well just because— not because you know, you’re combating or anything— as well as creepers or any other shoe sold almost exclusively at hot topic.
    These shoes are often treated as an emo version of a pissing contest. I’m talking the “I’ve had my doc (martin)s for 5 years!” — “Oh yeah! I’ve had mine for 10”.
    No. All you have is a festering ground for foot fungus and bacteria. Trust me. I worked in footwear, creating custom sneakers at a certain major athletic store for a minute. No shoe worn day in and day out for that long of a period of time could ever be bacteria or fungus free. It’s just not possible. Shoes worn every, or nearly everyday, or for heavy activity tend to have a six month life span— Proper foot health tidbit #1.
    Back to the boots. I feel these shoes scream douche, or lack of an ability to embrace change. We aren’t in 1980s London, and the Ramones dead or geriatric. Truthfully most of the jackasses who sport these shoes are too young to even know where this shit comes from. And if you used to rock em’ that’s cool, but you don’t need some clunky ass platform loafers in plaid or gold toed boots (because you enhanced them yourself) to prove something. Not interested in your offer.
    My hatred of boots, creepers and the like segways nicely into my hatred of clunky shoes in general. Long have gone the days of clunky heeled or soled shoes. Ladies, if you’re intimidated by heels, as am I most of the time, there are shoes out there that give you a lift with out the impending fear of breaking your neck. Wedges for example, are cool. Low heels are in. But clogs and three in by three-inch square heels do not scream office professional. Like the orthopedic 2 in soled boots worn by men, they scream, “I am in desperate need of a reason to care!” CARE PEOPLE.


Just slightly less sad than the two sort of categories listed here are those people who care enough to own more than one pair of shoes and take care of them to a certain degree, but don’t know how to branch out. I.E. Men who own black or white K-Swiss, New Balance or Nike’s. It says, I’m sort of up on what’s not ugly but I’m boring and predictable. Women are victims of this as well but often to a lesser degree.
        Why are people so afraid of color, texture and laceless shoes? When did classic Timberland boots become a shoe for all seasons? On the female tip, I understand the appeal of Ugg’s— I won’t front I own a pair of soft soled Ugg slippers, that sheepskin shit is no joke, but those things shouldn’t really venture out of the house. Don’t give me that “they’re good for winter” bullcrap. They aren’t waterproof and have no traction. Frankly they’re the female preppy douche calling card. (Men= dock shoes. For more info, google that bitch.) They’re a fad that needs to die.
    Ditto for Crocs. I get the appeal— ergonomically correct, easy to clean, lightweight but they are GOD AWEFULLY ugly. Grandma’s, grandpa’s and people with bad backs, may the crocs be with you, but please make those bitches your house shoe.
    Being up on trends or at least owning up to more recent to date sneaker-boot slipper hybrids and neon foam rubber clogs is understandable as they’re all designed for comfort or easy, but they really are so common now they’ve been promoted to annoying. They say absolutely nothing special about you. Frankly I think that’s what shoes should do, say something special about you.

No, you don’t need to wear Nike Court Force Hi-s with paisley blue uppers a magenta swoosh and silver details, though those are a current personal fav. Nor do you have to sport red and white Chinese brocade adidas sleek series flats, though I can pull those off at work. What I’m arguing isn’t just a matter of me being judgmental; it’s a matter of presentation. Shoes say everything about you. Not because of the brand or how much they cost you, or the image they give you. The condition of and amount of time you spent picking them out says to me, how much you care about yourself. Plenty of people spend money on clothes, gadgets, personal care products gym memberships and botox to show the world their own self worth. Shoes aren’t that complex and your feet deserve to be remembered.

 

Happy_feet

No your shoes don’t need to be the highlight of your outfit each day, but I believe they can seal the deal. So here’s my brief guide to what I think one’s shoe wardrobe should contain at the most basic level.

    One pair of shoes only to be worn in the house. This can include slippers, those unmentionable clogs and fur lined boots, slides, your favorite sandals from Chinatown, or any other easy shoe designed for comfort not fashion, though they can be fashionable if you like. Wear them in the yard out back, but no further out in front than your doorstep. They can have holes, be dirty (buy not to the point of bacteria developing) whatever you want or need them to be. Only hear is the realm of ugliness, comfort and function, limitless.

    Seasonally appropriate shoes: one for summer, one for winter. Summer shoes take form in slides or sandals and do not require sacrificing comfort for fashion in most cases. Basic leather or solid colored rubber will do, no bells and whistles necessary. Winter shoes require simple, waterproof boots with traction. Fur feather tassels and other foot accessories not necessary. But please, keep each to their own season. Flip-flops + snow = absolute idiocy. Snow boots (or my favorite fur lined ones) + so hot outside you could fry an egg on the street temperatures= cut the fashion umbilical cord. Anna Wintour would not approve.

    For Athletics: Now I say this with the utmost respect for folks who regularly engage in sports or going to the gym or other major physical activities as I suck at keeping up with any one thing— I am sans car so I do walk everywhere. But please folks, please wear the appropriate shoe for your activity of choice. Wearing the wrong shoe can do some GNARLY shit to your body.
    It is with that that I as the following:
                     If you run, do not run in Converse All Stars. If you ball, don’t hit the court in running shoes.
These shoes are not designed to support the impact these activities have on our bodies. That’s why they make different shoes for each of them— Proper foot health tidbit #2.  Do your research, and don’t stray from what your body actually needs.

    For work, like athletic shoes, they should obviously match your game. However, for anyone working from a desk, or in a desk related facility a simple business casual (for the most part) shoe is all you need. They should be sleek.. Work shoes, unless your personality and industry allow, should say only that you’re confident and know what you’re doing. A simple but strong leather shoe in black or brown says this, and I know there are plenty of these out there.

    Lastly, at a basic, and I mean basic minimum, lock down one pair of go anywhere, do anything sneakers/ flats/ casual shoes, that make you happy. For the more conservative types this can be the one colorful shoe in your collection. For someone like me it’s the sunset print slip on Vans or Nike Dunk Lo-s in grey & dark purple with a polka dot toe box. This pair of shoes should make you smile. Happy feet make happy people.

Happy people, get filed into “Research Further.”

About to wrap up my first semester of grad school, hence the MIA-ness of it all. But yesterday the new Roots album dropped and well, as they are possibly my favorite thing ever, I'm geeked. That being said I have this to share. The Roots "Rising Up" on Letterman Monday night.

Originally written in January of 2008…
2007 is out, and 2008 is in, and I can honestly say I’m firmly trying to stay on the sunny side of life this year — That  being said, I’ll work through my poorly chosen metaphor in reverse to set the tone for 2008.

The Ugly:
The ugly truth is that up until the very last few seconds of 2007, shit wasn’t in my favor.

December started where I left off. A surgery for pops, that although it went well and complications were inevitable, Momma Magtonic and Poppa Magtonic spent a Saturday afternoon in the ER… Seizures, there are at least 10 kinds, and they can happen to anyone for no reason at all was what my cousin told me as my man and I sat at home, post 911 call waiting for MommaTonic to give us the go ahead to meet her at the hospital. On the real, his brain basically said “what’d you do to my home?” So seizure/ PoppaTonic watch began for the rest of the month. He’s the type who can never sit still, MommaTonic Jokes that he probably has undiagnosed ADD because back in his day no one knew what it was.

I’m not gonna lie, it wasn’t easy but it wasn’t all bad. My sister came home, though loaded with her own levels of college related drama. The extended fam was supportive as hell, but it sure wasn’t a walk in the park.

The anniversary of the shit that nearly started it all passed, everyone in my house too wrapped up in worrying about Pops. And that seemed to be a good thing, though don’t get it twisted, the waiting for the coming and going of it all was almost too much for me. Wrapped up in retarded levels of anxiety it slipped by and life continued.

Playing caretaker, and watching everyone I know go through it, in one or more senses of the phrase, was rough. And jokingly, on New Year’s Eve, standing in the kitchen surrounded by some family, we laughed at how it would soon be over. I’d be blessed with the ability to take care of myself again no more work, (more on that later) that I’d be hopefully starting that grad program in a few weeks (more on that later) and that thankfully we were in the clear so far as we knew in regards to having to RSVP to any funerals.

Though we were all in it, everyone knew the toll it took on me was a bit fierce. There was a mutual agreement that I had to let go, and everyone was down to support me in getting that shit done!

So 3 minutes to New Years there’s a knock at the door, a kid my sister has invited into our home every New Years for the past few. She told me to lie and tell him she wasn’t home b/c she was exhausted —weren’t we all? So I did, feeling as heavy as I have the entire year, it all sort of converging upon me at once. He passed me a bottle of Jack Daniel’s to give her and parted wishing us all a Happy New Year. I walked back upstairs and she had a second thought. She ran after him phoning him to come back that she had “just gotten home.” With just seconds to spare he flew through the door right at the countdown, hopping off the bus he’d been on by screaming, “STOP THE BUS! HAPPY NEW YEAR” and running to our place. She went into the New Year with a clear conscious, and I with a goal to be happy.

The Bad:

The bad began on January 2nd. A phone call from my grad program where I’m told that they never got my letters of recommendation. WTF? Two months after the deadline, one month till school starts and You’re telling me now? And then I remember I’m talking about a public University in California, what a priviledged life I lead attending one of those private east coast liberal art schools, where the financial aid office knows me by my first name! Scoff!

I should have known. I’m told to have the letters emailed in, then through secret messenger a week later am told that didn’t work. That I need that shit OVERnighted and a friend in the know will hook it up. Back and forth, back and forth loads and loads of crap. Financial aid. Ah yes bearaucracy. My favorite! And so with a week into the school year, I can say I was admitted just a day or two before classes began, no time to register just beg profs to let me in their classes, and with the fortune of receiving a grant. It’s settled but it was unecessarily chaotic.

The Good:

The good is so good. The good is better than good. The good is hella/mad good. Not that the news is all that exciting, it’s just better than it’s been.

I had been creating space between the difficult work place I’d been in, and difficult work related situations by backing off, getting paid a nominal fee to do work from home twice a month, and through mutual agreement was let go. So I am jobless but in a much better space mentally and emotionally. It’s not terrible, to be broke as shit right now, I mean broke as shit… just temporarily that is, but my dream of doing the whole Victorian home in the Sco thing is on hold even longer (though I joke it wont happen till I retire anyway).

And the year set off right. After the New Years and Rec letter debacles, I managed to enjoy the shit out of myself for the first time in months. Early January marked one year since my sister’s best friend passed, though her first memorial had been beautiful and full of laughter, the second had a more symbolic purpose —closure to those most in need of it.

Letting shit go. Native American singers and drummers were to be present, and my sis was to sing a song in her honor, first time with the Native singers ever. I however wouldn’t make it on time as I was too busy at the airport waiting for the arrival of one of my college best friends, one half of my dynamic concert promoting duo, someone who knows me like no other. And so we whisked him back to the memorial and with in seconds we were doing a round dance around the gym. He looking at me like “it’s so good to see you, but this woman is pulling me and I have no idea what beat we’re on.”

Though shit had changed in the two years since we’d seen each other we were still the same. Still functioning the way we did in school. For a week he immersed himself in my life. The one that created me, the one that, as of late had aged me. And it worked in such a way that I finally felt refreshed. On his last night, though his trip was by no means free of obligatory drama —Or in the words of my best friend of almost 20 years, “Girls just hating on other girls”— I felt some strange feeling of regeneration. Went to a club, well no. A lounge in atypical SF style— relaxed environment where I could wear my sneakers (whoot whoot) full of Asian cats donning sideways tilted sf caps (surprise surprise) and the average height there had to be 5’ 7’’. A show homey of 20 years was somehow connected to, his DJ crew. So I danced. For the first time in over a year I danced my ass off, ran into friends from yesterday that I totally missed but had no idea I did. And even when college friend left to meet up with another homegirl from college (who chose not to meet up with us for whatever reason) I kept on going. Stayed out till 3:30. Loved every second of it. Truthfully loved most of the time he was here, when he left, and reality set back in, that moms dad and I were back to being a solo trio, that school wasn’t set in stone and that I had no income.

 I finally felt like I was back. Maybe not strong, but on an upswing for the first time since it all began. For that, I can truly say I was thankful.  

(Whatever happened to Digable Planets?)

As I prepare for a meeting tomorrow morning where a lot of the work I do at my current job is hinging upon, I got to thinking... In times of crisis how do I cope?

Am I in crisis? Not exactly. Without going into gregarious detail, I must make the disclaimer that I’ve been dealt a pretty rough deck of cards in the last 6 months, making that venture into the real world just a tad more… "interesting", than most.

In an attempt to avoid playing my least favorite game of “My Life is SOOO much harder than Yours!” I will keep it simple. 4 funerals in 3 months. All tying tightly into my career(s), my family, my personal life. I’m fine, but through it all, in having so many people in my immediate life so closely affected, I have some how managed to be a rock. Emotionless at times, able to see the humor, beauty, matter of fact-ness in many otherwise difficult or awkward moments. But the truth of the matter is at quarter-life I grew up in ways I’m not sure any of us anticipated.

Last night in a phone conversation with a dear friend we talked about the fact that I don’t entirely feel like myself. As though parts of my personality are under nourished.

He, who may know me best in the world at times noted that “there is no one to feed you. You’re so busy being everyone else’s support system that there’s no one to take care of you.” I bawled.

And while it's true, I have managed to do okay. It's the mere words coming out of someone else's mouth that got me. And being the smartass that I've always been, I said something to the affect of:

          "Whatever, I'm too fly to...." Something or other.

He laughed pointed out how bipolar I had been in our conversation. "One minute you're talking about how fly your new hair cut is, the next you're crying. Then talking about how funny you are, and then how fly you are again."

I have a problem with the word fly I suppose. It developed in the wake of my roller coaster ride into the year 2007. It seemed that through it all I managed to come into my "adult look" a ruthless battle I've had with looking my age (partially due to my job at the high school where people would get enraged with the thought that I MIGHT ACTUALLY BE AN ADULT DESPITE MY LOOK, partially due to being a fat kid, and lastly a great deal to do with my own version of spiritualism that involves cutting my hair whenever there are major life changes). Through months of work I've improved my health, managed to loose a ton of doctor mandated pounds, and generally felt good about myself. (An older brother like figure pointed out that I always seem to feel best helping people, he just hoped I was taking care of myself.)

And the thing is, I DO believe I'm fly all of the sudden. I've had some amazingly wonderful things happen. Fly new job, and new hair now too.  So maybe that's how I cope. Accept, and embrace the fact that I am FLY. (Something I discovered at my last job when suddenly I was the "funny, REAL" girl that everyone had crushes on). It's a joke 90% of the time. But whatever it takes to get me through, I'll go with it.

(Although I should say this. IF one more person says I look like "Ugly Betty" but when she's pretty... I will go crazy. HER NAME IS AMERICA FERRERA, NOT UGLY BETTY. And It's hardly a compliment when UGLY is in the sentence. Yeah, it's like that. I'm keeping it real. As Nelly Furtado said recently, I'm real as they come if you don't know why I'm Fly-y-y).