True Urban Legends

i know that i’ve told this story, but i would be remiss to omit Chelle from this new series. i was on the F train, heading towards Sean P and Ghostface, and since i had gotten lost on my way back to Queens the night before, i wanted to make sure i was heading in the right direction. there was this woman across the way that seemed to be directing traffic, so i asked her. after deducing that i had to say in full “York Station” and not just “York” because that means something completely different (including “pork”, “portland”, etc.) she asked me (or aksed me) to write my name down on a piece of paper for her because “it’s pretty”. i felt funny just writing my name, so i gave her my email, but she didn’t have email, so she gave me her phone number and her cell, and graced me with conversation instead about how she’s getting her GED and trying to get her business on. she told me that she doesn’t get out much anymore because her main hangout partner got a boyfriend. so i invited her to the screening of Wild Style in the park, and she told me she didn’t have much money, well, hey, this was free! which launched a whole advice train of how to take advantage of the free musical concerts on Mondays in BK, but how you need to get there hours in advance because if you leave to go to the bathroom, you forfeit your seat. she also brought a souppot (but i only need to bring a cup because i’m small), didn’t wear any underpanties, and pee into it, wipe with a little masingil, and it’s good! oh, Chelle. the true urban legend-ary inspiration for this series, i do believe.

and they say that chivalry is dead, not on the orange line! i was going towards Cote Vertu, and noticed a muggin’ gentleman (wearing one of those faux fur jackets, polite or not, that shit has to go!) but he got up to offer his seat to an elderly woman as she came onto the train. witnessing this facilitated a whole host of other seat offerings all over the car and for the entire ride, including the same elderly lady offering her seat to a young father and his baby, etc. etc. see? we can *blink to good things too, or tip points, whatever….malcolm gladwell books seem to all blur at some point.

this again is a retrospective, so i don’t remember exactly where i was headed. there was an older gentleman with an overflowing bag of lemons. somehow, they tipped over, and he was exclaiming, “my lemons!” and was scrambling to pick them all up. he was of limited mobility, so some folks were trying to help him out. a young woman joined the hunt most vigorously, but you could tell she was operating with some apprehension as she didn’t seem like the type to voluntarily dive under and between peoples’ legs to capture the lemons that were now rolling through the car. so, when someone came in at a new stop and sat in her seat, she said nothing, just sighed and focused on her “ramassing”. someone else piped up though, or rather, pointed up and at her, and down at the lemons. not only did the sitting person humble himself to returning the seat, he helped her pluck the last lemon before. nobody was more tickled than the old man.

ok, this one dates back awhile, but still sticks out in my mind: i’m on the orange (i’ll assume) line, and my eavesdropping ears drift to a quiet conversation (aka, a real conversation, because they were just speaking to themselves, not the world) between two older gentleman, who were obviously very familiar, like, from the oldest generation of gay folks (and they’re still together) and it was a nice, everyday conversation that went like this:

the other night, rolling through Sherbrooke metro on my way home, i witnessed the most charming acoustic duo, two french ladies, one on guitar, the other on violin, harmonizing to r&b hits. amongst the tunes were “cry me a river”, “all i do”, and my heart almost fluttered as i heard the two french accents go all out on “why did 213, show up on your caller eye—-deeeeee?!”, yes, they were singing “it’s not right, but it’s ok” and the best part was this dood rolling through, kind of a goth looking mean mugger, couldn’t help himself, he was singing along as he passed them. serious, man. we don’t have the talent of NY subways, but we got heart, y’all.

a wet nurse is a lady who has titty on tap, usually to feed white babies.

all of our hearts go out to this beauty-full young woman in light of her recent tragedies, but there are still some things to be said about her debut album, and hopes that her next film will not be of her acting as a servant of some sort (her role in SATC was basically the whipping girl of SJP, even though she was “empowered” and such, whatever, we’ll talk about this later). i wonder if this is going to be another case of jamie foxx syndrome (i’m also watching that that other chicago-an, Obama, doesn’t fall victim to this), someone with remarkable talent being stifled by limited song writers and producers. i can’t say that there is any standout track on this album, nothing that captures her energy, power, and impact like Dreamgirls, and in fact, the “woman to woman”, tired motif of “the boy is mine super ghetto” duet with Fantasia doesn’t do either one of them any favours, as well as reiterates the fact that the man should not get off scott free. don’t tear out the other woman’s eyes, man, she may not even know you exist, if he’s lying to you, who knows who else he’s lying to. 

uh, HUH. yeah, it’s gotta hurt, B, that daddy’s retaliating to you jumping ship and signing over his biggest ass-et to your husband by putting everything behind your baby sister, because solange’s album is bangin’, fresh, innovative and this is…. and it was kind of a silly move, no? your pops is only the Suge Knight of R&B. and this “double” album, aka one album split into two discs, is more packaging than substance. Ave Maria?! outfits borrowed from figure skaters and old george michael video shoots (i swear linda evangelista was rocking that handle bar bustier when he was still trying to pass as straight)?! i guess she’s truly a star now, because her voice has been toned down to the point that it’s just boring, her songwriters seem very “mature”, and that alter ego sure has some horrible eyebrows and collagen injected lips? no comment. is it major label? is it growing out of a niche and not thinking about the next one? is it the result of child-stardom? who knows, but short of the dood who got your steps down in a disturbing bodysuit (only because it revealed too much of his ribs), nothing about this project titillates me in the least, but i look forward to her next movie.