Almost Famous ... But not Really

I have facebooked, tweeted, myspaced and match.com'd myself into the selective Internet consciousness. I think mainly because I have a massive ego I hide behind my dazzlingly beautiful smile and utterly charming demeanor.

I also think it's because no one wants to be forgotten and from the beginning of time most humans wanted to be famous.

We harbor secret inner desires of fame through American Idol, The Apprentice or The Bachelor/The Bachelorette. Hell, I think someone people will take America's Funniest Home Videos at this point!

Why is being known such a burning desire of people and being forgotten an utterly terrifying thought?

We are selfish. There I said it. People will do anything for attention. Jersey Shore anyone?!

Even, dense gel-haired, leopard print wearing, fist pumping wannabes can get a show!

I sound bitter don't I?

I'm no better than they are. I look for an opening where I can take it. What? Did someone think I started blogging because I was so deep? Nope.

We type our names in Google to see what comes up -- our personal website URLs warring for better positions on search engines like New York City sewer rats over rotten scraps.

But I take solace in the fact we are all stars on the Internet. We just have to share the famous pie (I think it tastes like cherry) and cut it up into mini, bite size pieces and feed those to our starving egos.

I'm talking to myself just as much as I'm talking to you all.

Why are we all driven to become known?

30 years ago ...

I have fun at work. I always have. The pressure, the coworkers, the inappropriate comments from coworkers can be quite experience. Mostly, I like the fact because of these same coworkers, I have some pretty colorful conversations; many of which I use in my writings. Pretty much like I'm going to do now.

My coworker and I were joking around the other day about my home. He said he and his wife would move in, but not pay any rent and would need me to leave for a few days as they were throwing a party to which he said I wasn't invited and when I asked why, he replied, "Because it's 'Whites only.'"

I thought this joke was hilarious and so did he and after we finished laughing. He commented 30 years ago that would have been true and I was quick to agree until I thought about it and said, "Hey wait! I was born 30 years ago! We didn't have Jim Crow back then!"

We did have racism 30 years ago believe it and it's still here. The fact we have a black president doesn't really prove anything to me about the diminishing of racism. Just that some people are a lot better at hiding it now. I'm a skeptic.

I think when he said 30 years ago we both thought it that was a sufficient amount of time to span the time of liberal enlightenment to a more sinister, hateful time when my coworker and I couldn't even think about being coworkers let alone friends. We underestimated the amount of time.

I think I’m grateful he and I can joke about race. I think I'm a little ashamed for not noticing right off that 30 years wasn't long enough to make the point he was trying to make and with which I so readily agreed. I think that I'm thinking way too hard about this and am going to get a latte.

Action vs. Reaction

I was walking home from work yesterday and when I got to the corner, I heard a woman talking and didn't hear a voice answering back. I didn't pay attention too much at first because, well we're in the 21st century. We have cell phones the size of grapes and earpieces that are installed in your head for a nominal $49.99 fee.

However, when I looked, really looked, I saw there was no Bluetooth, BlackBerry, or trendy tech device attached to her ear or hip. There was nothing. This woman was talking to herself.

You've got to love good old fashioned "crazy."

Being my normal compassionate and caring self, I tried to stay as far away from this chick as I could.

She saw me though and she said, "What the hell are you lookin' at you stupid nigger?!"

The woman was black, but it's not like I cared about her race at this point. I just couldn't believe the words that came out of her mouth.

Now I had one of two ways I could react to the situation:

A. beat the hell out of a crazy lady and then write a blog about life in a Cook County prison; or

B. breathe deeply, realize this person wasn't in their right mind and move on

After about a minute of debating in my head, I chose the second of both reactions for one reason: There were people watching me -- a group of tourists.

How do I know they were tourists? Well the lady with the headset talking about the Sears Tower and the people wearing fanny packs were pretty much a dead giveaway.

I just imagined what could happen giving in to the temptation and putting that woman in a headlock with my right arm while pummeling her with my left fist (I say I'd use my left fist because that's my strongest).

The impression these people walk away with about Chicago is concerning for me, but most of all I didn't want witnesses to what could be a very physical, LOUD and profane answer back to this loon. I didn't want to seem like a stereotype, I guess -- the neck-rolling, finger-waving black woman.

I'm not ashamed of who I am and I'm not Uncle Tom'ing it up for a group of white tourists. It's just that I didn't want to represent myself in a way I thought someone was expecting. Is that wrong?

Myintrotoletuknow About Ghetto Yuppies

So hip-hop heads (my brother definitely included) have probably figured out the title of my blog's first entry is a nod to Outkast's 1994 debut album Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik.

This is my debut, however.

We shouldn't be afraid of words ghetto or yuppies nor take offense when these terms are uttered. They are labels and these two labels together best describe me -- black and loud and proud, but dammit if I don't like a spicy tuna roll and or a venti white chocolate mocha from Starbucks too. I'm a mystery, wrapped in an enigma wrapped in this cute pair of chuck taylors I saw worn by Pete Wentz from Fall Out Boy.

This first entry is also a disclaimer so before Al Sharpton wags his finely manicured finger in judgement at the word ghetto or the ACLU comes to my defense using the first amendment -- be warned. I will write things you may not like or understand, but I need to get my "crazy" out somewhere and better here than you all see me talking to an imaginary friend on the Red Line train going to 95th St.

This is a fluid commenting on the fine line I walk as a black woman in a not-so-black world; that structured, boxed-in dance many African-Americans have to master like the electric slide at our yearly family reunions. This blog will be my sanity and my salvation in small parts.

So here I go. Are you there? I hope you are because if you're not, then I am no better off mentally than I thought and should start figuring out a good name for my imaginary friend. I like the name Leopold.