I’m not sure how people get shit done. I thought maybe if I moved back to New York, the muse would take me away like Calgone. And he/she has. Except he/she likes to party all the time and between this one and, well, life, I’ve found that there aren’t enough hours in the day. I have fantastic two pager pieces that require me suffering through that mountain of literary bullshit that sometimes turns into creative genius and other times just acts as a nice Raider’s Of The Lost Ark bridge until I get to the next good part. I need some more time in the day to cross the bridge.

Except I’m enjoying living lately. This weekend, Scott and I had big plans of purging and putting up shelves. Friday we fell asleep after an emotional week. Saturday morning I got to tear up even MORE paper (my fingers can tear in their sleep, I swear) to throw away. Some of it was Yaze’s old stuff but I tear because I am afraid of identity theft. Then there were pictures and old writing and napkins with poems and programs and hair (my old dreadlocs, that might freak you out but I’m scared somebody might grab them and put a spell on me - don’t say it can’t happen until it doesn’t)all trapped in bins. My back hurt, I got cranky, the Vets didn’t show up to pick up the clothes and Scott decides that he needs to go to Pathmark to buy a lot of stuff I haven’t had since I was ten (they still make canned corn by the way - who knew?). And then he told me that I was sexy. And all the cranky melted. Not just because some guy told me but because it was a guy in the trenches with me who understood that my life is doing a regular roller coaster (Steve Martin in the “The Parenthood” was on this morning and boy does his grandma give a good albeit cliche roller coaster life monologue) and he just wants to soften the down part and soothe the up part.

Then we have a good fight because men are cranky when you wake them up from naps and I had to because we were going to se….TRINIDAD VS. JONES! I’m new to boxing. Last time we saw Cotto vs. some body black and the Nuyoricans went wild when their man beat the black guy and we all decided to pretend we were Puerto Rican to make sure we got home safe. Kidding. Kinda. This time, after telling me that fighting doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me (it’s new, guys, I don’t need a lot of reassuring but you don’t know early if there’s a back out clause in some body’s love for you so I never get too comfortable), we got into the fight with our friends. I love when men get together and talk sports. I love it when women are around to smirk and laugh at what they say. This is not to say I don’t like women who don’t know sports. On the contrary. I just like men to be the show sometimes so we women can sit back and see what the hell comes out of their mouths when they get a rhythm going. After four million mini fights prior (okay, Scott, we could’ve slept in an hour or so more), we get to Roy and Tito in the ring.

Sidebar: we saw Dog The Bounty Hunter and his wife arrive. That’s a lot of product in that bleach blond beach straw there boy. We saw Don King whom I’m told was the reason Tom and Patrice Turk went to Cali some thirty four years ago, thus me being born there. But I have an issue with the Winfrey Family Tall tales. Sometimes they lie. Also, apologies to all of you who came out in your furs, your knee boots, full make up, gold chains, baller hats, stink pink gators, etc. since I was just in jeans. I just can’t ever think getting dressed for a fight could compare to the one time, barely able to tell my colors from each other, I helped my mom get ready for the Hearns vs. Sugar Ray Robinson fight in Detroit so many many many years ago. All else pales.

Roy Jones is fun. Through the man rattling, I hear that he was in the Olympics, that he had to bulk up to fight this guy since everyone else in his previous weight category was no match, that he has some almost grown sons, something about Michael Vick needing to go to Oakland and a lot about some people I don’t know. Roy Jones was fun. He danced. He pounded his chest. He was entertaining. Some of the guys around us said he was TOO entertaining but I had a ball seeing him include us into his fight. Nothing would ever compare to seeing somebody like Muhammad Ali, I’m sure, and I regret not being born a little earlier to see it. I also couldn’t help but wanting to time travel for five seconds (before they found out what color I was and tried to lynch me) back to the 30s where the fights were held in a small white box with seemingly millions of dark masses focused on that bright small area and the crowd roaring.

Questions.
1) Why do we have two anthems singing if one opponent is from Puerto Rico and the other is from here? If you don’t need a passport to get there, why separate?
2) Do people give a shit about ring girls now? I’m wondering cause I do remember my mom wanting to be one back in the day…wondering about the future in number holding.
3) How come Roy Jones has a rap group of his very own to introduce him? There were more people in that ring then the Garden. Okay, maybe not really but it did seem like it.

Roy won. He didn’t hit much but when he did, poor Tito’s knees buckled. I have to hand it to Tito though. He sure did hit with consistency…like an annoying little brother. Everyone watching though was wondering if there were enough hits for Roy at the end of the day to win. He spent too much time dancing, the said. Well, Roy did inspire me. He had enough hits at the end of the day. I felt inspired.

The next day we attempted the shelving but first rearranged the living room. Whereas before when I moved here, I unpacked like a demon to make this place comfortable for somebody who wouldn’t show for the long haul and also didn’t really notice the hard work when they came to visit, this time we rearranged slowly. Now it looks like a living room. Some people are better at some kind of feng shui that I am not. I am a pack rat and clutter bunny. With great guidance, Scott was able to show me a few tricks that would make life a bit easier. But he still won’t do dishes. You can’t have everything.

When we get to the closet, it’s night time and the dumb drill won’t go very far in the wall. I curse The Container Store people and their “It’s easy” reassurances. Scott laughs at me and makes me see all the stuff we did do in the day. A living room, a rearranged bedroom (we tried to have a plan B but ended up with a better functioning bedroom) and several bags of shit out of the apartment. He wouldn’t let me keep all the grumpies I wanted to keep for the day. There had to be enough acknowledgements for the stuff we did do or else I was being selfish. It is really new, I must say, looking at someone who is macho and stubborn tell me that we need to be happy with what we’ve done. I expect it always to be the other way around. I’m the cheerleader but I guess it’s true: save the cheerleader, save the world. Ha.

So with all that, life is happening and so the typing doesn’t happen so much. And then you get these long rambling blogs I post (thanks for all the compliments on the last one! That was a hard one to post!)because I don’t have enough literary glue in me to stick these kind of words to some fiction to make them work. Not right now. There’s some process they have to go through first.

Lastly, today, I could a pinch more of good news. Harlem World and working with Kenji in that project isn’t happening anymore. He got shafted. But he is offering to work with me on crafting my column and shopping it. The sucky part is that I really did want to parlay the column into a strong marketing plan for self publishing my novel. Back to the drawing board. Except there’s plenty enough life in the day, moving around and causing me to get a little dizzy sometimes.

This week is Daddy-O’s birthday. On the 24th, please give a shout out to my papa.

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