Friday 24 August 2012
Club Chronicles pt.15 - Meet Stacie
You've seen me tweet it. It's in my bios on my social networks. People who don't know me personally think its my real name. I'm of course speaking on the mystery that is Stacie.
Stacie began with me and my lovely clubbing girlfriends. We were talking about how cool it would be if we were an all girl rock band. How ignorant and obnoxious we could act if we were famous like that. Now, we can't play instruments or sing but the concept of Stacie was born that day.
Time after time I meet people who ask me about Stacie. Who is she? What does her name mean? Why Stacie? Here it is. Your official introduction to the world of Stacie.
Stacie, by definition, is a professional, couch jumping, Hennessy drinking, partying mother fucker.
A Stacie is the upper echelon of party females. Stacie doesn't wait in lines, but remains gracious and polite at all times. She doesn't pay for her drinks unless she wants to show you she can... Because she can.
Stacie won't be caught dead acting slack on the dance floor with some random sweaty dude. She's probably jumping on an alcohol soaked couch in the VIP, spilling her drink on her shoes, rapping along to trap music.
Stacie shocks the club when she dresses up, but always stunts when she dresses down. She doesn't need to wear a short dress and heels to impress the masses. She knows it's a dangerous feat to stand on a couch in heels. Safety first.
Stacie does not drink vodka. She's a Hennessy girl to her core. Coco told Stacie not to talk to a dude unless he buys her a bottle. She may still throw a smile and polite convo your way if you pour her a shot or two of the Jesus juice though.
Drunk Stacie comes in different forms. She's confident, ignorant, arrogant and sometimes obnoxious. She's sometimes uncoordinated, and talks a lotta shit but she's never an ugly, sloppy mess. She's never rowdy, confrontational or argumentative.
Stacie goes to the club to have fun and enjoy the company of like-minded people. She is not there to impress anyone. She's not there to draw the thirst of men. Stacie is about the party. Stacie IS the party.
Stacie already exists, so you can't BE Stacie, but if you party like her, you're very Stacie-esque. And Stacie fucks with that.
The Articulate Bitch
Tuesday 21 August 2012
Shit I Fucks Wit: Birth Of Heroes
Every once in a while something comes out of this city that I love and would love to support. This time it's possibly the only cut and sew clothing line born out of the city. Birth Of Heroes is bringing the art of originality back to the small business clothing industry in the city, and the popularity is only growing.
Check out their summer look book and head over to their site to take advantage of their summer sale!
Twitter:
Check out their summer look book and head over to their site to take advantage of their summer sale!
Twitter:
@BirthofHeroesTO
@BirthofHeroesHK
www.BirthOfHeroes.com <------ Click Here to take advantage of 30% off! use the code "SUMMERSALE"
The Articulate Bitch
Thursday 16 August 2012
Ode To Summer's Boobs
We are the children of the BET era. We grew up glued to our televisions watching video after video of excess, and fabulousness. Hot cars, heavy jewelry, expensive alcohol and beautiful women. We were dazzled and fascinated. Let's not front like we didn't love every moment of it.
We grew with the music. We grew with the videos. We grew with the video vixens. The artists changed often but the beautiful women remained the same. Melissa Ford, Lashontae Heckard, Buffy the Body, Esther Baxter, Angel (or Lola Monroe as she's known now), we know their names, their faces and perhaps most of all their bodies. Buffy's body, Melissa's ass, Lashontae's exotic face, the women of our video dreams were known and remembered for their assets (no pun intended).
Whom among us can ever forget Summer Walker and those awesome boobs?! Even I recall getting googly eyed seeing this lovely in videos like Play (David Banner), Grillz (Nelly & 'em) and Golddigger (Kanye West). Glory be to them tits brah. So imagine the shock, awe and utter surprise when Ms Walker announced she was taking those fantastic Fs down to a C.
Summer is doing big things away from the camera these days, so not to worry, this isn't the last you'll hear from Boss Lady Walker. With a studio about to open under her watchful eye and business savvy (Means Street Studio, ATL), Summajam is going to be a busy woman as soon as she slides off the operating table.
I adore Summer, and her spectacular boobage. I wish her the greatest of luck with her surgery today and recovery. Now excuse me while I make a mess with the topless photos she sent me....
Kidding!
Love you girl! It's C Day!
The Articulate Bitch
We grew with the music. We grew with the videos. We grew with the video vixens. The artists changed often but the beautiful women remained the same. Melissa Ford, Lashontae Heckard, Buffy the Body, Esther Baxter, Angel (or Lola Monroe as she's known now), we know their names, their faces and perhaps most of all their bodies. Buffy's body, Melissa's ass, Lashontae's exotic face, the women of our video dreams were known and remembered for their assets (no pun intended).
Whom among us can ever forget Summer Walker and those awesome boobs?! Even I recall getting googly eyed seeing this lovely in videos like Play (David Banner), Grillz (Nelly & 'em) and Golddigger (Kanye West). Glory be to them tits brah. So imagine the shock, awe and utter surprise when Ms Walker announced she was taking those fantastic Fs down to a C.
Summer is doing big things away from the camera these days, so not to worry, this isn't the last you'll hear from Boss Lady Walker. With a studio about to open under her watchful eye and business savvy (Means Street Studio, ATL), Summajam is going to be a busy woman as soon as she slides off the operating table.
I adore Summer, and her spectacular boobage. I wish her the greatest of luck with her surgery today and recovery. Now excuse me while I make a mess with the topless photos she sent me....
Kidding!
Love you girl! It's C Day!
The Articulate Bitch
Saturday 11 August 2012
The Period Post
I have always hated discussing this topic. I know I'm a girl and it's a part of my life and shit but I just find it gross. I hate everything associated with monthly bleeding. I hate tampon/pad commercials, I don't even know why they're necessary. I don't give a fuck about the most recent technology in absorption. As a mater of fact, whenever a new feature is developed in diapers the same becomes available for pads. It's hilarious and disturbing. I hate the cramps (I've been hospitalized three times), the pain killer popping, the PMS, the leak paranoia, the bloating... I HATE IT ALL. However, it is still an unavoidable part of life for us ladies. In light of this, I believe there are certain things we do and don't like about Eve's curse.
I was lucky, I wasn't stricken with this curse until my first year of high school, but when it happened I was so royally pissed my dad was confused. I screamed, yelled, cried and called my mom. She laughed and told me to chill but I hated it so much, and still do to this day. What do you mean 4 days of every month?! EVERY MONTH? Kill me. I'd rather be dead. I hated it at 13, I hate it now at 23.
On the plus side, when it does come I partially want to throw myself a party for making it one more month without catching the deadly pregnancy disease. I know, on rare occasions some girls will still bleed during their pregnancies but for the past 10 years I have not been one of them. I've only been pregnancy paranoid maybe 3 times in my life, 'cause condoms are my best friend, but I couldn't wait to see blood the coming weeks after an irresponsible night of fucking.
Cramps though! Nigga. This has to be the most painful thing next to child birth (I wonder if that's what labour feels like). I'm glad I don't own a gun or I may have blown my brain out years ago to escape the pain. Mine are terrible, some girls get none and I hate all you fortunate bitches. I get cold sweats, headaches and nausea amongst other things. I've fainted in my dad's kitchen, in my bathroom, and even in an elevator from the pain. YES, IT'S THAT SERIOUS. My pain tolerance is super high, but I've been hooked up to IVs with a morphine drip for these suckers. Shit is so real.
However, being on your rag gives you a valid excuse to deny sexual advances (although some dudes will gladly run a red light) and even justify ignorant mood swings and bitchy behavior. But fellas, don't ever ask a girl if she's on her period if she snaps at you. If you're wrong she's gonna bite your head off. If you're right she's gonna bite your head off. Just skip it. Trust me on this one.
I still hate how it dictates my clothing choices. No light coloured jeans, just forget about wearing white and skirts are a bit risky. Tight clothes are iffy because of the bloating too. Man I live in sweats those days out of the month. Fuck dressing cute.
The food cravings can be bad I guess, but I love food so it's a plus in my books. I crave everything. Pepsi is my telltale drink of choice along with anything chocolate (that's kinda all the time though). Sitting in sweats popping extra strength pain killers eating food? Sign me up.
I don't discuss my reds with dudes, but the odd fella will ask me about it. Mostly when it is, we all know why they wanna know that. But some guys are awesome about it. My ex would make me tea, bring me pills, smoke me a blunt and rub my tummy for me. Why not? Good boyfriends should do those things. I would never send him to buy me "stuff" though. I draw the line.
Periods suck. I still hate them regardless of the pros. But I abide by my personal rules of engagement when it comes to Aunt Flo: don't go check niggaz (pointless), take mad pain killers, have a hot water bottle & tea on deck, live in sweats, eat yummy things and chill. The key is to chill! Make yourself as comfy as possible and ride it out. If you've got a great guy or an awesome best friend like I did and do even better! Don't worry, we all suffer with you. I hate the bitch Eve too.
The Articulate Bitch
I was lucky, I wasn't stricken with this curse until my first year of high school, but when it happened I was so royally pissed my dad was confused. I screamed, yelled, cried and called my mom. She laughed and told me to chill but I hated it so much, and still do to this day. What do you mean 4 days of every month?! EVERY MONTH? Kill me. I'd rather be dead. I hated it at 13, I hate it now at 23.
On the plus side, when it does come I partially want to throw myself a party for making it one more month without catching the deadly pregnancy disease. I know, on rare occasions some girls will still bleed during their pregnancies but for the past 10 years I have not been one of them. I've only been pregnancy paranoid maybe 3 times in my life, 'cause condoms are my best friend, but I couldn't wait to see blood the coming weeks after an irresponsible night of fucking.
Cramps though! Nigga. This has to be the most painful thing next to child birth (I wonder if that's what labour feels like). I'm glad I don't own a gun or I may have blown my brain out years ago to escape the pain. Mine are terrible, some girls get none and I hate all you fortunate bitches. I get cold sweats, headaches and nausea amongst other things. I've fainted in my dad's kitchen, in my bathroom, and even in an elevator from the pain. YES, IT'S THAT SERIOUS. My pain tolerance is super high, but I've been hooked up to IVs with a morphine drip for these suckers. Shit is so real.
However, being on your rag gives you a valid excuse to deny sexual advances (although some dudes will gladly run a red light) and even justify ignorant mood swings and bitchy behavior. But fellas, don't ever ask a girl if she's on her period if she snaps at you. If you're wrong she's gonna bite your head off. If you're right she's gonna bite your head off. Just skip it. Trust me on this one.
I still hate how it dictates my clothing choices. No light coloured jeans, just forget about wearing white and skirts are a bit risky. Tight clothes are iffy because of the bloating too. Man I live in sweats those days out of the month. Fuck dressing cute.
The food cravings can be bad I guess, but I love food so it's a plus in my books. I crave everything. Pepsi is my telltale drink of choice along with anything chocolate (that's kinda all the time though). Sitting in sweats popping extra strength pain killers eating food? Sign me up.
I don't discuss my reds with dudes, but the odd fella will ask me about it. Mostly when it is, we all know why they wanna know that. But some guys are awesome about it. My ex would make me tea, bring me pills, smoke me a blunt and rub my tummy for me. Why not? Good boyfriends should do those things. I would never send him to buy me "stuff" though. I draw the line.
Periods suck. I still hate them regardless of the pros. But I abide by my personal rules of engagement when it comes to Aunt Flo: don't go check niggaz (pointless), take mad pain killers, have a hot water bottle & tea on deck, live in sweats, eat yummy things and chill. The key is to chill! Make yourself as comfy as possible and ride it out. If you've got a great guy or an awesome best friend like I did and do even better! Don't worry, we all suffer with you. I hate the bitch Eve too.
The Articulate Bitch
A Caribana Carol
Gather round children, and hear a tale of wonder, adventure, music, heat, thirst and sex. Of tired feet, expensive cover charges, celebrity sightings and exceptions to our everyday rules. This is the story of the REAL Caribana.
The Ghost of Caribana Past
When we were young and underaged, too young to be in the club popping bottles, but old enough to be out late, Caribana was the highlight of our year. As June landed upon us, torontonian teens would begin planning their Caribana weekend. We'd save our money, beg our parents to get us hotels for us and our friends, gather our party outfits for all-ages joints like Canada Meets America and count down the days until the parade.
Caribana Friday was always the same. As the sun set you were already on Yonge Street, walking the strip texting everyone trying to find your friends. Dundas Square would be packed with people dressed to the nines. Dudes would find a spot on the strip to post up with their homies and grab girls by the wrist all night saving number after number in their flip phones. Girls knew what would happen, hoping to meet a dude from the states, listening for an accent of any sort. Dudes knew it to, so many fellas from the city had practiced their New York accents for weeks in advance. We were young. And dumb. And full of cum. I'm sure most of us look back and laugh at how pathetic we were.
But we never missed the parade. We would always take the same route: to Bathurst Station, then on the good old 511 Bathurst streetcar to the CNE. We all hopped over the fence, scraping a body part or two in the process, to join the parade. We hopped on floats and bubbled hot, sweaty strangers in the street. Bought water from hustling vendors with garbage bins filled with ice and bottled water, littered lakeshore with flags, Popsicle sticks, sweat rags, food containers and discarded costume pieces.
We'd reach the end of the parade route and either stopped there or walked the route one more time. Then it was back to Yonge Street in the night time. Often we stayed out so long the strip would be dead, the sun would be rising again, and we'd wait til the subway started running to go home.
The Ghost of Caribana Present
Nowadays 'Bana is very different. The city even changed the name of our most anticipated summer festival. We still all it Caribana. We ALWAYS will. We're grown now! We may still plan our weekend in advance but the way we do it is much more effortless and smooth. We don't have to try so hard to save, we can book our own hotels now, preorder our bottles for the club and reserve our booths. Many of us don't attend the parade anymore because it doesn't feel the same. But some of us play mass with our friends and enjoy a drunken Palance down the parade route.
The thirst is still there, but tends to be more sophisticated.
Now, we don't just exchange numbers. We discuss hotel locations, room numbers and what chasers or blunts to bring. We stay off the Yonge strip in favour of the Sheraton Hotel lobby, which tends to look like a scene from Paid in Full.
Now we attend parties and pop bottles in celebration of the summer. We get our VIP packages and take pics with visiting celebrities we may bump into. We enjoy the drunken 4 day weekend to the fullest. Dressing up, entertaining visiting friends from far off places, and making exceptions while throwing morals out the window with our hotel indiscretions. This is Caribana for grown folks.
The Ghost of Caribana Future
In the future, who knows what Caribana will be like. There are so many traditions we follow, perhaps it will remain the same. Yonge Street still floods with people, just not as much as before. Sheraton's lobby still bumps every year. Americans still flock to the city to enjoy the festivities with us. The thirst will always remain, the parties will always pop, celebs will always visit.
Perhaps it's only us that have changed and will change. We'll be telling our kids stories of our Caribanas when we watch them embark on their own bana adventures on the first weekend of August.
... I just pray that they aren't as horrid as we were.
The Articulate Bitch
The Ghost of Caribana Past
When we were young and underaged, too young to be in the club popping bottles, but old enough to be out late, Caribana was the highlight of our year. As June landed upon us, torontonian teens would begin planning their Caribana weekend. We'd save our money, beg our parents to get us hotels for us and our friends, gather our party outfits for all-ages joints like Canada Meets America and count down the days until the parade.
Caribana Friday was always the same. As the sun set you were already on Yonge Street, walking the strip texting everyone trying to find your friends. Dundas Square would be packed with people dressed to the nines. Dudes would find a spot on the strip to post up with their homies and grab girls by the wrist all night saving number after number in their flip phones. Girls knew what would happen, hoping to meet a dude from the states, listening for an accent of any sort. Dudes knew it to, so many fellas from the city had practiced their New York accents for weeks in advance. We were young. And dumb. And full of cum. I'm sure most of us look back and laugh at how pathetic we were.
But we never missed the parade. We would always take the same route: to Bathurst Station, then on the good old 511 Bathurst streetcar to the CNE. We all hopped over the fence, scraping a body part or two in the process, to join the parade. We hopped on floats and bubbled hot, sweaty strangers in the street. Bought water from hustling vendors with garbage bins filled with ice and bottled water, littered lakeshore with flags, Popsicle sticks, sweat rags, food containers and discarded costume pieces.
We'd reach the end of the parade route and either stopped there or walked the route one more time. Then it was back to Yonge Street in the night time. Often we stayed out so long the strip would be dead, the sun would be rising again, and we'd wait til the subway started running to go home.
The Ghost of Caribana Present
Nowadays 'Bana is very different. The city even changed the name of our most anticipated summer festival. We still all it Caribana. We ALWAYS will. We're grown now! We may still plan our weekend in advance but the way we do it is much more effortless and smooth. We don't have to try so hard to save, we can book our own hotels now, preorder our bottles for the club and reserve our booths. Many of us don't attend the parade anymore because it doesn't feel the same. But some of us play mass with our friends and enjoy a drunken Palance down the parade route.
The thirst is still there, but tends to be more sophisticated.
Now, we don't just exchange numbers. We discuss hotel locations, room numbers and what chasers or blunts to bring. We stay off the Yonge strip in favour of the Sheraton Hotel lobby, which tends to look like a scene from Paid in Full.
Now we attend parties and pop bottles in celebration of the summer. We get our VIP packages and take pics with visiting celebrities we may bump into. We enjoy the drunken 4 day weekend to the fullest. Dressing up, entertaining visiting friends from far off places, and making exceptions while throwing morals out the window with our hotel indiscretions. This is Caribana for grown folks.
The Ghost of Caribana Future
In the future, who knows what Caribana will be like. There are so many traditions we follow, perhaps it will remain the same. Yonge Street still floods with people, just not as much as before. Sheraton's lobby still bumps every year. Americans still flock to the city to enjoy the festivities with us. The thirst will always remain, the parties will always pop, celebs will always visit.
Perhaps it's only us that have changed and will change. We'll be telling our kids stories of our Caribanas when we watch them embark on their own bana adventures on the first weekend of August.
... I just pray that they aren't as horrid as we were.
The Articulate Bitch
Nothing's Wrong...Except Everything
Everyday I spend on twitter is another day full of annoyances and the ridiculous shit I witness people do and say. Some things are so off putting I often begin my 140 characters at a time rants based off them. I'm not much into subtweeting since many of my opinions apply to a great number of folks making the same mistake, and I don't want any particular person feeling singled out. So here are a few things that have been grinding my gears lately.
1. Baby Mama/Baby Fava Tweets - this shit is so waste! Stop bashing the mother/father of your offspring on a public forum like twitter. I almost expect this of baby mothers because females are insane and have no cover for their mouth. But baby fathers tweeting shit about their baby moms on twitter is the epitome of waste in my books. This is the woman you laid with, fucked raw, nutted in and made a mother. If you can't even keep your disrespect for her off the Internet, you sir, are a bitch nigga. Any dude disrespecting a female online needs to pull his skirt down.
2. Thirst Trap Tweets - sooooooo many girls do this. It's like they're fake casual with it, "I'm just gonna tweet that I'm going in the shower/ need a massage/ want to cuddle/ home alone/ bored and not expect a flood of response," bitch OH. These are the same girls who will be the first to call a nigga thirsty, knowing full well they brought it on themselves. Hoe, that is called entrapment. Hence the term "thirst trap". Stop frontin'. We are all sooooo over you.
3. Obvious Subtweets - oh my gawd! We all know who you're talking about. Especially when the person you're subtweeting is on our TL too. Nigga will say "what's your favorite color?" bitch won't @ reply him with her answer, 'cause for some reason everyone on twitter is a fool except her, so she tweets "blue... Tee hee" like motha fuckas don't know who she's talkin' to. You're honestly so annoying. Chief Keef would not like this.
4. Promo Spam - from the bottom of my Hennessy drinking heart I HATE this shit. I look down my timeline and see promoters or rappers spamming the shit outta my TL with a copy and pasted tweet about their party, or single, or mixtape as they @ reply as many individuals as can fit in the 140 characters. YOU'RE SO ANNOYING! Just tweet it! Your followers will see it. How annoying would it be to get spammed with TAB blog links all fuckin day? Exactly. MOVING ON!
5. Heat Score Tweets - these fall into two categories: those that can land you in jail and those that can cause mixup. If you haven't learned by now, especially in light of recent events, popular media (news papers and news shows) and cops can and will question you based on your tweets. Folks in Toronto found themselves being quoted in newspapers word for word after the scarborough incident. TDot jakes have twitter brah. You tweeting "Just re'd-up," is probably not the best idea. Talking about how strapped you are, best left for verbal convos with non-snitches.
Category two contains those who tweet shit they think no one can decipher. Kinda like the obvious subtweeters just a bit more subby. They'll tweet some shit that only someone who knows them or their situation will comprehend. Like twitpic'ing themselves in someone else's bathroom and you happen to know that's not her man's house. Or tweeting that they just left a location which you know is directly near her ex's house. These tweeters dry snitch on themselves and have to make up elaborate lies to cover their asses. Some will even go so far as to make you feel like you're the one trippin' for thinking they're guilty of something, even if it's blatantly obvious. Shit's mad annoying. Y'all need to chill, you're not fooling anyone.
Obviously here are plenty more, and when I have accumulated another list, I'm sure I'll be back to post my grievances for y'all to relate and read.
The Articulate Bitch
1. Baby Mama/Baby Fava Tweets - this shit is so waste! Stop bashing the mother/father of your offspring on a public forum like twitter. I almost expect this of baby mothers because females are insane and have no cover for their mouth. But baby fathers tweeting shit about their baby moms on twitter is the epitome of waste in my books. This is the woman you laid with, fucked raw, nutted in and made a mother. If you can't even keep your disrespect for her off the Internet, you sir, are a bitch nigga. Any dude disrespecting a female online needs to pull his skirt down.
2. Thirst Trap Tweets - sooooooo many girls do this. It's like they're fake casual with it, "I'm just gonna tweet that I'm going in the shower/ need a massage/ want to cuddle/ home alone/ bored and not expect a flood of response," bitch OH. These are the same girls who will be the first to call a nigga thirsty, knowing full well they brought it on themselves. Hoe, that is called entrapment. Hence the term "thirst trap". Stop frontin'. We are all sooooo over you.
3. Obvious Subtweets - oh my gawd! We all know who you're talking about. Especially when the person you're subtweeting is on our TL too. Nigga will say "what's your favorite color?" bitch won't @ reply him with her answer, 'cause for some reason everyone on twitter is a fool except her, so she tweets "blue... Tee hee" like motha fuckas don't know who she's talkin' to. You're honestly so annoying. Chief Keef would not like this.
4. Promo Spam - from the bottom of my Hennessy drinking heart I HATE this shit. I look down my timeline and see promoters or rappers spamming the shit outta my TL with a copy and pasted tweet about their party, or single, or mixtape as they @ reply as many individuals as can fit in the 140 characters. YOU'RE SO ANNOYING! Just tweet it! Your followers will see it. How annoying would it be to get spammed with TAB blog links all fuckin day? Exactly. MOVING ON!
5. Heat Score Tweets - these fall into two categories: those that can land you in jail and those that can cause mixup. If you haven't learned by now, especially in light of recent events, popular media (news papers and news shows) and cops can and will question you based on your tweets. Folks in Toronto found themselves being quoted in newspapers word for word after the scarborough incident. TDot jakes have twitter brah. You tweeting "Just re'd-up," is probably not the best idea. Talking about how strapped you are, best left for verbal convos with non-snitches.
Category two contains those who tweet shit they think no one can decipher. Kinda like the obvious subtweeters just a bit more subby. They'll tweet some shit that only someone who knows them or their situation will comprehend. Like twitpic'ing themselves in someone else's bathroom and you happen to know that's not her man's house. Or tweeting that they just left a location which you know is directly near her ex's house. These tweeters dry snitch on themselves and have to make up elaborate lies to cover their asses. Some will even go so far as to make you feel like you're the one trippin' for thinking they're guilty of something, even if it's blatantly obvious. Shit's mad annoying. Y'all need to chill, you're not fooling anyone.
Obviously here are plenty more, and when I have accumulated another list, I'm sure I'll be back to post my grievances for y'all to relate and read.
The Articulate Bitch
Club Chronicles pt 14: Bana Edition
We've reached the beginning of the end of our Toronto summer. The coming and going of Caribana signals the most hype the city sees all year, and reminds us that summer is almost over.
I didn't party heavily this year but the partying I DID do was sufficient for this post. Especially having the diversity of American visitors at the club...
Niggaz need to chill on the chains. I know Mr Shapiro is out fitting all your favourite rappers with sick vintage jewelry but that shit is not for everyone. You don't look dope like our lord and savior 2 Chainz in some fugayzi jewelry. Fugayzi anything is a big no no. So rockin something that's obviously fake... I mean... You see we're I'm going with this one. Stop embarrassing yourself and insulting our fashion intelligence. You sippin' a $6 drink all night wearin' genuine vintage Versace around your neck and wrist? Oh. Right.
I enjoyed having our southern neighbours party with us. It was rather nice to see new faces, and I even encountered a couple of my U.S. readers (Heeeeey guys!) during my drunken Sheraton lobby strolls. But I must address the thirst. Every year is the same as far as thirst expectations go, but don't rush the flow! You're here visiting for a few days, there are silly Toronto females everywhere just dying for a chance to hook up with any nigga with an accent. You don't even have to go to the club for that. So stop applying full court pressure where it's not needed. You sound desperate. Digging for pussy in a city you don't live in. Just chill, that shit will happen regardless. Believe me.
Celebrity hosted parties are a common occurrence during bana weekend. The city was full of famous folks this year, more than previous years it seemed. Celebs come to the club to turn up for a couple hours and return to their hotels with whichever females they roped in for themselves and their entourages. They're not there to chill with the masses and socialize. So stop beaking and complaining that you went to the club and didn't see nobody. That's pure foolishness. You didn't get VIP wristbands, you're not even in a booth. How easy did you think it was gonna be to meet a rock star that way? Seriously.
Ladies, I've got a beef with y'all. Why y'all always play dumb when niggaz holla at you in the club? You standing at the bar talking to a cute dude with an accent thicker than Trina at Waffle House, flipping your hair and giggling. He invites you and your friends back to his hotel with him and his friends to drink, smoke and "chill". For some strange reason, y'all convince yourselves that's all that's gonna happen. You think some dude you just met, who is leaving the country bright and early Monday morning, is gonna get drunk with you and then what? Gaze longingly into your eyes and wonder where this Canadian angel has been all his life? Bitch please. Soon as the Ciroc is done he's sending his friends to their rooms with your friends and expecting you to bust it open and pop that pussy for a real nigga. If you're not bout that life stop putting yourself in private situations with dudes you don't know. Logic sweetheart. You wouldn't do it with these dirty Toronto niggaz we all know, so why are American dudes any different?
Overall bana was good. Self Made on Sunday was a fuckin' MOVIE. Granted it was so hot you could swim through the air, but I was so drunk I loved every moment of it. See y'all next year!
The Articulate Bitch
I didn't party heavily this year but the partying I DID do was sufficient for this post. Especially having the diversity of American visitors at the club...
Niggaz need to chill on the chains. I know Mr Shapiro is out fitting all your favourite rappers with sick vintage jewelry but that shit is not for everyone. You don't look dope like our lord and savior 2 Chainz in some fugayzi jewelry. Fugayzi anything is a big no no. So rockin something that's obviously fake... I mean... You see we're I'm going with this one. Stop embarrassing yourself and insulting our fashion intelligence. You sippin' a $6 drink all night wearin' genuine vintage Versace around your neck and wrist? Oh. Right.
I enjoyed having our southern neighbours party with us. It was rather nice to see new faces, and I even encountered a couple of my U.S. readers (Heeeeey guys!) during my drunken Sheraton lobby strolls. But I must address the thirst. Every year is the same as far as thirst expectations go, but don't rush the flow! You're here visiting for a few days, there are silly Toronto females everywhere just dying for a chance to hook up with any nigga with an accent. You don't even have to go to the club for that. So stop applying full court pressure where it's not needed. You sound desperate. Digging for pussy in a city you don't live in. Just chill, that shit will happen regardless. Believe me.
Celebrity hosted parties are a common occurrence during bana weekend. The city was full of famous folks this year, more than previous years it seemed. Celebs come to the club to turn up for a couple hours and return to their hotels with whichever females they roped in for themselves and their entourages. They're not there to chill with the masses and socialize. So stop beaking and complaining that you went to the club and didn't see nobody. That's pure foolishness. You didn't get VIP wristbands, you're not even in a booth. How easy did you think it was gonna be to meet a rock star that way? Seriously.
Ladies, I've got a beef with y'all. Why y'all always play dumb when niggaz holla at you in the club? You standing at the bar talking to a cute dude with an accent thicker than Trina at Waffle House, flipping your hair and giggling. He invites you and your friends back to his hotel with him and his friends to drink, smoke and "chill". For some strange reason, y'all convince yourselves that's all that's gonna happen. You think some dude you just met, who is leaving the country bright and early Monday morning, is gonna get drunk with you and then what? Gaze longingly into your eyes and wonder where this Canadian angel has been all his life? Bitch please. Soon as the Ciroc is done he's sending his friends to their rooms with your friends and expecting you to bust it open and pop that pussy for a real nigga. If you're not bout that life stop putting yourself in private situations with dudes you don't know. Logic sweetheart. You wouldn't do it with these dirty Toronto niggaz we all know, so why are American dudes any different?
Overall bana was good. Self Made on Sunday was a fuckin' MOVIE. Granted it was so hot you could swim through the air, but I was so drunk I loved every moment of it. See y'all next year!
The Articulate Bitch
Thursday 9 August 2012
Making My Moment
Thank heavens for a mental alarm clock.
The following story is 100% true and unplanned.
11:00am -The DM
Summer DMs me that Drama has landed and to meet him at the hotel for 12.... I look at the time: 11:18. I promise, you have never seen a girl fly til you've witnessed that get-ready that morning.
1:00pm - the meet
Hotel lobby seeing mad people I know because only caribana could bring this many niggaz downtown at once. Get the room number and head up.
At this moment I'm reminding myself why I don't get starstruck, 'cause I've been bumpin' DJ Drama mixtapes like ALL the Gangsta Grillz with my favourite artists, and now I'm bout to meet the man behind the mixtape careers of countless rappers... You bastards.
Sigh of relief to find he's super cool and laid back, 0% Hollywood and not an ounce of diva no homo. Heart rate lowered, I can no longer see it beating through my tee shirt so I'm feeling good.
Talia Coles, Drama's stylist for the shoot (also works with Trey Songz and J Cole) is another fab lady I was happy to meet. Super sweet with great style - of course. We chat about clothes and shoes and a possible shopping trip in Toronto's fashion district in the near future.
Drama's road manager is a sweet, Air Max loving, fast talking New York girl. Her blackberry stays glued to her hand as she organizes the shoots every detail.
Complications arise, it's raining. The shots for today are all outdoor and the location has no cover. Fuck. The director takes off to find an alternative.
2:15pm: Lobby
Drama and Flocka link up to film the candid moment, after a minor frenzy of fans get pics in the lobby. Daps and "holla at me"s are exchanged. Back to the rooms to get changed then head to set, as the rain eases.
Meek Mill has a lobby call for 3:00pm.
3:00pm - Lobby (again)
Drama tries his outfits for the shoot.
Le wait...
I'm stoned, my eyes are heavy and my phone is on some obscene low percentage. I plug it in a pray my eyes stay open.
See a couple familiar TDot faces, Pooch Hall and Consequence share a laugh as they head out the hotel.
Le wait...
Elevator dings and a light skin dude with long braids walks out. Hmm. Looks like ASAP Yams, cool.
Le wait...
I'm dying for a cigarette and freezing in the A/C, I take a step outside to bum a butt from someone and warm up in the sun as it fights to break through the clouds. I look to my right. The light skin dude with the pretty braids no homo lights a bogie. Yup... That's ASAP Yams.
"Sorry to bug you. Can I bother you for a cigarette."
"Yeah, it's a Newport I hope you don't mind."
"Nah that's cool wit me, thank you,"
Smile. Smile back, "I'm gonna act like I don't know who you are," I smile again.
We chat for a bit about nothing in particular. I tell him the Yams aka Yomborghini vs Jamz aka Jamborghini thing he laughs and asks if he's following me on twitter. Exchange the @ names just as Drama and Rocky come outside to film.
5:00pm - Front Street on set
ASAP Rocky says his goodbyes and hurries to the Molson Amphitheater for his performance at OVO Fest.
Yes, I managed to tame myself in Rocky's presence. I know it's ME, but y'all need to give me some credit for professionalism lmao.
Meek Mill is already on set as Jeremih arrives, while crew put the final touches on the equipment.
At this point I'm feeling surprisingly calm and comfortable, doing double photographer duty with both Drama and my iPhones. I say surprisingly because of the caliber of company I was currently keeping, I didn't expect inner pandemonium, but I was afraid of nerves. Happy I ain't got that problem. After all, there was one person still missing and the anticipation was killing me....
The set was a wide alleyway between two tall redbrick buildings. At the street entrance were fans on fans on fans with cameras and phones out capturing the scene. So I'm snapping away on both phones, when I hear the clanking of jewelry behind me. No biggie, I'm surrounded by niggaz in jewelry...
... Now, this might have been as close to a religious moment I've had in my young life, but I turn my head and catch a glimpse of a tall dude in my peripherals. Word to my muvah I paused, closed my eyes and looked behind me...
Gawd himself. Amen hallelujah.
He joins the video fun, adding his signature lanky-nigga bounce, and jokingly hunching toward me while I take pics on my phone. Funny guy. Super cool and charismatic. I caught the turnt up holy ghost and shoulder bounced with Trap (you know I wouldn't let her miss this) while the shoot continues.
The shoot continues without much headache. On set chemistry flowed, I kept taking pictures. Permanent smile on my face.
Seriously, if you haven't heard the song, go listen. Now as you play that song imagine what it means. Now imagine that THAT song was the soundtrack to such an epic day for me. It couldn't have been more appropriate.
I didn't go to OVO Fest. *shrug* somehow... I'm cool with that.
Much love to everyone I met that day, and everyone involved. Love to Talia, Drama and of course the lovely Summer Walker (aka Summajam, but only I get to call her that) who made it all possible. Special shout out to Chevy Jones of Dirty Jones he's about to do great things. I had my moment, yours is coming too fam.
Hope everyone had a fun, intoxicated, safe Caribana!
The Articulate Bitch
The following story is 100% true and unplanned.
11:00am -The DM
Summer DMs me that Drama has landed and to meet him at the hotel for 12.... I look at the time: 11:18. I promise, you have never seen a girl fly til you've witnessed that get-ready that morning.
1:00pm - the meet
Hotel lobby seeing mad people I know because only caribana could bring this many niggaz downtown at once. Get the room number and head up.
At this moment I'm reminding myself why I don't get starstruck, 'cause I've been bumpin' DJ Drama mixtapes like ALL the Gangsta Grillz with my favourite artists, and now I'm bout to meet the man behind the mixtape careers of countless rappers... You bastards.
Sigh of relief to find he's super cool and laid back, 0% Hollywood and not an ounce of diva no homo. Heart rate lowered, I can no longer see it beating through my tee shirt so I'm feeling good.
Talia Coles, Drama's stylist for the shoot (also works with Trey Songz and J Cole) is another fab lady I was happy to meet. Super sweet with great style - of course. We chat about clothes and shoes and a possible shopping trip in Toronto's fashion district in the near future.
Drama's road manager is a sweet, Air Max loving, fast talking New York girl. Her blackberry stays glued to her hand as she organizes the shoots every detail.
Complications arise, it's raining. The shots for today are all outdoor and the location has no cover. Fuck. The director takes off to find an alternative.
2:15pm: Lobby
Drama and Flocka link up to film the candid moment, after a minor frenzy of fans get pics in the lobby. Daps and "holla at me"s are exchanged. Back to the rooms to get changed then head to set, as the rain eases.
Meek Mill has a lobby call for 3:00pm.
3:00pm - Lobby (again)
Drama tries his outfits for the shoot.
Le wait...
I'm stoned, my eyes are heavy and my phone is on some obscene low percentage. I plug it in a pray my eyes stay open.
See a couple familiar TDot faces, Pooch Hall and Consequence share a laugh as they head out the hotel.
Le wait...
Elevator dings and a light skin dude with long braids walks out. Hmm. Looks like ASAP Yams, cool.
Le wait...
I'm dying for a cigarette and freezing in the A/C, I take a step outside to bum a butt from someone and warm up in the sun as it fights to break through the clouds. I look to my right. The light skin dude with the pretty braids no homo lights a bogie. Yup... That's ASAP Yams.
"Sorry to bug you. Can I bother you for a cigarette."
"Yeah, it's a Newport I hope you don't mind."
"Nah that's cool wit me, thank you,"
Smile. Smile back, "I'm gonna act like I don't know who you are," I smile again.
We chat for a bit about nothing in particular. I tell him the Yams aka Yomborghini vs Jamz aka Jamborghini thing he laughs and asks if he's following me on twitter. Exchange the @ names just as Drama and Rocky come outside to film.
5:00pm - Front Street on set
ASAP Rocky says his goodbyes and hurries to the Molson Amphitheater for his performance at OVO Fest.
Yes, I managed to tame myself in Rocky's presence. I know it's ME, but y'all need to give me some credit for professionalism lmao.
Meek Mill is already on set as Jeremih arrives, while crew put the final touches on the equipment.
At this point I'm feeling surprisingly calm and comfortable, doing double photographer duty with both Drama and my iPhones. I say surprisingly because of the caliber of company I was currently keeping, I didn't expect inner pandemonium, but I was afraid of nerves. Happy I ain't got that problem. After all, there was one person still missing and the anticipation was killing me....
The set was a wide alleyway between two tall redbrick buildings. At the street entrance were fans on fans on fans with cameras and phones out capturing the scene. So I'm snapping away on both phones, when I hear the clanking of jewelry behind me. No biggie, I'm surrounded by niggaz in jewelry...
... Now, this might have been as close to a religious moment I've had in my young life, but I turn my head and catch a glimpse of a tall dude in my peripherals. Word to my muvah I paused, closed my eyes and looked behind me...
Gawd himself. Amen hallelujah.
He joins the video fun, adding his signature lanky-nigga bounce, and jokingly hunching toward me while I take pics on my phone. Funny guy. Super cool and charismatic. I caught the turnt up holy ghost and shoulder bounced with Trap (you know I wouldn't let her miss this) while the shoot continues.
The shoot continues without much headache. On set chemistry flowed, I kept taking pictures. Permanent smile on my face.
Seriously, if you haven't heard the song, go listen. Now as you play that song imagine what it means. Now imagine that THAT song was the soundtrack to such an epic day for me. It couldn't have been more appropriate.
I didn't go to OVO Fest. *shrug* somehow... I'm cool with that.
Much love to everyone I met that day, and everyone involved. Love to Talia, Drama and of course the lovely Summer Walker (aka Summajam, but only I get to call her that) who made it all possible. Special shout out to Chevy Jones of Dirty Jones he's about to do great things. I had my moment, yours is coming too fam.
Hope everyone had a fun, intoxicated, safe Caribana!
The Articulate Bitch
Simp Simp Hooray
once again a twitter rant spills far over the 140 characters provided and ends up here. My sanctuary of words.
For those of us who have lived through failed relationship after another, we learn some things. Our pride becomes what protects us from suffering the way we did before. It's like having the angel and devil on each shoulder. The angel is your conscience telling you to only do good, while the devil draws you in seducing you with temptations of temporary satisfaction through sin.
I believe we have entities like the angel and devil which guide is through relationships as well. These subconscious entities are: the inner simp and the inner real nigga. These polar opposites rule the realm of emotion. The dictate whether we respond with emotion and heart or logic and mind.
The inner simp is clearly the emotional end of the spectrum. The "IS" is fragile, tame, flexible and generous. The simp never has her guard up because she trusts freely and loves blindly. She wears her heart on her sleeve and believes only the best about others.
The inner real nigga is driven by logic, educated through experience. The "IRN" is intelligent, witty, self-driven, free spirited and selfish. The real nigga has a constant emotional barrier built for self preservation. A layer of protection from emotional harm and a concrete wall of skepticism and cynicism to guard a previously broken heart. He can't trust you unless you prove it first.
Your inner simp is what makes you do the things even you find silly or corny or cliche with the opposite sex. You answer your phone in your cutest most alluring bedtime voice. You text smiley faces, hearts and kissy faces to him. You tweet subliminals about "him", and perhaps even find yourself quoting love song lyrics.
Your inner real nigga however, is not having it. Your IRN is asking him about his past relationships, present fuck friends and future expectations of the next female. The real nigga never let's him know how much you like him, because then he knows he can hurt you. The real nigga keeps him at arms length, just close enough to keep around and just far enough that he can't break your heart.
Your inner simp day dreams of him daily, causes that smile to creep across your face when you see his picture, makes you giggle dumbly when he texts you. The simp makes your friends warn you about "the last time you were this happy," yet pulls you down into the soft, fuzzy naïveté of infatuation in spite of your better judgement.
Your better judgement is your inner real nigga. The voice screaming at you to recall how you were hurt the last time. The real nigga wants you to be happy, but not if it means you will be in pain later at the same hands.
The real nigga is what made you hang up on him. The simp is what made you answer when he called you back.
IS: aww, I really like him!
IRN: fuck outta here. He's nothing special.
IS: but he's such a sweet guy, look what he texted me.
IRN: SO? You think you're the only girl he sends nice texts to?
IS: he said he really likes me though. He said those other girls don't mean anything.
IRN: yeah? So why do you keep seeing them like his pictures or tweet him things?
IS: you're being paranoid. What if he's being honest?
IRN: I'm paranoid? Maybe so, but the last time I let you do things we got hurt. What if he's lying?
IS: *sends smiley face with hearts for eyes*
IRN: *sends SMH text*
IS: what you do that for?!
IRN: well, what you do THAT for?!
IS: because I like him! What if I wanna be with him?
IRN: well I like us. What if I want us to just be happy?
IS: why can't I be happy with him?
IRN: why can't you be happy without him?
IS: I need him.
IRN: no, you don't.
IS: I need someone!
IRN: I don't need anyone.
Listen to only the simp, and you are destined to a life of emotional roller coasters, broken hearts, tear stained pillows and unfathomable abuse. You will be trampled, taken advantage of and hurt constantly because you are damned to trust everyone. Even those who are not worthy of it.
Follow only the real nigga and you are condemned to loneliness and misery. You will be cold-hearted, callous and unapproachable. You won't have a friend in the world, nor a person to show you love and affection. The loneliness will kill you.
The key is finding the happy balance. The comfortable grey area where you're letting your mind and heart both work together. Where you can feel with one and think with the other. Where your heart guides your love and your mind protects your best interests. Don't let your mind keep you from a possible good thing, but don't let your heart lead you into the dark blindly either. We all need love but don't want the pain of heartbreak. If we can find our own personal inner balance, dealing with the obstacles in our relationships will become easier. Perhaps then we can make them last.
The Articulate Bitch
For those of us who have lived through failed relationship after another, we learn some things. Our pride becomes what protects us from suffering the way we did before. It's like having the angel and devil on each shoulder. The angel is your conscience telling you to only do good, while the devil draws you in seducing you with temptations of temporary satisfaction through sin.
I believe we have entities like the angel and devil which guide is through relationships as well. These subconscious entities are: the inner simp and the inner real nigga. These polar opposites rule the realm of emotion. The dictate whether we respond with emotion and heart or logic and mind.
The inner simp is clearly the emotional end of the spectrum. The "IS" is fragile, tame, flexible and generous. The simp never has her guard up because she trusts freely and loves blindly. She wears her heart on her sleeve and believes only the best about others.
The inner real nigga is driven by logic, educated through experience. The "IRN" is intelligent, witty, self-driven, free spirited and selfish. The real nigga has a constant emotional barrier built for self preservation. A layer of protection from emotional harm and a concrete wall of skepticism and cynicism to guard a previously broken heart. He can't trust you unless you prove it first.
Your inner simp is what makes you do the things even you find silly or corny or cliche with the opposite sex. You answer your phone in your cutest most alluring bedtime voice. You text smiley faces, hearts and kissy faces to him. You tweet subliminals about "him", and perhaps even find yourself quoting love song lyrics.
Your inner real nigga however, is not having it. Your IRN is asking him about his past relationships, present fuck friends and future expectations of the next female. The real nigga never let's him know how much you like him, because then he knows he can hurt you. The real nigga keeps him at arms length, just close enough to keep around and just far enough that he can't break your heart.
Your inner simp day dreams of him daily, causes that smile to creep across your face when you see his picture, makes you giggle dumbly when he texts you. The simp makes your friends warn you about "the last time you were this happy," yet pulls you down into the soft, fuzzy naïveté of infatuation in spite of your better judgement.
Your better judgement is your inner real nigga. The voice screaming at you to recall how you were hurt the last time. The real nigga wants you to be happy, but not if it means you will be in pain later at the same hands.
The real nigga is what made you hang up on him. The simp is what made you answer when he called you back.
IS: aww, I really like him!
IRN: fuck outta here. He's nothing special.
IS: but he's such a sweet guy, look what he texted me.
IRN: SO? You think you're the only girl he sends nice texts to?
IS: he said he really likes me though. He said those other girls don't mean anything.
IRN: yeah? So why do you keep seeing them like his pictures or tweet him things?
IS: you're being paranoid. What if he's being honest?
IRN: I'm paranoid? Maybe so, but the last time I let you do things we got hurt. What if he's lying?
IS: *sends smiley face with hearts for eyes*
IRN: *sends SMH text*
IS: what you do that for?!
IRN: well, what you do THAT for?!
IS: because I like him! What if I wanna be with him?
IRN: well I like us. What if I want us to just be happy?
IS: why can't I be happy with him?
IRN: why can't you be happy without him?
IS: I need him.
IRN: no, you don't.
IS: I need someone!
IRN: I don't need anyone.
Listen to only the simp, and you are destined to a life of emotional roller coasters, broken hearts, tear stained pillows and unfathomable abuse. You will be trampled, taken advantage of and hurt constantly because you are damned to trust everyone. Even those who are not worthy of it.
Follow only the real nigga and you are condemned to loneliness and misery. You will be cold-hearted, callous and unapproachable. You won't have a friend in the world, nor a person to show you love and affection. The loneliness will kill you.
The key is finding the happy balance. The comfortable grey area where you're letting your mind and heart both work together. Where you can feel with one and think with the other. Where your heart guides your love and your mind protects your best interests. Don't let your mind keep you from a possible good thing, but don't let your heart lead you into the dark blindly either. We all need love but don't want the pain of heartbreak. If we can find our own personal inner balance, dealing with the obstacles in our relationships will become easier. Perhaps then we can make them last.
The Articulate Bitch
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