Tuesday, October 6, 2015


I clearly had a break down in Japan.  I am apart of the 1 in 4 women who have Uterine Fibroids.  I've been menstruating for about a year now with knock out cramps.  Some days are the scene of a murder.  I hide tampons and pads in each of my suitcases, behind the blender, under the bathroom sink, bedside table, it's a veritable Easter Egg hunt o' pads in my crib, car, purses....what have you.

I had a Myomectomy about 7 years ago.
The doctor told me then I had about 5 years before things came back so get ready...drop them babies.  I was, of course on a world tour with the Black Eyed Peas...and while I talked about throwing a pod in there, it was in between Cachaca shots and 17 hour transpacific flights.  Did he  really think I was gonna stop all of that?  I mean come on!  Couldn't I just accidentally get pregnant like most people?

Nevertheless, through a series of botched attempts (nothing like a little biological desperation to make a relationship stick!) and a small midlife crisis,  I escaped to this theory ".kids...I got 11 Godkids...who needs them?"

Back in the game, on the road...October 2014 my period decides...well...not to leave.  Week 3, 4 and 6 come by and I go to the hospital.  Good old Western doctors.... "the only real thing that works is a hysterectomy."  Oh yeah?  I would love to tell a man, "the only thing that's going to work is if I cut off your balls....yeah I'm sorry...it's just what it is.  Times up. " Insurance too....pre Obama Care...."yeah, your insurance is $800 per month cuz you have these crazy fibroids...but if you just get a hysterectomy, I can knock off 6 months."   It should be absolutely illegal to tell a woman this.  You think you depressed now...wait until I tell you your reproductive system is shot and so...fuck it, get rid of it.

It gets worse.

Sex.....I mean, I'm an aggressive woman who works hard and plays hard and needs a release just like the next head of household.... so now that my uterus is tripled its size I can make Pee Wee Herman feel like Mandingo.  Its painful and awful and all these brilliant lingerie sets I've copped from Journelle are for naught.  It's bullshit... AND I'VE HAD IT.

So  I was packing for the 22 hour flight to Thailand to get this Fibroid Embolization for half the American mark up, when my girl rallied the Fibroid Community and introduced me to Dr. Bruce Mc Lucas.
 I wanted to kiss him.  Literally make out with him in the doctors office yesterday.  He gave me a great cash price. "Better than Thailand" so he says.  But whatevs.  Fuck this insurance stress out. I'd rather work a month on a shitty tour and cash out.

The set up is for November, meaning....1 more period of hell while in Australia.  I may have a ceremony for it in Brisbane...except I'm pretty sure it's Shark season and I may not even surf this time around....but whatevs....I'm already a nicer person.

Look out promoters...you aren't even going to recognize me after November 10th!

Sunday, September 27, 2015

貪欲 Don'yoku

I stay hungry in Japan.
When I eat too much exotic sushi it spins my stomach.
I try to make it up by choosing some stupid meal half Japanese , half carb meal.  Hence, stomach pains. 
Add that to a set of ovaries teeming with fibroids and you have a woman seriously on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
I have had fibroids, along with a group of my closest fibroid having friends , for at least 10 years now. Intensely begging the question : to hysterectomy or to not?  And of course the answer is NOT.  I wouldn’t dare dream of having some Westernized Man selling me out to the highest surgery bidder.  I made the mistake of the myomectomy 7 years ago.  It’s like the gray hair of fibroids.  You pull one and they come back 1000 fold.

It also gets increasingly worse.  I should probably stop eating meat, go raw, only organic (which is about the only thing I adhere to).  The rare sex that I do get gets more and more painful.  These fibroids defense game is no match for the 6 eggs I’ve got.  And in the midst of all of this depressive information – and believe you me, it sounds depressive and it IS – you are supposed to fight for a body part that has ultimately turned its back on you – threw in the towel, allowed another nigga up in YOUR space telling you how shits finna be and how you and them eggs needs to fall the fuck back. 

Let’s take it up a notch.

Then it says…hey, you’ve been on your period for what….almost a year now yeah?  So the hormones nor the birth control (HA…birth control on TOP of it all) aren’t working.  AND – I’m going to give you the ROCKSTAR of cramps.  No not no baby cramps.  I’m talking you need 800 mg ibuprofen 3 times a day which eats away at your stomach lining and ultimately you wouldn’t be able to carry a baby to full term anyway because, ya know, you ain’t got no stomach.

So verily verily I say unto thee…..What in God’s name am I holding on to the defective piece of crap for?!! (yes I’m under the influence of 4th hour cramps – the ibuprofen has worn off)….

I want to stab myself repeatedly.  Like you would a tri tip on the grill.  Only instead of turning it over I want to literally rip out my insides.

What a fucking crappy card dealt.  And I’m religious so I have knock down drag out fights with God…pissed….he don’t really answer the way I’d like.  So I’m just mean to everyone….  Resulting in, of course, someone saying “damn she must be on her period.”…. Yeah, like for ever muthafucker. 

I know, think of the bright side….at least you’re having your shitty period in Tokyo…. Right?

There are these Fibroid Embolization methods, allegedly, that in our great country (greatest on earth or go somewhere else they say) , charges $20,000 at least out of pocket.  OR, you can go to Thailand and get it done for like 5k plus a vacation.  I’m truly seeking out global options for this surgery.  Other countries are at least more hopeful about saving your body parts versus destroying you and are well versed in procedures – all at a quarter of the cost.  I was thinking of making it a fun family trip – a few party chicks, hanging out – they’ll have some sort of creamy minty Vietnamese version of the mojito, whilst I sip on my cocktail of morphine drips and Oxycodone…..mmmmm……  how much better can this party get?
Well I’d have to fly business because sitting upright on a cut up stomach is probably zero fun….but at least I’ll be able to garner more miles, yeah?

This glass half full shit is hard work.  Let me get ready for lobby fucking call.

Sunday, July 19, 2015

And then there was none......

We had an incident.  We drove 7 hours of a 9 hour drive only to be turned back around.  It was a glorious ride.  It was the last show.  It was supposed to happen.

Back at the mo everyone was feverishly packing ready to get on these earlier than God flights I'd booked 3 weeks ago.  Smoke up anything you wouldn't dare take with you, last flirtatious moments, last forcing of last minute clothing and shoes into your demolished broke down suitcase..... and I'm out.

 I stayed up all night.  Walked from the hotel to the airport in the pouring rain in my new Rick Owens....to the floor.  It was freezing on the 1st flight.  But oh the flight to Naples.  The devil himself opened the aircraft doors.  "Hot as balls" as my grandmother would say.  And it was.  Just getting on the navetta autonoleggio to pick up my rental car was a bitch.  All I could think about was getting my Fiat so I could be all Italiani cute.  As soon as received the keys I realized I was short one bag....my entire SUITCASE.  Like what the entire fuck?  I come off of tour and my brain goes to straight jelly?

Leave it to old Italians to help a damsel in distress.  One of the attendants told me to wait where the shuttle stops and I'd be able to ask the driver.  I waited.  I saw the shuttle enter the parking lot....old man helper is pantomiming as only Italians can and if I'm not crazy, I swear he pointed to nipples and then pointed across the parking lot to me.  Hardy har laughing Italians.  Whatevs....they had my bag.

Next issue...no auxiliary in the Fiats....so I had to get a Ford.  I love music too much to be without my own playlist.

The serpentine streets on the drive to Torre D'Alba from Napoli made a 33 mile jaunt 90 minutes.  None of the streets have names...or if they do you can't see them.  PLUS you're distracted by Mt. Vesuvius and just crazy natural beauty all the time.  The Gulf of Naples indigo waters filled with boats - any of which have my husband on board - I couldn't check in fast enough.

My cute little watchtower is incredibly well appointed, the pool is cold but refreshing, the grounds are well kept by Claudio who is also well kept.  It looked exactly like the air bnb ad.  Nothing could be more perfect.  Seriously.  This place is heaven.

So much so why do I think I have to leave and make a tour itinerary?  Tell me why I cannot sleep in past 8am?  Why do I always have the urge to "do" something?  My planning wears me out.  I laid out at 9am this morning, tried to jump in the cold ass pool, then went back indoors and forced myself to sleep until 11am.   The 15 churches basilica bells serenaded me to the terrace so I could look down at all I was missing.   I couldn't take it anymore, I had to have a mimosa or bellini stat.  After all, it IS Sunday.

Sorrento is touristy as fuck however.  The ports beaches had folks lying on sidewalks like beached whales.  This was not fancy shmancy... My Bougie alarm went off and that was that.  I had to get up out of here.

Taking an elevator back up the cliff from the ocean, I ran into a shmancy restaurant with Bellinis and beautiful men who said Mama Mia when I walked into the room because...that's what Italians say apparently.  And my fancy shmancy 60 euro brunch had me starving.  Bullshit ass shmancy.  Good, but my ghetto alarm was ringing and so I too had to get up out of there.

My host told me about Nerano...beach city en route to Positano along the Sorrento Peninsula.  So I would take the 30 minute gorgeous drive in my manual transmission Ford over towering bluffs, through brick and orange piazzas, crawling through tiny alleys that would scratch up my side view mirrors and finally winding down long streets with rows of olive trees, pink, white and red oleander , mingling with bougainvillea and hibiscus.  All of the plants I love.

 As soon as I jumped into the turquoise rocky waters, all was released.

The drive, the broken suitcase, the last show, the late shows, the lost passport found, the shit talking witch hunts, the blue ovaries, the defector, the bad haircut, the good haircut, the castor oil and finally the coach flight that magically turned into business class.

I am so grateful to be taking a vacation.  I just wish I knew HOW.

Saturday, July 4, 2015


All my girls told me I needed castor oil.  When we arrived in Gdnask both Roxy (hair and wardrobe) and Chef Stefanie brought me some castor oil.  All natural.
My girl Nisa hailing from Oakland said..."oh you need to get you some castor oil".

Who even knew that castor oil was the black girls guide to edge growth?

I have some strong hair.  But I scratch.  My hands are constantly in my head.  Always...for evermore, giving my hair dresser a cardiac arrest each time I come home from tour.  She knew I was doomed when I said I was going on this tour.

And this tour...as exciting as it may be...is hard as all get out.  Not only because of the strenuous schedule but because of the demands of the particular artist.  Not crazy demands or nothing.  Just time.  It's like we all hold our breath hoping he gets to the next city.  "He needs you and the world needs him.." ?uesto pep talks me...."But I'M LITERALLY SCRATCHING MY EDGES OUT".

Then there's ye old pressure of the white man.  I think maybe I had one week of PMS, black church shootings and facebook arguments and I literally lost it.  I had a cold, I gained back all the weight I'd worked off, my skin lost the "glow".  I argued with my boss.  Granted I have 2 other tours happening, but they truly manage themselves.  I can't boast "grace under pressure" when I've lost all my grace.  Point is...how to do you regain it, when you've lost it?

Nothing like a transcontinental business class flight and an air bnb dream to take you out of that fire.  I had to have a real life vision board.  Not that vision boards aren't real life.  But I need my vision to happen in like...2 weeks.  So I found this:

And baby...when I tell you I'm finna live my whole Sophia Loren, Talented Mr. Ripley life with my private pool over looking the coast? Some how, the holes I keep putting in my head don't even matter.  I may even brush up on my Italian....see if I can get that old thang back....

When both of my girls brought me castor oil...thought of me enough....I knew I was getting the care I needed from the people who would give it me.  It's a job that requires giving all day.  And people taking all day.   No need to ask them to give it to me. Duh.  It's nice to know of a sister circle out here looking out for the cook out.

We get to Rome today. Can't wait to see how show #2 goes.  If it's anything like my new growth...we gon' be alright.

Thursday, June 11, 2015


I wonder how many cancer cells I’ve caused myself holding in what I really want to say.  Men get to be “offended” all the while still putting their knees in my back while I’m wearing a bikini coming from the neighborhood pool party.  But yawl offended.  

The good news is, great Bay Area weather and an abundance of fun set my entire weekend OFF.  The Bay was turnt.  Yes because D’Angelo was in concert and it was opening night.  YES because Dave Chapelle was playing across the bridge at the Fillmore and I had tickets.  YES because the Warriors were playing.  AND my momma was there. The concert seemed that much more sweet after the one point loss.  People danced away their sorrows to the sound of the Black Messiah.

And it was the first time I’d seen the show.  We’ve been in rehearsals for 3 weeks and our boy likes to burn the midnight oil.  Anyone who knows me knows 10:30pm is about my limit.  I falls asleep ANYWHERE.  After the first week of sleeping on the studio couch (gross and gross cuz I’m a germanphobe), sleeping on the studio FLOOR (like I was camping), back and hips all hurting like a 40 year old should, I decided I wasn’t going to be able to make rehearsals.  That said, the show reached far beyond my expectations.  I also didn’t notice over the past 3 weeks that this dude has been working his ASS off.  Like a whole different person showed up to the Fox Theater than the person I saw bleary eyed at 4 am while I staggered out of the studio 18.  Maybe I can’t see.

The Town was off the chain.  The funniest man of our time, Dave Chapelle came from overtime about 10 deep – one being Neal Brennan.  Now THAT’S a power couple.  Goapele.  Martin Luther. Chaka. Bobby Seale.  Yes.  Bobby Black Panther Power to the People Seale.   What a wonderful evening after all was said and done.  A great beginning to a fantastic tour. I remember why I like it so much.

Today I wore my good tight pants to work.  They wasn’t offended no more.

Monday, June 1, 2015

Another One Bites the Dust......

Great long week of working.  My head has been spinning since picking up my new client.  I always had the Roots Picnic show on May 30th but with the new client schedule - the only thing I was hired for - had I Heart on the calendar the same day.  How to be at two places at one time is one of the hardest things to decipher running a service oriented business.  That fucking Wonder Woman meme means fuck all.  And guess what?  You may not make the right decision.  Being strong in your decision takes....I don't know how long, i'll let you know if I get rehired.

That PLUS this picnic.  I've decided to add a new email for the people. It's called "TFTTickets@gmail.com".  It's an email for the fake hollering ass niggas (or women these days) who seem to need a week or so "warm up" period before asking for what they really want: tickets. Let me tell you, that warm up shit is not only aggravating, it really and truly it just hurts my fucking feelings.  I'm pretty much "Bitch 101" - bark is worse than bite, intentionally aggressive so that I don't get hurt, blah blah blah.  Living on the road with mostly men over the course of 16 years just may have affected my trust gauge.   Then I don't trust MY picker...which is sad.  That said, I'm not really interested in small talk.  Just ask me for tickets.  It's all good.  I'm not a prude so I don't need to be promised anything to give up the pussy, just ask.  It will be yes or no.  No need for fake promises.  No need to ask deep and meaningful questions about other projects I may have spoken to you about in our "close and deep convos"....just come to catering, I'll give you a pass to the after party.  Thing is, I DONT CARE ABOUT THAT STUFF.  What I DO care about, is small talk BULLSHIT.  If you're my friend, be my friend.  Friends support, not take.  If you're a groupie in this - tfttickets@gmail.com is probably your best bet.  That way no one wastes time or game.  No small talk. No false attempts. No, nothing.  You get what you want and I get what I want...all joy and peace.

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Gettin while the gettin is good.....

I saw my boy at yet another Samsung Lounge....3rd one in the last couple of weeks, each time a different client...."I see you came back to the darkside".....
referring to the genre of music this time.  While I am blessed to be choosy, this game is unforgiving. You take a break, you try to plan your picket fence lifestyle,  you leave yourself vulnerable for one minute and that's when some blonde 20 years your minor, toes creeling over her fall '12 wedges is tryna cop your spot and tell you how something "typically" works. 

Chile. Please.

That picket fence will be wrapped around my villa in the south of France with my 11 Godkids on spring break and a bevy of younger lovers....this month. If I choose. I leaves no money on the table.  Why? Cause ain't NOBODY checking for you in this cutthroat, misogynistic, greasy -bikini-in-the-summertime music industry. My late great mentor #Dixpop told me, literally begged me not to get have kids..."it'll ruin your life." Not everyone's but some. Maybe some that were destined to do more, see more, access more...or less. I'm still fumbling through but thank God that was presented as an option to accentuate my womanhood verses define it by 2.5 kids and a mini van.

So here, on the eve of yet another world tour where I jump off and on with other clients, I stand to prove me to me. Work hard, play hard, love harder.  I know I seemed busy before. But yawl ain't seen nothing yet......