Tuesday, November 10, 2015


When my draws stop matching I'll know I'm through with you.

EFFORT does not take much. It simply involves thinking about that the other person's needs vs what you think the other person needs.  I thought buying matching draws was just a cute side project I did for myself...I have a movie going in my head nonstop and so I dress accordingly throughout the day...just in case a fire pops up in the 3rd act and a fine fireman must rescue me......you supposed to have on matching draws, right?  That's my effort for my own ego.  Like the male ego may be buying shoes for someone to tell them that's that they need but it's really for his own ego.

That said, the effort in which I speak is someone who is committed to wondering how you feel and how you are doing and servicing YOU not simply their egos.  I don't know about you but I am long tired of negroes thinking their penises are magic wands or saving graces for - colds, hard days at work, rent, etc.... I really would like all said fuck boys to take a long walk off of a short cliff.  Who needs em?  Clear the way for the men who don't think it's corny to rub your feet because you've been clearly standing up all day.  Or get you water because...duh, you're thirsty...you probably forgot to drink something putting out fires.  Or drive for you because you fall asleep after load out.  It's not that deep.  And it costs nothing.

I'm always told I give too much.  But fuck it, I have a lot to give.  I do.  Which is why I attract these Succubus (succubi) who don't so much as offer a cheeseburger... "we could make this tour manager thing BIG", "we could take over the industry"...could WE?  What else could WE do.... these boys and these promises of partnerships and they won't so much as rub your toes after a hard days work because it doesn't feed THEIR ego.  This must be what #Givenofucksforties is all about.  Knowing your needs and literally spitting at anything in the way that goes against them.  Ok, I'm gonna stop spitting at niggas...but it's so good for my movie.

Tuesday, November 3, 2015


As if working wasn’t hard enough.  

Dating, as an adult, is some new shit.  Speaking clearly about intentions and going forward anyway is also new.  Seeing an adult is new.  That’s not to say perfect and people don’t need inspiration here and there, but it’s nice to have an option.  I’m dating.  A man.  Like a grown up.  Who has baggage and trials and tribulations and goals and perfections and shortcomings and needs and fears.  Just like me.  There is no posing.  We just be.  I changed my return flight 3 times.  3 change fees.  What am I crazy?  Nope.  As Cece would say…”trying”.  There are children, and families and blended situations and so much stuff and so much living.  I feel like I’ve been standing still thus far.  And by my instagram account of course I’m always moving.  But my actual living part…engaging….attached.  It was missing… It is missing.  I don’t want to put the cart before the horse…but hard work pays off.  As long as I don’t sabotage myself….as usual, I believe I’m in for a nice ride.

Got me re-readin Bell Hooks up in this piece.  

Tuesday, October 27, 2015


So the older we get, and the more we perfect the "see an obstacle turn it into lemonade" game, we get to be experts in "doing the work."  No matter what self help you prescribe to - be it herapists, psychics, pastors - all them - always talking about "doing the work."  We start going to hella NA/AA/FA - any thing you need help with anonymously it seems is all the self help rage.  Lets look at RA - Relationships Anonymous.  Does one exist?  We need one.

Here I have been piping that shit about how niggas ain't shit - and let's just use the word "nigga" to regard all men as I have a few surfers and Italians to throw in this mix - ain't shit.  Then you realize it's really your picker that ain't shit.  And you weren't very upfront about dealing with who people are, where they are, how they are UPFRONT - all Buddha-ey with your acceptance...meeting a person where they are, etcetera.

And then YOUR SHIT jumps up in the way.  "Hi, I'm Saboteur.  I've come to fill your head up with hella superficial shit so you can break off yet another relationship and then blame someone else."

It's so cool.  And hella convenient.  Not being accountable is strangely like what we say men do.

Luckily I am now old enough to call myself on my own bullshit.  So I've called bullshit on myself and my thoughts and my own fear that prevents me from a sliver of happiness just cuz..... I have no idea what the just cuz is....but I know there's one.  And I don't necessarily like it.  I'm bound to be unhappy lest I figure this crap out.  So I'm figuring GOTDAMNIT....I'm figuring.

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

That Bullshit

I had my THIRD doctors appointment regarding my thyroid.  I'm an atheletic shaped girl -(in my head that's slightly better than scrawny...).  So my fabulous UCLA doctor 3 years got it into her head that because I have an Adam's apple, I may have a thyroid condition.

Fast forward to my friends with thyroid cancer, Graves, nodules, I'm like -- cool.  Let's check it out.  But shit, I've always had this damned Adams apple...so what gives.

What gives is the health system is ALWAYS trying to find something to get you hooked on.  I get an ultrasound....a $373 ultrasound.  They measure.  They say ok.

Go back to my doctor a year later for a check up.  She says...mmm lets measure again.  It's pretty big. I'd like to see if it's grown...considering my age and all....

It's grown?  How you know.  I go for another ultrasound, they say they measured it and it's grown.  I'm like ---- yous a lie.

I tell my doctor I think she's giving me the run around.  She gives me some better safe than sorry shit.  I go back yesterday to THE expert who's going to take an ultrasound and IF it looks crazy to him, get a biopsy.  In 3 minutes he decides I don't need shit and that it's normal.

Now tell me....why wasn't I introduced to him in the next building the first time, verses racking up 3 additional ultrasounds??? Money.  Fuckers.  oooh The USA makes me tired.

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.