Thursday December 28: The ABW Almost Daily Commentary - James Brown, Men's Shirts and Caller ID

Hello Again,

I usually stay away from news that I know is getting more play than a $2 you-know-what, but James Brown's passing on Christmas day struck me just this afternoon.  I thought of all the musicians who have appropriated, misappropriated, benefited and admitted it or benefited and lied about stealing from the Godfather of Soul--Prince, Mick Jagger, Michael Jackson, MC Hammer and all the others, I hope to see them at the front of the line as JB lies in repose at the Apollo Theatre in New York.  And whatever fund is established in his honor, it should get very generous contributions from the rich and talented but thieving artist who stole so generously.

You can bet that Borders, Barnes & Noble and your local independent record store, if one still exist in your neighborhood, have placed their orders for every James Brown CD in his catalog of music.  You can also bet they'll hear "ka'ching" for the next several months because of the Godfather of Soul's death.

As a young girl, JB told me it was "a man's world" but today, I say it loud, I'm Black and I'm Proud.  I grew up and finally listened to the rest of the words to "It's a Man's World" threw on a crisp, white button-down (see "moving on") and didn't mind the lyrics so much.

Thanks for the music and one hell of a show.

Update December 29th:  Today, The New York Times did right by the Godfather of Soul.  A great picture above the fold, laid out for his last audience.

Moving on,

Since this is cyberspace, it may be difficult to get a real sense of my very real dimensions, personality, likes, dislikes and passions, so I'll help you out a bit.  I love men's shirts!  There I've said it and I am not ashamed.  When this post is done I'm headed straight to Thomas Pink for their annual sale. I'll only pick up one shirt, and I may not be able to afford that,  but it will be a man's shirt--yes, they sell women's shirts--but let's just say, I'd rather not pop any buttons while wearing the shirt.  French cuffs, of course, oxford cloth, pinpoint, herringbone--I  love them all, crisply starched, of course.

So, that said, a few days ago, when I thought no one would be in the office, I decided to wear not just a man's shirt, but a great tie, with a half Windsor knot, tied all by myself, thank you very much, and jeans. Now I thought I filled out the denim a lot better than the shirt but, what the hell is it about a woman wearing a man's shirt and tie that starts tongues to wag and rumors to fly?  By the end of the day I had racked up 8, yes I counted, comments about my shirt and tie, and my sexuality had been questioned openly to my face and quietly, behind my back.  What's that all about?  Somebody help me out.  Yes, I know the basic notion that I'm pushing the envelope of sexual identity, but the men looked like they loved it and the women averted their eyes!  Now ordinarily, I keep my "shirt thing" neatly tucked inside my tailored pencil skirts and slacks.  And no one notices or at least doesn't comment.  So it must be the damn tie.  The universal symbol for all of manhood and defines your place in the world of work.  Really?  I could go on, but I'll stop myself here because I'm just baffled.

Lastly,

I hate caller ID!

OK, caller ID  is a wonderful thing except when you've REALLY committed yourself to quitting a relationship, no, I don't mean like your relationship with the creditors from Macy's or Nordstrom's--they will find you and never go away.

What's up with finally deciding that you have had enough of someone hurting your feelings, not valuing you, is damaged beyond all repair and it's now up to you to walk away, as gracefully as possible--when that someone calls?  You see the number in the caller ID, you cringe, your brain farts, it feels like the butterflies in your stomach could actually lift you off the ground.  You foolishly  think about answering the phone or calling back, if you missed the call.   You start to waiver, lose your resolve and think, ok, one last time.  With just one more conversation, that person will see the wonder and glory of YOU, appreciate what you brought to their life and will hang up to rush to your house in the pouring rain, bang on your door, and scream your name, "STELLLLLLAAA."  OK, bad movie reference.  No place here for Street Car Named Desire or How Stella Got Her Grove Back.

Don't believe your own hype, it's not true, stop trippin'. Delete the call log, delete the number from your phone book and turn the phone off.

What? What sound? I'm not making a call.

I hate *^&%$ caller ID!

See ya next time,
Sunny!