Friday night, I did hoodrat things with my friends. There was happy hour, copious amounts of whiskey, a club, hookah, and a gentleman who answered the question “What does it look like I do for a living?” with “A stripper.” I tested my new quippy reply to the dreaded “Why are you single?” “Because I don’t like repeating myself or explaining myself.” It didn’t make the guy go away, but it rolled off the tongue well.
Saturday, I watched season two of Luke Cage. I spent season one salivating over Mike Colter and trying to figure out why the conversations sounded like people imitating black New Yorkers instead of–ya know–actual black New Yorkers. Season two, however, was full of Alfre Woodard raising the bar on psychopathic female villainy as Mariah
Dillard Stokes and some Game of Thrones-style story lines: generational feuds, a dash of incest, and jockeying for The Iron Throne a.k.a. Harlem’s Paradise. Some viewers miss the Mahershala Ali-portrayed Cottonmouth from season one, but beyond his iconic “standing in front of the King Biggie Smalls painting” scene, he wasn’t memorable for me.
Another highlight of Luke Cage: the live performances. In season two, I discovered eighteen-year-old blues prodigy Christone “Kingfish” Ingram. His rendition of “The Thrill is Gone” sounds like he’s possessed by the late BB King. Adrian Younge and Ali Shaheed Mohammed did an excellent job on the series’s score and soundtrack. If you want good mood music for the house, I highly recommend.
Mama SBG and I will part ways as roommates in a year so I’m wrapping my mind around having a lot of bills again. Spoiler alert: I don’t want to. Being able to spend, travel, and maintain decent savings has spoiled me. I can’t go back to paycheck-to-paycheck squalor. I’d live in a small apartment and keep my beat up 2009 Hyundai until it sputters its last breath if that means I’ll have cash in the bank and money for fun and travel. (This is the opposite of my mother who once left the house to get an oil change and came home with a new car and a $500/mo car note).
The Sun in Cancer lights up the part of my chart that governs hopes, dreams, and networks. This is an opportunity for me to stop hating people and group dynamics (I’ve been subject to the type of backstabbing and gossip that makes new cliques a strong “no” for me). Yesterday, I was scheduled to attend a talk about exploring new neighborhoods, but I got to the venue’s parking lot, decided “Meh. Not really in the mood for this,” and left. Since I was dressed and out of the house, I stopped at the E. 55th Marina on the way home for wine and chill at the lakefront for a few hours. I was a) out of my neighborhood and b) surrounded by people with whom I exchanged nods, smiles, and pleasantries while sipping Chardonnay, taking pictures, and listening to episodes of Binge Mode: Game of Thrones.
While it was a lovely Sunday evening, my “spin out of the parking lot” move doesn’t bode well for becoming an engaged citizen. I’ll keep working on that.
Before I go, a quick bit of life advice: if you’re hitting on a girl who says “I don’t want kids,” and you answer “I don’t either but you know, anything can happen,” you’re probably not getting very far, my guy.