Whoomp! There's the President...

According to reports, President Obama ALLEGEDLY appeared in the music video for the 1993 'quick classic' "Whoomp There It is". He also made a cameo appearance in Boyz In the Hood, Spike Lee's Do The Right Thing, and a lost episode of Soul Train.


Flyness and funky look-a-likes,
Ike



Update: After further investigation, it turns out this was Al B. Sure. Another case of light-skinned mistaken identity.

A Fly Girl's Tale Of Unrequited Love

This weekend I found myself reunited with my old home, an old acquaintance and old fears.

I was in the Garden State discretely auditioning for 15 minutes of fame. I had been waiting my turn, camped on a beach chair in the parking lot of a low-end department store in my fabulous silk dress that I so desperately wanted to avoid ruining with under-arm sweat. That's when mom, then playing the role of personal assistant, brought up a sore subject. She asked about the last man I'd dated. Let's call him Miles, because he reminds me so much of a character first introduced in Benilde Little's novel, Good Hair.

When I met Miles right after Mount Holyoke, I was one of those people. I had been living in Manhattan for five years, hanging out with a bunch of women who, in addition to sharing an alma mater, shared a "1950-ish" goal of marrying well.

Miles, the fictional character, has all the the swag and circumstance deserving of a wildly successful, handsome, and charming Black man. He is a workaholic. Success is his wife, but he takes many concubines. And while Miles initially surrounds his paramour in magnificent romantic splendor, his attention span is painfully short. Painfully.



I had a Miles. He moved on. I'm still trying to.

"He's not the one," mom said. At least I think that's what she said. At that point I was reading her lips. The chatter of reality tv hopefuls and this conversation was bleeding into one another. I was in a wind tunnel, wondering how the hell we landed on this subject anyway. Mom was angry with me. I'd confessed to her that I wanted to know what it was I did. How did I manage to lose the man with whom most women didn't stand a chance? The man I felt I deserved. The man of my Betty Dreams.

"You really need to see someone about this. You don't know how to lose. You've never been able to accept failure. It's because we spoiled you. We gave you everything you wanted."

How mom was comparing my love life to my childhood wants was beyond me. This was not a car or a Dooney and Burke bag or a Tiffany's bracelet. This was a potential husband. Grown woman business.

I had been channeling positive energy prior to the audition, but I felt myself deflating. Mom's words were so final. "He's not the one. You're barking up the wrong tree."

At that moment I was quietly reliving every past romantic failure. From high school. To college. To adulthood. They had all merged into a single sorrowful composite experience that somehow rendered all of my victories up to that point insignificant.

I was remembering how Scorpio loved me and hurt me. How Prince Charming disappointed me. How Mr. X vanished. I was building yet another emotional monument to yet another man.

The angst clenched my throat and tears filled my eyes until finally I began to sob in the middle of that low-budget parking lot, in my a fabulous silk dress, while a lady dressed up as Tinkerbell looked on.

I was convinced that I was in love with Miles, and I made a deal with myself at that moment to do whatever I had to do, which turned out to be pretending to be someone else, to close the deal. I'd anointed him the perfect man: Ward doing the levels-- eatin' ribs with the brothers who work for transit and drinking Vueve Clicquot with CEO's.

At the open of Benilde Little's book, Alice, the main character, is still quietly suffering in Miles' absence after two years. She's a newspaper reporter, living the Manhattan life: climbing social ladders in the appropriate pair of pumps. For Alice, love is the conclusion of a long and dizzying fairytale.

"You want a fairytale," my mother said.

Alice and I aren't completely different. Of course, in the end she stumbles upon a blue- blooded doctor of Boston stock. They live happily ever after with one minor hiccup-- an illegitimate child. And then two books later, Miles, at the age of 40, finally marries a flighty and fabulous twenty-five year old, of my namesake. Aisha. Go figure.

This is not heart break. This is a dream deferred.

I confess that I am in love with the idea that I can have it all. Fabulous degree. Fabulous career. Fabulous wardrobe. Fabulous man. When I met my Miles, I was reeling with the excitement. Praise God, literally I thanked God, that I would not have to be another successful 'strong' Black women without a husband or a date. Amen! I was flyer than that. Above being a victim. Alas, I had done it. I was on my way to being one of the impeccable women in the society pages of Uptown Magazine.

And when our romance dismantled I blamed myself. I wasn't on-point enough. I wasn't accommodating enough. I didn't say the right things. Maybe I said too much. In fact, I'm still haunted by the possibility that when I meet another him, I'll let him get away as well. I still feel that because I am fly and I am a Black woman , I do not have the luxury of making mistakes.

A few hours after my unsuccessful reality-show audition, my grandad called with good news. Pop-Pop was diagnosed with liver cancer a couple of years ago but today it's completely in remission. He said the doctors had told him he was in excellent health for his age. He said, "People who get old stay in the house and they dwell on things they have no control over."

Pop-Pop may not have realized it, but at that moment he taught me one of the most powerful lessons I've learned to date. You have to move on. Living things adapt or they die.

I had to move on.

I ended my phone call with Pop-Pop chewing on that nugget of wisdom. I pulled up Facebook on my blackberry and read a post written by an old friend. Actually, he was my first crush, but we don't need to assign him an alias. I adored this guy in middle school and high school but I was too shy to make any good on it. On his end, what started out as mutual interest turned into repulsion. To him, I wasn't the goody-two-shoe Black girl with stars in her eyes. I was just awkward. Yehp. In my first concupiscent experience, I fell flat on my face.

This old crush had just posted about a basketball tournament in memory of a mutual classmate who'd passed away. It was already in progress at the local middle school. I though, how convenient? I could maybe see some old friends. I didn't think twice about seeing my former interest.

So I went over there, dressed casually in snug denim, a silk blouse, and peep toe heels. I ducked my head in and quickly realized I didn't recognize anyone, except for him. I stepped back outside. Suddenly my heart was beating through my chest. I could easily turn around and go back home. He'd never even know I was there if I just quietly slipped out.

"Hey!" I greeted him with my mega-watt smile.

He returned it with a hug. "Aren't you like a star now! " He smiled back. I relaxed. As he peppered me with questions about my new life in Medium-City, South I couldn't help but realize how much tastes change, and so do circumstances.

Over a decade had passed since I was infatuated by his puerile good looks. I had since moved on, found new men to become infatuated with, to seduce, and new men to mourn.

As I turned to leave, he asked to exchange information. Cool.

That night, during a casual text conversation, he invited me to his place.

I mean... really?

As I politely declined his invitation, I accepted that time changes things. This weekend was supposed to be nothing more than a quick trip home for an audition. It turned out to be an abrupt confrontation with the past; The old neighborhood, the childhood crush, and the not so distant feelings of hurt and regret. And while I realized I was completely over my teenage crush, I had to face the fact that I was still completely devastated by losing Miles. Hell, by losing. And thoughts of Miles still unleash all of my insecurities. Will I find success? Will I meet 'the one'?

Am I good enough for the life of my dreams?

I had met Miles Browning at a party. He smelled my hollowness and zoned in on me like a coyote at a camp fire.

The truth: I am probably part to blame for Mile's abrupt loss of interest. And so is he. In retrospect, there were a lot of external factors that made our relationship unfavorable at the moment. But I am a lot like Alice was at the beginning of that book--- heart broken, hungry for the inexplicable, and looking for fulfillment. Whatever it is I'm wanting, I saw in him.

It's not all that easy dating as a fly Black woman. You have these standards... they complicate things. But it's even harder when you want the world and you lack the patience it takes to wait for it.


Time in and of itself takes care of a lot of things. If we work toward being our best selves, life only gets better, even if there is a misstep, or several, along the way. The best thing we can do is learn, quickly, from experience and take some wisdom for the road.


As Pop-Pop might say, no use dwelling on things you can't change.

Flyness and funk,

Ike

A Lady Sings The Blues

A Lady Sings the Blues

I don’t wear
A gardenia in my hair.
But baby,
I sing the blues.
Thank you, dear, for this heartache.
And a special thanks for my new attitude.

When you first laid eyes on me
You were like Billie Dee
(And I Miss Ross)
Swooning for your dizzy charms.
So thank you for that sweet gesture.
(short and sweet)
And thank you very much for my song.

How could I ever resist,
Your honey suckle kiss,
Tumbling down my bare spine?
(You know I loved it when you kissed me there)
Baby, thank you for those tears I cried.
And thank you for the bitter wine.

Good morning heartache Hear I go again Good morning heartache
Can’t no other song spin.


Me and Billy got this thing
And it’s more than the swing
that I do when I hear her croon.
“I cried for you” She sings!
And baby,
I cry for you.


Finally someone gave me something to pout about,
Something to shout about
Something to wail out loud about!

You put the b flat
In my tune
So thank you for the heartache,
Yes, I thank you for the heartache!
I said, I love you for the heartache!
And a special thanks for my new attitude.


Can’t you hear me singing the blues?
All of me
Singing the blues,
Why not take all of me
Singing the blues?
Can’t you see
Blue.
I’m no good without you…?

copyright 2008

Haiti: The Big Payback???

Disaster always seems to bring out the best in people. It also has an odd way of exposing society's ills. Americans know this all too well. We've already seen what happens when disaster strikes in the absence of preparation.That was Hurricane Katrina. And while the disaster did illicit an outpouring of money and rescue efforts (eventually), the governments delayed response, and the fact that the victims were mostly Black was appalling. The issue of race in America burst forth with the same intensity as the levees. And like Katrina, I'd argue that the Earthquake in Haiti has again put the pathology of race front and center.

To say that a 7.0 earthquake causes devastation is a gross understatement. Haiti is a nation living pay check to pay check with absolutely no money to spare for a rainy day. Haiti is devastated on any given day. It is hell on earth in the wake of a 7.0 earthquake. And as we watch endless b-roll of a ravaged Haiti, a horrific mix of death and debris, at some point we have to start asking difficult questions. Really, why is Haiti this poor? Why is there no infrastructure? And why is Haiti at the complete mercy of foreign assistance?

Some say it's payback.

These folks, many of them Haitian themselves, would argue that Haiti has been paying the price for its independence since 1804, by being blacklisted (pun sort of intended) from the global economy. When the French left, so did the rest.Today Haiti depends on international assistance, welfare checks, for bit of economic viability it has. The country suffers from a severe trade deficit, an absence of foreign investment, and vast unemployment. To make matters worse, it suffers stigma that has prevented the growth of it's tourism industry even though tourism flourishes in contiguous Dominican Republic.

Over the last two centuries, the country's once proud political heritage has eroded into a litany of corruption, coup and the conspicuous absence of progress. Limited resources in any nation gives rise political instability. Survival instincts kick in, much like they are on the streets of Haiti now.

But maybe there's a silver lining in all of this.

Finally, the world is paying attention to Haiti. Haiti needs help and I do believe that First World nations will rise to the occasion. Already, the World Bank has pledged 150 million dollars of assistance, though that will without a doubt come with stipulations. Establishing order in chaos, clearing the rubble, burying the dead, bringing sustenance to the victims... Recovery will be a long, winding road but it will happen. Maybe not at the pace that some of us would like, but the First World, particularly America, will step up to the plate. We shine in moments of global disaster.

But the real recovery would happen after the aftermath. It will be interesting to see whether global powers remain and help Haiti establish a viable private sector. Will they open doors of trade and diplomacy? Will they give the impoverished island a chance to survive and thrive in the aftermath of chaos? Or will they pack their heavy artillery and trot home, content to add new tales of heroism to the history books, and once again sustain the legacy of neglect.

That will be the ultimate test of humanitarianism.

Midnight Stream of Conscious: A Meditation on Rain: In the In Between

A stream of conscious writing excersize that I do at year's end. And then I post it.... hmmm... I think that helps it be cathartic. Nevertheless, feel free to skip or better yet, try yourself.



I am exceptionally vulnerable to heartbreak because I want the world, and I am a romantic. Yes. I want the world and all of the love within it. My life has been lead with my heart more often than with my eyes. In fact my eyes have been but a silent witness to all the places my heart has lead me.

With love I feel I can move mountains and perhaps, I’ve come to see that love is my deepest motivation. To be loved. To be in love. To know love. To write about love. To embrace love. To celebrate it. To give it. To experience God’s love because there is none greater. He is the love supreme.

I live my life in the public eye but I appreciate my solitude more than ever. I think the buzz of quiet, the gentle whir of the heater, a car passing by, the refrigerator’s hum is Zen. A meditation on the emptiness of life, and sometimes we need to just exist in the stillness and back away from the everything, the good, bad, and the goodbad that is the universe.

I am experiencing a renaissance, a spiritual awakening that delves deeper than prayer several times per day. I want go beyond supplication, praise, and request… I want to be intimate with God’s love within the world and identify the spirit that moves within me.

I am learning that the world is not black and white. Good and bad. Male and female. We don’t live in a world of opposites. We live in a world of everything. I’ve struggled with the question of whether or not we are powerless, the mere actors of God’s will, or whether or not we have any form of power over desires. I am learning that true desire is God’s will coursing through the body, begging us to listen and obey. I am learning that there is power in vision, faith, work and feeling but like all worldly power, but our human power is always checked by the Supreme.

In life you have to choose a role and stick to it. My role, a glamorous bon vivant with an old spirit and a flair for the dramatic. A diva. A goddess. However you spin it, I have learned that we do wear a mask and even when we want people to peer behind it, and we desperately want to reveal ourselves, we can’t always. Sometimes we have to take deep breaths and just stay in character. And we have to learn how to love ourselves with clothes on and naked.

I love pearls and things that shine. I love being a woman who walks with a sway and whose legs perform a ballet every time she sits. I adore yoga and I love the unity of mind, body, and spirit. Perhaps that has been the goal of this entire year; to unite my trinity—to form a foundation, to liberate my spirit from negative energy, and to encourage positive outcomes. And while I’ve learned to experience pure elation, I have also learned how to breathe through pain, whether if it’s a contorted yoga position that distorts my ligaments and diaphragm or heartbreak. Breathe. In and out. Life is about tapping into the greater self, pursuing our truths, and praising the Almighty for pleasure and pain because both are the necessary ebbs and flows of life.

It has been a glorious year, but a year of rain. Sometimes low lying clouds obscuring my sight. Sometimes thunderbolts and gloom. And sometimes summer rain. Either way, water cleanses washes, baptizes, changes things, and makes it possible for growth in nature. Rain is the poet’s equivalent of hope. I am not quite sure where I am, but I know more now, what I am, and that my spirit is in a totally different place than it was 12 months ago, though still moving towards awareness, fulfillment and the spotlight. I became a woman this year.

On the eve of the next year, and the day after my birthday, I must admit, part of me still mourns for dreams deferred. For pain. But part of me rejoices. The sun is on my back. My disco ball earrings are sparkling as are my eyes and my smile. This will be a year of love. Maybe not romance. But I will touch people this year with a spirit of love. I will write about love. I will continue on my spiritual journey. I will honor the love in my life. And I will love myself. Fall in love all over again. Love myself long and hard and make a vow to never let go.

A Woman'$ Worth: Worth Your Gander

Good morning Divas,

Mom has been telling me it's not how much you make it's how much you save since I was a toddler. And now that I'm a grown woman with grown woman bills and grown woman shopping habits-- her advice is more relevant than ever!!!

A Woman'$ Worth is an amazing blog!! I just stumbled upon it yesterday. It's written by a woman of color but really, I think any young and fabulous diva, regardless of whether she's still walking the halls of academia, taking care of a family, or climbing the corporate ladder, could benefit from it. Arlice Nichole gives financial information,book recommendations, savvy money saving tips, and advice on how we can all reach our personal BESTS. This blog is really a TREASURE. Visit. Bookmark. Love. Love. Love.

A Woman'@ Worth

Coins and Checks,
Ike

Gap Comfy Sweaters, Best Holiday Commercial for 2009

This commercial was so darling I wanted to go out and immediately by a little girl a comfy sweater!

LYRICS: Formal attire, officially retired. Hey mom and dad, guess what? 1,2,3,4 I'm not going to wear it anymore. I love my comfy sweater, I love my comfy sweater. How cute are these boots? How cute are these boots? Forget those pearly dresses. Forget those pearly dresses. Or talk to the moose!

10 Ways To Wear a Cardigan (as Shown by Michelle Obama)

Good afternoon Divas,

She's giving us style. She's giving us grace. And Michelle O has also given us a new-fangled fascination with the 'statement' cardigan. Not just your run of the mill, blah, twin set but fabulous cardigans--- with ruffles, embellishment, bold colors, and ornate buttons. Michelle can work a cardigan so ingeniously that when worn on different occasions you might not even recognize the wardrobe repeat. Well, perhaps the constant scrutiny forces her to be that much more creative, but for us divas on a budget-- we can learn a thing or two. A few quality cardigans can add an infinite possibilities to a divas wardrobe.

Let's have a look see.

1. Classic- Partially buttoned and worn over a shell. That was the only way to debut this gorgeous J.Crew Cardigan in London.

2. Open- Unbuttoned, over a blouse or a dress, you can be open and ready for anything. Michelle has her jeans on and sleeves rolled up as she spends time with some school kids.

3. 'Brooched'-- Michelle has an affinity with brooches and who can blame her? A new way to wear a broach, clasped at the top of a cardigan. It's quite dainty and it works best with a fabulous pencil skirt, full a-line, or a dress.
4. Belted- When she first started belting her cardigans it was-- avant garde. But now, everyone's doing it! It's a chic, and polished look and I think it's wonderful for women who share Mrs. O's pear shape, small waiste and fuller bottom half. It accentuates a fantastic upper body.


5. 'Bowed'- Michelle uses the cardigan to accentuate a bow detail. She's done this look with a few shirts too.

6. Preppy- This look is not just for Carlton Banks. Whether at an outdoor fette or walking to class on campus, this is another marvelous way to 'wear' a cardigan.


7. Sashed- Michelle appears at church wearing a dress and cardigan with a sash around her waist. This more formal look can also be done with a skirt.

8. Ruffled- Michelle shows that ruffled shirts and cardigans are a match made in heaven!
9. Collared- Such a smart look, a great cardigan over a crisp collared shirt, with a belt around the waiste. I love this look for work. I especially love how Michelle exposes the sleeves cuffs.


10. Monochramatic Mix-Up- Mom definitely said that stripes don't go with florals, but with the right monochromatic twin set, Michelle shows that-- maybe they do.
11. (BONUS) Faux Three Piece Suit- A cardigan worn over a collared blouse and under a blazer, with a belt-- love it.


With flyness and funk,

Ike

FLY FUNKY DIVA'S BIG COME BACK!

Divas,


First, please excuse the drama and extranesss in the title.

I started this blog during my senior year in college. That was in 2007. I'm a television reporter now, I've since transformed from a northeastern metropolitan diva to an honorary southern belle, and I'm wrapping my first literary project (published in 2010, hope so). So... I really don't have time to be an ardent blogger of style, sass and class.

But I really want to!

What I loved best was being able to blog about cute little styling tips and beauty tricks that don't cost a bundle, but can make a woman feel and look like a million bucks. Well, as a young tv personality, whose fame far outweighs her paycheck, I've stumbled on so much stuff I can share with you all. This blog is calling me back. And here we are, a year after I called it quits, and people still visit it regularly--- and leave comments.

So I say this all to say-- I think I'm breaking my hiatus, just in time for the New Year. But don't expect crazy, crazy posts. A sister has a full time job. A literarybaby on the way. And another blog that I sometimes do (Noni Jones in Harlem).

Cheers-- to new posts,

Ike

Publish Post

My New Blog: "Noni Jones in Harlem"

Hey divas-

It has been awesome serving you style and culture here at Fly Funky Diva. This is not the end of FFD, but I will be updating it significantly less. I have a brand new literary endeavor in the blogosphere

Ladies and gentleman the Fly Funky Diva presents--

Noni Jones In Harlem!


This is a fictional blog, an on-going saga, that takes place amongst 3 funky divas living in Harlem; Noni, Caroline and Geneva.

Take a look at excerpts. Visit the site and if you love it, pass the good word onto a friend.:

Noni

Fast forward to the good part. Carter comes home Wednesday night. We haven’t had sex in a good week and I’m feeling horny as hell. I welcome Carter to Merlot and Sushi (take out) and then we have one of our royal sexcapades…. A twelve pack of condoms on the night stand, right next to the KY and massage oil. Incense burning, candles and his locks in my face… all night… all morning… all afternoon, into the next night. Close to 24 hours we stayed cocooned in the bedroom, only breaking to eat, get water and use the bathroom. It was the perfect way to reconnect.

The next day, I contract a UTI. I tell Carter about it and we both assume that we just went way too hard. The following evening while Carter is playing with a new composition, I took a hot bath before retiring to bed. I soaked for a good twenty minutes, dried off. Then I pulled back the comforter and sat on the bed applying lotion. As I carry the lotion back to the bathroom, I get this weird sensation between my legs. I stop walking and look down at something hanging out. Lord have mercy…. I pull. IT IS A SOGGY CONDOM THAT HAS BEEN LODGED IN MY DAMN CERVIX SINCE I DON’T KNOW WHEN.

I call Carter into the bathroom demanding an explanation. “Baby, I have no idea….” He’s smiling at the sight of the stretched out condom but ain’t shit funny. I could be pregnant. I mean, I’m not on any form of birth control except…. latex-latex-latex!!! Clearly he and I were so doped up on love and alcohol that we could have overlooked an umm… missing condom. (???) I send him to CVS for Plan B. I’ve never taken it before and it gave me a killer headache, but I realized as panic overtook my entire body… I am not ready to be anybody’s mother right now. Not even if my sable Clarke Kent is my baby’s daddy. Clearly, I have some growing up to do.

Caroline

11:13. I’m now watching a Sex and the City rerun. It’s the episode where Carrie loses her Manolo Blahnik at a get together and her friend decides to be trife. I mean, I feel her pain but really… at 11:13 I’m feeling the throbbing between my legs. I’m sitting on my couch in a burgundy negligee, no panties. Flexing my toes, realizing I need to stop in for a pedicure tomorrow after work. Still no call.

What the fuck?

So I text him. “Hey. Are you on your way?”

I lean back in my couch, stomach churning with butterflies. I’m staring at my phone, waiting for the buzz from his return text. Ten minutes later, the phone vibrates against the glass coffee table.

“Hey. Something came up.”

Oh hell no. No this clown didn’t. My mouth is agape, literally for like two minutes. I’m staring at the text with my mouth wide open. I get desperate. In a move, I’d never pull with a man for whom my feelings surpassed my vagina, I call him. Not once. But twice. I realize as I listen to his voicemail that it wasn’t something that came up, but probably someone….else.

Geneva

It’s 4 AM. Do you know where your man is? In the damn bathroom. Wait, is he peeing. No, he’s talking. To himself…? No, not to himself.

I sat up in bed, afro all smashed out of shape. He was speaking so low with the damn door cracked I could barely make out what he was saying. It coulnd’t have been an emergency. WTF? I laid back down but I didn’t close my eyes. He knew I’d heard him. He walked back in, beautiful and butt naked, put the phone on the night stand, rolled over and went to sleep.

The next morning he woke up and made us eggs and sausage. I threw on my robe, brushed my teeth, washed my face, sprayed on some scent. He acted like he was all into his food.

“What happened last night?”

“Whatchu mean” he said reverting to his Brooklyn Speak.

“You were in the bathroom on the phone?” NEGRO!!!

“Nah. I’mma need you to not be in my business like that right now.”

Say what. I preceded to tell his nappy headed ass that it is my business because it’s my bathroom and that if he wanted to have private conversations at the crack of dawn then he could go outside on the sidewalk with the damn crazies and do so.

We got in an argument that consisted of me saying twice as much as he did. Arguing with Paul is like having it out with a wall. He left. Haven’t heard from him.