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It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain't Got That....
I have a confession to make. The real reason I haven't wound up my meditations on femme or ritual labor or Judy Chicago or why the Palestinians are the only refugees in the history of the world still to be in camps 60 years later is...well, I'm getting like 120 sext msgs a day from a certain celebrity with whom I have been having an affair for three years. My thumbs are whisker burned and swollen.
We met during my cocktail waitress gig at the Trio on Seventeenth Street....he told me later he fell instantly for my blue beehive a la Marge. He and his guys were sitting in the corner booth by the rest room and he sent over one of his guys who said T would like to meet me. I hadn't seen him back there 'cause I was waiting the Seventeenth Street sidewalk cafe side. I said, Kiss my grits! and that was the beginning of something, well, whatever it is we have a real connection.
We met during my cocktail waitress gig at the Trio on Seventeenth Street....he told me later he fell instantly for my blue beehive a la Marge. He and his guys were sitting in the corner booth by the rest room and he sent over one of his guys who said T would like to meet me. I hadn't seen him back there 'cause I was waiting the Seventeenth Street sidewalk cafe side. I said, Kiss my grits! and that was the beginning of something, well, whatever it is we have a real connection.
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