Miss Cleo says...

That I'm taking the lazy way out yet again (funny how this overachiever deal doesn't at all translate to my blogging.) I think this "How Do Your Friends See You" quiz is true, except for the fussy part (totally not me, I tend to go with the flow, unless of course, I perceive a nincompoop to be running the show. In that case, I will revert with a quickness to doing things my way, like Sinatra and Jay-Z *smile*. Also, I'm more laid back than this suggests (it helps that I have Stevie, Kweli, The Roots and E. Badu on regular rotation.) Most importantly, M. Elle does take risks...ahem, when she has reasoned out all things in advance and has decided that adverse affects will be minimal. Negative residuals of this personality: a usual state of "paralysis by analysis", with major career/life decision-making on pause while "pro-con" lists are made and remade and 50 friends are consulted by phone. Thank God for cellies *smile* Positive aspects: People always turn to me for advice because of my gut insticts (which are oddly right about 98 percent of the time. *shrugs*) My people know I love to laugh. But, you'll never spot me hanging from any chandeliers like a newly emancipated porchmonkey under a haze of debauchery. My mother did not a common woman raiseth. LOL

Slow and Steady

Your friends see you as painstaking and fussy. They see you as very cautious, extremely careful, a slow and steady plodder. It'd really surprise them if you ever did something impulsively or on the spur of the moment. They expect you to examine everything carefully from every angle and then usually decide against it.

Hateration...Hollaration

Now playing: The Roots, "Silent Treatment"
*clearing my throat* So, after all of my urging on of the Pistons, wishing ill to Robert Horry and casting aspersions about the misplacement of melanin on Duncan vs. "Man Up" Manu... I must concede and demurely express my congratulations to the snores... I mean, the Spurs of San Antonio for winning the NBA Championship. Gladly, I missed the silver and black confetti, as yours truly, after all of my anticipation found herself asleep...ahem, clean knocked out as the fourth quarter began. *Shaking my head* It's seems just as well that my body was telling me, to paraphrase the oh so fine Mr. Christopher Williams, "Don't wake me, I dreamin'." As to the various haters far and wide who seek to rub in the defeat, you get the uh, silent treatment. Actually -- two words: next year. Okay, a few more: we'll still take ANYBODY in an alley fight! LOL Where ya at Ben?! Rasheed? Shoot... Ricky will get down with his mask on and L'il Tay can throw a mean bony elbow.

On the Midnight Train to Texas

So a certain someone who shall not be named had the sheer audacity to uh...haze me up on my own daggone outfit. These bloggers, I swear. LOL. I guess that person, whose name rhymes with Tex-Mex will be quieted knowing, despite an exhausting two weeks in M. Elle's world, she has returned.

cues radio to Aaliyah and Timbaland, "It's been a long time. Shouldn't of left you [left you] Without a dope beat to step to [step to, step to, step to... Fricky, fricky, fricky]."

Lucky for me and everybody pulling for da "313", the Pistons didn't give up when they were felled like Teeny did the Tin Man in the Wiz in Games 1 and 2 of the NBA finals. They used their hutzpah and grit to play like the true champions they know they are. And again, in game four. But what the ham sandwich happened in game five? *shaking my head*

I must state again, that you won't get a point-by-point analysis here...I'll leave that to the pros. But a few comments if I may...

I love the ruggedociousness of the Pistons, but here's a thought. Would it be possible to place a barber on the Detroit bench during those time outs? You know, Ben "in a coupla good fights before" Wallace could get a little shape up. Not sayin he should cut the fro, but he could make it look a little less like a parallelogram. For Rasheed "the rugged warrior" Wallace, maybe a little cut and mustache trim? I know that gansta is their motto and I love that. But, like my Alabama granddady would say, a little haircut never hurt nobody. Maybe just mull it over guys.

Ricky Hamilton, my boy, I stand corrected from my previous commentary. Clearly, as you displayed in games three and four, your mask has magical powers...like Rick James' imagined orange glow. LOL. You played like we knew you could, aided by Chauncey (*singing* "C" is for cluuutch, that's good enough for "3") Billups. Each game I become more of a fan. Ricky with his agility and speed and Chauncey because he reminds me of Sam Cassell in his prime minus the latter's strong resemblance to "Jack the Pumpkin King" in the "Night Before Halloween". Free throws like freaking close to 90 percent? Check. Speed of a lynx? Check. Hustle-osity? Uhm yeah... Like Jay-Z, what more can I say? But alas, in game five, "the best laid plans of mice and men, etc., etc."

Which brings me to my next point. I.hate.Robert.Horry. And his momma. (No, just kidding.) Aargh... the dude has been shooting the lights out ever so nonchalantly for like...I dunno... evah and no one bothers to guard him?! What kind of rooty pooishness is that? And it's not like he hasn't been in the league for a minute... Did not the Pistons watch the archived game footage of the NY Knicks-Houston Rockets series when the man shut them down...beat 'em like they stole something? I screamed, flailing my hands, seemingly in slow motion and Matrix-like at the TV, "Nooooooo!" as Robert went for the shot and too little, too late, Tayshaun "L'il Tay" Prince made a valiant leaping effort to try to block it. (*sidenote* If you read my last post, it seems that none of y'all threw him a meatball sub from the stands to help him bulk up, like I requested, because Horry seemed to smirk as if to say "You--block me? Dude, I can see thru you.") So he shot and... insert a boombastic "Swish!!!", "$$ in da' bank!!!", "Oh, it's so prettay!!!" or or whatever clever phrasing you'd like to describe that yet again, the team I was rooting for was felled by Mr. Horry. And now, the players from the "313" must head nobly into the great west, down 3-2 and valiantly try to shift the sands of fate. I wish them well. And that Tonya Harding sneaks on the Spurs team bus...with her spiked club. To borrow a phrase from Durham, North Carolina, "We finna get dirty."

The NBA on R&W

Departing from our reguarly scheduled programming at Rhythmandwords (ie the Mahogany Elle Legends Ball) we interrupt to bring you a word from the NBA finals. Now, I didn't think that I would be enthralled on what was sure to be a visually lackluster series, filled with hard fouls and fundamentals from two stellar defensive teams, but as I watched the game last night, I realized that there's quite a lot to say (not about strategy, I'll leave that to the pros), but on the players.

I love Tayshaun Prince. I really do. He's scrappy, plays hard and has arms that could extend around the globe. (Literally. LOL) But, at 90 lbs soaking wet (*laughs* Okay, okay, I'll give him 120 lbs max) it's a little distressing to watch him go up against guys who are so much bigger than him. Though he plays tough, his jersey flaps in the wind, hanging off of his slight frame like a sheet on a clothesline. I feel like his momma yelling at the screen, "Boy eat a sammich before the game!". I get so worried that I want to go to the stadium and be like of those people who feed the homeless on subway cars. So here's my PSA for anyone with Finals tickets who wants to assist L'il Tay. Please discretely run up in the stands and throw him a meatball sub. Let's hope he can use those "Go, Go Gadget" arms to catch it, eat it and bulk up a little. He'll thank you when he's older. LOL

In other news, try as I might, I cannot bring myself to root for Tim Duncan for two reasons. 1.) He never shows any sort of emotion. There, I said it. True, the man is talented. True, he works hard. True, he's a team player. But I never have the sense that I can feel his passion for the game looking at him play. It's like no matter how many points he scores, he's just sort of there. Which brings me to my second reason, which hinges on the fact 2.) that he reminds me of a giant marshmallow. Really, he does. Now, let me qualify. He's not quite the mallow of magnitude from Ghostbusters (*rapping along to the B. Brown track in my head* "Too hot to handle, too cold to hold. We're ghostbusters and we're in control." LOL.) No, Duncan's more of a figurative marshmallow. I can't explain it. I see Duncan. I think marshmallow. *Shrugging and raising eyebrows*

Which brings me to my next point. Whatever bland adjectives come to mind watching Tim Duncan, the complete opposite happens watching his teammate Manu "Man Up Ni&%ah" play like he's at the Rucker or something. LOL. Man...I hadn't been following him closely before, but watching dude (I almost typed "the brotha") last night, I was thinking maybe he should have gotten the melanin instead. LOL (No racism intended, but Detroit, how y'all gonna let a white boy dunk on you twice?!! Especially, on my boy Rasheed "the rugged warrior" Wallace. LOL. Wow, was that was something to watch.) Well, the Pistons may not have gone home with the victory tonight, but there's still hope. Why? ... Two words -- Ricky Hamilton.

It took a long time, but I really respect and am rooting for Mr. Hamilton (whose nickname has always been "Ricky", not "Rip"... I don't know where that mess came from. LOL) The reason it took a while for me to get on board is because his college team stomped mine in the NCAA championship five years ago. And then, he poured salt in the wound my mercilessly talking junk when it was over. (I must have stared at the screen for a half-hour after the game was over, annoyed with his antics.) Anyways, in the years that have followed, I have seen how hard a worker and most of all what a talented athlete and poised individual he is. That said, Ricky, here's my message to you. I know Farnsworth has his umbrella, Odd Job has his deadly bowler hat and Nelly has his platinum caps, but when can we lose the daggone mask? LOL. It just seems odd, 'tis all. But maybe that (in addition to protecting his ever-breaking nose) adds to the lure of celebrity that is Mr. Hamilton. Which begs the question of what the mask mystique can do for people in other fields of work. Just imagine visiting your lawyer and he's wearing a plastic mask? (His rationale is it helps him "in the court"). Or your minister? (It's for the fast breaks to the "sinner's bench") The possibilities are endless...

*Announcer's voice* "This has been a production of the NBA on R&W"

Unsung Legends

Now playing: Earth, Wind and Fire, Reasons (live)
*Singing along with Mr. Bailey* "It's all about looove. It's all about love." So, in this spirit, I've decided to turn over a new leaf. The lovely and sweltering summer weather here in NYC has given me a decidedly warmer approach to humanity. Translation: I think I have been pouring the haterade a little gratuitously recently. I certainly don't want anyone to misinterpret my sarcasm. I do love black people (Most black people. *smirking*) So today on this blog, I want to take a minute to pay some of our unsung heroes a tribute. It's sort of the "Mahogany Elle Legends Ball"... unfortunately, I won't get a chance to sport the Vera Wang as Oprah did (boo...) (Though like a remixed version of Stephanie Mills in the Wiz, I know if I continue to click my heals, the blowuptuate fairy will grace me with my magic Range Rover and glass slippers). Anyways, back to the honorees. Yes, so I'm thinking the celebration will be later this year. There's only one complication. Unfortunately, I'm not sure who these honorees are. I know what they have done, but couldn't pick them out of a lineup if I had to. Perhaps you, friends, bloggers, countrymen, can quell my confusion and crack the case so the invitations can be sent out on time (or at least on C.P.time) ... Thanks.

I've always wanted to know who was the first person to come up with the "rat" tail in the 80's? Who was the first person who sat up in his barber's chair and told Willie the barber, "Nah, man. Don't cut a little patch in the back of my head. I'd like to grow it much longer than the rest of my hair, thereby proclaiming my cool status loudly for all to see, along with my parted eyebrow. " I can't help but wonder how Willie, the middle-aged barber who lived through the Afro and Caesar alike, MLK, JFK, and the Detroit riots, replied. Or maybe he just gave that "I know you're crazy" look that old black men somehow all learn to do the same way. Anyway, if anyone has leads as to this first tail sporter, please inform him that M. Elle would like to bestow upon him the first "I thought up some ridiculous ish and got away with it" award. Thanks.

Who was the guy who engineered the fireworks for Michael Jackson's Pepsi commercial in the 80's? I'm not sure that this guy deserves a legend award in a good way, but quite possibly because C-O-Nspiracy theorist me suspects that this is where Mike first started to go downhill. After that first surgery on his head, which was necessary (and to a little M.Elle quite scary...I thought I would lose my favorite singer!), he caught the operation bug. In the years that would follow, he was back to get his nose chipped away, then hacked off, then the butt chin installed, then the cheekbones chiseled *sniffle*. And suddenly, he looked nothing like the poster with him in the bowtie and yellow sweater that my older cousin had... he looked nothing like the man with glowing socks I so admired. *Mocking Ricky's mom in Boyz in da Hood* "Look at what they did to my boy!". Since I'd rather not blame a man who is currently under so much fire in the courtroom and is quite obviously Coo Coo for Cocoa Puffs, I'd prefer to locate said engineer and present him with the second unsung legend award for totally destroying the greatest Moonwalking red jacket wearer ever. Thanks, man. You took my heart and stomped on it, singing "Mama say, mama sah. Mama coo sah". You're a cruel, cruel man. *sniffle*

Who first told Nick Ashford (of Ashford and Simpson) that a long perm was a good idea? Not hating on the brotha at all. Really, I'm not. He and his wife are a wonderful songwriting team that came up with the classic "Solid as a Rock" and my favorite, Diana's version of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough." But everytime I see Nick, I can't help but ask what Valerie said the first time he came home with three feet of unadulterated permed tresses. Call me narrow minded, but that would have been a signal for me to give buddy the walking papers (that and the fact that I spot him with mascara on in photos. Uh...what's really good with that?) I'll say again, I love the fact that they're icons and that they've been together for so long and I'm possibly wrong for saying I'd let a no-lye come between me and my man, but I'm just wondering how she reacted that first time. I'd also like know how he got to be that smooth to pull off the same 'do for thirty years and not blink an eye. That's some cool brotha! The third prize, the "So Talented I can get away with a Diana Ross 'do and no one will blink an eye" award goes to Nick and the mystery hairdresser who convinced him to make that move thirty years ago.

I have more awards to dispense, but seeing as how it is Africa-hot up in here, I'm going to have to hit you up with the second round at a later date. The committee is also taking recipient suggestions, this being a democracy and all, so in the words one rapper, holla back youngins (whoop. whoop.)