YOU THINK IT’S LIKE THIS BUT REALLY IT’S LIKE THIS, PART HOT 97

I took a shower for this, even though my sunburn hurt. Except, the J train to Summer Jam broke down at 86th and Lex. A tragedy, it was, my umbrella and extra-cute jumpsuit and extra-extra-cute smartitude – all so prepped to pop, drop and lock on 80,000 hot rap’n’B fans from NY and NJ – all so squandered on the lobby of the chain bookstore outside the muddy subway. As consolation, the would-be driver, on early retirement, RapidShared w/me over iced coffees, which I, absentmindedly, over-Splenda’d. Meanwhile the texts from my friends at the actual Summer Jam came in: “OMG! WE ARE IN THE VIP WITH R.KELLY, HILLARY RODHAM CLINTON AND GABE “WE’RE INTO MOVEMENTS” TESORIERO! I JUST GOT A BACON SHRIMP HORS D’OUEVRES FROM MISS JONES! T-PAIN JUST GAVE ME A FOOT MASSAGE! WHERE R U?” Or, even more difficult to accept: “OMG! KEYSHIA COLE WAS SOOOOO GOOD.” Meanwhile I’m peering out the coffee-shop window like a cooped puppy, watching the rain flood the gutters and cigarette butts and leaf fragments float and swirl along the tar of the street. A vision of disappointment. Poster-worthy, y’all.
So me and my girl Mo rented music movies and made like the shit was all right. All I can say is, what’s up with Beyonce’s eyebrows in Dreamgirls? It’s Diana Ross, not Frida Kahlo.