Saturday, August 27, 2011

The Angst of a Great Mind

It’s time to get deep, y’all. Grab a lifejacket.

Last week, I had a BBM conversation with one of my friends that really made me think about the direction in which my life is headed.

I was complaining to him about how I hate my job, and to be frank, working in general. He asked me what I’d rather be doing, to which I responded:

“Honestly, the only thing I really want to do in life is to rule an African country. I’m just not sure what courses one takes in grad school to become a dictator.”

We both LOLed.

He then asked me if I really wanted to be a leader, or if I just wanted the title. I told him that it was a mixture of both; I know I’m far too great to be ordinary (peep the blog title), and I have a lot of great ideas that could take Africa to the next level, but I just need someone to give me a country first. My friend then replied something that screeched my Crimson and Cream painted power train to grinding halt:

“That’s often the angst a great mind feels; being restless. But what ARE you going to do about it?”

I really didn’t know how to answer that question. I was at a loss for words. And those who know me can tell you that doesn’t happen very often. At all.

In the days of my youth, as I transitioned from a cute and cuddly young lass to a bodacious teenage vixen, my focus continuously shifted. I went through phases of wanting to be a doctor, lawyer, psychologist, hair dresser, and chef, just to name a few. In college, I finally settled on being an economics major, but I didn’t really know what I wanted to with my degree. Now that I’ve graduated and have somewhat started my journey into the real world, I can honestly say that I still have absolutely no clue as to what I’m doing with my life.

But through all the different paths I’ve pursued during my relatively short tenure on this earth, the one thing that has remained constant is that feeling of restlessness.

As much as it pains me to say it, I think I’m lost.

So when my friend posed that question to me, I realized that I need to do something about it. Time is, as you Americans say, a-ticking. I’m certainly not getting any younger, and at this crossroads of my life, I must start laying the right foundation ASAPtually if I want money, power and respect by the age of 35.

But what ARE you going to do about it?

Good question.

After some contemplative meditation (which, for me, consisted of a nap and an Entourage marathon), I came to a few simple conclusions.

The first thing I obviously need to do is go to grad school. Nobody is going to let me rule any type of country with just one rinky-dink bachelor’s degree, no matter what institution I attended (SN: shoutout to Boston College!).

The second and far more difficult thing I must do is to expand my network. Now that there are all these dictator overthrows in the Middle East and North Africa, there has to be some new membership openings in the world dictator network! The slight problem with that is there aren’t too many female dictators out there, not to mention the fact that I don’t really know any dictators that could actually vouch for me, so I might have to get my thug status up some more before I think about infiltrating the system.

Or I might have to broaden my horizons a bit and network with people in a similar field, maybe a few military generals or senators.

Or presidents. #nbd

So if any of y’all know anyone in those fields, holla at a pimp.

As far as the rest of the world domination plan, those details are still a bit hazy. But I do know that however I decide to go about it, I will certainly be successful.

After all, I’m the Extraordinaire. Success is my only option.

-The Extraordinaire

Monday, August 22, 2011

One Day When I Was Walking, Walking to the Fair... (but not really)

Last Friday morning, as I walked the few blocks from the metro to my job, I was feeling myself HARD. Heads turned as sashayed down the street; my ensemble was on point (of course), and my 24” Indian Remy flowed beautifully in the early morning breeze. Birds were chirping, flowers were in full bloom. And it was payday! Couldn’t nobody tell me nothing! 

But my TGIF-induced euphoria soon came to an abrupt halt.

As I arrived at the corner of 19th and Pennsylvania and waited for the light to change, a scruffy-looking homeless man approached me. He looked me up and down with disdain in his eyes and said snidely,

“Ya know, there’s a country that some U.S. troops set up for your kind back in the 1800s, called Liberia. Why don’t you go back there?”  

He didn’t wait for a response, but as he walked away, he muttered,

“Damn n-ggers are out here with jobs and sh-t, and I can’t even feed my f-ckin white family.”


First of all, you better be extremely grateful that I am now saved and sanctified, because if you had DARED to utter those words to me during my heathen days, it is very possible that those comments could’ve landed you in the hospital. Homeless or not, I wouldn’t have thought twice about giving your poverty-stricken self a swift round-house kick in the side of your head.

And my kicks are powerful. I took Tae Kwon Do.

Second of all, let’s be real. The fact that I’M in this country has ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY no correlation with the fact that YOU’RE homeless. Now, I don’t know anything about your background, but chances are your homelessness can be at least partially attributed to some piss-poor decision making on your part. Is it my fault that you decided to spend most of your earnings on alcohol (which you reeked of) or other illicit substances, which probably led to the downward spiral of you losing your job and your home?

Nah, that’s all you boo.  

Now, let’s look at the issue from a more statistical perspective, shall we? We shall.

Black people only make up roughly 12% of the country’s population, and while the national unemployment rate continues to hover around 9%, the unemployment rate for blacks is closer to 20%. 20%!! So although you clearly have it pretty bad, there are many more black people in your same position, if not worse off. To be really real, the simple fact that we’re black automatically means that we have it worse than you.

But let’s just suppose that every negro and negrette in America actually decided to go back to Africa. Yes, there would be fewer people in the country, thus naturally reducing the job to laborer ratio, but that would happen regardless of which segment of the population suddenly left, even if it were Asians, Latinos, or Italians. Let’s go even further and suppose that blacks made up a large enough segment of the population such that a mass exodus would decrease the job to laborer ratio to 1:1. Basic macroeconomic principle tells us that no matter the state of a nation’s economy, zero unemployment doesn’t actually exist, even if a market is in perfect equilibrium.  The theory of the frictional rate of unemployment proves that there will ALWAYS be a prevailing level of unemployment, simply because there are always people moving in and out of the labor force (i.e. recent graduates, people changing jobs, etc).

So, dear homeless man, if you haven’t gotten my point by now, let me sum it up for you.

Shut the hell up and have a seat. In fact, have two seats.

Because if you’re homeless now, your racist behind would probably be homeless in better times anyway.

I swear, all these enemies of progress just won’t let me be great!

-The Extraordinaire

Sunday, August 21, 2011

"What's a Star if His Most Important Fan is Missing?" - An Ode to Aubrey Drake Graham

Those who know me know that I have an EXTRAORDINARY love for Drake. He is ERRYTHANG. Yes, errythang.

I get all verklempt and whatnot when I think about his greatness. My thug status flies straight out the window when discussing my beloved Aubrey’s meteoric rise to stardom. There was many an intoxicated night back in college when I literally shed tears when people said anything negative about my baby’s talent. It got kinda awkward after a while though, so I had to stop with the crying.

Anywho, as I was saying…

He is the sun, the moon, and the stars. He is the wind beneath my wings, the light of my life, the smooth peanut butter to my Smucker’s strawberry jelly.

You might be wondering why I love him so.

Oh, you weren’t? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. Have a seat.

From the very first time I laid my eyes on Aubrey Drake Graham in 2001, I knew he was the one for me. He captivated my young heart as Jimmy on Degrassi like no other character did. I laughed with him, I cried with him, I shared his pain as he became an invalid in season 4. I was a true ride or die.

So naturally, the day that I discovered his first mixtape back in 2007 was the day that I officially gave my heart to him.

His music speaks to me. I love him because he doesn’t pretend to be anything he isn’t. He doesn’t rap about slinging rocks on the corner or shooting n-words in a drive-by because that simply isn’t his life. And as a product of the private school, suburban DC circuit, I feels that. I could never really relate to most southern rappers because I don’t know a damn thing about a trap house or pouring out liquor for the fallen homies. But with Drake, there’s something in this work for everyone, from the cold-blooded killer to the Wall Street accountant. So come get some, why don’t you?

On second thought, don’t. I’m a jealous lover.

Not to mention the fact I’ve always had a thing for tragic mulattos. Nothing warms my thugged out soul more than a yellow man with feelings. It’s a beautiful thing. Le sigh.

I’ve already told the good Lord above that I do not want to leave this earth until I get a chance to meet Drake. Because I know that once we do, he’ll instantly fall in love with me and we’ll live happily ever after. No Cinderella.

And finally, as a testament to his EXTRAORDINARY greatness, I’d like to end this post with a few words from the wise philosopher Aubrey Graham for your viewing pleasure:

You wanna support me now that I’m outta the streets,
On my way like I can’t be beat.
Where were you when I was rollin’ in a wheel chair?
It’s Young Money haters, so I really truly don’t care.
My real fans understand through think and thin,
Not just gonna throw me in the trash can. 

Well said sir, well said.

-The Extraordinaire

And So It Begins...

Allow me to introduce myself.

I’m the Extraordinaire. Of what, you ask?

Of everything.

I’m truly good at everything I do. And since I’m African, I can pretty much do anything. I’m every woman. It’s all in me.

You might already be thinking, “Wow, this girl is really full of herself.”

I get that a lot.

To be honest, I am full of myself. But I don’t really see how that’s a bad thing. I think it’s important to know your worth. High self-esteem is an essential ingredient of success. How do you expect to become a CEO or boss of anyone if you’re softer than a cashmere throw? You can’t. If you’re a pushover, it’s only a matter of time before you run your business into the ground.

You know what low self-esteem gets you? Poverty. And AIDS. #truetalk.

So even if you know you’re about as bland as a value-pack of original flavored rice cakes, it would probably be in your best interest not to let others know. Because you know what happens to rice cakes? They get eaten. And do you know who eats rice cakes? Angry vegans. I’m sure you don’t want to go out like that. It’s not a good look.

So if you don’t take away anything else from this, remember: Carry yourself like you’re the inventor of all things good, and eventually people will believe you. If you command respect, you get respect.

That will probably be the best advice you’ll get all year. You’re welcome. Thank me later.

Moving on…

This blog is going to be a chronicle of the life and times of an extraordinary figure (i.e. me). I’ll make you laugh, make you cry, and I might even make you angry. But I certainly won’t be boring. I’m too extraordinary for that.

So come along for the ride, won’t you? The view is great from here J  

-The Extraordinaire