Rosie’s CIAA cautionary tale.

Let the record show that I have not, in the time that it has been hosted in our fair city, chosen to participate in the activities surrounding the  CIAA’s (Central Intercollegiate Athletic Association) annual tournament.  The reasons are varied, but not limited too: Hating crowds, Hating myself in crowds, Hating crowds of drunken black people , Hating crowds of pretentious black people, and MOST important – I hate being in crowds of black people who’d spend $75-100 on a day party, but who will hem and haw about financially supporting local programming for children. This year I waxed sentimental and decided to go because all the buzz seemed so exciting, that one party sounded like what the business is (it was dope as hell, I won’t lie) and I won’t be here next year … so what the hell, right?

The night started out well enough. I did somethings to ground myself in sanity (prayed, burned incense, listened to the ATLien’s album), then headed out to an event called Grits & Biscuits. All southern hip hop, all night. Yessir! After I had sufficiently twerked away my cares, I exited the party into a sea of half naked self proclaimed “bad bitches” and the men who loved/lusted/thirsted after them.

As awesome as all of that was, my friend Danielle and I were ready to go and process the levels of ratchet debauchery we’d just taken in over artery clogging food stuffs. We’d ran across a group who was in need of a jump and I was glad that I was able to be of assistance (being the ever faithful good Samaritan I am) with jumper cables I had in my car.  However … when I got to my car I realized … I was actually in need of jump, as my car wouldn’t start.  Things promptly went to hell from here.

With the help of two eager young gentlemen I get the car started again, and head out into the mean side streets surrounding the NC Music factory that at this point looks a lot like Juicy J‘s rendition of Kolkata. I’m visually overdosing on bare tri-fold midriffs and men doling out piggy back rides to colored girls who considered crawling with them rainbow pumps became too much, when … my car stops in the middle of the street. Just stops. Right in front of this dude who is drunk out of his fucking MIND and believes, somewhere in his delirium that my car has arrived to pick him up.

I, distracted and disgusted, could not process why this man was getting in my car, and before I could say two words, he was in there. CHILLIN’.

I’m like:  Sir … get out.

No response.

To add to the fun, his drunk friends get into the act,  facebooking  and tweeting videos of all the festive shenanigans as I sit, mouth agape, looking on. The good times were soon to get better, when the Charlotte Mecklenburg Police Department gets involved, those champions of justice.  They actually SWEAR that my new friend is actually my estranged boyfriend/hook up and that I need to attempt to manage the situation.

This is when drunk man in my car starts flexin …
… like he’s on Instagram
He’s angry now …

He’s all: Get the fuck off me yo! Get the fuck off me son!

I promptly exit the vehicle, cause I wanna live and shit. There are now 3-4 officers in a heated debate with the drunken gent in an attempt to get his drunk ass out of my car. The officers are STILL swearing I know said drunk and disorderly negro, a fact I adamantly deny. After realizing the real possibility that their friend/brother may be tased or shot they beg the police officers to let them remove him from my car.

Negotiations are successful, the drunkard exits my vehicle.

CMPD: Ma’am I’m gonna need you to get back in your vehicle and move along.

Fuck. My. Life., I think to myself and am surprised by my ability to remain calm (probably had to do with my own non-desire of being tased or shot) and tell the officers that the reason why I didn’t take off and drag the dude down the street when he attempted to get in my car in the first place was because it would. not. start. (SIGH).

The officers FINALLY realize that hey … she really didn’t know that guy, and wait, her car won’t start! That’s why she was in the middle of the road! They determine that they will  offer me the assistance I need to get to the side of the road when just then, a clutch of ratchet pussy decides that my predicament is funny …

“Aw sheet that bitch done ran outta gas!”

“Ha. Ha. She slippin’!”

I verbally abuse the shit out of them.
It was quite satisfying.

The rest of the evening, that did not end until 5:30 am, ended with little more event than: me coming to the aid of two scantily clad “bad bitches” whose phone was dead and ride “had done gone” by allowing them to sit in my dilapidated vehicle, and me thrice having to give a Charlotte based tow truck driver direction to a major Charlotte landmark.

The lesson: I’m not sure there is one. Just a lot of individual shit that could have happened on any other day happening to me at the same damn time.

To all CIAA in CLT visitors: I enjoyed you, now please … go home. ❤

Rosie.

*Warning: The preceding song should only be enjoyed in controlled environments and under the clear understanding that you are probably not now nor will you ever be a drug dealer that … enjoys … two “bad bitches” at the same damn time.

Rosie On Music: Mr. Nelson has his way.

Here I sit in my bed at 3:38pm still in after glow from my night with Mr. Prince Rogers Nelson. He had his way with me you know… me and a few thousand others last night at Time Warner Cable Arena.  Prince’s performance was one to be remembered and an absolute testimony to his unquestionable ability to rock a house and do so on his own terms. His refusal to people please with his music and  insistence on coming from the gut with what he loves has, while causing some turbulence in his career,  also made him one the  most amazingly dynamic and original musicians alive.

Last night’s show was definitely one for lovers of music of every variety. As always The Purple One brought his own unique brand of rock, funk, pop, and even disco to the stage openly declaring himself (and his opening act Anthony Hamilton) “real musicians”. Sounds a little braggadocios, but he’s Prince dammit…he can do that. His musical reputation precedes him. Prince has always been a musical daredevil experimenting with all manner of instruments including his voice (see the “laughing backwards” scene from Purple Rain). The results almost always guarantee eargasms for the aurally eclectic.

Counting myself amongst the open-minded many I found myself quite annoyed by those who insisted on bringing up what he didn’t perform.  He’d warned at the start of the show that he simply just “had too many hits” and went on to say that he and the band (The New Power Generation) were going to “play the songs that they like”. Now this may have seemed like a stretch for the limited imagination, but I was much happier seeing him and his band play music they enjoyed playing, rather than to have to see them grind through a trite play list because the audience just can’t live another day unless they hear 1999 ONE more time. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: If you want to hear the album, stay home and listen the album. Live shows (when done well…and when not) are beautifully organic things that audience members get to be a part of. Get on board! Digressing…

*Sigh*

As I continue to muse over last night’s  session (and light imaginary cigarette), I’m beginning to feel a great sense of gratitude.  You see, I am a very fortunate Prince fan in that I’ve gotten to see him at vastly different points in his career. My first,  was during the Lovesexy Tour. I was then a hormone infused 14 year-old starring bug-eyed at the love, sex, and magic happening on stage as I writhed around in my seat at Madison Square Garden wondering what the hell was happening to me (quite disturbing as my mother was holding down the seat to my left.).  My second, was here in Charlotte during the Hit + Run tour.  Him seated at the piano while a scantily clad “Hot Thang” snaked around him as he played The Ballad of Dorothy Parker will live in my psyche until I’m old and gray.  Friday night’s performance, my third time having the privilege of seeing him live, left me just as or if not more exhilarated than I was in 1988 at Madison Square Garden.

I am thoroughly convinced that in 20 years, Prince would be worth seeing if he were only rolling across the stage in a power chair and nestling up to a piano. Why? Because he was, is, and will always be an irrepressible master of his craft. His music is saintly, sinful, worldly, womanly, manly, and absolutely can not be pigeon-holed to one title. So I don’t even try. I simply enjoy, with no demands or expectations. Mr. Nelson thank you for another set of memories for me to mull over in the erotic city of my mind ;).

Rosie.

The Highlights of Friday night’s performance for me were:

1. Him dancing while the band played Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough

2. The Purple Rain during Purple Rain

3.  Youneedanotherlover….like you need a hole in heeeeeeeaaaad!

4. The Beautiful Ones….Oh my… (*lights another imaginary cigarette*)

5. The Big Beautiful and talented group of background singers he brought with him. Those ladies WORKED it.

What were yours?