Some Like It Hot

Daniel Wilson - Love (I Wonder)

2011-03-11T22:01:00.000-08:00

Rihanna where you at? And why the fuck are you here?

2011-03-01T15:20:00.001-08:00

Call me rude (boy) (girl … s?), but … I have a problem with the “artist” known as Rihanna. I’ve never met her ~~(nor do I want to meet her),~~ but her very existence in the world entertainment world is problematic in itself. As, well, she’s the biggest tool on the planet right now.

Don’t get me wrong. I like Rihanna’s music. “Rehab” (feat. Justin Timberlake) was even the most played song on my iPod at one point. Along with “Disturbia”, “Love the Way You Lie” and “Unfaithful” from when she first appeared on the scene. This doesn’t make her any less of puppet. Puppets are quite likeable. Being likeable, however, doesn’t make you substantial or give you substance. It doesn’t, by any means, make you extraordinarily talented or exceptional. Everyone likes tools. We need screwdrivers! (How else would we fix things?)

My issue with Rihanna is the fact that she’s beautiful and that’s why she sells records and makes appearances and headlines.

She’s beautiful, bold (see her Grammys dress for proof of this attribute), BFFs with Katy Perry and has (more or less) recently bounced back from a bad situation with Chris of the Brown clan. I get all that. That's all fine and dandy and lovely and commendable. I, for one, would love to be friends with Katy Perry. She seems like a fierce bitch.

Seriously, though?

Sixty years ago, Rihanna wouldn’t have made it. Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald would have eaten her alive. Their big, powerful, flawed voices would have knocked her fleeting little one out. Even minus the whole talent thing, she isn’t even charming. She has no presence, no soul – I don’t even think she writes her own music. (You’re free to correct me if I’m wrong, of course.)

Every day, I struggle with the fact that I wasn’t born light eyed, light skinned and with “good hair”. My skin is dry, blotchy and my face is a completely different colour from my body. I’m 5’1’’, wear a size 16 dress and size 8 shoe. I’ve been called “Celie” (poor, black and ugly), been asked why face looks the way it does, been laughed at in the cafeteria by a bunch of boys and been rejected by or never stood a chance with more boys than I can count.

I could sing circles around Rihanna (not that it’s hard …), I could write my own songs, I could even learn how to dance and I will never be number one on iTunes or go on a world tour. Not unless someone thought I was worth the time and investment. Even then, I’d be dropped the second someone with longer legs and a flatter stomach cropped up. My (theoretical) genuine talent would be put on the back burner for a girl whose voice is lost in a sea of autotune and drowned by a “sweet beat”.

If I were an actress, I’d be cast as the sassy black best friend, a prostitute, a god fearing hood rat, drug addict or otherwise unsavory character.

I could prove myself again and again capable, but they’d shove me off or try to sell me as another “Whoopi Goldberg”. I’d never be “Ahlon Gavins” in my own right, in my own ability. I’d be one of those nameless, faceless women swept up by Hollywood and spit back out because I wasn’t fit to grace the cover of Vogue or Vanity Fair.

Even if I did make it, I’d made fun of on various social networking sites for being one thing or another.

shes a gud singer and actress and everything but shes not cute lol lol.

People who say, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” are people who have always been beautiful and are trying to make people who will never be feel better.

That’s just the simple fact of things.

Sexy may be a feeling; it may be something that I have to find with confidence, with time, with patience.

Talent, on the other hand, is something you’re born with. It's something that should only be subjective when it comes to taste. On the whole, it’s something that should be undeniable, whatever you look like. I should be able to turn on the radio hear people like Adele; someone whose pain is palpable. Your heart and stomach should fill up with a feeling that only the words in the song can express and this feeling should run through you like the blood in your veins.

More than anything, I should want to find the motherfucker who broke their heart and want to punch them in the gut; cry because the person I love got away; or run out and find the person in my life close enough to touch - to love - and finally have the courage to say what I need to say or do what I need to do.

Music should stir action, passion. We should all want to twirl around in a field of flowers in the Swiss alps.

THOSE HILLS SHOULD BE ALIVE WITH THE SOUND OF FUCKING MUSIC.

REAL FUCKING MUSIC.

I should be able to turn on the TV and see someone who looks like me. Someone with acne, with good intentions and something to get off their chest. There’s no need for pyrotechnics or flashing lights. There’s absolutely no excuse for singing anything but live.

A stool and guitar or piano or violin or tambourine should have the same effect as massive, elaborate sets.

I may not be a stunner, but that shouldn’t matter.

Rihanna said it herself and millions of people sang along with her around the world: ‘cause in the dark, you can’t see shiny cars.

{{ I've never won a thing in my life

2010-07-01T15:39:00.000-07:00

HEY EVERYBODY ,,

One of my favorite people, the lovely Miss Caroline Ann over at GIRL GOES EAST is having a contest. You've only got a couple more hours (I think) to enter, but it's totally worth it and you should because the pieces are gorgeous. Made by the equally lovely Simone of SKINNY DIP. Both terrific bloggers, you should definitely check this shit out. It's all beyond gorgeous. ENTER ! ENTER ! ENTER ! BEFORE TIME RUNS OUT. ( ... Bitches ).

my gaydar has caused me more heartache than i should be able to blog about

2010-07-01T10:41:00.000-07:00

Contrary to popular belief - I am not a lesbian. I am not actually in a relationship with Sarah. There are a few girls I'd jump the Hetero ship to Homo for, but that would never (ever) happen: So, everyone? Get off my imaginary dick so I can give myself some autofellatio and we can call it a day. 'kay? 'kay. Just because I say, "Omigod. She's hot" and "I'd bone the shit out of her" does not mean that I'm a lesbian. It means "Omigod, she's hot" and (if I were a boy) that "I'd bone the shit out of her". CRAZY CONCEPT, RIGHT?

When I exampled this insane (in the membrane) idea to my friend JK do you know what she said to me? She said (and I quote):

"You're not a lesbian? Really? Are you sure? Aren't you kind of a lesbian? You like girls and I mean, you've never had a relationship with a boy."

Despite the truth in them, those words stung a little. I've never had a relationship with a boy. Not a "real" one, anyway. I had my fifth grade boyfriend, ET, - who I actually dated again in 7th grade for a few months - and that was it. That was all. I hadn't ever dated anyone else. The only person I can even remember kissing was my friend LA and that was just a peck to show our other friend, AM, that there was no shame in it.

For the rest of the night, while I was talking to Han nah, my mind kept coming back to what JK said, "I mean, you've never had a relationship with a boy." I couldn't deny that. There was nothing sassy or snappy I could say to that. I mean, I'd only really had two major crushes in all my years of school that I can think of. One on AR, who I quickly stopped liking after actually admitting that I liked him, and Nameless, who will remain a mysterious figure until I'm ready to say or blog otherwise.

I had other, smaller and hopeless crushes but they did nothing but help me accept the fact that my love life is always going to be a little lackluster. And I'm okay with that. Really, I am. There will be blog posts that say otherwise, I'm sure. But we'll get around to my perpetual state of hypocrisy eventually - so I won't waste your time right now. Even after I'd hung up with Hannah and well into the next morning, I had JK's words on loop. By now, I'd even thought of some comebacks. "I don't want a relationship with boys. I want a man." I even convinced myself that I'd responded with a, "I'm waiting for Matt Doyle."

Then I realized why I've never had a relationship: I like gay guys.

And it all started with that blue-gray eyed motherfucker (daddyfucker ... ?) Lance. Bass.

It was circa 2000 (ish) and while every other girl was trying to get a piece of that afro-puff known as "Justin Timberlake" and that other guy (JC), I was all about Lance Bass. I was going to be Mrs. Ahlon T. Bass and we were going to have lots of littles Basses. Not knowing that, ten or so years later, I'd find out he's playing reciever for Team A Star Star.

At the time it was like, "Pfft. Whatever. I have a new love now, Jon Groff." (Oh, Spring Awakening, how you've been more like a rude awakening to me ...)

We see how that turned out. Did you hear about that Newsweek fiasco? Woof.

None of these, however, compare to my love for Mr. Matt Doyle. I was head over heels. I youtube'd him frequently, I followed him on Twitter, I told all my friends about him. My friend Ashley and I had read his blog in it's entirety. I used to get

genuinely upset when I heard he had a show and was unable to attend. I had it bad for Matty D. Bad. Bad. Bad.

And then SOMEONE (named Hannah; Conda if you're nasty) had to link me his Wikipedia page and my heart was promptly broken in two. He was gay. Homosexual. He even had a boyfriend! Let me tell you guys, I cried. I cried as if I'd been broken up wiith. Call me crazy, call me creepy, call me whatever the fuck you want - I bawled like a baby over this kid. I'm not delusional. I didn't think that the two of us would actually meet and fall in love or anything like that. It was the fact that someone so cute, so talented, so everything Ahlon could possibly want in a guy - and he was unavailable. UNATTAINABLE. UNRECIPRICATING ...

[ TWENTY MINUTES LATER ]

I got over it, eventually. I mean, what else could I do? I couldn't sit around wishing and hoping that he'd magically wake up and thing, "You know, I was reading my mentions on Twitter the other day and suddenly felt undeniably sexually attracted to a girl who calls herself 'Foxy Chocolate'." I had to move on!

And I did.

To Alex on SYTYCD.

Click that link.

See why this is a problem?

What am I going to do with me?

Even I worry sometimes.

NOT THAT YOU CARE OR ANYTHING, BUT ... }}

2010-06-29T14:58:00.000-07:00

My name is Ahlon.
Pronounced "Uh. Lon."
If I knew what it meant,
I'd tell you. But I don't.

This is my blog.
I don't know what this is
going to be about quite yet,
or if it's even about anything.

All I know, is that I'm going to
actually do something with it.
Maybe something good.

(Maybe not).

(Probably not).

{{ Once upon a time, I was Kim Kardashian

2010-06-29T14:48:00.000-07:00

I'm awful with time. I can have a calendar or clock directly infront of me and still not know the time or date. I'm warning you, right now, that I don't know when most of the things I'll blog about took place. I'll try to be as detailed as possible, but don't expect a Les Miserable Battle of Waterloo reenactment outta me. Unless I manage to blog what happened that exact same day, you won't get more than a place and some people out of me. I'm sorry in advanced, Vanilla Waffers.

I love you, though. Kisskiss?

This particular entry in the chronicles of jesus-christ-get-to-the-point-already takes place circa 2002 in the music room at Brick Elementary School. Why yes, I did put the school I actually attended up. I don't give a fuck. Go ahead, stalk me. I'll even plant you bushes. You can have my email ( foxychocolatelady@gmail.com ) and add me on Facebook. Go ahead, steal my identity. I DON'T FUCKING WANT IT. Plus, it would give me plenty to write about in my memoir.

PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GIVE ME SOMETHING TO WRITE ABOUT IN MY MEMOIR because, right now, I've got nothing.

In fifth grade I was pretty hot shit. I was the Kim fucking Kardashian (minus the Armenian) of Brick. I had a high pitched voice, a big ass, big tits, and I had the tendency to always steal the spotlight while still, socially, ending up in last place. Oh, and guess what? I HAD A BOYFRIEND. As much as he may deny having ever dated me, WE DID DATE, ASSHOLE. Even if we never kissed or anything like that, I still have all the shit you gave me.

STICK THAT DICK DOWN YOUR THROAT AND CHOKE ON IT, WHORE.

For the record, I was only dating him at the time because my supposed to be best friend forever, BJ (I'm a classy lady, I'm using initials) was dating front man of SycAmour, JG, and she wanted us all to be like Corey, Topanga, Sean, and Angela on Boy Meets World. Best friends, all dating. (Stay with me, this all comes together in the end). Also, in fifth grade, I found my passion for writing and nearly failed the "basics of geometry" because I was too busy writing Harry Potter InuYasha cross over fanfiction.

Ah, some things never change.

If I was Kim, then my ex bff (since around 2004), BJ, was Kourtney and SW was Khloe. SW was huge. I mean, if I was 5'1'', then she had to be 5'10''. In fifth grade. SW was huge, built thick, and had a thing for shaking me violently and choking me in the girl's bathroom. Did I mention SW was crazy? SW was crazy (keep crazy in mind, please. That's the most important thing here). I still remember when she Xena woop'd and kicked open the stall on an unsuspecting third grader. She also picked BJ clear off the ground once, spun her around, and dropped her right on her bouncy Beyonce booty.

Every Tuesday ( ... or was it Thursday ... ) we had our music elective. As I recall, our music teacher, Mrs. Robbins, was kind of lazy. Even had a lazy eye. Sometimes, she would just have better things to do than teach us how to sight read and made up this silly game to keep up preoccupied as she probably flipped through her Eddie Bauer catalogue and wished Brad Pitt would dump that bitch Jen An (not that I'm Team Jolie or anything), fall madly in love with her, and help jumpstart her career as the original Zooey Deschanel-eque She & Him folk duo.

Band?

Whatever.

The game went as follows: Everyone grabs their cheap ass, off burgundy chairs, puts them in a circle and some fool in the middle sings two names. The two people have to run to eachother's seat while the middle asshole has to try to nab a chair. Stupid, right? Right. Well, this particular Tuesday/Thursday (Wednesday?), I was wearing my favorite dress. I don't remember this dress, but my mother claims to have to talk me out of wearing it three times out of a five day week, every week, since I bought it around November for some honors ceremony.

Since I am a hit and miss fashionista, I am glad that I do not remember this dress and simply imagine it like this Marilyn Monroe number. There was no special occasion or anything, mind you. Sometimes, I just like to dress up. I mean, I was Kim Kardashian! I had to go everywhere with my tits hanging out and my ass had to cause a stir!

I was sitting there, in my Marilyn Monroe dress, looking cute as can be when someone sang my name. Someone sang, "Ahlon and SW!" Standing up as fast as I could, I ran toward SW's seat. She did the same. Somewhere in the middle we collided and ... her knee met my fish taco. No. Her knee didn't just meet my fish taco, she took my taco out to a movie, out to eat, proceeded to ravish it in the backseat of a white Bronco, and then never called and boasted about it's conquest on Facebook.

Her knee tore my shit up.

Left in the middle, in excuriating pain, Mrs. Robbins didn't see a thing. No one else seemed to notice, either. And, though I was seeing stars and pretty positively that SW had maimed me for life, I was forced to continue the game for two more rounds before finally being able to go to the bathroom and nurse my wounded ... pride.

This has been my life, on loop, for the past eight years: a swift kick in the fish taco.