In honor of the upcoming release of Chris Rock’s film “Good Hair,” I am releasing to the world my own, unprocessed, air-dried hair, which I guarantee, you have never seen before. White girls with curls are equally apt to become slaves to the straightening, relaxing, hair coloring and extending industries. Believe me, every race and ethnicity has their own epithet for hair that is genetically “less than.” My younger sister has long, dark, silky hair that doesn’t know the difference between 65 and sunny and the middle of a monsoon. At some point, when my DNA was being coiled, I was given the ability to detect the dew point through my hair – sort of like a human barometer. And at some point, it was decided that I would be born into an era where straight hair ruled, and frizz needed fixing.

This documentary’s already got my tendrils in a tizzy. My roommate years ago (a black girl) massaged Miracle Whip into her ‘do every night, and I just could never wrap my head around it. But the truth is, all women have irrational rituals they perform day and night to “normalize” themselves for a glaring, judgmental public. I’m one of them, that’s for sure.

Here’s the trailer I’ve been obsessing over.

Here’s real proof that we do, in fact, call it the packy. And hats off to Mickey D’s for a delightful new brew (tastes like October foliage with notes of Kevin Youkilis’ beard clippings – in a good way of course!) and a wicked promotion.

Wrong, Stupid.

Now while I can’t submit that I left Apartment 9 in immaculate condition, nothing could have prepared me for the thousand-dollar bill PPM Realty served me with. After an entire school year of what I’d affectionately come to call “the quirks of student living” – rabid raccoons in the stairwell, a toilet with a hell of a gag reflex, the personal landfill before my door, not to mention a constant soundtrack of bros and bimbos trekking to Station – I thought I’d be cut some what of a break when it came to reclaiming my security deposit.

Wrong again, Sucker. You’re a naive, broke-as-a-joke kid living in a town whose two main cash cows are car towing and exploitation of tenants (oh, and cattle, of course.)

For whatever it’s worth, I’m not the only one. It only took a Google search to find out that I was sorely misinformed when I signed a contract with Satan’s Real Estate.

Reading caps-lock laden rants by people with nicknames like ‘suckitPPM6969‘ eased my tears and regrets, if only for a few minutes.

Now, I suppose, it’s time to breathe deep, buck up, and ride this solidarity all the way to small claims court.

And we’re on the road!

This morning, I checked on my iGoogle Aquarium and found one of my g-fish belly up. And not for any lack of obsessive-compulsive internet checking.

USS Enterprise bottle opener

Hello, wish list.

See his entire photostream.

This is one I couldn’t just glance over, chuckle at, and toss to the side. This gem, I believe, I owe to my best friends in West Hartford to publicize. There aren’t many people who can say, at age 22, that the friends they made in grade school are still the folks they pass the time with over a ballgame and a beer. We are an anomaly, and I am grateful for that. We were, and still are, a bunch of talented, creative, fun kids – the kind of kids who would write, direct, and produce a 10-minute PSA when the rest of the class squirmed in their seats all morning aching for cafeteria pizza.

No one was surprised when our teacher gushed with praise. Or when our classmates all hated our guts out of jealousy (though that was nothing a little recess redemption couldn’t rectify.)

After the filming, Ash grew an additional inch and a half to an adult height of 4’10″. She didn’t lose a stitch of her badass attitude. Alli flipped her wig (literally, thank God!), and still rocks out on the marimba. During production, we lost over a dozen construction paper cigarettes to the Connecticut springtime wind, and Linnea became an expert at hand-rolling. She has yet to find an outlet for her skills post-grad. The three woodland animal costumes made cameos in Wolcott Elementary School productions for the next decade. And perhaps, most importantly of all, after being visited by the Ghost of Marlboro Past, there isn’t a smoker in the cast.

This post is dedicated to the memory of Jenny Hamilton (Aug. 11, 1987 – Oct. 24, 2004).

Still, I have taste (whether it’s good or not remains to be seen.) And this product of fair-trade indigenous art just happened to catch my eye and cry out for my credit card. Behold the Zuni “fetish necklace” (as seen on Sunshine Studio), which, after payday tomorrow, will become my very own soapstone wearable menagerie.

Pedro, Petey, Little Papi. May your WHIP be few, and your million-dollar quotes be many. And may you continue to call the Yankees your Daddy.