Livin' La Vida Loca

What? Another concert? Another concert for the woman who, prior to May, hadn't seen any live music in about a decade? Look at me going out at night, acting like I'm not somebody's mother!

Badu.

She is, I believe, the prophet. Not a prophet.

The Prophet.

Tell her no secrets, she'll tell you no lies.

Sister girl made her point last night—singing in stilettos, plain old yellow sweatpants, a yellow t-shirt that she may have found at the Goodwill, a bowler hat, some funky earrings and some leather arm things. And she still turned that shit out! Because . . . it ain't about the Beyoncéness of it all. Either you've got the chops or you don't.

The Prophet. If black folks weren't so intent on finding leadership in a male figurehead, we would have anointed this woman a long time ago as the Second Coming (of MLK, Malcolm, Stokely or whatever other man we've thought could lead us out of one thing and into something better). One never need to ask her what she thinks. While you weren't paying attention, she's already told you.

Oh, yeah. I went surfing today. That is all.