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Note 1: You should know in advance that this is a long entry with only one picture (namely one you see above). You're gonna have to click the "Hot Fiyah" link. There's a good possibility that you won't even be amused by the anecdote. So, if you want, you can just stop reading now and take a gander at Forbes' list of America's Drunkest Cities and see in how many different pictures you can spot the Mulatto-lookin' chick with the glasses.
At the beginning of the month, I moved out of the apartment at 117a, where I was living with Schmiddy and Bepple and into a new apartment in the Barmbek-area of Hamburg. Doing so, I not only gained a fresh perspective on things, but also a cool new roommate, henceforth known as Seven. Nothing against the boys, but some times you just gotta shake things up, you know?
Seven and I get along quite well, but we couldn't be any more different. She's extremely extroverted...and I am not. She's also incredibly talented...and I am...less so. Despite this (maybe because of it), she has taken me under her wing and we basically live the life of Two Broke-Ass Sistas in Barmbek (which I have decided is going to be the name of our new interracial buddy-cop sitcom/musical extravaganza). She's the Riggs to my Murtaugh. Or, perhaps more appropriately, the Axel Foley to my Judge Reinhold in Beverly Hills Cop. I'd totally IMDB his character's name, but I'm just too lazy, besides, I think you get the picture.
When I first moved to Barmbek, Seven showed me around town so that I could get my bearings and get to know all the places where the cool kids go. For example, she told me things like which Afro shops would have the products I need to keep my curls lookin' muthafuckin tizzight...and which ones should be avoided.
Previously, I only thought of Barmbek as the setting of one of the most bizarre ganja-purchasing stories of my life. Needless to say, the place has grown on me.
For the past few weeks, Seven and I have been wanting to go to a club in Barmbek called Big Apple. She explained to me that every Monday they have a hip-hop night, where basically every black person in Hamburg (or at least in Barmbek) goes. This was kinda news to me, because except for a Busta Rhymes concert, I'd never really seen a large gathering of black folk in Hamburg...and I've been to my fare share of hip-hop related events. My curiousity was piqued and I had to go -- if only to see what she defined as a club "packed with brothas".
The atmosphere was very chill, no dress code, the cover charge was very low (3 EUR) and came with a free drink ticket (score!). Seven introduced me around to everyone as "her sister from the States". Everyone seemed to buy it, so I went along. We were among the few unescorted females in the place and I supposed word about that travelled fast. We danced, we drank -- it was like we fuckin' owned the place.
The "trouble" began when the two of us left the club briefly to take a trip to the gas station down the street (cheaper beer than in the club). While walking, this guy started calling out after us. Seven politely explained that she was just trying to have a nice evening out with "her sister" and that if he wanted to talk to us, he would have to wait until we got back to the club. Conversation over. Or so we thought.
Once we went back inside, dude comes up to her again. At this point, I was having a conversation with some other people, when a few minutes later, the guy who was talking to Seven walks up to me. He proceeds to tell me that "my sister" gave him permission to come and holla at me.
Gee, golly, wow -- I felt so special, lemme tell you.
Apparently, he thought that I would be very impressed by his efforts, because he seemed quite disappointed to find out that I do indeed have a mind of my own, and I turned him down. However, this somehow set off a chain of bizarre events, in which guys felt that they first needed to get approval from my roommate in order to talk to me.
I felt like I was in the movie Pretty Woman -- except not so much with the millionaire romance, but basically only the high-class hooker part. And really, not so much of the high-class part either. Yeah, mostly just kinda like a hooker and my roommate was my pimp.
Eventually, however, I hit it off with a seemingly nice enough guy...let's call him Brotha-Man. We exchanged phone numbers and made arrangements to meet up the next day. Finally, around 4:30am, the house lights came on and Seven and I kinda stumbled home.
Fast forward to Tuesday evening.
Note 2: Seven has this term that she uses to describe when a guy is acting all full of himself. She calls it acting like "Don Ding-A-Ling" and it's not just a phrase, it also includes lean-back, crotch-grabbing gesticulation. I find this so hilarious that I've also adopted it.
So, Brotha-Man stops by the crib, comes all up in my room like friggin' Don Ding-A-Ling, plops himself in my chair and proceeds to ask me if I've cooked him anything to eat.
**insert picture of my horrified expression here**
In my mind, I'm thinking "Bitch, do you smell anything cooking?!" I was maybe 2 parts pissed off, 1 part supressing the urge to laugh in his face. Basically, the whole things reeked of dealbreaker-ism. The final straw being when I (graciously) walked him back to the subway station and he told me that my roommate had warned him to "not fuck around with [me], or else". However, he found it ridiculous that the threat came from such an "unimposing" woman.
Again, I was nearly choking on my laughter.
It's true, Seven is tiny. However, I don't doubt for a second that she could kick just about anyone's ass (male or female). Reason #1 being that I bet she just fights real dirty and #2...the chick rolls with real fuckin' gangsta-ass gangstas. The main point is that if she can't whoop your ass single-handedly, she knows folks who can.
Anyway, Brotha-Man decided that he was going to start calling me every damn day for the rest of the damn week...to see if I had been thinking about him. Each time, I was like, "Um, no, dude." Finally, last night I was like, "Look, I'm just not that into you." Maybe I could have been, if he wasn't freaking pyscho...but looks like he fucked that one up. Then he hung up. Conversation over, right?
Wrong. Around 7am this morning, I get a phone call. It's you-know-who. And, get this, he's telling me that he wants to speak with "my sister"...
Dammit, not this again!
I just said, "She's not home", hung up, rolled over and went back to sleep for an hour.
But hey, it's all part of life in the mean streets of Barmbek.
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