Monday, August 4, 2008
SOLANGE KNOWLES has been awarded last weeks Simply Fly! award. During a shopping trip in London, Solo's burnt orange frock and her delicious sky blue & gold Fendi bag made her a shoe in!
And check out her new leak. It's an open letter to the recording industry and it's over Kanye's My Everything. And mark your calendars for the upcoming SoL-Angel & The Hadley Street Dreams, which drops on August 26th.
F*@k The Industry (Signed Sincerely)
Big Ups to Angel @ Concreteloop for the track!
And check out Solange's performance last week on the UK's Charlotte Church Show. Chick sounds pretty fly!
Friday, July 25, 2008
HALLE BERRY was out and about yesterday in North Hollywood looking laidback & chic. Didn't chick just have lil Nahla like 4 months ago? Fabulous!
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
The slicked-down bob looks ADORABLE on you RiRih! FSL loves us some Rihanna!Thursday, June 19, 2008
Dear Common,
You can get it.
Just let me know when & where...We'll work out the 'how' later.
Sincerely,
THEflyGIRL
These Balenciaga gladiator runway boots that RIH RIH rock'd on 106 & Park yesterday COMPLETELY change how I feel about girlie's new look. Damn if those aren't FLY!Friday, June 13, 2008
ALICIA KEYS attended the preem of HBO's newest doc, 'We Are Together' last night in NYC. the film chronicles the lives of children from the Agape Love Orphange in South Africa. If you have HBO, either legally or not, check it out. It airs this month.
On another note Mashonda, soon to be ex wife of SWIZZBEATS is adding fuel to the internet rumor that her decision to file for divorce just months after giving birth to their child, was brought on by Swizz' affair with his supposed jump-off...On Ms. A. Keys.CLICK HERE for the scoop
I am lovin' the ish outta that ponytail...And ya'll KNOW I don't like ponytails.
I am lovin' the ish outta that ponytail...And ya'll KNOW I don't like ponytails. Wednesday, May 28, 2008
SEX AND THE CITY: THE MOVIE preemed last nigth in NYC and errbody and their mama was there to see Carrie, Samatha, Miranda & Charlotte pick up four years later.
Sarah Jessica Parker redeemed herself from her riskay green choice at the films UK preem by rockin' what can only be described as the florr-length Grecian gown that set the nights biggest trend: Metallics.
I don't give a flyin' ish what Maxim says, without this chick or this character, half the skinny little heffas that the mens mag deems "Hot" would be running around dressing like Forever 21 rejects.
Kim Catrall is not sexy. Samatha has a sexiness to her but Kim Catrall IS NOT sexy. and this metallis disaster proves it.
Kirstin Davis played it safe with a Gold frock.
WHAT IS THIS Cynthis Nixon? You know power lesbians need stylist too dammit.
SATC newcomer JENNIFER HUDSON held her own with a gold fitted empire dress. The bob is hot and the shoes are banging. The look, while very fashion forward, was middle of the road by SATC standards.
Her black A-line afterparty frock worked SO much better for me.
I love the make up. And the bob looks really good on her.
MJB looked very flirty and cute in black & white.
And Kendu looked the perfect escort in a low-key blazer/jean combo.
Yes, CHRIS NOTH (AKA Mr. Big) baby mama Tara Wilson, is a sista. BTW, I've got a weird story bout how I saw him in Hustler up on Sunset at like 8:30am on a Saturday morning buying porn. Now I know you're saying, "What were YOU doing in Hustler?" And the answer is, buying porn. No, I'm kidding, I was picking up a necklace while I waited for a table at Duke's across the street. Really.
Apparently MICHELLE rolled in after attending Usher's album relase party. And although she should've done a fit change, the dress is still bomb enough to work twice. Now...That being said, don't let me see this ish again.
Yeah but Gayle (also coming from Usher's diggs), not so much. This ish was horrible the first time.
LIL PLASTIC, I mean KIM rolled herself through. You should NEVER blend into the carpet.
I'm not gonna lit to you SATC's Jason Lewis (Rosario Dawson's ex) could certinly get it.
KID SISTER came through and although I know what she was going for, I HATE HATE HATE those shoes. They're just ugly. Perhaps is they under a pant but damn if this ish don't look sickening.
SOURCE
I love the make up. And the bob looks really good on her.
MJB looked very flirty and cute in black & white.
And Kendu looked the perfect escort in a low-key blazer/jean combo.
I LOVE LOVE LOVE them together.
Yes, CHRIS NOTH (AKA Mr. Big) baby mama Tara Wilson, is a sista. BTW, I've got a weird story bout how I saw him in Hustler up on Sunset at like 8:30am on a Saturday morning buying porn. Now I know you're saying, "What were YOU doing in Hustler?" And the answer is, buying porn. No, I'm kidding, I was picking up a necklace while I waited for a table at Duke's across the street. Really.
Apparently MICHELLE rolled in after attending Usher's album relase party. And although she should've done a fit change, the dress is still bomb enough to work twice. Now...That being said, don't let me see this ish again.
Yeah but Gayle (also coming from Usher's diggs), not so much. This ish was horrible the first time.
LIL PLASTIC, I mean KIM rolled herself through. You should NEVER blend into the carpet.
I'm not gonna lit to you SATC's Jason Lewis (Rosario Dawson's ex) could certinly get it.
KID SISTER came through and although I know what she was going for, I HATE HATE HATE those shoes. They're just ugly. Perhaps is they under a pant but damn if this ish don't look sickening.SOURCE
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
"I've written for Beyonce, Mary J. Blige, Rihanna, Celine Dion and ... Lindsay Lohan," he said. "But I will say this; we gave her a quality record and she did a ridiculously fabulous job. I was so shocked I had to call her and apologize for what I was thinking because she did so good. I think the world is gonna be surprised."
Singer/Songwriter Ne-Yo says of his recent collab with the paparazzo favorite.
But on another note...
Ok, say what you will bout the closeted coked-out, bulimic, slightly slutty, mediocre lesbian actress LINDSAY LOHAN. But damn is she didn't step in the spot and kill the game!
From the complimenting green, to her dramatic eyes and lay-back hair to the heels that project sheer miles and miles of leg, I can't even front on her ass, she did her thing.
No back to our regularly scheduled ish...
Monday, May 19, 2008
Dwyane Wade sat in the first pew Sunday afternoon, looked at his mother, and simply couldn't hide his emotions.
She had made him cry often before. This time, it was different.
"This is tears of joy," he said, beaming. "Tears of joy for my mother."
Before she was known as the mother of the Miami Heat superstar and 2006 NBA finals MVP, Jolinda Wade was known as an inmate, a fugitive, a drug user and drug seller. Her life turned around seven years ago when, after years of urging by her children, she got help and got clean. Along the way, she devoted her life to spreading the word of God, starting her first ministry while doing time in state prison.
Now, that ministry has a new home, called the Temple of Praise.
Jolinda Wade's very own church.
Her son bought it, and her children and her congregation gathered to dedicate it Sunday.
"I respect my mother so much, from the life that she used to live and to see her today in the life that she lives. I'm so proud of her," Dwyane Wade told The Associated Press before the service. "Everybody thinks I'm the miraculous story in the family. I think she is. I think what I've done means I've been very blessed, but she's been more than blessed. She's been anointed."
"Today is one of the highest of the highest moments in my life," Jolinda Wade said.
For so long, Jolinda's life was a waste, marred by abuse of alcohol and drugs. Whenever Tragil Wade, one of Jolinda's three daughters and the person who essentially raised her brother, would get word that someone died in one of their Chicago-area neighborhood's many abandoned buildings, she feared it was her mother -- and even thought about saving for what she assumed would be a fast-arriving funeral.
"I can't even tell you what it was like," Tragil Wade said, choking up. "It's beyond words."
One day, in a teary tirade, Tragil Wade talked her mother into accompanying her to church. That moment, they say, is the one that convinced Jolinda Wade to make some radical changes.
She got sober, turned herself into Illinois authorities to serve a prison term that she skipped out on under auspices of joining a work-release program, and repaid her debt to society.
"My mother is a miracle to me and to our family, to see from where she came to where she's at now," said Tragil Wade, who at 30 is only four years older than the brother she has looked over for virtually his entire life. "I can't even describe it. It's like, if you didn't believe in God, this right here would make the belief strong."
Today, Jolinda Wade turns those tragic times into a powerful message.
"I feel reborn," said Jolinda Wade, who arrived for Sunday's service head-to-toe in purple, matching the newly redesigned decor of the sanctuary of the church that bears her name on the streetside sign. "Matter of fact, I feel reborn every day. There's always something new every day. I just thank God for the experience."
This is how she shows her thanks, preaching to people filling row after row of pews and hanging on her every word. They danced in the aisles and threw their hands in the air, shouting "Amen!" over and over, so many people turning out that the parking lot was overflowing and some latecomers had to park up to three blocks away.
"It's a blessing," Jolinda Wade said.
Her church, which was formed in October with just 47 original members, welcomed hundreds to Sunday's service, including the mothers of Shaquille O'Neal and Magic Johnson.
"All I can say: Hallelujah!" Tragil Wade said.
SOURCE
She had made him cry often before. This time, it was different.
"This is tears of joy," he said, beaming. "Tears of joy for my mother."
Before she was known as the mother of the Miami Heat superstar and 2006 NBA finals MVP, Jolinda Wade was known as an inmate, a fugitive, a drug user and drug seller. Her life turned around seven years ago when, after years of urging by her children, she got help and got clean. Along the way, she devoted her life to spreading the word of God, starting her first ministry while doing time in state prison.
Now, that ministry has a new home, called the Temple of Praise.
Jolinda Wade's very own church.
Her son bought it, and her children and her congregation gathered to dedicate it Sunday.
"I respect my mother so much, from the life that she used to live and to see her today in the life that she lives. I'm so proud of her," Dwyane Wade told The Associated Press before the service. "Everybody thinks I'm the miraculous story in the family. I think she is. I think what I've done means I've been very blessed, but she's been more than blessed. She's been anointed."
"Today is one of the highest of the highest moments in my life," Jolinda Wade said.
For so long, Jolinda's life was a waste, marred by abuse of alcohol and drugs. Whenever Tragil Wade, one of Jolinda's three daughters and the person who essentially raised her brother, would get word that someone died in one of their Chicago-area neighborhood's many abandoned buildings, she feared it was her mother -- and even thought about saving for what she assumed would be a fast-arriving funeral.
"I can't even tell you what it was like," Tragil Wade said, choking up. "It's beyond words."
One day, in a teary tirade, Tragil Wade talked her mother into accompanying her to church. That moment, they say, is the one that convinced Jolinda Wade to make some radical changes.
She got sober, turned herself into Illinois authorities to serve a prison term that she skipped out on under auspices of joining a work-release program, and repaid her debt to society.
"My mother is a miracle to me and to our family, to see from where she came to where she's at now," said Tragil Wade, who at 30 is only four years older than the brother she has looked over for virtually his entire life. "I can't even describe it. It's like, if you didn't believe in God, this right here would make the belief strong."
Today, Jolinda Wade turns those tragic times into a powerful message.
"I feel reborn," said Jolinda Wade, who arrived for Sunday's service head-to-toe in purple, matching the newly redesigned decor of the sanctuary of the church that bears her name on the streetside sign. "Matter of fact, I feel reborn every day. There's always something new every day. I just thank God for the experience."
This is how she shows her thanks, preaching to people filling row after row of pews and hanging on her every word. They danced in the aisles and threw their hands in the air, shouting "Amen!" over and over, so many people turning out that the parking lot was overflowing and some latecomers had to park up to three blocks away.
"It's a blessing," Jolinda Wade said.
Her church, which was formed in October with just 47 original members, welcomed hundreds to Sunday's service, including the mothers of Shaquille O'Neal and Magic Johnson.
"All I can say: Hallelujah!" Tragil Wade said.
SOURCE
Monday, May 5, 2008
So can I just say right now that I am SOOOOOO excited to see Ms. Jennifer out and about with (gasp) a new look! While the promos for the MUCH ANTICIPATED Sex & The City movie is in full swing, I was worried that Hud's closet would be filled with floor length/empire-waisted spring dresses.But alas my girl/fellow Chi-town native came through, curves and all. The new banged do is great for her face and the bra/belt/tank combo does wonders to define her waist. And I gotta tell you I admire the ish outta of any chick above a size 8 that can rock some stretch pants (away from the gym). Looks like Pat Fields got a hold of your ass. GO HEAD! Iaintmadacthu!
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
So A. Key's hit up the Late Show today, pubbing her new single "Teenage Love Affair." I am love love lovin' this look of her arrival.
But I think we'd all agree that it's her "Departing Look" that was quite the...head turner. I mean I'm not gay or anything, I mean I like the fellas (I really do) but DAMN ALICIA.
I ain't mad acthu!
Monday, April 21, 2008
Once again from ya boy Ye West: The Alligator Chair
The Banquette chair by well-known artists Fernando and Humberto Campana. At $75,000, it stands to be world's most expensive stuffed furniture.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
A HAIR STORY: One Mother's Journey To Learn Her Daughter's Heritage
1 comments Posted by THE fly GIRL at 10:22 AMThis story was sent to me by my best friend Angel - And it was so honest and beautiful, I thought I'd share it...See I can be nice ;o)
Thanks Ang, MUAHHHH!
Twists and turns
A story of hair and identity
By Aaryn Belfer
One of the first things my daughter says to me after waking each day—now that she’s evolved from the larval stage of infancy into a strategically manipulative human being—is “Please eat peanut-jelly.” Then she follows it, slowly shaking her head, with “No hair, mama. No hair today.” Generally speaking, I comply with her first request and override her second because the former is reasonable while the latter is non-negotiable. The child is nevertheless persistent in trying never to have her hair combed.
Still, we embark on an almost-daily ritual that is painful yet important for us both. To say Ruby wails when I comb her thick, kinky, lovely hair doesn’t quite begin to describe her emotional state. Wailing is serene compared to the drama that unfolds in my home. There is thrashing, jerking, writhing, kicking, slapping, bucking, drooling, farmer-hanky-ing (my personal favorite) and—the latest addition to the repertoire—a sustained, alienesque noise that seems to sharpen as it bends between the spaces of her teeth.
My next-door neighbor has obviously heard the commotion because she got it in her head last fall to express—to my face—her pleasure at hearing my daughter’s cries. Knowing that I suffer from parenting hardship makes her feel better, she said. (That she takes joy in my low points is another issue, but I will say this: We do not schedule play dates together.)
Over Christmas, while at a cabin with a group of friends, Ruby cleared the joint before the wide-toothed comb even touched her scalp. Her dramatic interpretation of seeing Jason’s masked face outside a cabin window began as soon as the Abebi’s Safari Detangler emerged from my toiletry bag. Our cabin mates quickly ushered their children outside to play, protecting them from my own little Linda Blair.
My friend Barbara likes to say that Ruby “acts a fool,” and in an attempt to normalize my experience, she has recounted for me memories of having her hair done as a child. A few months ago, during one of our hair-wrestling sessions, I stopped combing, took Ruby by the shoulders, looked into her eyes and explained calmly that doing her hair is my way of showing the world that I love her. Which is when Ruby stopped her shrieking, put her hands on my shoulders, looked into my eyes and explained calmly, “That crazy, mama.” Life really was easier before she had words.
Of course, that would seem crazy to a toddler and also the average (white) Joe, but it’s my reality; hair is a Big Deal for many in the black community. Which isn’t to say it’s not also important in the white community except that—it’s exactly not. The biological children of my white friends can wake up and run out the door and their hair hangs in place, never mind the cowlick here or the bedhead kink there. If their child has curly hair, it can blow wildly in the wind. Mussed hair is acceptable, intentional even.
But letting it all go is not a viable option for Ruby and me. How a black child’s hair is done is a reflection of how well she is cared for, valued and loved, and as the white mother of a black daughter, I’m under a high-power microscope.
Knowing this, I’ve put great emphasis into caring for Ruby’s hair, taking pride in its versatility so that she will, too. I’ve applied the generous advice, recommendations and instruction of my black friends and even strangers I’ve approached upon seeing a style I like.
Sometimes I leave Ruby’s hair in a Big Natural, a broad halo perfectly framing her heart-shaped face. I’ve learned to weave Ruby’s locks into soft coils, loose twists, swinging braids, full puffs and creative combinations of all those styles. I part her hair meticulously so the many intersections create starburst-like patterns on her head and there’s an undeniable feeling of accomplishment when I’m done with my creation. Instead of criticism, I’ve been praised—and earned respect, I think—for my handiwork.
I’m often asked—mostly by white people—whether it’s hard to do her hair, and I answer honestly: It’s not difficult. It’s just different. Of course, the combing is a challenge since my girl is tender-headed. Arriving at “the kitchen”—the most sensitive part of her head where easily tangled hairs grow at the nape of her neck—is always the worst. My child actress cries in mere anticipation of pain, fat tears flying horizontally from her eyes, head thrown back in self-preservation.
But once we get past the comb-out, she’ll sit patiently for elaborate styling generally dictated by her taste. “Braids!” she might shout, even going so far as to tell me, “Lots of braids!” Or she’ll say, “Two low puffs, mama,” instructing me where to place them. She’ll pick from a jumbled collection of colored balls, pastel snaps and felted bands to adorn her hair, and she selects barrettes when we’re out shopping. She recently deliberated with several hmmmms before choosing glittery red clips over purple butterflies. By letting her steer me, I hope to instill a sense of control, creativity, ownership and autonomy.
While we used to perform our ritual with her stationed on her changing table, these days she nestles between my knees, me on the couch, her seated low in front of me, her arms draped over my thighs, the video du jour offering distraction. As if her tears were connected to a spigot, my babe regains her composure the second I hand her the comb to put away. I work my fingers through her hair, kneading her scalp with shea butter or coconut oil, stopping now and again to land the irresistible kiss on the crown of her head. This hair time is ours, and it’s precious. It’s also as close as I’ll ever come to giving her an authentic African-American cultural experience, and my efforts have resulted in important connections to the black community, connections I’ll need to provide my child with more of what I—a white woman—cannot possibly give her.
Already, Ruby takes pride in her hair. She begs to look in the three-way mirror when we’re done, inspecting her ’do from all angles. She shakes her braids from side to side, eyes squeezed tight, and smiles at the noise from all the clips smacking together in a rhythm she creates. I like seeing her happy about her hair and know that our design tells a true story about how much she is adored.
Write to aaryn@sdcitybeat.com and editor@sdcitybeat.com.
Thanks Ang, MUAHHHH!
Twists and turns
A story of hair and identity
By Aaryn Belfer
One of the first things my daughter says to me after waking each day—now that she’s evolved from the larval stage of infancy into a strategically manipulative human being—is “Please eat peanut-jelly.” Then she follows it, slowly shaking her head, with “No hair, mama. No hair today.” Generally speaking, I comply with her first request and override her second because the former is reasonable while the latter is non-negotiable. The child is nevertheless persistent in trying never to have her hair combed.
Still, we embark on an almost-daily ritual that is painful yet important for us both. To say Ruby wails when I comb her thick, kinky, lovely hair doesn’t quite begin to describe her emotional state. Wailing is serene compared to the drama that unfolds in my home. There is thrashing, jerking, writhing, kicking, slapping, bucking, drooling, farmer-hanky-ing (my personal favorite) and—the latest addition to the repertoire—a sustained, alienesque noise that seems to sharpen as it bends between the spaces of her teeth.
My next-door neighbor has obviously heard the commotion because she got it in her head last fall to express—to my face—her pleasure at hearing my daughter’s cries. Knowing that I suffer from parenting hardship makes her feel better, she said. (That she takes joy in my low points is another issue, but I will say this: We do not schedule play dates together.)
Over Christmas, while at a cabin with a group of friends, Ruby cleared the joint before the wide-toothed comb even touched her scalp. Her dramatic interpretation of seeing Jason’s masked face outside a cabin window began as soon as the Abebi’s Safari Detangler emerged from my toiletry bag. Our cabin mates quickly ushered their children outside to play, protecting them from my own little Linda Blair.
My friend Barbara likes to say that Ruby “acts a fool,” and in an attempt to normalize my experience, she has recounted for me memories of having her hair done as a child. A few months ago, during one of our hair-wrestling sessions, I stopped combing, took Ruby by the shoulders, looked into her eyes and explained calmly that doing her hair is my way of showing the world that I love her. Which is when Ruby stopped her shrieking, put her hands on my shoulders, looked into my eyes and explained calmly, “That crazy, mama.” Life really was easier before she had words.
Of course, that would seem crazy to a toddler and also the average (white) Joe, but it’s my reality; hair is a Big Deal for many in the black community. Which isn’t to say it’s not also important in the white community except that—it’s exactly not. The biological children of my white friends can wake up and run out the door and their hair hangs in place, never mind the cowlick here or the bedhead kink there. If their child has curly hair, it can blow wildly in the wind. Mussed hair is acceptable, intentional even.
But letting it all go is not a viable option for Ruby and me. How a black child’s hair is done is a reflection of how well she is cared for, valued and loved, and as the white mother of a black daughter, I’m under a high-power microscope.
Knowing this, I’ve put great emphasis into caring for Ruby’s hair, taking pride in its versatility so that she will, too. I’ve applied the generous advice, recommendations and instruction of my black friends and even strangers I’ve approached upon seeing a style I like.
Sometimes I leave Ruby’s hair in a Big Natural, a broad halo perfectly framing her heart-shaped face. I’ve learned to weave Ruby’s locks into soft coils, loose twists, swinging braids, full puffs and creative combinations of all those styles. I part her hair meticulously so the many intersections create starburst-like patterns on her head and there’s an undeniable feeling of accomplishment when I’m done with my creation. Instead of criticism, I’ve been praised—and earned respect, I think—for my handiwork.
I’m often asked—mostly by white people—whether it’s hard to do her hair, and I answer honestly: It’s not difficult. It’s just different. Of course, the combing is a challenge since my girl is tender-headed. Arriving at “the kitchen”—the most sensitive part of her head where easily tangled hairs grow at the nape of her neck—is always the worst. My child actress cries in mere anticipation of pain, fat tears flying horizontally from her eyes, head thrown back in self-preservation.
But once we get past the comb-out, she’ll sit patiently for elaborate styling generally dictated by her taste. “Braids!” she might shout, even going so far as to tell me, “Lots of braids!” Or she’ll say, “Two low puffs, mama,” instructing me where to place them. She’ll pick from a jumbled collection of colored balls, pastel snaps and felted bands to adorn her hair, and she selects barrettes when we’re out shopping. She recently deliberated with several hmmmms before choosing glittery red clips over purple butterflies. By letting her steer me, I hope to instill a sense of control, creativity, ownership and autonomy.
While we used to perform our ritual with her stationed on her changing table, these days she nestles between my knees, me on the couch, her seated low in front of me, her arms draped over my thighs, the video du jour offering distraction. As if her tears were connected to a spigot, my babe regains her composure the second I hand her the comb to put away. I work my fingers through her hair, kneading her scalp with shea butter or coconut oil, stopping now and again to land the irresistible kiss on the crown of her head. This hair time is ours, and it’s precious. It’s also as close as I’ll ever come to giving her an authentic African-American cultural experience, and my efforts have resulted in important connections to the black community, connections I’ll need to provide my child with more of what I—a white woman—cannot possibly give her.
Already, Ruby takes pride in her hair. She begs to look in the three-way mirror when we’re done, inspecting her ’do from all angles. She shakes her braids from side to side, eyes squeezed tight, and smiles at the noise from all the clips smacking together in a rhythm she creates. I like seeing her happy about her hair and know that our design tells a true story about how much she is adored.
Write to aaryn@sdcitybeat.com and editor@sdcitybeat.com.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
We told you about it (BEFORE everybody else decided to jump on). Now watch it.
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