If you need me to provide some sort of hint as to what kind of writing to expect here at OneInfinite, take this post – my grand (that’s right) return back to blogging after a two-and-a-half month hiatus – as an inclination.


The style bloggers from BleachBlack just came out with a new nail polish color; this comes after their acclaimed “Dickweed” hue. It’s a glossy, pearlescent, milky-white joy called “Jizz.”

Yup. Jizz.

Whores, no need to work as hard (pun intended) as you once used to. Feel right at home, all day/everyday, with a simple base coat-top coat-repeat. Only difference is, in this instance, sticky fingers would only occur if you don’t know what you’re doing.


So folks, that’s the type of pomp and class you’ll find here.

Come again.




I’ve never had an iPhone, but at one time, before it was stolen, I had an iPod Touch, and it allowed me to pretty much do anything I wanted except hold it up to my ear and talk into it (which was fine because it hasn’t yet been disproven that cellphone usage causes brain, mouth, or ear cancer.) So, I get it. I get the Apple obsession. I understand the shock and awe that comes with every unbelievable, but widely available application; the ones that make you go, “Why didn’t I think of that first?” *slap to the forehead*

Hey Steve Jobs, you’re telling me I can actually download a “Sex Position Of The Day” app? Have it at my dirty (not literally) little fingertips? Learn the “G-Spot Jiggy” on my way to work? Practice the “Rock-A-Bye Booty” before I call it a night? Genius! It just makes sense.

But this, this new application, not so much.

Vodpod videos no longer available.

Swedish mobile software firm The Astonishing Tribe, who I’m begging stay far away from me and my American phone, is taking information overload to the next level. Popsci called this level “logical,” I call it dumb or just “really, really, scary.” And they’ve labeled it “augmented identity,” which is just a concise and severely veiled way of saying “Stalking Made Easy.”

Dubbed the – wait for it – Recognizr, the app essentially works like this: the user points the camera at a person across the room (like at a party, filled with strangers, who your mother always told you not to accept candy from. Or inappropriate advances. Whatever, at this point, they’re one and the same.)

The face recognition software creates a 3-D model of the person’s features and sends it across a server where it’s matched with an identity. A “cloud server” conducts the facial recognition and sends back the subject’s name.

Wait, what? Now, a guy who I’ve never met knows me by name – government, no alias. He can beckon me from across a room and, because of my terrible eyesight, I’ll oblige and won’t realize that I do not know this psycho until I’m about a foot away. And by that time, it’ll be too late; horror movies have proven this.

And not only does the Recognizr provide a name, but it sends the requester links to any social networking sites the person is a member of. So, I can get a friend request, hit, message, invite, phone call, thorough itinerary of how said stalker plans to hurt me, etc. on a daily basis? When did that become okay?

I get the obsession to be alert and aware, too; to connect and make contacts. Believe me, I do. I’ve rudely trackballed and text mid-conversation with important people many times. But, the Astonishing Tribe, with all it’s drive to be cutting edge and innovative, may be on the brink of a serious backlash.

So, Tiger Woods came out of hiding today and apologized for cheating on his wife, and snatching back the hope he once gave to millions of ill-fated kids and, most importantly, made sure to completely denounce the claim made by media (is that me?) that he took performance-enhancing drugs…because nothing, he tells us, nothing contributed more to his sick addiction than he, himself. Good job, Tiger? And then he cried, but no tears came out. Having said that, his “I’m Sorry” didn’t suck. Too much. And in honor of that, I’ve decided not to write anything original – after all, Tiger’s done inspiring us children! – and instead, will repost an article I wrote way back in July when Chris Brown was who we hated the most. Here ’tis:

Vodpod videos no longer available.

On Monday, Chris Brown issued the long-awaited, yet completely anti-climactic, apology to ex-girlfriend Rihanna. The two-minute video did nothing if not prove that a mock neck looks good on no one but a man of God (Coincidence? I think not!) and that the boy can read from a cue-card like no other singer-turned-actor. In lieu of his botched attempt at exuding sincerity and regret, GIANT gives you the guide to Celebrities and the Art of the Public Apology.

Rule No. 1: Sing a Song
Like Akon. In April 2007, during a performance in Trinidad, Akon told the audience that he was going to have a dance off, and the winning young woman would receive a trip to Africa. The problem? “Africa” is the pet name for his junk, and the recipient of all the simulated sex (see: dry-humping) was a 14-year-old.

Vodpod videos no longer available.

So, he did what any self-respecting singer would do. He released a song entitled “Blame It On Me,” but instead, pointed the finger at everyone else.

Read the rest of this entry »

Tennis champ Serena Williams posed for Vibe magazine this month and her body looks a little different than usual.

We’ve seen this happen before. Women celebrities often fall victim to evil Photoshop culprits who, using digital tools (and their own personal preference apparently), can alter every body-type and blemish that grace the pages of magazines and websites.

A few months ago, we saw Kourtney Kardashian, only six weeks after her son was born appear on the cover of OK! Magazine – without her consent. Headlines promised readers all the “hunger-free” “diet secrets” to losing her “baby weight” and, in a clear display of false advertising, used a slimmed-down figure of the new mom to “prove” it. But that image came courtesy of Photoshop. And Kourtney made sure to clear her name of the magazine’s mess.

Why, though? Shouldn’t women be thrilled at the sight of their new-and-improved body – belly bulge, stretchmarks, and cellulite be-gone? Not necessarily, because “improved” implies we were worse off before, not good enough, and in need of some serious rehabilitation. And as much as those editors think they’re doing women a favor, what they’re really doing is putting unwanted pressure on us, both celebrity and non. And that’s on top of what we may have already self inflicted.

(OK! even claimed Kardashian only gained 25 pounds during her pregnancy, when she’d really gained 40. There’s nothing quite like a well-documented piece, sold nationally, to remind you that you’ve actually got 15 extra pounds to lose before the world is ready to accept you again.)

Now, we know that Serena Williams isn’t pregnant, but why did VIBE magazine feel the need to slenderize her hard-earned tennis champion-made body?

For someone whose muscles have assisted in her becoming a record-breaking player (for both African-Americans and women), why would editors be ashamed or uncomfortable in displaying them as such? In all their award-winning glory?

Is it because solid isn’t synonymous with “sex-symbol”? (After all, she is rocking the “Single Ladies” ‘do, first seen on Beyonce, who is, inarguably, the people’s choice for “ultimate” woman – must be all the curves, class, and sass).

But at what point, does strength become less attractive and more intimidating?

It seems that when it comes to being a woman living in the public eye, there are a few stipulations: always appear womanly, but not matronly. And make sure to be strong, but not physically.

Women AND men, which body do you prefer on Serena? The all-natural or the sleek, slender, and soft? And why?


Kenyon Bajus is the shit. I interviewed him for a student-run magazine back at Temple a few years ago and even though it wasn’t promised that anyone would ever even read the article, therefore garnering him no more publicity as an artist than he already had, he was nice enough to send me a limited-edition print afterwards. He had no idea we both shared a hate for Bush.

“I like to be right on the edge of funny and offensive. You either love it or hate it, but if you don’t like it, you’ve probably got your head up your ass.”

But it wasn’t seeing C3PO’s face on a jockstrap that people found offensive, because that contributed to his works reccurring theme that the characters’ actually gay – it was more so the illustrations for his now defunct clothing line, Future Relic. Graphic tees featured drawings of bullets replacing similarly-shaped crayons, of unfinished Connect-the-Dots games outlining a gun, and of a child innocently pulling an artillery behind him instead of a Radio Flyer wagon. His explanation: “It’s what we hope not to see in the future.”

Oh, how I’ve missed his work.

Best Invitation. Ever.

December 5, 2009


Maybe I will get married. But only if I can have this. And the dress. And that’s it.

Ugh. Again?


I feel like PEOPLE magazine has six white men on rotation that they give this honor to year after year no matter how old they get or what fine piece of work they may or may not have recently completed.  The sexiest man alive?! should never be some dude who rocks sterling silver rings on every finger like some sort of aspiring gypsy, or who’s part of the small minority still trying to convince a majority that donning a porkpie hat everyday is ok, or who, even when out of character, falls into an accent so slight (and, mind you, unnatural) – like he’s taking a cue from Madonna’s How-To-Hypnotize book – that no one can ever really pinpoint its origin (dude, you’re from Kentucky, and that shit is not Southern).

And, he so looks like the type to stroke his chin hair. I dunno. Maybe he could be the sexiest man alive…you saw…at camp…that one time.

Plus, I heard he prefers reading to Twittering. I’m gonna need my all-encompassing sex stallion to be part of this century, thank you.

I demand a recount.

*told you.


Last week, major league baseball player Sammy Sosa stepped out at an event in Las Vegas looking several shades lighter than usual. Here was his (b.s.) reasoning:

“I use a cream to keep my skin smooth and soft. I apply it before I go to bed. When I was playing for Chicago all those years, I was in the sun a lot for 1 o’clock games. The flashes (from the cameras) also made my skin look lighter. I’m surprised with the controversy this has caused.” And Sosa would not disclose the name of the cream he uses, saying that it was European and that he was in negotiations to market the product. Spare us, puh-lease.


Now, while I think the decision to go pale and pasty is his and his alone, I don’t quite understand the reasoning behind it, and if some people could see me now, they’d say, “And you never will…,” because I, myself, am by no means considered “dark” to many. Having parents of two different Caribbean Island backgrounds made me a simple shade of tan. That’s right, tan. I’m not caramel, brown sugar, or butterscotch because I’m not your dessert condiment.


So, I play Devil’s Advocate. If being light-skinned is so grand, then why are the ones who were naturally born that way, still subject to ridicule? We’re told we’re acting “high-yella,” even when we’re not, simply because our skin color is enough for rationale. And those “light-bright” and “redbone” nicknames get old quick; in fact, they rival the name-calling that happens on a playground because they’re juvenile and just as insulting. They sure as hell aren’t compliments.


And if being light isn’t considered superior, than why do both the media and celebrities seem to be so fixated on it? Applying the “Chicken-Or-The Egg” school of thought to this matter, I wonder what came first. Was it the entertainment industry who told us that light-and-bright is always all right? Or is each incident (i.e. skin-bleaching, Photoshop white-washing, etc.) an isolated one, and completely unrelated to another?

Dressing My Inner Superhero

October 14, 2009

“A man can be himself only so long as he is alone.” – Arthur Schopenhauer

Arthur S. (who??; hey, I never claimed to be a bookworm) clearly meant to say “woman,” but alls forgiven, because the actual point is that when alone, I’m one part rock star, one part Pam Grier circa 1970, and two parts pseudo-sweet, like a well-mixed drink. Make it an L.I.T. for visual purposes.  I am no parts “human who uses humor and sarcasm as means of deflection,” nor “she who second-guesses.”

So, if Beyonce can make an entire empire out of this “Sasha Fierce” thing – seriously? no. – than I can surely shrink back into my “Coco Warren” or “Vegas Hamilton” persona – those are the results of my “Childhood Pets Name + Childhood Street Name = Porn Name” game. Please, you know that game – and act accordingly. This means, I can curse (if it’s any more than I already do, call Guinness) and kick ass at all times (outside of playing Taboo and/or Spades). It’s like a utopia.

I have no idea what my catchphrase would be.

Q: But, how would you dress?

Gun Heel, Chanel Cruise Collection 2009

Gun Heel, Chanel Cruise Collection 2009

Astali Bullet Bracelet

Astali Bullet Bracelet

Jules Smith's "Edwards Smile"

Jules Smith's "Edwards Smile"

And I'll pretty much rock anything by Melody Ahsani.

And I'll pretty much rock anything by Melody Ahsani.

A: To muh’fckin kill.

Sole Power

June 25, 2009


Uh huh. This my shit. All the girls, stomp your feet like this.

That? Undoubtedly corny.

This? Godsend. Thus, making my outburst completely called for because, not that I’ve ever wanted to stomp my feet after a long night of two-stepping and stanky-legging, but the fact that I now have the option to do so is making me consider extending all my nights-out into more unreasonable hours – the right way, of course: think more “after-party,” and less regretful street-meat stop (don’t front on the deep-fried deliciousness).

Anywho, Rollasole (genius at work) has heard the cries (and that’s literal) of all the downtrodden damsels in distress (and that’s literal, too). The ones who don’t necessarily plan ahead during the pre-game. The ones who bank on the “You look good, girl!” exclamations made by friends (but really devils-in-disguise) who swear the 4+-inch heels you’re rocking are a perfect choice of footwear for the next several hours. Everyone forgets that feet are capable of feeling; no one comes prepared with extra padding. You only curse the brains behind the beauty of, in my case, a Target-bought Mossimo, and in a famous person’s case, a Louboutin, in the middle of the night when you begin to catch yourself trying to shift your body weight off the balls of your feet and on to whatever’s yet to be pulsating in pain. Or at the end of the night when you begin to attempt to take muuuuch smaller steps in hopes that the toe torture will come in muuuuch smaller increments. It doesn’t work. You want to cry. You want to walk barefoot down a piss-and-puke-laden sidewalk. You want to go back in time to the moment you made the oddest choice not to pack those flats just because they didn’t match. You want a vending machine full of soft slippers to descend from the sky.

Prayers been answered.

Rollasole is doing just that, making waves in nightclubs as the emergency-flat-shoe vending machine. Shimmery ballet flats are dispensed in a cute mini-tote and are priced at about $8 – that’s way less than the cocktail you just bought and way more worth the money. Problem is that Rollasole is only available in the UK. Somebody start a stateside petition.