The Urbane Urbanite

I don't offend easily. With close to ten years of rejection under my belt auditioning and working as an actor, I've grown quite the thick skin. But I'm still an artist and very sensitive about my shit! About a month ago, a friend and loyal reader of this blog made a comment about the post: My Upstairs Neighbor's Bed . He went on about how good he thought the post was and how much he enjoyed reading it. And then - like a rusty dagger to my heart - he asked: You made that up, right? Listen. Del don't make up blog posts. EVER! No disrespect to the bloggers out there on that James Frey flow; the ones who concoct misadventures and stretch the truths of their lives to entertain their readers. If that's your thing, fine! But it ain't mine. Everything you read over here on my little slice of the interwebs is 100% true. Period. Besides, I'm a writer. If I wanted to hit you with a piece of fiction, not only would I do it, but I'd say point blank: C...

Photo: S. James  Del don't do road trips. Usually. I have terrible childhood memories of being sandwiched in the back seat of an unairconditioned hooptie, riding down south in the middle of the summer. *Shudders*  So naturally, when talk of a road trip comes up, I'm the first one on the computer looking up a flight to said destination and making plans to meet my travel mates there. In my mind, by the time they get to the hotel completely aggravated, cranky and smelling of automobile, I'm already checked into my room, curled up with a Kindle and enthralled in a good book. Such was the case this past summer when my homies decided that a road trip from northern New Jersey to Toronto was in order for the 4th of July weekend.

What better way to celebrate the the second most scariest day of the year (the first being tax day, of course) than by paying tribute to my favorite scary movie? In 1960, the master of suspense, Alfred Hitchcock, did with showers what Spielberg would do with oceans a decade later: Use them to scare people out of the water! Psycho tells the story of Marion Crane, a woman who skips town with $40,000 of her employer's money to start a new life with her lover, Sam. During her journey, a torrential rain storm causes her to pull over to the side of the road and seek refuge at a creepy, vacant motel. There, she meets meek mama's boy Norman Bates - and her untimely demise. More mystery and suspense than horror,  Psycho  is a tightly wound thriller directed by Hitchcock with such precision and exactness, you'd have to be blind to miss the trademark nuances - his blink-and-you'll-miss-it cameo, countless bird references and innuendos - that make up this cinematic classic....

I absolutely adore Viola Davis. Truly. Not just because she's a phenomenal scene stealing actress. (See her powerful turn in the 2008 drama Doubt . You almost forget Meryl Streep is even on camera with her!) But because she's the real deal. All around. Period.

My Room With A View Photo: S. James It's late October, but you'll be hard pressed to find anyone with the fall blues here in Clearwater Beach, Florida - including me. As I type this, I'm sprawled out on the balcony of my oceanfront suite at the Sandpearl, a world class resort and spa facility that calls The Gulf of Mexico its backyard. And I'm not the only one taking in this beautiful day. There are folks sunbathing on the sundeck near the lagoon swimming pool. The kiddies are playing in the sand. And others are getting their toes wet, walking along the shore. Photo: S. James I'm here on assignment reviewing the Sandpearl for one of the lifestyle publications I write for. Slave labor, I know. But someone's gotta do it, right?  I haven't been here 24 hours and I've already: Nibbled on shrimp, lobster and chocolate covered strawberries during a private food, wine and dessert tasting in Sandpearl's private standalone beachfront guest sui...

Homer, ancient Greek poet & scholar Scholarly is the last word I would used to describe myself. In fact, the adjective is on my list of words people overuse when describing themselves and others. (Other words include: epic. icon. amazing. etc.) But, today, I am quite proud to announce that I've got a clip in a scholarly journal. Woot! Woot! Wait. Are written pieces in journals even called "clips?" The word "clips" sounds too light and general - not serious enough. I think the proper phrasing is: I've got an article published in a scholarly journal. Ah, yes. That sounds much better. Yes, yours truly has a piece in JENdA: A Journal of Culture and African Women Studies. *Takes Bow*  Here's how it all came to be.

I don't know about you, but I've got the worst luck with plants. I see them in the store all pretty and gussied up, get them home and in a matter of days they're dead. Case in point: The cactus. I stumbled upon a prickly, little guy at Home Depot last year. Small. Easy. Manageable. Perfect! Or so I thought.  I gave it a home on my desk (pictured in the banner pic of this blog). And less than a month later... Who kills a cactus?! Guilt-ridden, flustered and confused about my latest botany blunder, I turned to Sandra de Ovando for advice. She is the founder and creative director of Ovando, a full scale floral and event design company, with two boutique locations as well as a production studio based in Manhattan’s flower district. Ovando's roster of New York tastemakers and influencers includes The Four Seasons, Hermes and The MOMA, as well as a host of large-scale event clients spread throughout New York and The Hamptons. Fl...