little red corvette

i guess i should've known by the way you parked your car sideways...

i don't fuck with terence howard. i have one major reason for this. no, it's not because that nigga was in the whitest movie of the 21st century (not starring ben stiller, vince vaughn, et. al), crash. it's also not because i think he's a liar. (forgive me, but when that nigga starts talking about his daddy it sounds like an audition to me.) rather, what disturbs me most about howard's high yella ass were a couple of comments he made in two separate interviews. first, in the immediate aftermath of hurricane katrina, howard appeared on late night with david letterman. during the segment, howard chastised new orleans residents for choosing to wait for someone to help them rather than helping themselves. i think the stupidity of that remark is pretty self-explanatory.

if that wasn't enough to piss me off (it was), a few months later, howard appeared on the oprah winfrey show just prior to the academy awards. for those of you living under a rock, howard was nominated last year for playing a pimp turned rapper in the film, hustle and flow. during this interview, an ardent howard tried to explain the interiority of his character, dj. in a performance reminiscent of the dialogue of his daddy, howard looked winfrey in her eyes, and seemingly pleaded with her to understand the fictional character. he told winfrey, as he'd told others, that the reason he decided to play this particular pimp was because this portrayal wasn't stereotypical. and he went on and on... though i don't have a direct quote of howard's bullshit, i believe what else he said can basically be summed up like this: can you imagine what it must be like to have to force the person you love to go out and have sex so that you all can live, eat, etc.? winfrey, as was expected, didn't take her guest to task, or at least ask a rather simple follow-up question that might've compelled howard to recognize a slight flaw in his logic.

all winfrey had to say: [but] can you imagine what it must be like to not be able to transfer your oppression on to another body? but, of course, she simply nodded.

i guess i must be dumb...

this post really isn't about howard, or his intellectual sloppiness. i've my own assumptions about most actors and hollywood, but that's neither here nor there. although this is a prime opportunity, this entry also isn't a lament on winfrey's seeming lack of desire to ask those hard questions. i understand that's not her steez. besides, she's homies with halle make me feeeeeellll goooood berry. so whatever. rather, i chose this lil anecdote as a point of entry. see, playa, i'm trying to break into the pimp game.

it works out quite nicely for me that howard made the above statement on a show based in chicago. for, the bishop magic don juan is one of the most famous pimps in the united states. and where can you find the verdant bishop when he's not rolling with the d-o-double-g? why, the west side of chicago, of course.

bear with me, this will all blend perfectly by the end. i hope...

i guess i shoulda closed my eyes when you drove me to the place where your horses run free...

a few months ago, i was working when i heard some obviously suburban white kid and his girlfriend or whoever describe the shoes he was trying on as "pimp." this comment slightly perturbed me, and then i thought about hip hop culture and not only how it has been irreversibly sucked into the superstructure, but also the way certain behaviors within the culture influence how we talk. then i realized that said white dude's use of the term "pimp" was completely and utterly apposite. so maybe i shouldn't really be all that mad. don't follow? well, here's a brief etymology of the word...

though the specific origins of the term are unknown, the word has apparently been in use since the 1600s. initially, the word pimp was used as we commonly understand it: someone who procures a sexual partner for another. however, the term has also been linked to the french, "pimper," which means attractive in dress. thus, maybe homeboy meant the latter definition.

but it was saturday night, i guess that makes it all right...

part of me, however, really doubts that. for me, a young white kid with sagging pants and an oversized baseball cap calls a pair of shoes "pimp" because he wants to employ the latest slang he heard on his ipod care of 50 cent. and that troubles me.

incorporating the term pimp in one's daily vernacular isn't the only way we see this aspect of hip hop culture in our everyday. monday, the chicago nightclub, transit made local news when rachel durchslag of the chicago alliance against sexual exploitation and others decided to protest their upcoming halloween party. protesters want to get promoters to change the name of the event, which is the club's 6th annual pimp n ho soiree. not surprisingly, pictures of last year's party show mostly white partygoers.

'cause i felt a little ill when i saw all the pictures fo the jockeys that were there before me...

though i understand durchslag and other's concern about the overall portrayal of women at such events, i am also troubled by this perpetual appropriation of what is allegedly black culture. and in this instance, as it is in hustle and flow, black women get the shaft. (i totally intended that double entendre.)

the implicit acceptance of this apparent aspect of black (read: hip hop culture) isn't present in our society by us using the term with little to no criticism (i don't think they don't mean "borrow" when they suggest "pimping your ride."), or by witnessing yet another instance of really tasteless white performativity; it's not just the mainstream acceptance through mtv shows, the oscar nominations of both berry and howard (films both written and/or produced by whitey), and 3-6 mafia's win for best song--let us empathize with a pimp because, as both howard and the song say, the nigga has it real hard. it's the fact that this, one of the most deleterious aspects of hip hop culture, is the thing continually extracted and used most. it's happened before, and it will happen again.

a body like yours ought to be in jail. 'cause it's on the verge of being obscene...

as straight thuggin' ghetto parties and pimp and ho joints continually get chalked under the category of "corny white people" acting silly, i'm just keeping tabs on the variety of ways they (un) consciously continue to hate us. pre or post civil rights movement, why does it seem that my nigs provide the spectacle? granted, such parties aren't lynchings, but either way, at the center of white people having fun, is (y)our body; and that shit--as always-- is at (the) stake.


[they] gonna run your body right into the ground...

pop.life

what you putting in your nose?...

let me be clear: this entry is not a traincar on the dis whitney houston express. i've done my share of that over at fecundmellow, and on being bobby brown: the blog. besides, my mother would put me on punishment if she found out that i was all up on the internet yet again talking smack about her girl, ms. houston. in this entry, i've no desire to express my sadness and concern over the soon to be dissolved brown-houston marriage; i've conquered that urge by simply choosing not to discuss it. rather, this entry is more of a rumination on the re-emergence of a seemingly happier, healthier whitney houston who, it seems, has found a way to recover and rediscover what we assume is her old self.

is that where all your money goes?...

a couple of weeks ago, i received the above image in an email with the subject heading, "SHE'S BAAAACK!" with instructions to pass the message along to moms. since it was a forward, i scrolled down, curious about what others might have said about the pictures. along with the typical niggafied comments such as, "let's (continue to) pray for her," there was another that suggested that (the ever hard to define) "we" support houston with the same energy and vigor we employed to further exacerbate her very public downfall. though a slightly obvious observation (in a similar, albeit less significant vein as, "george bush does not care about black people."), for whatever reason the message stuck with me, and over the next few days, i had a couple of conversations about both the pictures and the comment.

the river of addiction flows...

during one discussion, my dear mrs. robinson said to me--as she'd said a few times before when we'd talked about brenda's favorite pop singer-- "i really think she's gonna be the billie holiday of our time." hm. lugubriously sad, but potentially true. and though the above photo and the others that accompanied it give me a tremendous amount of hope that houston will mount a comeback that makes mariah carey's look like a spoken word piece put next to anything from gwendolyn brooks' oeuvre (or any other legitimate poet for that matter...had to get that jab in somewhere), despite my extremely poor vision, i see the possibility of another very public fall off of the wagon on the horizon rather clearly. it is, i imagine, quite lonely at the top, and even lonelier when you tumble from the mountaintop...

and so i wonder: what must it be like to have no peer?

you think it's hot, but there won't be no water...

i believe that the following statement is (pretty much) true: whitney houston is the greatest voice of our time. perhaps you don't fuck with her music, or question some of her later material. ok. i can dig it. yet at the same time you can neither ignore nor deny the purity of her voice. in a time when young ingenues thrash their throats in an attempt to outrun each other, and when the greatest singers from decades past need to sit their black asses down somewhere (don't make me name names: aretha, diana, chaka...), houston--when she had her shit together-- sang so effortlessly, so naturally you'd swear she was simply speaking to you with the ease of a conversational tone. surely, there is a small group of modern day musicians who have left their fingerprints on our collective psyche, but in my estimation, whitney houston stands alone. and because of that, when it all fell down, i was saddened as i witnessed her very public struggle to simply do the thing she loves to do.

when the fire blows...

during one of the myriad of poignant moments that peppered the first and only season of the greatest reality tv show starring a famous person ever, being bobby brown, the brown-houston clan sat eating near a pool at a hotel. some folks gingerly approached the group and asked if they could have photographs. though brown very gladly took pictures with everyone, houston sat at the table and adamently refused. as houston shakes her head and turns her back to the group, the viewer hears brown's voiceover, where he explains that he got and remains in the entertainment business for the love of the fans, while houston got in the business simply because she loves to sing.

what if the one thing in the world that you loved to do the most, that you'd work all of your life if not to perfect, but at least to reach your potential, was accompanied with the side effect of having your every move documented and scrutinized? what if people thought they had the right to audaciously approach you and invade your private life whenever they chose, when all you wanted to do was the one thing you love? could you love doing something enough to pay that price? would you risk it?

tell me, what's the matter with your world?

there are millions of people in the world who took/take drugs and exhibit other kinds of destructive behavior due to pressures not nearly as oppressive as being the best at something. i'm not attempting to disparage or belittle people's personal struggles and downfalls, nor am in the game of ranking traumas. however, it seems to me that attempting to hang yourself because that b+ moves you from valedictiorian to salutatorian by no means matches up with a coke binge that could have very well been inspired by the fact that the gift you've given the world, that thing which you're best at, is apparently insufficient... the dearest part of you that you share is not enough for the world... rather, the entire world wishes to devour every part of you to satisfy a quite temperamental appetite. i imagine you can find several other people who missed two free throws that cost their high school team the state championship. but who do you turn to when shit sucks, and you're the only muthafucka in your league? i'd do drugs, too.

everybody can't be on top...

and maybe--successful comeback or not--houston will still be, in some way, the billie holiday of our time. however, instead of having to cope with the oppressive and obtrusive nature of jim crow, houston has had to deal with the increasingly invasive media and the people they ostensibly serve. more than that, both have had to endure living very public lives in an environment, a society that devalues black women so much that it doesn't even bother being unforgiving.

life it ain't real funky, unless it's got that pop...

i cannot possibly empathize with ms. houston, or the few others who have walked in similar shoes. sympathy requires a kind of intellectual comprehension; on some level, it also demands some sort of condescension. so, all i can really do is continue to be a member of team whitney. since brenda is my mama, it's sort of my birthright.

maybe i shouldn't be so mad that my mother didn't get knocked by someone famous. bobbi chris... bobbi chris...


we all got a space to fill...