fecundmellow

1999

2007-10-28T22:31:00.000-05:00

Unless you're looking for archived ramblings, there's nothing to see here. And there will be nothing to see in the future.

I'm out.

old friends 4 sale

2007-10-25T08:42:00.001-05:00

Tonight is the season premiere of Run's House, and I'm as excited as Al Sharpton when a nigga gets arrested. [...] Maybe someone told me this, or I read this somewhere (though a Google search didn't elicit any results), so I hope I'm not plagiarizing anybody as I publicly reiterate what I've said on several previous occasions: Run's House is the 21st century Cosby Show.

In a way, Run's House is a popular culture perfect storm: hip hop plus reality television plus an eighties throwback equals MTV success. It's very simple. After the millennium, Dr. Huxtable becomes Rev. Run. The M.D. has been replaced by the (former) M.C. Though the Rev opts for tracks suits over Coogi sweaters (both fashions have reached legendary and immortal status via a hip hop verse or two), both men show a particular fondness for silk jammy sets. Both have seemingly unorthodox and humorous approaches to parenting: while Cliff teaches Theo a finance lesson with Monopoly money, Rev teaches Diggy it's wrong to take people's things by secretly surveilling him, and showing the tape in the family movie theater. Rev's mid-life crisis is ameliorated by a surprise birthday party with entertainment care of hip hop has-beens, while Cliff was serenaded by Lena Horne, or chose to face off in a sprint against Tailwind Turner. Cameos by Stevie Wonder and Dizzy Gillespie have been supplanted by Treach and Rockwilder. Yes, once upon a time rap music was merely the trendy vehicle that helped Theo and Cockroach, two upper middle class black kids, learn Shakespeare. Now, hip hop is the only way Theo is getting on television. Who needs Sugar Hill when it can get you Cherry Hill (New Jersey)? In this context, hip hop is the new jazz.

In the Run's House version, the roles of Sandra and Denise are played by Vanessa and Angela. In the way that the originals never really seemed to quite fit into the Huxtable family mold--rememeber, the Huxtables originally only had four children-- and the myriad of casual debates on the idea that Sandra and Denise were in effect "too light" to actually be Huxtable offspring, Vanessa and Angela's involvement in the show seemed a bit forced since by season 2, They no longer lived in the house; further, Vanessa and Angela are Justine's stepdaughters. Jojo, of course, takes up the role as Theo, and nothing makes that more evident than Rev. Run's discussion with him over his grades, or the episode where he's left in charge of Diggy and Russy, the Vanessa and Rudy of the Simmons family.

How, then, might we explain Justine as the reality show version of Claire? Well, the maternal craving similarity notwithstanding (Claire's lasted an episode, Justine's an entire season), there doesn't seem to be much the two have in common. Unless, of couse, we remember that originally, Claire was a housewife, not an attorney. I'm afraid, however, that feminists might have very little to cheer about. Justine, it seems, would be more aptly described as a hip hop "First Lady," whose very identity seems to be constructed and contingent upon her relationship to her husband (and children), in the very same way that hip hop entourages (Ruff Ryders, Terror Squad, etc.) describe the lone female member of their respective group.

That said, I love Run's House. It's probably the only form of "wholesome black entertainment" we might expect to see on this side of the 21st century. Then again, I love the Cosby Show; Run's House is its most entertaining derivative to date. Yet, I cannot help but think about it as another example of the way hip hop has saturated our popular psyche. Is it possible that the only potentially successful portrayal of a middle class black family on tv must necessarily be (w)rapped in a hip hop package? Must televised black life be funneled through rap music for consumers to ingest it?

As an aside: my mother used to cover her dog's medicine with peanut butter in order to get her to take it. Thing is, she got hip to my mom's game, and moms had to resort to other kinds of trickery because mere coaxing wouldn't work. Eventually, my mom ran out of ideas. I don't think Nala (the dog) got any medicine the last time I visited. There's moral to that story--I think.

And you don't stop.

if i was your girlfriend

2007-10-17T12:34:00.000-05:00

Or, Why I'll Never be Anyone's Spokesperson (Reason #217)

Though it's still unofficial, Atlanta will be awarded a WNBA franchise in 2008. It will be the first franchise in the Southeast since the Charlotte Sting folded a couple years ago. Though I only occasionally catch a few minutes of a playoff game--fuck you. I do not feel guilty about not watching the WNBA-- I think this is great. Here's the funny part: When asked if there were concerns about potential attendance since the Atlanta Hawks haven't had fans since, I don't know, the Human Highlight Film/Spud Webb days, Atlanta City Council President Lisa Borders had this to say, "We have a significant talent pool with the SEC and ACC, which are very strong conferences for men's and women's basketball. [...] We would have this type of opportunity for women to leave college and go on and play in the Southeast in the WNBA."

If asked the same question, here's how I would have responded, "There are mad gay hoes in Atlanta trying to fuck professional women athletes."

That is all.

Story.

something in the water (does not compute)

2007-10-06T11:47:00.000-05:00

Lately, in between working on a rough (rough!) draft of my dissertation proposal, and reading some necessary and additional, but ancillary fiction-- which constitutes feeling anything from utter ennui as I slowly, drowsily turn the pages of On the Road (yet again) to paroxysms of orgasmic excitement as I read the rest of Octavia Butler's oeuvre-- I've been trying my hand at fiction, once again. Mostly, I sit and play stupid eye tricks while staring at the computer screen (focused...unfocused!), swig bottled water and munch on a Trader Joe's Trail Mix Bar for an hour, before I get up and pat myself on the back for adding a comma here, a semi-colon there, and changing my characters' names. (More on that in a later entry.)

Initially, it wasn't this hard; it seems that I've written myself into a corner: I can't come up with things for my characters to say. It's among the variety of difficulties I encounter when I sit down to write. How can I inhabit, invent a perspective and accurately relay its actions, reactions, behaviors, and words? I read about the "Desperate Housewives controversy" from this perspective.

I've never watched a scene of DH. I don't think I'm part of their demographic. Yet I'm compelled to address Filipino Americans' demand for an apology from the producers of the show, which came to be after one of characters responded to her doctor's diagnosis that she might be in the beginning stages of menopause by saying, "Can I just check those diplomas because I just want to make sure that they are not from some med school in the Philippines." The petition states that the comment was "discriminatory and hurtful" and "not necessary to maintain any humor in the show." Now, I'm not quite clear on how the comment was discriminatory, but I concede that it could have been hurtful; I'm in no position to talk about the comment within the context of the show. I know nothing of Filipinos' presence in our healthcare system. But one question: are we so consumed with being politically correct that fictional characters cannot say stupid, bigoted, and hurtful things?

This "controversy" isn't new. I suppose there are still folks in the world who are trying to ban Huckleberry Finn because the young hero says nigger. To be sure, I'm not equating DH with one of the greatest novels ever; that would be misguided. As misguided, perhaps, as the petition when it provides the Isaiah Washington, Michael Richards, and Rosie O'Donnell incidents for comparison. For, it would seem to me that in this increasingly PC (politically correct, not personal computer) world, it is imperative that fictional characters utter such things.

Every time I open my mouth I offend someone. In fact, if I were famous, my publicist would have released a blizzard of apologies and "her words were taken out of context," press releases by now. My career, in essence, would be over. And it would be over because we don't allow people to say such things. Instead, we prefer a facade of civility, and pretend that our best straight friends have never noticed our gay lisps. We choose a code of silence.

Fiction can do more than teach us about other people and other worlds. Make-believe can, ironically, give us portraits of real people who occasionally fail to regulate their ids, who say the stupid, bigoted things they (we?) were thinking all along. Writers have the potential to render people in their most flawed and human light, to make them say the things they should not say, and do the things they should not do. So, then, if I create a character who is a racist (sexist, classist, et. al.)-- not a bed sheet wearing, cross-burning, back of the truck dragging racist; but you know, your unassuming, suburban white flight racist-- can I not allow that character to upchuck racist (sexist, classist, et. al.) thoughts? Or would we rather think that diversity training works, and does more than simply preclude us from thinking that we may actually be all of those aforementioned bad things? In my estimation, All in the Family (one of my favorite shows) would have never been greenlit, let alone aired in such a climate as this.

There are those, I'm sure, who see no value in creating Archie Bunker-like characters with all of their "hate speech." Yet how can an honest conversation ever occur if we're not honest in the ways we talk, and none of us knows what the other is really thinking? Can Isaiah Washington get sensitivity training if he never says the word faggot in mixed company? And since it's obvious that he can't utter those words in those "town hall" meetings we like to have, how can we ever have any sort of frank discourse? Well, I might suggest that we begin by creating characters who commit the infractions that are otherwise intolerable. And if we can't do that without the threat of petitions, and the suggestion of editing utterances of that kind of language, where can we do it?

As a (wannabe) writer, who struggles daily with giving her characters words, it would do nothing but further exacerbate my situation if I had to make sure that even my mildest characters didn't say anything offensive or hurtful. Further, such gestures would, ultimately, undermine part of the work that fiction-- televised and otherwise-- can and should do.

That said, I still hated Crash.

Link to the petition.

black unity

2007-09-06T22:49:00.000-05:00

story

one question: was sinbad busy?

also, if it is true that this cat came behind earl graves, and screamed "fuck y'all" to the crowd, he's officially my favorite person of the week.

beautiful strange, or i don't hate the south

2007-09-04T21:13:00.001-05:00

things i learned during my visit below the mason-dixon:

nigga, it's hot.
the heat makes niggas overcompensate with the air conditioning. (seriously, i don't get that shit. just because it's 95 outside doesn't mean it should be 59 inside.)
these carolina cats really fuck with nascar. so much so that many of them play jeff gordon while rolling down the highway.
while i'm speaking of southerners and cars, nc, sc, and ga are all great states for the license plate game. if you don't know about the license plate game, well, it doesn't really matter. it's a bad game, and only real masochists should play.
meeting people you only know via myspace--or the internet in general-- can be scary, and hard to get used to, even if you've already done it a few times. that said, lisa is the illest (good [country] people, maybe?)...and she looks just like her myspace picture.
while i'm at it, if you see someone you think you've seen on myspace, do you start a conversation? and if so, how? "i think i've seen you on myspace," is really unoriginal.
oh yeah, nobody asks for your number anymore. they just want your myspace url.
also, if someone asks if you're on myspace, and you say,"what's myspace?" you should prolly immediately follow that retort with "i'm kidding." otherwise, they don't immediately think you're joking.
wearing shirts with slogans, etc. on them (e.g. "haikus are easy...") is a great euphemism for "i'm too shy to talk."
weed works similarly.
atlanta is so black, they have a news anchor named jaquita.
though i felt like i might be having a heart attack after dining there, the waffle house is really good.
one need not stop at every chick-fil-a she sees.
the dairy queens down here really need to up their blizzard game.
the niggas at the charlotte airport security check should really warn you about those "bursts" of air.
no matter where i visit, social interaction on any level always results in me having an internal rumination that results in abject humiliation.

sign o' the times double remix

2007-08-29T11:40:00.000-05:00

Original post (9/19/2005)

(start a rumor monday...)

bush addresses haters, set to record dis record

kanye west said george bush didn't care about black people. well, he's out to change that. in an effort to prove that he's more in touch with his african american constituents than folks think, and to silence those who criticized his response to hurricane katrina, george bush surprised reporters this morning by unequivocally addressing his naysayers....in song.

"there's rumors out there on the internetsssss saying that i don't care about black people," he said earlier today during his monday morning press conference. "i'm sick of all these haters hatin' on me and shit. if i may quote the late homie tupac, they're a bunch of mark ass bitches. so i'm taking the time to let you all know, that george bush ain't no punk. and i'ma let 'em know by spitting a few bars. condi,"

at this point, condi rice pulled a radio raheem-esque boom box from behind the podium, and pressed play. as an "urban interpretation" of "hail to the chief" blasted from the speakers, the secretary of state grabbed a microphone and seemingly channeled doug e. fresh as she beat boxed. unofficial unpaid intern, harold gibson transcribed el presidente's freestyle:

yeah...dub-ya up in this bitch...wit' my bitch...turn my headphones up...yeah/unh/yeah/

i'm the chief, nigga hail me/act like ya know/
when i was gov i fed kangays to nigs on death row/
ray nagin got his nerve/puttin' the commander on blast/
while i'm up here signing checks/his black ass cain't cash/
you got nothing but straight fucked by a bush and a dick/
got y'all feelin' like flood victims/'cause my flow so sick/
you seen pics of my vacay/i'm cowboy and you in'jun/
annihilate ya like genocide/the middle east i'm straight pimpin'/
i'm dub-ya, nigga what!/ask john kerry, i don't play/
when that west rapper comes up dead/just blame the c.i.a./
fuck george clinton/i keep the white house white/
i fuck condi/stick it to her/like white in rice/
my bro jeb will be protected if rita hits the keys/
you got beef?/fuck you, nigga/suck on w-m-deez/**

(poof, pow surprise, oooooooohhhhhhh!!!!!)**

west texas, bitches.

george w. bush, now known as dub-ya, spent the rest of his press conference giving shout outs to fox news reporters.

though there is no release date for his upcoming single, it has been confirmed that dub-ya has signed to noah's ark records.

notes:

for the uninitiated, deez is short for deez nuts.

if you get the, "poof, pow, surprise ooooohhhhh!!!!!" reference (without goggling it), i will do one thing for you. anything. you name it.

until next time, this has been start a rumor monday.

sign o' the times remix

2007-08-29T11:25:00.000-05:00

I wrote this post two years ago after Kanye West's comments regarding the media's depiction of Hurricane Katrina. Since I'm ruminating on two other ideas, I thought I'd just post this in the meantime.

Originally posted on 9/8/05

throwing my diamond in the sky: open letter #4
[...]

"'Dey don't always know. Indians don't know much uh nothin', tuh tell de truth. Else dey'd own dis country still. De white folks ain't gone nowhere. Dey oughta know if it's dangerous'...'Dis time tuhmorrer you gointuh wish you follow crow...If Ah never see you no mo' on earth, Ah'll meet you in Africa'...They huddled closer and stared at the door. They just didn't use another part of their bodies, and they didn't look at anything but the door. The time was past for asking the white folks what to look for through that door. Six eyes were questioning God."

--zora neale hurston, their eyes were watching god

dear ~~that nigga ye~~ ~~kangay~~ kanye west,
cc: celine dion

i am writing to formally and temporarily retract any and all hatred of you on this blog, as well as any nastiness spewed before, during, and after meetings with the personality chix concerning the fate of hip hop and other shit. my bad, dog. you really showed me. though i often give folks whose "analysis" is filled with rearticulations of the immediately apparent (like dubya and jesse jackson) the moniker, "captain obvious," i'm going to refrain from assigning that name to you. because, well, as we know, there's nothing new under the sun, but every now and then someone tells you a tale, yet does it in a seemingly fresh way. what i'm trying to say is, you took a "duh" moment, and damn near made it shockingly revolutionary. sort of like when you burst on the hip hop scene wearing clothes that fit...but not really.

let me rehearse the event for those who didn't get to see you in all of your glory. friday night on nbc during a televised concert to raise money for hurricane katrina victims, you and mike myers stood before the camera apparently about to plead to the american people for scrilla. disgusted to the point of illiteracy, you gave the cue card guy the finger, and spoke from your heart. you said:

I hate the way they portray us in the media. You see a black family and they say we are looting, you see a white family and they say they are looking for food. And, you know, its been five days because most of the people ARE black. And even for me to complain, I would be a hypocrite because I would turn away from the TV because it's too hard to watch. I've even been shopping before even giving a donation, so now I'm calling my business manager right to see what is the biggest amount I can give. And just to imagine, if I was down there and those are my people down there. If there is anybody out there that wants to do anything that we can help about the way America is set up the help the poor, the black people, the less well off as slow as possible. Red cross is doing as much as they can. We already realize a lot of the people that could help are at war right now, fighting another way. And now they've given them permission to go down and shoot us.

though, as i said, you were teetering on incoherence, i understood what you were trying to say. i'ma break it down: 1) tragedy or not, the media will make niggas look like niggas. 2) the tragedy was hard for you to watch, and you didn't immediately understand the gravity of the situation. though you are not the secretary of state, and weren't strolling 5th avenue looking for some jimmy choos (or whatever), you feel bad for having not at least responded monetarily more quickly. because although you are merely a celebrity, you're someone who has more than the folks on the gulf coast do, and you have the means to attempt to help assuage the situation. 4) we live in a racist capitalist society where those who are the most unfortunate will get fucked first and fucked often. 5) though there are folks on the ground doing their best, the government failed us by not having the resources (read: troops) to protect the "homeland"--terrorist attack, natural disaster (dubya won't let you forget how "natural" the disaster was), or otherwise. 6) there are folks down there just trying to survive, and they're being treated like criminals.

mike myers, playing the part of the white liberal in this episode, appeared as if he hadn't cast a black chick in his last austin powers movie...looking sort of...uh, canadian?** as you, on the verge of tears, barely got your shit together to say, and i quote, "george bush doesn't care about black people." at which point, mike myers lost his fucking shit, and apparently the folks in the control room lost their shit, too. because instead of cutting to someone who prolly coulda held it together, they switched to another nig--chris "do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth?" tucker--who very possibly, whether he found jesus or not, coulda been on his angry black man also.

yo, i must tell you, ~~that nigga ye~~ ~~kangay~~ kanye, i repeated that shit like a mantra for the rest of the night, undoubtedly getting on deshi's last nerve. but i sort of had to, because it was the first time somebody cut the bullshit, and kept it real--which is, if you ask me, pretty ironic for a hip hop star.

you're right, dude. dubya doesn't care about black people. but george bush really doesn't care about poor people, and if he didn't say it, his mama sure as hell did. this is why, unfortunately, cunnilingus--'black' as she is-- can be appalled that you would say such things. i know you didn't have enough time to articulate how this situation was more complicated than the mere eight words you were able to spit out--they would've definitely just took the shit off the air--but i have to give props to you for being willing to be that pebble in the shoe: irritating enough that whoever's walking has to--no matter how hard s/he tries to relegate you to a more 'comfortable' place--keep it in the back of his/her mind that you're there, and every now and again, has to pause and decide if s/he's going to take the time to stop and address your presence.

unfortunately, nearly a week later, your act is barely a footnote in this story. you (and maybe ray nagin) are the germ that spawned yet another conversation on race and class. sadly, the media followed the same formula. as we all know, after someone on the fringe says something real and consequently deemed (temporarily) incoherent, they call in their list of "reinforcements". you know the script. there's a list of black people the media call (jesse jackson, al sharpton, t.d. jakes...alan keyes, and armstrong williams for the black conservative pov) when some sort of black shit goes down. and they get to channel your anger in such a way that doesn't scare white folks. call it a coherent articulation of black rage, if you will. but like audre lorde said, "the master's tools will never dismantle the master's house." and by tools i mean both mechanical device and ~~bitch~~ dupe.

and though i said your move to "keep it real" was sort of ironic for a hip hop star, that's really not true. what you did, in a sense, was truly hip hop. though you came to your popularity in a moment where hip hop has nearly, if not completely, been sucked into the superstructure (that's the right word, right? correct me if it's not.)--hip hop's "induction" into the academy, in my opinion, is the most forceful evidence of this-- for a moment, you made me believe that hip hop might still be used as a place to promote social change.** that maybe it's not merely just another hustle, but, just as certain aspects of it once did, hip hop can still sometimes speak for those with no voice. so in this sense, the fact that you, the reigning ~~queen~~ king of hip hop, stood up and said this is most appropriate.

in fact, as i finish this letter, i'm thinking my hating on you might even be more than temporary. though i reserve the right to call you on your shit when you're on your shit, when it all falls down (pun intended), i gotta fuck with you, ~~that nigga ye~~ ~~kangay~~ kanye.** because your speech showed me something most important: you love black people. (implicitly, i think you care about poor people.) and i, well, despite my position as the assholish hater, i "heart" black people, too.

what else but love?

though i can't promise not wanting to vomit when you come on tv, i bought--and did not download-- your album yesterday. you deserve the 80 cents. don't spend it on another pink shirt. just kidding.

keep it hip hop.

sincerely,
summer m., unofficial voice of 'the race'

p.s. if you haven't thought of this already, i think you and celine should do a record together.

notes:

1) by calling myers "canadian" i know i made that a really loaded term. i am not saying there are no people of color and/or racism in canada. but for some reason, whenever i saw that clip, i kept thinking to myself, 'why does mike myers look so...canadian?' i was not, however, entirely lucid.

2) i am not a hip hop skolar. and i know some of you may want to 'discuss' if the presence of hip hop in the academy signifies its death as a viable space of resistance. i say yes, but many of you may disagree...feel free to let me know how and why.

3) "all falls down" is a song by kanye west.

oh yeah...
i really wanna give a special shout out to the blogger currently known as dandelion, author of the freshest blog, she real cool. not only is that a great name for a blog, but she very nicely posted the transcripts from kanye's television appearance, and celion dion's interview on larry king. thus, i didn't have to search for it. good lookin' out, fellow lover of maud.

to see the non-censored version of kanye's speech, feel free to visit ifilm.

[...]

open letter #1
open letter #2
open letter #3

sign o' the times

2007-08-28T13:00:00.001-05:00

25.july.1941 -- 28.august.1955

"The Last Quatrain of the Ballad of Emmett Till"

Emmett's mother is a pretty-faced thing,

the tint of pulled taffy.

She sits in a red room,

drinking black coffee.

She kisses her killed boy.

And she is sorry.

Chaos in windy grays

through a red prairie.

--Gwendolyn Brooks

A BRONZEVILLE MOTHER LOITERS IN MISSISSIPPI.
MEANWHILE, A MISSISSIPPI MOTHER BURNS BACON.

From the first it had been like a
Ballad. It had the beat inevitable. It had the blood.
A wildness cut up, and tied in little bunches,
Like the four-line stanzas of the ballads she had never quite
understood--the ballads they had set her to, in school.

Herself: the milk-white maid, the "maid mild"
Of the ballad. Pursued
By the Dark Villain. Rescued by the Fine Prince.
The Happiness-Ever-After.
That was worth anything.
It was good to be a "maid mild."
That made the breath go fast.

Her bacon burned. She
Hastened to hide it in the step-on can, and
Drew more strips from the meat case. The eggs and sour-milk biscuits
Did well. She set out a jar
Of her new quince preserve.

. . . But there was something about the matter of the Dark Villain.
He should have been older, perhaps.
The hacking down of a villain was more fun to think about
When his menace possessed undisputed breath, undisputed height,
And best of all, when history was cluttered
With the bones of many eaten knights and princesses.

The fun was disturbed, then all but nullified
When the Dark Villain was a blackish child
Of Fourteen, with eyes still too young to be dirty,
And a mouth too young to have lost every reminder
Of its infant softness.

That boy must have been surprised! For
These were grown-ups. Grown-ups were supposed to be wise.
And the Fine Prince--and that other--so tall, so broad, so
Grown! Perhaps the boy had never guessed
That the trouble with grown-ups was that under the magnificent shell of adulthood, just under,
Waited the baby full of tantrums.
It occurred to her that there may have been something
Ridiculous to the picture of the Fine Prince
Rushing (rich with the breadth and height and
Mature solidness whose lack, in the Dark Villain, was impressing her,
Confronting her more and more as this first day after the trial
And acquittal (wore on) rushing
With his heavy companion to hack down (unhorsed)
That little foe. So much had happened, she could not remember now what that foe had done
Against her, or if anything had been done.
The breaks were everywhere. That she could think
Of no thread capable of the necessary
Sew-work.

She made the babies sit in their places at the table.
Then, before calling HIM, she hurried
To the mirror with her comb and lipstick. It was necessary
To be more beautiful than ever.
The beautiful wife.
For sometimes she fancied he looked at her as though
Measuring her. As if he considered, Had she been worth it?
Had she been worth the blood, the cramped cries, the little stirring bravado, The gradual dulling of those Negro eyes,
The sudden, overwhelming little-boyness in that barn?
Whatever she might feel or half-feel, the lipstick necessity was something apart. HE must never conclude
That she had not been worth it.

HE sat down, the Fine Prince, and
Began buttering a biscuit. HE looked at HIS hands.
More papers were in from the North, HE mumbled. More maddening headlines.
With their pepper-words, "bestiality," and "barbarism," and
"Shocking."
The half-sneers HE had mastered for the trial worked across
HIS sweet and pretty face.

What HE'd like to do, HE explained, was kill them all.
The time lost. The unwanted fame.
Still, it had been fun to show those intruders
A thing or two. To show that snappy-eyed mother,
That sassy, Northern, brown-black--

Nothing could stop Mississippi.
HE knew that. Big fella
Knew that.
And, what was so good, Mississippi knew that.
They could send in their petitions, and scar
Their newspapers with bleeding headlines. Their governors
Could appeal to Washington . . .

"What I want," the older baby said, "is 'lasses on my jam."
Whereupon the younger baby
Picked up the molasses pitcher and threw
The molasses in his brother's face. Instantly
The Fine Prince leaned across the table and slapped
The small and smiling criminal.
She did not speak. When the HAND
Came down and away, and she could look at her child,
At her baby-child,
She could think only of blood.
Surely her baby's cheek
Had disappeared, and in its place, surely,
Hung a heaviness, a lengthening red, a red that had no end.
She shook her had. It was not true, of course.
It was not true at all. The
Child's face was as always, the
Color of the paste in her paste-jar.

She left the table, to the tune of the children's lamentations, which were shriller
Than ever. She
Looked out of a window. She said not a word. That
Was one of the new Somethings--
The fear,
Tying her as with iron.

Suddenly she felt his hands upon her. He had followed her
To the window. The children were whimpering now.
Such bits of tots. And she, their mother,
Could not protect them. She looked at her shoulders, still
Gripped in the claim of his hands. She tried, but could not resist the idea
That a red ooze was seeping, spreading darkly, thickly, slowly,
Over her white shoulders, her own shoulders,
And over all of Earth and Mars.

He whispered something to her, did the Fine Prince, something about love and night and intention.
She heard no hoof-beat of the horse and saw no flash of the shining steel.

He pulled her face around to meet
His, and there it was, close close,
For the first time in all the days and nights.
His mouth, wet and red,
So very, very, very red,
Closed over hers.

Then a sickness heaved within her. The courtroom Coca-Cola,
The courtroom beer and hate and sweat and drone,
Pushed like a wall against her. She wanted to bear it.
But his mouth would not go away and neither would the
Decapitated exclamation points in that Other Woman's eyes.

She did not scream.
She stood there.
But a hatred for him burst into glorious flower,
And its perfume enclasped them--big,
Bigger than all magnolias.

The last bleak news of the ballad.
The rest of the rugged music.
The last quatrain.

--Gwendolyn Brooks

And while I'm at it:

I'm going to go watch Corrina, Corrina now.

play in the sunshine

2007-08-22T18:51:00.000-05:00

all grown up.

My ADHD was cultivated by watching music videos during summer vacation. In fact, I think my "thing" for women in glasses started with Marvin Gaye's "Sexual Healing" video; somehow, I implicitly associated sexiness with a woman gazing at you from behind the lenses of reading spectacles, removing them from her face, letting her hair down, and taking a shot of "medicine" before she jumped on it.

In between trips to the Hessen Cassel Library (I always seemed to finish the summer reading in mere weeks. I'd have been done much more quickly had my avuncular escort and other babysitters been kind enough to take me over there more often.), and after our morning basketball camp--both YMCA and unofficial ones that I held in our driveway--I'd plop down in front of the television, and watch videos for the rest of the day with my younger brother and sister, and any other children my parents decided to take in that summer. Not knowing life without cable-- I have distinct memories of rocking out to MTV while my father was still in the house, and my parents split by the time I was six--we'd frantically switch between the three music channels (Vh1, BET, and MTV), hoping not to miss the hottest videos. My right-hand dexterity--I'm a southpaw-- was strengthened during those summer days when we hid from the Midwestern humidity in the basement. We had no remote control (what my father calls "the changer"), so I'd sit by the set and effortlessly switch channels: 3-2! 3-3! 3-6! and back again. Occasionally we'd check in at Nickelodeon (channel 3-5!) on our way back down from BET, but mostly we solidified our short attention spans with 3-minute visual masterpieces.

We all had our favorite artists. I secretly lusted after members of En Vogue, while my sister practiced her octave-range while watching Mariah Carey's "Someday." We all learned the dance moves to Janet Jackson's, "Miss You Much." Even though he's all sulking and thugged out now, I'm pretty sure my brother can still do a mean Ed Lover dance. Looking back, I recognize the power of television to provoke. It's the "Pleasure Principle" video that prompted me to try that "chair trick" and damn near lose my left leg. I admit that I've liked songs simply because I dug the video.

To pacify my sporadic nostalgic desires, sometimes, if I can peel myself away from reruns of House Hunters, I watch hours of Vh1 Soul. If I'm lucky, they'll show a string of videos that remind me of those afternoons in the basement. And, well, most of that shit is straight hilarity. (Teddy Riley in a Speedo? Gut-busting laughs, homie.) Before the days of Hype Williams and Little X, the only nigga consistently bringing cinematic epics to the music video game was Michael Jackson. His world premieres were prime time wet dreams for us. Moonwalker still ranks highly among my favorite movies; the 15-minute version of "Smooth Criminal," is my most favorite video of all time.

The other day I was chatting it up about various tropes in R&B videos from the 80s and 90s, and I focused much of that discussion on the fact that sometimes the concept of these videos led these acts to the most unlikely of places. Locales like the beach (niggas don't swim), and the desert (though we are a tropical people, nigga, it's hot!), for starters.

I assume it was a desire to change up the scenery to something, say, less urban, and that's understandable. But can someone tell me why Jodeci was in the middle of the desert in combat boots? Why was En Vogue doing some version of choreographed tai chi while rocking makeshift "burqas"? And who puts a bedroom in the desert? En Vogue repeated the desert theme in "Runaway Love." Then there was Zhane (so underrated) all bronzed-up looking like Oscars (thx, m'guito) in the "Sending My Love" video. In my estimation, the only niggas who should've been out in the desert were Boyz II Men with their video, "Water Runs Dry." As a funny aside, my mother thought they were saying, "Let's go down to the river and die." She has a hard time understanding lyrics. When you think about it, though, that Boyz II Men flub kind of makes sense.

Then, of course, there is the beach scene, oft-used by boy bands such as Color Me Badd, and Shai--how'd they get dudes from Howard to stand on a rock and lip-sync? Guy's use of the seaside location on several occasions should be noted. Ah, there was a time when Guy videos were the raciest shits on tv; folks had yet to be creative enough to think of the things one could accomplish with a credit card and a more than willing ass-crack. Now, I still can't figure out why those images were so captivating to us.

Yesterday, my sister called me for advice. Eventually she started talking about how everyone, especially our parents, is getting older. My brother has a son, now, and I'm getting closer to thirty each day. And even though watching Vh1 Soul is a nice little diversion down memory lane, I still kind of wish my brother and sister were willing to do that "hopping move" they learned from the Fine Young Cannibals' "She Drives Me Crazy." Maybe next week when I'm in Charlotte, NC, Janelle and I will humor ourselves with the "Guess Which Song I'm Mouthing Game." It's one of the myriad of games we've made up over the years. It'd be a great way to end the summer. School starts soon.

(But some days I sit and wish I was a kid again.)

i'd rather find nemo

2007-08-21T11:38:00.000-05:00

All emcees have a shelf life. And as I sit here in my new, weapon of (orthopedic) change Converse and (a love, peace and) Gap hoodie sipping on iced chai (apparently you can cop the soon to be mentioned disc at Starbucks) with a Coke chaser (let's make it really real), I've come to the conclusion that Common's latest effort, Finding Forever, inspires the same feelings I had when I realized the "cheese" in Kraft's Hamburger Helper couldn't possibly be cheese if one could store that shit on a shelf for months. Unfortunately, you can't, like, add water (for chocolate) and make his new album digestible if your palate has been trained to expect something a bit more, um, delicious.

In recent years, Common has become a stereotype, a cliche, a metonym for "conscious rapper." And the artist formerly known as Sense has solidified his position as Zeus of that Mount Olympus with FF. With this effort, he's officially a soft of rock rapper, if you will. Call him MC Christopher Cross (don't get it twisted, I fucks with Christopher Cross), for FF is a sort of middle of the road effort, hardly a revolution on wax, let alone a vinyl Fountain of Youth.

Not that Common has to actually be revolutionary. That part of his act easily likens itself to Mo'Nique's fat girl schtick. And Common is about as convincing when he speaks to "The People," as Mo'Nique is believable when she claims to love all her curves. Common's disingenuousness is immediately evident when he rhymes, "My daughter found Nemo/I found the new Premo." Any hip hop lover worth her salt ('n' pepa) knows that Mr. West is a lot of things, but DJ Premier Jr. he is not. "The People"--the track on which Common spits this lyric-- sounds nothing at all like Premo. In fact, the only Premo track that sounds like a Premo track is the only Premo track on the album. Common, then, must be crossing his fingers when he repeats that line at the beginning of each verse, just as he had to have been when he "admitted" that Kanye beat him in a freestyle. Not that he'd need luck. That cat can sell lynch ropes to the Klan and go unscathed.

In fact, what FF really does is provide more evidence that Common's been just receiving a hall pass from folks for quite a while. FF lacks a believable facade of earnestness that his previous efforts (Be) have had. The album is more crafted than his goatee. Song about with mildly cryptic references to Chicago? Check. Kanye joint? Got it. Anthem for the still abstract people that also cashes in on the cultural capital of black revolution? In the bag. Love joint that reassures my black queen she don't ever have to worry about being done wrong by a buttery-ass nigga like me? A few of those. That, in tandem with rather below Common standard lyrics causes FF to evoke nothing but hip hop ennui. Minus the non-sensical commentary at the end of the song, "U Black Maybe," is probably the most compelling original track on the album. You might as well listen to "So Far to Go," on The Shining.

Admittedly, Common is better than most of the "emcees" out there. And resting on those laurels has seemingly inspired some rather unsatisfactory output from hip hop's Michael Bolton. Common is so much better than this. Though it's entirely possible to rap about the same shit ad nauseum and still sound dope as fuck (Lil Wayne), maybe new subject matter is in order. If not, Common may no longer stand for everyman, but pithily describe the caliber of his musical output.

(Something told me not to buy this album, but out of loyalty I did. I'd wavered back and forth about this decision Common can no longer be (one of) my favorite emcees. Eh. Knowing is beautiful.)

race

2007-08-17T13:32:00.000-05:00

Dear Reginald Hudlin,

I don't know how successful your new shows have been since I don't really watch them, but just in case you're still feeling generous with your airtime, I'd like to pitch a gameshow. I've tentatively titled it "Blacker Than."

Here's the deal: it's kind of like playing the dozens, but instead of talking about each other's mama, each contestant tries to outwit the other by coming up with something that's "blacker than" the other. Each round, there's a general topic, say for example, "Movie Theater Etiquette." The first contestant says something they think is really black, such as, "Bringing a two piece meal and a 40 to the theater." It's the next contestant's job to come up with something blacker. He or she might say, "Bringing your baby with you to the 9:00 show at a Magic Johnson movie theater." Then the next contestant might say something like, "Shooting somebody at the movie theater." Play would continue until one contestant remains; he/she would win a point or a prize or something. Three contestants become two, and finally one. The remaining contestant would then go to the championship round where she would have to face Jumpin' Jim, knower of all black things. (Think of ESPN's "Stump the Schwab"). In that round, Jumpin' Jim would say something really black (e.g. Bill Clinton), and the contestant would have to say something even blacker (like Marion Berry). Since this round is more difficult, the contestant will get one plessy pass card if she's stumped. If she can outblack Jumpin' Jim three times before he stumps her, she wins.

You could give away rims or something.

Tell the kids at Viacom Flavor Flav can host.

Let me know if you're interested.

Holla,
Summer M.

my name is prince

2007-08-14T12:07:00.000-05:00

A while ago, I was having a debate with a friend of mine about Prince and Michael Jackson. The question: if they were double billed, who would open the show? Though clouded by insobriety, I remember contending that, in such a concert of my dreams, Prince would have to open for Michael Jackson. Despite the undeniable success of both, MJJ is the King of Pop(ularity), and in that regard, Prince is, well, a prince. I must admit that when I'm "in da club," and the dj decides to have that The Gloved One vs. The Purple One spin-off, I somehow end up siding with Michael Joe, despite my desire to declare such a contest a tie, or even pointless, since they're not entirely comparable artists. I always want to retract my mental decision in the end. Perhaps it's Moonwalker, or the whole Indiana connection. (State trumps region, I guess.)

Having said that, I find Prince's descendents much more tormented (D'Angelo, Maxwell), compelling (Bilal), cooler (J*Davey), and musically interesting (all of them) than MJ's. Admittedly, followers of Billie Jean's not-lover seem more popular, and I do enjoy some of their music and antics: I adore Beyonce's "Deja Vu" because the bass line especially reminds me of the opening notes of "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough" and "Off the Wall"; N.E.R.D.'s "Frontin'"--especially the portions where Pharrell lays on the falsetto-- is reminiscent of "I Can't Help It." Despite my not at all ironic love of Mr. Timberlake, I found the apparently Prince-inspired Future Sex/Love Sounds inconsistent, mundane, and just wack at times; though the latter portion of "Lovestoned/I Think That She Knows" is one of my favorite tracks, I was shitty when he didn't dance in the music video. Then again, I'm generally shitty when JT doesn't dance. And while I'm speaking of getting on the good foot, the dancing machine Chris Brown is mere pubescent eye candy.

If MJ's sons and daughters are seemingly omnipresent, then Prince's subjects are equally inaccessible. There are more rumors of new material, sporadic concerts, losing record deals, and otherwise unfulfilled or disappointing fantasies than some can handle. A cult following is almost necessarily in order. Though I missed J*Davey covering "Sex Shooter" as an encore to one of their shows, I was lucky enough to be in New York the night Bilal played. He was gracious enough to rock for more than two hours -- more than most would give you for twice the money. He even made an off the cuff comment about his second album, Love 4 Sale, being leaked on the internet. (For the record, I never solicited anyone for that album. Who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? To be sure, if the record label put out that album tomorrow, I'd buy it.) Yet as much as the internet may have been a curse for Bilal, it is often a blessing for indie artists and their fans.

I was glad, then, when Van Hunt released a digital EP last Tuesday, which contained two new songs from his upcoming album, Popular, and two acoustic versions of songs that appeared on 2006's On the Jungle Floor. My most favorite Hunt song ever is "Hold My Hand," which I've previously mused should be some sort of dyke theme song. That joint is a bit less Sly Stone and Rick James, and more Prince. And that's what I like about the first two tracks on The Popular Machine EP. I'm not exactly sure, but when I hear both "Turn My TV On" and "Lowest One of My Desires," I think of some song from Sign O' the Times or "Lady Cab Driver." (When Rick James tells you he wants to fuck you, it's pretty nasty. When Prince says it, you kinda want to let him make it.) Yet, what I also mean by "more Prince" is the evolution you can can track in the music. For me, Hunt's musical choices, his songwriting especially, keeps getting better. He, like the other, previously mentioned Prince-inspired, is on a different trajectory, another plane. Saying, "Y'all niggas keep doing that shit over there, while I fuck with this here." And what's cooler than that?

Prince was right, sexy never did leave. Thankfully, it spawned a few babies.

Of course, I could be all wrong about this.

emancipation

2007-08-06T18:48:00.000-05:00

The scene: 7am rush hour traffic in the city of wind last Friday. Since Maegs had elected to drive us to the southside so that we could catch the bus to MDW, I missed "Morning Edtion" and was hence subjected to the musical selections and other material of the characters who make up "urban" talk morning radio shows. The following is a slightly messy paraphrase of a rant I gave after listening to these niggas talk about child support issues over some beats that sound like every other song I dislike. And, yes, I do cuss this/that much:

[And] this is what pisses me off. Think about this shit. We come from people who picked cotton and tobacco and shit in the fucking sun from dawn to dusk, who made up songs that meant something, had multiple fucking meanings. You know, shit like, "This way to freedom," or "Make a right at that tree over there," and "Massa ain't shit." But when this nigga says, "Walk it out," that's all he fucking means...It's like so much time on our hands has made us uncreative. Fuckin' freedom.

...Or something like that.

Thank God for Ga. Anne Muldrow, I guess.

joint to joint

2007-08-01T14:05:00.000-05:00

You know, an interlude can really fuck up an album. There you are, on the treadmill, thinking maybe you weren't wrong to be lightweight digging Missy's Da Real World back in '99. Then, that Lil Kim interlude comes on, and as you listen to her incoherence-- you know, "Yo, this the Queen Bee and I came to say a little something on my girl, Missy, shit...You see bitch is a strong word. And only strong bitches can use that muthafuckin' terminology bitch," (Kudos to Kim for using the word, "terminology")--a deluge of "Niggas ain't shit, and they ain't never gonna be shit"-esque thoughts flood your head. Or, maybe that's just me. Anyway, the dissonance of the bad interlude compels you to skip to the next song, or just turn off the album altogether. Missy is not alone in her interlude missteps. Recorded acts of sexual encounters sponsored by Bad Boy records have left me querying, "Who the fuck thought putting this shit on a record was a good idea?"

That said, there are some interludes that I find absolutely essential to my cd-listening experience. Though I can't stand to hear Nas do his voice imitation of a slave during the intro to It Was Written, the phrase "[Talkin' that ole] off the wall 'Back to Africa' shit," at the beginning of "Black Girl Lost," is still a personal favorite. In the meantime, I've thought of a few more interludes I do adore:

The Madd Rapper: "This my fourth album." The Madd Rapper interludes, especially from Biggie's Life After Death are still funny to me. Lately, me and my old lady been using the previous quote to express exasperation.

The Fugees: Though I still occasionally employ the "L-Boogie Only" method when listening (meaning, I will listen to a song only through Lauryn Hill's verse, and move on), I will pause for a moment and listen to a few of the interludes.

Kim and Cookie (Outkast): 'kast has given me great interludes throughout the years, but this is by far one of my favorite interludes of all time. Only "Where Are My Panties?" comes rivals it.

Wyclef: I've often contended that Wyclef's solo album, The Carnival, marked the last time he seemed that relevant to hip hop. Ten years later, I still love this album. The interludes help make the album one sustained concept, you know? I mean to describe it in the way you might think about Marvin Gaye's What's Going On? When I hear WGO, I hear one song, with about 9 different movements. The comparison ends there. The Carnival is, I guess, a score. And the interludes are pretty damn funny...

jeez.

graffiti bridge

2007-07-24T13:21:00.000-05:00

In her 1928 essay, "How It Feels to Be Colored Me," Zora Neale Hurston described the moment when she realized she was colored. At thirteen, when she was sent to Jacksonville, FL for school, she became, was "now a little colored girl. I found it out in certain ways. In my heart as well as in the mirror, I became a fast brown--warranted not to rub nor run." This sort of rite of passage that Hurston described is juxtaposed to her previous, individual, southern self she had delineated earlier. Before the move to Jacksonville, Hurston described herself as someone moving through the world unconcerned with race. Part of this, I imagine, is dramatic hyperbole to prove a point; the other part, I'm sure, stems from the fact that Hurston grew up in Eatonville, an all-black Florida town. What struck me as I read this essay, however, is the way that Hurston assigns difference. She's unlike other black Southern writers, like her one-time nemesis Richard Wright (see: "The Ethics of Living Jim Crow"), in that she is not insistent upon racial difference--recall: she's not tragically colored-- but rather geographical difference. Therefore, a young Hurston pays no mind to white Southerners from other towns, nor they to her. Rather, the Northerners--apparently tourists-- who came through town in cars and were intrigued by the young girls gregariousness, are the outsiders of note. Hurston recalled that she would "go a piece of the way" with them, using the colloquialism to further emphasize linguistic difference based on geography to highlight her point. Hurston concludes that she only feels colored among whites; more importantly, she "feel[s]" her race while at Barnard "beside the waters of the Hudson." Again, Hurston marks geography to emphasize her ruminations on regional difference--Jacksonville is north of Eatonville. Almost thirty years later, Hurston wrote a letter to the editor of the Orlando Sentinel ("Court Order Can't Make Races Mix") expressing her disapproval of the Brown decision. She was more interested, it seemed, with the Supreme Court upholding the equal aspect of separate but equal. She had no desire for "forcible association."

I was reminded of Hurston and her positions on race and region last night when I finally buckled down and watched the CNN/YouTube Democratic Presidential Candidate debate. There was a very brief moment just after the two gentlemen from Tennessee asked their question about Al Gore's popularity that I found particularly telling. After Anderson Cooper asked if any of the candidates' feelings were hurt, Joe Biden replied, "I think the people of Tennessee just had their feelings hurt." Now, it is unlikely that anyone will mention that moment in their analysis of the debate; besides, Joe Biden has said stupid(er) things in the past. However, I think Biden's comment symbolizes what Democrats seemingly fail to recognize or remember: You can't be talking shit about the South if you're trying to win a Presidential election.

Legend has it that when Lyndon Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act of 1964, he told an aide, "We have lost the South for a generation." Now, I don't know if that's true or not, but if it is, LBJ was a soothsayer, because a northern Democrat ain't seen no parts of the Oval Office as President since. A generation spans, roughly, thirty or so years; 2007-1964 = 43. Of the three Democrats elected President, all were from the South (Jimmy Carter (GA); Bill Clinton (AR); Al Gore (TN)). Jimmy Carter's loss notwithstanding (but remember, he beat Ford, and Clinton beat Bush), every other Democratic candidate was from above the Mason-Dixon--Humphrey, Dukakis, Kerry. Maybe we need another generation.

I'm no political expert; I'm only mildly amused by the political actions of Washington. But as a voter who is just not fucking with the Republicans, I'm concerned with the possibility that my various theories on geographical tension, and chit chats with my homegirl, Rachel (a native ATLien) about similar subjects may actually play out come November 2008 if the Democrats don't get their act together. I began with the Hurston discussion not simply to again highlight region as an increasingly important marker of difference, but also to point out two things. First, we often use racial difference when it might better serve us to say regional difference (or South). (Admittedly, sometimes I just think of Negroes as displaced southerners.) Second, maybe the (white) South is not only still upset but perhaps still believes, if I may crudely paraphrase Gavin Stevens**, that they were always fighting to free Sambo themselves; acts like Brown and the CRA of 1964--although signed by a Southerner, he was a Texan-- were other manifestations of "northern aggression." In other words, (discourse on) race has continually been the way in which we've (de)valued the intellectual prowess and opinions of other Americans, and that value judgement not only reinscribes the symbolic resonance of the Mason-Dixon, but perpetually characterizes the Southerner as obtuse and uncultured. Unfortunately for the Biden-like Democrats, there are more of "them" than there are of "us." And they vote.

I'm not suggesting that every time a Southerner goes to vote she remembers LBJ, and casts a ballot for the elephants on some subconscious race shit. What I am suggesting, however, is that these Northern politicians really need to let up on the whole ignorant, backwards Southerner comments if they plan to get anywhere, because the only southern Democrat running for President right now is Johnny Reid Edwards, and it seems like the only thing he's gonna win is a beauty contest. Biden's comments prove that the idea of the South(erner) as provincial and agrestic, as a the geographical location of America's id, as a region that needs fixin' by the ostensibly cosmopolitan, urbane, more forward-thinking neighbors to the North (meaning: above, like better than) is one that continues to figure prominently 40 years later. If LBJ's words continue to prove true and recent history of presidential elections has established a trend, it's lights out for Biden, Obama, and Clinton (though her connection to Bill and Arkansas may help)--no matter what the numbers say. Unless, of course, they're strategic in addressing this rather subtle issue.

I hope, however, that we are so fed up with the antics of the current administration that whoever we elect brings about profound, positive change. Go slow, now.**

**Despite the break-up, Faulkner still haunts me.

we march

2007-07-17T11:29:00.000-05:00

A smidge over two years ago, I wrote an open letter to the NAACP. With the recent NAACP-sponsored funeral of the word nigga/nigger (I fucking hate the term n-word), I decided to repost the entry. Though the post was inspired by the 2005 NAACP annual convention, I think some of the stuff I wrote then works even now.

Put another way, I ain't have shit else to write about, so I'm putting this up.

Note: I, too, am appalled by my writing. In other words, I hope I've evolved.

niagara movement reconsidered: open letter #2

dear julian bond, bruce s. gordon, and (esteemed) leaders of the naacp:

let me begin by saying that i am not a member of your organization. never have been, probably never will be. now a generation ago, this might have been a mark of shame. but currently, i sort of wear this truth as a badge of honor--sort of like the literature i've never read though i claim to be a ph.d. student in english, but that's another story.

perhaps you are alarmed by such news. i mean, on one hand, i am your ideal member: i'm black, i have a couple post-secondary degrees under my belt, i'm in a ph.d. program. hell, one slip up and i am on my way to the black middle class. it's a slippery slope i tell you. yet despite my credentials, i have yet to fork over a dime to join your organization. granted, i abhor (the idea of) organizations, and i am also a young person, a member of the hip hop generation if you will. so on one hand, this isn't surprising. yet on the other, i'm a shit-talking marginalized subject getting screwed by da man each and every day. so it would make some sort of sense that i'd be attracted to an organization with your legendary track record.

but as i recalled that your annual convention was being held this week not too far from me, i started thinking to me my hot self (myself be so hot), "remind me, summer m,"--that's what i call myself when i'm thinking to myself, summer m.-- "why do you loathe this group again?" granted, i could have told myself that i am not a member because you say the same shit every year. (how many times can you rip dubya a new one with the same speech, mr. bond? he still ain't coming to speak to you. and neither is vicente fox for that matter. shit, i'm not coming to speak to you and i love to procrastinate.) but i didn't. i problematized myself right there in my car, and i came to the realization: the reason why folks like dubya, fox, me, etc. no longer give the naacp the time of day is because you've lost a bit of your pull, your clout so to speak.

consequently, i decided not to simply point out the problem, but to offer you all some really concrete and tangible suggestions. you all--the naacp, that is-- have an image problem. everyone has to switch up their image every now and then to stay (so) fresh (and so clean, clean!). (remember when aunt jemima got a perm?) you haven't evolved with the times. and so i, summer m., self-appointed (un)official voice of 'the race,' have compiled some suggestions to help you mount a comeback bigger than the tragic moolatte of the moment, mariah carey.

might i suggest:

1. switching up your letters: let's be real, here. naacp is sooooo 1909. there are, like 22 other letters in the alphabet you've yet to use. besides, if you're going to have an acronym of that length, one should really be able to pronounce it like a legitimate word. i think these letters are totally expendable. i mean, if you asked a person what naacp stood for, would they know? exactly. just off the cuff, n.i.g.g.a., j.i.g.a.b.o.o., or c.o.t.t.o.n are some acronyms you might try on for size.

2. getting a motto: what's an organization without a motto? exactly. a wack one. i think a brainstorming session with some of your young, creative minds might be just the trick to come up with a new slogan. you all really need to be edgier. get raw. come up with a tagline that shows you're not the middle class bitches (maybe our friend 50 cent would call you wankstas...so seductive!) everyone says you are. here's a few to get you all started (i'll use your current acronym until you come up with another one):

--naacp: strictly for my niggas
--naacp: too sexy to be lynched
--naacp: yo' mama!
--naacp: step 'n' fetch this!
--naacp: big black africa coming back for that white ass!
--naacp: se habla espanol
--naacp: slavery chains were the first bling

3. getting a new theme song: let's be honest here, nobody knows all three verses to the black national anthem, 'lift every voice and sing' (there are three, right?). in fact, how many people know there's a black national anthem? i say you get all the hot black stars out now, and get the neptunes and kanye west to produce the track. sure, some rappers might end up shooting each other, but i guarantee bongos, a sped up sample, and the nigga pharrell on falsetto (see these ice creams?).

4. going the television route: what gives you more exposure than a television show? that's right. nothing. since you all are busy in milwaukee, wi with the convention and all, i've come up with a few suggestions you might pitch to television execs when things slow down. you kill two birds with one stone with this one. 1) you get more black people on tv. 2) your organization gets more exposure. what about:

--extreme makeover: voter registration booth
--fabulous life of: black democrats
--name that racist! (a game show, of course)
--pimp my freedom ride
--black america's next top leader (reality tv, fa'sho; i'm positive barack obama, russell simmons, jesse jackson, the rev. al, and jay-z are great candidates)

5. other suggestions: here are some other things that have been successful for people as of late:

--an energy drink. nelly has pimp juice, lil jon has crunk, why can't kool-aid become the official drink of the naacp?
--a new mascot. a slave rocking a bullet proof vest and some iced out chains, perhaps?
--get sexy in crisis magazine. from the jet beauty of the week to xxl's eye candy, everybody has a scantily clad black female centerfold nowadays. you can even make sure they're actual members, too. the act-so awards might be a great place to start looking for possible 'models.'
--sell to viacom.
--date katie holmes.

anyway, i hope this helps. if you use any of these ideas and credit me, i'll become a lifetime member. promise.

sincerely,
summer m., self-appointed (un)official voice of 'the race'

that other time i talked about nigga: call my name

open letter#1

nothing compares 2 u

2007-07-09T11:56:00.000-05:00

Despite my television addiction, I don't regularly watch BET. Call it a socially conscious activist gesture on my part, but I essentially prefer gayer channels--like Bravo. I do tune in every now and again, however, just to make sure that the folks at black entertainment are still producing coonery that continues to be both humorless and unentertaining even for lovers of Jim Crow-esque diversions like myself. They never disappoint; the BET Awards were no anomaly. Though Beyonce provided even more evidence that she will probably be known as the greatest performer of this era--she got bodied, and sang live--as expected, everything else was rather mediocre. 50 Cent, who is slowly turning himself into the next lip-licking LL Cool J with each wifebeater he dons, couldn't possibly grab his dick and rap a verse simultaneously; Chaka Khan decided to scream rather than actually learn the words to a Diana Ross song; and Mo'Nique was, well, Mo'Nique. And, please don't get me started on the way black awards shows expose the low level of literacy of many of these stars. Let's just say that some of these niggas need the Fantasia Barrino correspondence course.

Though I often just had to turn away to avoid jumping in the bathtub and attempting to scrub away my blackness a la a random biracial character in some filmic or literary narrative, I did happen to see commercials promoting BET's "July Jump-off," which highlights some of the new and upcoming original programming. One of these programs is Baldwin Hills, which follows affluent black teenagers living in the Baldwin Hills neighborhood of Los Angeles. Baldwin Hills (also known as "Pill Hill"--because many doctors lived in the area-- the Golden Ghetto, and the Black Beverly Hills) is one of the wealthiest black neighborhoods in the country. Despite that, you can still just drive over the hill and hit Crenshaw--or, the 'hood. You got it: it's a black market version of Laguna Beach.

I will suspend pursuing a conversation that considers why Baldwin Hills was chosen, and not, perhaps, some affluent all-black suburb in, maybe, the Atlanta-area. Rather, I simply want to mention that I think that choice may point to a broader, maybe more deliberate reminder that BET's "original programming" will continue to reflect its position as Viacom's black sheep. But just to note: (implicitly) as the teenagers of Laguna Beach are sequestered from all forms of poverty and violence, the nigs of Baldwin Hills are a short walk from a drive-by. You do the math.

The BET Awards, College Hill, and segments of Baldwin Hills all look like low-budget, knock-off versions of their MTV counterparts. If MTV is Jurassic Park, BET is Land of the Lost (the 1974 version). Not that I really care--like I said, I don't really watch BET. However, I just want to highlight what I think is a more important point: that the "black versions" of things implicitly mean lesser than, and that fact is continually reified in our popular culture. And so, even as Reginald Hudlin graces the pages of The New York Times, certain aspects of product he represents continue to look like a bootleg. Why, then, must the complexity of black life this original programming seems to yearn to show be a rather mediocre copy of something else? Further, at what point did black entertainment, and "artistic" output (necessarily) become a simulacrum of a simulacrum (or something like that)? Has our cultural capital gone from being worth a dime to the dollar to simply bankrupt?

That said, I suppose if you want your Viacom-sponsored coonery in Hi-Def, you gotta watch Vh1. Right, Flav?

That is all.

sum n saf -- divinely inspired

2007-07-06T09:48:00.000-05:00

Our arms might be short, but Sum-n-Saf will talk about God--or, God's creations. After satisfying Sum's negroid desire for yardbird, and Tummy's (Saf's unborn "seed") yearning for waffle fries at the Beachwood Mall Chick-Fil-A, the illest dynamic duo since Amos and Andy (fuck what ya heard, Rob and Big) came up with this divinely inspired list. Maegs might not be Catholic anymore, but we're pretty sure witnessing us comprise this sent her straight to confession. Rumor has it she's still saying Hail Mary. (Come with me!!!!)

Sum-n-Saf Present:

God’s Biggest Hits

Chicken – for its versatility

Pussy – for its reliability

Satan – 'cause MFs fuck with him hard

Oprah – 'cause when an ugly black girl from Mississippi
born in abject poverty comes out like her, God is Good
(all the time)

White women – unless you’re OJ

Marijuana – perhaps the biggest hit (haha)

Miscegenation (at least I’m glad my Africa got diluted
out this bitch)

The Bible (bigger than “Thriller”)

Cockroaches (engineered to last)

(That's 9 hits. What a divine number, nigga.)

God’s Biggest Flops

Dinosaurs – 'cause where are those niggas?

The o-zone layer – 'cause if anything needed to be
tamper-free …

Menopause, vaginal dryness, erectile dysfunction, and
premature ejaculation – none of that shit is raw. Well, I guess some of it is. (Hint: vaginal dryness)

The Ten Commandments – Name 7 out of 10, and we'll give you a dollar.

Native Americans and their comrades, the buffalo – need we explain this?

Africa – ibid.

The ability (of most people) to procreate – 'cause some niggas just shouldn't be allowed to reproduce.

(That's 7 flops, 'cause that's how many "days" it took the big G to make this world we're destroying. And we're doing a big bang up job of it, too.)

Until next time, this has been the Sum-n-Saf Half.

cream

2007-07-04T14:55:00.000-05:00

Generally, I'm mildly suspicious and dismissive of hip hop cover songs. And by hip hop cover songs, I mean to include hip hop remakes of hip hop songs (e.g. Snoop Dogg's cover of Doug E. Fresh and Slick Rick's, "La Di Da Di"), hip hop covers of songs from other genres (such as The Fugees', "Killing Me Softly"), and musicians of other genres reworking rap songs (Tori Amos' version of Eminem's "Bonnie and Clyde '97," for example). I've only appreciated less than a handful of these covers. Only one, for instance, immediately comes to mind: Tricky's cover of Public Enemy's, "Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos," which is kind of dope. Then again, I lightweight fuck with Tricky. I should briefly shout out that I have a rather mercurial and tepid love for the above mentioned Fugees joint. Despite my unending appreciation for Lauryn Hill, Wyclef's "One time!" irks me only slightly less than that "911" duet with MJB. (Feel my body gettin' colllld!!). Besides, the original track is haunting, and more appropriate to the lyrical content; Roberta Flack's voice is like warm milk. (At least, I'm assuming it's like warm milk. I've never had warm milk, but it seems hella soothing...) My dismissive shoulder shrug towards such music aside, I succombed to a paroxysm of musical delight when I heard Marco Polo's, "Relax" featuring J*Davey. It's sex on vinyl (or cd, or mp3). A cover of A Tribe Called Quest's, "Electric Relaxation," the track appears as bonus material on Marco Polo's 2007 debut, Port Authority (Rawkus), and I wanted to smoke a cigarette after hearing a 30 second sample.

I should note here that I find "ER" to be a near-perfect hip hop song. Part of my argument for its flawlessness is based on the incredible sampling of Ronnie Foster's, "Mystic Brew." It compelled me to seek out the original tracks groups like Tribe were using in their songs. As a result, I discovered and fell in love with artists such as Bill Withers, Roy Ayers, and Steely Dan. I suppose at one time hip hop could inspire a genuine appreciation for music, but I digress.

Anyway, after the Tribe sampled Foster, several other artists used it, including Freeway and Allen Anthony ("Alright"), Madlib ("Mystic Bounce"), and Rell and Kanye West ("Real Love"). But outside of West's "Electric Relaxation '03"--whose wackness I refuse to discuss here--most of my re-encounters with the Foster have been copies of the Tribe track under a different set of lyrics. Except, of course, until a few days ago when Ms. Rhodes referred me to the Marco Polo. She'd heard it previously, and was trying to track it down to play on her show, Playground. (Really, folks, if you're not fucking with KCRW on a regular basis you have way less cool points than you think you do.) She forwarded me a preview of the track, and a coital-like bliss commenced as soon as I heard Miss Jack Davey's voice.

A word about J*Davey. They will not be following "Get Me Bodied" in the set of any radio show--not even my imaginary one. (Don't get it twisted. I pat my weave and Naomi Campbell walk with the best of 'em.) I have only heard them, again, on KCRW. Aptly self-described as the black Eurythmics, their sound is so ill, not only because that's exactly what it is--ill--but, more broadly, because they show that black music (if we want to call it that), is so much more than what Viacom, Clear Channel, the BET Awards, or rent-a-car commercials imply it is. That said, if it wasn't for J*Davey, I would have probably ignored this joint. It's MJD's voice that gets your knickers moist. It's sexy. And I don't mean sexy in the Frito Lay Barry White (RIP) backed by the Love Unlimited Orchestra way, or even in the let me talk to you while I stroke my bass 'cause all daggers love me Meshell Ndegeocello manner. MJD's voice isn't even raspy, smoky, sultry, or deep. But there's sex in it. And because of that, "ER" evolves from some Queens young men grabbin' crotch and hollerin' via shit talkin' (in a really incredible way), to a grown ass woman coming for what she wants. Essentially, she got the goods--like Madeline Woods.

Admittedly, I may just be caught the fuck up on J*Davey, and hearing them over one of my favorite tracks might have simply made me temporarily lose what's left of my fragile mind. In fact, I'm still contemplating making copies of a mixtape I made, and passing it out to people because I think they should have it. It features the Foster, ATCQ, Marco Polo f/ J*Davey, the above-mentioned Madlib, and a "Mystic Brew" interlude I found. Excuse me while I go put that playlist on repeat.

Get some cool points:
J*Davey
Playgound (disguised as Pangea)

PS: If you dig any of this shit, let the powers that be know you do.

controversy remix: losing isaiah

2007-06-27T14:53:00.000-05:00

The firing of Isaiah Washington from ABC's hit medical drama, Grey's Anatomy, has inspired a small discourse on minorities in television that I find interesting, yet problematic and slightly awkward. I write this with the intention of highlighting the ways in which one cannot easily add this to an already long list of examples that serve as evidence of Hollywood's enduring and sempiternal reflection of America's racism, and also to show how discussions of race in the 21st century seem to continue to lead us--i.e. anyone with a sincere desire to talk honestly about race--down a terribly unproductive path.

Washington was fired presumably because of accusations that he called former co-star, TR Knight a faggot last fall (Alleged Incident 1), and for the way he denied the event ever happened. During the post Golden Globes press conference he said, "No, I did not call TR a faggot. Never happened, never happened." (Incident 2) Now, some Washington supporters have cried foul, similarly echoing Washington's Golden Globes response by questioning whether or not the initial incident ever occurred. Also, I've read suggestions that lightly gesture towards conspiracy. Apparently, almost nothing and/or no one--not even Grey's co-stars who might have been witnesses--can unequivocally quiet these skeptics, and solidly corroborate Washington's alleged harvest-time antics. Visual evidence (youtube, perhaps) is seemingly imperative. Obviously, then, no one can contradict that Washington used the word faggot in his denial the evening of the Golden Globes; all the press was there to record and see.

I'm troubled by this logic. It places the onus on and simultaneously privileges visual, tangible evidence to determine the validity of these kinds of claims. That would mean, potentially, that sans a shaky cellphone recording, Michael Richards' actions one fateful night would possibly still remain alleged, theoretical, hearsay, conspiratorial mumbo jumbo. In other words, those blacks (and whites) in the audience who were directly affected by Richards' words, would have had to wait and hope that Richards would say something to the effect of, "I never called those Afro-Americans niggers. Never happened." Or, "I'm really sorry I called them niggers. Really sorry," or something like that during his Jesse Jackson-sponsored press conference apology.

Actually, that's not the case. (Many/some) Black people would've believed them. Richards' skin color automatically indicts him, and we'd find him guilty. Why? Because white people have a history of saying and doing things to Negroes that they later deny, are subsequently "believed," and are rarely brought to justice for, even if several witnesses--Negro or no--can corroborate the guilty action(s). Black men, however, have no similar history, right? White people claiming a black man spew(ed) hateful talk? Debatable. Consequently, folks calling for Washington's head (or less severe punishment) are potentially just haters trying to keep a brother down.

Despite my tone, I don't vehemently deny that Washington might not have said faggot in the first instance. I, too, ~~sing America~~ wrestle with my own general distrust for white people (and middle class blacks). Yet, I recognize the stakes of that position, as I outlined above. But fine, let's say AI1 was a fabrication, a ploy to remove Washington from the show. It doesn't matter, for in the end, Washington still employed the term faggot in his denial (I2)-- on the night before Martin Luther King Day-- for all the world to see. And that's enough evidence for some. Enough proof that he: 1) said faggot in the first incident, and/or 2) deserves to be fired. How, then, can we explain I2, and/or convincingly argue for Washington's reinstatement?

The above question is not a rhetorical one. I've thought about it, and have (only) three answers that could possibly exonerate Washington (legal jargon intended) :

He's (allegedly, of course) gay. I subscribe to the belief that marginalized groups have the right to adopt epithets directed at them, and use them. Thus, I've no quarrel if gay men want to refer to themselves and each other as faggot. So, one way Washington's remarks would be somewhat adequately explained is if he's gay, but I don't think that's the case. If necessary, we could cite his wife and children as support of this, but with the bad taste of the "DL" in our mouths, that's a bit problematic.
"Never happened, never happened." One could say Washington's response was in effect true--it was all made up. One should not, however, exhibit behavior similar to that which one's been charged. It only makes one look guilty.
Strategic Semantics...Paralepsis--kinda? One might suggest that Washington got caught in wordplay quicksand in one of two ways. Perhaps it was a semantic strategy. Some of the 20th century's greatest minds have used stereotypical and otherwise offensive language to empty it, disrupt it, call attention to it. Yet I'm not convinced Washington had such aims. I've yet to figure out his rhetorical maneuvers; maybe someone smarter than me can, has. Or, possibly Washington underestimated the power of (this kind of) language. For me, that's even less plausible. Western influence aside, Washington was born and raised in Texas--technically a southern state, as it falls below the Mason-Dixon. And, as I've previously mused, the United States has a habit of projecting its racism onto that geographical location. Additionally, Washington matriculated through Howard University, an historically black institution. I highlight this to offer the idea that moving through such racially influenced spaces presumably gives one a knowledge not only of race and racism, but the words often employed to express racist thoughts and feelings. Further, the struggles and difficulties blacks experience in the entertainment industry are well publicized. I speculate that Washington has had to turn down his share of stereotypical roles. Additionally, outside of a writer, if anyone should know the power of words, it's an actor. Washington must know puissant language when he hears it, speaks it. If there is ever any question about whether or not one should use an epithet, I suggest employing what I call "The Huck Finn Rule": only use it (i.e. epithet in question) when you're quoting (from the text), or if whatever you're talking about necessarily requires usage of the real thing, and not the euphemism. Washington's remarks don't seem to fit either case.

One is left, then, with one option: Washington is/was a homophobe, who arrogantly, sloppily, and insouciantly employed an epithet to deny allegations. Playing a gay male in a movie does not mean one is not a homophobe; not participating in (a) gay bashing doesn't mean one is not a homophobe. I'm compelled to use the term not necessarily because I actually believe that Washington is a homophobe. Rather, I use it to reflect the ways in which we label people for such politically incorrect faux pas. There is no in-between. Thus, persons who are complacent when witnessing the use of or actively employ intolerant language--racist, homophobic, or otherwise--will be labeled accordingly. As such, the fact that my white neighbors growing up thought we were good enough black people to watch the house while they were gone didn't mean they weren't racist. They were. We were just exceptions to them; a respectable, non-pig's feet eatin' Negro family. And it didn't take a cross-burning them to garner such a title. Nearly always, there are shades of gray. What value we apply to those more ambiguous instances, however, may need serious reevaluation.

I've tried to illustrate the reasons why associating this situation with an allegedly insidious effort to keep people of color off the network television screen. This instance is not the same as canceling Chicago Hope, Roc, or Frank's Place, or even killing off the black character first in a horror film. It's hardly that simple. That said, I'd like to suggest that this situation shows how awkward it can be to align one's self simply through racial identification. There is nothing inherently natural about orienting one's politics, etc. only--or even primarily--via race, and doing so allows for simplistic outcomes, like naming Clarence Thomas to the Supreme Court, or using Washington's firing as another example of the man--or some other abstract power structure-- trying to keep us invisible. Historically, Negroes have provided diverse, complicated, and oft-contradictory opinions and suggestions on ways to alleviate the "race problem." Yet, in modern society, we've continually narrowed the discourse among ourselves by emphasizing black/white binaries and oversimplification(s), thereby allowing a black face/blackface to determine whether or not we're satisfied with efforts of inclusion, whether or not we'll protest, or whether or not someone was treated fairly. There are, obviously, social realities common to most--if not all--Negroes; but there is also considerable difference. And to allow race to be the primary way in which one views our political world will inevitably put one in a quagmire, one that potentially moves us to excuse inexcusable behavior in exchange for ill-judged race pride, ill-informed discussions on race, and ill-fated activism based on race.

I don't agree with Washington's firing, or any additional blacklisting. Yet, I understand that if I was to sit on a jury and conclude that someone had broken the law, I would then be obligated to vote guilty. Granted, I may not agree with tactics of the criminal justice system, but that does not absolve the guilty party. To be sure, the example has more severe ramifications, but the logic is the same. This is the climate we (meaning Negroes) have been instrumental in creating. Currently, articulated insensitivity (or, periodic exorcisms of the id) is being punished with job termination, and a stained reputation. In this environment, public apologies, rehabilitation, diversity training, or other acts of humility, will not serve as a life preserver--unless, of course, you're Ozzie Guillen--and assuming one is safe once he/she has corrected accordingly is a terrible miscalculation. I can't say I agree with it. Such situations, I find, are much more complex. And there's something quite irreconcilable and unsatisfying about arguing that Washington's antics, alleged and other, were more complicated than we know by discussing race. One should not replace one "simple" entity (homophobia) with another (race), and hope to elicit different results.

Firings, silencing, trying to make people disappear does not eliminate the thinking, or solve the "problem." But that doesn't mean that I will protest for Washington's reinstatement. That would be like, if I can return to my analogy, letting a black man off for robbery because I know the criminal justice system is racist. Rather, I'd suggest a reevaluation of the consequences we've deemed appropriate punishment. I concede that process is more difficult, but it would be more constructive and fruitful. But in the end, I guess, I believe that (alleged) homophobes, racists, sexists, et al. can all be "rehabilitated"--Don Imus and Michael Richards included. Can it be that it's all so simple?**

NB: If I even bother to watch Washington on Larry King, perhaps I'll revisit this "issue." I'll even eat crow. I ain't scared to be wrong.

**Race and sexual orientation are not always analogous, but I find enough commonalities for comparison in this particular case.

Previous musings:
controversy

start a rumor monday: Bush takes Immigration Battle to a Whole New Level

2007-06-18T01:17:00.000-05:00

(a deprave little shout-out to my favorite toddler, Marley Bleu. keep working on those knock-knock jokes, homie.)

Dubya is a Rough Rider (when he plays dress up), and he means business. El Presidente returned to the States last week, only to be met with the grim news that the comprehensive immigration policy he'd backed was nearly dead. Bush countered with a speech at the National Hispanic Prayer Breakfast last Friday, imploring the passage of the immigration bill, saying that immigration reform was an imperative, and a "moral obligation." Leaders from both sides of the aisle have agreed to review the issue, but made no promises beyond that. If this morning's press conference is any indication, however, this Texas Ranger intends to play hardball.

Last week, Senate majority leader, Harry Reid commented that it was up to President Bush to get the bill passed; it seems the President has taken this toro by the horns. This morning, Bush abandoned the Jesus talk, and got down to business. After greeting the press corps, Bush reminded everyone in the room that the war in Iraq was not the only "smack down" he intended wage on brown people, "who don't speak English too good." Rather, Bush stated, "Citizens of the United States are also entangled in the more figurative war on immigration." Since weapons inspectors are a bit inappropriate in helping the Bush Administration goad the American people into seeing things his way, he's resorted to another tactic: kidnapping.

After preliminary comments which reiterated Bush's strong desire for the quick passage of the above-mentioned immigration bill, Press Secretary, Tony Snow dragged a large sack in front of the corps, and dumped its contents onto the floor. The President provided an explanation, "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I present to you Dora, Baby Jaguar, and Dora's cousin, Diego. Many of you know them as stars of the NickToons shows, Dora the Explorer, and Go, Diego, Go!. Dora is the face of a multi-billion dollar merchandising business, and Diego isn't too far behind. What you do not know is that they are also illegals. I have the power to deport them, but I don't want to have to do that."

Dora, Diego, and Baby Jaguar stood bound as the President ransomed them in front of the press. Bush continued, "If this bill is not passed, I will put all three of them somewhere Dora, here, can't locate on her map." [The press involuntarily interrupted, "Saaaaay map!"] Bush again referred to the war on terror, "We'll find Bin Laden before anyone finds them if things continue to go badly. My fellow Americans, please call your local Congressman and declare your support for the proposed immigration reform. If you don't, I will throw this little senorita and sus amigos into the Rio Grande faster than you can say livin' la vida loca." And with that, our beloved cartoon characters were ushered back into the sack and out of the press room. The President followed. Microphones still on, members of the press overheard Bush's apparent flatulence, followed by an explanation, "Must've been those refried beans I had with my breakfast BOR-REE-TOE. Oh, that's bad." Then, he chuckled.

love bizarre

2007-06-12T17:35:00.000-05:00

Since I'm sort of an NPR junkie, the wonderful folks at All Things Considered brought to my attention that today marks the 40th anniversary since the landmark Loving v. Virginia decision. That case, heard by the Warren court (the homies who brought you the Brown v. the Board of Education decision), struck down Virginia's anti-miscegenation statute, enabling the homesick Lovings to return to Virginia.

After surfing the web, I discovered Loving Day--an annual holiday which commemorates the Loving decision, and celebrates interracial couples... and legalized miscegenation. (Tongue-in-cheek... Really, I love racial mixing. How else could I have this afro?) Along with a list of Loving Day events on or around June 12th held throughout the country, the website includes legal history, testimonials from people in interracial relationships, e-cards, and a downloadable Loving Day kit for those wishing to start their own celebrations. (There is also a Loving Day Decision Conference being held in my own backyard. I don't particularly care for academic conferences, but I must admit that the "Multiracial Comedy Night" aroused my interest.)

What I found most interesting about the Loving site is its mission statement. One of the goals is to, "Build multicultural awareness, understanding, acceptance, and identity." I'm curious about the identity part; the creation of community/ies committed to uniting people under a multi-cultural/multi-racial banner. It seems to me that this kind of dedication to community building shows the limits of employing the courts to promote revolutionary social change in a way that makes race an actual myth. (Not that that's the point of such court cases.) For, though it may allow one to marry across racial lines (or go to the school closest to one's home), it seems that this kind of response understands that (assigning certain values to) race, though it may not connote inherent inequality, still implies difference beyond physical characteristics. That it is something so ingrained in our social psyche that efforts to integrate otherwise stratified groups simply create another ("mulatto minded" if I may borrow from Schuyler) identity that is equally based on race. The culture that results, I suppose, is a sort of reaction formation.

My point, if I have one, is that race--the way we understand it socially--still exists not only because racism still exists, but also because people continue to orient themselves racially. That difference, if we remember Morrison's, Paradise, is essential to societies; and in America, if we remember Schuyler's, Black No More, that difference is based on skin color, race. Though Marxists would have us believe that differences can be assigned to class, that is not the way people understand themselves. I have a tendency, for example, to add geography to the equation. Black culture often seems to overlap with Southern culture. When I think about it, though, I have to go one step further, for Southern--above the Mason-Dixon, at least--often means white, and black can often just mean Southern. In other words, I've yet to understand the concept of color-blindedness outside of an actual visual disability.

That said, you love who you love. It's hard to find a partner out there, and who am I to make political assessments via one's partner? This does not, however, deny that certain pursuers of partners outside of their own racial group aren't fetishizing the object of his/her affection. Yet, I believe that to a certain degree fetishization occurs in all relationships; some are just more easy to discern.

N.B. Along with a Loving Day Celebration Kit, I think organizers should also provide an, "I married an uber-Negroid man, and my kids didn't get 'good' hair kit" for potential non-Negro mothers. Such kits would include Vaseline, a pressing comb, some Blue Magic, emergency phone numbers, etc. I'm just saying...

the glamorous life

2007-05-21T12:01:00.000-05:00

Back when I was lightweight internet famous, I made a career out of trying to box with God. And by God, I mean Oprah. As a result, in my small internet circle of readers, I kind of garnered a reputation of hating Ms. Winfrey. And even though I might've said, "I hate Oprah," a time or two, the truth is, I really don't. That's right. I don't hate Oprah; I just hate her fans. (Just kidding. I don't hate all of them.) The point in all of that acerbically humorous deconstruction of the divine Ms. O wasn't simply to assert myself as the number one internet pharisee of Oprah, but rather to illustrate--on the lower frequencies, of course-- that she's a complicated figure that should not always be blindly revered and admired for her obvious philanthropy and incredible success.** One does not become a billionaire on benevolence (alone). To "prove" this, I employed a pretty radical and scathing position on one end of a spectrum when the truth is I don't really believe most things are so neatly aligned. In fact, I venture to suggest that the reasons one might employ to argue for disliking Winfrey are the very same ones one could use to love her. Essentially, it's all about translation. I provide my following "reading" of an Oprah show to prove this, and also just to clarify.

Last week, Oprah went to a party thrown by her neighbors. For those of you unfamiliar with Chicago, Harpo Studios is located in Chicago's West Loop a neighborhood to the left (to the left) of Downtown, mostly comprised of warehouses and new loft condominiums owned mostly by white urban professionals. Previously, Winfrey made an impromptu visit to one of these neighbors. So impressed was she with their domicile (the crib was fly), she encouraged them to throw a party and invite their neighbors; she even said she'd come. Fast forward a few weeks, and I see Oprah hobnobbing with the neighborhood homies.

Let's be clear: an Oprah party is on some level a great party. And if she can't show her clout, what's the point of having her over? As always, she didn't disappoint; of course there was a surprise guest. So, after yet again proving that not all black people have rhythm with her dance moves, Ms. Winfrey stopped the party to announce that her "friend," Michael Buble would be providing some additional musical entertainment. Mike emerges from the bathroom; the white people love it; they all go home with some incredible swag.

I lingered on the phrase, "My friend, Michael Buble." Oprah does that a lot-- my friend, Maria Shriver...my friend, Maya Angelouuuu. In the past when she'd say such things, I'd simply utter the onomonopoeia, "Clink," to illustrate that we've just heard a name drop. During this episode, however, I just laughed. I've decided that such phrases are mere euphemisms, or code words for what she really means. I conclude that you can replace those remarks with the following sentence: Shit, nigga, I got a billion dollars.

By most accounts, the woman we know as Oprah Winfrey should not exist, and I think she knows this. I imagine those name dropping moments are times when the money, power, and fame become a little less theoretical, and perhaps she's overwhelmed by the fact that this life of hers is real. Whether that's true or not we'll never know. In the meantime, try my theory out. Next time you hear Ms. Winfrey say something similar to what I've described, switch her words for mine. Ventriloquizing (so not a word) for Oprah in this way can be fun.

This is not to say that Oprah isn't on one. She is. Sometimes I think she and her staff come up with show ideas just to test if soccer moms are still indeed Pavlovian in their response to her. (Remember Pavlov? Ding. Poof. Slobber.) I can't say I blame her; I might be on one, too.

P.S. Upon hearing my theory, Saf added that "Don't you think so, audience?" and the like simply translates to, "White people, are you still with me?" I agree. I'd also add, "...because I still can't believe this shit," to that.

**pharisee is (new) slang for hater.

The Oprah Archive:
2/10/05
3/14/05
6/27/05
9/12/05
9/13/05
9/16/05
9/18/05
9/18/05 ii
10/20/05
11/21/05
3/8/06

darling nikki

2007-04-24T12:31:00.001-05:00

I'm not an historian, but rather a burgeoning literary critic. Perhaps some might regard me a little less than qualified to present the little history lesson below. Yet, if Skip Gates could serve as an "expert witness" for Luther Campbell et. al. in a (successful) attempt to locate As Nasty as They Wanna Be within a larger black vernacular context--whatever that is--I think I can sketch out a brief history and connect some dots to show why Russell Simmons' proposed ban(d-Aid) of certain words from Hip Hop songs is short-sighted, poorly thought out, and simply (the weak or the strong/who got it going on...) dead wrong--and that's despite his addendum.

In a statement released by the Hip Hop Summit Action Network yesterday, Simmons and Dr. Benjamin Chavis suggested that pertinent media industries "bleep-out" the words "bitch," "ho," and "nigger"--not nigga--presumably (and perhaps primarily) from Hip Hop songs and related art forms. It was noted that this is a markedly different stance from the one Simmons and Chavis took in the immediate aftermath of the Don Imus incident. In an interview promoting his new book, Simmons would later reiterate that he continues to be a champion of freedom of expression, and clarify that the idea of the voluntary ban was intended for the "airwaves."(See story here.) Not that that's not what radio stations already do... With my previous musings in mind, I'd like to offer another reason why not to ban words. I hope to (yet again) prove why not saying something doesn't necessarily change thought patterns or behavior.

Sometimes history works nicely. And this is such a case. In 1989, rap group 2 Live Crew released their third album, As Nasty as They Wanna Be. It would prove to be the group's most successful and controversial, making Luther Campbell (aka Luke Skyywalker) and the likes of Tipper Gore strange bedfellows, putting such couplings on the tip of every tongue from South Central to suburbia. Though stamped with a parental advisory sticker, ANATWB was legally classified as obscene, and subsequently banned in the state of Florida. Two years later, with the help of Professor Gates' above mentioned testimony, that ruling was overturned. Fueled by the courtroom controversy, along with major airplay of the hit, "Me So Horny,"--which sampled an Asian woman's voice from the movie, Full Metal Jacket-- ANATWB sold two million copies.

The same year of that record's release, a then unknown Chicagoan by the name of Robert Kelly formed his first R&B group and recorded a song. Two years later, linked with Public Announcement, Kelly released his debut album, Born into the 90s. Though the album spawned several hits and was a relative success, Kelly left Public Announcement; he released his debut solo album in 1993.

Why do I link these two? My main point is to exhibit the close proximity between the beginning of Kelly's career and the public outcry over misogyny in Hip Hop. Though he is arguably the most successful male R&B singer of the 90s, it must be considered that at this historical moment, Hip Hop and R&B started (or were already) dating. By 1995, with the release of Method Man and Mary J. Blige's remake of Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell's "You're All I Need" the two musical genres were officially shacking up. Secondly, I highlight these contemporaneous instances to say the following: if the ban--albeit brief-- of ANATWB was a punch in the jaw, by the time R. Kelly released 12 Play in 1993, he must have still been tasting a bit of blood and salt in his mouth. I contend that part of the fall out of 2 Live Crew's briefly banned misogynistic output was the implicit requirement that rappers and the R&B crooners inspired and influenced by rap occasionally come up with different, more creative(?) ways of objectifying and demeaning women. And no one does that better than R. Kelly.

Here's an excerpt from Kelly's 1995 hit, "You Remind Me of Something":

You remind me of something
I just can't think of what it is
You remind me of my jeep, I wanna ride it
Something like my sound, I wanna pump it
Girl you look just like my cars, I wanna wax it
And something like my bank account
I wanna spend it, baby...

And from 2003's "Ignition," where he samples his own voice from the above song:

You remind me of something
I just can't think of what it is
Girl, please let me stick my key in your ignition,
babe
So I can get this thing started and get rollin', babe
See, I'll be doin' about 80 on your freeway
Girl, I won't stop until I drive you crazy

Now, here's an excerpt from Kelly's verse on 2007's "Make it Rain Remix":

I be drilling these chicks like Major Payne
When I make it rain, they be like "yo... do it again"
From the club to the coupe, inside my gates
Up in my bedroom screaming each other's name
They was perty perty, and I was flirty flirty
Lil' dro, lil' bub now they gettin' dirty dirty
Don't ax me what my name is, stupid bitch I'm famous*
You gon' make me aim this, leave your ass brainless
I'm tryin' to stay R&B but these streets is a part of me
So don't get it twisted
You see I order one bottle, then I fuck with one model
Then I order more bottles, now I got more models
I'm from that city where them niggas don't play man
I take a chick to my room like caveman
So ask your girlfriend my name, I bet she go
"Skeet Skeet Skeet Skeet, Weatherman 'bout to make it rain!"**

*my emphasis
**Skeet is slang for ejaculation, generally outside of a woman's vagina.

Should I be happily relieved that R. Kelly and the rest could possibly no longer publicly refer to women as bitches and hoes, but rather continue to liken me to automobiles and any other creative analogies they can think of while in the studio? Mr. Simmons, I feel as if your suggestion requires that I pick my poison. Actually, that's quite inaccurate. The suggestion proffered by Simmons and Dr. Chavis simply compels the offending artists to choose another poison. For banning words, voluntarily or otherwise, does not fix or even assuage the problem. It simply kicks a bit of dirt where a land mine once detonated. If I may return to my literary roots, it's like Jem chopping off the heads of Mrs. Dubose's camellias. And what did she tell him? "Next time, you'll know how to do it right, won't you? You'll pull it up by the roots, won't you?"

Mr. Simmons and Dr. Chavis, I truly believe that you and your Hip Hop Summit cronies can put your heads together, and come up with a much more effective solution. If I may borrow an R. Kelly simile, the mind is sort of like a car engine. Gentlemen, please start yours.

and god created woman

2007-04-18T10:00:00.000-05:00

I did not intend to write about the Imus situation. I figured the deluge of dramatic and intense commentary would provide sufficient public response to Imus' comments and the aftermath. And in a sense, response has been sufficient--in volume. After two days of watching Oprah however, I thought I'd add a drop or so into the cesspool. Nothing major; just a comment or two.

Folks have been hustled by Don Imus. Let me explain. To take this situation as an opportunity to discuss (misogyny in) hip hop implicitly accepts Imus' argument that he learned the terms he employed to disparagingly describe members of the Rutgers University women's basketball team from rap music. I'm not particularly convinced by Imus' assertion. I believe he had access to that sort of language well before any young rapper penned his first 16 bars. Imus' comments regarding journalist Gwen Eiffel are a well documented and apposite example of this. More importantly, to take up a position on either side of the pervasive influence of hip hop debate that has formed in the midst of this event skirts a major part of the issue, and we won't hear from or about Imus again until he signs a deal with satellite radio.

That is not to say that misogyny isn't rampant in hip hop, that similar language isn't deployed in the music, or that the violent objectification of women in both lyrics and videos does not warrant a serious and public discussion. It is not surprising that the same environment that allows space for Don Imus has inspired the (d)evolution of hip hop into a genre that has become increasingly misogynistic and damaging to black women, while simultaneously becoming more and more hypermasculine. (What other reason has there not been a viable woman's voice in hip hop for nearly a decade?) Though I'd suggest separate discussions regarding both issues, I am not proffering the idea that Imus' words and hip hop are isolated entities; all of this is connected, mere (though quite damaging) cogs of a very oppressive and invisible whole. Yet, in the midst of this debate, hip hop and Imus have been yolked quite strangely, like odd "if/then" statements, or cause and effect.

The "We can't talk about Imus until we talk about our own issues," and, "This isn't about rap music, it's about Imus," rhetoric doesn't work itself out very well. It allows for more distracted debate that treads the same road. So preoccupied are we that Imus quietly settles into a Michael Richards'-like semi-retirement. Most significantly, the Rutgers women who had very briefly compelled us to associate a human voice with black female bodies (recall: they are athletes), are yet again silenced in the middle of discussion that was apparently both about and inspired by them. Unfortunately, the prior statement isn't at all ironic.

flashback. like it was a monday back in '05

2007-04-17T11:52:00.000-05:00

this just in:

while media cats et. al. were discussing hip hop's dirty mouth, don imus signed a deal with satellite radio.

(jus' playin'.)

if that does happen, mark me down as both race woman and prophet.

family name

2007-04-03T09:32:00.000-05:00

In the fourth chapter of William Faulkner's canonical short story, "The Bear," a sixteen year old Ike McCaslin questions why a slave (Eunice) would drown herself-- because blacks, if Ike's opinion of them reflects Faulkner's in this instance, (always) endure. Suicide does not, in Ike's mind, fit nicely into the characteristics he has assigned to blacks. Uncovering the reason for this self-imposed drowning necessarily requires the reconstruction of the McCaslin family tree, which, we come to know, demands tracing both the white and black branches. As our 21st Century minds might expect, those branches inevitably and tangly coalesce. Eventually Ike twigs (pun intended) that Eunice drowned herself because she discovered the McCaslin incestuous secret. In other words, Eunice had a sexual relationship with the white patriarch, Old Carothers McCaslin; this relationship produced a daughter, Tomasina. In a move that Gayl Jones would echo thirty years later, Old Carothers then has a sexual relationship with Tomasina, which produces a son, Terrel. Upon discovering this, Eunice kills herself six months before Terrel's birth; Tomasina dies in childbirth. (Because, if you lightly track the theme of incest in 20th century American literature like I do, somebody--usually the baby--has to die.) Horrified, instead of committing suicide, Ike repudiates his claim to the "cursed" McCaslin land, becomes a carpenter, and (not wanting to continue the line) intentionally does not have children of his own.

I was reminded of Faulkner--and the sexual transgressions that often influence his fictional family trees-- as I read an article in the New York Times about black woman reuniting with her white "DNA" cousin. As the story goes Vy Higginsen, a black woman from Harlem long interested in her "roots," took an ethno-ancestry test two years ago. She assumed that she would have black and some Indian blood. However, results showed that though she had no former Cherokee chief in her ancestral past, more than a quarter of her blood was European.

Insert Marion West, a white Missourian in his mid-70s. He also took a test in 2005, and submitted his results to an online database that tracks those with the surname West. That database showed that West and Higginsen (whose uncle, James West had also submitted his results to the database) were distant, "DNA" cousins.

I will quiet my desires to discuss the semantics (of this article, at least) around ethno-ancestry-- though i admit that when it comes to DNA, we are talking about blood in the literal-- in exchange for another brief plea for the restoration of American Negro (or just plain ole black) as a more accurate way for present day African Americans (as in US-born, not African immigrants) to identify themselves racially.

It is revealed in the article that Marion West's paternal grandfather fought for the Confederacy, and that his ancestors may have owned slaves. Thinking about that distinct possibility in conjunction with another recent genealogical study which revealed that Al Sharpton's ancestors were once owned by Strom Thurmond's famil,y inspires me to reiterate how imperative it is that blacks regard and (re)assert themselves as integral and primary participants in the project of America, that slavery was no ancillary by-product of the democracy imagined by our white Founding Fathers, but rather an intrinsic aspect of our very distinct American culture. By continually reconnecting ourselves to another place (that most of us haven't visited, that isn't even a monolithic country, but a place with three times the people the United States has) first with the pre-hyphen moniker, African, we implicitly agree that American means white, and that we have been almost mere footnotes in its history.

The middle- and upper-class qualifications notwithstanding, I'm intrigued by the possibilities of DNA testing and the process of ethno-ancestry. Perhaps, in an ironic twist, it will be the blood that solidifies our interracial ties to each other, and further validates the reality that blacks have not merely been just visiting the United States on a work visa for the past 500 years. Perhaps we begin that reassertion by naming ourselves-- again.

"Oh what a tangled web we weave."**

**Yes, please assume that Sir Walter Scott quotation was intentionally used to conjure up Mark Twain.

sum-n-saf half - black star line edition

2007-03-29T19:58:00.001-05:00

oh yes, kids, sum-n-saf are back like a bad case of genital warts. (you can't freeze us off, suckas!) if our previous ignorant yet intelligent irreverence wasn't enough to hold you down, we got another list for that ass. this time, we yet again pummel headwraps and wrapper sympathizers with a list of why neither one of us is going back to africa. please note: we're spitting dy-lan-like venom (comma) yo. saf's hormones are all out of wack, and sum, well, sum is just empathizing with saf.

nigga, it's hot.

who wants to mine for their own diamonds?

i doubt i can throw some d's on an elephant, camel, or giraffe.

too old to get into the oprah winfrey leadership academy.

if i wanna catch the hiv, i'll just go to baltimore.

i like my white oppression in house...or i want white only oppression.

nigga, for real…it's like, equatorial hot, not just down south, family reunion hot…

i take enough intra-racial bullshit off american blacks as it is ("you're just a jigaboo, tryin' to find somethin' to do…")

i don't even like the beach, nigga, so the fuck am i going to do with a desert?

monkeys like to hurl their shit at niggas, and i just paid $40 for this touch-up.

if i want a sankofa experience, i'll just go back to the mcdonald's in my old neighborhood and ask for my high school job back.

the only thing worse than a nigga with a gun is a starving nigga with a gun.

i don't have to have my meals life-flighted in the us.

malaria may be manageable nowadays, but it still ain't no hoe.

i have to imagine that a bunch of women that haven't had a clitoral orgasm in, i don't know, their entire life are not going to be the friendliest bunch of beyotches you'll ever meet.

honestly, i don't even really fuck with niggas all like that.

i ain't dancing around topless for anybody unless they got some dollars for that ass.

i don't care what anybody says – gnu meat does NOT taste like chicken.

no, seriously, nigga. it's hot. like wear a fig-leaf hot. not just martin luther king fan hot.

if i gotta choose between meeting bono in person, or having that nigga's ipod, i'ma go with the ipod. call me limewi(red).

nigga, i saw the last king of scotland, and the only bitch worth fuckin' was kerry washington--an american negress. you can say it's self-hatred. i call it a sincere appreciation for the miscegenation that has created the western aesthetic.

listen, i love lionel richie as much as anyone (the nigga had hits), but for memyselfpersonally, i don't ever wanna be a part of nothing that prompts niggas to get together and make a tribute album. not voluntarily, at least.

you call it a famine, i call it compulsory anorexia. tomato...tomahto.

true story: at heathrow airport this nigerian chick got stopped by the dogs because of some food she had in her luggage. now, if this dog is trained to sniff out (force) wmd's, and he stopped her, what the fuck am i s'posed to eat?

let me reiterate, i don't fuck with niggas like that.

my mom's dog's name is nala, what else do i need to do to prove my authenticity? get james earl jones to read me segments of roots as a bedtime story?

more sum-n-saf madness:
take 1
take 2
take 3
take 4

call my name: ruminations on the n-word and slave mentality

2007-03-21T21:55:00.000-05:00

Admittedly, I've only been tepidly interested in (and mildly dismissive of) the recent move by New York City to request that its residents voluntarily refrain from using the word nigger and, I guess, the word nigga. In the past, I've very clearly stated the position I take in the debate, but I will state again publicly: I do not support a ban of the term nigger or its derivatives; my position has nothing to do with my First Amendment rights.

I concur that the word remains quite dangerous, and that non-Negroes should refrain from using it in mixed company for their own physical safety. (What you utter in the privacy of your own racial group is up to you.) I do not support a ban because, firstly, if I may paraphrase something I've written previously, advocating the removal of a word that is a (large) part of a decidedly "anemic lexicon" is incredibly irresponsible. In a nation already fearful of saying the 'wrong' thing, or of at least having to say sorry once that 'wrong' thing has been confessed, I find that such gestures--symbolic or otherwise-- implicitly impel us to remain dishonest and silent about race in America. This, in my estimation, is about as effective as putting a Band-Aid on a surgical wound. I venture to suggest that true racial healing will only happen once we willingly engage in honest discourse about it, when our interracial conversations resemble our intra-racial ones. Such engagements, I suppose, will necessarily require the use of terms we tend to sweep under the davenport to keep company with loose change and dust bunnies when our best Negro (and White) friends come over for a fried chicken dinner.

Secondly, I quite earnestly believe in the difference between the nigger and nigga. Yes, I'm fully aware of term's linguistic ancestors. I understand, for example, that initially the word had no pejorative connotation; that nigger, perhaps in certain mouths simply meant slave since, in this country at least, slaves were black. Yet I am equally fluent in the myriad of ways the meanings of words transform, that generally "moot" often means "little value" or "frivolous", and that the phrase "begs the question" when used these days very rarely connotes its original rhetorical definition. (Not bad meaning bad, but bad meaning good.) By no means is such word transformation limited to terms with no ties to human description. Women use "bitch" and gays use "fag" in and amongst themselves ad nauseum. I am left to wonder, then, if this fight to conflate nigga with nigger stems from the same source that inspires similar folk to intimate in their talk that somehow blacks remain the only oppressed group on the planet or, at least, that we're the ones who have suffered most. (I'm also inclined to believe that supporters of the n-word ban also want to bleach America by removing the names of members of the Confederacy from school buildings and the like. But that's another story.)

One of these fighters was profiled on NPR's All Things Considered the other week. New York City is not the only place to have considered a voluntary censor of (all forms of) the n-word. Tim Gaylord, a resident of New Jersey has made similar efforts. As heard in the report, Gaylord seems to abhor the n-word because it reflects the same self-hatred that might prompt one to get her hair straightened at the local beauty salon. What piqued my interested, however, was Gaylord's response to a 16 year old student's disagreement with his position. Like a lot of young people, the teenager stated that it was okay for Blacks to use the word, and that it more than likely didn't matter whether or not the term was banned. In response, Gaylord said the youngster displays what he calls a "slave mentality." Interesting--this idea of the slave mentality. Admittedly, I've been thinking a bit more about the phrase since I heard the piece on NPR, and I've concluded that perhaps Gaylord is right--but not in the way that he thinks he is.

The more I think about it, the more troubled I am at the idea of "slave mentality" as epithet, for it seems to me that a slave mentality is the very reason I sit in front of my computer typing these words. I do not believe we will ever know the terrorism of slavery, what it must have been like to endure a regime not only designed to oppress, but destroy--and survive it. We are often so glib, almost insouciant in our analysis and present-day discussions of our enslaved predecessors, that I want to throw a copy of Octavia Butler's Kindred at anyone who begins a sentence with, "Well, if I was a slave, I would've..." I refuse to acquiesce to the idea that not hitching a ride on the Underground Railroad was some sort of implicit acceptance of slavery, which would in a generation or two merely manifest itself as some (latent) desire for whiteness. And, I seriously contemplate rejecting the notion that slave mentality is a pithy description of weakness and self-hatred, and a desire to assimilate. The assertion seems a bit too specious for my liking.

Perhaps a slave mentality is the one that made soul food good, created the blues, illustrated for later generations how to turn nigger into nigga. Maybe a slave mentality is the cornerstone to surviving centuries of violence and oppression. Maybe that's why I've never seriously considered trading my surname (or my Adidas) for something that links me to the abstraction that is the Dark Continent. One more reason to resuscitate the term, (American) Negro. Maybe.

Mc... It's my slave name, and I'm keeping it.

acknowledge me

2007-02-07T12:55:00.000-06:00

say, baby, what u waitin' on?

when tony dungy and lovie smith posed for pictures with the lombardi trophy last week, they became the first opposing coaches in nfl history to do so. this is a lesser known "first," as the fact that smith and dungy are the first and second african americans to lead teams to the united states' biggest secular holiday overshadowed that, and other super bowl factoids i've stored in my brain. the significance of the event was further amplified by the date: the big game was played on the first sunday in february--black history month. both smith and dungy readily and candidly discussed their roles in the history-making during the days leading up to sunday. when you think about it, however, though dungy and smith may be firsts, they are also lasts.

having been born in 1980, i'm sort of on the cusp, or in between several historical moments. my parents were children during the civil rights movement, but i've never known life without national acknowledgement of the king holiday. my grandmother was but fifteen when jackie robinson integrated the major leagues; my grandfather played in the negro leagues. i was twelve when cito gatson became the first african american to lead a team to the world series. in my young nba basketball watching days, i recall k.c. jones pacing the court as head coach of the boston celtics. a fan of the lakers, my allegiance was with "gq" pat riley, and magic johnson. it wasn't until much later that i learned that jones and al attles were the first african american coaches to face each other in the nba finals a mere five years before my birth. with jones' courtside presence in the 1980s, i'm sure i subconsciously assumed that there had always been black coaches in the nba. with the likes of john thompson and nolan richardson, i never recognized any white out during march madness. i was a freshman at purdue when carolyn peck led the lady boilers to an ncaa women's basketball title.

acknowledge me, don't dog me anymore

in other words, of the three major sports--basketball, baseball, and football--the nfl had been, up until last sunday, a sort of last bastion of white, middle-aged masculinity in the world of athletics. doug williams remains the only black quarterback to have won a super bowl. and, despite eddie robinson's greatness, an african american coach has yet to win an ncaa division 1 championship. it is not surprising to me, then, that football--that is, the touchdown version,--is colloquially known as "america's game."

let's return to america's past time. it's no secret that jackie robinson wasn't the best player the negro leagues had to "offer" the major leagues. i imagine that senator joe biden might describe dungy and smith, as "mainstream...articulate and bright and clean...nice-looking guy[s]." and the super bowl ending? "that's a storybook, man." neither dungy nor smith rub me as joe brown types. though in no way scripted, the story of super bowl xli is reminiscent of tales of integrations past. rosa parks was not the first choice for challenging the montgomery bus system. claudette colvin refused to give up her seat nine months before parks. but 15, unwed, pregnant, and poor, colvin was not considered the wisest test case at the time; so she remains a mere footnote in american history. obviously, there are no "test cases" when it comes to professional football. my point here is that challenges of democracy, scripted or not, in or outside the arena, sometimes follow a similar trajectory.

that digression aside, the fact that football was the last sport to have this sort of first, makes the term "america's game" most apposite. i never heard any mention of this during the weeks before the super bowl, and that doesn't surprise me, either. the jackie robinson event notwithstanding, the gradiosity of the super bowl spectacle makes those other firsts seem trivial. similarly, when we examine the more earth-shattering events that have shaped the fight for racial tolerance and acceptance, we are reminded that not only were these happenings not isolated events (but part of a broader project), but that there were other, similar moments that--for whatever reason--did not capture our sustained attention. the united states has been notoriously slow in allowing all of its citizens to participate in and reap the benefits of democracy; the game we love so much, then, would not be any different.

i was here in the beginning and i'll be here 4ever more.

billy jack bitch (or, blinded by the white...guilt)

2007-01-30T18:47:00.000-06:00

although what i've got to say isn't directly concerned with rape and its relatives, let me begin by stating something obviously personal: i've never been sexually assaulted. and even if i had, i'm not sure i could write about the following with enough sensitivity. i don't think i('d) have the words.

also, i don't know anything about the law.

what if i told u that u're worth only half of what u be?

i imagine when the rape allegations of the duke lacrosse case became public, many women who were victims of sexual assualt--both reported and not--hoped that the accuser wasn't lying, or, if/when the case came to trial, her story didn't crumble under the burden of proof. as i previously mentioned, i've no direct experience with sexual assault, but as an observer, it seems to me that rape is an especially tender and complicated case to try; one that further exacerbates an already quite traumatic experience. having viewed media coverage of a few high-profile rape cases, i understand why someone wouldn't say anything, or perhaps later change her story.

i remember the evening i first noticed the media coverage of the duke case. (i can be kind of late when it comes to current events.) almost a year ago, i was on the phone when i saw an animated mike nifong on my television. as i listened to his fervent speech, i played out the whole race/class/gender/south/collegetown v. locals/etc. lines of argument and discussion through my head. and although i very quickly glanced at a few entries by some fellow bloggers, i kept mum. i've never been too great with immediate responses--especially with complicated situations. i knew i needed to be silent for a moment, and sort things out before saying or writing anything. and now that nifong has removed himself from the case, i think my thoughts have settled enough to take up some aspect of this topic.

admittedly, i haven't followed the case or the fall out too closely. over the last ten months, i've caught an update or two; i'm aware of how messily things have unraveled. however, i am also a graduate student, and if graduate school teaches you anything, it's that not paying close attention to something doesn't eliminate you from the conversaton; rather, it often places you (or should i say you position yourself) in the center of it...or so we think. that said, there are a variety of apetures in which to enter the conversation if one chooses. i'm sure many who have decided to engage in the conversation have very smartly said a variety of things that don't need to be echoed here. in fact, i'm guessing someone has already written something similar to what i'm going to write. forgive me if i very rudementarily repeat ideas here. i offer the fact that i've no real argument to offer as my excuse for writing so sloppily, loosely. so, please consider this a mere exploratory piece. i've no thesis i want to concretely place in the midst of the discourse. i just want to ruminate a bit.

how much of this can we attribute to white guilt, and the white privilege that inpires it?

would u come forth and tell no lies? would u come forth and talk 2 me?

though i've admitted to not really tracking this case, i did happen to see the 60 minutes episode where the parents of the lacrosse players were interviewed. as i listened and watched, i couldn't help but recall to kill a mockingbird, and the advice atticus gives scout relatively early in the novel, "you never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...until you climb into his skin and walk around it." i could not, on this particular occasion, put atticus' theory into practice. i felt not one drop of sympathy for the parents, or their sons.

in fact, i was occasionally perturbed by some of the things i heard. i recall, for example, one of the mothers stating that any mother with a son should be alarmed that a woman could claim she was raped, and a man could be arrested on her word alone. she offered the fact that the accuser has apparently changed her story several times as something to buffer her assertion. of this claim and its "supporting evidence," i offer this retort: really? why, i believe the contrary. any woman period should be alarmed if we live in a world where her allegation(s) of rape--true or otherwise-- is not taken seriously enough for the man in question to be arrested, or at least interviewed by police. further, for all we know there may have been a variety of reasons this woman chose to change her story. it is dangerous to assume that one later "admits" to lying because one had, in fact, initially told a lie.

there was another moment in the interview that i found mildly appalling. one of the fathers--all of whom were relatively quiet in comparison to their wives--asserted that even if they are acquitted, none of their sons would be able to distance themselves from this event; that in the internet age everything is "googleable," and thus anyone--a future employer, for example--can easily do a basic search, and reassociate these men with this situation.

after listening to the entire interview, i internally translated all of what these parents said to essentially mean: what do you mean my white privilege card has been declined?

i'd like to think that i'm not so cloaked in my various identites that i cannot empathize with someone when a wrong has occured. nor do i rank my identities; i am all that i am simultaneously. yet, i couldn't help but think, "welcome to my/our world," when i heard these parents speak. it seems to me that the outcry we heard from these parents echoed that which has been ignored--if ever heard-- from disenfranchised people. yet, i mark the difference between "us" and "them" by the fact that these parents have the resources to vehemently defend and protect their sons. i'm no miss cleo, but i'd prognosticate that when the dust settles, if these young men are found innocent, they will all be just fine. if the white privilege card didn't work the first time, one can always swipe again.

what distortion could u let your pen forget 2day?

let me also state: i'm not interested in evening the score, if you will. i'm smart enough to know that if these young men were wrongfully accused, and subsequently went to jail that we could not chalk that up on the scoreboard as one for "our" team. i say all of this not only to admit, but to also provide clarity on my position as a viewer in all of this. for, if i'm not going to get into someone else's skin and walk around, i might as well divulge that there might be a leaf, a branch, a tree, slightly obscuring my view.

that caveat aside, let me return to white privilege. i comprehend the backlash that has resulted from the mishandling of the case. yet, let me offer a couple of suggestions: 1) white guilt played a part in the way this thing was handled; 2) we live in an environment that necessarily requires such a response.

at this juncture, it's no secret that the white and black populations in durham, north carolina are relatively equal; much of the latter group is poor. duke university is not an anomaly in this sense. despite recent gentrification efforts, places like columbia u., the university of chicago, usc, and yale are other examples of esteemed institutions of higher education located amongst or near poor (and often black) neighborhoods. descriptions of the relationship between the university and these communities often hint at the underlying racial and economic tensions between the campus and the "locals." these circumstances contributed to the setting in which we view this case. the black experience in this country as it pertains to this matter is rather obvious; i will not waste time with that here.

so, when this case was placed before mike nifong just before his reelection, i imagine he thought he needed to act quickly and assertively. as a result, perhaps he went before the media and acted irresponsibly by making claims that had yet to be corroborated, by being vehement in his speech about the guilt of these young men before he had the time to build a substantial case against them. and, in a way, perhaps he had to. the climate seemed to demand it.

what if i say u lie?

what might have happened if allegations of rape had been found to be quite obviously true, and nifong had paid little attention? what if he had treated it like any other case? i'd venture to guess that we would have had an even bigger problem on our hands. i am not suggesting that we start at 0-0, and move from there. perhaps when considering the other options, it was better--albeit unethical-- to make such public assertions, and then end up being very wrong. then again, i do not advocate moving from a (subconsious) place of guilt. that is just as disturbing as someone standing in utter disbelief because of an inability to insulate a loved one from the possibility of actually having to prove their case.

i do not end this exploration by saying we forget about history. however, i think this may serve as an instance where attempting to overcompensate for past wrongs distracted one from being (socially) responsible, and that does a disservice to everyone. now, maybe that many more women will choose not to come forward with rape charges, and media programs will continue to suggest that we tacitly support a reinstatement of white privilege. so then, i'm suggesting that with history in mind, we act more prudently. my point, if i have one, is that in this instance, the politically correct white guilt is not the antidote for white privilege. we have, in fact, created an environment that demands radical behavior on both sides in order to awaken us from our numb state. and, because these things must happen quickly, it is not until much later that we realize that perhaps we've rallied around a cause that has many more problems than we initially conceived. as a result we become even more weakened and numb.

perhaps we should listen to mrs. dubose, and proceed from there.

please access another experience.

controversy.

2007-01-20T19:56:00.000-06:00

"omnipotent administrators...are generally considered... weak, delicate, and effeminate, with the affectations of demonstrative homosexuals. the serfs and peasants are...physically strong, sturdy, hearty, fecund--'supermasculine.'" --e. cleaver, soul on ice

*note: omnipotent administrators-- white men

(take a hint from your own picture, ike.)

i just can't believe all the things people say...

(don't know who to begin your essay? try an anecdote.)

the first time anyone ever called me a nigger, i was eight years old. though they had married in january, my mother and stepfather took their honeymoon in the summer of 1988, and my grandmother was put in charge of my sister and me. one day, we headed to the big lots at southgate plaza, a shopping center on the south side of fort wayne, indiana near many black--and white--neighborhoods. as we walked towards the store, i noticed a young white boy sitting on the hood of what was presumably his parents' car; i could see who i assumed to be his father through the dirty windshield, sitting in the driver's seat. the boy, undoubtedly younger than i, lay on the hood, in black sneakers and shorts, and shouted towards us, "hey, you niggers!" my grandmother instructed my sister and me to ignore him, and ushered us into the store.

my second brush with racist banter was a few years later at camp potawatomi. this time it was a bit more insidious, subtle. my parents had sent my stepsister and me there for a week during the summer between my fifth and sixth grade year. one day, the camp counselors instructed us to return to our cabins and clean up a little, as we would be having guests at the campsite. as my white friend and i trudged back to our cabin from the dining hall (funny. i guess i've always had a one white girl quota.), we complained about having to get cleaned up (as well as two young campers could) for a group of potential strangers. after i said something to the effect of, "we don't even know who these people are," she replied, "yeah, i mean, they could be black or something." realizing, albeit too late, that her eleven year old compatriot was black, my friend immediately apologized for her remark. outside of mumbling, "it's ok," i didn't say much after that.

i was twenty-three the first time anyone ever called me a dyke.

an ex-girlfriend and i were in my car, heading back to hyde park after having a sunday night dinner on the north side of chicago. it was a relatively pleasant summer evening, and as we drove south on lake shore drive, my then-girlfriend leaned over from the passenger's side, and kissed me. just as she did this, i noticed the headlights of the car behind me moving out of my rearview, and into my driver's side mirror. the driver sped up, and as they passed us, the black woman in the passenger's side of the car leaned her head and chest out of the car window, and yelled "dykes!" i went cold. my girlfriend, having neither seen nor heard the utterance, questioned my sudden change in mood. i didn't tell her. i couldn't.

what i remember most about that summer evening four years ago was my response. i was as silent, as shocked, as nervous, as confused, and as numb as i had been when i was eight and eleven. i often suggest that sometimes someone can say something to you so insensitive, so racially charged that you are shocked into silence. i think about the time a fellow student in an english class sought me out to talk about how she had the greatest fried chicken and collard greens during her trip to the southside of chicago as an example of this; weeks later she would take it upon herself to add her version of "negro dialect" to a story i'd written about an obviously middle class black family. yet i was just as upset when a black woman--who had gazed into the privacy of my car-- screamed a homophobic epithet at me. and it is with this that i think of isaiah washington.

am i black or white? am i straight or gay?

during a post golden globe awards interview last monday night, isaiah washington re-opened a wound which had barely formed a scab by opening his mouth--again. if goading grey's anatomy co-star, t.r. knight into coming out wasn't enough, washington reaggravated an already tender situation by taking media bait. last october, when he and patrick dempsey got into a scuffle on the set of t.v.'s most watched show, an angry washington called knight a faggot; soon after, knight confirmed his homosexuality. during the backstage interview, however, washington grabbed the microphone and said to reporters, "no, i did not call t.r. a faggot. never happened, never happened." maybe he should've taken my grandmother's advice.

what appalls me more than washington's ignorant comment(s), or his hubristic demeanor while saying it, isn't the apparently insincere apology/ies that have followed, but the lack of an uproarious response. you know, those ones we see when someone has been done a supreme injustice. we haven't had one of those since, well, michael richards.

life is just a game. we're all just the same...

it should be noted here that i do not entirely agree that the fight for gay equality can be nicely mapped onto blacks' fight for civil rights in this country. i also don't necessarily believe that michael richards' outburst, and washington's homophobic remarks are unproblematically analogous--richards seemed out of control, while washington remained coolly arrogant; richards adamently denied being a racist, while both of washington's "my bads" never disaffirmed him being a homophobe (has anyone called him a homophobe?); to my knowledge washington has yet to go on a repentent award tour to beg forgiveness. these differences aside, the most obvious similarity is that both men employed terms, epithets in a way that meant to demean and disrespect a person or a group of persons who have historically been denied equal rights. for the most part, however, the commonality stops there. and this is what bothers me most.

when michael richards appeared on the jesse jackson radio show after his meltdown, he again profusely apologized for his behavior, and claimed not to be a racist. jackson took this moment as an opportunity to advocate for the retirement of the word nigger. i vehemently disagree with jackson and others who believe this word should be outlawed, and it's not because i use the word (you know, "nigga") at least twice a day. i've argued before that there is a paucity of language when it comes to race, especially when discussing the topic in our politically correct obsessed culture. part of my problem with the film crash was the seeming eloquence of the characters. there is no surplus of words when it comes to discussing race in america--it's either racist, or it's not. and for jackson and others to propose "outlawing" the term is, to me, the support of removing a word from an already anemic lexicon, thereby further inhibiting our ability to speak frankly, honestly, and constructively about the issue of race. and that's really irresponsible.

it seems to me, however, that i find no such problems when it comes to talking about (homo)sexuality. i could run through a litany of terms when speaking about homosexuality, whether i intend to constructively discuss, or invectively demean. (glaad has several glossaries of words and phrases to use and/or avoid when talking about sexuality.) let's see: dagger, faggot, dyke, fudgepacker, fruity, tuna face (a new one i heard), liquor license; or: gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, transexual, queer, same gender loving, questioning. etc. etc. though i am glad--and often perplexed--by the compendium of terms one has access to in order to define or describe one's sexuality--if one chooses to define it, that is--i suggest that the surplus of language available to us is also the result of an intolerant, homophobic culture. the more racially accepting we appear to be, the more certain words--i'm thinking particularly of the not so nice ones, here--have fallen away. yet, because we by and large implicitly support a homophobic society, we have the words to articulate both sides of the issue. thus, washington remains--as of now--a cast member of t.v.'s highest rated show.

people call me rude. i wish we were all nude. i wish there was no black and white. i wish there were no rules.

as i've said above, one cannot always insert "gay" where one might place "african american." as a general rule, one does not have to "come out" as black; no one asks you to fill in your sexual orientation on a scantron sheet. however, i think it no stretch to suggest that if t.r. knight had been black, and washington white, there would not have been another opportunity for washington to display his arrogance, because he would have been written off of the show. (not that i'm suggesting that as a viable solution to this problem.) and this troubles me.

what's more troubling, however, is that washington is part of the most diverse television series airing right now. in this post-"i have a dream" united states, grey's anatomy boasts three african americans, a korean canadien (is that "right"?), a mexican american, and at least one gay person, despite the fact that the drama is set in, ironically, seattle, washington, the second whitest major city in america. the show was created by shonda rhimes, someone--an anomaly, perhaps-- who has shown that in order to succeed in hollywood, one need not have to create something, well, black.

what's more ironic, is that washington's remarks were said with the backdrop of the martin luther king jr. holiday. it's well noted that during the latter part of her life, coretta scott king and her son, martin III extended "king's dream" to glbt(xyz)'s. further, the golden globes were, well, more diverse than most awards shows (with the exception of sports and music) have ever been. along with grey's and rhimes, winners included america ferrera, forest whitaker, eddie murphy, jennifer hudson, and dreamgirls, which was arguably a "black"(and "gay") movie. all that said, it was after this awards show, as t.v.'s most diverse cast stood together in the press room that isaiah washington helped represent how far we've come while simultaneously showing just how far we have to go.

and we have, it seems, given him a pass. after the "kramer incident," i couldn't keep up with the number of myspace bulletins either providing links to youtube so that one could see that ugly breakdown, or urls to commentary about the situation. yet, the tuesday after the golden globes, i saw not one bulletin on my homepage; most of my myspace "friends" are black, and a lot are gay. granted, i do not rely on myspace for cogent social commentary, but the silence on myspace, and the lack of uproar overall leaves me as speechless as i was when i was 8, 11, and 23.

perhaps the lack of response is the result of folk not watching post-show interviews. well, i have never set foot in the laugh factory, but via a shaky hand on a cell phone, i was able to witness michael richards repeat the word nigger on stage. there were hundreds of media in the press room that night, so access is not the reason for the silence surrounding isaiah washington and his glib use of the word faggot. perhaps it's simply not a battle most of us choose to fight. but injustice is injustice. i saw and talked to white people who were struck by richards' remarks, who took the opportunity to articulate that they were aghast at his behavior. if you want someone to stand for you when you're wronged, you have to stand up for others when they are. right now, we should all be gay. and we should still be muslims.

so, i say, if we are to be appalled and outraged at michael richards, then we should be even more outraged and appalled at isaiah washington. he did it twice. shame on us.

some people wanna die, so they can be free.

thieves in the temple (or, i can do for you what martin did for the people**)

2007-01-14T15:45:00.000-06:00

"no you won't be naming no buildings after me, to go down dilapidated." e. badu

love come quick.

maybe it's because i remember the way the cake tasted back when my school, martin luther king montessori, celebrated his birthday. or, perhaps it's because i won the martin luther king school essay contest--twice. (only to get beat out for the city title by this biracial kid--and yes, i contend that it was because he was biracial that his symptomatic ass won.) whatever the reason, other than jesus, martin luther king is probably my most favorite figure to write about. it's quite easy, you see, to be blasphemus about things sacred. people want to keep things sacred...maybe because preserving items, figures, etc. in such consecrated capsules doesn't compel one to think about them critically. i find that folks want to hear about mlk's philandering, and other domestic issues about as much as they want to know that part of alex haley's roots was plagiarized. thus, some of my blog's content has shocked a few. yet, i never did any of that stuff just to shock (ok, maybe i did.), but perhaps to goad a few into thinking-- would jesus really do that?

but this isn't about jesus, or my sacriligious tendencies. i'd rather talk about the king holiday.

love come in a hurry.

the question: at what point is an historical figure unequivocally recognized, and implicitly revered by the american people?

i did a little quick math in my head, and i just summed up that jesus is the pretty much the only guy who will get you a guaranteed day off of work. of the 10 or so federal holidays, only three recognize individuals--lincoln and washington et. al. have to share presidents' day. as far as i can remember, i had to go to school on both presidents' and columbus days. therefore, i suggest that when it comes to holiday importance, mlk ranks second only to jesus.

now, i'm too young to remember, but apparently there was a bit of controversy concerning making mlk's birthday a federal holiday. though rep. john conyers advocated the celebration of king's birthday as early as 1968, and jimmy carter supported a king day bill, it wasn't until the mid-1980s that the third monday in january was recognized in honor of king. though he later signed the bill, ronald reagan initially did not support the idea, and jesse helms did his best to oppose the decree by questioning whether or not king was important enough to have a holiday, and alleging that mlk was a communist. it wasn't until 2000 that all 50 states recognized the holiday; and last year, the final hold out--greenville county, south carolina-- finally relented and made it a paid holiday.

there are thieves in the temple tonight.

that said, i always had the feeling that mlk day was a sort of red-headed stepchild of federal holidays. initially, i thought that maybe it was out of obligation (white guilt, perhaps?), that we even celebrated. that if one had to choose between pressing snooze, or working that monday, one would still rather clock in at nine than honor the freedom ringer. but it was more than that; that explanation wasn't sufficient for me. my simple math shows that mlk is only second to jesus in the honoring category, so why did i feel that mlk day was being shortchanged? was it the lack of a televised parade? no. one could argue that a drive-by on an urban mlk blvd. was its own form of a parade. besides, minus the floats and high school bands, the third monday in january surely has all of the makings of a holiday: no mail, banks are closed, its own commercial--you know, that mcdonald's one with josephine baker's kids lighting all the candles.

we've already got the no work/no school thing ingrained in our system. and with a three day holiday, sunday night parties in honor of are definitely in order. they're catching on. just the other week, i picked up a couple of fliers for some parties. a dj i really like is spinning not too far from where i live, so i may check it out. lord knows those gospel celebrations and candlelight vigils are a bore, and thus necessitate a little late night boogie--how can i possibly let my shoulder lean to "we shall overcome"? (want to party with a conscience? just give it a title like, "our eyes are on the prize"--in this case the prize is a pair of go go dancers on either flank of the dj booth-- and donate a dollar per head to the united negro college fund or some other poor black kids, and make sure the dj plays stevie wonder's "happy birthday".) yet, we need something else to help the mlk holiday seep more deeply into the abyss of meaninglessness.

what's missing? why, a sale.

a holiday isn't a holiday until you can save 30% on linens. though i've seen one company have a sale, apparently my suggestion in a past blog hasn't caught on. nothing makes a holiday more fully integrated (pun intended) into the american fabric than something that makes people think they're saving money on housewares. and until this happens, until hallmark makes a line of cards, until payless airs b.o.g.o. commercials, until the local pub runs a drink special on alabama slammers, mlk day will just be something the government gave blacks to chew on to distract them from reparations.

previously, i suggested the "i have a dream mattress sale". here's another freebie: la-z-boy and the like should have a sit-in recliner sale. or, burger king could have a breakfast with the king special: free hasbrowns with a coffee purchase, and they'll add the cream for you. get it?
.

we already know this day no longer means anything to/for us, it's about time we start acting more like it. i saved big on towels, and plan to "walk it out" with some homies tonight. i'm doing my part, what about you?

blame my mother.

**lyrics from my favorite beyonce song, "upgrade u."

dear mr. man

2006-12-14T20:00:00.000-06:00

what's the matter with the world today?

as 2006 ends, i think a lot about the upcoming year, and what we all have to look forward to: more resolutions to break, closing in on the end of the world, finding out who will succeed 3-6 mafia as academy award winners for best song, etc. etc. i guess i also look forward to hearing about which govenor, senator, [insert other random statesmen here] will declare candidacy for the presidency of the united states. more specifically, maybe barack obama will tell us whether or not he'll run (jesse! run) for president.

things have got to get better

i was heading to my homegirl, maegs' house last friday when i heard a radio piece on "obamamania." stuck in chicago traffic, i listened to the segment on npr's all things considered, and i gotta admit, it's pretty tempting to get excited about illinoize's junior senator from chi city. now, i'm not one to get all crunk in the whip--unless, of course, lil wayne is on the dial--but hearing the brief profile on obama made me wonder: could this dude actually become president?
during the rest of my ride to the southside, i thought about that shit, deeply contemplated (well, maybe not so deeply) the possibility of an obama presidency. (by the way, if i catch the muthafucka who fucked up my whip sunday afternoon, i promise you my pacifism will be compromised.) obama for president? word? what is this that i'm feeling? (the audacity of) hope?

listen, i think it's pretty obvious that i'm a jaded ass muthafucka. so even though i rolled along the kennedy kinda thinking it was possible that enough white people would vote for this dude, at the end of the day, i'm like no. but still, i wanna say a couple of things about all of this.

show me what the leaders say

if obama believed the hype, decided to declare candidacy and didn't win the nomination or the entire race, the whole "it's because he's black," argument wouldn't really hold water. a very simple and obvious counterargument would be that obama has very little experience. now, that could be a good thing. i hear voting for and against bills and stuff gets complicated, and that can be troublesome when trying to run a presidential campaign. i'm sure senator kerry knows this. so, outside of obama maybe fucking a white girl while at harvard, his record can be deemed pretty squeaky clean. regarding the lack of experience, some may say, "well, jfk didn't have much either." halfway intelligent debaters could easily counter that with the fact that jfk was elected senator of massachusetts in 1952; he ran for president in 1960. and before that, he served in the us house of representatives for six years. do the math. additionally, he had a daddy named joe. very succinctly: though a political rock star, obama simply doesn't have the resume.

maybe we should write a letter

a plausible outcome? (rrrr, mike, and i all agree) a gore/obama ticket. if the democrats are gonna win anything, they're gonna need a southerner to counter that yankee. if you don't believe me, go ask lyndon baines johnson.

but i'm not really interested in all that. in fact, in my recent thinking about obama, his inexperience hardly registers on my radar. rather, i'm mostly curious about the theoretical possiblity of obama as president. what are the ramifications of that? would it be one helluva giant step for the race? no, i don't think so... i got a reason for this.

but first...

said dear mr. man, we just don't understand

1. what's in a name? now, some may say that obama is a little too close to osama. yeah, i get that. when i first saw the obama placards in and around chicago i was like, "who is this dude?" yet at the same time, the name could work for him because it doesn't immediately signify some niggafied ancestry. i mean, if one could find an american who has yet to hear about senator obama, and mention his name, i doubt he or she would think he was black. now jesse jackson? that's nig all day, baby.

and now...

2. (and this is my main point.) i think there's a helluva lot to be said about the fact that obama's father, though black, was no american negro. i think that plays a significant role in the way white americans view him. call me a cynic, but i'm not so sure that if obama was an african american (as opposed to being an african[hyphen] american--that's my way of delineating [the progeny of] immigrants from american born), he'd receive the same reception. it seems to me that white folks regard immigrants quite differently than they do african americans, so the fact that obama's father was a kenyan student studying in hawaii is much different from homeboy being a recipient of a scholarship from the united negro college fund. now true, white folks may hate those who have chosen to come to this country. but when it comes to those native sons and daughters whose ancestors were sold or kidnapped, and got a one-way ticket on the transatlantic cruise line? they really hate them. so, in a sense, it doesn't matter whether or not obama lives his life/considers himself an african (no hypen) american. though his wife is from the southside of chicago, though he may very well have been/will be pulled over for driving while black, though he may be a member of a black church, i think there's a curious logic working in the psyches of white americans who might vote for obama (emphasis on might) or at least deem him an acceptable candidate: his daddy was an immigrant, and that makes him different than the others. and i know, just like every other "respectable" black person in american knows: white acceptance is all about being the exception to the rule. the status quo remains in tact. which leads me to a conclusion that both rrrr and i agreed upon during breakfast: there may very well be a person of color elected as president of the united states in my lifetime, but a nig? hell no. in other, more polite terms: in my/our (who knows, rrrr, but that on the lower frequencies i speak for you?) humble opinion, it is highly doubtful that a descendant of slaves will ever be elected as the head of this here us of a.

we ain't that affirmative about your actions until people get paid.

that does not mean, however, that i'd automatically lament and seriously criticize if obama was elected president. it would be fatuous to argue that the only way black people are gonna get anywhere is if a black person--that is, an african american--is running this country. condi rice and clarence uncle thomas are both evidence to the contrary. i'm simply curious about the mania. such excitement for a black man is usually reserved for an athlete... or a lynchee (is that a word?).

i'm sick of exceptions. i'm ready for new rules.

in other news: when/how does an african-american become an african american?

section 1 - the 14th amendment says "no state shall deprive anyperson of life liberty, or property, without due process of law. " mr. man, we want 2 end this letter with 3 words: we tired a-y'all.

more barack: here

sexy mf

2006-12-05T15:17:00.000-06:00

u seem perplexed i haven't taken you yet...

i guess janet jackson's lastest album, 20 y/o, hasn't done that well. despite a relatively decent debut at number two on the pop charts, after that she sold barely enough for j.d. to stand on during those red carpet photo ops. woe is ms. jackson if you're nasty. that's two in a row for her. (did anyone buy damita jo? i imagine either one of those albums would make great stocking stuffers for the gay boy in your life.) i can't say i'm surprised. damita jo's fate was sealed sometime around february 2, 2004, just after white america was shocked and awed at the site of a thirty-something pierced black nipple peaking through a hole of some s&m looking costume. i don't know if tivo sales went up afterward, but i'm pretty sure justin is doing ok. i've never seen someone pullout their whitestraightmale membership card faster than my beloved jt. with a deebo-looking sponsor like timbaland, though, he was able to maintain his street cred, and bring sexy back just/in time for the holidays. but i digress.

anyway, blame it on jt bailing. blame it on the teat. whatever, ms. jackson's career has yet to bounce up like ground ball. and that makes me kind of sad. a gay boy in the making, back in '86 i wanted to be janet--so much that i tried to perform that whole "pleasure principle" chair trick in the basement of my house. (here's a tip: when attempting to do this "trick," do not use a folding chair.) even when her big bro got all weird on me, janet was there. control...rhythm nation 1814... allat. i fucked with it. and even though that song "all for you" got on my nerves, i appreciated it as proof of her longevity. i mean, i guess it's hard out here for a pimp. but it's just as hard out there for an aging pop star.

i got wet dreams comin' out of my ears...

think about it. there's a gang of damito jo descendents running around today. and, it's as if some of jackson's spawns are a stronger strain. they dance better. their weaves are more impressive. hell, some of them can even sing! competition is thicker than a black girl's thighs. and considering the record sales of miss jackson if you're nasty, she's not surviving the pressure, seemingly unable to withstand lingering public backlash from nipplegate, and the generally subpar material her boyfriend has her "singing."

her old friend justin might suggest she bring sexy back. that seemed to work for her in the late 90s. ms. rhodes doesn't buy jackson's sexy act, though; she says her sexuality is fabricated and hardly believable. i think that's a pretty pithy statement. yet at the same time i want to quip, "well, whose isn't?" besides, if you're gonna be sexy, you have to up the ante. allowing your boyfriend/husband/whoever to cover your nipples while you pose for rolling stone ain't hardly gonna cut it these days. noooosir. i'ma need you to do something slightly incestuous. you know, like kiss one of your clones on stage at an awards show.

we need to talk about two things...

which brings me to my next point. now, i know their careers aren't exactly analogous--i think madge has done a better job of evolving musically--but i think janet and madonna are relatively comparable. though madonna is about a decade older, their careers span relatively the same timeframe. both native midwesterners (madonna: bay city, mi just outside of detroit; janet: gary, in just outside of chicago) made their musical debuts in 1982; and both received relatively mild success--though madonna's first single was a dance hit. madonna's second album made her a superstar, while jackson's 1986 release--her third album-- made her a household name. both were married to men from famous families (sean penn, james debarge); both marriages apparently ended due to some form of abuse by the husband. both have dabbled in acting. both have transformed their images at several pivotal moments. etc. etc.

yet madonna's career has seemingly been able to withstand several controversies (you know, sex books and shit), while janet's took a turn for the worse after one. now granted, showing the world your nipple during the super bowl is really major. like, really major. yet two years seems like quite a long time for something to linger in our amnesiac american memory. why, then, has the sensationalism of janet jackson's celebrity seemed to linger longer than that of, say, madonna's?

maybe janet fell off because, unlike madonna, she's not on the pulse. sure, the gay boys love her, but has she capitalized on that the way she could've? maybe she could rectify that by kissing a chick. she doesn't have to truly like girls, but just play like it on tv. perhaps it's that jackson has not successfully coopted certain aspects of black/gay/male culture in a way that made the public feel that she'd invented something new. i dunno. (oh, please don't be misled. i kinda dig madonna. this entry, in fact, isn't really about her. i'm just really curious. trying to figure it all out, i guess...)

i want to suggest that there's simply not a space for janet. whenever i venture over to radio stations other than npr, i'm reminded of just how constricted the music business feels right now. everything sounds the same. all of the radio stations are owned by one big corporation. one must go elsewhere to find something fresh and new. but janet jackson sings some pretty safe, middle of the road pop music. so that doesn't explain it.

guard your folks, and get your daughter...

then, i'm reminded of my good friend star jones. (i miss her. really, i do.) maybe jackson fell out of favor with the public because she wasn't completely honest. we all know how much trouble our public figures can get in when they don't tell the truth. so perhaps that whole, "i gained weight for a film role blahblahblah," didn't help matters; nor did not being super truthful about how she lost it. then i'm led to thoughts like: maybe somebody should say something more about the super bowl. no, not about the nipple, but the fact that it was a southern white boy who took part in the wardrobe mishap, thereby again exposing another truth about the legacy of slavery live and onstage... both fates seem the same. he jumps in the cesspool, but comes out smelling like a rose, while she, well, she has shit on her face. which leads me to: maybe no one gives a damn about a black chick unless she's breeding. but i guess thinking that way just brings me back to where i started: a black woman's body. of course, i'm sure a bunch of smart people said this two years ago. i was just led to this because i wanted to write about janet jackson.

this ain't about the body, it's about the mind...

anyway, fabricated sexuality or no, i kinda miss janet. not as much as i miss whitney, but i miss her nonetheless. i ain't saying i'ma learn her choreography like i used to back in the day, but it'd be nice to see her with another hit. (wasn't the video for "alright" the shit? cab calloway!?!?)

maybe she should adopt an african baby. i hear it's all the rage.

by the way, how many black chicks could go from alleged whore to humanitarian? just wondering...

delirious

2006-11-28T11:21:00.000-06:00

i get delirious whenever you're near...

so kramer loses his shit on stage last week, and i have blog fodder. there was a time when such putty would excite me, but alas i simply shake my head. i have only a few points regarding the matter. i'm not interested in attempting some cleverly woven story right now, so i'll try to keep this brief.

um...a short rehearsal of the facts:

lose all self control, baby i just can't steer...

1. kramer drops the n-bomb a gang of times (that's -er) after allegedly being heckled by a few niggas (that's -a) during a stand-up comedy routine.

2. kramer talks to seinfeld and david letterman via satellite on the late show. an out of sorts richards apologized.

3. 2 days later, somebody somewhere reported that richards made some anti-semitic remarks during a stand-up routine in april of 2006.

wheels get locked in place...

4. kramer hires howard rubenstein as his new publicist.

5. kramer calls up run jesse run and rev. al.

6. kramer is a guest on run jesse run's radio show, and again says "my bad."

stupid look on my face...

jesus h. christ. if i had one seat left at a dinner party i was throwing, i'd be more inclined to invite kramer than the other two; and that's despite the fact that i've never seen and episode of seinfeld. hell, i even liked rev. al's antics during the last democratic national convention.let me explain.

i've said it before that political correctness bothers me more than toothpaste in the bathroom sink. why do i despise the "pc"? because it allows michael richards to waste air time talking about he's not a racist; because i get to hear stupid ass, imprecise, unclear phrases like "racially insensitive." because someone can lose their shit, hire a new publicist, call up two self-appointed "leaders" of the race, and repeatedly say "my bad." (in other words, if one can make "racially insensitive" remarks, then one can perform penitence, begin a healing for said remarks by talking to the right people.) because said black dudes and others regard themselves as authorities on race, racism, and racial insensitivities. because one of these black dudes gets it wrong too many times for my liking. because if these niggas were really holding it down for "the race," and consequently scary to white people, they'da got shot a long time ago. (you know, like maybe someone would've shot them 50 times while sitting unarmed in a car.) because these niggas are invested in apologies for things said during "un-pc" moments. because i think these leaders are often worse for "the race" than those racially insensitive perpetrators. because if a big enough group of niggas told these niggas to shut the fuck up, maybe we could get somewhere.

it comes to (makin' a) pass...

because i would've rather kramer say nigger again, than to see and hear him say afro-american on youtube. because i think we should go back to negro, or maybe even colored. because sometimes i feel like me and my homies are the only real black people left on the planet. (you damn right i just said that shit.)

i just can't win the race...

because maybe, just maybe, this is the legacy of the civil rights movement.

and that's all i'm going to say about that.

perhaps i should actually write my dissertation.

how come u don't call me anymore

2006-11-21T19:00:00.000-06:00

if u don't call me... u gotta try...

about a month ago, i called up my moms partly because i had a question but also just to let her know that her first born is still breathing. not that my mother worries. she is, in fact, an unabashed non-worrier. when other moms got up early to help their toddlers, my mom taught me self-sufficience: instead of making the kid breakfast on saturday mornings, she used to put a tupperware bowl of cereal and some milk on the bottom shelf of the fridge. so instead of having to wake her up, i could just go in there myself,"make" breakfast, and watch smurfs until she woke up. mom is not, and never has been a morning person. but i digress. anyway, i call her up and she tells me that she's in the doctor's office with my dad. word? they didn't used to do this when we were younger. hell, my mom would send me--and i was under 18, mind you-- as her representative to a few of my younger sister's appointments, and now she's chatting it up with my dad in the waiting room just minutes before he has to bend over and cough? wow. my great-grandparents used to do that shit. doctors visits are like the geriatric olympics; they're events. so i realized very quickly about my parents: those niggas are getting old. i never thought i'd see the day.

why on earth can't you just pick up the phone?

i also never thought i'd see a commercial advertising cell phones for old people. if you watch enough television--and believe me, i do--you might catch a 30-second ad for a new cell phone company service jitterbug. basically, it's what happens when a medic alert bracelet meets a flip phone. the company offers customors two options: first, there's jitterbug dial, with "yes" and "no" buttons and ginormous numbers. second, there's jitterbug one touch, which might as well be called "jitterbug i've fallen and i can't get up." the phone has three buttons, "operator," "tow," and "911." they'll set up your phone list and voice mail. they also let you prepay for the phone service for up to a year. you know how old folks like to pay shit up years in advance. something about being on a fixed income. which i never really understood. i mean, if you're on salary you're on a fixed income too, right? but whatever. i never really comprehended the ways of old people. bingo and old country buffet never really moved me. yet again, i digress. all that said, i don't think there's an aarp hook-up.

sometimes it feels like i'm gonna die...

as people continue to live longer, and the baby boomers continue to get older, i imagine jitterbug and similar services are just a few of the "mature person" friendly products we'll see advertised. it's ironic in a way-- this whole technology for old people bit. technological "advancements" seem to make more things disposable, only cool and useful until the next thing comes out. and we, with our post-modern selves (or is it post-post?), seemingly have no angst about it.

this wedding of the new and fleeting with the old and apparently long-lasting is an interesting one. understanding that the young'ns tend to drive advertising, i wonder what kinds of marketing shifts we'll see as a large portion of our population--and, perhaps the architects and purveyors of certain cultural bastions and institutions that still stand prominently--gets older. in the mid-90s, i remember seeing the construction of plenty of swanky retirement homes in my native fort wheezy. conversations with my mother have vacillated between my parents' inthenotsodistant future retirement to north carolina, and her inability to work the mp3 player my dad bought her. (did i mention that my mom ain't even 50? and no, she ain't 49, either.) how will these bedfellows coexist? happily? acrimoniously? somewhere in between?

either way, i hope they get some better commercials. selling shit to old people doesn't have to be so corny.

just one lousy dime, baby. why cant u call me sometime?

anyway, if granny called and told you that though she loved her tin of peanut brittle last year, even efferdent can secure her dentures long enough to enjoy it, i imagine getting the brothers, sisters, and cousins to chip in and get her a year's worth of jitterbug service ain't such a bad alternative.

of course, you know that means you'll have to call more often, right?

the idea of ringback tones for the hard of hearing scares me.

this entry sucked. sorry.

dirty mind

2006-11-13T16:24:00.000-06:00

there's something about u, baby...

so the donkeys win (back) the house and senate, and liberals throughout the country not only breathe a jubilant sigh of joy and relief (maybe my fellow americans aren't as dumb as initially thought), but perhaps muster up enough momentum and hope to propel them to do a lil blue state boogie during the 2008 election. maybe they take the white house back. and though i doubt it, maybe they give it a vagina; maybe they paint it black, or at least a nice shade of mulatto.

now, some will say the democratic, "in your face, dubya," last tuesday stemmed directly from the liberals finally garnering enough chutzpah to sock it to the playground bully otherwise known as rumsfeld, rove, and co. others will suggest that said elephants had fucked up so badly in iraq, that a political shift was inevitable. (hey, man, when your lover treats you badly enough, any nigga will start to look attractive.) then, there are those who submit that what got our dear asses over the hump were the scandals that broke as the election got nearer.

it happens all the time...

oh my how life imitates art. let's digress, shall we?

briefly: george schuyler is my nigga. perhaps the most prolific black journalist of the early 20th century, once upon a time, poor georgie wrote a book called, black no more; it's prolly one of my faves. generally regarded as a scathing satire of the harlem renaissance, the book also serves as a commentary on race-obsessed americans, and how enamored we are with discriminating on the basis of skin color.

here's a synopsis: a young black doctor returns to the united states with what he believes is the solution to the race problem. dr. junius crookman has come up with a procedure that will whiten a black person's skin in less than 24 hours. no niggas equals no race problem, right? the novel's protagonist, max disher, a young harlemite, is fortunate enough to receive one of the first treatments. disher gets white, and head to atlanta, hoping to find and smite (is that a correct use of the word?) a white woman who'd spurned him at a club on new year's eve.

as black people flock to the treatment and white people everywhere lose their minds, the hero disher gets involved in resuscitating the knights of nordica, a white supremacist organization. the shit hits the fan. race organizations (including spoofs of the naacp and marcus garvey's unia) lose members, race men and women go broke, etc., etc.

all of this occurs as the presidential election gets closer. the republicans, the party in power, have done nothing; while the democrats, backed by the knights of nordica and some mighty impressive white virginia pedigree, do their best to scare white folks. to further buttress their efforts, the democrats fund a genealogical study to prove who really has white ancestry, and hope to use the results as evidence enough to find "whitened blacks" and disenfranchise them. however, the data indicates that no one can confidently claim not having at least one black branch on the family tree, and the leaders of the democratic party (including disher) are forced to flee once the public receives news of their african american ancestry.

the republicans retain the white house, and after the election, dr. crookman reveals that whitened blacks are in fact whiter than whites. as such, the country becomes "mulatto minded," former race leaders are restored to their pre-black no more positions--this time by fighting for the rights of those who are too white-- tanning lotions and processes become in vogue, and overall the racial order is restored.

whenever i'm around you, baby...

as i observed both sides of this gay ass debate on homosexuality, civil unions, etc. i was constantly reminded of schuyler, and what he taught us in his brief yet hilarious book. the premise that racial discrimination is so bad that black people would jump at the idea of whitening their skin for a mere fifty dollars initially seems far-fetched. yet it occured to me that certain forms of christianity can in some way be viewed as its own black no more treatment. as more pillars of the most conservative and homophobic sects of the christian church are outed everyday, the work of gss is even more profound: those who seem the most aristocratic (i'm using the word loosely, incorrectly here) in their stances not only have their own skeletons (known or not), but also the most to lose. i can't help but draw comparisons between the race problem schuyler characterized, and the gay debate. a brief, albeit corny attempt at literary analysis here: junius crookman... initials j.c. well, jesus christ, i think i've just made a connection. eureka! if you're black, you come to junius crookman. if you're gay, well, come to jesus.

i get a dirty mind...

let us not be misled. these various scandals with the gay starring as freakydeaky spectacle by no means aid "the cause." what's most troubling about these high profile news stories is the connotation of homosexuality within them. i think one should take a moment to pause before holding up the latest blurb on the ticker tape as an example of those conservatives being hypocrites concerning this whole "gay problem." though elected a democrat, former new jersey governor, jim mcgreevey announced his homosexuality just before news of corruption in his administration broke nationally. after checking himself into rehab, mark foley allowed his lawyer to speak on his behalf, saying that the former representative was molested by a clergyman; he added that mark foley was gay. and finally, drugs seasoned ted haggard's own lil gay sexcapades.

in such contexts, homosexuality is (yet again) linked to deviance, criminality, depravity, and secrets. though moments like these may serve as the perfect time to point out agregious contradictions, i am troubled by the idea of also taking these instances as an opportunity to promote an agenda that would allow for some sort of gay equality, or whatever you want to call it. i resist the idea that shame regarding one's sexuality played an integral role in the kind of deviance that we see in these scandals to the extent that we should hold these public figures up as poster boys for "what happens when..." though such exposes may be sufficient to change which rich white dude we send to dc, i seriously doubt they do anything to change public opinion. thus, witch hunts that seek to discredit conservative christians and politicians by outting them, by seizing any opportunity to catch these cats in seedy and compromising situations all for the sake of gay rights seem to aid no one but the hunters, and feed our hunger for hoopla and scandal... jesus couldn't help mark foley, maybe a little public embarrassment (and some shock treatment) will. doubt it.

schuyler once said that the negro was nothing but a "lampblacked anglo-saxon." though i don't entirely agree with my homeboy here, i see part of his point. it seems to me that certain efforts to garner gay rights have gone the route of proving, "hey, we're just like you." but what are the stakes of this approach? what kinds of things does one lose? will homosexuality eventually be regarded as a niche market that advertisers attempt to access through logo? hasn't it already?

if schuyler's black no more and morrison's paradise teach us anything, it's that even in a situation where discrimination has apparently been removed, people who have been conditioned to discriminate will find ways to do so, and those people who are seemingly the voices, the leaders of both sides of the issue will do nearly anything to preserve the very inequality they claim to be for or against-- all in the name of self-preservation.

there must be some alternative, something that doesn't rely on outing senators and ministers, something that doesn't forsake certain viable cultural nuggets for the sake of seeming just like the joneses. though one may find a perfect model for protest and civil disobedience by examining those fighting the problem of the 20th century, there surely has yet to be a model solution. all i know is: outing a muthafucka passing for white is about as effective as outing a nigga passing for straight.

if you got the time, i'll give you some money...

that said, schuyler shows us that in the end, old regime or new regime, the same suckas benefit: knights of nordica leaders escape to mexico with the loot, and those seemingly on the otherside of the argument--the race men and women in the novel's case-- make out just as well by collecting membership money from the oppressed, and philanthropic offerings from sympathizers and apologists.

is jim mcgreevey still on his book tour?

god don't like ugly.

all the critics love u in new york

2006-11-07T23:31:00.000-06:00

u can dance if u want 2...

if asked, i will argue that the centerpiece of this entry is those (self-)proclaimed multi-talented folk. but really, it's just another excuse for me to talk about more niggas who get on my nerves.

let me briefly digress: i enjoy watching television when i'm not sober. ironically, i feel a bit more lucid during those moments of insobriety, and less of a vegetable. i'd like to say that i'm more eloquent when articulating my theories and dissatisfaction about those niggas on my idiot box, but i know that'd just be my inebriated arrogance rearing its ugly head.

that said, last week i watched some music videos for the first time in a while. after catching that nigga baby get his neck tattooed in his video, "stunting like my daddy," featuring lil wayne (i like that dude), i caught some sleepy brown joint featuring pharrell... which was followed by some shit by janet jackson and nelly... which was followed by chi-city's lupe fiasco and jill scott... which was followed by not so lucid ruminations...

u don't have to keep the beat, they'll still think it's neat...

ok. pharrell really isn't that good of a rapper or singer. neither is nelly. (or kanye west, or...) so as i sat there listening to this nigga croon on the sleepy brown track, the thought occurred: not only is this nigga singing, but he has "perfected" his own style, and he expects me to take him seriously. now don't get me wrong, i fucked with "frontin'." i really dug that shit. but i dug it for two reasons: 1) i thought it was a really impressive record that was obviously heavily influenced by the wonderful work of michael peter pan jackson. 2) i bought the idea that pharrell was singing in a falsetto to pay homage to the gloved one. i thought his singing efforts were sort of a novelty, nothing to be taken to seriously. you know, that we were supposed to recognize that this nigga was a producer tryna sing.

apparently, i thought wrong. next thing i know, this nigga isn't just producing the tracks, he's singing hooks and verses. like, people are calling up pharrell and asking him to do this? word?

oh, there's a line of rappers who took themselves quite seriously after winning their episode of the reality tv show, celebrity karaoke. ja rule wails, "what would i do without my babaaaay," and suddenly this shit is spreading like mono at a kissing booth; rappers with rudimentary rhymes all of a sudden think they're old blues eyes. and we--if i may once again employ my dear mrs. robinson's slang--are letting these niggas make it.

as i sat there mouth agape at this realization, i decided that from that point onward i would no longer eat this atole like it was some sugary, buttery grits. perhaps my activism alone could quell this whole rapper/singer/actor/poet bullshit. what happens if we don't? well, let history teach us: nelly and kelly win a grammy, and a few years later that nigga teams up with miss jackson if you're nasty. apparently, she and j.d. thought no one other than the saint lunatic could ressurect a career that had lost more air than a pierced nipple. really? c'mon, now. that nigga can't pronounce his -er/-ar suffixes correctly, let alone sing.

u can wear what you want 2, it doesn't matter...

this brings me to my next/central point, which isn't, surprisingly, that jill scott writes really bad poetry. see, i understand the desire to be multi-faceted, multi-talented. shit. some essentialists would suggest that it's in our blood. the nigga benjamin banneker was a clockmaker, mathematician, astronomer, and some other stuff. but let's be real, here. just because you sang a bar or two in a song that went number one doesn't mean you're good at it. i had a hole in one at putt-putt once. i did not try to sign up for the lpga. i understand my limitations. and niggas out there need to, too.

yet i understand the temptation of believing your own hype. the public continues to eat this shit up like it's good or something. ashanti will continue to provide us with deeply moving stanzas if niggas keep buying her book. take myspace, por ejemplo. i've never seen more masturbation over modicums of mediocrity (check that alliteration, playa) in my wholeentirelife: oh, [insert random myspace screenname here], your blog really touched me/spoke to me/said exactly what i wish i could say. say word? nigga, please. it takes more than a season of def poetry jam and a visit to thesaurus.com to cop eloquence. get over yourself, nigga. that shit wasn't profound. (well, if it was profound anything it was profoundly uninteresting and wack.) your black ass works at the post office for a reason. oh my how i digress.

there's a point in the alleged hateration: we can do better. we can expect better. so why don't we? then, maybe our brains would stop rotting, and we could recognize, cultivate, and support folk who provide incredible art. i know i'm making a value judgement here. but it seems like no one else is, so why not me?

u could cut off all your hair, it doesn't matter...

i'm merely perplexed by the idol worship that compels these niggas to proffer to the public such wackness in a variety of forms. it's not enough that alicia keys suggest that black couples love like ike and tina; she wants to provide that shit in poetic form, too. and each time her book is sold, we're advocating that bullshit. please understand: i fully support self-expression, and i'm not saying that people should just stick to what they're good at and/or what they know. hell, i really suck at bowling, but i think it's loads of fun, so i play an occasional game. i just can't get down with adulation that inspires hubris and (more) second-rate artistic output, while we continue to ignore or claim that we just "can't get into" people who have really honed and paid respect to the craft that chose them. the less than average dissonance of the former has deafened us to the point that we can't even hear the latter. and that's pretty sad.

call me a hater, whatever. i'ma muhfuckin' tastemaker--albeit my own. keep nibbling on chips ahoy for dessert. i'ma get into this baked alaska.

perhaps this is all an aesthetic i've yet learned to appreciate.

whatever, man. them niggas is wack. (ebonics intended.)

it's time 4 a new direction, it's time for jazz 2 die. 4th day of november, we need a purple high...

little red corvette

2006-10-24T16:47:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-21T23:03:00.000-05:00

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...

of one blood or, the hidden self.

2006-09-24T18:17:00.000-05:00

despite the title, this is not a post about the waste of paper that was pauline hopkins' last serial novel. (forgive that "waste of paper" phrase. i'm still bitter.) in fact, it's a post about the latest controversy surrounding some of the governator's recent remarks about those amalgamating blacks and latinos.

if you've been living under rock like i have (i didn't hear about this until my homegirl, rrrr forwarded me the ny times article), you might've missed it. apparently the governator's opponent, democrat phil angelides and crew, got a hold of some audio tapes with ahhhnold speculating on the nationality of california state assemblywoman, bonnie garcia. on the tape, one can hear schwarzenegger and his chief of staff discussing garcia's heritage. is she from cuba? puerto rico? apparently all they know is that garcia isn't mexican. but other than that deliniation, it doesn't matter much. cuba...puerto rico...it's all the same, right? little island, brown people... according to schwarzenegger, "they are all very hot. they have the, you know, part of the black blood in them and part of the latino blood in them that together makes it."

hmm. the rest of this entry could go in a variety of ways...

i could lament on how dirty politics have gotten. i'm so sick of these politician niggas slinging all the mud they can muster in their hands during election season.
i could go on and on about how the state i currently romanticize in each and every one of my daydreams is, in fact, populated by people who i'd eventually come to despise. ah, yes, californians will surely not be exempt from my contempt. (i hate when i rhyme.)
i could jump on the anti-governator bandwagon, and criticize the stupid shit he says. but what's the point in that?
i could ruminate about how ethical it was(n't) to release this tape. apparently the file was accessible via a website that does not require any sort of authorization. despite that, schwarzenegger's comments were said during a private meeting. now, of course, there are plenty of you who would argue that "privacy" is not a viable excuse for saying such things. point well taken. and believe me, i am nevereverever interested in defending some fucked up shit a white dude said. however, even one of my main men, mark twain, said a thing or two that might be deemed, um, racially insensitive. (and remember, kids, he's lightweight responsible for the folks who brought you brown v. boe!) hell, i not-so-privately say fucked up shit on a daily basis. if i ever decide to run for office, the day following my announcement they'd dedicate the entire newspaper to shit i've said on this blog alone; i hope they haven't recorded all of my phone conversations.

nope. none of that.

rather, i'd like to briefly think about bonnie garcia's response. along with chastising angelides' squad for how they accessed the tape, schwarzenegger's crew cites that garcia wasn't offended by the governator's comments. and, well, they were talking about her. so arnie should get a pass, no? who cares? i'm not really interested in highlighting the various reasons why garcia might (should) have been offended. i think that's pretty obvious. and frankly, by this point, we should all understand that in this postpostmodern world we live in, having a member of the race cosign does not give pale face a pass. nah. not hardly...

a brief digression:

a while ago, my mom called me up slightly pissed because of a conversation she'd had earlier. my mom isn't really into sports, but somehow the nfl came up in this particular discussion. often known as the "no fun league," some friends of hers were griping about penalties certain players receive because of their end zone celebrations. because, you know, egotistical millionaires being charged several thousands dollars for doing the ickey shuffle on the other team's field is the type of shit we really need to be pissed about. but i digress. apparently, mom's homies were intimating that league rules were racist, or perhaps, racially motivated, because "that's how black people are." meaning: when something good happens, black people like to get their praise on. um, ok.

i bring this up to highlight the tragic flaw in all of this essentialist jargon. in my estimation, the same logic that makes you conclude that arnie's comments weren't offensive, that "that's just how black people are," is potentially the same rationale employed to oppress those same groups. it's a slippery slope. that same "hot blood" that makes you fiesty, or your food spicy, could be the same "hot blood" that allows you the stamina to pick oranges in the heat for 50 cents a day. so, where do you draw the line? and who gets to draw it?

i'm not suggesting that there aren't commonalities between people who may or may not be grouped under certain ethnic/racial/national/whatever rubrics. i'm also not suggesting that race is a myth. that is not, however, a statement which supposes that race is some really important biological shit. i'm not talking about blood here; i'm talking about the way people live their lives. that shit's not about dna, it's about society.

that said, it's the blood part that scares me most. when you go there, you imply that some unalterable thing dictates your behavior--good or bad. and if you're gonna blame blood, that hidden self which determines your temperament and your decision to shuck and jive in celebration of the six points you've just scored, well, what are you gonna say when someone suggests that dunking a basketball is one of the only things you were meant to do? so, ok, go ahead. give arnie and the rest a pass. it seems to me that what may or may not be offensive is tied to one's opinion, and we all got a different one. but when someone uses "blood" to explain away and assign some deleterious behavior to you and your people, i hope you have a good response, and it better be more than a "yo' mama" joke.

because at that moment, an impeccable retort will be essential.

reality? tv?

2006-09-17T21:15:00.000-05:00

let me begin by saying that, until last thursday, i had never seen an episode of survivor. so in a sense, their new ploy worked. (you clever television executives!) if you've been living under a rock, or are amish--in which case you prolly aren't reading this blog--let me fill you in: for the 13th season of the show, the folks over at cbs decided to separate the tribes along racial/ethnic lines, therefore creating a white tribe, a black tribe, an asian tribe, and a latino tribe. (no, there is no indian tribe. apparently cbs struck a deal with the native american team. in exchange for using the word, "tribe" to represent their people, the native americans got a casino, a mascot, a couple blankets infected with small pox, and were sent on their merry way.)

though i imagine that all of the team names actually mean something in some "native" language, i can't help but think these niggas just pulled a whole bunch of scrabble letters out of that crown royal-esque velvet bag and put some consonants in between the vowels. that said, for the purpose of the next two entries--and because i'm an asshole--i've come up with my own tribe names. as such, the aforementioned teams will from here on be known as: team mayflower, team underground railroad, team shanghai express, and team run for the border. i imagine you can connect the dots from there. if you can't, navigate away from this blog NOW.

when i first heard about this new twist, i wasn't really sure how to process the information. i've tried to handle it in a couple of ways, none of which was very successful. for instance, at the grocery store the other day, i stood behind this interracial couple and their kid. feeling the pain of my single sistas out there trying to find a decent black man to marry, i cringed. but i figured that wasn't activist enough, so i asked the man if his mama knew that he wasn't rooting for the black team on survivor this season. when their kid threw a cheerio at me, i simply replied, "and who will you be rooting for this year, little boy? you can't ride the fence on this one, tiger. you're gonna have to choose." **

i quickly realized, however, that such acts were not the proper way to deal with the new, affirmative action survivor. how, then, should i (re)act? if maury povich is a most perfect example of why television exists, and if flavor of love proves yet again that coonery would be much easier to resist if it wasn't so damn entertaining, what, then, could i say about survivor? then it dawned on me: i must blog about the potential ramifications of airing the show. and so, i've comprised a brief overview of each team, including pros, cons, and their potential fate. here goes:

team underground railroad(of course i put them first. whatchu think this is?)
pros: a tropical people, team u.r. is able to work from sunup to sundown with little food. the work inspires happy songs that they sing throughout the day.
cons: five words: NO CHICKEN ON THE ISLAND.
prediction: forgetting they're on an island, they decided to try and escape. they get to the shore, however, and all the women head back inland because they are not fucking up their hair in salt water. this, of course, only leaves the one male team member with no choice but to return inland with the women, and wait for the other two male cast members--who both get out of jail in 5-10 episodes-- to attempt another run. niggas can't swim anyway.

team shanghai express
pros: they're by far the smartest team on the island.
cons: with no college campus in sight, no one gives a fuck about their s.a.t. scores.
prediction: um... a chain of successful small businesses patronized by team underground railroad?

team run for the border
pros: talk about team spirit! they live eat, drink, and sleep together.
cons: they didn't bring enough water for a desert island.
prediction: with teamwork, they build a chevette-sized canoe, and make a go for the mainland; only to get caught by team mayflower, and ordered back, even though they were just trying to get to land that used to be their's any damn way.

team mayflower
pros: with artistic interpretations of prospero and robinson crusoe hanging in the team tent, methinks team mayflower will find a way to get settled, and get rich.
cons: this season, there are explicit rules against enslaving, oppressing, or scheming land from other teams.
prediction: they elect some bumbling idiot as their leader, and destroy everyone on the island.

**that's a lie.

up next: survivor cycle 13: potential ramifications.

finding what you're looking for

2006-07-06T18:46:00.000-05:00

i have climbed highest mountain. i have run through the fields...

along with the 5 day affair, i headed to ohio during my absence. it was family time: my cousin jumped the broom.

ahh, marriage. don't front. i love that shit. the rings, the brian mcknight, the bad ass ringbearer, the inherently corny vows, the cake. (gosh, how i love the cake.) besides, it's not all the time i get to see my 92 year old grandmother take two screwdrivers to the head, and then ask my mother what year it is... ah, yes. wedding time is family time.

as i watched my mother--in abject horror-- see how low she could go during the cha cha slide portion of the reception, i looked around and wondered, "what would happen at a black wedding if they played neither the cha cha nor the electric slides during the reception?" i didn't come up with an answer immediately, so i began to think of other, less pressing things. sure, these items of contemplation were hardly as deep and significant as dreaming up a black reception with no line dances, but they were thought-provoking nonetheless.

i have kissed honey lips, felt my healing in her fingertips...

see, another thing i like about weddings and all the shit surrounding it is the lofty rhetoric. in other words, i'm intrigued by the "we wrote our own vows" phenomenon. niggas just get so unspecific and fluffy, jacking lines from maya angelou hallmark cards and whatnot, scouring thesauruses for words they've never used. they go on and on, trying not to succumb to tears. all the while my mother and i sit in the audience and suggest people keep it real. yeah, while you're getting all jerry mcguire with your "you complete me" jargon, my mother is whispering in my ear, "i think people need to be more honest during the vows and say things like, 'i promise not to fuck around too much during our marriage.'" yes, yes, y'all. the hateration never stops.

i have spoke with the tongues of angels

all that said, one thing you hear folks say when they're talking of their betrothed, soulmate, new houses or whatever is this common phrase: "i just knew." and no one ever says anything concrete about how you "just know." instead they talk about some mystical feeling they got at some point in the relationship--often the very beginning. i can't say i've ever "just known" anything. (though shoes often say "buy me" when i try them on.) given the divorce rate, it seems that a lot of folk don't really "just know" either.

so i wonder: does one ever really "just know"? or is that idea just part of the fairytale romance package disney, hallmark, et. al. try to sell us on our way to see the divorce lawyer?

i believe in the kingdom come... then all the colors will bleed into one... well, yes i'm still running...

now maybe i wonder all of this because i'm jaded and a cynic. and by no means am i firmly suggesting that nobody ever "just knows." yet i also wonder, is the idea of "just knowing" simply a retroactive gesture? do we later assign meaning to things that had heretofore been deemed meaningless until we (thought we) figured out that this thing of ours might go the distance?

i don't entirely believe in serendipitous happenstance, but i'm also not completely sold on fate. admittedly, i've never been in love. i'm beginning to embrace different and unorthodox ways of coming into relationships with people. i'd like to imagine that i have some sort of controlof how and when i choose to be in love. the idea of "just knowing" scares me, for it limits my agency. but more than that, i think i'm just frightened that i'll never "just know." i'd be much more comfortable with the idea of growing into "just knowing." just looking for some bullet points, i guess. so i can identify "just knowing" when i see it.

in the meantime, i suppose i'll use the a bronx tale way of finding my three great ones.

contemplations... ruminations during the b.e.t. awards

2006-06-27T23:07:00.000-05:00

because, you know, i had to watch that shit.
(insobriety abounds...)

wow, i love black awards shows. you get to see the black versions of commercials you see on regular television. (except for kool-aid. kool-aid has white people in their "black" commercials b/c they have us on lock. so does kfc. and mcdonald's...lightweight.)
you can separate the literate niggas from the fantasias. (i know i'm not the only one who gets nervous when a nigga has to read the teleprompter during an awards show. mm hmm. you can always tell.)
FREE LIL' KIM.
why does b.e.t., the naacp, etc. continually give awards to black (and multi-racial folk) who, if i may paraphrase that nigga ye, don't really care about black people (tiger woods, etc...)?
where else can one display such bad grammar? oh. over on mtv.
this is a great time to compile a list of "cool ass white people". hall of famers: de niro, ebert...
chris brown is like a place holder for usher until he gets back from wherever he is, ain't he?
if jamie foxx fucked chris brown, they'd have b2usher.
"the rhythm nation moment" marked janet jackson's music video golden age.
i like how mary j. blige got/stays famous.
kelly rowland HATES beyonce. oh, yes. she hates her in ways we can't even imagine. yeah... she'd take mrs. jay-z out if she could.
(the aftermath of) hurricane katrina is yet another catastrophe in a loooong line of fucked up shit that the u.s. has done to black people. (and why we'll always fuck with gospel.)
i hate it when whitney houston is in rehab. (that's the only way nippy wouldn't be at the bet awards, right?)
how in the hell does this nigga ne-yo perform after they honor harry belafonte?
NONE OF THESE NIGGAS CAN SING.
mary j. blige is white people's most beloved hood chick.
beyonce is our generation's greatest performer. (as much as i'd like to, i don't really hate that i had to say that.)
there's no 18. i just prefer even numbers.

bye.

the (separate) love movement

2006-06-25T23:21:00.000-05:00

hi. (had to get that out of the way.)

while absent from the blogosphere, i had what in one way might be described as five day (or so) affair. said tryst featured substances that--when taken-- promote insobriety. most of that is neither here nor there.

now, there are a few people in the world who have had the honor and privilege of hanging out with me during such periods, undoubtedly witnessing the effects of immoderation. at such moments, i've been known to stop being shy and discuss a theory i've very quickly concocted, and feel the need to share immediately. such spontaneous ruminations include: "were slaves ugly?" (with saf), "the gay lisp," "fictional names in 'autobiographical' work(s)," and "why prince should open up for michael jackson (and not the other way around) in your ultimate concert lineup."

this particular episode featured music from the best of lauryn hill. at some point, mystery lady begins to say something that sounds like a lightweight diss of ms. hill's second album. since i (occasionally) proscribe less than stellar remarks of my beloved ms. hill, i nipped that shit in the bud. this prompted a diatribe which inspired the theory i now call "a separate love."

the logic is very basic: there are a few things, entities, people, etc. that should be universally loved. surely you ask, "why, then, are you calling this idea 'a separate love?'" well, i suggest that we often come to appreciate certain people, places and things via others we are/have been in some sort of relationship with. i, for example, have a great appreciation for donna summer, rick james and the time (mom and pops), and the alvin ailey dance theater piece, "treading" (an ex). perhaps you never really watched basketball until you started dating a former cameron crazy, and now, though that relationship has ended, you find yourself glued to your tv for two weeks in march and you're in charge of your office march madness pool.

that said, i believe there's some shit one cannot love by proxy. thus, one must come into the relationship with "a separate love" for such entities. granted, we are often introduced to things by other people. the key is, however, you cannot (continue) to love these things because you dig/like/love/whatever another person, and want to impress him/her or just merely tolerate it. rather, such introductions should inspire the cultivation and development of "a separate love" for _____. follow?

as of now, i suggest one must have a separate love for...

bob marley
(the miseducation of) lauryn hill
nine simone
prince
(pre-demelanized) michael jackson
dave matthews' "crash"
puppies
vh1's pop-up video
the cosby show

this list is incomplete and shall continue...

bye.

on the jungle floor: a review

2006-05-31T20:46:00.000-05:00

while those who ushered in the so-called neo-soul movement during the mid- and late 1990s continue to be missing in action (maxwell, d'angelo), or are sporadic and/or mercurial in their public appearances and creative output (d'angelo [again], erykah badu, lauryn hill), people with an affinity for r&b/soul/black music etc. are resigned to sift through a crop of neatly packaged, young, black singer-songwriter/musicians who leave many uttering, "i know there must be something better than this." the carefully crafted and monitored images of the predictable and musically unadventurous john legend and alicia keys, the gritty "ghetto and blues" of fantasia and lyfe jennings, and the work of those riding on the coattails of their neo-soul foremothers and fathers (musiq, jill scott, et. al.) with their easily codifiable personas, and terribly inconsistent work--which often sound like first drafts of spoken word "poems" and black history month speeches and essays--hardly satisfy the appetite of soul music aficionados with a desire for something pithy and lasting.

there's a gem or two, of course. as the aforementioned continue to reap the benefits of the hype that fluffs their musical shortcomings, van hunt is steadily amassing an impressive body of work that should continue to garner the praises of critics and music lovers everywhere. though a definite exit from his debut (2004's van hunt), hunt's second album in as many years is highly impressive, and will--like its predecessor--more than likely be one of the best albums of the year most folk won't hear, despite the fact that hunt is very closely linked to american idol judge, randy jackson.

though his oeuvre only features two full-length albums and an appearance or two on a few movie soundtracks, hunt's no newcomer. he sports a respectable resume. hunt co-wrote "hopeless" with dionne farris (who was, arguably, before her time), and the record "mean sleep," which appeared on the debut album of a different world star-turned lenny kravitz protege, cree summer; along with nikka costa, hunt does a great cover of the latter on jungle. if one recalls anything from those two tracks, it's their refreshing lyrical content. with jungle, hunt continues to evolve as a songwriter, picking up where he left off on his debut. lyrically, the man is gifted. and his maturation is evident on this latest effort. with pithy reflections such as, "words are the changes that we take/was it better left unexplained?" on the melancholy "daredevil," the alliterative, "her winter coat and sexy tokes on camel smokes" on "being a girl," and his eloquent pledge to be faithful to an absent lover on the provocative and hypnotically sexy "priest or police," make hunt's peers look silly in their attempts at clever songwriting, their efforts coming off as asininely presumptuous in comparison.

though many of the influences may be the same (sly, jimi, prince, et. al.), hunt is no member of some third wave neo-soul cohort. if anything, on the jungle floor further solidifies his individuality, his distance from others. as a whole, this album exhibits hunt's confidence. he is, perhaps, less self-aware. with no sophomore jinx to conquer (hunt's debut barely cracked the top 40 upon its release), hunt takes leaps and adventures his more famous counterparts are too scared, or not talented enough to make. though not flawless, what results is a fierce compilation of songs that defy convention and genre; jungle entices and satisfies parts of our palate we forgot existed.

personal picks: "hot stage lights"; "being a girl"; "priest or police"

cop: van hunt (2004); on the jungle floor (2006)
website: van hunt

khulami phases

2006-05-25T18:57:00.000-05:00

or, a bildungsroman for black girls e'rywhere
open letter #8

dear ms. hill,

in the autumn of 1998, i scraped up eighteen bucks to buy your first solo album. i walked from earhart hall to a little music shop at purdue west. i ran back to that closet officially known as a dorm room, tore open your cd, and put it in my stereo. the miseducation... remained in heavy rotation for the next nine months. after that, i started my own crusade of sorts. yours was the first album i sort of forced folk to listen to. i'm not really into persuading people, but somehow i convinced my dad to rent a car for me in his name, and let me drive the seven hours from west lafayette to cleveland just to see the first leg of your tour. during the late summer of 1999, i sat for hours listening to the radio, hoping to get through to get a pair of free tickets, because neither shonda nor i had enough dough to buy passes for your indinanapolis show. i won. almost got kicked out of that ampitheater for seat-hopping just to get closer to the stage. endured the humidity of an indiana august. yes... with that first spin, i implicitly and explicitly pledged to fuck with you no matter what.

and then...your self-imposed exile.

at first, i didn't get it. oh, i speculated with the best of them. where'd you go? why? lamented the three chords that seemingly characterized each song of your unplugged 2.0 album. blamed it on a marley. whatever. at the same time i "defended" you. no one could say a bad thing about the artist formerly known as l. boogie in my presence. yeah (comma) yo. i was on one.

and then...a sunday night in september 2004.

i hadn't seen you perform live in five years. i was so excited; nervous that you'd cancel at the last minute. i didn't care what you sang/rapped, just as long as you did it. i don't believe artists are beholden to their audience. it's unfair for you to be bound to old material if you are no longer in that space. i know the "ex factor" days have come and gone. i just wanted to see you. we waited, and then you walked on stage... sang one of the sweetest, most honest songs i've ever heard:

if they only owned love, shown love, grown love, like this before
if they only knew love, true love, to love, like this before
if they only gave love, saved love, brave love, like this before
if they only called love, love love, called love, like this before

your voice, like your eyes, seemed tenuous, tender, slightly melancholy. though you looked at and responded to the audience, you seemingly weren't there for us. no more was the 20 piece band with two djs. just you, and a couple musicians there to back you up. you weren't putting on a show. and though i'm sure many of the folks in the audience left disappointed that l. boogie wasn't entirely in the building, i must say that i was just really appreciative for your time.

see, i've glanced at the "post-exile" articles. i try my best to empathize, though i completely understand that your experience is totally out of my realm of imagination. i think i comprehend. circa 1998 you seemed to have this aura of accessibility, availability. what a toll that must have taken on a young black woman in her mid-twenties. we are taught from such a young age to be caretakers, to think of others' needs before our own. to sacrifice. we're guilted into not taking care of ourselves. and then it's too late. one need only to stand at a bus stop on the southside of chicago to see how the years, the decades, the generations of giving to and living for others has manifested on our bodies. we look tired, worn, in search of a rest unattainable through peaceful slumber.

i see the exile, the distance, the requirement that we/they call you ms. hill as necessary for you to save your own life. and i can dig that. you make music, maybe we buy your album. but essentially, you owe us nothing. i mean that earnestly. your art, your music is just a manifestation of you trying to be authentic at all times. and i can dig that. i'm just so glad that you came along when you did, and that you've refused to be anything other than who you are. you're a model for ~~trying to live~~ living. the struggle isn't in keeping it real, it is keeping it real. and maybe if others "knew love, true love, to love" like this before, they/we would understand you, ourselves, the world a bit better. either way, thanx.

happy birthday.

other joints:
open letter #1
open letter #2
open letter #3
open letter #4
open letter #5
open letter #6
open letter #7

para-mooring(s)

2006-05-23T20:25:00.000-05:00

fort weezy got a skyline for dat ass.

people can't, unhappily, invent their mooring posts, their lovers and their friends, anymore than they can invent their parents. life gives these and also takes them away and the great difficulty is to say Yes to life. --james baldwin, giovanni's room.

"she grew up in an indiana town, had a good lookin' mama..."

for most of my life, i've wanted to be from somewhere else. somewhere famous. some place exciting, exotic. a town that didn't require you to name the state because everyone knows where it is, or has at least heard of it. shit, i've always wanted to be from somewhere acknowledged by a hip hop emcee. i have endlessly desired to have some sort of discernable accent. but i was reared in no such place. i'm from randommidwesterntown, usa. a place--like tons of other cities of its kind in the middle of the country--still trying to find its bearings after the auto industry and other factories changed their tune. that is, essentially, the shell of my town. with the exception of a couple sports heroes and the world's first hippie, there's not a whole lot of folk who know about fort weezy. i suppose i could proffer that it's the second largest city in indiana, but one recognizes how insignificant such information is when you wonder: what's the second largest city in iowa? (cedar rapids) or even california? (san diego. followed by san jose. san fran is a distant fourth. no, i didn't need wikipedia.) not a lot of people are into seconds.

despite the fact that i live relatively close to home, i don't go there often. saying that it's because my mother and stepdad moved to cleveland really doesn't explain my absence. nor can i rationalize that my "lifestyle" precludes me from feeling comfortable in that space. you've seen the pictures. this shit was inevitable. i don't change my behavior when i'm around certain fam. besides, if i have ever felt anything consistently in my life, it's feeling like a fish out of water. liquor license or not, i've never fit in. and though i didn't grow up in my father's house, i do know most of the family. they are not strangers to me. granted, i don't have the phone numbers 95% of them niggas (we ain't got much to say anyway), but i could and would recognize a cousin in the mall. essentially, i have no viable excuse.

all that being said, i went home saturday. yep. left the city of wind and headed to the hoosier state, a land where john (cougar) mellancamp rules, the amish dwell, folks are still mad that the general moved to texas, and gas is less than 3 bux a gallon. strangely, as i drove out of northwest indiana--which might as well be northeast illinois--heading east on state road 30, much of the nervousness and fatigue i'd been feeling for the last week or so started to dissipate. right there in the car with nothing but the radio--i prefer to listen to the radio on road trips--and my thoughts, i started to reclaim my chi.

"but she grew up tall and she grew up right with them indiana boys on an indiana night..."

as much as i lament the fact that a lot of shit never changes in weezy, i think i really appreciated that same shit this weekend. i needed something familiar to orient myself, a mooring. my father, for example, will only spend the night out of town twice a year--in may and in october when he goes to las vegas. he has the same friends; he tells the same stories; he asks the same questions. (i was wondering: "so you cut your hair again?" is a euphemistic inquiry, a code phrase for "are you gay?" right?) though i've been known to abhor and negatively judge the banality that i thought/think characterized/characterizes my father's life, i was extremely grateful for such familiarity this weekend. my world is shifting; i'm changing my stroke, and it's difficult. seasons change mad things rearrange, but it all stays the same like the love doctor strange. yes, some shit does stay the same. so i was glad to see my father this weekend. he is who he is, and he does the best he can. i ran into a ton of people who have known me in the past-- my sister, my brother (who i had neither seen nor talked to in six months), the first drug dealer i ever knew, (shit,) the nigga my mama shoulda married, my boy andre. i was surrounded by folks who have known me in all of my incarnations. folks who, though they may not know or understand the life i live now, still support and encourage me in any way they can. and i dig that. i need that.

in a word full of variables and wild cards, sometimes you just need a constant.

"i feel summer creeping in and i'm tired of this town again..."

so as i drove back to the chi, for the first time in a while i felt motiviated, inspired, satisfied, lucid. i see the shifts that i need to make. i know what, who, and where i need to focus. i didn't choose my moorings, but i need them nonetheless. one can say a lot about the middle west and the folk who inhabit the space: we're clannish, boring, meat and potatoes, etc. but there's value in making it plain, simple, clear. and i (re)cognized that this weekend. for all of his faults and shortcomings, my father has been there for me in every way he knows how, as has every other person i left back in fort wayne.

it's not glamorous, but it's home. i've no stories of grandeur and exciting treasure hunts, but i have a tale to tell. a narrative that begins not in some far-off exotic place, or under a sky pierced with ridiculously tall buildings, or near the beach of a vast ocean. my story starts somewhere in media res. and i'm committed to (re)telling epic, to constantly and consistently reminding myself of home no matter where i am. (maybe it's my lorain, ohio? total stretch. but i had to go there, had to take a shot.)

besides, it's not serendipitous that i often comfort myself by singing the "johnny appleseed prayer." only in the midwest do i find such grace.

the rain ain't gone, but i can still see clear.

on second thought...

2006-05-22T12:33:00.000-05:00

shit i prolly shouldn't have said to my therapist.

me: ...but whatever. she's fuckin' crazy.

therapist: *tilts head from left to right*

me: i suppose i shouldn't make jokes about insanity in here.

****

(the tuesday after mother's day)
me: in light of our last conversation, i decided not to send my mom a mother's day card....i gave her your number instead.

therapist: *stares blankly*

me: i'm kidding.

****

me: nah. i think it'll be okay if we pause for a week.

therapist: are you sure?

me: yeah.

therapist: well, i have another therapist covering for me just in case.

me: i'll try my best not to call you from the top of this building threatening to end it all.

*silence*

*i smile*

****

perhaps i should work on my couch time etiquette. just a thought.

it's hard being this damn charming.

abdicating the blogstar status...in search of the artist formerly known as summer m.

2006-05-18T02:22:00.000-05:00

maybe this'll all go away in the morning.

"today i played it safe, cards are in my favor..."

a couple months ago, nahmix kept it so holyfield with me: "you're like the kanye west of blogging," she said. damn. that hurt. she went on. something like, it makes her so mad to read my blog sometimes. another jab, "you're full of shit." fuck. i'm on the ropes. i can't disagree; i've no rebut. "you know what really made me like your blog?" (what's this? she's gone from opponent to my trainer in the corner? massaging my sore muscles? rubbing salve on that cut just above my ego? encouraging me to keep fighting in the sixty seconds between rounds?) she went on, "the entry where you wrote about losing your bookbag. i felt your pain, then. you'd captured it in your writing." it's as if she just put my mouthpiece back in, grabbed the stool from under me, and pushed me back into the middle of the ring. my legs tremble under the pressure of my weight, and the boxing gloves have made my arms much too heavy to lift. i realize the opponent in front of me ain't the mad rapper at all. (jeez. times like this i realize how my actual/literal weak vision makes so much damn figurative sense.) fuck.

they say you can tell what racial/ethnic/class group is at the bottom of the societal ladder by watching boxing. think about that shit. now tie that shit to what i just said. the dots connect, if you think about that shit a bit more... listen, i know i could've come up with a better, less cliche metaphor. but it's 230 in the morning, and i can't sleep. work with me.

"gotta get over, before the sun comes up..."

just a few minutes ago i was in bed, not sleeping. insomnia has returned. just couldn't turn my mind off--there's a lot in it, on it. so i got up and turned on my comp, hoping a fellow non-sleeper, or at least somebody in a totally different time zone, was also awake. nothing. checked myspace. changed my gmail chat status message. hmpf. technology does not conjure up an insurmountable desire for slumber. i need lizz wright to make a cd of lullabies. better yet, i wanna hold an inamorata as she reads me bedtime stories. something to alleviate the trouble in my mind.

"i search for answers often, paid the price for many..."

somewhere along the way, i lost my chi again. i'm nervous, shaky, nauseous, weak; i can't eat, and i obviously don't sleep. flu-like symptoms, yes. but it's all psychosomatic. i'm much too introverted to list the things that bother me. even if i wanted to share, there's no one to talk with. (note to self: establish and remain in consistent contact with supportive people.) so i am agitated and sleepless...cranky, unbearable, isolated. and i live such a life that my hibernation goes unnoticed. surely, i am the only one paying attention to me long enough to notice such shifts. this all comes together, i swear...

nahmix speaks truth. i am full of shit. for quite some time, the content of this blog has not been affiliated with the rubric under which it was initially conceived. i've created more than my own doppelganger. i've created a monster, a spectacle. what's so interesting about nahmix's choice for favorite fecundmellow entry is that it was the one where i killed fecundmellow in its nascent stage. though i later resurrected her, i claimed then that the theft of my bookbag compelled me to relate to writing differently. as a result, i didn't think i could write a blog anymore. when i came back, however, fecundmellow allowed a space for me to become reacquainted with writing. i created the character summer m. not to exorcise/embrace some latent, narcissistic, egotistical demons (ok, maybe a little), but to see how far i could stretch a persona, a character loosely based on the kid. yet somewhere, something got out of hand, out of balance, and it became less about the writer/writing, and more about the reaction of an assumed audience. in the process, i got lost.

"today might be the day, i put it in the pocket..."

i am full of shit. before i started this entry, i sat at this desk queasy, full of angst, and mentally confronting all that has changed in recent memory. i've felt this way before, but for a moment i can't remember how i got through. then the inner voice says: writing, you idiot.

an example: i kind of despise poetry, but i adore haiku. i write really bad haiku. i enjoy it. there is something alluring about having only seventeen syllables. such masochism attracts me. you have to be pithy, and choose your words wisely. you must stretch and expand your vocabulary. you have to manipulate the meaning of words. whatever you say, you have to do it in three lines. i don't write it to impress other people, as my efforts are generally much less than impressive. i write haiku because i enjoy attempting to be disciplined in that way. (there's a lesson for me in here...)

i don't write because i think i'm good at it, or because i believe some sort of brilliance will become apparent through my words. (i think quite the opposite, in fact.) i write to work out problems, to answer my laundry list of "what-ifs?". i write because i never really learned how to express myself through talking. i write because i let her get away. i write because it is the only thing i've never totally given up.

nahmix is right. as i violently slide into my berkeley moment**, still trying to find my footing and hoping to recover before it's too late, i realize the attraction of two paragraphs about a chick lamenting the ganking of her shit. then, i could give a fuck about an audience. shit, i didn't have one. now, i consider the idea that the sporadic blogging, the seeming self-destruction, the figurative middle-finger to an audience of people i barely know is perhaps a subconscious effort to reclaim this webspace.

in sports, they call this gut check time.

fatigued than a muhfuckuh, i just knocked out my doppelganger. i formally abdicate my self-proclaimed blogstar status. from now on, if i choose to blog, i will write what i want when i want. and i will write about whatever it is i choose to write. rumors, open letters, et. al. will appear if and when i see fit. i'm no longer interested in eliciting reaction from virtual strangers. i'm doing this shit for the love of it, for the fuck of it. if i lose what's left of my audience, it's cool. right now i'm only interest in moving the crowd of me. if you're checking for me, it's all good. if you're not, that's fine, too. i can only control where i stand. and i'm good.

i want to write of stolen bookbags again.

be easy.

sun shine in the morning, in the morning
make love in the morning, in the morning
pray to god in the morning, in the morning
get on in the morning, in the morning...

(despite feeling isolated and alone, i know that all the homies are in my corner: milf, young jeezy, nahmix, saf, rrrr, deshi, sweet, greg, keish, shon. yuh. i see y'all as friends interested in honesty, in not holding back, in sharing what you think and feel no matter how "highly evolved" the thought/feeling, and in steadfastly supporting me as i become/do me. i'll match your work. thanx for that.)

**berkeley moment: a phrase describing one's personal rock bottom.

start a rumor monday redux: the remix...

2006-05-15T11:22:00.000-05:00

celebration of the 2nd annual 'yo' mama's...day'

i originally posted this the monday after mother's day 2005. i think it's still (slightly) timely/timeless. it didn't get much love last year. maybe it'll get a little more in the oh-six.

washington, d.c.: with a wide margin of victory, the congressional black caucus voted in a special session to officially mark the monday after mother's day 'yo' mama's day...'. as stated in the press release published this morning in black newspapers throughout the nation, 'yo' mama's day...' is intended to celebrate and embrace the african american tradition of snapping, also known as joning, cracking, and playing the dozens.' democrats also believe that by participating in 'yo' mama's day...', they may be able to recover some of the backbone they lost in last 2004's 'presidential election'.

tennessee congressman harold ford, jr., who announced the news, is quite happy that black congresspeople were able to stop their highly talked about in-fighting and pass an edict. 'i'm very pleased that we were able to get such a measure passed, and so quickly,' he said. 'by the way, barack obama's mama is so white, he got elected senator.'

though washington insiders thought that the white house would oppose such a declaration, it seems that 'president' bush is all for this latest official holiday. he ended his monday morning press conference with, 'condoleezza rice's mother is so ugly, i had to put her on the terrorist do not watch list.' (uh, yeah.)

no word yet as to whether or not hallmark will produce a line of cards to commemorate the day. hallmark subcompany mahogony has already come up with several card ideas. it will be part of the drinking gourd line.

original rumor: 9 may 2005

2006-05-10T21:19:00.000-05:00

disU.N.I.T.Y.

or, letting go of latifah
open letter #7

dearest queen,

this is difficult for me to write. though i've a proclivity for the written word, i've never composed a break up letter until now. but i fear i must. it's [dramatic pause] imperative, the right thing to do. on one level, i'd like to say we're different people now; that we've grown apart; that it's me, not you. all of the things people say when they're trying to a explain to a lover why it must end, why they both must just move on to other people, places, spaces. if this were a movie, i could imagine several perfectly plausible songs that slowly swell into the extra-diegetic background: "i will always love you," "voyage to atlantis". oh, there are many. yet at this juncture candid reality is very necessary,"more necessary than violence on the amistad" if you will. so, let me just be frank:

i just cain't fuck withchu no mo'.

call me a renigger (read: reneger), i don't give a damn. but, dana, you've put a homegyrl in a fucked up position. surely many will say i shoulda given it up, turned it loose longlong time ago. i mean, i ain't see taxi, but i saw beauty shop. if i were a camel, that shit would've broken that bridge called my back. but on (some of) the realest shit i've said this year: you broke my heart.

let's recount our love affair, shall we?

what's it been, queen? nearly seventeen years i imagine. the summer of 1989. my stepbrother's aunt was our babysitter, and fortunately for me, she fucked with yo! mtv raps and rap city. i think i first saw your "dance for me video" on the latter show. you wore a muhfuckin' crown (comma) yo, and that shit was dy-lan. you looked regal (duh), dignified, and i had never seen anyone like you. more hypnotized than biggie could ever make me, at a mere nine years old, i was singing "ooooh ladies first, ladies first," with no real grasp of how powerful such a mantra was/is.

between you and lana, i knew i could love h.e.r., because i thought she was made for me. to continue with this popularmusiclyric-ridden post, i thought i was made to love her and she me. i had no idea you were an alternative, counter narrative; took for granted that you were a woman in a boy's game. until, of course, i got older and i wrote you thank you notes. as i got grown (rhyme got strong, mind got blown), and came to grips with the idea that hip hop, as tricia rose so aptly put it, "is the musical equivalent to chitterlings," i recognized just how puissantly (oooh, sexy) powerful you (all) were.

as hip hop (or rap or whatever) married (or shacked up with or knocked up or whatever) r&b, i watched the new jacks (or whoever), saw the game shift, peeped how the music got copped (or co-opted into the superstructure or whatever), and observed that for such actions to occur, material like yours (is that kente cloth?) had to be discarded and/or (further) marginalized to make (even more) room for violence, misogyny and tons of other forms of "artistic" (self-) hatred. because hell, that shit sells. that's tough.

so if the game changes, if the high skool kids can jump straight into the league, how does a veteran player like you remain relevent? i suppose you observe then follow suit. rappers-turned-actors? ok. i was with you. it's no golden girls, but thanx to oxygen (did i just admit to watching the oprah channel?), i'm pretty sure i've seen every episode of living single. whenever tnt airs it, i seem to catch set it off (to have never kissed/fucked with a woman, you play a lady lover really well, btw.), and, believe it or not, though i can't remember the movie for the life of me, i fucked with living out loud. saw it at least five times. i even have the soundtrack.

but then you produce your first movie and we get... bringing down the house? that's even tougher. i didn't go to the theatre to see it; i risked life and limb and rented it from a blockbuster where i know i have at least 25 bux in late fees. (congrats on that naacp image award, btw.) did you seriously play someone named aunt shaneequa? can you please explain that whole "moniker/my nigga" joke in beauty shop? now don't get me wrong, i love to see black people onscreen. coonery would be easier to resist if it weren't so damn entertaining. i know you don't think i spent $9.25 on akeelah and the bee because i thought that shit was gonna be a great portrayal of black folk. i paid 10 dollars to see some stereotypical nig shit; it's fodder for my cinema commentary enjoyed by moviegoers within earshot. but i digress. my point? i never anticipated such things from the queen. granted, if we've learned anything from madonna, it's that reinvention is imperative to stay afloat. but how are we reinventing ourselves? are we simply recycling old images? crowns for weave ponytails? look, y'all, aunt jemima can rap!!

jay-z said i can't knock the hustle. i say i can. well, maybe not. one could argue, for instance, that the late 80s/early 90s latifah was an act. the crown? simply an afrocentric headpiece, perhaps. songs like "ladies first"? merely the women's department of the native tongues. who was i, who am i to infuse meaning into such performance? please don't misunderstand. i am forever grateful for the timeliness of your arrival onto the hip hop scene. i just assumed that it meant as much to you as it did to me. perhaps it's like getting to know your parent once you've become an adult. you can lament coming to terms with the fact maybe pops wasn't a superhero after all, or maybe you can accept him as a human being and move from there. i'm trying to do the latter with you, but admittedly it's been really hard.

so listen, i ain't mad because i think you fell off once you hit the mainstream. and i couldn't care less about whether you confirm or deny your alleged rainbow coalition membership. personally, i have no stake in you coming out; if folks don't wanna come out, that's their business. it's not even about how (un)real you keep it. so when i think about why we gotta break up, it's not because i think you lied to me by pretending to be someone you weren't at the beginning of our relationship. do you, homie. this is all me. i made you the metonym for some moment in time i'd romanticized and was trying my hardest to hold onto. like, iono, some seaweed you grab for in an effort to not be swept away by the tide. for me, you were the personfication of the last part of a movement i might be able to call my own. (not that i'm interested in ownership...) and for a minute i thought this move of yours was simply indicative of my own mantra that nothing is sacred. not only do i realize how true that is, but i was taken aback by the thought that maybe you weren't sacred in the first place. so i won't knock the hustle. instead i'll just say it's over. we have to break up.

and, no. we can't be friends.

be easy,
summer m., h.e.r. ex-lover

the above mentioned love note to latifah:
i used to love h.e.r.: more reflections on hip hop

other open letters:
open letter #1
open letter #2
open letter #3
open letter #4
open letter #5
open letter #6

start a rumor monday: summer m. the lost weeks

2006-05-08T12:26:00.000-05:00

the (long awaited?) interview

in what seemed like the most chappellian move since, well, dave chappelle, several weeks ago, blogstar summer m. apparently walked away from her blog at the zenith of its popularity. in what seemed like less time than it took britney to get knocked again, summer m. went from providing the public with the most thought-provoking and humorous diatribes on popular culture to leaving sporadic and occasionally non-sensical posts to fecundmellow.

last week, summer m. hit 'em with da hee with a killa rumor on rabbits and racism. at the time, she offered no explanation as to where she'd been for the last 5 weeks. finally, fecundmellow was able to track down its author and have a bit of a chat. here's the interview:

fecundmellow: bitch, are you crazy?
summer m.: no, i ain't crazy. i'm definitely stressed out, but i'm not crazy.

fecundmellow: there have been a lot of rumors circulating about where you've been and what you've been up to. are you willing to answer questions about those things?
summer m.: absolutely.

fecundmellow: ok. first, did you really have a child with harold gibson?
summer m: are you fucking serious? you've seen me. if anything, harold would be pregnant with my baby. in fact, that nigga told me he wanted to have my baby and shit. now most folks would find that problematic and troubling, but i just told that cat to take a number. you know how many cyber panty droppers i got trying to be on my squad right now? and this disappearing acts shit got 'em lined up like i'm passing out free fried chicken.

fecundmellow: are you in a romantic relationship?
summer m.: please stop reading my myspace profile as some sort of factual document.

fecundmellow: and the south africa rumor?
summer m.: is it me, or does it seem like nelson mandela is always wearing the same shirt?

fecundmellow: another rumor we heard was that you'd gone to seattle on a spiritual pilgrimage. alleged eyewitnesses claim to have seen you doing yoga in a yurt?
summer m.: [slightly irascible] i ain't never been in a yurt or done no yoga!!! where'd you hear that? them niggas is lyin' on me.

fecundmellow: so you were in seattle?
summer m.: i've visited the specific northwest before.

fecundmellow: this leads me to my next question. rumor has it that despite an alleged moment of honesty in a previous blog entry you have the hots for phoenix?
summer m.: the hots? where did you learn to talk? phoenix has moved on. at least, that's what the police told me when they served me with a restraining order. [brief, slightly melancholy pause] I LOVE YOU BABY!!!!

fecundmellow: were you doing your schoolwork?
summer m.: *laughs uncontrollably.*

fecundmellow: and you weren't kidnapped by oprah or kanye west?
summer m.: briefly. but they realized no one would pay a ransom for me.

fecundmellow: well, where the fuck have you been?
summer m.: in your sister's bed?

fecundmellow: i'ma fuck you up.
summer m.: am i being threatened by my own doppelganger?

fecundmellow: you keep fucking with me, and you'll be seeing a physical therapist, too.
summer m.: speaking of, do you think i should bring this whole interview thing up in my next session?

fecundmellow: will you just tell the people what you've been doing?
summer m.: recording my album.

fecundmellow: you've recorded an album?
summer m.: no, not really.

fecundmellow: will you at least be honest with the people?
summer m.: i'd actually prefer to hear what the people have to say about my absence. i'm a woman of the people. besides, their lies are much more entertaining. i say we open this up a little, make the rumor more democratic, you know?

fecundmellow: this is the biggest waste of webspace ever known to human kind.
summer m.: even more of a waste than starjones.com? well i'll be damned to hell.

fecundmellow: one can only pray for such things to actually happen.
summer m.: i heard that.

on the real, happy burfday (go shawty) to harold and phoenix.

start a rumor monday: and the plot thickens...

2006-05-01T12:31:00.000-05:00

rabbits still stewing over discrimination.

just two weeks after the celebration of easter, bunnies united for garnering social success, or bugss has released the findings of what they've called "the easter study." over five years, researchers observed and documented "discriminatory practices" in shopping malls throughout the united states. according to bugss' findings, non-white rabbits have rarely, if ever, been employed by shopping malls during the easter season; while white rabbits have received 99.9% of the highly sought after and coveted position of shopping mall easter bunny.

"for the past five years we have sent non-white rabbits with impeccable resumes to more than 75 shopping centers throughout the united states," p. cottontail, president and ceo of bugss said during a press conference early this morning. "we also sent white rabbits with less stellar credentials to interview at these same malls. on every occasion but one, the white rabbits were chosen over their better qualified, darker counterparts. the statistics don't lie. this is blatant discrimination that has gone unnoticed for way too long. it is time for these bastions of american capitalism to wake up and address their unfair practices. we believe our lawsuit will aid in arousing these sleeping giants."

the litigious dispute, which even names mall building giants such as the rouse company and simon, does more than just shout discrimination. the suit is accompanied by a 200-page document where researchers have chronicled the "perpetual disrespect of of the rabbit." part of the text reads:

from cartoons to folk tales, the rabbit has been continuously negatively represented in the media. it is as if the rabbit has been dealt a bad hand by a cheating dealer. despite the presence of characters such as rabbit in the winnie the pooh stories, bunnies have been perpetually portrayed as slick talking, hubristically arrogant, baby making machines with a penchant for con artistry and trickery. these images have been tattooed upon the american psyche. as a result, rabbits have been discriminated against and disrespected in numerous societal institutions. the easter bunny industry is no exception.

though the mall industry has yet to formally acknowledge or respond to the allegations, buggs and others are very confident. "we will win," says bunny foo foo, founder and president of the feminist bunny trail industries, who has joined bugss in their lawsuit. "the discrimination is so blatant, no one can continue to ignore it. change will soon come." along with several grass roots organizations, the naacp and the rev. jesse jackson's rainbow/PUSH coalition can be counted as bugss supporters.

a march is expected.

the secret society of tortoises intends to protest the protest.

other easter disses:
jesus as groundhog

seriously...

2006-04-11T12:21:00.000-05:00

i'm not trying to fuck with you (all).

there just aren't enough hours in the day. and, all bullshit aside, i'm exhausted.

there will be something soon, though. like, by wednesday.

patience...

2006-04-10T14:09:00.000-05:00

is a virtue.

miss me?

2006-04-04T13:19:00.000-05:00

tell me how much.

like the oprah winfrey show, the spring season of fecundmellow begins monday, april 10.

in the meantime, show me you care.

start a rumor monday: hallmark announces new line of cards

2006-03-20T00:00:00.000-06:00

mahogany® to add new line of greeting cards

hallmark brand mahogany has decided to add more greeting cards to its ever-growing line focusing on african american consumers. drinking gourd®-- mahogany's antebellum inspired line of cards predominantly intended to express provactive and romantic love--is set to launch in mid-june, approximately the same time juneteenth celebrations are to commence throughout the country.

according to their website, "mahogany features more than 800 cards to help african americans honor their relationships in innovative, compelling and culturally-relevant ways. the brand offers cards for several holidays, as well as a full range of everyday occasions... hallmark has been creating cards that speak to african-american culture since the 1960s. in order to ensure ongoing cultural relevancy, the mahogany creative planning team conducts extensive research to stay abreast of current trends and events in the african-american community and to increase their understanding of african-american culture, traditions and heritage."

drinking gourd will undoubtedly continue this tradition.

drinking gourd takes its cues from the african american slave past (and, seemingly, r&b songs). unequivocally speaking to "african american culture", drinking gourd seeks to express its consumers' romantic desires for their partner(s). though consumers won't be able to purchase drinking gourd cards until the spring, mahogany gave the media a sneak preview. mahogany's team of african american writers and artists is working on cards that include lines such as:

"i wanna swing low in your sweet chariot."

"let me lick your river jordan."

"loving you makes me feel free."

"a love like ours could never be auctioned."

"i am shackled to my desire for you."

"whenever we're together, it's as if we're in high cotton."

though mahogany has yet to determine whether or not to permanently add the line, african american and nigger loving consumers can rest assured that the cards will be available nation-wide through valentine's day 2007.

check back at fecundmellow for updates on this story.

start a rumor monday: the viagra niagara mov't part 2

2006-03-13T13:42:00.000-06:00

naacp adopts new black national anthem

after two years, someone is finally taking me seriously and listening. several months ago, i wrote my second open letter to the naacp, suggesting that they revamp and revitalize their organization. not wanting to simply problematize and leave it at that, i offered several very helpful suggestions (if i say so myself) to assist in the reinvigoration of one of the world's oldest civil rights organizations.

i was pleasantly surprised, then, when i received an advance copy of a press release from the naacp. in it, chairman julian bond, president bruce gordon, and vice chair woman rosalyn brock announce that they have decided to adopt a new black national anthem, thus finally taking me up on number three of my list of suggestions. here's a segment of the release that will be made available to the public on the naacp's website tomorrow:

for nearly one hundred years, the naacp has fought to obtain and defend the civil rights of all citizens. as such, it has been important that we remain abreast of current trends and movements throughout society. as the times change, so must we. therefore, we find it imperative that we make a strategic shift in our organization. [...] on april 1, 2006, the national association for the advancement of colored people will officially adopt a new black national anthem. we have unanimously decided to replace "lift every voice and sing" with "it's hard out here for a pimp" as the new black national anthem. we believe the song more appropriately articulates the state of african americans today, and as a civil rights organization, it's important that we reflect and represent our constituents. from april first onward, "it's hard out here for a pimp," will be sung at the beginning of all black events--which basically means all hbcu football games like the bayou and circle city classics, both airing on bet.

thank you.

here! here!

summer m. plans to celebrate her victory (for the race) with agrestic, some lemon drops, and a lap dance.

this weekend's essay: it's my anniversary

2006-03-10T10:26:00.000-06:00

yes, today marks the 2nd anniversary of this here blog. as a result, i got two things for dat ass today.

1: what were you doing/where were you two years ago.

and

2: a meme i stole from nahmix

9 Lasts:
Last dollar spent: on the train
Last cigarette: never smoked cigs.
Last beverage: water w/ lemon
Last phone call: it's a secret
Last movie: when night is falling (petra is a fucking stalker.)
Last song played: this room-- fat freddy's drop.
Last bubble bath: i prefer showers.
Last time you cried: like...1994
Last thing you ate: chocolate chip cookies

8 Have You Evers:
Have you ever dated a best friend: nope
Have you ever skinny dipped: nope
Have you ever kissed somebody and regretted it: yeah. well, maybe not.
Have you ever lost someone you loved: yes, papa
Have you ever been dumped: nope
Have you ever been drunk and thrown up: nope
Have you ever run away: all the time in my mind

7 States You Have Visted:
1. new york
2. california
3. florida
4. maryland
5. michigan
6. georgia
7. alabama

6 Things You've Done Today:
1. made two phone calls
2. took a shower
3. made my lunch
4. checked email
5. blogged
6. daydreamed

5 Of Your Favorite Things:
1. people: jneezy, my lil sis
2. movie: coming to america, hav plenty
3. music: good
4. band: depeche mode
5. books: too many to name. today we'll go with the chaneysville incident

4 People You Can Tell [Almost]Anything:
1. moms
2. jneezy
3. keish
4. leez

3 Things That Make You Smile:
1. mrs. robinson
2. leez's greeting
3. the internationally known's... serenades

2 Things You Want To Do Before You Die:
1. boat around the world
2. write, finish, and publish my novel(s)

1 Quote to Share:
"any self-respecting black person has problems with white people." --some crazy ass muthafucka

tag? if you read this and have a blog, i tag you.

the sum and saf half: pimpin' is easy

2006-03-08T13:00:00.000-06:00

sam jack as the nigga fred in the biopic, douglass?

the future of hollywood by sum and saf.

it takes some nigs winning an oscar to bring your favorite haterators out of hibernation. and that's cool. i mean, we got way more hate (but out of love. what else but love) to spew. but since y'all can prolly only take in doses, we'll consider our brief respite from tag team hatin' a gift to you all.

anyway, with the three 6 mafia win at this year's oscars, the (comma) yo kids figured it was time for us to prognosticate which projects we thought would get greenlighted in hollywood in the upcoming year(s). let's see...

pimp: the musical
521,600 bitches... just like the movie rent...but not really.

citizen douglass
a biopic of the 19th century abolitionist, frederick douglass. call it a 4 hour long snooze fest directed by spike lee and financially backed by oprah that confirms saf and yac. bro. number 1's suspicion that fred was the original (notorious) thug. think gangs of new york meets amistad, or maybe even roots. samuel l. jackson will be donning that wig he rocked in m. night shamalan's unbreakable. (see above pic.)

brokeback niggas
the steamy underside of the harlem renaissance. maybe even a film noir, no? langston hughes, countee cullen, richard bruce nugent? this is not a stretch, people.

nasty as they wanna be.
the true story of the relationship between mary mccleod bethune and eleanor roosevelt.

ain't i a woman? the sojourner truth story
a sort of follow-up to the highly successful, douglass. though it should prolly star angela "how'd you get your arms to look like that, tina?" bassett or alfre "miss evers' boys" woodard, oprah will play the part. you know the divine miss o swallows up anything that allows her to employ that niggafied dialect she perfected at tennessee state. maya angelou will get some screenwriting credit for this one, as she'll write the more "poetic" elements of the cinematic version of truth's famous speech. get to singing, caged bird.

she get it from her mama
a documentary on black women, the hiv, and the black community. score by juvenile.

(this entry may be edited later, as sum has no idea where the fuck saf is right now.)

start a rumor monday: news briefs

2006-03-06T21:34:00.000-06:00

(this shit had to be retyped, because blogger is a muthafucka.)
lights...camera...affirmative action

um...fuck the source awards. the oscars is the new black. if you thought cuba gooding, jr. hosting the naacp awards was the fucking craziest shit you ever did see (um...how did george lopez get nominated for an image award?), then odds are your black ass didn't watch the oscars last night. and boy did you miss it. yeah (comma) yo. your protests of not watching any award show not airing on b.e.t. or u.p.n. caused you to miss the most ridiculous shit to happen in the month of march--and it ain't even the ides yet, nigga.

in an upset that will go down in oscar history, three 6 mafia won an academy award last night for best original song ("it's hard out here for a pimp" from hustle and flow), beating out oscar favorite, dolly parton, and stunning white folk and "respectable" colored people everywhere.

did somebody stuff the ballot box? uh...no. but there were whispers the morning after. sources say that the academy was continuing its affirmative action policy which began a few years ago. "the academy didn't want to be considered racist because we let a white person win the first academy award for hip hop [eminem for "lose yourself"]," one hollywood insider said. so, they gave three 6 mafia the award to "even the playing field."

certain aspects of hip hop culture didn't come up until after the show was over, however. what's beef? in an apparent dis of their fellow tennesseean, when asked what they planned to do now that they had won an oscar, three 6 mafia responded, "we're going to dollywood."

i say dolly phones kenny rogers...do i smell a dis record?

wait til you see my (oh)

hollywood will milk something drier than queen latifah in a love scene with ll cool j. (thus, we can look forward to at least 4 more madea movies, big mama's house 3, and beyonce starring as an idiot in something.) with the three 6 mafia win, publicists for dreamworks released a statement saying that steven spielberg has sought out the ying yang twins' for his next project. if all goes well, the twins will score spielberg's next film. whispers in the holy land, an epic tale of the founding of the state of israel, is due out in the spring of 2007. *never get enough, never get enough...*

but the academy has to draw the line somewhere...

if you saw the shot of terrence howard after three 6 mafia's name was announced, i don't need to tell you that at that moment the nigga knew he was gonna lose in the best actor category. such suspicions were confirmed when fecundmellow caught up with yet another hollywood insider in the press room. "of course he wasn't going to win. the academy has standards, you know? the last few academy awards have been really good to black people, but let's face it, we've given you people awards for some highly problematic roles. you've been whores [halle berry, monster's ball], crooked cops [denzel washington, training day] and drug abusing womanizers [jamie foxx, ray]. we had to draw the line somewhere. a black man winning an academy award for playing a pimp? is it not obvious what we think of you people? besides, we gave that mafia group an oscar. ludacris introduced them and queen latifah gave them their award. and what were they wearing? footlocker? give a nigga a rope, and he wants to be a cowboy."

i couldn't have said it better myself.

and now... a non sequitor.
summer m. single?
that's the rumor on the street. just one week after posting pictures of herself and alleged girlfriend/fiancee/whatever phoenix, the paparazzi spotted summer m. heading to work in an "the internet is for lovers" t-shirt. are summer and phoenix no longer headed to the alter, er, city/county building to register their same-sex domestic partnership? sources close to the blogstar are keeping mum, but we think the shirt is a plea for some internet action--a cyber rebound, if you will. some believe summer m.'s incessant hateration and blogstar status took a toll on the young relationship.

when caught outside of a starbucks in seattle, phoenix simply said to reporters, "all she had to do was go to yoga."

hmpf. summer m. done gone and fucked up her own chi. her bad.

this weekend's essay: northern state of mind

2006-03-03T10:54:00.000-06:00

since the truth about summer m. and phoenix was such a fucking buzzkill, i thought i'd return to this week's most popular entry for the (return of) essay. i have asked this before, but...

question: can/could/will/would there ever be a "legitimate" white female emcee?

*opens can of worms and runs away*

discuss.

you wanna be startin' somethin'...

2006-03-01T14:04:00.000-06:00

(summer m.+ fly phoenix= wha?)

the skinny

ok. so, monday i posted a rumor that included yours truly in some compromising positions with a black feminist ~~hottie~~ woman, er, womyn (yeah, they do exist). i asked that you determine the rumor by deciding what in the hell was going on between us. most of you--with your dirty ass minds--chose d (that we did the nasty). only my beloved harold "greatest fecundmellow intern of all time" gibson made up his own rumor. which, i might add, was way better than anything i could've come up with. that said, i'ma clear up some shit for those of you who aren't in the know, or for those of you who are in the know, but don't really know...if you can dig it. so, yo: the woman, er, womyn so willing to take glamour shots with the kid is the inimitable phoenix, or as i like to call her, the internationally-known locally celebrated l'boogie down not bronx or simile not to be confused with metaphor or church sister or just plain l (apostrophe) if the nickname is too long for you to remember and/or say; those of you on myspace may know her as the one and only (good job, anonymous).

here's the deal: phoenix and i initially met through blogging. though we live a couple thousand miles away, there were technically only a few degrees of separation between us--i'm on the blog roll of some of her friends (and fellow spelman alumae/sisters). we started talking about adding music to her blog, and eventually my blog serenade to her (the hook of the roots' "silent treatment") began an email exchange, that became phone convos (and neither of us are phone people). certain friends of phoenix and internet acquaintances of mine got wind of our blog/email/phone relationship, and, as people often do, a little bit of talking started. it seemed that some folks wanted to align the stars and create some romantic fireworks or something between us. this was further complicated by the fact that i'd been invited to atlanta for the toni cade bambara conference happening in a few weeks where phoenix--you guessed it--is facilitating a workshop.

as it went down though, the stars aligned so that phoenix came to chicago, thereby thwarting any potentially nefarious plots taking place in the city sherman burned to the ground. once we realized that our first meeting would be a one-on-one thing, and not a potential spectacle (oh, how i love hyperbole), we decided that it'd be great to use phoenix's visit as the subject of a rumor, and therefore stayed on the down low, qt, and definitely hushhush about it until after her visit.

though what happened between last thursday (feb. 23) and monday (feb. 27) will remain between the kid and the mythical bird (whatever happened, it involved edible ~~panties~~ menus, esthero, raw ravioli, some liquid cherries and at least one substance that causes insobriety in human beings), i will say one more thing: geeks of the world, let this be a lesson to you. if you keep grinding, working hard, learning hip hop songs, and working out your teenage angst not in therapy, but on the internet well into your twenties, you don't have to go to the prom, because eventually, the prom queen will come to you.

thanks.
sm.

phoenix's 2 cents:

folksy-

thanks for enthusiastically supporting our rumored possibility. it's always good to know there are people who believe in the dream of sweetness and connection. but please note that while my blog be a mighty cathartic, disclosing and informative sharing of my internal processes, i ain't gonna put that kinda juicylovemagic on the internet. know that i had a wonderful weekind in the chi with the illustrious summershine "fecundmellow" m. other than that, a grrrrl's gotta keep some kinda goodies to herself.

blessings,

phoenix

playa post script.: iono, y'all, but she did send me flowers this morning. i'm just sayin'... --sm.

phoenix post script, post script: what can i say? one good turn deserves another. --phoenix

remiss

2006-02-28T21:52:00.000-06:00

(1947-2006)

it is totally irresponsible of me--socially and otherwise--when i don't officially recognize the passing of one of my kindred.

rest, ms. butler.

(thanks, karsh)

learn:
npr
oxford u.
seattle post-intelligencer
wikipedia

and ya don't stop

2006-02-28T13:39:00.000-06:00

(northern state)

i wish i could give you this feeling, or, (asinine) reasons why i think the brown v. the board of education of topeka, kansas decision should be reconsidered and/or repealed.

white girls.
(if you continue to read, don't say you weren't warned.)

last night, the mad rapper (aka nahmix) and i went to see our fave emcee, common rock out the hob for the eighth time in the last sixth months (that is only a slight exaggeration). and, as usual, the show made me realize that though i'm often disenchanted by it, mourn the loss of it, etc., etc. i will always in some way lightweight fuck with hip hop. which, i suppose, also means that 25 years from now nahmix and i will still be at the hob mad early trying to get good position in front of the stage at our 500th the roots concert. but i digress.

now don't get me wrong, i know hip hop ain't mine no more. in fact, it never really was "mine"; certain things you can't possess. though i miss and occasionally lament the loss of h.e.r. with incoherent and seemingly sempiternal diatribes about it all, i'm pretty much "over it" (not really). despite my healing, i'd like to take a moment to make following commentary.

see here's the deal. there is a short list of acts i will (pay to) see in concert; there are hip hop acts on this list. therefore, i will be in attendance at some hip hop shows. since hip hop is youth music, american music, __(insert bullshit here that deniggafies hip hop in all ways except the mad ignorant and problematic ones)__, i understand the crowd will not look like me. in fact, there will be a slew of white girls (and asian girls, and "black" girls suffering from hbs) in the muhfuckin' house. since i am an ignorant-ass snob with a chip on her shoulder, as a general rule, i don't think such folks should be allowed within 500 feet of the venue. since this is merely a pipe dream, i understand that i must come up with a plan b. therefore, as a public service to myself and people like me, below i've provided a list of guidelines for these hoes when attending rap shows. please keep in mind ladies, these do not simply make my concert-going experience more tolerable, but it will further enhance yours, as i will not smack the shit of you because i find you and your friends absolutely insufferable.

friends don't let friends drink at hip hop concerts. listen, i know there's a bar. and i know you got the plastic to open a tab. but please, keep the beverages non-alcoholic. see, i assume you haven't noticed this, but the more you drink, the whiter you get. that bothers me, because you start swinging your stringy ass hair everywhere, and fucking screaming that "woo hoo" shit at the top of your muhfuckin' lungs right into my left ear. and if there's anything i hate more than hearing that one white girl voice so many of you have (seriously, where do you learn how to talk like that?) it's hearing your paroxysms of excitement while i'm tryin' to ignore how "hot" you think mos def is. ~~if there ever was a moment for me to just want someone to shove some exotic, black dick into your mouth this is one of them.~~ seriously, bree, if you keep this shit up, you're coming out of that halter top (uh, dude, i know it's uncharacteristically "warm," but it is february in chicago), and it's not for a girls gone wild video.
i'm tryin' to catch the beat. um, look, a hip hop concert is not a spectator sport. therefore, it is imperative that you learn to clap, snap, sway, move on the 2's and 4's, and not on the 1's and 3's. by doing so, you will (temporarily) have what black people like to call rhythm. please note: this does not mean you can dance. it just means that when the emcee or hype man is moving the crowd, you're not swimming against the current. if you learn rhythm and how to mirror the nigga onstage, you will not spill that vodka and red bull--which i told you not to get in point number 1-- on your or my arm. i suggest a pre-concert practice with your black friend monica/danielle/meka (hey, sometimes ghetto names make it to suburban black chicks). though she asked to borrow your blue eye shadow, chances are there's enough fried chicken grease left in her dna for her to have rhythm. (unless, of course, she and her asian sister were adopted by the same white family. basically, if you and monica/danielle/meka use the same hair products, she can't help you.) keep in mind: if you're instructed to bounce, don't listen. you just stand still. you look stupid. in fact, i have a question: do you ever look in the mirror when you dance? maybe if you did, you wouldn't.
you are neither brandy, nor 4 flat tires. everyone knows your backpacker and/or black boyfriend wanted to come to this show, and you only came because you knew there would be other, white, stringy-haired, halter-topped, drunk out of their fucking minds chicks like you around. look, man, even if he is black, your boyfriend's credibility is prolly in question for a variety of reasons--trust, he's prolly no hip hop cognoscente (quiet shout out). so... don't try to be down. we understand your knowledge of "old skool" hip hop to be "nuthin' but a 'g' thang," "california love," and "bust a move." thus, there is no need to oprah** to what the dj is spinning. thanks.
ready to wear. don't try and dress the part. you look fucking ridiculous. e'rybody sees the blonde streaks under that kangol. we know you consulted your black boyfriend's sister regarding your outfit for tonite. (btw, she can't stand your ass.) though kimora lee simmons thanks you for your valiant effort, an abercrombie and fitch baby tee similar to the one you wore to coyote ugly yesterday night would've been perfectly fine to rock to the show. btw, i'ma shoot whoever sold you those red, black, and green wristbands.

i feel better now.

that is all.

**oprah: v. to lip-sync very badly.

oh...an actual entry about this most recent rumor will be up tomorrow.

sincerely,
the management.

start a rumor monday: choose your own adventure

2006-02-27T15:15:00.000-06:00

a rumor told in pictures

this rumor goes out to two bloggers in particular...alii and the blogger currently known on my blog roll as, bailey's irish cream. (this may be a bit inside baseball for many of you, but i can fill in the blanks later.)

ok.

who is this woman?

is she...

(a) a friend summer m. picked up from the hospital?

(um, who got fucked up at the club, smashed out at ihop, and couldn't find the way home?)

(b) summer m.'s new fiancee?

(does summer m. still have her clothes on?)

(c) summer m.'s rap partner from the early 90's duo, aunt jemima's nieces?

(who's that lookin' mad gangsta in purple (comma) yo?)

(d) summer m.'s first lay in a while? (therefore taking care of one of those pesky new year's resolutions.)

(looks like two happy campers right thurr...)

(e) all of the above.

(f) none of the above. meaning: make up your own.

let's see how creative you are.

discuss.